Along The Fortune Trail (21 page)

S
ammy stepped to the window of the small booth that stood alone with twenty feet of boardwalk in front of it, like glory road in the middle of the surrounding dirt. “I'd like to find out about the train to Raton,” he said to the young clerk with the slicked-down, combed hair, wearing a white shirt and bowtie.

“Yes, sir. The train leaves at 10 a.m. and arrives in Raton at 1 p.m. The fare is six dollars.”

“Three hours is all it takes? How far is it to Raton?”

“One hundred and ten miles.”

Sammy's eyes widened. “That train rolls right along.”

“Nearly forty miles per hour.”

“I was told a man could take his horse too. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. On a space available basis. And right now, there's space available. The horse's fare is eight dollars.”

“It's more for the horse than me?”

“Yes, sir. The horse takes up more space.”

“Yeah, he eats more too. Okay, one man and one horse.”

“That's fourteen dollars, sir. You can load your horse at 9:30. Passenger loading begins at 9:40.”

Sammy handed the clerk the money. “When's the train gonna run to Santa Fe and Albuquerque?”

“They're surveying now. It shouldn't be more than a year or two. There's talk of building a line over Raton Pass too.”

Sammy looked down the track a quarter mile to where the train was positioned under a water tower. “Do we get on down there?”

“No, they'll pull up here in another half hour or so.”

Sammy glanced again at the clock behind the clerk. “Is your clock right?”

“Wound it this morning.”

He had an hour to wait before he could load Dobe, so he headed over to the main street in search of breakfast and more tobacco. The small hotel he came to had a dining room. After two helpings of biscuits and gravy, Sammy took in the store across the street and bought chewing tobacco, cigarette tobacco, papers, a western dime novel, and fifty cents worth of cherry hard candy that nearly filled a popcorn-size brown paper bag. “You must be riding the train,” said the old-timer behind the counter.

“How'd you know?”

“Tobacco, readin’ material, and candy. Just right for ridin’ the rails.”

“The candy's for my horse,” Sammy said, as he reached in the bag and flipped a piece into his mouth. “Mmmm … that's good candy.” Sammy quickly dispensed with sucking and went right to chomping.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Good thing there's enough there for the both of you.”

“Maybe. Much obliged, mister.”

Swollen, dark clouds began to pile up as Sammy stood outside the livestock car waiting for the ramp to drop. He held two pieces of candy in his palm under Dobe's mouth. “Well, ain't this a bit of timing.” Dobe took the treat and nosily enjoyed it. “I believe we're gonna avoid gettin’ wet.” Just then, he felt a drop hit his hand. The ramp came down and the man at the top waved him up.

“You're first, so pick any stall you like,” the man said. Sammy loaded Dobe into an end stall. The horse peered out between the slats with a calm demeanor that suggested he was all right with the experience, so far.

“There you go. Privacy and a view.” Sammy exited down the ramp just as three men with horses and another with a cow showed up to load.

The train was only six cars long with one passenger car. Sammy walked the length of it, looking at each car. He stopped at the locomotive and stared in fascination at the sculptured mountain of iron and steel, with its great spoked wheels connected by steel rails. Smoke drifted from its stack. He could hear the furnace burning and sensed the power of it as the shoveler was loading it up. The engineer noticed Sammy looking and tipped his hat when the cowboy's eyes moved to the cockpit where he stood at the window. Sammy nodded back with a smile, then walked back to the passenger car as people began to arrive. He boarded and sat next to the window at the rear of the car. The raindrops became more frequent, causing a few folks to hasten their pace in boarding.

Sammy reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved one of the pieces of candy he'd stashed before he'd put the rest of it in his saddlebags. He rolled it around in his mouth, resisting the urge to chew it as he usually did, but wanting to make it last, and curious about how long it would if he allowed it to dissolve completely. He looked at the dime novel, its cover depicting a rancher in front of his cabin shooting at a lone Indian on horseback, as his wife stood in the doorway with a fearful expression and two young children pushed against the folds of her dress.
The War of Lazy W. Ranch
was the title. “Guess I won't be namin’ my ranch the Lazy W. Looks like there won't be much lazy about his place anymore.”

He read the first page and forgot about his quest to suck the candy, instinctually doing what came naturally. He chomped it. A few pages in, he heard the shout from the conductor and looked out the window. “All aboard!” An older couple hurried to board as steady rain began to fall, quickly painting the remaining dry spots on the boardwalk platform. Sammy put the novel down on the empty seat beside him, unable to concentrate in anticipation of the train's movement. He looked around the car, surmising it was about half full with thirty or so passengers. Couples sat together, and singles availed themselves of an entire bench where the opportunity presented itself.

