Purveyor of Death

A Michelle Tanner Novella

#3 in the Michelle Tanner Series

Ron Lewis

© Copyright 2017/22/24 by Ron Lewis

Cover art by Shiloh Young

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

Purveyor of Death

1865 Colden City, Colorado Territory

Mid-September carried a chill into the air in Golden City. The Aspens started their annual change as the green faded, a little at a time, from the leaves to be replaced with yellows, reds, and orange tints. The mucky streets frosted at night, not quite freezing. After dawn, the morning sun chased away the frosty atmosphere. The general mood brightened in the camp.

The year had proven to be a difficult one as constant change bombarded the community. At last, 1865s events, which had veered far from what they considered the norm, slowed in the country, Colorado Territory, and the municipality. Not surprisingly, the people’s commerce had endured through the hardships and once more thrived after the misfortunes diminished somewhat.

The summer’s violence quieted, Golden City returned to a resemblance of her former self, and the citizens concentrated on their purpose. Prospectors went back to mining, and merchants strove to remove the money from miners’ pockets. The mining settlement resumed the ebb and flow of normalcy.

Of course, Sarah Culbertson still mourned the loss of her fiance, James Stockton. Those wounds are slow to mend.

Needless to say, any status quo in a mining town is somewhat violent, which in turn kept the deputy marshals busy. Killings occurred, often because of anger flashing over card games. On occasion, over a disagreement regarding the edge of one claim with another. The rarest killings were over a woman, as most women in the encampment were dance hall girls, saloon waitresses, or prostitutes. Fighting over a soiled dove seemed odd, odder still for a man to slay someone over one of them.

Nevertheless, they did.

In one incident, a lady of pleasure tried to murder another fallen angel over a mutual lover. Their pimp, if you can believe such a thing. One fine afternoon, Betty Dunmore marched into a particular den of iniquity, sporting a pocket Colt. Betty took aim at Alice Craig, her rival, for the attention of their shared desire.

The prostitute, Dunmore, shot not once, not twice, but due to the spark jumping chambers emptied all five balls. One bullet struck the piano. The following projectile whizzed by the ear of the intended target and hit a portrait of the late president. While another volley zinged by the other side of the woman’s head, killing their beloved employer. The other two discharges fell far short of the mark, scarring the rough-hewn, boarded floor.

It perplexed the judge what to charge her with. After all, Betty hadn’t intended harm to the individual she did and failed to shoot the person she had desired to. After much deliberation, the charges of attempted murder, involuntary manslaughter, and destruction of property fit the situation. Betty Dunmore pled guilty and received a two-year sentence in a women’s correctional facility in New England.

Her remorsefulness played a part in the light prison term. Though, no one was sure if her sorrow regarding her actions held any role in her tears or if they were all for her departed lover. However, the magistrate reasoned her repentance appeared genuine and justified the verdict. After all, she had murdered her paramour. She sat in the US marshal’s jail awaiting transportation back east.

The law officers also responded to another murder in a dark corner on the western edge of town. Gunfire rang out, and the gambler, Frank Bartell, dropped into the muck of an alleyway. Struggling to breathe, he struggled to rise when someone hit him over his head, knocking him senseless.

The assailant bowled him over and extracted the money from Frank’s pockets before rolling the poor fellow’s face down again in the swill of the wet passageway. The murderer rushed away from the scene. The culprit needn’t have run as the gunplay went unnoticed. Frank Bartell drowned in the combination of his own blood and the vile mixture where his face resided.

The deputies had suspects. Five players had lost substantial sums to the man that night. But narrowing the pool proved complicated. All five men had alibis, but how truthful any of the witnesses were was a matter of debate. Deputy Meeker vowed they would solve the crime, and how he might accomplish his goal was simple. Meeker had faith in an old-fashioned way.

You keep prodding till someone breaks.

Drinking, gambling, women, and short tempers were a recipe for violence. To thwart such tendency, the US Marshal’s office kept constant surveillance. The deputy marshals walked the streets, taking a tour of every amusement facility several times each day and night. Shaking doors of the closed businesses each night, they traversed the commerce and residential areas on a timed basis.

With sharp eyes and keen wits, they warded off disasters with a fair degree of success. All the same, killings still occurred, but not at the frequency of the past months. Begrudging respect for Deputy Hawk developed in the town. Still, when Hawk entered any place, the hushed remarks filled his ears. ‘Stinking Injun,’ ‘Lousy half-breed,’ or ‘Blanket head,’ were the most common among the whispered repertoire.

A reluctant admiration for Michelle Tanner existed, accompanied by similar insults Hawk received, modified for her mannish attire. ‘Pretend man,’ ‘Gal-boy,’ or the worst, ‘Bull-bitch’ tossed toward Shell. The criticisms stung her, but she held her tongue.

