Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Then the real world intruded.

It was late one evening. Baine had slept through the afternoon and was awakened by the distant yip of a coyote. As he lay enjoying the tranquillity and his restored sense of well-being, the acrid scent of wood smoke drifted to his nose.

His own fire was out.

Grabbing the Winchester, Baine rose and tested the breeze. The source of the smoke was west of him, somewhere along the stream. Whoever it was, he told himself, did not know he was there and would move on in the morning. The smart thing to do was let well enough alone. But it had been so long since he set eyes on another human being that he could not resist his own curiosity.

A shadow among shadows, Baine cat-footed through the undergrowth. He had been over every square yard of both sides of the stream on his many walks, and the encroaching night did not hinder him.

Baine slowed when he spotted dancing fingers of flame. Soon he spied horses and, dropping flat, he crawled until he heard voices. A tingle ran through him. The language was not English or Spanish. He worked his way closer and saw them: three warriors in buckskins much like his own. Cheyenne, he suspected. Since they did not wear paint, they were not on the warpath. A hunting party, he reckoned, looking for buffalo. If he did not bother them they would not bother him.

Baine watched them a while. They were talking and smiling and laughing, just as whites would do. Bows and quivers and lances lay near them, but no rifles or revolvers.

About to leave as silently as he had snuck up, Baine glanced at their horses. His blood froze in his veins. There were four horses, not three. Either the fourth was a packhorse—or the Cheyenne had a sentry.

Baine had to slip away, and slip away quickly. But before he could suit act to desire, the brush parted and a lithe shape sprang, the blade of a knife glinting in the light from the campfire. A piercing whoop rent the night.

Rolling onto his back, Baine brought up the Winchester. He already had a round in the chamber. He thumbed back the hammer and fired. The shot caught the warrior in midair and smashed him back.

The other three were on their feet, hastily scooping up weapons. One shouted, calling to the warrior Baine had shot. Uncertainty held them for a moment, allowing Baine to rise into a crouch. Running would be pointless. They would follow. They would find him.

All three warriors broke for cover.

Baine had fought Indians before. In the dark the advantage was to the Cheyenne. They would surround him and slay him. He must draw them out of the dark and into his gun’s sights.

Baine ran toward their horses. The Cheyenne would think he was trying to run the animals off, and the last thing the Cheyenne wanted was to be on foot in the middle of the prairie.

A shriek and a rush of movement brought Baine around with the Winchester tucked at his side. He fired, worked the lever, fired again. The warrior crashed to earth mere feet away.

Crouching, Baine drew his Colt and set down the rifle. He was faster with the Colt. He waited, letting them come to him, and they did not disappoint. An arrow whizzed past his head, missing his ear by a whisker’s width. The bowman made the mistake of being silhouetted against the fire. Baine slammed off two swift shots, and the warrior staggered into the firelight and fell.

So far luck had favored Baine. But the last warrior would not make the mistakes his friends had. Carefully groping with his other hand, Baine found a stick. He tossed it high and wide to one side. From around a cottonwood glided the last warrior. He was peering at the spot where the stick had struck and not at Baine. Baine fanned the Colt, emptying it, and the deed was done.

Baine felt no sense of elation. He never did when he killed. He felt sorry about the Cheyenne. He should not have investigated the smoke.

The remains of a rabbit were skewered on a spit. A beaded parfleche caught his eye. Inside were a whetstone, extra feathers for arrows, an eagle’s claw and a bear’s tooth, and a small hand mirror neatly folded in a piece of cloth.

During his many immersions in the pool, Baine had never looked at his reflection. He could not stand the sight of his face, and he imagined it would be worse now, with the scars. But to his delight he had healed nicely. He had a small scar on his left eyebrow and another on his chin, but that was all. He started to put the mirror down, then snapped it up again.

“No!” Baine cried. Astonishment seized him, and he placed a hand to his face to confirm the testimony of his eyes. “It can’t be!”

For over an hour Neville Baine stared into that mirror. For over an hour tears streaked his cheeks and his broad shoulders shook to quiet sobs. The only words he uttered in all that time were “Thank you.”

Chapter 5

Bluff City was a product of the mining boom. A back-woodsman from Kentucky, looking for a spot to build a cabin, noticed a bright gleam high on a craggy bluff. He climbed up to find the source of the gleam and stumbled on a rich vein of silver. Word spread, more silver was discovered, and a new city sprouted on the broad tableland below the bluff.

The early founders were ambitious. Their first meeting was in one of many tents that lined the creek that flowed down from the bluff. They needed a name for their new town, and someone had a brainstorm.

Bluff City it became. But they did not stop there. The bluff laced with silver became Bluff Mountain. The creek became Bluff Creek.

The buildings that sprang up as the money-hungry poured in shared in the fondness for the name. There was the Bluff City General Store and the Bluff Creek Mortuary. The First Bank of Bluff City competed with the Greater Bank of Bluff City. The Bluff City Stable was at one end of the main thoroughfare, Bluff Street; at the other end was the one-room Bluff City School.

Bluff City was called the Queen of Silver, a shining beacon of raw greed. Many of her whiskey mills and houses of ill repute were open twenty-four hours and never lacked for customers. Games of chance drew the gullible and professional in droves. Doves paraded their carnal wares along Bluff Street from sunset to sunrise.

Into this sprawl of bedlam, on a morning in the early fall, rode a young man in a brown suit and a matching derby. He had black hair cropped close to his head and was clean-shaven. His shoes were polished to a sheen. He sat easy in the saddle and had an air of competence about him. His eyes were a penetrating blue.

The young man drew rein at the hitch rail in front of the Bluff City Courier. He lithely alighted, wrapped the reins around the rail, and stood regarding the hustle and bustle of Bluff City life. He turned to open the door and bumped into someone about to do the same.

“I beg your pardon.”

Shock rooted the young man. Snatching his derby off, he blurted, “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t see you.”

“Plainly not,” said the object of his shock. She was about his age, with a wreath of blond curls, emerald eyes and ruby lips. Her dress was plain and prim, contrasting sharply with her llama jacket. “Well, are you going to stand there gawking or be a gentleman and open the door for me?”

The young man reacted as if poked with a sword. He stood aside as she swept past him, then followed her in but stayed well behind her.

A bellow from the back of the newspaper office heralded a stout man with remarkably thick mutton-chops. He had his jacket off and his thumbs were wrapped around his suspenders. “Melanie! It’s about time! Where have you been, girl? Taking a promenade about our fair city?”

“Bluff City is a harlot, not a maiden,” the blond vision said. She pushed against a small gate that admitted her to the part of the room barred to the general public. “And how many times must I tell you not to call me ‘girl’?”