The train's whistle gave three blasts. A moment later, the car jerked and began a slow roll, with the sound of the engine pushing out sluggish, intermittent blasts of steam that increased in tempo as the train picked up speed. Sammy listened to the melodic pitch of the steel wheels turning over the rails beneath, with the light clicking sensation as the connecting seam of each rail was breached. The train cleared the town, the speed increasing and the skies opening up in a deluge of pouring rain.

He sat contented, dry and glad in the comfort of the train car, whizzing along, excited by the speed and the sensation of it as he watched the rain pound down on the plains with such force that it appeared to be bouncing back up several inches. He rolled a cigarette and then smoked it, gazing out the window and reminiscing on all that had happened. It seemed easy to put in perspective with the calm of the moment.

The man at the store had been mostly right. Sammy didn't pick up the dime novel the rest of the trip, but he certainly did enjoy eating more candy and smoking cigarettes as he contemplated it all and rode the rails north to Raton, eager to get on to Denver.

N
ature's onslaught of rain played out like a concerto, ebbing and flowing through the ministrations of unfolding passion and necessity that finally spent its worth on the land, leaving behind a clearing sky and washed plains brimming with the unleashed scent of sage and feathergrass. The Raton depot was bathed in sunshine and heavy with humidity as the train slowed to a stop. Some people inside the car peered through the windows at folks in front of the depot, quickly identifying those who had come to meet them and putting forth a wave or nod of recognition. The Conestoga freight wagons were already lined up alongside the freight cars when Sammy climbed down and made his way to the livestock car to retrieve Dobe.

“Excuse me, sir. You ever been over Raton Pass?” Sammy asked an older man who was already waiting for the livestock ramp to drop.

“Yes, I have.”

“Is that it—the first break on the left there?” Sammy asked, pointing north.

“Oh yes, straight north there,” the man replied as he pointed toward the rising mountains whose canyon mouth appeared to be a couple of miles off. “Just follow the stage road. It's an easy climb—no switchbacks. A lot of stagecoaches and freight wagons run it. There's a cantina at the top. Teamsters and folks coming from either direction stop and rest their animals. Good food, too. That gal does some business.”

“How far to Trinidad?”

“Oh, maybe twenty miles. It's the first thing you'll hit when you come off the other side. The stage leaves for there in about thirty minutes. You may want to trail with them. Banditos up the pass occasionally. They'll waylay single travelers.”

Sammy adjusted his hat rim. “Banditos, huh?”

“Yeah, a lot of trees and cover up there, places to hide. If you're not moving on till tomorrow, some of those freight wagons will be going in the morning.”

“I gotta check with my horse. I'm game to go now, but he may have a different idea. He oughta be ready to work. Been standin’ around doin’ nothin’ for the last hundred and ten miles.”

The man smiled. “Yeah, well good luck with that. The Rooster Box is the only hotel here if you end up staying. Just up the street there.”

“Much obliged, mister.”

Sammy unloaded Dobe and led him to a water trough where the horse took a long drink. “What say we get on over this pass to Trinidad. It's a fine afternoon now, and we got to sit out all that rain.” Dobe gave him a noncommittal stare. Sammy pulled out a piece of hardtack and fed it to Dobe, then followed it with a couple of pieces of the cherry candy. The horse perked up, munching contentedly. “I'll get you fed up big tonight. But first you gotta earn it.”

“What's his name?” asked a little girl about eight years old who had wandered over and overheard the one-sided conversation. Sammy turned and looked down at her, surprised that she had gotten within earshot without his awareness.

“His name is Dobe.”

“Does he answer you back?”

“Yes he does, in his own way.”

“What's his own way?”

“Well, that's the horse way. It's not words, but I can hear him anyway. Sort of like when you feel the heat coming off a stove or hear the wind whistle through the trees … or smell the wildflowers. He's got his own glow. I just listen harder to understand.”

The little girl blinked several times in thought. “My dog, Georgie, talks to me. My mom says it's make believe.”

Sammy smiled. “I'll bet Georgie doesn't think so. Besides, it only matters what you and Georgie think. I don't much care what other folks think about me and my horse because we've got an understanding that no one else understands like we do.”

“Like a secret?”

“Yep, just like a secret.”

The woman strode over hurriedly. “What are you doing over here, Cynthia?”

The little girl looked innocently at her mother. “I was asking the man about his horse.”

“You are not to wander off like that. Do you understand?”

The girl blinked several times. “Yes, I do understand—much better now.”

The mother gave a curious look to her daughter's response and took her by the hand. “It's time to go,” she said, giving Sammy a quick glance.

