The Pinfire Lady Read online

  ‘If the gun is cocked, and the trigger squeezed, the hammer will fall onto the pin and the pistol will fire. Since the cylinder has six chambers, one can fire six shots without reloading. It is a fairly simple matter to push out the used cartridges with this rod, mounted on the side, and then reload.’

  Uncle George had then patiently explained the remainder of the case’s contents: a small screwdriver for disassembling the pistol, a compartment containing a large quantity of the novel ‘pinfire’ cartridges, and a small steel tube.

  ‘This is called a “chimney piece”. In the unlikely event that you have no more cartridges, this can be loaded as one would a muzzle loading weapon, inserted into a chamber, and a cap placed upon the projecting chimney where the pin would normally be. Thus, one would still have a single shot with which to defend oneself. Abbie, I know that your father instructed you in the use of firearms. Promise me you will keep this weapon handy.’

  Abbie had so promised, and, despite Bertram’s protestations that he was quite capable of protecting his wife, or for that matter any woman, she had kept the pistol with her belongings when they left for America.

  Returning to the present, Abbie loaded the pinfire pistol and, rummaging around, found a long red scarf which she fashioned into a sash around her waist. Thus attired, she thrust her pistol into the sash, the way she had seen Sowers of the Indian cavalry carry their pistols, and gathering her other ‘finds’ together, including a man’s slouch hat, she left the wagon and, noting regretfully that the Indians had not left behind a single long gun, mounted her horse and rode off across the prairie.

  She headed in a roughly south-western direction. There were two reasons for her choice. The Indian war party had come from the north and returned in that direction and she had no desire to encounter that body of bloodthirsty devils. Secondly, several days prior, the wagon train had been diverted from the regular trail to the north-west, by visible signs of a huge prairie fire southward, and it had been hoped that, by swinging north, they would escape the conflagration. The move had been successful, but ultimately had dire results.

  Abbie theorized that eventually she should be able to recognize the well-worn tracks of the Sante Fe Trail and, possibly meet up with another group of wagons heading west, or eventually reach some western settlement where she could obtain both supplies and assistance.

  Her immediate concern was to find water for herself and the bay. The last halt of the wagon train had been a dry camp and, entering the area after the storm, she had noted that the barrels lashed to the sides of the wagons had all suffered in the fighting or the subsequent explosion. Thus, although she had found a canteen still containing a trickle of hopefully pure water, it was absolutely essential that, if she and her horse were to survive, they should locate a source of the life-giving fluid.

  So Abbie rode on, slouched in the uncomfortable side saddle, her head constantly turning as her eyes swept the horizon on the lookout for signs of hostile natives, and evidence of either civilization or water. The sun beat down from a brilliant blue sky and, although lacking the humidity she had experienced years earlier in India, she found that she was gradually becoming more and more thirsty and drowsy, despite taking occasional sips from her canteen. The bay too was starting to experience difficulties and once he stumbled, sending Abbie’s heart pounding.

  Peering from under the battered old hat acquired during her scavenging, Abbie noted a dark line running across the prairie, and a while later it revealed itself as the tops of a line of trees. Trees indicated the presence of water and she urged on the weary animal. ‘Come on, boy! We’ll soon have water!’

  The cottonwoods lined both banks of a small creek that ran diagonally across her route and, thankfully, Abbie dismounted and led the horse down the bank to where a stream of water four or five feet wide trickled merrily on its way. Both horse and girl lowered their heads and lapped up the crystal clear water, feeling greatly refreshed as they replaced their lost fluids.

  Abbie stood and looked around. Suddenly, she sensed that she and the bay were not alone. Crouching, she pulled out the pinfire pistol and cocked the hammer, sweeping the gun back and forth, as she attempted to determine the source of her unease.

  ‘S’all right, boy! I ain’t gonna hurt you. Even iffen I could, which I can’t.’

  Abbie peered closer, and found a figure propped against the trunk of a tree. Dragging the unwilling horse behind her and with her pistol firmly grasped in her right hand and steadied against her body, Abbie approached the voice.

