Between The HeartbeatsChapter 1B
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I think I'll take a couple of days rest in Albuquerque, Dillon thought as he rode into the town. It was pushing two weeks since he left Amarillo; he, Buck, and Buddy the pack horse had covered a better than 20 miles a day. Dillon hadn't pushed the animals too hard; he wasn't in a hurry. About every third day, he'd ride Buddy and let Buck take it 'easy' carrying the pack saddle and gear.
One reason he had been able to make 20 miles a day, day after day, was that he'd followed the Santa Fe Trail most of the way from Amarillo. The Trail wasn't like a road but was easy going because of the number of wagons, settlers, and freighters that used it. Almost like the roads back in Richmond, Dillon thought with a smile. Where the Trail turned northwest to Santa Fe, he continued west.
Albuquerque isn't a small place, Dillon observed as he rode through the town; the sign on the outskirts said there were six thousand people living there. He found a livery stable on the west side and gave instructions that both horses be bathed, brushed, and fed a grain mash in addition to the sweet hay. They had ridden through some dusty alkaline areas and the horses hadn't really had a chance to take dust baths to clean themselves.
Dillon found a small boarding house nearby and arranged to stay for two nights. If the horses deserve to be pampered, so do I he thought. He'd checked in just in time for supper and joined the other guests after stowing his gear in his room. As he sat at the table looking around he hung his head, smiled and chuckled.
"Something amuse you Mr. Gallagher?" Mr. Jenkins, the owner of the house asked. He was curious about Dillon's smile.
"Just remembering the last boarding house I stayed at," Dillon replied still smiling. "I enjoyed that house very much."
"I hope our place can give you the same service."
Don't hardly think so, Dillon said to himself but responded, "I'm sure you will Mr. Jenkins." Turning to Mrs. Jenkins he said, "This is a fine meal, ma'am. Thank you." After supper, Dillon went to his room. In spite of not riding hard, two weeks on the trail had worn him down some.
The next morning after breakfast he decided to walk around the west side of Albuquerque and explore. He found a general mercantile and replenished some trail supplies and bought a pair of heavy whip cord work pants. Some his fancier clothes from Wichita Falls were showing some wear.
That evening he decided a visit to a saloon was in order. Although he didn't drink much, a beer or two sounded like a good idea. He had to smile when he walked into the saloon; it was doing a good business and a lot of the customers had the look of cowhands letting off steam. It was a familiar sight to Dillon.
He was standing at the end of the bar with his back to a wall; putting his back to the wall was a habit he'd developed when visiting the saloons as a deputy marshal. There was a cowboy standing to the side of Dillon looking at him intently. Dillon ignored the man's stare and continued drinking his beer and watching the big room.
"Ain't you Deputy Gallagher from over to Wichita Falls?" The cowhand asked with slurred speech that showed that he'd had more than enough to drink that night.
"I'm Gallagher, but I'm not a deputy anymore," Dillon replied without looking at the man.
"My name's Jake Summers. You arrested me and my two brothers one time."
For the first time Dillon turned and faced Summers. "Don't remember you; I arrested a lot of cowboys when they got out of hand. If I did arrest you, you needed to be arrested," Dillon said in a cold flat voice.
"Getting arrested put us on the wrong side of our range boss. He made our life hell all the way to Abilene he did. The high and mighty Mr. Carl Jones fired us when we got to the railhead," the man complained.
"I remember Mr. Jones. You must be one of those boys that gave Pastor Jennings a bad time." Dillon couldn't help but smile thinking about the incident and the aftermath.
"You ought not to have arrested us Deputy. We were just havin a little fun with the reverend," Summers whined. "Maybe it's payback time."
Dillon started to explain the difference between fun and bodily assault but decided it would be a waste of time. Summers' was drunk and angry; the facts weren't going to change his mind.
"You men were lucky to just go to jail; I almost shot all three of you that night. Don't push me too far Mister." Dillon stared at the man with cold dead looking eyes. He pulled the oilskin duster he wore back away from the pistol at his hip. "Walk away and let me be."
