DINNER AT THE ELK

Elk Mountain Region

Wyoming, 1873

The train chugged across the Wyoming expanse, sending too much smoke, steam, and ash into air that was already too hot for the comfort of the travelers. Men, foolish enough to wear suits with collars, had long since loosened the restricting material to take what relief they could. The more casually attired passengers still suffered, and some gentlemen abandoned their female traveling companions to sit at the rear of the car where they could open the windows.

The ladies also suffered inside the sweat box that claimed to be a passenger car. The high-necked, long-sleeved dresses, though made of lighter, summer cotton, caused distress for the fairer sex, and many a feminine hand clasped a fan and put them to good use. Opening a window was frowned upon near the front of the car, as many chose to remain stifling rather than tolerate the onslaught of ash, smoke, and dry dust that would inevitably be blown in along with the breeze.

Babies cried, toddlers whined, and older children sat slouched upon their seats, finding the heat too stifling even for their youthful exuberance. Bored with telling stories and playing games, they wished that something—anything—would happen to relieve the monotony.

And then it did.

Three sharp blasts from the engine’s whistle sent shivers and sweat trickling down the backs of the passengers. Only the children were blissfully unaware of the dangers of crossing through this stretch of the Wyoming badlands. Outlaws roamed here. From two-bit scavengers out for whatever the passengers carried on their person, up to the notorious Elk Mountain Gang, led by the infamous bandito, Joaquin Cortez.

Women hurried their children to them, while husbands dashed forward to protect their families. Some of the younger, more reckless men pulled guns, as the screeching brakes struggled to bring the train to a shuddering halt.

But before any action could be taken, the back door to the passenger car crashed open and two dusty, and threatening, outlaws strode into the group of gasping civilians.

“Everybody out! That means you too, young’un. Put that gun away unless you want a pistol-whippin’.”

“Yessir. I mean . .. no sir. I mean . . . we didn’t mean nothin’. Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go tell it to yer ma.” The outlaw brandished his weapon around to indicate the whole group. “Now, all of ya, out. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to ya, if'n ya just do as yer told.”

Shuffling of feet, combined with sniffles from some of the more delicate ladies, accompanied the exodus of the passengers from the train.

Stepping down into the dirt, the ladies were surprised to find one of the outlaws holding out a hand to assist them with that last jump to solid ground. But once they were outside and huddled in a group, women slid wedding rings off fingers, spirited them into their purses, and clutched purses to bosoms. Men discreetly hid pocket watches and hoped their wallets weren’t too obvious.

“C’mon, all of ya straighten out here,” the first outlaw ordered. “Stop bunchin’ up. Hey, Lobo, give me a hand here.”

The second outlaw, a round-faced, hard-looking man, grinned like a wolf and started grabbing purses, his intentions clear. 

“Lobo, Gus!”

The shout cut across the heat wave to subdue the two outlaws.

“Crap,” the first one grumbled, his dirty blond mustache bristling with irritation. He turned on the horseman who had just pulled rein in front of him. “What?”

Passengers and outlaws alike coughed and sputtered, as they waved the disturbed dust away from their faces. Only once the dust settled, did the folks on the ground get a good look at the horseman. He was young, one might say, baby-faced, with his blue eyes and light brown curls. But the blue eyes were hard, and the tied-down rig of a gunman took attention away from boyish good looks.

“You know what Nash said,” the gunman snarled. “No stealin’

personal items from the passengers. And don’t take all their money, neither. Leave ’em enough ta carry ’em over. We ain’t out ta break common folk.”

Gus threw up his hands in frustration. “Well, why the hell not? We always steal from the passengers. We’re outlaws; it’s what we do.”

“Yeah, Kid,” Lobo spit in the dust. “We usually get a tidy sum here. It’s good drinkin’ money. What’s Nash’s problem?”

“No problem, Lobo. Unless you’re plannin’ on defyin’ his orders.”

Tension increased and the gunman sat up straighter, his right hand moving to line up with the butt of his gun.

Both outlaws on the ground took things down a notch.

“Naw,” Lobo said and spit in the dirt again. “I guess what we get outta that safe will more’n make up fer these tidbits.”

