The Man from Shenandoah by Marsha Ward

and made a dour face.

    ~~~

    Rod Owen pulled his horse to a halt by the tie rail in front of A. G. Boone’s store. He dismounted and waited for his sons to join him before he spoke.

    “Rulon, you take James and Albert and hunt up the law in town. We missed the trading caravans to Santa Fe by a long time, so find out what measures we need to take for safety. Carl and Clay, you come with me. I’ll hunt up Mr. Boone. Your Uncle Jonathan told me to trade with him if ever I got this far west.”

    Rod wrapped his reins around the rail and swung under it, stepping onto the board sidewalk. Carl and Clay followed him, while the other three went off down the street.

    Before entering the store, Carl turned and surveyed the bustling street. Even though the traders were gone, the traffic seemed constant. He glimpsed some soldiers up the street, loading a wagon with supplies, and recalled that his father had mentioned Fort Leavenworth up north a ways.

    Wagons passed the store, narrowly missing each other in the intersection, their drivers yelling obscenities at one another, filling the air with strident shouts. Then the street was empty for a moment, and Carl’s attention was drawn across the street by a group of three men lounging outside a saloon.

    From the loudness of their talk, Carl guessed they had already visited the bar at some length. Two of the men were of average height and weight, wore nondescript trousers and shirt, and had full beards and shaggy hair. The third man was swarthy, tall, and of a powerful build. He wore tight black pants of a cut Carl had never seen before. His shirt was white, topped by a black vest that was embroidered with a light-catching thread. On his head he wore a hat with a wide brim and flat crown. The hat, too, was embroidered—with colored threads in fancy designs. The man’s face was clean-shaven, except for a full-flowing moustache.

    Carl gazed at the man for several seconds, until the dark, fancily dressed man removed the thin black cigar from his mouth, chuckled, and said something amusing to his companions. They laughed, and looked over at Carl, who noticed the whiteness of the big man’s teeth beneath his moustache. I reckon he’s a Mexican , he thought, and turned and entered the store.

    He glanced around the crowded establishment. Three areas of commerce—dry goods, hardware, and groceries—shared the room, crowding the shelves and aisles. Pa was headed for the hardware counter, where a solidly built redhead in his fifties minded the store. Clay looked like he was enjoying himself browsing through the dry goods section, and Carl joined him.

    Rod stopped at the counter. “I’m looking for A. G. Boone. You be him?”

    “I am not. Mr. Boone is out to lunch. I am his clerk, Samuel P. Flaherty, at your service.”

    “Well, it ain’t anything you can’t handle, I reckon.” Rod looked around the empty store. “You don’t have much business today.”

    “It’s the lunch hour. If you want to see business, sir, stick around until the end of the month when the traders return. Then you’ll see business!” Mr. Flaherty bobbed his head in anticipation.

    “I don’t plan to stay that long. I’m here for provisions. That’s my list. Can you fill it?” Rod put a bit of paper on the counter.

    The man took up the list and peered at it. “Surely. If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.” He looked up at Rod. “You going far?”

    “We have kin west of here,” Rod answered warily.

    “Well, I wouldn’t presume to ask, except if you’re going to the Colorado Territory, you’d better check your supply of guns, powder, and lead.”

    “Is that a fact?”

    “Yes, sir. The Indians are on the warpath out there. Seems some militia colonel named Chivington wiped out a bunch of Cheyenne and Arapahoe at Sand Creek last winter, and three or four tribes took exception to the action. They’re raiding all the way from the Platte to the Arkansas, and on east into Kansas.”