The Wounded Yankee Read online

  He opened the door leading to the office. That, too, had been enlarged and redecorated. It had been a combination office for him and George, where they did their bookwork and kept supplies. Now there were three large roll-top desks along the center of the room, filing cabinets neatly ranked along the back wall, and a series of charts and maps on the east wall.

  At Zack’s entrance a man looked up. He was tall and expensively attired. Turning to a younger man, obviously a clerk, he said, “We’ll finish this later, Ray.”

  Smiling at Zack, he said, “May I help you, sir?”

  Zack hesitated. “Why—I’m looking for George Orr.”

  A flicker touched the gray eyes, but he said easily, “I can give you his mailing address.”

  “Mailing address?” Zack frowned. “Isn’t he here?”

  “No. I’m Ralph Sawtell, the owner.”

  A tiny alarm rang in Zack’s head. He settled back on his heels, studying Sawtell’s face. Then he said carefully, “I’m Zack Winslow. The name mean anything to you?”

  Sawtell shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. Have you done business with us?”

  “I own this place. My partner is George Orr.”

  The man nodded to the clerk. “Leave us alone, Ray.” After the door closed, Sawtell said carefully, “You’re in the army, I see.”

  “Just mustered out. Wounded and discharged.” Impatience seized him and he said, “What’s going on here?”

  Sawtell nervously pulled a cigar out of his pocket, his hands unsteady as he lit it. After taking a few puffs, he jerked it out and snapped, “I bought this place from Orr two months ago. He never said anything about a partner!”

  Zack froze. Finally he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “He didn’t say anything to me.”

  “I think we’d better check into this, Sergeant,” Sawtell suggested. “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go see him—and then, unless I’m mistaken, you’d better go to the police.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes. I went over this business very carefully before I bought it. There’s always a chance that a lot of debts are not listed in the books, for example. I made sure the title was clear. According to my lawyer, George Orr was the legal owner.”

  “We did put it in his name when I went to the army because it would make it easier for George to handle the business.”

  Sawtell’s eyes flickered. “Winslow, go see your lawyer, then come back. I’ll do the same. But it looks like you’ve been taken.”

  “I don’t think so,” Zack replied.

  “He’s not living at his old address,” Sawtell said. “I know that much. A month ago I needed to talk to him about something that came up. Sent a man around, but he returned, saying that Orr had moved—apparently right after he sold the store. I have the address he left with his landlady.” He went to a file and pulled out a slip of paper. “Not much help, I’m afraid.”

  Zack stared at the note. “General Delivery, New York City.”

  “Sergeant, take the advice of an older man—go to the police at once. Your friend has sold you out.”

  “I’ll be back.” He whirled and stalked out.

  Zack jumped into the first cab he saw. “241 East Walnut,” he directed. As the cab rolled along, he chewed on the incredulous news. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t heard from George in weeks. Got to be a reason, he finally decided.

  When the cabby pulled up in front of a two-story brown-stone, Zack paid his fare and hurried up the steps. He pulled the brass bell hard.

  “Why, Mr. Winslow!” a middle-aged woman exclaimed as she opened the door. “Come in, sir!”

  He entered quickly. “Is Emma here, Mrs. Johnson?”

  Mrs. Johnson blinked and seemed disturbed by his question. “Why, Mr. Winslow—Emma hasn’t lived here for two months! Didn’t you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.” The warning bell in his head rang again. “Did she leave an address, Mrs. Johnson?”

  “N-no. Is something wrong, Mr. Winslow?” she asked. “Is Emma in trouble?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  Zack continued questioning but got little response. Though the landlady was sympathetic, the news was scanty. “Emma was mighty busy the weeks before she left,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Then she came in one day, packed her things and took off. Paid her bill, she did, but wouldn’t leave an address. Told me she’d write when she got settled—but never did. She’s not in any—”

  Zack ignored her question and left. He walked the streets, trying to unravel the mystery, a sense of foreboding dogging his steps. Finding himself downtown, he strode into the office of Bart Tyler, a young lawyer with a struggling practice who had become a good friend to both Orr and Winslow.