“Good.” The horseman turned a cold eye to the other outlaw. “Gus? You gonna cause problems—again?”

“Sheesh.” Gus’s lip curled, but he did back off. “Fine. Whatever the little-boy-genius says. For now.”

“Good.”

“When is Malachi gonna be ready ta blow that thing?” Gus asked. “Ain’t it about time we got done and outta here?”

“Malachi ain’t blowin’ it,” the horseman said. “Nash is gonna open it, hisself. Malachi’s up in the engine with Redman, keepin’ an eye on the train crew.”

“Open it, hisself?” Gus puffed out a blast of air. “Bloody little show-off. Why don’t he just blow that thing, so we can get outta here?”

“It’ll be done soon enough, Gus. Just keep the passengers quiet, will ya?”

Touching his horse’s flank, the gunman rode off toward the freight car at the back of the train. More than one pair of admiring, female eyes watched him go.

“Who was that?” one of the ladies, too impressionable to understand discretion, asked no one in particular.

Gus snorted. “That?” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “That was none other than The Kansas Kid. I swear, if he weren’t wearin’ that gun—”

“The Kansas Kid?” A young man’s eyes lit up. “I think I’ve heard a him.”

“I know I have,” announced another. “He’s said ta be the fastest gun west of the Mississippi. Kilt more men than he’s got fingers before he was sixteen.”

“Yeah, well ya can’t believe everything ya hear,” Gus snarked.

“You backed down from him fast enough,” one of the youngsters took note.

Gus turned on him. “What was that?”

“No, nothin’. Sorry.”

“Yeah, you better be. ’Cause I’m Gus Shaffer, and you know what that means.”

“Ah, no. No, I don’t.”

“Wh . . .?” Gus stammered. “You mean ta tell me, you ain’t never heard a Gus Shaffer?”

The lad shrugged. “Sorry.”

“I’ve been runnin’ with Elk Mountain for years. Dammit. If it weren’t fer that little show-off, Napoleon Nash, steppin’ up and takin’ over leadership of this gang, why I’d be—”

“Napoleon Nash?” asked one of the older gentlemen, as several ladies gasped and brought hankies up to their faces. “We’re being robbed by Napoleon Nash?”

“Wow,” stated another.

“Yeah. I didn’t know we was bein’ robbed by Napoleon Nash. I wondered why you weren’t gonna take our rings ’n such. I mean, what happened to Cortez? Don’t he run the Elk Mountain Gang?”

Gus was still getting over his shock and indignation, so Lobo stepped in to answer the question.

“Naw, Cortez ain’t around no more. He went and got hisself kilt, so Nash there, he took over.”

“Only ‘cause he’s got that gun backin’ ‘im up,” Gus finally responded. “Dammit. I’d be runnin’ this gang if it weren’t fer that.” He stuck a finger in the face of the passenger and wagged it at him like an old schoolteacher. “Then you’d know who I was, dagnabbit.”

“Cortez is dead?” asked one of the younger men. “Did Nash kill ’im ta take over the gang?”

“What?” Gus sputtered. “Geesh, you’re a blood-thirsty lot. No, Nash didn’t kill ’im.” His eyes became distant, and his mouth tightened with remembered animosity. “Someone else went and done that.”

***

Jack The Kansas Kid Kiefer pulled his horse up by the opened door of the freight car. One lone man stood on the outside, leaning against the floor of the car, while he held two horses. He turned a hawk-nosed face to the approaching rider, then nodded acknowledgment, as the horseman pulled up and dismounted.

“How’s it goin’?” Jack asked.

The Shoshone put a finger to his lips, requesting quiet.

Jack grinned and looked in the freight car to see for himself.

His partner, Napoleon Nash, sat cross-legged in front of the large, impressive safe. He leaned on it, his ear pressed against the warm metal, as his long, slender fingers attempted their seduction of the tumblers. His dark brown eyes were closed, and strands of dark hair were plastered against his forehead by the perspiration caused, just as much by his focus, as by the heat of the day. The look on his face could only be described as erotic ecstasy.

