B U G M A N
Seven Stories
an unfinished attempt at writing one short story per the seven western story archetypes (~7,100 words)
Foreword
The town of Tempus, Colorado is not a real place. ‘Tempus’ is Latin for temporary. I needed a setting believable to the reader but didn’t want to become embroiled in altering the histories of real places. Luckily, the American West is littered by ghost towns, all with their own reasons for establishment and ruin. Perhaps one of those was Tempus.
The Arkansas Valley is a region defined by trade and travel. The Old Spanish trail winds through it like a vein, ensuring cowpokes on their annual treks have a place to rest in the frontier’s vastness. Though scattered, many trading posts, forts, and small villages had their heyday here prior to the Mexican-American war. It was not until the Colorado Gold Rush of 1858 the area would see further settlement.
A few miles west, up the Arkansas river from Pueblo, Colorado, there exists an unincorporated community called Penrose. The land is named for the rich man who purchased it around 1900, subsequently creating a reservoir using the confluence of Beaver Creek and the Arkansas River. Several families from Iowa originally settled in Penrose, making a living selling crops to the adjacent mining towns. There are records of several ranching families, a prosperous inn, and a school at Beaver Creek, though Penrose was never an incorporated city.
Accroding to the 1866 Public Survey of the Colorado Territory, there is a large coal deposit on the Arkansas River's south bank, across from Beaver Creek near Penrose. The 1866 Public Survery marked cities, rivers, topography, ore deposits, railroads, and counties—all considered when placing Tempus.
By nature of its time and place, Tempus, Colorado was settled as a rancher’s town. Perhaps there were roughly 100 permanent residents with many cowpokes and highwaymen passing though on the Old Spanish Trail or Arkansas river. It was a waypoint, a place to stay and little else. Twelve miles west is Cañon City, then a booming oil town. Seven miles east is the county line and over it the cities of Pueblo, Central Pueblo, and Bessemer, Colorado.
In 1839 the four ranching families of Beaver Creek donated the corners of their land that touched, forming a communal parcel in hopes of enticing travelers and prospectors. They called it ‘Tempus’ because if their scheme didn’t work, they would reneg the arrangement. A small coal mine opened after the Mexican-American war. With hospitality, mining, and agriculture Tempus soon grew into what we know. Here are 7 of its stories.
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Part 1
Nightcap
It was a Saturday, August 1862. All the regulars had gone home so I could close up early before the Sabbath. It was just me tending the bar and some rough old cowpoke being tended to. I knew his type from the way he sat, silently pondering the salient moments of a rough life, losing himself in the polished counter of the bar and the warmth of his drink. I would need to kick this fellow out soon and didn't want to cause a fuss. He didn't seem like a God-fearing man but I couldn't have him drunk in my bar on Sunday in a God-fearing town.
The cowpoke looked up when I set my glass loudly on the table, surprised to see me pour my second drink of the night. He smiled.
"Gettin' one in 'fore Sundy?"
So he did know.
"Best way to kick a man out's to give him a free drink first."
The cowpoke's grin widened. I topped off his glass. He pushed his luck, "How about a story, too?"
The war had bred interesting tales. Ones I woudln't dare tell a regular but this old cowpoke, well, I wanted to at least surprise him. Put some fear in him.
"Which way did ya' come into town?"
"West."
I already knew his answer but asking bought me time.
"Leavin' east?"
"Mhm."
He'd get a story alright. "On the way out of town, taking the Spanish Trail, you'll see a big 'ol empty house atop a hill. Wanna hear why it's empty?"
He nodded eagerly.
"It used to be the house of the Groving family 'til around last year. Tucker Groving is who I knew. His Paw was a war hero they were one of the families who built Tempus—the Govings. They had some wealth from the Mexican war and invested here, and I suppose they got a real good price 'cause this was 'fore the goldrush."
I looked at the cowpoke sternly. "Remember that. How they got the land is important. Rumor was Tucker's Paw did some unsavory things to the Indians living up that ridge. Not sure if they were Pueblo, Ute, or Comanche, but the union had a fort not too far from here at the time and that stopped any sorta retaliation from the tribes."