"You're gonna pay for that night," Summers shouted. He started to pull his gun. Before he could clear the holster Dillon drew his own pistol and shot; hitting him high in the shoulder.
The bar room became deathly quiet with everyone there staring at the man on the floor and the big man standing over him with a smoking pistol.
Dillon walked to Summers and picked up his pistol. Turning to the bartender and giving him the pistol he said, "Better have someone send for a doctor and the law."
The bartender ordered his swamper to fetch the doctor first and then find the marshal. "It was self defense Mister. That man," the bartender pointed toward the wounded Summers on the floor, "kept pushin you. He tried to kill you."
"Be obliged if you tell the marshal that when he gets here," Dillon said.
It was a few minutes before the doctor came into the saloon. Seeing the man on the floor he began to tend to his wound. After a few minutes he asked a couple of men to get Summers over to his office. The doctor stepped over to Dillon. "You the one that shot him?"
The bartender spoke up and said, "It was self defense Doc. That cowboy was yelling at this man and then pulled his gun."
"I'm Doctor Reynolds. Your .44 sure tore up his shoulder. He won't have use of that arm for a while, Mister... ?"
"Dillon Gallagher, Doctor. The .44 usually makes a mess of whatever it hits. But he got off lucky."
"How so Mr. Gallagher?"
"I missed my shot; I meant to hit him in the chest," Dillon answered with a grim smile.
"Well from my point of view, I'm glad you missed your intended target. If you'd hit him in the chest, we'd be calling the undertaker."
As the doctor finished speaking, a large man wearing a marshal's badge on his vest entered the saloon. Spotting Doctor Reynolds he came to join him.
"I heard there was a shooting here, Doc."
"There was. I had the wounded man taken to my office," the doctor said. "Marshal Taylor, this is Mr. Gallagher; he's the man that did the shooting."
The Marshal turned to Dillon and asked, "That right Mr. Gallagher?"
"Yes sir, that man's name is Summers and he tried to kill me. I got him instead."
Again the bartender stepped in. "It was self defense Marshal. That Summers feller kept pushin and proddin at Gallagher here. Then he started for his gun; he never cleared leather."
"Why'd he have it in for you Mr. Gallagher?"
"I arrested Summers and his two brothers while I was the deputy marshal for Tom Ryan in Wichita Falls," Dillon said. He told Marshal Taylor the story of the Summers' brothers and Pastor Jennings. "I thought I was doing them a favor keeping them out of jail; I guess he didn't see it the same way."
"You worked with Tom Ryan?"
"Yes sir, Tom and I are good friends," Dillon answered with a smile.
"You looking for work around here Mr. Gallagher?"
"No I'm not looking for a job. I'm on my way to Arizona."
Marshal Taylor looked at Dillon for ten seconds or so. "If you see or write to Tom, tell him Bill Taylor said hello please. Tom and I rode in the war together. Take care of yourself Gallagher and good luck on your journey."
Dillon nodded and left. As he walked back to the boarding house he thought about the events in the saloon trying to think if there was any way he could have avoid the fight. Short of letting Summers shoot me, I don't think I could have done anything different he decided. I'm getting too good at shooting people; it's not a talent I want to cultivate.
At daybreak Dillon packed his gear on Buddy and saddled Buck. Time to ride on he thought; before I have to shoot any more people.
The previous trek from Amarillo to Albuquerque hadn't been like a Sunday afternoon ride. It had been almost two weeks of riding from sunup to sun down. Possibly for someone, like Dillon, it was the isolation that was the most difficult part of the journey.
To make the trip easier and pass the time, Dillon fell back on a habit he'd picked up during the war; he talked to his horses. During his service with the First Virginian he would often talk to his horse before a battle. It wasn't that Dillon was crazy, it just helped calm his nerves so he could focus; it seemed to help calm his horse too.