The oddity of Michelle’s dress, her working a man’s job, with the downright roughness she displayed, endeared some to her, while those qualities alienated others. Tanner’s physical strength and willingness to give a beating in discharging her duties, coupled with her lethal speed and accuracy with firearms, ensured hushed whispers spoken out of earshot of her.

However, no one dared insult her to her face.

The two law dogs exhibited wit and affability, which defused some prejudice. Still, some would prefer Meeker’s helpers awakened dead. The Deputies, Michelle Tanner, and Wounded Hawk, often perceived danger when the hairs on the back of their necks prickled. Their keen senses were clear to everyone, so most folks with bad intentions gave them elbow room.

In a room above the jail, Sarah Culbertson ran the brush through Michelle’s fire-red hair. That night, a depression hung in the air as the two young women reflected on unrelated thoughts, which darkened their moods. Shell sat in the chair as Sarah treaded around her, grooming the bright red hair and removing the tangles brought about after her day on the windy streets.

Stopping, she stood behind Michelle and laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder. Out of some instinct, Shell placed her hand on the girl’s and squeezed, knowing all too well times like these reminded the orphan girl of her lost mother. Also, Sarah suffered heartache during the summer and still visited James Stockton’s grave every day.

“Wish school was still going,” Sarah said. “At least, when I’m teaching, my mind would be full of schooling and not have room for unwanted thoughts.” To lighten the mood, Sarah had saved a story for Michelle and launched straight into one of the day’s events, which struck her as funny.

“So, I got me a tale for you.” Sarah said, “These fellers were unloading the whiskey and beer barrels at the saloon, rolling them into the bar one at a time. No problem at all with the first four of them. Next, they got a huge beer cask off, and the darned thing gave them a bit of a struggle. I don’t think the keg liked the thought of its new home.

“They pushed the cask inside. When they returned, one of them fellers jumped his butt onto the wagon, but he tipped the last barrel on its side. And I swear you’d think Miss Barrel had plans of her own. The darn thing tumbled right on back toward the second man.”

Shell chuckled at the thought but more at how Sarah lit up as she retold the event.

“Being worried about Miss Barrel’s final destination, the other feller he tried to catch the runaway drum. A mistake, right!” Sarah continued laughing, and Michelle joined in with the laughter.

“The rebellious container knocked him down, wheeled over him, burying the worker right in the mud. And ya guessed it, beer squirted from the knockout where the spout goes.” She stopped, snickered more, steadied herself, and continued.

“The beer spewed all over the boardwalk, and they was shovin’ their hands on the bugger, trying to stop this wayward lady, but made things worse! Speaking of ladies, do you remember the fancy female who wears them charming dresses? Miss Dawson?

“Well, she sauntered past right through the spray. The thing shot the beer over some women on the sidewalk, bathed them in thick foam, and her too, with her right posh clothes! They all hightailed her away, looking none too ladylike, and stood covered in beer, smelling like a brewery. White beer froth buried them, from frilly hat to black, buckled, dress shoes, and they were all wiping the bubbles out of their eyes.”

In a matter of moments, filled with merry amusement at Sarah’s recounting of the tale, Michelle squirmed in her seat.

“But Miss Barrel wasn’t gonna stop, not by them cohorts, and she kept going down the hill toward our place. You’re aware of how steep the slope is between the Painted Lady and the US Marshal’s Office. Yes, sirree, it is a mighty fine grade. The tub gushed out a frothy stream and painted pedestrians, horses, and buildings.

“Workman number two sat up, wiping muck off his face. Laborer number one chased the runaway cask, running down the mucky boulevard. Men were flinging curse words at the hands, cayuses were skittering out of the way, and the women, well, those what wasn’t drenched, were laughing at the whole thing.

“So, the worker found himself in front of the container and stopped her dead. And, lord-o-mercy, lucky as Sunday, he didn’t discover himself buried in the sludge, too. The other man walked down, still covered in grime, and he took a shower in the spray to clean the gunk and grit off himself.

“And me, I was grateful, as can be. Right away, thankful, I stood on the side of the thoroughfare opposite the action. I reckon no one’s a-gonna get thar money’s worth out of Miss Barrel. Not with her beer watering the street. I never got a drop on me, all dry and safe on the dry side, studying the goings-on from the sidewalk. But sure pleasure, fun to behold, and those of us who stayed dry sure got a kick out of Miss Barrel and the ruckus she caused.”

Without a doubt, Sarah picked up Meeker’s knack for telling stories, making the event much larger and more colorful than the occasion. Michelle laughed so hard that she slipped off the chair onto the floor, spinning around as she snorted.

“Oh, lord, Sarah, you been hanging around Nate too long,” Michelle said.

