Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388) (9 page)

He waited outside for his two men, who came out to join him glumly. He told them both what he wanted them to do.

“What if they see me?” Franklin asked.

“Don’t worry,” Jefferson said, “they gon’ wanna talk to the man in charge. You jes’ take ’em over to the saloon.”

“Where you gon’ be when I find out what hotel they’s in?” Gordon asked.

“I’ll be at the saloon, with the sergeant,” Jefferson said. “You jes’ come over there and tell us.”

The two men shrugged and went their separate ways. Jefferson stood there, waited until they were out of sight, then went back inside. After all, Washington had told him to stay out of sight.

He hoped the fat whore hadn’t got dressed again yet.

Franklin finally spotted Bass Reeves and the white man in a restaurant eating steaks. He watched them for a moment, trying to get some idea how long they’d be there,
then turned and headed for the saloon. He ran into Gordon on the way, who was also hurrying.

“You find ’em?” he asked.

“Yeah, they’s eatin’ steaks. You find out who that white man is?”

“Man,” Gordon said, “you ain’t gon’ believes me when I tell you.”

“Well, go ahead, then.”

“We might’s well wait ’til we get to the saloon,” Gordon said. “I’ll tell the sergeant and Jefferson at the same time.”

Jefferson had time to dally with the fat whore and get back to the saloon before Franklin and Gordon got there. He was sitting with Washington, having a beer.

“You boys get it done?” the corporal asked.

“Yeah, we did,” Franklin said. “They’s at a café having steaks, but Gordon here, he say he got some big news fo’ us.”

Washington looked at Gordon.

“Whataya got for us, Private?”

“They registered at the Main Street Hotel, sir,” Gordon said. “They got themselves rooms of they own.”

“And what’s the big news, Corporal?” Washington asked.

“Well, sir,” Gordon said, “the name of that white man that’s ridin’ with Bass Reeves?”

“Yes, Corporal?”

“Well, sir,” Gordon said, “his name is Clint Adams.”

They all sat silently.

“He’s the Gunsmith,” Gordon said.

“I know who he is!” Washington said.

“Why would Reeves have the Gunsmith ridin’ with him?” Jefferson asked.

“Maybe they’re friends,” Washington said. “Why would a white man ride all this way with a black man if they wasn’t friends?”

“Could be,” Jefferson said.

Gordon and Franklin stood there, waiting for their next set of orders.

“You two are done,” Washington said with a wave of his hand. “Go get a drink, or a woman, or whatever you wanna do.”

“Yessir,” Franklin said.

He left and went straight back to the whorehouse. Gordon stopped at the bar for a beer, and remained there.

Jefferson sat back in his chair and watched Washington. The sergeant was lost in his thoughts. Jefferson sipped his beer and waited, but finally felt he had to ask something.

“So what do we do now?”

“Hmm?” Washington looked at him. “Oh, nothin’ gonna change.”

“With the Gunsmith here?”

“He don’t scare me none,” Washington said.

“Well, he scares me,” Jefferson said. “He gon’ scare the others.”

“Then it’s best that I’m the leader, right?” Washington asked.

Jefferson nodded. In all the time he’d been riding with
Washington, never was he more grateful that the sergeant was the leader, and not him.

“Get a couple of more beers, will ya, Corporal?” Washington said. “I gotta sit here and figure out what to do about the Gunsmith.”

Clint and Reeves finished their steaks, had some more coffee with pie.

“Well?” Clint asked.

“Yeah,” Reeves said. “We better go and find them boys.”

“We’re just going to talk at first, right?” Clint asked.

“Yeah, right,” Reeves said, “we ain’t gonna try to take ’em until after we talk to ’em. Unless they start shootin’ first.”

“I know you want to talk to these boys, find out what’s on their mind, but if I get shot at,” Clint said, “I’m going to shoot back.”

“Understood,” Reeves said.

They had the last bite of their pie, and the last sip of coffee, then paid their bill and walked out of the restaurant. There was a saloon right across the street.

“Let’s try that one first,” Reeves said.

* * *

When they walked in, Bass Reeves was the only black man in the saloon.

“Let’s get a drink,” he said.

“Sure,” Clint said.

They went to the bar, ordered a beer each.

“Here ya go,” the bartender said. “You with them other fellers?”

“What other fellas?” Reeves asked.

“Them other black boys that rode in,” the bartender said. “The ones wearin’ them jackets.”

“Buffalo Soldier jackets, you mean?” Reeves asked.

The bartender, a young man in his twenties, said, “I don’t know. They’re blue, and they got stripes on their arms.”