The cowpoke nodded again, familiar with similar tales.
I kept going, "But 'round this time last year the union Militia moved out of Cañon City to go and fight the confederates at Glorietta Pass. No union militia means we gotta be nice to them tribes now. They have a trading post a few miles west of here and they come through a decent amount. Not much trouble—granted this is 10 or 15 years after Mr. Groving ran them outta here and bygones were mostly bygones, so to speak."
"I always like talkin' with the natives. They been here longer. Know more."
I grunted to agree with him.
"Well anyhow, Tucker's Paw and Maw didn't last much longer—consumption got 'em—and that left Tucker with all the land. He sharecropped and lived off'a war bonds while I knew him. I always wondered how much 'ol war money he put into my pockets, Feller liked his booze afterall. But eventually he sobered up and married the schoolteacher's daughter, Eve. She got him to quit drinkin' and to start making some use outta the land. I missed his money, but him not coming 'round here was a good thing."
I sipped my whiskey. The cowpoke had no questions and I'd resumed before my glass hit the counter. "So a year goes by and he's back in the bar. I was uneasy then but he said he didn't want to drink, just talk. Most men do both but okay. Only problem was, he did this on a Friday and it was busy as hell. Even in all the ruckus I could tell something had rattled him good. The man seemed posessed."
The cowpoke was intrigued. I pressed on, "Once it quieted down he agreed to sit, drink, and calmly speak his mind. Only problem was, what with the queit, he had everyone in the bar listenin' to him. I don't think he realized because boy did he get to talkin'."
Remembering Tucker's familiar face caused me to drink again. All the regulars are close to me in their own ways.
"He said since the winter frost melted there'd been wolves on his land. He'd started seeing 'em in the evenings, when he'd smoke on the back porch, and sometimes they'd sit and watch him too. But mostly he said they looked to be nervously coming and going along his back fence, between his house lot and the resta' the farm."
The cowpoke wrinkled his face in a smug way. "He ever let 'em get his cattle? A wolf only needs t'learn once."
I grinned knowlingly. "A lot of folks said that but Tuck swore up 'n down they hadn't. We didn't believe him 'till his neighbor pointed out Tuck didn't have any cattle. Whole crowd got kinda quiet then."
Wind blew and rattled the shutter outside. Likely it was after midnight by now but so long as the sheriff didn't come around we'd be alright. I topped off our glasses, placing the bottle beneath the bar next to my Paw's old Winchester. The cowpoke looked to me gratefully, eyes begging for more of the story.
"It bordered on blasphemy, what he said next. His Paw had said a lotta native blood was spilled on that land—I don't see a lick of their folklore in the Old Book, but some claim it’s real just the same—you can guess what Tucker thought. Said some sorta witch was bein' set on him."
I lowered my voice. I couldn't hide my words from God but He'd appreciate me trying. "He said a funny word. One new to me."
The cowpoke leaned in, sensing my trepidation. I whispered, "A... uh, well, an, Anti-hinny."
He looked confused. I'd heard the word from Tucker just before his death. Memory may have bastardized it. I tried another.
"Er, Naldl-ooshy?"
The cowpoke stiffened, "Ya' mean a fourwalker?"
My turn for a confused look. He enlightened me, "Down southwest, Navajo country where the Colorada' territory bleeds inta New Mexica'. They say witches can watch you through an animal's eyes. Those Navajo don't like talking to outsiders about it. Even other natives. I'd called bullshit but them Comanches and Utes have similar enough stories to make a fella wonder."
His words were familiar. "I don't wonder much." I retorted, "They've only known God for a coupla' centuries. If ya' ask me it's just old Lucifer. Always has been."
The cowpoke grunted. We swigged our drinks in disagreement. I continued. "So he says this witch is watching him. At this point about half the bar is saying their prayers, and the other half is askin' if he went looking for wolf dens. Said there's nowhere for 'em to den. A lotta folks, those who know his land, tended to buy it. I never give mankind the benefit of the doubt when it comes to overlooking things and said as much."
"Wha'd he say?"
