The Unflinching Collection

Chapter 7

He slept most of the way, the rhythmic movement of the train helping him rest, oblivious to the rolling landscape, the changing scenery, the weather gradually growing brighter, and much hotter. When the train lurched and slowed down, he stirred and found himself sitting opposite two grizzled old men swathed in black coats, faces covered with tangled beards, their stares disturbingly piercing. Simms stretched and pressed his face against the window, anxious to gain his bearings. He saw nothing he recognized so he turned hopefully to the men opposite. “Do either of you two gentlemen know where we are?”

A passenger across the aisle leaned forward. “They don"t understand you, sir. They"re French.”

Simms frowned, looked from the passenger back to the two Frenchmen. He sighed, shot the man a glance. “Do you know where we are?”

you“Moving through Nebraska, but the line stops in about ten or so miles.”

“It does?” Simms shuffled uncomfortably in the hard seat. “I thought it went as far as Fort Laramie?”

“Well, if the line reaches that far, I doubt it"ll be this train. Best ask at the station when we get there. Perhaps there is some sort of connecting service.”

Simms nodded and studied the other passenger. He was well-dressed in a brown, tweed suit, brogue tan shoes and a Derby hat sat by his side. Clean-shaven, middle-aged, he looked every inch a city banker, or someone similar. “Name"s Nathaniel Constantine,” he said, prompted by Simms"s gaze, and thrust out his hand.

“Please to meet you,” said Simms, shaking the man"s hand. The grip was dry, firm. “My name is Simms. I"m making my way to Utah, to meet up with some business associates.”

“Ah, yes.” Constantine nodded knowingly. “Some fine opportunities out there, so I understand. I"m in the poultry business myself, looking to establish a network of chicken farms in this area. My company is assured of success, given the number of people now settling in and around the Territory. What business might you be in?”

Simms remained calm. He"d never suspected he might need a cover story. “Livery. For the Government. I"m instructed to buy horses for the Army.”

“Ah, that"ll be because of the trouble brewing in Utah. Yes, we"ve all heard about that. Nasty business.”

“Yes indeed.” Simms shifted his gaze to take in the view through the carriage window. The sun beat down on an endless plain, punctuated by rocky outcrops but little else, the distant hills forming a backdrop to the vista. “It sure looks dry.”

“Oh, it is. It hasn"t rained for days, even weeks. Some say if it continues, crops might fail. Settlers will be in for a hard season.”

“Doesn"t bode well for your chickens.” Simms twisted around to see Constantine"s expression faltering.

“Well… they do say the situation is far worse in Colorado. People are starving, so I hear. Perhaps they might move back once they hear of my company"s plan.”

“You could be right,” Simms said and forced a smile. The two Frenchmen were no longer staring. Both had pulled their hats over their eyes and were sleeping. Simms settled himself into his seat and tried to do the same.

He sprang up, roused by a violent shaking of his shoulder. Constantine loomed over him, flashing his grin. “We"re here, Mr. Simms. I wish you well in your endeavors.”

Grunting, Simms stood up, reaching up to the rack where his portmanteau waited. “Thank you. You too, Mr. Constantine.”

He noted the Frenchmen were no longer there. With a grunt he pulled down his case and made his way out onto the platform.

The heat hit him like a wall, forcing him to stop on the bottom step. He took a moment before striding across the wooden platform to the tiny office. The locomotive sizzled and snorted behind him, other passengers drifting away. He saw Constantine talking to a man beside a rickety-looking carriage, pulled by the thinnest, most moth-eaten mule he thought he"d ever seen. This place was certainly in the doldrums, he mused, and went straight to the ticket booth.

From within the booth, a tired weasel of a man sauntered up to the grill. He looked hot, close to death, gnarled hands running across his brow.

“I need to get to Fort Bridger,” said Simms without preamble, “or as close as I can get.”

“We do have a train to Fort Laramie,” the little man wheezed, “but it only calls once every two weeks.” He pulled a face. “You missed it by three days.”

“Once every two weeks?” Simms blew out his cheeks, swiveled around on his heels and surveyed the surroundings. “Is there a stage?”

“Sometimes. Best going into town…”

“And buying myself a horse. Yes, I"ve heard all that. Thanks.”

“…best going into town and asking at the hardware store. Man there name of Buster Norwich owns a half share in the local stagecoach. He"s the man to ask.”

“Where will I find this hardware store?”

“It"s on the main drag. You can"t miss it.”

Simms doffed his hat, hefted his portmanteau, and drifted away.

