The Bozeman Trail

Chapter Two

Clay County, Missouri

Friday, June 21, 1861:

The little building stood alone on a country road, ten miles from the nearest town. It had started out as a general store, but because it was the only establishment of trade in this part of the county, its business grew.

As business improved, the building began to expand. One section was added to accommodate a blacksmith shop, the saloon occupied another extension, while a second-story addition provided a hotel. The finished project reflected its hodgepodge origins, the construction spreading out in erratic styles of architecture, mismatched types of wood, and varying shades of paint.

Duke Faglier would have ridden on without giving the place a second notice had he not seen the little splash of color hanging from the saddle of one of the horses standing out front. Duke stopped, tied his horse to the hitching rail, then walked over for a closer look. There was a little strip of cloth tied to the saddle horn and he took it in his hand, examining it closely.

“Oh, it is so beautiful, Duke,” Alice had exclaimed as she put the scarf on her head and tied it beneath her chin. “It has so many colors, just like Joseph’s coat in the Bible.” She pirouetted proudly as she showed off her scarf of many colors.

“It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Duke agreed.

The strip of cloth Duke was holding in his fingers at this moment was that same scarf. He had no doubt about it because he had given that scarf to his little sister on her fifteenth birthday.

That was two months ago. Four days ago Duke had returned home to find his mother and father murdered, and his sister dying. Alice lived just long enough to tell of the terrifying evening when a strange man burst into the house while they were eating supper, shot their mother and father, then brutally attacked her.

“Who was he?” Duke had asked. “Who did this? What did he look like?”

“His eye,” she gasped. “His eye.”

“What about his eye?”

“His eye,” she said again, as she drew her last breath.

Duke took the scarf from the saddle, stuck it in his pocket, then went into the building. The inside of the building was dim, a study in light and shadow as bars of sunlight stabbed through the cracks between the boards, illuminating the thousands of dust motes that hung glistening in the air.

Duke stood for a moment just inside the door, studying the layout. To his left was a bar. In front of him were four tables; to the right, a potbellied stove, sitting in a box of sand. Because it was summer the stove was cold, but the stale, acrid smell of last winter’s smoke still hung in the air.

One man was behind the bar; a customer was in front. Two men were sitting at one of the tables. A woman was at the back of the room, standing by an upright harpsichord. Her heavily painted face advertised her trade, and she smiled provocatively at Duke as he entered, trying to interest him in the pleasures she had to offer.

Duke stood for a long time without moving. That got everyone’s attention, which is exactly what he wanted to do.

“You got somethin’ in your craw, mister?” the bartender asked.

“The roan, with the right foreleg stocking,” Duke said with a jerk of his head toward the front. “Who’s riding him?”

The barkeep, prostitute, and three customers looked at him blankly. No one answered.

Duke pulled his pistol from its holster. “I asked, who is riding him?” When still no one answered, he pointed his pistol toward the barkeep and pulled the hammer back. There was a deadly double click as the sear engaged the cylinder.

“I don’t know, mister,” the barkeep answered nervously. “I don’t pay no attention to what folks are ridin’ when they pass through here.”

“You, standin’ at the bar,” Duke said to the customer. “Turn toward me so I can get a good look at you.”

The customer looked toward Duke. He had a moon-shaped face and was clean-shaven. His eyes reflected his fright but were otherwise insignificant.

“You two,” Duke said to the men at the table. “Look this way. I want to get a good look at your eyes.”

“Who are you looking for?” one of the men asked.

“I’ll know him when I see him,” Duke said. He studied the two men closely, but saw nothing remarkable in their eyes, either.

“Mister, are you looking for a man with a bad eye?” the woman asked.

“There ain’t nobody here like that,” the bartender said.

“Sure there is, Frank. He’s—”

“Marilou, shut your mouth,” the bartender ordered in sharp anger, cutting her off in midsentence.

“Mister, I think you had better be the one who keeps quiet,” Duke said. “Go ahead, Marilou. What about a man with a bad eye?”

Marilou looked nervously toward the bartender.

“Don’t be looking at him, girl. I’m the one you have to satisfy right now,” Duke said. “Now, what about this fella with the bad eye?”

“I don’t know if he has a bad eye or not, but he has the kind of eyes that never let you know which one of ’em is looking at you,” Marilou said.

“Did he ride up here on the horse I asked about?”

“I don’t know about that,” Marilou said. “But if that horse doesn’t belong to any of these gentlemen, then it must be his. He’s the only other one in here.”

“In here?” Duke asked, sharply, looking around the room again to make certain he hadn’t overlooked anyone.

“Marilou, I told you to shut your mouth. This here ain’t none of your business!” the bartender said with a growl.

“Mister, I’ve had about enough out of you,” Duke said to the bartender. “Go on, girl. Where is he?”

“Upstairs,” Marilou said. “He went upstairs with Kate.”

“Thanks.”

With his pistol still cocked, and holding it in his crooked arm, muzzle pointing up, Duke started climbing the stairs. He had just reached the top step, when the bartender shouted a warning.

“Frank! Look out! There’s someone comin’ up for you!”

Surprised that the barkeep would shout a warning, Duke turned to look back downstairs. That was a fortuitous move, for at that very moment the bartender was standing at the bottom of the stairs with a double-barrel shotgun pointing up at him.