“I practiced it a mite, telling it to James this afternoon. Had to clear the leaves off his stone. We had a real nice visit, me and him. I mean, him and I.” Sarah looked up as a knock sounded on the door. “Yes?”

Michelle was grateful for the timely interruption. She didn’t want Sarah to get depressed thinking about James.

“Yeah, me, Buffalo Head,” the voice behind the door replied.

“Well, come in, Grandpa,” Sarah said.

“Don’t let no white overhear you call me Grandpa,” he said, entering the room, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a glass of milk. “They’d lynch me for sure.”

Sarah hoped the old Indian joked. She understood something might happen, and whatever that was, it wouldn’t be good. He sat the tray on a table by the window. The three deputies, Sarah and Buffalo Head, all lived above the office and made the place their home despite the various residents below them in cells.

“Thought you gals might like some drinks. Milk for Sarah and coffee for Shell and me,” he said, winking at Sarah.

“I’d rather have coffee with a little milk,” Sarah said, looking at him, her eyes pleading with the old man, who gave her a smile.

“Well, I can pour myself a fresh cup downstairs and take our guest some,” he said, tipping a smidgen of milk into one coffee cup. He stirred the mixture with a spoon and slid the mug across the plate toward Sarah. The girl rushed to him, thanked him, and hugged him. Grinning, he made his goodbyes and left the women alone.

Michelle took the coffee and almost sipped as Sarah made a small grunt, watching the woman. Shell realized what Sarah meant, dug the chew of tobacco from her mouth, and tossed the disgusting wad into the trash.

“Forgot about my chaw,” Tanner said.

“You do too much tobacco. One chaw a day, remember?”

“I’ll go back to one, Miss Culbertson, tomorrow,” Michelle said, nodding to her.

Placing her coffee on the nightstand, Shell Tanner undressed. She turned to Sarah as she pulled her nightshirt over her head and grinned. Sitting on her bed, she retrieved the coffee and sipped it.

“Your pa’s coming for Christmas, right?” Sarah asked her. “We need to buy him something extraordinary.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“A Mustang pony,” Sarah told her.

Michelle laughed with the image in her mind’s eye of her father on such a small horse. “Well, he’s traveling by stage the last four hundred miles. I don’t think he’ll want to ride him back so far to the train.”

“A derby hat, perhaps?” Sarah said. “Like the one Buffalo Head wears?”

“He might like a topper.” Off the top of her head, Michelle added, “Or you might make him boots, like the pair you made me.”

“Is his foot the same size as yours?”

“Doubtful. You’re gonna need to measure Poppa’s feet,” Tanner said.

“Yeah, I bet I have a last ‘at’ll work,” Sarah Culbertson said. “When you make shoes or boots, you start with the last.” She waited for Michelle’s reaction as the comment settled into Sarah’s brain, striking her as funny. At first, Sarah snickered, which turned into a soft giggle and, at last, booming laughter.

Michelle Tanner nodded to Sarah and joined in the merriment. Eventually, the two girls got into their beds and settled into sleep. Shell hoped neither of them would dream anything unpleasant. Michelle realized Sarah had nightmares concerning her recent loss.

Below the sleeping young women, standing outside a barred cell, Henry Buffalo Head, the Cherokee Christian jailer, tried to save a soul.

“You understand, Betty, the correctional house isn’t going to be a fun place,” Henry said.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Buffalo Head. I understand my predicament,” the prostitute told him. “I wished I’d killed her and not him. I reckon I’d be waiting for my necktie party. Still, it might be worth the fall, though.”

“You still want her dead?” Henry asked the woman.

“Yes, and your Bible-thumping don’t make me choose a different desire,” she said, glaring at him. Unfazed for the next two hours, he tried to persuade and minister to her. At last, or at least for the moment, he gave up and walked back into the office.

“She’s one stubborn prostitute,” Henry told Meeker. Meeker sat at his desk, his stockinged feet stretched out and resting on the wooden desk. His hands were at the back of his head, and the chair rested on the two back legs at a steep, precarious angle.

“Can’t save everyone,” Meeker told him.

“Will never stop me trying,” he said, glancing around the office. “Where’s Hawk?”

“Bed,” Nathan told him. “He has a birthday coming up, doesn’t he?”

“‘Ats right,” Henry said. As he poured more coffee, the old man turned and glanced at his friend. “Want a cup?”

“Danged if you didn’t take long enough to find some generosity with the Arbuckle,” Meeker said, plopping his chair to the floor. “I have to make another round soon, I reckon. But first, the coffee,” he said as he took the cup from the Indian.

“I’ll walk the boards with you,” the old man said. “You thought any more about Frank’s killer?”

That was a preview of Purveyor of Death. To read the rest purchase the book.

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