"Asked for another drink. I obliged. Loosened him up enough for him to tell the rest. The wolves wouldn't flee from prayer, so they couldn't have been devilish or divine. He even went to that trading post, Tatsukwito—'er somethin' like that—and told who he thought was a medicine man, begged for help by the sound of it. Tuck got real angry after that, said they basically laughed him outta town. Said their spirits have better things to do than bother white men."
"Well they's right."
I shot the cowpoke a tired look. "So that was enough to convince him all this was true. In Tuck's head, if they didn't wanna help him, they must've been trying to hurt him."
The cowpoke exhaled sharply, indicating his thoughts on men who are quick jumpers to grim conclusions.
"It was quiet after that." I said, "A lotta folks left, and I suppose the ones who bought into it stayed. They were askin' all sortsa leadin' questions. It wasn't subtle—they wanted to get a posse together. I know the words of bloodthirsty men. I smelled sin and violence in the air so I closed up early."
"Good fer' you!"
"It wasn't. I told them not to do anything stupid 'till they'd slept the drink off. It was a frightened stupor these men were in—willing to do just about anything to protect themselves from spirits they thought were watching— I said, I said not to bother anybody but God over the Devil's bussiness. Sheriff won't do nothin' about a ghost."
The cowpoke chortled at this notion. I grinned with him, "And the sheriff told them just that as well. Then around midnight the Sheriff came by, knocking on my door and tired. I knew why he came by and I poured him a drink. I don't charge 'Ol Arty. He just starts askin' all these questions about Tuck. Seemed to know the answer to most of them so I guess he was just seeing whose stories added up and whose didn't."
"So Tuck and the gang lied to him?" The cowpoke sipped an emptying glass.
"I don't think so. Fear is honest and Tuck was too—didn't see a lie in his eyes or anything—just fear. Told Sheriff Art the same thing. He asked me to keep an eye out. Wasn't the first time or the last. Said I’d do what I can and he left pretty quick after that."
I paused. Not to draw breath or gather thoughts, but to compose. I’d wanted to give the cowpoke a fright but, being the first time I'd spoke of this since it happened, didn't realize I was giving myself one too. He looked surprised to see me prematurely slam my whiskey. He didn’t follow. I needed the courage. “So about a’ week goes by. I don’t hear nothin’ and I don’t see nothin’. I wasn’t surprised. A lot of man’s passions are temporary, either by the nature of a dream or circumstance. That is, ‘till Tuck came in late one night, like we are tonight. We talked about the same thing.”
The cowpoke squirmed like he wanted me to get it over with. I strung him along, “He came in like it was a regular night. I made his usual without being asked and he thanked me. Always paid more than he had to but that night I remember he gave me too much, five dollars.”
The cowpoke was startled. “Five dollars? For this whiskey?”
“I got a little uneasy then. Not everyone comes here to talk so I tend to leave quiet folks alone, but there was something on tuck's mind, I could tell he just needed a little encouragement. I asked what happened with those wolves. He got real quiet then. I wish I'd just backed off and let God handle it but I was curious, and damnitall I wish I'd never asked him..."
“Well what’ he say?”
“I’ll never forget it. He said—the funniest thing about the monster was that it died just like a man. Its family did too.It shocked me so much he’d done a thing like that, I could hardly question it. He'd come to have a drink and confess. But see, I couldn’t close up shop and have him get suspicious, didn't want to be another monster on his list. One good look at him and it clear he'd lost his mind. He'd been slipping away for a while or maybe it just all came out one day. I dunno how or why men go crazy and I'd like not to find out.”
“Christ.”
“I played coy, like I’d bought into it. I still don’t know if he was convinced or if he just couldn’t live with what he’d done and needed someone to talk to. Told me everything.”
I reached back below the counter, grabbing the whiskey and pouring another glass. It was already Sunday. Most of my lamps had gone out. Sheriff Art wouldn’t be by to close me down with darkened windows, and I poured the cowpoke some too. He looked surprised.
“Sellin’ it on Sunday would be a sin. We’re just drinkin’ now.”
“Thanks, friend.”
The man deserved a little something for listening to me ramble, even if he didn't feel that way. I needed to talk. This had festered in me for a year, two, and telling someone innocuous made the story easier to live with. Unburdened me of it.
