Blood and Gold

“Right sorry to hear that,” Doan said. He was a young man with serious hazel eyes, already balding, with a full black beard and mustache.

I watched him pour the black a good bait of oats and fork him some hay; then I walked back with him to the office.

“Planning to stay long?” Doan asked.

“Just tonight. I’ll be moving out come daybreak.” Doan’s face was suddenly troubled. “Is that wise, Dusty, a man riding alone? Yesterday Victorio and his Apaches ambushed a wagon train three miles south of here. Killed eight teamsters and there’s another at the hotel who isn’t expected to live.”

“I’ve got no choice, Corwin,” I said, deciding to tell a half-truth. “I’m overdue back at the SP Connected and Ma Prather will be some worried.”

“Take my advice, Dusty,” Doan said, “and stay here until this here Apache dustup blows over. Every troop of the Ninth Cavalry is out and they’ll soon catch up to those damned renegades.”

Changing the subject, I asked: “A lot of folks in town you don’t know, Corwin?”

“Well I should say,” the man answered. “Crossing’s full of strangers since Victorio started to play hob.”

“Thing is, I’m looking for a man by the name of Lafe Wingo,” I said. “Him and three brothers who go by Hank, Charlie and Ezra Owens.”

“Friends of yours?” Doan asked, a wary suspicion tingeing his voice. Corwin Doan had the Western man’s ingrained reluctance to impart information about men who might be on the dodge, and me, I didn’t have it in me to hold it against him none.

“Just acquaintances, Corwin,” I said, trying to keep my face unreadable. “I’m a mite concerned about their whereabouts, what with the Apaches an’ all.”

Well, Doan thought about that some, then reached a decision. “Lafe Wingo and the Owens boys rode through three days ago,” he said. “They put their horses up here for a couple of hours while they drank at the store. Then they left.”

Three days. I was far behind them and the distance between us was widening fast.

Doan must have seen the disappointment in my face, because he said: “Dusty, the Apache troubles are flaring up worse and worse. I’m guessing those boys will ride careful and hole up somewheres until Victorio moves on or the army gets him. I’m sure you’ll catch up with them, if that’s your intention.”

“It’s something like that, Corwin,” I replied. “As I said, they’re only passing acquaintances.”

“Strange though, Dusty, mighty strange.”

“What’s so strange?”

“That a nice young feller like you would be acquainted with Lafe Wingo and them. Those boys never done me no harm, mind, but Uncle Jonathan told me the whole passel of them are killers and outlaws.”

“They are killers, Corwin. And Lafe Wingo is the worst of them, a sight deadlier with a gun than good ol’ John Wesley or Clay Allison or any of them.” I shrugged, forcing a smile, trying to make light of it. “And you’re right, I guess I do tend to have some mighty unusual acquaintances.”

I could tell that Doan figured I was keeping something back, but he decided not to push me further. He looked out at the lashing rain and the black sky and said: “Dusty, the hotel is full with so many folks coming in, but you can bed down here for the night. The barn is warm and dry and it will still only cost you two bits and I have good strong coffee here in the morning.”

“I’m obliged, Corwin,” I said. “I reckon I’ll walk over to the store and get me a beer and see the sights, then head back this way.”

“Step careful, Dusty,” Doan warned as I made to walk into the rain and the gathering night. “There are some rough ones in town.”

I waved a hand in acknowledgment and headed toward the general store, passing sprawling cattle pens, the blacksmith shop and the hotel.

When I reached the front of the store, a long, peaked-roofed adobe building, I kicked off clinging mud from my boots on the flagstone steps, then walked inside.

Doan’s general store was a single room, with piled-up merchandise of all kinds at one end and a rough-hewn pine bar at the other.

The crowd had thinned out now the hour was growing late. A couple of tired-looking men in faded soldier blue gazed gloomily into the bottom of empty glasses and four punchers shared a bottle at one of the two tables in the place. A grizzled old-timer sat by the potbellied stove smoking a reeking pipe and Jonathan Doan, lord of all he surveyed, stood sentinel behind the bar.

I tarried for a while at the merchandise, wondering at the breathtaking luxury and plentitude of it all.