Thunder of Eagles

Chapter Six

Ike Clinton, owner of La Soga Larga Ranch, and his three boys were riding into the town of La Junta.

As they came into town, a dog ran out into the road to yap and snap at the heels of the horses. Cletus, the middle of the three, pulled his gun and shot at the dog. He hit the dog in one of its legs, and the dog ran from the street, yelping in pain. A young Mexican boy ran out to grab the dog.

“Ha! Did you see that?” Cletus asked. “I think I took his foot off.”

“You ought not to have done that,” Billy said. Billy was the youngest. “That dog wasn’t bothering you.”

“Yeah, well, he was botherin’ my horse,” Cletus said. “That’s damn near the same thing as botherin’ me. Anyway, I did the dog a favor.”

Ray laughed. “How did you do that dog a favor by shootin’ off his foot?” Ray was the oldest, and by far the largest of the three.

“Well, he won’t be runnin’ out after horses no more now, will he?” Cletus replied. “Like as not some horse would’a kicked him in the head and kilt him one of these days.”

“Yeah,” Billy growled. “You were just real good to him.”

“Hey, Ray, what do you think? Billy is just all broke up ’cause I shot that dog’s foot off.”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “Billy worries about things like that—being good to dogs, little kids, and old folks.”

“Billy, how the hell did you get to be so different from us?” Cletus asked.

“You boys quit pickin’ on your brother,” Ike said.

“I can’t help pickin’ on him,” Cletus said. “He’s so damn easy to pick on.”

Ray laughed.

“Pa, you sure they didn’t somebody else crawl into bed with Ma before this pup was borned?” Ray asked.

“If there had’a been somebody crawled in bed with Martha, whatever he whelped would’a never been born,” Ike said. “I’d’a kilt ’em both.”

“So, what you are sayin’ is, Billy is our kith an’ kin.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’.”

“Well, maybe so, but he sure is different,” Ray said. “Always worryin’ ’bout the other fella, and puttin’ ever’body else’s good a’fore his own blood.”

“Hey, Pa, what time does the train get in?” Cletus asked.

“I make it about another hour,” Ike replied.

“Then what do you say we stop by the Bull’s Head and have us a couple of drinks?” Cletus suggested.

Ike shook his head. “I intend that you boys get on that train. There’s a cattle buyer will be in Pueblo, and I aim for you to get us the best offer for our cows I can get.”

“We ain’t goin’ to miss the train, Pa,” Ray said. “And it was a long ride over here from the ranch. Don’t tell me you ain’t got no dust in your mouth that a couple of beers and a whiskey or two wouldn’t do for you?”

“All right, we’ll stop for a drink,” Ike replied. “But I’m goin’ to stay with you till I see you are all three on the train.”

Dismounting in front of the saloon, the four riders looped the reins of their horses over the hitching rail, then went inside. There wasn’t quite room for all four of them to stand at the bar, but Cletus and Ray made room by pushing a couple of men apart to open up a big enough space for them.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doin’, mister?” one of the men said angrily.

“Larry, that’s the Clintons,” a man next to him whispered.

“I don’t care who it is. There don’t nobody—”

Before he could finish his statement, Cletus pulled his pistol and shoved it into the man’s face.

“You complainin’ about somethin’ are you, mister?” Cletus asked menacingly.

The complainer was a good-sized man who was perfectly willing to use his fists to defend his position at the bar. But he wasn’t willing to die for it. He stared at the gun for a moment.

“Sure, mister,” he said. “You want to stand up here that bad, you are welcome to it.” Turning away from the bar, he walked out of the saloon.

“Ha!” Cletus said with a barking laugh. “I sure made him back down, didn’t I?”

Turning around to lean against the bar, Ray looked out over the saloon at the bar girls who were working the customers.

“Hey, Cletus, think we got time to go upstairs with one of these here whores?” Ray asked.

“You ain’t got time to be messin’ with no whores,” Ike said.

“If we don’t go with no whores here, where can we go?” Cletus asked. “The only whores in Higbee that will go with us is the ones in the Hog Waller. None of Maggie’s whores will have anything to do with us.”

Billy laughed.

“What are you laughin’ at?” Cletus asked.

“I’ve heard about men who couldn’t get themselves a woman,” Billy said. “But when you can’t even get a whore, that’s pretty bad.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t see you havin’ all that much luck with that Garrison girl, now, do I?” Cletus asked.

“What Garrison girl?” Ike asked quickly. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothin’, Pa,” Billy said. “We aren’t talkin’ about anything.”

“The hell we ain’t,” said Cletus. “You been sniffin’ round the general’s daughter like a male dog around a bitch in heat.”

“Boy, tell me that ain’t so,” Ike said. “After what’s goin’ on between Garrison and me?”

