The Bozeman Trail

“Yeah!” one of the other cowboys said.

“It’s a deal,” Bob agreed, happily.

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.