  The minute he saw Zack, his cheerful smile vanished. He faltered, then stuck out his hand. “Hello, Zack.”

  “Where’re George and Emma, Bart?” Zack demanded.

  Tyler drew his shoulders back in surprise, then said, “Zack—they got married and left town two months ago. Right after he sold the business to Sawtell.” He swallowed. “Emma said it was hard, writing you about her and George.”

  “She never wrote.”

  Tyler saw the smoldering anger in Winslow’s eyes, and he asked quickly, “But you did get your half of the price of the store?”

  “I got nothing, Bart—no girl, no friend, no business—except getting shot by the Rebels while my friends betrayed me!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A NEW VOCATION

  “That young friend of yours sure got a rotten deal,” Nolan Bryce said as he rocked in his chair, his eyes resting on Bart Tyler, the young lawyer. “But as I see it,” he went on, “he let himself in for it. Must be a trusting sort of fellow—signing his business over to Orr like he did.”

  Bart Tyler had brought Winslow to see Nolan Bryce, the chief of police, two days before. Bryce had listened to Zack’s account and then promised to look into the case but couldn’t give him much hope.

  “Well,” Tyler said, “he was trusting. Don’t know if he’ll ever do it again.”

  “Giving someone the power of attorney—anyone—is dangerous business. Like I told him, he’ll have trouble getting his money back,” said Bryce.

  “He thought Orr was his friend,” Tyler said, remembering how Zack had unloaded to him. The lawyer knew there was no recourse for Winslow. So did Zack, but he had to check out every possibility.

  Tyler and Bryce were at the police station, waiting for Zack, who was in the next room checking one final time with the detective. Tyler went on. “About all I could do was keep him out of trouble when he got drunk. He never was a drinking man.”

  “Guess he thinks he’s got a good excuse,” Bryce said. “Bad enough to get shot up in this war, but to come home and find your best friend’s skipped out with your cash and your woman—that’s tough!” He examined the amber liquid in his glass critically and took a sip. “He’s got a pretty hard look in his eye—for which I don’t blame him a bit.”

  “Zack’s always been a happy-go-lucky sort, Chief. Smiling and full of fun. Maybe a little too trusting. But he’s different now.” His eyes filled with regret. “He won’t talk about it much, even to me—hurt’s too deep. But when he got drunk night before last, he said, ‘They done me in, Bart—but they won’t do it again!’ I don’t think he was talking just about Orr and Emma. He’s not going to trust anybody for a long time.”

  The door opened, and Zack entered. “Get the deposition all made out?” Bryce asked.

  “No.” His eyes were like steel. “It’s a waste of time, Chief. Thanks for listening.”

  The hard light in the man’s eyes bothered Bryce. Though he was used to the underside of life, including these small tragedies, the look on Zack’s face saddened Nolan. He put his glass down, and came over and put his hand on Zack’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about this thing. Wish I could do something to help.”

  Zack gave him a careful look, and the C
hief realized that this was no longer the cheerful man Tyler had described. From now on he would weigh everyone’s actions. His round face was smooth and boyish, but his blue eyes were steady and reserved as he said, “Sure. One of those things, Chief.” Then he turned to Bart. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go.”

  As they left, Bryce walked to his window and waited until the pair came out the front door. He shook his head. “That young fellow won’t be easy to fool anymore.”

  The two men made their way down the crowded street. “Let’s get something to eat,” Bart suggested.

  “You need to get back to your office,” Zack said.

  “I’m more hungry for food than work. There’s a little place I like over on Hill Street.” He led the way to a cafe with red-checked tablecloths draped over round tables. “Bring us two steaks, Anna,” he said to the pretty waitress. “And some of that German beer if you’ve got it.” He noticed the girl giving Winslow a look, and after she left said, “Guess the girls all go for a uniform, Zack. She’s a cute kid, too.” But at Winslow’s shrug, Tyler thought, He won’t pay much attention to women for a spell!

  While they waited for the food, Tyler kept up a steady flow of light talk, mostly about changes that had taken place in Cincinnati while Winslow had been gone. Then as they ate the steaks, he drew his friend out of his shell to some extent, so that by the time they were devouring the apple pie, Tyler felt free to ask, “What’s next, Zack?”