So several times during the ride Dillon would talk to Buck and Buddy. Sometimes he quoted poetry to the animals and had one sided discussions about what the poems meant. Sometimes it was the politics of the War Between the States and how the war could have been avoided. Sometimes he would talk about what he wanted to find. And sometimes he told Buddy of his travels and adventures since leaving Richmond; Buddy hadn't been with he and Buck during that time. Neither horse were very good conversationalists but they were both excellent listeners.
As boring and as tiring as the trip to Albuquerque had been, the ride to Arizona was more difficult. The distance from Albuquerque to Prescott meant another week on the trail. A lot of the trip was across desert and high chaparral with fewer water holes; more than one night he made a dry camp. He carried three large canteens on the pack saddle plus his personal one hung on his saddle.
Every water hole he found he made sure all the canteens were full before leaving. His packs contained food for the horses, a mixture of dried oats and corn. Dillon would add a little water to the feed; it helped the horse get some moisture as well feeding them.
Buddy was a big surprise; he was very good at smelling water. Four times he found water holes that Dillon and Buck would have bypassed. The troop wouldn't have died without Buddy's help but his discoveries made the hard journey a lot easier.
As he got closer to Prescott the elevation change, mountains, wooded hills, and grasslands became the normal landscape. Pretty country Dillon said to himself; it looks like a good place to raise cattle and horses. Three weeks after leaving Albuquerque, Dillon rode into Prescott, Arizona. Riding into town he saw large holding pens for cattle close to the railroad tracks; Prescott's another cow town he thought.
He found a livery and stabled his horses, making sure the animals got a bath and special feed. The stable owner told Dillon about two good boarding houses nearby; Dillon preferred boarding houses to hotels. At the hotels all you received was the room; sometimes with noisy drunks in adjoining rooms. At the boarding house the cost included two meals a day, breakfast and supper. Usually the guests were more interested in resting than raising hell.
Dillon walked to the nearest boarding house and paid for a week's stay. As he stowed his gear he thought about his money situation. He had about four hundred dollars in gold coins with him and a bank draft from the Wichita Falls bank. Dillon's expenses since leaving Richmond hadn't amounted to much.
When he worked for Creed Taylor in Texas back in '65, in addition to his wages he got room and board. Dillon wasn't one to go to town and raise hell every month when he got paid so he saved most of his wages. He spent even less while in Mexico. It was an inexpensive place to live and he made very good money as a payroll guard. He'd gained a reputation of getting the payrolls through and was offered a lot of jobs by different mine managers.
In Wichita Falls his room and board was a work benefit as the deputy marshal so again he had few expenses. Even his ammunition and a shotgun were provided. His only real expense was his more elegant way of dressing. As he remembered Mrs. Boudreaux's boarding house and the 'special benefits' he and Emma shared, Dillon laughed knowing he'd never have something like that again. It had been a wonderful part of his life.
Marshall Tom Ryan, his friend and boss, convinced Dillon to open an account at the bank. Tom said one of the few good things about Northern Reconstruction was that the banks were more solid and you could do business from town to town and bank to bank. That's why Dillon had a bank draft for his account instead of carrying gold coins. People were still skittish about paper money but everyone trusted and accepted gold.
I've got a little over three thousand dollars, Dillon thought. That's enough for about three years, even staying in a boarding house. He decided he'd take a little time to see what opportunities were available in Prescott. Dillon wasn't the type to sit around; he needed to put his hand to something. Maybe I'll become a poker dealer in one of the saloons, he thought. No I don't guess so; it'd turn something I like as a past time into a job. I wouldn't get the same enjoyment out of it.
Dillon had learned to play poker while at VMI and he'd become very good at it. He'd honed his skills while working for Creed Taylor and later in Wichita Falls. Several times on his nights off, at least before Emma came into his life, you could find him at a poker table in one of the saloons. He developed a system in Wichita Falls that kept him from losing his shirt during a bad run of cards.