“No worries brother." I went on, "He told me he went and looked for wolf dens. Practically spent the week doing it and when he came up empty-handed, those natives, all laughin’ at him, well, he hadn’t forgot about that. Never did. Said he’d found a Indian family on his land while searching. He looked at me with fear in his eyes. Like an animal. My heart sank then. He made his own answer and in doing so three graves. I pried him and pressed. Bein’ real gentle like so he’d tell me the whole thing from start to finish.”
I paused for more whiskey. The story was coming easier, tongue was numb, face tingling. “Said he’d found them at night. All alone in their little hut. He knew they were displaced from how they was living. He figured it was a family of witches on the run. Did what any scared cowardly man would—took the old lever action down from the mantle and shot their home to bits while they slept. If you could even call it a home."
The cowpoke nodded, speaking up, "I been up and down these cattle trails my whole life. It's all different land telling the same story—red men killing white, white killing red—most don't put no stock in it. Why's it got you so wound up?"
This cowpoke was too hardened for his own good but the men of the road never let you tell them. Mine was just like the rest.
"In simpler times I woulda dropped it. But the Union militia was down in New Mexica' back then. With our protection gone and a lotta native anger, I figured it was a matter of safety. These conflicts have no respect anymore, no honor for life. It's all about killin'. They'd do it to us and we'd do the same to them. It could've gotten a lot worse and I couldn't have that."
The cowpoke puzzled over this. His face acted like he wanted to say something, so I lent the time for him to say it. Eventually he started talking, slowly, "Hm. I suppose that's a good thing. I ain't never planted my roots. I'm a tumbleweed, if I don't like somethin' I drift. You seem like more of a tree." He finally made me smile.
"In one sense. I like Tempus, and it'd be a shame to lose it to an Indian raid. Couldn't tell Tuck that though. In fact, I told him a similar version of what you said to me."
The cowpoke shot me a look, asking to be reminded.
"I said it happens all the time. Can't have expansion without bloodshed, history learned us that. He was comforted and I told him to pray about it. He said he'd left the bodies where they fell. Told him I'd take care of it. It was a Wednesday, or some off-day like that. I closed up as soon as he left, promising him everything would be alright. I felt a bit of a snake for that. Still do."
"Better to lose one man than a town."
"Yeah. That's what I've told myself. I went right on over to Sheriff Art, told him everything. He asked I show him the way. The town wouldn't respect him if he hung a white man for killin' a red one, but the natives would take up arms if they found out we'd gone and killed their innocents. It was a pickle."
"I'll say. Good on y'all for avoidin' that. A lot of town drop off the map over stuff like that."
"We're outnumbered. We've seen in the last decade, if the Indians want to fight you, it's on their terms. They're outgunned, but if they pick the battleground that won't much matter. I don't like it either but small numbers in hard times means we need to tolerate each other. So after some doin', Sherriff Art and I went lookin' on Tuck's land. The bodies had started to stink so we found them pretty quick."
"Aw lord."
"Yeah. I hadn't seen that many bullet holes in all my life. Not even in the bodies but in the trees and ground too. He musta shot two dollars worth of lead at 'em. Showed me and Art he didn't think these was people, but they were. We could tell from what we found, they were traveling folks, likely displaced from the Indian wars but it's not like we could ask them. Art and I got the man and woman laid out as peacefully as we could, but the child was nowhere to be found. Musta been dragged off by the wolves..."
Their lives were acknowledged only by a passing silence as I drew breath.
"So Art waited by the bodies, bless him. I went to get some horses. We used the side entrance to Tuck's land—if he'd seen us coming and going there's was no telling what he'd do. I figured to just let him skulk around that big 'ol house of his while we cleaned up the mess. We were sorta at odds what to do."
"Seems pretty easy t' me. Just dump them bodies somewhere and never talk about it."
The cowpoke received another tired look from me.
"The Sheriff couldn't have it. Tuck was likely to confess again, and when he did Art didn't want others thinkin' they could go killin' natives or people they thought was ghosts. Said we'd have our own war here in Tempus if he didn't make some sorta right from this. A lot of men, those who don't know what a war would mean, they'd want one. We couldn't kill Tuck, but we also couldn't let the natives do it. In terms of keeping the peace, Sheriff Art was in a bind. We talked about it all the way to Tatsukwito."