It took him five or more minutes to stroll towards the town. It was a mixed bag of weather-beaten, rundown stores and hotels, and newer, fresher looking cattle association offices. He moved through the almost-deserted main street, aware of people"s stares, and spotted the hardware store at the far end. As he moved closer, he noticed a man standing next to the doorway, arms folded, appearing bored. He studied Simms"s approach for a few moments before turning and disappearing inside.

Simms paused and took another look around the street. Very few bystanders remained. A slight tickle played around the nape of his neck, the same sort which always manifested itself when he was about to go into action. With a growing sense of unease, he clumped across the sidewalk and went inside the store. A tiny bell shrilled to announce his entrance. Simms took a moment to survey the interior. The single room was a jumble of every conceivable type of merchandise available for settlers, builders, cow-herders, perhaps even bounty-hunters, because there were guns. Lots of them. He wandered over to a rack of smooth bore muskets, together with a choice offering of rifled carbines. He picked one up, worked the mechanism.

From the corner of his eye, Simms spotted the man who had stood in the doorway, coming through a beaded curtain behind a large counter. Gruff looking, massive shoulders, ruby-red face, he coughed. Simms, making as if this was the first inkling he had of the man"s entrance, stiffened slightly and turned. He hefted the carbine. “Nice piece.”

The man glared. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Simms returned the carbine to its place and crossed to the counter. He took off his hat. “I hear there might be a stage to Fort Laramie?”

“You just got in off the train.” Simms nodded. “Well, about the stage, you heard wrong.”

“Oh. I understood you—”

“Are you buying?”

“No, I want to get to Fort Laramie. I was hoping you"d be able to—”

“If you ain"t buying, I"ll be asking you to leave.”

Simms rocked back on his heels, blew out a silent whistle. “Mister, I"m not here to cause trouble. I have business in Laramie and need to get there. I was informed, by the good man at the railroad station, that you ran a stage. I"m merely asking—”

“Stage hasn"t run out of here for over six months, mister. Too much nonsense in the Territories. If you"re aiming to head for Laramie, my suggestion is to buy a horse.”

“And where might I do that?”

“"Round back.” He jerked his thumb towards the rear of the building. “There"s a livery stable there. They"ll give you a good offer for a horse and rig. Also, where you"re going, you"ll need firearms.”

Simms nodded, unbuttoned his coat and pushed it away to reveal the pistols already holstered around his person.

Buster Norwich, or so Simms assumed the man to be, studied the guns, smirked, then turn his head, hawked and spat on the floor. “Damned bounty-hunters. Your business in Laramie got something to do with taking a few scalps, trading off some innocents for desperadoes? Jesus, you make me sick.” He reached under the counter and brought up a shotgun, barrels sawn off. But if he had a desire to use the weapon, or merely to intimidate, he did not get very far. Before he could bring the impressive firearm to bear, Simms pulled out the Colt Dragoon at his hip and rapped the barrel hard across the big man"s nose, sending him screaming and squirming to the ground, collapsing into the well-stocked shelves behind him. The suddenness and weight of his fall brought down a profusion of cans, bottles and paper bags, filled with an assortment of flour and maize, around his head.

Simms holstered his revolver, returned to the rifle rack and lifted out the carbine he"d been looking at. Recognizing it from his War days, Simms hefted the weapon in his hands. An Eighteen-forty-three model, Halls breechloading carbine. A fine g*n. Grinning, he vaulted the counter, and scraped around, searching for cartridges. He found a small carton, only half-full of ready-made paper cartridges, and dropped them into his pocket. He kicked the shotgun away well out of reach, stomped his foot into the writhing man"s groin for good measure, and went through the beaded curtain, carbine in hand.

The rear door yawned wide open. Beyond it, Simms could just make out a battered old barn, surrounded on two sides by a makeshift fence. A broken cart lay next to the entrance. He did not step closer so the angle from which he looked obscured most of the details, but he could see enough to realize this was no livery stable. A miserable attempt to waylay him, perhaps, with Norwich"s associates standing just out of sight, waiting.

He turned and went back into the shop. He stooped down beside Norwich and put the end of the barrel under the squirming man"s chin. “You aiming to kill me, boy?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Norwich, eyes cloudy with tears, blabbed, shaking his head. “Please,” was all he managed.

“How did you know I was coming?”

To lend some weight to his question, he pushed the barrel deeper into Norwich"s thick throat. He gagged. “Seamus.”

“And who is he?”

“We have a deal. He sends tenderfoots over here, to ask about the stage.” Sobs broke out from his slack mouth, the tears tumbling down his face. “Don"t kill me, please.”

“The guy at the railroad station?” Simms stood up. “Jesus, you people. How many have you waylaid this way?”

Norwich, unable to answer, curled himself up into a ball, bleating like a lamb.