“Pa, this is between Kathleen and me,” Billy said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her pa, or with you.”

“The hell it don’t,” Ike said. He pointed a long, bony finger at Billy. “I don’t want you to be havin’ anything to do with that girl. Do you hear me?”

Billy didn’t answer. Fortunately, he wasn’t required to because Cletus started laughing.

“What are you laughin’ at?” Ike asked.

“I was just thinkin’ about Little Billy here. As far as you’re concerned, he can do no wrong. Only, that ain’t the case no more, is it?”

The sound of a train whistle could be heard in the distance, and Ike tossed down the rest of his drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Finish your drinks, boys,” he said. “The train’s a’comin’.”

Relieved that the whistle of the train had interrupted a conversation that was growing increasingly more uncomfortable, Billy finished his beer, then followed his father and brothers out of the saloon.

“Looks like you just lost four of your customers there, Hank,” one of the men standing at the bar said.

Hank, the barkeep, wiped the bar in front of where the Clintons had been standing. “Wouldn’t bother me if they didn’t never come back in here,” he said. “There ain’t a one of ’em worth the powder it would take to blow ’em to hell.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Billy’s all right,” the customer said.

“Yeah, he’s not bad if he’s by himself. Trouble is, he ain’t ever by himself,” George said.

Down at the depot, Ike, Ray, Cletus, and Billy stood on the wooden platform as the train pulled into the station with hissing steam, squeaking brakes, and a clanging bell.

“Ray, I’m countin’ on you to see to it that we get top dollar for our cows,” Ike said to his oldest son.

“All right, Pa,” Ray said.

“And Billy, you seem to have the most sense, so I’m countin’ on you to keep the other two out of trouble long enough to close the deal.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Billy said.

“What about me, Pa?” Cletus said. “What do you want me to do?”

“You’re the worst of the lot,” Ike said without regard as to how Cletus would take that comment.

“What do you mean I’m the worst of the lot?” Cletus asked. He seemed genuinely hurt by Ike’s words.

“You are good with a gun, you’ve got a temper, and you can’t stay away from whiskey or women,” Ike said. He shook his head. “Boy, that ain’t a good combination. I want you to keep your mouth shut when Ray is doin’ business, and listen to what Billy is sayin’ when you’re drinkin’ or messin’ with the whores,” Ike said.

Cletus glared at his father. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Pa?” he asked.

“Not all that much,” Ike replied, again oblivious as to how the words may have sounded to Cletus. “Get on the train now,” he ordered.

Ray laughed. “Pa, you goin’ to get on the train with us to see if we get the seats we’re supposed to?”

Ike shook his head. “I’m hopin’ you got enough sense to do that on your own.”

Higbee

The warm afternoon, the rocking motion of the stage, and the rhythmic sound of horses’ hooves and rolling wheels had combined to put Rachael asleep. She didn’t wake up until the coach came to a stop.

“Higbee, folks!” the driver called down. “This is Higbee.”

“Oh,” Rachael said. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

“Yes, ma’am, you did,” her fellow passenger said. He was a traveling preacher. “Ordinarily, I get into a good conversation with whoever is riding with me when I make this trip. But you were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“I’m sorry I was so rude as to fall asleep,” Rachael said.

“Oh, no need to apologize, ma’am,” he said. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. “I guess I had better get on down to the church,” he said. “Reverend Owen and the board of deacons are having a meeting and they asked me to come.”

The preacher stepped out of the coach, then reached his hand back to help Rachael down.

“Thank you,” Rachael said.

Rachael stepped up onto the porch of the depot and looked around.

“Can I help you with somethin’, ma’am?” the driver asked. He was standing at the boot, unloading packages as well as Rachael’s suitcase.

“No, I suppose not,” Rachael said. “Someone was supposed to meet me and I was just looking around to see if I could see him.”

At that moment, there was the crash of glass, then a burst of loud raucous laughter from a building across the street.

“What is that building?” Rachael asked.

“Oh, that’s the saloon,” the driver said.

“The saloon?” Rachael replied in a weak voice.

“Yes, ma’am. Here’s your luggage, ma’am.”

“Driver, do you suppose I could keep my grip in the depot for a while?”

“I reckon they’d let you do that,” the driver said. “How long would you think it might be?”

“I don’t know,” Rachael said. “Perhaps only until the next stage returns to La Junta.”

“That would be tomorrow,” the driver said. “Would you really come all the way out here just to spend one night?”

“That might be the case,” Rachael said. “If you would, please, put it in the depot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the driver replied.

Taking a deep breath, and squaring her shoulders, Rachael walked across the street, then up onto the front porch of the saloon. She paused for just a moment, then pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

The first thing she noticed was the odor, a combination of stale beer, sour whiskey, and unwashed bodies. The floor was covered with expectorated tobacco quids, and the towels, hanging from hooks on the bar, were filthy. At least ten men were standing at the bar, and that many or more were sitting at tables.