“How’s it goin’?” Jack inquired again.

Leon jumped, and his face screwed up in an irritated grimace as he glared at his partner.

Jack grinned. “Just askin’. We gotta get a move on.”

“You can’t rush something like this,” Leon told him. “You know that.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t wanna get caught, sittin’ here, playin’ with ourselves,” Jack countered. “Maybe I should get Malachi, and he can blow it.”

“Not yet,” Leon frowned. “Taggard’s on look-out. He’ll let us know if we have company coming. Besides, I almost had the last number before you interrupted me. I’d have it open by now if you—”

“Uh-huh. How about I just go get Malachi anyway? If’n ya ain’t got it open by the time we get back, then he better blow it. It’s what he’s good at.”

Leon nodded, then with a deep sigh, settled in to continue.

Three minutes after Jack left, a soft, metallic click sounded from inside the workings.

Leon’s face broke into a wide, dimpled grin as he locked eyes with the Indian. “One of these days, the railroads are going to learn that they need timers on their safes, like the banks.”

Mukua grunted and nodded. He then sent a thumbs-up to the other gang members who had been watching the car from a safe distance.

A loud whoop went up as success was announced.

Leon continued to grin as he swung open the heavy door, then gazed upon the riches within.

“Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Mukua jumped into the car, bringing three sets of saddlebags with him. He handed one to his boss, and the two men stuffed them full of money, bonds, and jewelry.

Gus’s craggy face appeared at the door. “Ya finally got it opened?”

Leon’s grin wouldn’t quit. “Yup.”

“About time. Lobo and Charlie are gettin’ the passengers back on board. Let’s get goin’.”

Leon was so pleased with the outcome of this job that he didn’t even reprimand Gus for his insubordination.

***

With three saddlebags stuffed to bursting, the gang split up to confuse any pursuers who might think it worthwhile to head out on a hot summer day to track down an outlaw gang they already knew they wouldn’t find.

Leon and Mukua headed off with one bag, Jack, along with Hank and Charlie took another route, then Gus with Malachi and Redman, Ed, and Lobo went off with the third. Taggard Murphy, who’d been the lookout, took his cue from his cohorts departing and headed back on his own.

Barring incident, they’d all meet up again at the hideout. The loot would then be stashed in the safe inside the leader’s cabin, and Leon would divvy out funds as he saw fit. There always had to be money held back to see the gang through the slow winter months, and if everyone got their fair share up front, it’d be gone within a week.

Even though Leon was young to be the leader of this gang of ruffians—just barely twenty, and Jack was even younger—he had learned a lot about gang management from his predecessor, Joachim Cortez. Leon had stayed with plenty of Cortez’s methods, but others he kicked to the wayside. Giving everyone their full share right after a successful robbery was one of those traditions that was being given the boot.

There’d been a lot of grumbling at first, especially from Gus. He had been Cortez’s second-in-command, and nothing was sticking in that man’s craw more than the fact that this little up-start had slipped into the leadership role without so much as a by-your-leave. At first, it had been Jack Kiefer’s reputation that had kept the crotchety outlaw in line, but then the lack of support from his fellows sealed his fate.

Cortez had been a good leader, and the gang members respected him. Well, until one of them caved his head in. But none could deny the increase of the payload once Napoleon Nash took over. He was young, but he was experienced and intelligent. The jobs he planned were meticulous in their detail and generally went smooth as silk. Gus was well-liked, and he’d been around for ages, but even the dimmest of the gang members knew they wouldn’t be haulin’ in the kind of loot with him, as they were with Nash.

Despite grumblings of held-back pay, Napoleon Nash remained in the leader’s cabin.

Another change that Leon made, was that he brought in that stoic old Indian and insisted that he would always have a place at the Elk Mountain hideout. Nobody really knew why and, at first, nobody trusted him. But Mukua soon found his niche.

In his day, living with his own people up near the Yellowstone River, Mukua had been a holy man, one who frequently spoke with the spirits and interpreted dreams and premonitions. He generally dressed in his traditional buckskin trousers and knee-high moccasins, but usually spruced it up with a brightly colored shirt. Too brightly colored by some accounts.