“Too damned many, that"s for sure.” Simms scooped up the shotgun, broke it open and dropped the cartridges to the floor. He then took to smashing the g*n on the counter edge before tossing the ruined weapon into the far corner. “How many are waiting for me out back?”

Norwich dragged in a shuddering breath. “Only one, Johnny-boy. A kid. Don"t hurt him.”

Simms narrowed his eyes. “One? That means there are at least two, and they ain"t no kids.”

“What you gonna do?”

“Get myself a horse.”

He moved quick, running out of the store, back into the sunlight. Main Street remained as quiet as ever, which might be a problem, but Simms was sufficiently experienced in this sort of thing to know that as soon as the gunfire broke out, people would keep their heads down. So he continued to run, taking the passageway, which ran down the side of the store, and stopped at the corner.

He listened. A couple of horses neighed, kicking at the ground, but nothing else. He estimated the distance between where he stood and the rear entrance to the store. Perhaps fifteen paces, maybe less. He checked the carbine, brought it up to his eye line, and stepped around the corner.

As he suspected, they were either side of the doorway. The nearest one, with his back to him, was a lumbering slob of a man, wearing a sweat-stained white shirt, hanging like a tent around his frame. A ten-gallon perched on his head; he was a true caricature the people back east believed those out west to be. He held a large, heavy-looking bat in his hand, his breathing labored. Simms could hear the wheeze grow louder as he inched closer.

Simms drew in a quiet breath, took a line on the man"s calf muscles, and squeezed the trigger.

The carbine boomed in the stillness of the afternoon, the bullet slapping into the big man"s leg, whipping it out from under him to dump him unceremoniously on his huge behind. He squealed, more from shock than anything, and clamped both hands over the bullet wound in his calf, writhing in the dirt as the blood spewed from between his fingers.

His partner, who stood opposite with a rusted spade in both hands, saw Simms and went white. He dropped his weapon, and took two or three steps backwards. He gibbered something incomprehensible and wet his pants. Appalled, he turned and sprinted away in the opposite direction. Simms let him go, not wanting to kill any of these amateur bush-whackers. News would soon get around, he hoped. Future visitors to this s**t-hole town would be more aware of the sort of welcome awaiting them.

He opened the breech, fed a new cartridge into the carbine and waited, keeping one eye on the moaning man on the ground, who rolled around clutching his shattered leg. If he didn"t get it fixed, he could be dead within a few days, Simms mused. He had seen it all too often, with soldiers on the battlefield receiving little more than a glancing wound but succumbing to a raging fever well after the fighting ended. More men died from wounds than from the field of battle, he knew that. He didn"t profess to understand the reasons why. Perhaps someone, some day, would figure it out.

The horses were spooked, rearing up, screeching, desperate to escape from the ropes binding them to a hitching rail next to the ramshackle old barn. The structure groaned, shaking dangerously from side to side. He needed to act quickly. Another shot would have the horses tearing themselves free and stampeding off into the distance, so when Norwich appeared in the doorway, one of the smooth bore muskets primed in his hands, Simms reached for the knife under his right arm and, in one smooth, flowing movement, sent it slicing through the air. The blade hit Norwich in the chest, with such force it sank almost to the hilt. Norwich gaped at the offending implement in total shock, the musket dropping from numbed fingers. He teetered backwards and fell down amongst the clutter of his rear storeroom. His feet twitched and a horrible gurgling sound bubbled up in his throat. Simms stepped over the writhing big man with the wounded leg and dipped his long frame into the storeroom. He stared into Norwich"s wide-open eyes.

“I never meant for anyone to get hurt,” Norwich jabbered, confusion and incomprehension over what had occurred mingling together. He clenched his teeth. “Oh Jesus, I never meant to hurt you.”

“No, you just meant to stove my head in with a baseball bat. You"re a genuine do-gooder, Norwich.” Simms bent down, gripped the handle of the knife, and tore it free. Norwich screamed and Simms wiped the b****y blade on the stricken man"s shirt. “You"ll be dead within the hour, so make your peace with God, you miserable bastard.”

“Help me.”

Simms tilted his head. “Like you would have helped me, I suppose?” He stood up and went back outside, leaving Norwich to gurgle and wheeze. He should really pay a visit to the guy back at the railroad station, bring some retribution down on his head, but he thought better of it. Time was pressing, but at least he had an empty store to rummage through. He would leave money for anything he needed for the journey and write a receipt and p*****t for the horse on the counter. This might delay any lynch-hungry posse from following his trail. But he doubted it.

He sighed. This was all so unnecessary and was not how he wanted this assignment to start out. Life always played its hand in the most unexpected of ways. He knew this, but the knowledge didn"t make it any less difficult to swallow.

He moved as cautiously as he could towards the horses.