"You brought them their dead? That's crazy. Ya'll don't know how they could have reacted!"
"They know the Union's out of Colorada' just the same as we do. They weren't tryna make war either. They know Sheriff Art too, he's got some rapport—we use 'em as extra labor when we need to, only folks who work cheaper than blacks."
The cowpoke finished his whiskey, looking at me expectantly. My tone was flat now, the histrionics gone from my tale.
"To get it to it, we spoke with one of their diplomats. There's only a few who can speak English and it isn't great. Turns out it was one of their own. They were headed into to Ute territory, bringing a kid to where its parents ended up following a raid a coupla' years back. At first I thought they were squatting, maybe feeding the wolves to keep Tuck distracted. Turns out those two things weren't even related."
The cowpoke snorted sardonically.
"Aw hell. That's a rough one."
"You're tellin' me. It was harder thinking of what to do. They were awfully angry about the bodies and if Art didn't know 'em as well as he claimed the whole thing woulda' gone differently. They wanted justice and we couldn't give it to 'em. I was starting to wish we'd dumped 'em in the woods, or let Tuck get away with it, but Sheriff Art is a better man than me. That or he's more scared of God."
I slammed the remainder of my drink, not pouring another.
"But it don't matter. We couldn't have the town knowing we'd spilled white blood over red, but them indians made it clear that'd need to be the case. I'll say, watching Art work through that—I've never been more grateful to be a bartender. He'd arrange for Eve to move counties and told the Indians where Tuck's land was. Gave them permission to hang him by the neck ‘till dead provided they were quiet about it."
"Poor lady."
"I never knew her but I can't imagine the Schoolteacher's daughter appreciated being ran outta town on account of preventing a race war. I don't even think Tuck ever even knew what happened, poor bastard."
"Well what did happen?"
I realized now I didn't know completely. I stuttered slightly, doing my best to fill in the gaps. "I remember it was Sunday. I watched all the townspeople get into a fuss over something. Tuck was dead in his home. Hung. Wife nowhere to be found. Some people said the fourwalkers got 'em. Others argued he'd simply gone crazy. Poor Art told them a half-truth—Tucker Groving went crazy, and he hung himself while Eve was at the store."
The cowpoke leaned back in his seat. "So that's justice, huh?"
"No, justice is divine. This was fear from start to finish. Tuck was afraid and we were afraid of what Tuck had done and so we channeled that fear into a bad thing. A sin."
There was sympathy in the cowpoke's face. His rough life made him no stranger to tales like this and the kindness he lent me was unexpected.
"You mighta sinned before, but that's no sin of yours brother. That's between Tuck, Art, n' God. Nothing a bartender can do about it."
He was right but I was still unsatisfied.
"I suppose. In tellin' the Sheriff I thought we'd be able to work something out. I didn't want Tuck to get killed like that. Hung in his own home by Indians while the Sheriff dumps an innocent woman over the county line. It's never sat well with me and I think the rest of Tempus feels the same."
"Whad'ya mean?"
"The reason folks have contrived as to why all this happened. Everyone's convinced the 'Ol Groving house is haunted by Indian witches. Some folks claim to still see Tuck's body swinging in front of the window when the moon's full. I don't buy it. That poor bastard's in hell. Man of any color—killing is killing. We also have wolf bounties now, in case it really was the fourwalkers who got Tuck."
"Wolf bounty ain't bad."
"It is when it's based in superstition. Swept over town like a plague. Everytime anything weird happens, it seems all of Tempus is beholden to whatever witchcraft the townspeople can conceive of. I don't care for it, draws us away from God, from certainty."
The cowpoke's face told me he'd been down a similar path for a long time. He clanked an empty glass down on the table. "How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing provided you keep that to yourself. I don't want word going 'round that Tempus handled something like this, makes us look vulnerable."
The was pleased with the arrangement.
"IThere's a lot more making you look vulkenrable brother. It's scattered homes, meek farmland, a lack of prospects... Word is the railroad's gonna go north through Cheyenne. Where's that leave you?"