The one constant in his wardrobe was the black fedora he insisted on wearing, along with the feather sticking out of its brim. The feather, however, did change. Once one wore out, he’d be on the lookout for a replacement, and it didn’t much matter what type of feather it was. Eagle, hawk, vulture, and even chicken feathers, would be so honored, depending on what was available. Quiet and unpretentious, he became the fella everyone went to for advice, or just to talk out a problem. Because of this, he got saddled with the handle: Preacher, although a Christian man, he never was.

So, despite rumors of being a cold-hearted murderer, Mukua soon gained the trust and respect of his fellow gang members. He and Leon held a special bond, though neither man ever offered the explanation. Only Jack, who was as close to Leon as anyone could be, knew the history between the two.

***

Being the first ones back at the Elk, Leon gave the signal to the lookout, and then he and Mukua headed up the well-guarded trail that led to the small town-sized cluster of buildings that constituted home for many a sorry-lookin’ outlaw. They pulled up at the barn, and while Leon snatched the saddlebag and headed directly to the leader’s cabin, Mukua took the two sweat-covered horses into the stable to relieve them of their gear.

Leon’s first duty, when he entered the spacious living area of the cabin, was to deposit the contents of the saddlebag into the large safe that was set up in the far corner. He could never help the chuckle that escaped him, as he’d kneel beside the old safe and twirl in the combination to open the door. It struck him as serendipitous that a safe he could open so easily, even without knowing the combination, was a necessary tool for keeping the peace.

Still, whatever worked. He swung the door open and smiled at how quickly the safe was filling up. Adding the newly acquired plunder to the current stack, he figured they’d have more than enough to get them through the winter months. Once the heat died down from this most previous hold-up, he would let the fellas have a good share of their earnings, so they could go cut loose in a sympathetic town for the weekend.

He then went to the pump next to the large, cast-iron stove and doused his head and shoulders with a good splash of lukewarm water. Having an indoor pump was a luxury that even the near-by towns couldn’t boast, and he smiled at the thought of how well his business was prospering. Cupping handful after handful of the liquid, he rinsed his eyes, nose, and mouth clean of the dust and sweat that had caked upon him in layers.

Feeling refreshed and still dripping, he headed to the porch and settled himself into one of the chairs there to await the return of the rest of his gang. This was always the hardest part for him, waiting for everyone else to return, safe and sound. Most of his men were experienced and well-honed at evading pursuers, but Leon still could not fully relax until all had returned.

He smiled when he spotted Mukua’s buckskin appaloosa gelding, with the appropriate handle of Buckwheat, and his own copper mare, Fanny, suddenly appearing in the large paddock off the barn. Despite their weariness, they trotted out to center ring, flinging their heads at the other horses and stirring up more dust, before they both began circling and pawing the ground, looking for that perfect spot to plop down for a roll.

Leon never tired of watching the horses frolic; it was one of the few things, along with a good game of poker, that allowed his overactive mind to settle and his body to relax. Looking at his mare now, he smiled with fondness as she laid back her ears and ran the other horses away from her spot in the dirt.

He generally didn’t like mares much, preferring a good, solid gelding for his outlaw horse. But when he came across the well-bred chestnut filly, he didn’t question fate and snatched her up out of a herd of broomtails for a fraction of her true worth. One look at the beautifully developing hindquarters that promised both speed and agility, the name Fanny came to mind and never left. In the two years they’d been together, she not only lived up to his expectations, she exceeded them.

Then he spotted Mukua heading his way with two tin mugs, most likely filled with beer from the keg inside the barn. His grin widened.

Mukua smiled as he approached the steps, showing gaps in his grin where a couple of teeth were missing.

“Hey, Napai’ aishe,” he greeted his boss, using the Shoshone name for Leon, that only saw the light of day when they were alone. “That was a good job. The boys will be wanting to celebrate.”

“I’m sure they will,” Leon accepted the offered mug of beer. “That’s a new keg in the barn, so there’s plenty, if they want to have a bit of fun.”

