Bitter Creek

By RedZipBoots

"Do you wanna drive the wagon?" the man currently in control of the reins asked tersely. 

From the wooden seat next to him, his friend replied, "No.  And right now, I'm not sure I want you to either.  Feels about as dangerous as the time you volunteered us to take that wagonload of explosives to the mines."  He frowned as a thought occurred to him.  "Y' know, Kid, when it comes to jobs involving wagons, I'm beginning to think you have some kinda death wish."

Kid Curry flung his partner a disparaging look.  "I don't know what you're complainin' about, Heyes; you didn't even go on that trip."  Then, after carefully urging the four draft mules around a small rock fall, he added, "We don't have so much as two red cents between us.  If we want a bed and some good eats anytime soon we hafta get us some money, and this was the only job in the whole of Swallowdale."

"Only because nobody else was fool enough to take it!"

"Aaww, how bad can it be?  Just think how grateful the folks in Bitter Creek are gonna be when we deliver their supplies."  Curry looked toward the heavens and smiled.  "Look at that blue sky!  And the frost sparklin' around us so pretty.  Don't it make you glad to be alive?" 

A deep rut in the road made the large covered wagon rock violently from side to side.  Hannibal Heyes glanced down at the sheer drop a mere four feet to his right.  

"Uh-huh, and I'd like to keep it that way."

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

Bitter Creek was a mining camp deep in Wyoming's Sierra Madre Mountains.  Life there was tough all year round; its inhabitants relying heavily on deliveries from the nearest mercantile for their survival.  However, both the arrival and content of these deliveries was unpredictable, therefore it was quite some time since the miners would have tasted sugar or whiskey, or eaten biscuits made with flour that wasn't teeming with weevils.  The sacks, barrels, and crates that Heyes and Curry had loaded onto the wagon that morning contained these commodities, along with beans, coffee, salt, canned goods, and medicines such as laudanum and castor oil.  Blankets, candles, kerosene and tobacco were also included, as was a large jar packed with peppermint candy for those with a sweet tooth.

The wagon was so heavily laden it made the journey through the mountains a particularly arduous one; the first snowfall of the year adding yet another level of danger.  A little later than planned, around sundown six days after leaving Swallowdale, they rolled into their destination through a light swirl of snowflakes driven by a freezing north wind.

"Hey there, old-timer!" Heyes addressed a grey-haired, heavily bearded man in a buffalo hide coat shambling along the muddy road.  "Who's in charge of supplies around here?"

Head down and without breaking his stride, the man aimed a bony finger in the direction of a large tent at the very end of the trail.  

The mining camp was a great deal smaller than they had envisioned, and as the wagon rolled through it not one living soul emerged to greet them.  Lamplight glowed faintly through the canvas of most of the tents, but the one they had been directed toward was in complete darkness. 

As Curry reined the mules to a halt he and Heyes exchanged a puzzled frown.  This was no makeshift saloon or backcountry mercantile.  Instead, stuck at an obtuse angle in the earth outside was a wooden cross, clearly indicating that this tent served as a place of worship.  Ankle-deep mud squelched around their boots as they jumped down from the wagon. 

Cautiously pushing the flapping tent fly to one side Curry spoke into the gloom.  "Anybody there?"

A blanket-covered figure stirred on the cold dirt floor.  Kid Curry drew his gun.

"We've brought supplies," Heyes declared, placing a steadying hand on the gunman's arm. 

Slowly the figure stood, and after a couple of failed attempts, a match sparked into life followed by the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp. 

Both former outlaws let out a gasp of surprise.  "Reverend Spencer!"

There was no response.

Hastily, Curry holstered his gun.  "It's us, Reverend: Thaddeus and Joshua.  You remember us, dontcha?" 

When the silence continued they hurried forward, reaching their friend just as he began to sway.

"Steady now!  You okay?"  The question was purely rhetorical because it was obvious that all was not well.  Heyes' brown eyes regarded the man's gaunt face with concern.  "Let's get you back to your tent," he suggested, taking the lamp out of Spencer's trembling hand.

"Live... here."

Hannibal Heyes swung the lantern around.  Having succumbed to the sucking mud the tent leaned at a precarious angle.  The canvas, riddled with holes and rips, let in the wind from every direction.  There was neither a stove nor a cot, and apart from a couple of wooden planks on the floor, the place was empty.