  She found that she was looking down at a grey-bearded, bald-headed man clad in greasy buckskins. One arm hung awkwardly from his shoulder, where his coat was ripped and bloody, and one leg, obviously broken, was buckled under him. Nearby was the body of a large bear, beneath whose carcase could be seen the stock of a long gun.

  ‘Howdy, boy! As you can see, ol’ Griz here has left me in a bit of a fix.’

  Suddenly, his eyes opened wide as, looking more closely at the lightly-dressed figure before him, he realized that he was making a terrible blunder in identification.

  ‘Well, Jiminy! I can certainly see you ain’t no boy, ma’am. Beggin’ your pardon, but I sure didn’t ’spect to see no she-males in this neck o’ the woods! Who are you, an’ whatcha doing here in that getup?’

  Abbie, ignoring her title, introduced herself as Abbie Penraven, and gave a brief outline of what had happened to the wagon train, ignoring her husband’s role in the massacre with the sudden realization that, if his infidelity had not happened, she would not have ridden off and therefore would have also been one of the victims of the attack.

  ‘Well, Abbie, I am sure glad to meet you, though not like this, ma’am. Name’s Billy Curtis. Came out west with ma folks when I was jus’ a wee’n. Family came from Tennessee, but they’re all gone now.’

  Billy went on to describe how he had been tracking the grizzly that lay dead before them, and the crafty animal, typical of the species, had circled round behind him and suddenly attacked. He had managed to get off one shot with his Hawken plains rifle, before the bear was upon him, and after that it was a fight with his Bowie knife against the bear’s teeth and ripping claws. He had managed to get in a mortal blow with his blade but, in stepping back, had stumbled over a fallen bough and fell awkwardly, thus breaking his left leg. And there he had lain, unable to move to any degree, hoping that the periodic shivers and twitches that went through the grizzly were merely part of its death throes, and not an indication that it was reviving to continue the contest.

  ‘Ma’am, iffen you could git ma Bowie from that thar bear, I figure we could rig somethin’ up. That is, if you’ve a mind to help me.’

  Abbie was a trifle indignant. ‘Mr Curtis, of course I’ll assist you in any way I can! Do you really think that I would even consider going off and leaving a fellow human being in such dire circumstances?’

  Suitably abashed, Billy apologised, muttering that he wasn’t used to dealing with ladies. At least not of Abbie’s type, thinking of some of the sporting girls he had known in times past, when the fires of life had burned more brightly.

  ‘Well now, to business!’ He went on to state that their first task must be to retrieve his Bowie knife and, that accomplished, suitable branches could be cut to furnish splints for his leg, and then make what he called a travois. He had noted that Abbie’s saddle had a lariat hanging from the right side. Abbie, when first obtaining the bay weeks ago, had queried the addition of the plaited rawhide line, suggesting that she had no intention of herding cattle, but had been cautioned to leave it be, as it might be useful some day. And now it was.

  Under Billy Curtis’ directions, Abbie tied one end of the lariat securely around one of the forelegs of the grizzly, put the line in a clove hitch around the pommel of her saddle, and then back around the hind leg of the animal. Leading the bay by his headstall, she coaxed him to move slowly away as the lines tightened. As the lariat took up the tension, so gradually the grizzly was rolle
d onto his back, exposing the knife buried up to the haft in his chest. Billy called out to Abbie to halt the horse, which she did and, hurrying back, with considerable effort withdrew the knife from the body.

  With the Bowie, Abbie chopped down two slender saplings with which to create splints, and longer pieces from which to make the travois.

  ‘Now little lady, you are gonna hurt me, but it has to be done.’ Abbie bit her lower lip but nodded in agreement. ‘We gotta straighten that leg an’ then pull it out so that the broken pieces fit together, otherwise t’will heal crookedly.’

  Trembling slightly, Abbie did as she was told, pulling Billy’s left leg out straight, while the latter grimaced with pain. Then when Billy was ready, she hauled on his moccasin-covered foot, allowing the broken bones to fit together. The splints were laid either side of the injured leg and bound in place with pieces of lariat, then working together, the travois was constructed, with Abbie cutting and fetching the required pieces of wood, while Billy, using more pieces of lariat, lashed the cross pieces to the two long poles.