“Hmm,” Mukua nodded, as he set the second mug on the railing, then turned to go.

Leon frowned. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

“Naw. I brought that one for Jack. I’ll have a beer with the boys when they get back. They don’t like me socializin’ too much with the boss.”

“Aww, come on. They’re over that now, Ata-i. Everyone likes you.”

“I know. And I want to keep it that way.”

A distant gunshot caught the attention of both men, but they knew it was only the signal announcing the arrival of more gang members.

“Ahh,” Mukua continued, “here they come. Soon, this yard will be so full of dust, I will not be able to find my way back to the barn. I better go. Some of them fellas know nothing of tending to their horses. If I was not there to tell ’em, they would leave their poor beasts standing in their stalls, still tacked up and sweating. Once the horses are settled,” his mouth spread in a skin-stretching grin, and a mischievous sparkle lit up his dark eyes, “then, I will drink beer.”

Leon laughed out loud. “Okay. Suit yourself.”

Mukua nodded and headed for the barn.

Leon took a good-sized gulp of his beer, then set the mug on the railing to await the company of his partner.

***

Dusk settled over the Elk, but the celebrating was just getting started.

Leon and Jack sat comfortably on the porch, leaning back, with legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, each nursing their fourth, or fifth, mug of beer. The fire pit by the bunkhouse had a slow burn going, with venison steaks, a large pot of beans, and another of boiling potatoes laid out across the rack, filling the air with enticing aromas and savory anticipation. Everyone was hungry.

All were in good spirits, and the beer flowed. Hank had his guitar out, singing every outlaw-friendly song that came to mind. Wesley Hielman, an older black fella, and Luke Lancaster, who was just the opposite, took their respective ladies by the hand and danced amongst the claps and hoots of their fellows. Some joined in, kicking up their heels and singing along with the songs despite not really knowing the words, while others whooped and hollered, slinging jokes back and forth or playing basic games of chance upon the log table. It had been a good day, and with the continued leadership of the little-boy-genius, it was promising to be a great season.

***

“Had a bit of a surprise ridin’ back here today,” Jack commented after a lengthy stretch of silence.

“Oh yeah?”

“Hmm. Lobo told Hank, then Hank told me, that several of the passengers knew who we were.”

“Really?” Leon perked up. “Well, it’s about time.”

“Apparently, we’re worth five thousand apiece.”

“Is that all? Me, being leader, ought to be worth at least two thousand more than you.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Jack countered. “You might have the brains, Leon, but I got the gun. That counts for a lot.”

Leon puffed. “Maybe once you outgrow that baby face. Ever think of growing a mustache? You’d be intimidating enough then—maybe. You’re not even twenty yet.”

“So what? I can still pull the trigger. I got a reputation, ya know. Folks are scared a me.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Gus, fer one.”

“Yeah, well . . . Gus. Who else?”

“I don’t know ’em by name, but . . . folks.”

“Right. Well, I tell ya, Kid—”

“I’ve told ya before, Leon, don’t call me ‘Kid’. I don’t like it.”

“But that’s your gunny handle.”

“It ain’t. I’m Jack Kiefer. That’s my handle.”

“Yeah, but Kid, on every wanted poster I’ve seen of you, it says: 'Jack The Kansas Kid Kiefer’. And, it makes sense; you’re from Kansas, and you’re a kid. Let’s face it; you’ve been saddled with that handle, so you better own it.”

“It don’t make no sense,” Jack argued. “You’re from Kansas too, and you ain’t much older ’n me. I don’t see The Kansas Kid stamped on your wanted posters.”

“Well, the name’s already taken, Kid. We can’t have two Kansas Kids out there. Besides, every gunman worth his salt is ‘Kid’ something: Kid Shalane, Kid Curry, Billy the Kid, The Apache Kid, Kid Cold. Hmm, too bad that one's already taken. Anyway, I’m afraid it’s a fate you can’t avoid.”

“It might help if you would stop callin’ me ‘Kid’.”

“Hey, Nash, Kid!” Charlie called from the fire pit. “Steaks is done.”

“See?” Leon said, “There’s no avoiding it.”

Jack groaned.