"You're sleeping here, in the church?"  Curry queried.

Spencer nodded.

"Well, not tonight, you ain't.  Me and Joshua will unload some.  That way we can all fit in the wagon." 

Although not as large as a Conestoga, the wagon was still bigger than a prairie schooner, so that after unloading several crates and a couple of barrels there was just enough space for the three of them to hunker down.  Laying between his two friends and covered by several blankets, it was the warmest Spencer had felt in quite some time and consequently he slept like a baby.

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

Early next morning Heyes was the first to stir.  A little stiff from the cramped sleeping arrangements he eased his way out of the wagon and stretched, flexing the kinks out of his back.  Overnight the wind had abated making the air feel much warmer, and although the clouds above were still grey there was no sign of snow. 

A large box fixed to the side of the wagon held the last of the firewood together with their cooking equipment, and once he had a campfire going and some coffee boiling Heyes woke the others.  They ate breakfast in silence — Spencer devouring two whole platefuls of eggs together with a couple of stale biscuits with barely a pause for breath.  Once finished he surprised them by announcing, "My old congregation didn't want me back..."

A little over twelve months had passed since Curry and Heyes had watched their friend alight from a stagecoach in Taos, New Mexico — the town in which he hoped to return to the ministry he had so hastily abandoned.

"... they didn't want me, so I bought a ticket on the first train heading north.  I got as far as Alamosa.  Nice little town, but nobody wanted a down-on-his-luck preacher there either."

"That must have been real hard to take," Curry said quietly.

"It was indeed, Thaddeus.  And if I'd had more than a dime in my pocket, I may well have taken up residence in the first saloon I came to."  Smiling faintly Spencer pulled a blanket closer around his shoulders.  "Thankfully, I kept the faith and found work on a farm.  The pay was poor, but at least I had a bed to sleep in, and food in my stomach instead of liquor."

"How did you end up here?" asked Heyes, liberally distributing the remaining contents of the coffee pot. 

Spencer wrapped his hands around his steaming cup.  "After six months I figured I'd saved enough money to get back on the road again, so I travelled around preaching.  I heard about this camp quite by chance and decided I would make it my mission to bring God's Word to the miners here.  It took all the money I had to buy this old army hospital tent along with some hymnals and a few supplies, then I simply waited until there was a wagon headed this way and hitched a ride.  My food ran out three days ago."

Curry's eyes widened.  "You sayin' you haven't eaten for three whole days?  Didn't somebody offer to help ya?"

"Guess they don't want to waste what little food they have on a preacher they don't want," was Spencer's sad reply.  

"Nobody will be going hungry now," Curry assured him.  "We just need somewhere dry to store—"

"Uh, Thaddeus," Heyes interrupted, guardedly nodding toward a group of men walking purposefully in their direction. "Looks like trouble." 

Easing his sheepskin coat away from his holster Kid Curry stood and folded his arms across his chest. 

Heyes rose to stand alongside him.  "Howdy, boys," he said, feigning a friendly smile.

A short muscular man with hands the size of hams, currently balled into even larger-looking fists, stepped forward.

"Bin waitin' weeks fer yous!"

"We got delayed, what with the snow an' all."  Heyes kept his tone light.  "We'll have everything set up before suppertime."  He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and waved it in the air.  "I've got a list of everyone's orders, so if you'll just be patient—"

"We're through bein' patient," yelled the supposed leader.  "Bin eatin' jerky 'n hard tack fer two whole weeks!"  

The mob muttered in agreement.

Inhaling deeply, Kid Curry made a supreme effort to keep his rising temper in check.  "Jerky, huh?  Well, the Reverend here has been livin' on nothin' 'cept fresh air for three days, so you'll get your supplies when we're good 'n ready."

The man's fists balled tighter.  "Sounds ter me like we're just gonna hafta take what we're due."

Curry shook his head slowly.  "Wouldn't do that if I was you."

"Well, you ain't me.  Let's go boys!"

Without warning, the sound of a single gunshot ripped through the cold morning air.  The mob froze, staring in awe at the smoke drifting skyward from the barrel of Curry's Colt .45.  Nobody had seen him move, let alone draw his gun. 

"Settle down fellas," said Curry levelly, 'cause next time I won't aim over your heads.  Understand?"  