  “Don’t know, Bart.”

  “Need some money?”

  A brief grin touched Zack’s wide mouth. “No—but thanks for the offer.” He sipped his coffee, staring out the window. “I’ve got a grubstake, Bart. My mother had a house, and when she died I sold it and banked the money.” His lip curled as he added, “George didn’t know about it—or that would have gone into the business, too.”

  “Why, you could go back into business, Zack,” Bart exclaimed. “Town is booming, and—”

  “Nope. I’m pulling out.”

  Tyler stared at him, then nodded slowly. “Sort of figured you might. Hate to see you leave, Zack—but guess it’s best to shake off a place that’s got bad memories.” He took a bite of pie, then asked thoughtfully, “Any ideas where you’ll head for?”

  “Some place so far in the backwoods the only company that’ll come calling will be squirrels and timber wolves.”

  “Oh, come on, Zack! A hermit?”

  “Why not?” Zack stared at his friend. “That’s exactly what I’ll be!” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and said with an air of determination, “Soon as I’m well enough to sit longer, I’m heading west.”

  Tyler saw the stubborn cast on Zack’s face. He and Zack had been fairly close, and the lawyer was a sharp observer of men. With heavy heart he realized this was not the same happy young fellow he’d known before the war. The easy ways and careless manners were gone. Now he saw a man filled with cynicism. “Zack, you’ve had about as rough a bump as a man can get—but don’t let it ruin your life. Sure, take a trip out west. Be good for you to wander around and see the country. But you’ll be back.”

  “No. Once bit, twice shy. All I want is to be alone—and I’m going to find a place where I can do just that!”

  “I don’t think you’ll do it, Zack. Don’t think a man ought to bury himself.” He leaned back in his chair, then sat upright. “But if you’ve got to try this hermit thing, I’ve got something that might interest you.”

  “What?”

  “I defended a fellow just after you left, Zack. He was a small-time crook and guilty as sin. I got him off with a suspended sentence, but he had no money to pay me. He did have title to a piece of property, though. I knew it was probably worthless, but I had to take it.”

  “Far from here?”

  “Just this side of the Rockies. Thirty miles to the closest town. He had gone out there to live, but said it was so lonesome it drove him nuts. Even got to talkin’ to himself.”

  “Surprised he told you how bad it was.”

  “Probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been drunk,” Tyler said. “But I can’t see you living that far back in the woods. He said there’re some Indians close by, and they’ve been known to raise a scalp.” Tyler leaned back and thought about what his client had said. “Guess it’s a pretty place, right enough. Snow caps on one side of the valley, and evergreens on the other. Cold in the winter, nice in the summer.”

  “How big a place?”

  “Hundred acres, the deed says, but my client said it was too hilly for farming. He tried raising sheep.”

  “Now that’s an idea!” Zack said, his eyes bright. “I sort of like it, Bart. No people—just sheep.”

  “But you don’t know anything about sheep!”

  “I know they don’t steal from you and run off with your woman,” Zack said bitterly. “What’s to know? You feed ’em grass and sell the wool and the meat. How much you want for the place?”

  Tyler studied Winslow carefully, reluctant to sell, yet anxious to help his friend. “My fee was two hundred dollars. Wilkins—that was my client—claimed the place was worth three times that.”

  “I’ll give you six hundred!”

  “No! I don’t even want two hundred, Zack.” The lawyer shook his head. “I never expected to sell the place. Just take it. Get this hermit foolishness out of your head.”

  “Nope. I’m gonna buy the place, Bart, and that’s final!”

  The two argued briefly, but when Tyler saw that Winslow was dead serious, he reluctantly agreed to take two hundred. “If you’re going to do this fool thing,” he said, “you’ll need cash to get started—there’s no house on the place.”

  “I’ll build one!” For the first time since Zack’s return, Tyler saw excitement in his friend’s eyes. “I’ll build me a fine cabin, just big enough for me, and then I’ll put up some corrals for the sheep—and just sit around and watch them get fat.” He slapped Tyler on the shoulder. “Why, they’ll be growing while I’m asleep, Bart—making me rich!”