On payday Dillon would take $10 from his wages as a poker stake for the month. At the end of the month anything over the $10 was put into his bank account. He would take $10 and start over again. If he lost his stake he quit playing until the next payday. Dillon usually added money to his account every month. Of course when he and Emma started keeping company the number of evenings spent at the poker tables were drastically reduced.
Dillon's first day in Prescott he went to the barber shop and got a shave, haircut, and a bath. When he was on the trail he usually didn't bother shaving; the water was needed to stay alive. When he did find a good water hole if he had the time he would bath and shave but those times were scarce. He came out of the barbers completely clean and groomed for the first time in almost three weeks. I smell as sweet as lilies of the valley, he said to himself.
His second day he spent exploring Prescott and surrounding country. He wanted to get a feel for the area before he decided if he wanted to stay and what he kind of work he wanted to do. Dillon found out that he could get a job as a stage coach guard or ride guard on freight wagons. He wasn't really interested because it meant a lot of traveling; he was tired of traveling, at least for a while.
His third evening in town he visited one of the saloons. Dillon didn't drink a lot but he wanted a beer and a saloon was a good place to gather information about Prescott. Truth be known he wanted a little company and thought he would try his hand at playing some poker.
Dillon walked into the West Branch saloon and immediately felt at home; it reminded him of the saloons in Wichita Falls. There were several cowhands celebrating the end of a cattle drive and a few of the locals having a week ending drink. He got a beer and walked over to watch one of the poker games.
He'd been watching for about a quarter of an hour when one of the men at the table spoke to him. "Either sit down and play with the men or go away. You bother me standing there like a vulture."
Dillon returned the man's look for a few seconds and then took an empty chair. When sat down the other four men at the table welcomed him and introduced themselves. The loud mouth said, "Good, another chicken for me to pluck."
"My name's Gallagher," he said to the four men, ignoring the man that'd been making the insulting comments. Dillon had heard the others call the man Jim Knox. He looked at Knox, thinking I've seen your kind before. The man was tall at 6' 3; Dillon guessed he weighed over 225 pounds. He was drinking hard, refilling his glass from a bottle on the table. Jim Knox had a red face and a belligerent attitude, probably from the whiskey Dillon thought.
The game was five card stud or draw poker and it didn't take many hands for Dillon to realize that Jim wasn't a very good poker player. He chased hands in spite of bad odds, called when he should fold, and raised when he should have called at best. Jim won a few hands but Dillon won more. During the whole game Jim continued making remarks about Dillon and the other players. Dillon had gained a small profit and decided that this would be his last hand. Jim had just made an insulting remark about drifters, looking at Dillon as he said it.
Dillon didn't get angry, he seldom got angry. It's only hurts your chances in bad situations, he believed. He'd learned during war that anger clouded your vision and slowed your reflexes. Even during the gun battles he'd been in since the war, he wasn't angry. Dillon became a cold, calculating man during those times of stress.
The hand was draw poker and Dillon had an inside straight draw. No one had raised the opening bet so Dillon stayed in; it wasn't something he'd normally do but it didn't cost much more than his ante to call. When he saw the card he drew he thought, my luck's good tonight; the card was a seven and filled out his straight.
Up to this point the game had been mostly small stakes, with $30 dollars considered a large pot. The first two men checked and Knox made a large bet of $20. Knox had drawn three cards and Dillon figured he had at best three of a kind so he raised the bet to $40. Two men dropped out and it was up to Knox; he raised another $20. The last two men dropped leaving just Dillon and Knox in the hand.
Dillon had $40 in front of him, "Here's your bet and I raise my last $20."
Knox smiled and said, "Here's you $20 and I raise $50."
One of the men that had dropped out complained, "It's table stakes Jim, you can only call his last $20."
"Shut up Clancy. I say I can raise," Knox said with his hand on his pistol butt. Turning to Dillon he ordered, "Dig for the money or fold your hand drifter."