The highwaymen were always honest with me. Sometimes I resented the truths they voiced but never the men themselves. "South." I said with a note of defeath, "And when that happens and Tempus dries up, I suppose I'll back my bags for California."
I took his glass from the counter, placing it in the washbin next to my own. It floated a moment before taking on water and sinking to the bottom. The cowpoke stood, adjusting his belt and brushing off his chaps. The tale hung around us in place of lamplight. "How much'a wolf worth in Tempus anyways?"
"Used to be two dollars for a pair of ears. We think a lotta wolves were coming down from around Colorada' City. They's smart to know they ain't wanted, I think. Drove the price down to a dollar, front paws as proof."
"That ain't bad. Might bring a few by if I happen to come through here again. Could probably convince some folks there was a witch walkin' in their skins. They might gimme two dollars then."
I rarely mocked them but occasionally my patrons, the people of Tempus, deserved it. I chuckled heartily.
"They just might. Hope you get where you're tryna' go."
The cowpoke placed a wide-brimmed hat on his head.
"You too brother."
Then he was gone. Late night wind rattled the shutter outside. I heard a horse readied and shortly thereafter the cowpoke rode out to make camp on Tempus's east side. Maybe he'd make it to Bessemer by tomorrow night, and hopefully somewhere safe before winter arrived.
///
Part 2
Creatures of Fancy
The Groving House sat empty until the following May. It’s not often a large frontier home with an acreage of that caliber is sold for such a cheap price. Most of the folks who came and looked at it were from around Denver City or Santa Fe, thinking the price was low on account of the railroad missing us and we let them believe that.
March, 1863. The Deprophetis family traveled into Tempus on Tuesday by stagecoach, arriving as the afternoon bled into a cool evening. The mines had opened with the first broken frost and many of my work-season regulars had returned. The Deprophetus family saw Tempus bustling, vibrant.
The soft tap of a cane on wood. A woman's heels clacking gently on the very same planks. Coal miners don't make those sorts of noises and I looked up curiously. They stood tall, unfamiliar, and three.
In a maroon suit, inherited by the look of its ill fit, a pale gentleman with a sharp face held out his hand.
"Afternoon. I am Mister Sealo Deprophetis. This's my wife, Antionette Deprophetis, and my brother, Carter Deprophetis."
He smiled widely, revealing bad teeth. My father said rich men could hide everything but their awful teeth. By the look of it were southerners, carpet baggers and perhaps confederate washups chasing fortune out west. I shook Sealo's hand—oddly calloused.
"Nice to meet you! Name's Jud wilkinson."
I made a point of nodding to the rest before continuing on.
"What brings you to Tempus?"
That rotten smile again.
"Fortune of course."
You can't ever tell the fortune-seekers how many you've seen fail—they wouldn't listen even if they wanted to—so I kept my mouth shut and treated these creatures of fancy like I did the rest. "What're you folks drinkin'?"
They grinned. Sealo, default speaker, answered thoroughly.
"The lady will take a vodka, watered and with a spurt of whatever sitrus you have on-hand. And ice, if'n you happen to have any."
He smiled dotingly at Antoinette.
"And for my brother and me, well, just whiskey I think. Easy to make easy to drink—makes up for all that fuss over the vodka."
"No ice," I said heavily, "But I can do the rest and I got some cold water in back. Better than nothing."
Sealo nodded with approval and I got to making their drinks. I glanced over at the Deprophetus family as I made thier drinks, curious about thier southern origins but too polite to ask. They seemed to be arguing quietly. The working men who come in rarely talk to me. I am a means to an end. But the rich men, the prospectors and carpet baggers, they always ask me about Tempus, coy with whatever scheme they're cooking up. I expected the same rigamaroll from the Sealo. He seemed to be either new-rich or dwindling-rich—given his heritage I suspected the latter.
I brought them thier drinks—two neat whiskeys and a vodka wash. I could tell by Sealo's face that some conversation was expected. Might as well begin on my terms. "Where ya'll comin' from?"
