Milky Trail to Death

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Reece ate his breakfast in a small, cramped, and smoke-filled room in which three tiny tables were crammed together. Each was covered with an intricately woven lace cloth of the most startling white. Miss Bessy certainly took great pride in her establishment, no matter how minuscule it may be.

Running a piece of bread around the edge of his plate, Reece sat back and felt more relaxed than he had for many long months.

The man in the corner, a travelling salesman by the cut of his tweed suit and Derby-hat placed next to his elbow, puffed on a fat cigar, his fat cheeks glowing with grease from his morning bacon. He beamed across to Reece. “Gonna be a beautiful day once again,” he said.

“I suspect so.”

“My name’s Bourne. You here on business?” Without waiting for a reply, the man plunged on. “Mine takes me everywhere now that the West is opening up like never before. Thank the Lord the War did not cause as much deprivation out here as it may have done.”

“I reckon it caused enough elsewhere.”

“Ah, yes, yes of course, but what I’m referring to, forgive me, is the excesses of violence visited upon the likes of Fredericksburg and Atlanta. And now, with Johnson’s so-called Reconstruction plans, I can see any peaceful designs for reconciliation causing nothing but more trouble. Don’t you think?”

Reece didn’t think. He’d fought for too long to think about much else but his own survival.

Rolling his cigar between finger and thumb, the man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a southern gentleman, may I ask?”

“I ain’t ever considered myself as anything but a man, mister. Southern or otherwise. It’s all the same to me.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes, it is. I’ve met enough mean-minded gentlemen from both sides to know that such a word don’t mean diddly if it ain’t accompanied by actions.”

The other’s cheery face grew dark. “I see.” He turned his head slightly as he picked up his coffee cup and drank in silence for a moment. He smacked his lips when he finished and settled the cup back on its saucer. “If you’re from the North, my advice would be to refrain from being too critical of our ways.”

“Our ways?”

“The ways of the South, sir.”

“Ah, yes. What exactly might those ways be?”

“Hospitality, good manners. Good breeding.”

“Like keeping good men confined, you mean? Working long hours on plantations underneath the burning sun, not paying them a single cent? Is that what you mean?”

Bourne clenched his jaw and was about to speak when Miss Bessy breezed in, smoothing down the front of her apron, her smile as bright as the morning itself. She reacted to the chilly atmosphere instantly, stopped, and looked with some concern towards Reece. “I hope you and Mr Bourne are getting on famously, Mr Reece.”

“As if we’d known one another all our lives.”

She gave him a quizzical look as if she didn’t quite believe him, crossed towards Bourne, and busied herself tidying away the detritus of his breakfast. “Will you be checking out early, Mr Bourne.”

“I have a couple of appointments further west, so yes I shall be leaving in under an hour or so.”

“Well, it’s been a real pleasure having you stay. Perhaps you will call in again on your return journey. To Saint Louis was it?”

He glanced across to Reece. “Louisville, Miss Bessy.”

“Ah yes, how silly of me.” She straightened up, her arms full of plates. “I’ll make up your bill.”

As she passed Reece, she flashed him a smile. “And you, Mr Reece?”

“Another night, I reckon.”

“That would be grand.”

“Your husband, Miss Bessy? Is he around?”

Appalled, her face lost all of its color. “My husband?”

“Yes, I was wondering if I might have a word with him that is all. My bridle, it’s showing signs of wear and I was wondering if he could point me in the way of a reliable blacksmith.”

“Oh yes, I see.” Her smile returned. “Let me just get rid of these dishes and I’ll be right with you.”

She left and Reece returned to contemplating his coffee cup. He sensed Bourne stand up but did not bother looking. Until that is, the man paused beside him. He tilted back his head and held the man’s icy stare. “You got a problem, Mr Bourne?”

“Seems like you is the one with the problem.” He pulled back his coat. In his belt was stuffed a pearly-handled revolver. “I was making polite conversation, but you took it upon yourself to be offensive. I do not respond kindly to such a tone.”

“Is that so? Well, let me say, in my defense of course, that I did not find your conversation particularly welcoming. I chose, therefore, to ignore it. As indeed I’d like to ignore you.”