  The travois poles were secured either side of the saddle and Billy rolled himself onto their rude conveyance. With Abbie walking and leading her horse and Billy Curtis sitting on the travois with his loaded rifle across his lap, the strange party set off westward.

  CHAPTER THREE

  During the making of the travois, the ill-assorted couple had discussed their projected route, and had agreed to a compromise. Abbie had explained to Billy something of her need to reach the mining camps and how, when she and her late husband had first joined the wagon train, it was understood that the intended route would be the Santa Fe Trail, past Council Grove and Pawnee Rock, and then about seventy-five miles further on, where the trail divided, the Wagon Master intended to take the right fork known as the Mountain Division which led into Colorado Territory. All she knew now was that she was somewhere north of the trail close to Pawnee Rock.

  The old trapper thought that her surmise was pretty good, for what he privately considered was a mere she-male, but stressed that there were other factors to be taken into consideration. A supply of food was essential. While the weather remained fine it was all right, but it was now late Fall, and if snow started they would need clothing, food and shelter. As a last resort, they could head for a cabin that he had tucked away in the foot hills. And that was how things had stood between them when they started off.

  At first the bay objected to being turned into a draft animal, but he soon settled down and plodded along while Abbie had a firm grip upon his halter. There was little in the way of conversation. Billy, riding uncomfortably on the travois, kept his eyes on the horizon behind them and voiced his concern at the travois marks leaving a trail which a child could follow.

  Abigail too was busy, watching the area ahead of them, guiding the bay and silently grimacing at her fashionable riding boots, which had never been designed for tramping across the prairie.

  With the sun high overhead, Billy called a halt to their march to which Abbie thankfully agreed. Her arm ached from holding the bay’s halter and her feet felt as though they were on fire. Exhausted, she sank down by the travois and took small sips, as instructed, from the water bottle.

  Billy handed her what looked like a dried up and blackened twig. ‘Here, chew on this, girlie. It’ll give you some energy.’

  Abbie accepted the offering dubiously.

  ‘It’s jerky!’ he continued. ‘Dried venison, cut into strips and dried in the sun. T’aint fancy but it’ll keep you goin’.’ Looking at Abbie’s obvious discomfort caused by her elegant riding boots, he demanded. ‘Git them boots off or they gonna cripple you.’

  He rummaged around in what he called his possibles bag and produced several objects. The first was a small leather bag containing a quantity of tallow. Working this with his hand, he then massaged both of Abigail’s feet with it to relieve the tenderness and the blisters that were rapidly forming.

  Then he produced a pair of embroidered moccasins. ‘Here put these on. Reckon they’ll fit you mighty fine. Made them meself for a little Cheyenne gal I was partial to, but she went off with a handsome buck who’d taken a fancy to her. Meant to throw ’em away, jus’ never got round to it.’

  Billy’s voice had become gruff as he made the offering of the footwear and Abbie realized that beneath the old trapper’s coarse appearance there was a man with a sensitive caring nature. Gratefully she donned the moccasins, initially surprised at the soft comfort experienced by her sore and aching feet.

  After a rest of about an hour they resumed their journey westward until the sun began to sink towards the horizon, when Billy called a halt at a shallow gully that would permit them to remain below the skyline. Under his directions Abbie built a very small fire using only dry twigs so that very little smoke was produced. Coffee was made and drank and then the fire was extinguished.

  Abbie was surprised at Billy’s next instruction. ‘All right, girlie! Now we move on for a mile or so and find a secure place to bed down for the night. Fool anyone who might be creeping up on you.’

  They moved on and found a place where a jutting rock could secure them from the rear of their little camp and there they settled for the night, taking turns to keep watch for intruders or hostile wild life.

  The next four days passed in a similar fashion, but the fifth day was decidedly different. Halfway through the morning Billy called upon Abigail to halt. ‘There’s riders coming up from behind us. Don’t look as though they’re Indians but even so, I ain’t takin’ any chances. There’s some purty strange white folks around these parts.’