Sealo replied like he was used to the question. "Oh I'm over here from Atlanta. Yeah we figured it was best to get outta the south while we still could. Packed up the wagon one dreary night when it seemed like the war wasn't gonna be won. It all seems so stupid now..." Those rotted teeth and doting eyes.
"What'd y'all do in Atlanta?"
"Sold off the family plantation in '58 and got into the bussiness of layin' telegraph lines. Cleaner work, easier, it's money that don't run off." Sealo's laugh was tinkly like a music box, like a songbird's morning riff—rehearsed, inauthentic. A man shouldn't make such noises but I grinned at him nonetheless because he was a paying customer. The joke wasn't a good one, it came at the expense of another person's dignity. Sealo continued, "We moved onto New Orleans and whatdya' know the Union comes and destroyes that before Atlanta. I think that was 61. Kept on west after that, thinkin' of settling near Denver City..." Sealo sipped his drink and so did the others. Corter and Antoinette met eyes and Sealo looked at me expectantly.
I didn't want to pry anymore. I knew what he was getting at. "Ain't no telegraph in Tempus, if that's your angle. We get mail on horseback still—like always will unless you can convince the other folks here they'd benefit from a telegraph line. Seems a little expensive though."
"Oh Mr. Judd how you presume..." Sealo laughed again, that same contrived sound, "We don't have near enough money for that. I'd like to one day but I'll need a loan from the bank in either Peublo or Denver City—whichever approves me first—I have written them both. In order for a loan to be issued I need collateral. I also happen to need a house. This seems like a nice town, good folks and money to be made, people come through. Why, I'd like to be a part of it."
I was taken aback by this answer. "You talked to the right people yet?"
"Meeting them this afternoon. Just got in a little early and tired from the road, you know..."
"Of course. Well I've lived here some 10 years or so and I think Tempus has grown into a fine place. We'd be lucky to have you."
I was put-off by the Deprophetus family. The fact Sealo did all the talking, the fact they'd been plantation owners, the fact they were drifting through and looking to settle—none of it gave me confidence but there was nothing to be done. I couldn't control whether they lived here or not, whether they were good people. At least I would get three more regulars. It was early in the afternoon and the bar was empty save for us. There was no escpaing into work or other patrons and I was forced to listen to Sealo do that awful laugh again. When he didn't follow up, I asked, "I do wonder though—why not Canon City, Pueblo, or Bessemer?”
He leaned in with inviting eyes. A secret, "Land is just so goddamn cheap down here. If we can get a line going we can leverage that and sell to big citites, the upstart won't be too bad neither. But you must understand, Mr. Judd, I am no novice—the Groving House up on the bluff is too cheap. You been here a while, what's the catch? How in the blazes does a house of that size with that view get listed that cheap?
My stomach twisted, I couldn't tell that story again.
"Well it ain't for lack a' prospects, I can say that much." If I said too little they'd think I was lying. If I said too much Tempus could be missed by the telegraph.
"Some people just ain't right. The last homeowner, he uh, he hung himself in the house while the wife was away at market. Didn't leave a note or anything and well, that didn't sit right around here and it got listed cheap on account of superstition."
Sealo looked dismayed, "Well that's just awful. Horrible. That poor man! When you say, on account of superstition, what do you mean exactly? Is it haunted? Or just cheap 'cause a man died in there?"
"That's how it goes sometimes. I didn't care for it either," I shrugged, "But what can you do?"
Sealo grimly nodded.
"I wouldn't be too put off by making an offer on that..." He looked at his family for reassurance. Antoinette was apprehensive but Corter was nodding, emphatic. "And that's fine actually. Fine indeed."
"I'm sure the chamber will be pleased." I flashed and inauthentic grin. More customers trickled in and I went to serve them, preoccupied with thoughts of the past.
When Tuck died with no next of kin his house fell into the poseesion of Tempus. That is, the Chamber of Commerce, a landowners guild of sorts that organized, divvied taxes and occasionally voted. The chairman was Mr. Richlik, the man who owned BlackBluff and its coal deposit on the river's south shore, the wealthiest man in Tempus. I hoped he remembered to lie about why the house was listed so cheap. The Deprophetus family departed after aother round, leaivng a generous tip.