“I don’t expect to be seeing you again, mister, and I can say it won’t be a moment too soon.”

“You might consider closing your coat when you speak to me, Bourne. I surely hope you know how to use that thing.”

“I do, sir. I served for the Confederacy during the hostilities and saw action many times.”

Nodding, Reece lowered his gaze. “Still, I do not react kindly to intimidation, so I’ll ask you to close your coat and say ‘good morning’ to you.”

“I’ve seen your like before, mister whatever your name is. Northern trash, marching through our land as if you own it. Let me tell you, there’ll be a reckoning soon enough. Then you won’t be so cocky.”

“A reckoning? Like at Gettysburg, you mean?” Reece gave a wry smile. “Good morning, Mr Bourne.”

Bourne snorted, turned, and strode out. Reece listened to Miss Bessy greeting him in her usual cheery tones, then to his stomping up the stairs to his room, the sound receding until Reece could hear it no more. He blew out a long sigh, took his coat from the back of the chair and stood up.

He found Miss Bessy busy at work behind the reception desk. No doubt she was preparing Bourne’s bill. She looked up as he approached. “Off somewhere, Mr Reece? You never did tell me what your business was here in Whitewater.”

“Is that what this place is called?”

“Comes from the name the Cheyenne give to the river some two miles from here. A stream runs off it, feeds the old mine. It runs white in the winter. Some believe it is named after the man who found the town. His name was White, you see. But that isn’t so.” She smiled. “You won’t be needing your coat, Mr Reece. It’s going to be another scorcher. If you leave it behind, I can clean and press it for you.”

“That’s very kind.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Before handing it across to her, Reece delved inside and pulled out a folded, tattered piece of paper. “Your husband, Miss Bessy? Is he around?”

Again, that slightly startled look as she took his coat and draped it over one arm. “He … truth is, Mr Reece, he didn’t come home last night.”

“Oh. I was hoping to talk to him about that bridle.”

“I can point you in the direction of Noah Barton’s smithy, that’s no trouble.”

“Thank you.”

They went to the door of the little guesthouse and stood together for a moment, under the porch. She was right. It was already oppressively hot. Even so, there were people in the street. Groups of men were dotted around the main thoroughfare, which was nothing more than a rutted track with most of the town’s buildings set along one side, with a bank and timber yard opposite. On both sides were rolling, low-lying hills topped with towering pines. Loitering in front of a small lumber agent’s office were three men, roughly dressed in filthy work clothes. They wore dark expressions and were passing around a stone jug. Clearly business was slow given the heat and they no doubt filled their day with drinking and idle talk. Beyond them, a dilapidated building sporting an impressive sign informing the world this was a baker’s shop, with a general store attached. Next to that a saloon of sorts and a cluster of smaller wooden buildings, more shacks than anything else, which seemed to supply the small town with everything it would ever need. At the far end, the blacksmith’s, black smoke belching out from a stone chimney at the side.

“I guess it wouldn’t be amiss of me to say this town has seen better days.”

She gave a short laugh. “Mister Reece, this town never had better days! It’s always been a place you didn’t want to stay in.”

“So why are you here?”

She shrugged. “That’s a long story.”

They looked at one another. This close, breathing in her perfume, Reece could see how attractive she was, her face youthful, her skin unblemished, those eyes so inviting. He breathed through his mouth and turned away feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. “Maybe you could tell it to me?”

“Maybe I could. After supper perhaps?”

He snapped his head around. “And your husband?”

“Oh, don’t worry about him, Mr Reece. I doubt I’ll be seeing him for a few days.” Her eyes wrinkled up mischievously, “My life is somewhat predictable, Mr Reece, and the most predictable thing of all is my husband’s regular insobriety. Well,” she patted Reece’s coat, “I’ll go and sponge this clean for you. You have a pleasant day, Mr Reece.”

He tipped his hat and watched her disappear inside.

An after-supper chat with such a fine-looking woman was just what he needed, he thought to himself. Smiling, he stepped down into the street and strolled towards the blacksmith.