  Abbie loosened her pistol still nestled in her sash. She had been tempted to put it in a saddle bag and be relieved of the weight. Now she was glad that some sixth sense had prompted her to keep it close at hand, hidden under her riding jacket which was thrown across her shoulders to help her ward off the fierce glare of the sun.

  As the strangers drew near, Billy warned his partner. In a low voice he said, ‘I know these scums. They ain’t up to any good.’ And in a louder tone, exclaimed. ‘Well howdy, Jake! See you’ve still got your two side-kicks. Howdy, boys!’

  The unprepossessing trio reined up close to the rear of the travois. All three were unwashed, with scruffy unshaven appearances. Their weapons, however, seemed to be serviceable and ready for use.

  Jake the leader answered Billy’s greeting with false heartiness. ‘Well if it ain’t my old pal Billy Curtis. Looks as though you’ve got yourself in a bit of a fix.’ His wolfish grin as he spoke belied the would-be friendliness that he injected into his voice.

  ‘And who have we got here?’ he queried, turning his attention to Abbie who stood quietly, one hand under her jacket holding her pistol. ‘Well, it looks as though Billy’s got himself a little prairie chicken. T’aint fair, Billy! Surely you are gonna share with your friends.’ So saying, he dismounted with the obvious intention of moving towards Abbie.

  ‘Keep away from her, Jake! I’m warnin’ ya.’ The old trapper struggled to position himself on the travois where he could bring his long gun to cover Jake, who merely laughed as he turned towards Abbie standing by the bay. His intent was obvious as he moved slowly towards her, licking his lips and staring at her with lascivious burning eyes.

  Abbie cried out, ‘Keep away from me!’ So saying, she pulled out the pinfire pistol, holding it with both hands and cocking it with her left thumb as she aimed at the centre of Jake’s leather fringed jacket.

  Jake laughed and was still laughing as Abbie squeezed the trigger. The pistol roared in her hand and her target slumped down with both hands clutching his chest. ‘God damn it, girl! You’ve done for me.’

  Abbie ignored him as she swept her pistol to cover the other two. One, a Mexican, going by his wide sombrero, chose to ignore the pistol’s message and went for a gun in a saddle boot. Abbie did not hesitate. Again she fired and the Mexican fell from the saddle with a hole in the bridge of his nose. The third man raised his hands and
declared, ‘I’m a-going, lady!’

  And still with his hands held high, he manoeuvred his horse with his knees and rode off towards the east. Grey black smoke hung in the still air and the only noise was the sound of the receding hoof beats as the lone bandit vanished eastwards.

  ‘Haw, haw, haw. Well, girlie, you sure gave ol’ Jake the surprise of his life. Lemme see what kind of hawgleg did the trick.’ As Billy said this, he held out his right hand for Abbie’s pistol.

  Without a thought, Abbie handed it over. In a flash Billy had rolled the gun by its trigger guard and the girl found herself looking down the barrel of her own pistol. Frozen with fear, she stared open-mouthed at Billy’s grim features and at the cocked pinfire aimed up at her head. Then Billy’s visage relaxed into a smile and, lowering the hammer gently, he reversed the pistol and handed it back to his greatly relieved companion.

  ‘Lesson numero uno, girlie! Never hand over any of yer guns ’less they’re empty or ’less you’ve a second one covering the fella asking for a look-see. Watch iffen he tries to do the Border Roll as I did.’

  ‘But Billy! You are my friend! Surely you don’t expect a person to go through life without trusting anyone?’

  Billy chuckled. ‘Probably back East or over in Limeyland folks tend to be more trustin’. But this is the West an’ you’ve got to look out for yourself! Now, enough of that subject, let’s check ole Jake and his late buddy over an’ see if they’ve got anything we need.’

  Abbie exploded. ‘Mr Curtis!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you think it was bad enough that I had to kill these two men to protect myself. Now you want me to rob their bodies. Don’t be such a ghoul.’