Bodine stood there for a moment, holding the smoking gun. He put it back in his holster, poured himself another drink, then turned his back to the bar and looked out over the shocked faces of the customers in the saloon. Though they had just witnessed a tragedy, the foremost thought in the minds of many of them was that they had seen Lucien Bodine in action. It was a memory they would retain and share with others for the rest of their lives.
“Is there anyone who didn’t see them draw first?” Bodine asked.
“They drew first, I seen it,” the customer who had asked to be left out of it, volunteered.
“Yes, sir, I seen it, too,” another customer said. “They drawed first, the both of them.”
“Bartender, you saw it?”
The bartender was staring down at the two young men who he remembered had been laughing and joking when they pushed in through the batwing doors no more than fifteen minutes ago.
“I asked, did you see that they drawed first?” Bodine repeated.
The bartender looked up at Bodine. His face showed more sorrow than fear.
“You goaded them into that fight, Bodine,” he said. “They was just two cowboys, they wasn’t gunfighters. They didn’t have no idea who you was, ’n they was just jokin’ aroun’. They never had no idea of somethin’ like this happenin’. You goaded them into it.”
“Did they draw first, or didn’t they?”
“They drew first,” the bartender admitted.
Bodine put some money on the bar. “Give ever’ body in here a drink on me, and have one for yourself,” he said.
“A drink, yes,” one of the customers said. “Damn, do I need a drink.”
The twelve customers and the two women who had been hustling drinks all rushed to the bar.
“Phil, I need a real drink,” one of the girls said. “Not the tea me ’n Leena drink all day.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Leena said.
Even as everyone was having their free drink, the sheriff came in.
“You sure got here fast,” Phil said from behind the bar. “How did you hear about it?”
The sheriff looked down at the two dead cowboys and shook his head. “I didn’t know nothin’ about this,” he said. “I just come to give Bodine a message.”
“Yeah?” Bodine replied. “What message is that?”
“Your brother got hisself kilt.”
“Who done it?” Bodine asked.
“I don’t know who done it, I don’t even know where it was done. All I know is I heard that he got hisself kilt.”
Bodine left the saloon, and the other patrons began talking excitedly among themselves, sharing the experience of having seen the infamous Lucien Bodine in a gunfight.
“Well, if you’re goin’ to be true about it, it really warn’t much of a gunfight, ’cause them two boys he kilt wasn’t really no gunfighter.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You think Bodine is goin’ to go huntin’ for whoever it was that kilt his brother?”
“Looked like he had it in mind.”
“Now, there’s a gunfight I’d like to see.”
“The one I’d like to see would be between him ’n Wynton Miller.”
“That ain’t goin’ to happen, ’cause Wynton Miller is dead.”
“Where at did you hear that?”
“There ain’t nobody heard nothin’ about him for awhile, has there?”
“No, but that don’t mean he’s dead. More ’n likely that just means he’s hidin’ out somewhere. They’s a ten-thousand-dollar reward out on ’im, you know.”
“Yeah, well, if he ain’t dead, there ain’t nobody ever goin’ to get that reward without they shoot ’im in the back.”
“That could be done, all right. Look at what happened to Jesse James.”
Chapter Eight
Valley of the Chug
Biff Johnson had named his saloon Fiddler’s Green after the cavalry legend that says all cavalrymen who have ever heard the call “Boots and Saddles” will gather on a cool glen in the afterlife, and there, they will share drinks and tell tall tales.
Biff was sitting next to the piano at a special table reserved only for him or his personal guests. As it was still relatively early in the day, there weren’t that many customers in the saloon at the moment. The piano was quiet, but the piano player, anticipating a busy afternoon, was arranging some music.
“Jim, do you know what today is?” Biff asked.
“Why, yes, sir, it’s Thursday.. In another hour you won’t have to ask, you will be able to tell by the size of the crowd.”
“It isn’t just Thursday. It’s June twenty-fourth. Tomorrow it will be exactly ten years ago since it happened.”
“Since what happened?”
Biff nodded toward the recently acquired painting, Custer’s Last Fight, by Cassilly Adams. The large painting occupied a prominent position on the wall behind the bar.
“Since that happened,” Biff said.
“Oh yes, I see.”
“Play ‘Garry Owen’ for me.”
One of the first things Jim Siffer had to agree to, upon taking the job in the saloon, was to learn to play the song that belonged to the 7th Cavalry.
As the music came from the piano, Biff found his thoughts slipping back ten years, to the 25th of June, 1876.
* * *
Sergeant Major Biff Johnson had come up with Benteen. Biff thought they would be going to relieve Custer, because Custer had sent a note issuing that very order, but Benteen stopped to reinforce Reno.
“Major Reno, Captain Benteen, we must go to relieve General Custer!” Captain Tom Weir pleaded.
“No doubt Custer is covering himself in even more glory now,” Benteen replied. “We will maintain a defensive position here.”
“Sir, with or without your permission, I am taking my company to join Custer,” Weir said.
“Captain, if you will allow me, I’ll go with you,” Biff said.
“You are welcome to come along, Sergeant Major,” Captain Weir said.
But Captain Weir’s single company encountered stiff Indian resistance and was unable to rendezvous with Custer. They were forced to withdraw, where they rejoined Reno and Benteen.
The next day, after the Indians withdrew, Sergeant Major Biff Johnson was in charge of the burial detail.
* * *
Now, ten years later, he was still haunted by the