He tipped his hat to them. “Say hello to Georgie for me,” he said as they began to walk off.

“Okay, I will. Goodbye, Dobe. Goodbye, mister.”

Sammy mounted up and headed north out of town at a brisk trot. He considered what the man had told him about banditos and his advice about trailing with the stagecoach over to Trinidad. But he didn't care to wait on the stage, and the warning filled him with a grim resolve laced with anger. “They better catch me sleepin’ or they're gonna get whatever they plan on givin’,” he said to himself, feeling his blood rise.

The ten-mile trip up the pass to the summit turned out to be an easy ride up a beautiful canyon, ripe with evergreen and White Birch. He saw mule-tail deer and eagles, and listened to songbirds loud with springtime chatter. Below and parallel to the trail was a seasonal river that he heard ever present, rushing full in its banks. He caught sight of it from time to time through the occasional clearing of trees and brush.

Two small groups of wagons passed him going the other way, and the traveling parties of the Santa Fe Trail eagerly shouted out their hellos to him as they passed. “Is Raton still there?” one of the wagon drivers shouted as they passed.

“Bright and shiny after a good rainstorm. Another seven or eight miles,” Sammy yelled back.

“Thank you, neighbor! Prosperous travels to you!”

“And to you and yours!” Sammy replied.

T
he Jupiter Sky Cantina and Hotel sat precisely at the trail's crest, recessed a hundred feet from it and sitting up against a wall of granite four times its height. It was a long, log building with its name in flowing purple letters hanging above the double entrance door. The large, flat hard-packed area of dirt and crushed rock in front of the Jupiter Sky could easily accommodate three dozen wagons and scores of horses, although it had only seen that limit once during a fierce late-June storm that produced a foot of snow and drove the horde of people in the pass in search of its cover.

A hand-dug trail with flagstone steps left the back of the Jupiter Sky from under a sign that read: Stairway to the Stars. The path followed a natural ridge for a quarter mile, ending at a domed rock upon which a platform gazebo sat, revealing a full view of the southwestern sky and the distant plains twelve hundred feet below. A donation can to maintain the stairway, and its glorious experience, was pegged to a post at the beginning of the trail. It netted the proprietor an extra hundred or so dollars a year.

Sammy reined up in front and dismounted. A Mexican boy trotted out from a barn at the side of the Jupiter Sky. “I can water, feed, and brush your horse, señor. Good care for your horse, señor. Twenty-five cents.”

“Feed him what?”

“Oats, señor. Good. Fresh.”

“Okay, amigo.” Sammy pulled out a silver half dollar. “You take good care of him … not
too
much with the oats.” He held up his hands in the shape of the appropriate portion then flipped the coin to the boy, who looked at it for a moment.”

“Fifty cents?” the boy asked.

“Si.”

The boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some coins to make change. “No, amigo,” Sammy said, waving off the boy's change. “Take good care of my horse. I'll be out soon.”

“Gracias. Thank you. Gracias. Good care, señor!”

Just inside the door, a man wearing a leather apron sat behind a pedal-driven grinding wheel. “Get your knives sharpened and polished. Ten cents a knife. Done in ten minutes,” he pitched as Sammy walked in.

“Okay, mister.” Sammy pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and flipped two bits to the man. “So I can shave with it,” he instructed.

“It'll be a throat cutting, hair splitting beauty in ten minutes,” the man replied as he began to make change.

“Keep it. I've been tippin’ big since I got here. Why stop now.”

“Thank you kindly. I'll give it the extree special whomp-a-moo-boo cleaning.”

Sammy squinted at the man quizzically. “Whomp-a-moo-boo?”

“Yipper … eee … iii … ohh.”

She appeared from a hallway on his right with timing that suggested she knew he was ready for the next service. “Hello, mister. Would you like something to eat? A cold beer? Or perhaps some whiskey or tequila? Or our own Jupiter Sky gin?”

Sammy considered the choices. “Your beer is cold?”

She looked at him a moment then shook her hair ever so slightly. “Yes, it is. Kept in a rock cellar on the north end. And if you're hungry, we have the Triple B Plate—beef, beans, and biscuits. The best on the Santa Fe Trail, guaranteed. If you don't think it's delicious, you don't have to pay. Of course, if that happens, we'll expect you to haul your ass off our premises. But that shouldn't be a problem because everything here is the best. Everything.” She gave Sammy her soft eyes.

He looked at her and marveled at her brash style, tied up in a pair of snug denim pants, boots, and orange cotton blouse that pulled tightly against her generosity and enticement. Her brunette hair had soft, natural curls that hung to the bottom of her neck and nicely framed her blue eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips.