Rachael looked around for a piano and finally saw it, sitting against the wall just under the staircase. It was an upright piano, and half of the cover was missing so she could look in and see the soundboard. Several of the wires were broken, and two of them were even lying out on the keyboard itself.

Rachael felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach. Her knees grew weak, and her head began to spin.

There were three women in the saloon, though Rachael had never seen any women dressed as these were. All three had very low-cut blouses and they were wearing what looked to be bloomers. One of them came over to her.

“Honey, are you sure you are in the right place?” she asked.

“No, she isn’t in the right place,” a man’s voice said. Recognizing the voice, Rachael turned to see Corey Hampton standing just inside the door.

“Mr. Hampton?” she asked in a weak voice.

“Miss Kirby, what are you doing in here?” Corey asked.

Rachael held her hand out. “I—I was told this was the saloon,” she said.

“It is a saloon,” Corey replied. He smiled at her. “But it isn’t the right saloon.”

“Oh,” Rachael said. “I’m terribly sorry. I suppose I just didn’t think a town this small would have more than one saloon.”

“No, I’m the one who should apologize,” Corey said. “The stage is always late. Wouldn’t you know it would pick today to be early? Shall we go?” He offered Rachael his arm.

“Yes, thank you,” Rachael said.

“Higbee has two saloons,” Corey explained once they were out in the street. “The Golden Nugget, which belongs to my brother and me. And the one you were just in. It is called the Hog Waller.”

“I beg your pardon? What did you call it?” Rachael asked.

“I called it by its name. The Hog Waller,” Corey said.

Rachael laughed out loud. “Oh, what a perfect name for it,” she said.

After stopping by the stage depot to retrieve her luggage, they walked down to the Golden Nugget. By any standards, the Golden Nugget was an attractive saloon, with a long, highly polished mahogany bar; glistening brass rings hanging every four feet along the front of the bar, each ring holding a crisp white towel; an exceptionally clean and varnished hardwood floor; gleaming tables; and a large mirror behind the bar that reflected back a shelf filled with liquors and brightly colored liqueurs. A huge, sparkling chandelier hung from a ceiling that was itself covered with textured brass.

Looking around, she saw the piano, not an upright, but a Haynes Square piano, rosewood, with octagon curved legs and mother-of-pearl inlay on the name board. She walked over to it.

“May I?” she asked.

“By all means, please do,” Corey replied.

Standing by the piano, Rachael depressed a few of the keys, and was rewarded with a rich, resonant sound. She sat down and began to play. She played a passage from a Bach Toccata and Fugue, then from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and finally from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

“My God,” Prentiss Hampton said, the words more a prayer than an oath. “I have never heard anything so beautiful.”

“Do you see what I was talking about?” Corey asked.

“Yes. What I can’t see is why she would choose to work here.”

“Well, she did accept on condition,” Corey said. “I guess now we’ll have to ask her if the condition has been met.”

Rachael continued to play. It was just before noon, and there were very few customers in the place to hear the music, but those few who were in the saloon interrupted their conversations to listen. Even the bar girls who lived upstairs, and who never made an appearance until around seven P.M., were drawn to the music, and they moved halfway down the stairs, then sat on the steps as they listened, spellbound by the sound.

In a strange way, even Rachael was spellbound by her own music, enjoying the beautiful tone of the piano as well as the ambiance of this place. Finally, when the last note hung quivering in the air, she sat there for a long second, letting the strings continue to vibrate with the last harmonic resonance of the music.

Her contemplation of the moment was disturbed by the clapping of those present, and because Rachael was lost in the moment, the applause startled her. Then, standing up to see the source of the applause, she saw that the four customers as well as the young women, Corey, and the man standing with Corey were all applauding.

“Thank you,” she said self-consciously.

“Miss Kirby, this is my brother, Prentiss,” Cory said by way of introducing the man at his side. “He is my partner in this saloon.”

Rachael extended her hand. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Hampton.”

“How do you like the piano?” Corey asked.

“It’s beautiful.”

“The tone quality is all right?”

“Yes, it is excellent, thank you.”

“What about the saloon itself? Does it meet with your approval?”

“Oh, yes,” Rachael said. “I’ve seen concert halls in New York that had less to offer.”

Smiling, Prentiss and Corey stared at each other for a moment. Then Prentiss cleared his throat.

“Miss Kirby, I’m not as, uh, subtle as my brother, so you will forgive me, I hope, if we dispense with the small talk and I get right to the point.”

“I’m always ready to get right to the point,” Rachael replied.

“Good. Then the question is, will you agree to stay and play piano for us?”

“I would love to stay and play for you,” Rachael said.

The bar girls on the steps cheered out loud.