Читать книгу Settling The Score - George McLane Wood - Страница 18

Chapter Twelve

Right after noontime, the county sheriff watched three ex-Union soldiers slowly ride into his town of Staunton, Virginia. He recognized the yellow stripes running down their pants legs. One man was leading a packhorse carrying what looked like, a body? They stopped at the town water trough and allowed their horses a long drink. One man pointed toward the saloon, another motioned toward the blacksmith shop, the third motioned toward the mercantile store; they separated and went three ways. The sheriff, a suspicious man by nature, decided he’d better close-up his office and go have a look-see, so he lit out for the store and observed the lean feller quietly ordering some vittles, so he hightailed it through the swinging doors of Angie’s saloon.

Jeff had bought a slab of bacon and some taters, onions, some tobacco for his friends, and another big bag of coffee beans. He also bought a sack of grain for their horses. Then he led his tired bay gelding over to Angie’s saloon hitch rail, tied up, and walked into the saloon, eager for Smitty to buy him a cold beer and just in time to hear the sheriff ask, “You fellers gonna be in my town very long?”

“We don’t plan to, Sheriff,” Smitty politely answered. “Why are you asking?”

“Because we’re suspicious of strangers in this town, fella, especially Yankee soldier scum.”

“We just happen to be southern boys, Sheriff, home from the war, fightin’ them rat-eatin’ rebels,” Bo Jenkins replied, his neck hackles already standing straight out! “All we want in this shithole town is a cold beer, Sheriff, and then we’ll be ridin’ out of your cesspool.”

“Easy, Bo,” remarked Smitty, “remember what happened the last time we met up with a rebel-loving Dixiecrat.”

“Easy, boys,” Jeff answered softly as he stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have a beer, barkeep.” The barkeep never moved.

“What’s that supposed to mean, fella?”

“Not a damn thing, Sheriff.”

“He called me a rebel-lovin’ somethin’. What’d you call me, fella?”

“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Sheriff!”

“You three Yankee scumbutts, git the hell outa my town right now, or I’m gonna lock y’all’s sorry asses in my jailhouse, y’all hear me?”

“Like hell you will,” echoed Bo.

“What’d you say?”

“He said likely you will, Sheriff, and I surely will agree,” Smitty quickly answered.

“Y’all better move yer asses.” The sheriff braced his legs and dropped his hand down to his gun butt.

“We hear you, Sheriff, loud and clear,” Jeff answered, downing the last half of Smitty’s cold beer. “Come on, fellas, let’s be gone. We’re biddin’ good day to you, Sheriff.”

Three ex-Yankee soldiers collected three horses, mounted ’em, collected Smitty’s horse from the blacksmith shop, and rode out of Staunton, Virginia, post haste.

“To hell with that lawman’s lousy town, his damn beer wasn’t all that tasty nohow,” Bo hollered back toward the town.

“I agree. But we’ll come to another town soon,” replied Jeff. “The people in Western Virginny are not all as unfriendly as them Staunton people are.”

“Yeah,” said Bo, “that sheriff musta got a cocklebur up under his saddle blanket over something that went on before we arrived there, and he was just taking it out on us. Don’t y’all reckon that’s so?”

“Maybe so. We three tired old troopers sure didn’t do nothing to stir his soup kettle, now did we?” Smitty replied.

One of the bloodiest engagements fought in the Shenandoah Valley had taken place on June 5, 1864, called the Battle of Piedmont, a Union victory that allowed the Federal Army to occupy Staunton, Virginia, and destroy many of the facilities that supported the Confederate war effort. Augusta County suffered again during General Philip H. Sheridan’s burning, which destroyed many farms and killed virtually all the farm animals. All the Confederates living in and around Staunton well remembered the Yankee Army.

Buffalo Gap came into view just before sundown. That small town wasn’t much to look at, but it had several saloons, a hotel, a mercantile store, a blacksmith shop, a livery stable, and three eating places, and most likely two or three whorehouses. “Let’s eat a steak at the saloon and sleep in that hotel tonight,” Smitty proposed.

“I’ll vote for that,” Bo answered.

“You two go ahead and sleep in the hotel. I’ll sleep in the stable next to my horse so I can watch our goods,” Jeff replied.

“Let’s eat our steak at the saloon and then all go sleep in the stable,” Smitty suggested.

“Good idea, Smitty, why didn’t I think of that,” Bo answered.

“Well, it’s plenty all right to see your blue soldier britches instead of gray uns. What’ll y’all soldier boys have to drink?” the barkeep drawled.

“Three whis—”

“Three cold beers,” Smitty interrupted as he punched Bo in his rib cage.

“And have the cook fry us up three beef steaks with some spuds for our supper, will ya, barkeep?”

“Y’all set yerselves down over at that table yonder and I’ll bring yer beers. My old lady heard ya and just threw yer steaks on the flames. Glad to see you, boys,” the keep remarked, as he set their beers on the table. “Yer beer’s free, gents. I’ll just be charging you boys for yer meals. This here Gap is the only saloon within yelling distance that wadn’t a rebel lover. Y’all gonna stay at that hotel? ’Cause if you are, all them beds are crawling with lice from them rat-eating rebels what slept there.”

“Not now, we’re not, thanks to you. We’re gonna be sleeping in the stable with our horses,” Jeff replied, looking at his two companions out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks for warning us, keep.”

“Glad to do it. Never liked that Southern trash what owns that place nohow. They was spies for the rebel army, so the rumor goes. I tried to talk that federal gen’ral into burning that hotel down, but he wouldn’t ’cause he was sleeping in a room there. Not in their licey beds though, there was a special wagon what carried that gen’ral’s own bed and writin’ table and chairs, so hiz sarge said. You boys is mighty wise not sleeping in that rat hole, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“We’re beholden to you, keep,” Smitty reminded him.

“Ah, here comes yer steak now. Eat up, gents, I’ll bring y’all another beer a piece.”

Right after sunup, they’d eaten their fill of ham and eggs plus a pan of biscuits for breakfast and washed ’em down with a cold beer afterward at the Gap Saloon. Then they paid their generous host and said their goodbyes. They fed and watered their mounts and were on the road, walking their horses toward Jeff’s homeplace.