Sammy smiled at her. “How could I say no to that? Yes, ma'am, I'll have a beer and the Triple B.”

“Good, the beer is ten cents, and the Triple B is fifty cents. I'm Annie Jordan, the proprietor. If you decide to stay, rooms are one dollar. I have four of them. First come, first serve. I would be delighted to serve you.”

“Thank you, Annie. I appreciate it. We'll see what happens, but I was kind of thinkin’ on makin’ Trinidad yet.”

“Javier! A beer for the gentleman,” she told the bartender. She gave her hair another mild toss and lifted her chin as she flexed her shoulders back to a more perfectly revealing posture. Her eyes fixed on his in a soft, penetrating look. “You know, it's another ten miles down the pass to Trinidad. What's your hurry? Besides, they don't have what we've got.”

“Oh yeah? What's that?”

“Stairway to the Stars, cool sleeping on great beds, and the Jupiter Sky bar with its special atmosphere and own magic that comes from being at the top of Raton Pass. What's your name, cowboy?”

“Sammy Winds.”

“I was right. You are a cowboy, aren't you?”

“Yes ma'am, Annie.”

“One of the area ranches?”

“I ride for the Twin T…. south of the Chintah Range. A week's ride southwest of here.”

“Oh. You're a long way from home.”

He looked at her, trying not to stare. He guessed her to be in her late twenties. Though she wasn't beautiful, her appeal was seductively unmistakable.

“Well, you think about it, cowboy. I'll get your food. Sit anywhere you like.” She walked away and he watched her, concluding her movement spoke a language all its own.

The barroom rolled out like a long story. The bar top was a center cut, forty-foot-long ponderosa pine, sanded and varnished so that it shone like smoky glass on the wood's grain. A buffalo head hung off the center wall behind the bar and was flanked by elk, deer, and bear heads, coyote pelts, and snake skins. They gave the appearance of a game convention, and served as extra company for anyone occupying a barstool. An older couple sat at one of the tables against the windows of the front wall. Sammy walked to the bar and took a center stool.

The bartender brought his glass. “Your beer, señor. Welcome to the Jupiter Sky Cantina. My name is Javier.”

Sammy finished taking a long pull off his beer. “Much obliged, Javier. I'm Sammy. That's good, cold beer.”

“Yes, señor. We make our own—and our own gin, too, with juniper berries. There are lots of juniper trees in Raton Pass.”

Sammy considered it. “I can't say I've ever had gin.”

“We have tequila and whiskey too, but we don't make it. Is more expensive. Imported.”

“I believe I'd like to know what those juniper trees taste like when they're fermented. Help put the prime on my appetite before I mutilate the Triple B Plate.”

“Señor?”

“Pour me gin, Javier, and another beer too,” Sammy said, and drained his glass in relaxed, satisfying swallows.

“Ahh … yes, señor.”

Javier poured the shot and Sammy took the glass and smelled the aroma. Then he sipped it, considering the flavor and quality and finding the bouquet of the juniper berry to be as he had imagined. He took the rest in a swallow and waited for the kick. “Whoa,” he exclaimed. “Rattle my spurs. That's got some bullwhip to it.”

“Another, señor? Is ten cents a shot or one dollar for the bottle.”

“Not yet. No telling where I'd end up if I had too much of that before I ride.”

“Then stay, señor. Enjoy the Jupiter Sky.”

“I've heard that before. Must be the company line.”

“Señor?”

“Ahh—that means muchas gracias, Javier.”

“Por nada.”

Annie Jordan came with Sammy's plate piled high, smelling and looking every bit as appetizing as she had advertised. “Here you are, cowboy. If you want more, just let me know.”

Sammy's eyes widened. “I'll break a sweat finishing this.”

“I hope you like it. Javier, give Mister Winds a drink on the house. Whatever he likes. See you in a bit.” She turned and started her furnace toward the hallway.

“Thank you, Miss Annie Jordan. I'll drink to your prosperity,” Sammy called to her, watching her locomotion as she steamed across the room.

“Just keep adding to it and you'll be toasting a good cause.”

“I think she likes you, Señor Winds.”

Sammy dug into the plate and instantly knew it was as good as he'd ever had. The beef brisket was salaciously tender, having been slow cooked in molasses and spices that made it delectable. The biscuits were hot mounds of perfected batter baked to a flaky delicacy with a honeybutter spread. And the beans were tender pintos in a light garlic sauce with fresh cilantro, diced onion, and jalapeno. He tried to pace himself and make it last, but the pace was driven by how good it was. It went quickly. He slugged the beer down in long, steady pulls to put out the fire of the jalapenos.

“Do you want Miss Annie's drink now?” Javier asked.