Dillon felt a cold, calculating calm come over him. It wasn't the money that concerned him; it was the insults and direct challenge from a boisterous drunk like Knox. Maybe I should just walk away Dillon thought, but then again I've never walked away from trouble. Why start now?
He pulled a draw string bag out of the inside pocket of his oilskin duster and asked, "How much you got in front of you Knox?"
Knox looked at Dillon suspiciously, counted his money and answered, "$200 and some change. Why?"
Looking Knox straight in the eye, Dillon said, "Here's you $50 and I raise $300." He counted out the gold double eagles and pushed them into the pot.
"But I don't have $300," Knox said.
Dillon replied, "Dig for it or fold your hand."
Knox was shocked when Dillon threw his own words back in his face. He looked at the other players but they were laughing at him. He finally slumped in his chair, knowing that he had to fold his hand.
"Tell you what Knox, I want to be fair. Call for what you have in front of you," Dillon said. He'd made his point.
Knox looked at Dillon for a few seconds and pushed all his money into the pot. "Three kings drifter," he said turning over his card and gloating.
"Good hand," Dillon said and when Knox reached for the money he added, "But not good enough. I've got a straight to the nine." He showed his cards and smiled at the look on Knox's face.
With a look of disbelief, the big drunk moved his hand toward his gun. "You damn chea..." Knox started but Dillon interrupted.
"KNOX," Dillon said with a loud strong voice. "You're about to make a big mistake. Stop and think about your next move." Dillon pulled his duster away from his holster pistol staring at Knox with ice cold blue eyes.
"That's enough boys. Just stand easy," a voice from behind Dillon said. He didn't turn his head, keeping his attention on Knox.
"Jim slowly pull your gun and put it on the table," the voice ordered. When Knox complied the voice added, "Now you Mister, put yours on the table too."
Dillon hesitated, knowing that the man behind him probably had a gun trained on him. "I'd like to know who's giving the orders before I comply," Dillon said without emotion.
The man walked to the side where Dillon could see him and the badge on his vest; he also saw the double barrel shotgun the man was carrying. "I'm Charley Jackson, the Sheriff in these parts."
Dillon nodded and slowly laid his pistol on the table. He smiled to himself at the shotgun; guess a lot of lawmen use one, he said to himself.
Sheriff Jackson picked up both pistols. "Jim go home, you're drunk and about to get yourself in trouble. You're damn lucky you didn't get yourself killed. You can pick up your gun tomorrow when you sober up."
Knox looked at Jackson, then at Dillon, and then at the money on the table. Finally he turned and left the saloon, stomping out in anger.
"Now who are you and what are you doing here?" Jackson asked Dillon.
"Name's Dillon Gallagher. I just rode in a couple of days ago. Plan on finding a job and staying for awhile."
"Why did you warn Knox instead of drawing on him? You give the impression that you know how to use this hog leg," the Sheriff said hoisting Dillon's .44.
"Well I'll tell you Sheriff. Even since I left Wichita Falls seems like one person or another has tried to draw down on me. To be honest I'm getting real tired of shooting people."
Sheriff Jackson looked at Dillon in surprised disbelief. "You don't impress me as someone that'd turn the other cheek Gallagher."
"Didn't say I was. I'll defend myself and not lose a minute's sleep over it but it don't mean I have to like killing. If I had my way I'd never pull that .44 again," Dillon answered. He exchanged looks with Jackson and then added.
"As far as Knox, he wasn't much of a threat. He was drunk and I don't think he's as good with a gun as he thinks he is. So I thought I might shock him out of doing something both stupid and deadly."
Jackson smiled a little and nodded. "Yeah, Jim thinks he's John Wesley Hardin and Wild Bill Hickok all rolled into one. Truth be told, he's lucky he hasn't shot off his foot."
Dillon laughed and paused for a few seconds. "Sheriff, could I have my gun back now. I don't plan on using it tonight but I feel sort of undressed without it."
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- 20.02.2021
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