Chapter 6

I was beginning to act so “normal” now that I was getting bored just sitting there and pretending that everything was all calm and laid-back. That was even when my nerves were screaming out for me to be on guard. My instincts were telling me to stay ready to pull my irons and blast my way out of the stifling unexciting situation.

I wanted to confide in Kate that I was convinced that it was all a deadly trap. Only, it was a trap that I just hadn’t figured out as yet because it was all new to me and outside my area of expertise.

My Kate was visibly beaming with pride at my “normal” role in the scheme of things.

She constantly made small talk with the other church-going town residents like she was not a cigar-puffing business woman when it came to dickering rates for various kinky acts of carnal depravity. I was certain those subjects were seldom discussed by any of those other ladies when Sunday rolled around and it came time for some serious socializing. I noticed that an awful lot of words were exchanged, but it seemed like not much was said of any lasting import unless you got the inside scoop on where the fish were biting or who was fooling around with the hired help.

The long-awaited Angela was due in on the next stage.

The familiar Butterfield coaches were all replaced now by the Wells Fargo blood red coaches.

They made easy targets for the reservation jumping Indians that were looking for free rotgut and a chance to lift the petticoats of some shrieking white woman and prove that they were born to run wild and raise hell until the day they died.

It was true there were some outrages against the slow-moving settler females, but it sort of paled into obscurity when taken into contrast with the reality of the Battle of Little Big Horn and the government sponsored genocide against the plains tribes played out in Indian Territory.

The stage came roaring into town earlier than expected and it was riddled with the arrows of angry Sioux braves that didn’t appreciate the white hunters lifting the scalps of their womenfolk and little ones when they were driven into long range expeditions to find adequate meat now that the vast herds of buffalo were no longer in existence. That eons-old source of food supply had disappeared from the scene so fast that newcomers failed to appreciate the tall tales about dust clouds from their passage that stretched off to the foothills in the far distance. I couldn’t help but wonder at their inability to accept the hard cold facts of the truth in such goings-on, considering the sad faces on the faces of the buffalo-hunting wastrels wasting away in front of their very eyes.

I had even tried my hand at the buffalo-hunting trade, but the constant gunfire and taking of life was a trigger that reminded me far too much of those eastern battlefields and the dead and dying youngsters with a busted flush in the game of living a long and happy life.

I really regretted the fact that I was so dependent on the continual priming with hard spirits needed to keep me in a receptive frame of mind.

It allowed me to accept the stresses of continued existence in the midst of constant chaotic danger.

I would be the first to admit the self-administered poison was my cross to bear for living a lot longer than most still retaining an ability to see the fact my future was extremely doubtful surrounded by a horde of enemies. The ones I knew were bad enough to contend with, it was the total strangers out to make a name for themselves that bewildered me beyond belief.

Since the arrival of the pin-cushioned and damaged stagecoach, laden with hand-made arrows and horses blowing hard and almost falling down in their traces, most of us had filtered outside in the dirt and the dust to watch the weary passengers dismount from the surviving conveyance.

There was a shotgun-carrying guard on the top that was stretched out flat on the roof. I recognized him as Slim Pepperman. It looked like he had taken a couple of arrows during their escape from the reservation-jumping hostiles. The one in his left leg didn’t look too nasty except for the bloody boot that was glued to his calf. The other one was unfortunately in his vital neck region and I could see right away it would be tricky to get the thing out without killing the poor fellow right there on top of the stage.

The driver didn’t seem at all perturbed about the incident and was totally focused on getting grub for the passengers and the horses so he could get back on the road and finish his assignment.

My Kate took charge of her bewildered Angela and shouted to me,

“I’m taking Angela up to the room, Doc.”

I just nodded at her and stayed in the shadows of the boardwalk overhang. I always liked to get the particulars on new arrivals before making any unguarded movements faced with total lack of intelligence about their intentions.

The other two passengers were a male and a female.

They didn’t seem to be traveling together and that was due to the way they tended to avoid each other’s company like they both had some fatal disease and were afraid of physical contact. That usually meant they were as close as two peas in a pod or outright mortal enemies that wanted nothing more than total destruction of the other person as a matter of personal pride.

I suspected it was a little of both from the way the still attractive middle-aged female kept pushing up the tempting wisps of honey blonde hair from falling over her eyes and hiding her flashing blue eyes from the general public.

The gentleman in question didn’t really have the appearance of true gentleman because of his damaged knuckles and his broken nose that hung off to one side like a lost heifer heading for an accident in bad terrain.

Kate hustled Angela off the stagecoach and they didn’t leave any visible tracks as they made a beeline to our digs. I guess they had an awful lot to catch up on and the whole thing about the Indian uprising took second fiddle to their personal needs.