“I'd better … I'm on fire! Another beer, Javier. Is she the cook?”

“Yes. There are two other women who work for her, but they follow her recipes.”

“Man, she's got some know-how with cookin’.”

“Yes, she is very good in business also.”

The man put the knife on the bar beside Sammy. “Thar she is—ready to cut a trail any direction.”

Sammy picked it up and admired how meticulously clean the handle was, and the blade gleamed with shine. “It looks like when it was new—five years ago.” He held the blade to his cheek and slid the edge downward for an inch in a shaving motion, then felt the smooth where whiskers had been. “Just right … much obliged.”

“And to you also. May your trail be clear of dead enemies and your full belly warmed by the sun,” the man said, then walked away. Sammy thought on that for a moment now that his belly was full.

Two cowboys walked in and headed for a table near the window. One of them called out, “Javier, como estas? Two beers and a bottle of whiskey.”

“Hello, Señor Frank … Señor Thomas. Is good to see you,” Javier replied and began to draw the beers.

Sammy glanced back, certain from their dress and manner that they were ranch hands. They looked at him and sized him up the same way. He nodded and raised his beer slightly in a toasting gesture, then faced back toward the bar.

“Hey mister, do you cowboy?” the older of the two asked Sammy.

Sammy looked over his shoulder at him. “Yeah, I do.”

“We ride for the Rolling R.S. Ranch a few miles west of Trinidad. Turned up short-handed recently. You lookin’ for work?”

Sammy turned all the way around on his barstool to face them. “No, just passin’ through.”

“What outfit you ride for?”

“The Twin T.. a few hundred miles southwest of here.”

“I heard of it. Must be a big outfit.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“What brings you up here?”

“I'm headed for Denver.”

“You got another two hundred miles getting’ there. Come have a drink with us. We got a bottle.”

“All right. Much obliged.” Sammy walked over to their table. “I'm Sammy Winds,” he said, holding out his hand to the man he'd been speaking to.

“Frank Adams,” the man replied as they shook hands.

“Thomas Hedgerton,” the other said, shaking Sammy's hand.

Javier showed up with the beers and whiskey and three shot glasses. The men poured whiskey and Sammy began to roll a smoke.

“How many head you run down there?” Thomas asked.

“It varies. We average about ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand! That'd be a sea of beef on a drive. How many hands ridin’?”

“That varies, too. Usually between fourteen and twenty.”

Frank Adams looked amazed. “Hell, I thought we was big. We ain't but half of that. The boss knows his business, though, and he's a good man. It's a good ranch to ride for.”

“Well here's to the Rolling R.S. and good places to stake on.” Sammy held up his whiskey and threw it back in one swallow.

“Here's to the Twin T.. And to you, Javier!” Frank said, turning at the last to the bar, and then he and Thomas threw theirs back.

The stagecoach from Raton pulled up in front and the travelers climbed out. They made their way into the Jupiter Sky where a few went to the bar and quickly ordered drinks. The stage drivers and the others dispersed among several tables. With the arrival of the crowd, the two women working for Annie Jordan came out and took orders and served meals and drinks. The room was steady with chatter and eating and drinking for the next forty-five minutes. Then the stage loaded up and was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

Sammy and Frank and Thomas talked and drank through all of it as the afternoon meandered on and shadows grew longer through the trees, creeping up the long rock faces all about.

“Well, we better git while there's gittin’ left,” Frank declared an hour after the stage had pulled out.

“Let's git then,” Thomas replied in a fermented, languid drawl.

Frank nodded at the bottle that was in its final quarter. “Mister Winds, please regard that bottle and dispose of it with our good wishes and horse luck.”

“Yeah?” Sammy happily asked, feeling the afternoon's indulgence in glorious respite. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen Annie Jordan in quite some time, and he briefly entertained the idea of heading for Trinidad. But he knew the lateness of the day, and his present state, leaned toward taking an easy bed and enjoying the Jupiter Sky Cantina and Hotel. “Muchas gracias, amigos. I'll give ‘er a go. Have yourselves a good trip to Raton.”

“We'll do that little thing,” Frank replied, then asked, “You stayin’ here tonight?”

“I'm thinking on it. Another drink or two oughta settle it.”

“I know which way. Did you meet Annie Jordan yet?”

“Yeah, she was wearin’ pants and lookin’ good doin’ it. I ain't seen many women wearin’ pants.”

“I ain't ever seen her wearin’ a dress,” Thomas chimed.

Frank chuckled. “Well, there's been a lotta tryin’ with her … pants or otherwise. One's I know of have come up short. Too bad. She could run some whores and do a helluva business.”