“How many stripes?” Clint asked.

“Mostly one,” the young man said. “I think one of ’em’s got two and another one’s got three.”

“Did they drink in here?” Clint asked.

“A few of them had a drink in here,” the bartender said, “but the others are drinkin’ down the street, in the Wagon Wheel.”

“When did they arrive?” Reeves asked. It was a question he’d forgotten to ask the sheriff.

“Yesterday,” the bartender said. “They only been here a day.”

Reeves nodded. He looked around, saw that he was the center of attention.

“Don’t have too many black folk in this town, do ya?” he asked.

“None,” the bartender said, “until they rode in yesterday, and now you.”

“Well,” Reeves said, “maybe by tomorrow you’ll be back to havin’ none.”

“That suits us!” someone spoke up.

Clint and Reeves turned. The man who had spoken was easily identified.

“You got something to say?” Clint asked.

“Yeah,” the man said, standing. He was tall, in his forties, wearing a well-worn gun on his hip. “We don’t need all you black boys here, lawmen or not.”

“Then why don’t you drive them out?” Reeves asked.

The man looked around, licked his lips, and looked like he was sorry he’d spoken.

“I—I can’t do it myself,” he said.

“And nobody will stand with you?” Clint asked, looking at the other men in the saloon.

They all looked away.

“No,” the man said, “nobody.”

“Well,” Reeves said, “you could stand alone against me.” He stepped away from the bar. “Drive me out of your town.”

The man put his hands out in front of him, away from his gun.

“Easy now, Deputy,” he said. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”

“Then shut your mouth,” Reeves said. “Sit down and don’t say nothin’ else.”

“Okay,” the man said, “okay.” He sat down.

Clint kept an eye on the man, just in case he got brave and went for his gun.

“Bass,” Clint said, “let’s get out of here.”

They backed to the batwing door and went outside.

“We need to get this done before somebody else gets brave,” Clint said.

“You’re right,” Reeves said. “We better get over to the Wagon Wheel Saloon.”

“He said down the street,” Clint said. “But which way?”

Reeves looked both ways, then shrugged and said, “We’ll try both.”

Gordon was standing at the batwings. He turned and hurried to Washington’s table.

“They’re coming down the street.”

“Okay,” Washington said. “Stand at the bar, and no matter what happens, don’t go for your gun.”

“Yessir.”

“What about me?” Jefferson asked.

“Stay where you are,” Washington said. “Bass will know you.”

“Yeah, he will.”

“This will shake him up,” Washington said. “Disappoint him.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“Bass?” Washington laughed. “He’ll wanna know why. He’ll talk before he does anythin’.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You just sit tight,” Washington said. “Don’t talk. Just listen.”

* * *

Clint and Reeves approached the Wagon Wheel Saloon. From the outside it looked larger than the place they’d just left.

“See that man at the doors?” Clint asked.

“I saw him.”

“They know we’re coming.”

“This is what they wanted,” Reeves said. “This is what they’re gonna get.”

“You want me to go around back?” Clint asked.

“No,” Reeves said, “they know about you. If they planned this, they already checked the hotel register. They know who you are.”

“You’re probably right.”

“We’ll just walk in together and let them call the play,” Reeves said.

Clint nodded. They mounted the boardwalk and went through the batwings.

What Bass Reeves saw froze him in his tracks. Clint knew something was up.

“What is it?”

Reeves didn’t answer.

There was one Buffalo Soldier standing at the bar, and two seated at a table. The two at the table had corporal’s and sergeant’s stripes, while the one at the bar had a single private’s stripe.

But Bass Reeves was looking at the men at the table. Clint didn’t know which one, but he could guess. The younger one, with the three stripes, was smiling at the big black lawman.

“Bass,” the man said. “Finally.”

“Can’t be,” Reeves said. “You’re dead.”

“I am?” the sergeant said. “I feel pretty good for somebody who’s dead.”

Reeves looked at the other man.

“Jefferson.”

“Bass.”

“You fellas have come a long way,” Reeves said.

Jefferson laughed. “Ain’t we all?”

Reeves looked at the man at the bar. “I don’t know you.”

The man didn’t answer.

“And you’re the Gunsmith,” the sergeant said. “My name’s Lemuel Washington, sergeant in the Buffalo Soldiers. This is Corporal Jefferson, and that’s Private Gordon.”

“Should be three more of you around here someplace,” Clint said.

“Oh, yeah,” Washington said. “They’re whorin’ or drinkin’—or both. But they’ll be here when I need them.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “so you know these two.”