  “You’ll go crazy in six months,” Tyler predicted. “On the other hand, this may be a good thing for you, Zack. After all the fighting and—and the other things, it’ll do you good to work at something different.”

  “Wish my rump was healed,” Zack said ruefully. “I’d like to leave today!”

  “You’ll get sick of looking at those dumb sheep soon enough—and tired of eating mutton, too!” Tyler laughed. “Come on, we’ll go get the title deed.”

  Three days later, they were standing at the train station. Zack had the deed to the land in his pocket, along with all his savings—a sheaf of banknotes totalling almost two thousand dollars. Now as the train gave a final warning blast, he gripped Tyler’s hand. “Bart, I’m glad there’s one good fellow left in the world!”

  “Oh, there’re lots of us, Zack,” Tyler protested. “I wish you’d put this off for a couple of weeks. You’re not able to sit for long rides yet.”

  “I got to get away, Bart,” he said. “I’ve had enough of people to do me for a lifetime. When I get my ranch all set, come see me, okay? I was planning to make only one chair, but for you I’ll make another.”

  Tyler shook his head, and as the train lurched forward and Zack stepped on board, Bart called out, “You’ll be back in six months!”

  “No, I won’t!” Zack yelled. “I’ll be the hermit of Alder Gulch the rest of my life!”

  ****

  After the rigid control of military life, Zack Winslow’s trip from Cincinnati to Alder Gulch was a delight. The train rolled across Indiana and Illinois, then dropped south to Missouri. Zack changed trains four times, but managed to wrangle sleeping space with each crew. His uniform was almost as good as a pass, and he paid for his bed by repeating his war experiences. Most of the railroad men had relatives in the Union Army, and all were vitally interested in the battles he spoke of. For Zack, the war itself became dim as the trains moved him toward the west. He sensed the detachment, marveling at how t
ime and distance had the power to remove such horror. Though he remembered the blood, the wounded, the mounds of dead soldiers, they were more like pictures from a book—except occasionally in dreams or at certain times of consciousness. Then the memories were vivid and poignant—but these came less often as time went on.

  At St. Louis he bought passage on the Polaris. The trip up the Missouri was the most enjoyable journey he’d ever experienced. The Polaris was an old gilt-tarnished Mississippi riverboat, but Zack didn’t mind. He paid for a private cabin, thinking with a streak of humor, A real hermit wouldn’t share a cabin with another man! When he was not walking the decks or standing in the bow watching the brown waters break up into curling ripples around the boat, he would retire to his cubicle and read. The captain noted him standing alone for long periods in the bow, and asked him to supper. Winslow spent a pleasant evening with Captain Evans, telling once again of the war. Evans, too, had much to share, for he knew the country territory well.

  “Trapped a couple years on the Yellowstone,” he said as they sat at the table over coffee. “And the Bitterroot country, where you’re headed, Winslow—know it well. Beautiful country! Love to get back there.” He spoke of the cold mountain streams and the dark stands of timber, the abundance of game and fish. “You’ll like it,” he concluded. “Not many folks around, though.”

  “I’ve seen enough people for a spell, Captain,” Zack said. He had not shared his misfortune, but his silence had made Captain Evans give him a quick glance. And when he had gotten off the Polaris for a smaller craft at the junction of the Yellowstone, Evans had shaken his hand, saying, “Good luck, Winslow. You better know God—because God and Indians—that’s about all you’ll see where you’re going.”

  “God will be all right,” Zack grinned. “The Indians can mind their own business. Thanks, Captain Evans.”

  He found a small trading craft headed farther up the Missouri. This one didn’t even have a name, much less any gilt paint or fancy woodwork. He slept on a thin bedroll in a cramped cubbyhole over the wheelhouse—but it was a refreshing trip for Zack. He liked the bones of the country, beginning to stick up in austere ranges of rock, capped with snow so white it was hard to believe anything could be that pure. The air was cool after the sweltering days through the rolling country on the Missouri, and he felt an excitement as he got off the trading boat at Helena.