Page 1 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
Safekeeping
Rachel Kovaciny
No town that small should have a graveyard that big.
Saul Hansen stopped his horse alongside the graveyard’s rail fence. He checked his back trail from habit, but saw no sign of anyone having followed him across the stretch of empty plains. Wariness came naturally for him—any man who stood six foot five and carried most of his weight in his shoulders and chest made a big target. Sometimes, a tempting one.
Satisfied, Hansen switched his attention to the handful of buildings that stood at a dignified distance from the graveyard.They almost looked like wooden imitations of the peaks towering along the western horizon. Hansen had never heard of Carter’s Run, and the town certainly hadn’t been there when he’d passed through a couple years back. Some buildings, like the sawmill perched alongside the river, had weathered to a soft gray, but others still had the pale newness of fresh lumber.
None looked as new as the wooden crosses marching in neat lines within the graveyard fence, though.
Hansen scratched at his chin under his long winter beard. That graveyard said loud and clear that something was wrong with Carter’s Run. Could be some local tough who enjoyed baiting and then burying any newcomers.
Uneasily, Hansen studied the town and considered circling it, camping in the trees beyond, and sending O’Rourke a message instead of riding into this slice of civilization. He preferred the mountains; the plains left him feeling too exposed. And towns were worse. Hansen always met up with doorways that were too short and chairs that he feared might break under him. In the mountains, he never felt too big.
Why had O’Rourke sent that letter asking him to meet him in Carter’s Run anyhow? Why not meet at Fort Connah, or leave this “something” his letter mentioned with the Hudson’s Bay operator there? O’Rourke knew full well that Hansen preferred to ride down to the fort in the spring, sell his furs, buy supplies, and return to the mountains right away.
When he caught up with his friend, he had a few choice words he wanted to say. And maybe a few that were not so choice. Hansen decided he was too irritated with O’Rourke over this whole side trip to put off seeing him face-to-face. Might as well ride in and get this over and done with.
He wished he’d stopped at Fort Connah long enough for a bath and a shave. He’d expected this Carter’s Run place to be another trading post. A town, on the other hand, would have women,children, regular folks. With his hair down past his shoulders and his beard untrimmed, he knew he looked about as much like regular folks as a buffalo looked like a Jersey cow. More than half the strips of fringing along the sleeves of his buckskin coat were missing thanks to the need for repairing snowshoes, securing traps, and dozens of other odd jobs. His shirt was faded and thin, and no amount of washing would ever make it look clean again. At least his Levi’s were clean and new, purchased at Fort Connah to replace the pants he’d patched and repatched over the winter. But he wished hard for a fresh shirt and a shave.
Too late for wishes now. And anyone living this near the mountains must be used to his sort. Fur trapping wasn’t the thriving affair it had once been, but he and O’Rourke weren’t the only mountaineers left.
Still, it irked him, all the stares he’d get.
But Hansen soon discovered he needn’t have worried over his reception. Not a soul could be seen along the whole street. Three horses dozed at the rail outside the biggest building, Carter’s Saloon. A horse and a much-used wagon stood in front of Carter’s Mercantile nearby. A lone dog wandered amongst the buildings. Out of the corner of his eye, Hansen saw a curtain twitch at a window in a one-story house. That and the variety of cooking smells in the air meant people. It wasn’t a ghost town, despite its eerie vacancy.
It must be suppertime for townsfolk. Hansen’s nostrils flared and his stomach rumbled. He usually ate his own cooking–mostly beans and fried meat, sometimes a stew. The traders at Fort Connah had cooked about the same. But he could smell bread baking somewhere, and something sweet like pie or a cake.
Hansen dismounted, looped his reins over the hitching rail, and entered the saloon. The murmur of conversation stilled. Half a dozen men sat at the tables to his right, and a few moreslouched by the long wooden bar on his left. They all eyed him, some for a moment, others for longer.
Although he’d expected the stares, he hated that he drew them. Hansen walked the length of the room until he reached the far wall. There, he leaned sideways on the bar, his right arm on the scarred wooden surface. Now he no longer towered over the rest of the men quite so obviously. Also, his position let him see everyone in the room, and the door, too.
“Evening,” he greeted the lean, mustached man behind the bar.
The bartender nodded gravely. “What’s your pleasure, stranger?” His surprisingly cultured voice would have suited a statesman. But his stern cheekbones jutted above hollow cheeks, perpetually souring his expression. Although his gray mustache grew full and thick enough to obscure his upper lip, his mouse-brown hair had thinned so much he combed it over the top of his head from ear to ear. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence. This man knew things, that was obvious.
“A beer would do well.” Hansen dug a couple of coins from his pocket. He set them on the bar carelessly, letting them rattle a little. A man who knew things might be willing to share some of his information, but this bartender didn’t look like he shared anything for free.
“One beer.” The bartender brought him a tall glass filled with brownish liquid.
“Seen O’Rourke lately?” Hansen took a healthy swallow. Anything he had to pay this barkeep to learn his friend’s whereabouts would be worth it if he could sneak up on O’Rourke before he knew Hansen had arrived. Giving him a good scare would go a long way toward relieving Hansen’s annoyance over this detour.
“O’Rourke? I don’t believe I know the name.”
Hansen tried not to glare at the bartender. Maybe it wasn’t the man’s fault his beer tasted like sour cornmeal mush. He should save his glares for O’Rourke. “Seamus O’Rourke. Sandy red hair. About your height.”
The bartender kept his eyes focused on Hansen while he raised his voice. “Has anyone here seen a man called Seamus O’Rourke?”
Some of the men ignored him. A couple of them eyed Hansen again and shook their heads. One almost spoke, but closed his mouth again. Hansen watched them all, curious. These men didn’t appear to belong in a new and prosperous little town with a saloon and a mercantile and a livery stable and a lumber mill. To a man, they all had slumped shoulders, weary eyes, and the hollow stare of dogs that had been kicked every day of their lives.
All except the smooth-voiced bartender. He was sleek and alert as a pampered housecat. “I’m sorry, stranger.”
“The name’s Hansen.” He was beginning to wonder if this was all an elaborate prank O’Rourke had set up. A way to surprise Hansen with some new scheme or adventure he was sure to object to at first. His irritation rose several notches at that thought.
“Mr. Hansen. I’m Pierce Carter.” The mustache lifted half an inch, but his smile was too perfunctory to change his expression more than that.
“Carter? As in Carter’s Run?” Hansen raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t often a saloonkeeper got a whole town named after him.