“Yes,” Reeves said, “years ago. I thought Washington was dead.”

“You’ve come a long way, Bass,” Washington said. “Wearin’ a badge for Judge Parker.”

“And you, Lem?” Reeves asked. “What are you doin’? Are you still a Buffalo Soldier, or are you and your boys just wearin’ the jackets?”

“Well, Bass,” Washington said, “it wouldn’t be right for us to wear these jackets if we wasn’t still Buffalo Soldiers, would we?”

“It ain’t right for you to be robbin’ and killin’ people while you’re still with the Soldiers, Lem,” Reeves shot back.

“I got an idea, Bass,” Washington said. “Sit down with us and have a beer. You and your friend. We got lots to talk about. Lots of catchin’ up to do.”

Reeves looked at Clint, who shrugged and said, “Why not? We said we’d let them call the play. Looks like their play is drinking.”

“Gordon,” Washington said, “four beers.”

Reeves and Clint sat with Washington and Jefferson. Gordon came over with four mugs of beer.

“Back to the bar, Private,” Washington said.

“Yessir.”

There were others in the place, but by the time Gordon returned to his place at the bar, they had all cleared out. All that was left was the bartender.

“What’s this all about, Lem?” Bass Reeves asked. “You can’t expect the Buffalo Soldiers to take you back after what you’ve all done.”

“Well,” Washington said, “nobody knows we done it except for you and Adams here. So all we gotta do is make sure you don’t tell nobody.”

“How do you expect to do that?”

“Well…we could kill you,” Washington said.

“That’s why you led me here?” Reeves asked. “To kill me? Is that why you did all of this? To get me to hunt you?”

“Not to hunt us,” Washington said. “To find us, which you did. You’re good at yer job, Bass. I was countin’ on that.”

Reeves sat back and regarded the man. Clint wondered what the relationship was between them. It was something he’d have to ask Reeves later, when they were alone.

“So what do we do now, Lem?” Reeves asked.

Washington shrugged.

“You do what you gotta do, Bass,” he said. “Me and my boys are here, we ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“So you’re darin’ me to take you in?”

“Oh yeah,” Washington said, smiling with teeth that were more yellow than white. “That’s what I’m doin’. I dare ya to take us in.”

“What if I decide just to take you in, Lem?” Reeves asked. “What if I forget about your boys, let ’em go. Clint and me, we just take you.”

“My boys ain’t gonna just sit by and let you take me, Bass,” Washington said. “See, we’re in this together.”

“In what together?” Reeves asked, “Just what the hell is it you think you’re doin’?”

“I’m gettin’ what’s comin’ to me,” Washington said. “We’re all gettin’ what’s comin’ to us.” The sergeant leaned forward in his chair. “And so are you.” He looked at Clint. “You’re just in the way, Adams. Wrong place, wrong time. I was you, I’d ride out. This is between me and Bass.”

“I’m not about to let Bass face six men alone, Washington,” Clint said, “so you can forget that. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I came all this way with Bass and I’m staying.”

“Suit yourself,” Washington said.

“Why don’t we take you right now?” Reeves asked. “There’s only three of you.”

“Whatever you say, Bass,” Washington said, spreading his arms. “You call the play.”

Clint eased away from the table a bit, just in case Reeves did just that.

The black deputy picked up his beer and drained the half that was left.

Clint drank his as well. He felt they were about to leave.

“No, not yet,” Reeves said, standing.

Clint was surprised at how relaxed Sergeant Lem Washington appeared to be. He apparently had no doubt that Reeves was leaving, and that the lawman wouldn’t change his mind and go for his gun.

“We’ll be seein’ you later, Lem,” Reeves said.

“I ain’t leavin’ town, Bass,” Washington said. “None of us is. You don’t know my other men, but they’re good boys. They’re ready.”

“Good,” Reeves said. “They’ll need to be.”

He backed to the door with Clint alongside him, then turned and walked out. Clint gave Washington one last look, took a last glance at the man at the bar, then backed out the doors.

Outside Bass Reeves was standing still, hands on his hips. People walking on the boardwalk gave him a wide berth.

“That was interesting,” Clint said.

Reeves looked at him.

“You’re probably confused.”

“I’m…puzzled.”

“Let’s go someplace,” Reeves said. “I got some things ta tell ya.”

“That was fun,” Washington said.

“Fun?” Jefferson’s muscles were still tense. He’d kept waiting for Bass Reeves or the Gunsmith to go for their gun. “Jesus.”

“Don’t worry, Corporal,” Washington said. “Everything’s goin’ the way I planned.”