Before anyone, including the Kid, did something they might regret, Heyes stepped forward.

"Y' know, you'll get your stuff a whole lot faster if y'all pitch in and fix this tent," he said jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Looks fine ter me," growled the leader.

"Well, it's not.  There's no floor and the whole thing's about to fall over.  From now on this tent is gonna have more than one purpose, so it needs fixing."  In response to the many blank faces staring back at him Heyes huffed out an exasperated sigh.  "See that cross in the ground over there?  That means it's a church first and a supply depot second."

"And a man can't preach in a church that might fall down on folks heads," added Curry dourly.  "It'd be bad for business."

"Aahh, we ain't got time ter listen ter no preacher — we got diggin' ter do."

Hannibal Heyes bestowed one of his winning smiles on the scowling man.  "What's your name, mister?"

"Crouch.  Ennis Crouch."

"Well, Ennis, you have the makings of a fine town here, and every town I've ever been to has a Sunday meeting house.  So let's get started."  Heyes jabbed a finger toward a couple of the men.  "You and you, go find some planks for a floor.  There must be a good stack of lumber here for shoring up tunnels.  The rest of you, go straighten the supports and tighten up those ropes." 

The mob hesitated, looking to Ennis for guidance until Heyes yelled, "Ain't got all day fellas!" thereby sending them scurrying off to fulfil their tasks.

With a wry smile Kid Curry sidled up to his partner and murmured, "Just can't help y'self, can ya?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Givin' out orders.  For a minute I thought I was back at the Hole."

Throughout the entire encounter Spencer had stayed seated, watching in silent admiration.  When he first met them back in West Bend, he had observed the man he knew as Thaddeus Jones deal with confrontation in two very disparate ways, but this time it was his partner, Joshua Smith, who had surprised him with a charming authority he hadn't seen before.  

"Gentlemen, I—"

"Relax, Reverend.  We've got this," Heyes assured him before striding off to stop Ennis from testing a support by shaking it so violently that the whole tent was in imminent danger of collapse.  Gun in hand, Curry ambled after him.

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

As promised, by suppertime everyone had their supplies, and what was left was stacked neatly in a corner of the newly stabilised tent.  Nearby stood a welcome donation — an old army cot, which Heyes had insisted should come complete with mattress, pillow and blankets.  It was a little rickety, but useable.  A stove had been promised tomorrow once a couple of the smaller tents had been joined together.

Their task complete Curry, Heyes and Spencer sat on discarded crates sharing a fresh pot of coffee.

"I really don't know how to thank you, gentlemen," said Spencer, staring around him in amazement.  "Once again you've rescued me and set me on the right path."

"Don't mention it, Reverend," Curry replied before asking, "Do you really think you can build a strong church here?"

"Yes, I do, Thaddeus.  A few of the men have already promised they'll be at this Sunday's service.  Will I see you boys there too?"

Heyes and Curry exchanged an uncomfortable glance.  From the moment they had chosen to pursue a career on the wrong side of the law neither man felt they belonged in a place of worship.

"As much as we'd like to hear you preach, Reverend," smiled Heyes, "we need to start back to Swallowdale tomorrow."

"Can't risk gettin' snowed in way out here," added Curry. 

"There wouldn't be enough food in the whole camp to feed Thaddeus all winter," Heyes added dryly.  "Why, you've seen for yourself what he'll do just to get some eats — like taking on a gunman such as Joe Briggs."

So as to avoid Curry's narrow-eyed stare, Heyes turned his attention to the tattered canvas surrounding them.

"This tent may not fall down anytime soon, but it still has a lot of holes in it," he remarked.

The Reverend smiled.  "I don't think there's anything we can do about that right now."

"Oh, yes there is!"  Kid Curry jumped to his feet.

Heyes and Spencer stared blankly at the gunman's back as he strode purposefully out of the tent.  Thirty seconds later he reappeared, and in his hand was a small object.  "There ya go, Joshua," he said, thrusting a small rusty tobacco tin under Heyes' nose.

"What's that?" asked Spencer.

"My sewing kit," murmured Heyes through gritted teeth.

Curry grinned.  "Reverend, you won't believe the things my partner here can do with a needle and thread.  Let me tell you about the time he patched up a bullet hole in my hat..."