“What are you doing, barkeep? This isn’t your fight!” Duke shouted.

“Frank’s my brother!” the bartender replied, pulling the trigger even as he shouted the words.

Duke managed to jump behind the corner at the top of the stairs just as the bartender fired. The load of buckshot tore a large hole in the door to a room just behind him. Duke stepped back around the corner, then fired at the bartender before he could get off a second shot. His bullet caught the bartender in the neck and he dropped the shotgun, then fell heavily to the floor.

At almost the same moment, four shots sounded from inside one of the rooms. Dust and sawdust flew as four bullets punched holes through the door. Duke flattened himself against the wall, clear of the door. A second later, he heard the sound of crashing window glass.

Without a second thought, Duke ran to the door, kicked it open then dashed into the room. A naked woman on the bed screamed as Duke rushed right by her to the broken window. He leaned through the shattered glass to look down to the ground below. If the man the bartender called Frank had jumped through the window, Duke should still be able to see him.

But Frank had not jumped out. The broken window was a ruse, and Frank was waiting in the corner. With a smile of triumph, he started toward Duke. At that moment Duke sensed someone coming up behind him. He spun around just in time to see a man charging toward him, holding his gun as a club. The man had a ferocious expression on his face, but as the prostitute downstairs had said, it was impossible to tell which of the two glaring eyes was looking at him.

Because Duke turned around in time, he was able to deflect some but not all of Frank’s blow. The gun butt missed his head, but it did hit him, with tremendous force, on the shoulder. The crushing blow sent jolts of pain into his neck, his shoulder, and down his arm to the tips of his fingers. The fingers grew numb and he lost his grip on his pistol. The gun slid out of his hand, and he heard it clatter to the floor.

Frank had the advantage of surprise and the momentum of the first blow. Duke went down under his onslaught. With Duke weaponless and flat on his back, Frank put his knee on Duke’s chest, then raised his pistol, intending to use it as a club for the killing blow.

Duke’s right hand was still numb, but he felt around on the floor with his left hand, trying to find his pistol. Unable to find the pistol, he managed to wrap his fingers around a long shard of glass from the broken windowpane. Reacting quickly, he brought his left hand up, then across, in a slashing motion. The razor-sharp glass shard sliced open Frank’s abdomen, dis emboweling him. Duke felt Frank’s blood and intestines running across his hand. Frank dropped his pistol and put both hands across his belly, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood and spill of intestine.

Duke pushed Frank off of him, then stood up and looked down at him.

“Who are you?” the dying man gasped. “Why did you come after me?”

“My name is Faglier. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Never heard of you.”

“What about True and Edna Faglier? What about Alice Faglier? Do you know who they are?”

“No,” Frank replied in a strained voice.

“You son of a bitch,” Duke said in a low, angry voice. “You murdered my mother, father, and sister, and you don’t even know their names.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out the scarf of many colors. “Do you remember this? I took it off your saddle.”

“Oh yes, now I know who you are talking about,” Frank said. He forced a smile. “You know what I think? You won’t want to hear this, but that little girl was actually enjoying it. Yes, sir, it was probably a good thing I shot her. She might have grown up to be a whore. You wouldn’t have wanted that, would you? A whore for a sister?”

Made angry by Frank’s taunting words, Duke picked his pistol up from the floor, pointed it at Frank’s head, then cocked it.

“I’m about to close both those bulging bat-eyes of yours for good,” Duke said.

“Yes,” Frank said. “Yes, shoot me, mister. Don’t let me lie here like this.”

The barrel of the pistol began shaking as Duke had a battle with himself.

“Shoot me! Shoot me, you bastard!” Frank gasped. “Or do you want to hear me tell you how it was with your sister? How she begged me for it?”

Duke held the pistol for a moment longer, then he found the strength to put it back in the holster. Spitting on Frank, he turned and left the room, even as Frank was screaming at him, begging him to come back and end it.

The bartender’s body was lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Although there had been only three customers when Duke arrived, there were at least a dozen there now. No one was holding a weapon, and no one was wearing a badge, but Duke pulled his pistol again, just to be on the safe side.

A couple of men were bent over the bartender.

“Is he dead?” Duke asked, walking over to the bar and pulling a towel off one of the rings. He wrapped the towel around his left hand, which was bleeding, for the shard of glass had cut both ways.

“Yes,” one of the men answered.

“I had no quarrel with him. But he left me no choice.”

“And Frank?” one of the others asked.

“The girl upstairs can tell you about him,” Duke said.

“The sheriff will be wantin’ to hold an inquest. You goin’ to stick around for that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You got witnesses down here that’ll testify the bartender shot first. And if the girl upstairs will back you on what happened up there, you got nothin’ to worry about.”

“I said I’m not staying,” Duke repeated. He made a waving motion with his pistol, indicating that everyone should move to one side. “Now, clear a path to the door for me. I’ve done enough killing for one day. I don’t want to kill anyone else, but I will if I have to.”

Warily, the men and Marilou moved to one side of the room as Duke started toward the door.

“Mister?” one of the men called.

Duke turned toward him.

“I think maybe you ought to know there’s three more of ’em.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Them two you just killed? Frank and Mingus Butrum? Well, they got three more brothers and they ain’t likely to take what just happened here lyin’ down.”