* * *
The April chamber meeting took place in my bar—they usually did. Despite the fact they were carpet-bagging and contrived southerners, the Deprohpetus family gradually won over most of Tempus. They filled the Groving house amicably and took our collective minds off of Tucker. The Groving house was new place now, no longer a memorial.
Tonight was a larger meeting than usual. All the rancher families were present—Andrew Longmeyer, Eritus Johnson, George Delasalle, and Daniel Richlik. There were the community men—Jeremiah Klant, the banker; Reverend Salinick, Doctor Joseph Gardner, Peter Burscelli, Esquire; Lloyd Carroway, our metalworker; The Thaks, a schoolteaching family; and myself. It was us, Tempus, interviewing the Deprophetis family to decide whether or not we would sell them the Groving House. Chairman Daniel Richlik began the meeting.
"I appreciate all you fine folks coming out tonight. I'm sure we're no strangers to the matter at hand, that is, the sale of Mr. Tucker Groving's parcel to a Mr. Sealo Deprophetis. Due to Mr. Groving's unexpected passing, we meet here in the eyes of God to discuss the sale of the home and its remaining assets. Before we begin formal proceedings, Mr. Deprophetis has requested the floor."
Sealo walked to the center of the table circle with his rotten smile, ill-fitting suit, and every ounce of charisma The Lord had imparted to him.
"Great Grandaddy manned Fort Frederica. Married a nice spanish girl and they had a big 'ole family. You needed to back then. Fought the cowboys of the revolution and 'round the turn of the century we went and whooped the French. The Deprophetis family helped build this country and I can't have y'all thinking we're Confederate spies or slaving vagabonds. You have every right to judge us for our accents but not our character. I saw my homeland fractured and so I started moving west. Maybe one day we'll make it back down south, but 'till then, I'd be honored to call Tempus home."
Knowing he'd descended from revolutionaries made me respect his wealth a little more, the family mythos of rags to riches—if any of it were true. Daniel Richlik spoke up.
"Very nice context you've provided, Mr. Deprophetis. I think the main question on everyone's mind is, what are you gonna do with the land? That's a good house, central to Tempus. It's a good farm parcel too. We'd like to see it used provided you're able."
"Of course!" Sealo didn't hestiate at all, "We were Plantation owners for a little while. And I know how that sound but you folks know well-enough that we sold the slaves when paw died and put the estate money into the telegraph. All that to say—I would love to run a farm. I inteded to."
"That's good Mr. Deprophetus, good good." Richlik pasued, "And you'll raise cattle?"
"I'll do my best." Sealo flashed a rotten smile.
Richlik addressed the rest of the room, "Anyone else got any questions?"
There was quiet.
There were grunts and groans. A vote was cast, and I voted for them to stay. I would appreciate more wealthy patrons, and was growing more curious about Sealo Deprophetis with each passing day. He had the mannerisms of a carpetbagger, but his affability helped to soothe the rougher edges. His money did too.
I didn't vote yes because I liked him. I don't think any of us did. But when substantive, his words had an inspiring effect on us. Of course, we lacked the means to check for record of what he'd said, but it was backed by an affluence smooth as molasses. We voted to accept the Deprophetis family into our community, with a solid majority.
The upfront cost of $5,000 wouldn't leave them enough to comfortably fund the telegraph, so they opted to pay $5,500 over the next ten years, whereupon complete ownership of the Groving Ranch would pass to the Deprophetis family. Richlik welcomed them.
"Well na' that's outta the way, welcome, Deprophetis family, to Tempus Colorada'!"
There was no champagne, but I sent a round to punctuate the vote. Of all the men who drank it, it seemed to mean most to Sealo. He'd practically bought the bottle himself, but without knowing that I looked mighty generous in the moment. When the revelry had died down, Richlik pressed on with the agenda.
"Now the impetus 'hind your move here was to use the cheap land 'round Tempus to build a telegram wire. I myself can think’a two questions to ask ‘bout that. If there’re any more, we’ll have ‘em asked as a follow up.”
Grunts and nods as Daniel Richlik, sweating from his oration, drew breath. Sealo took a seat. I leaned up against the bar’s front counter.
“The first question is how ya' plan to connect your telegram to Denver, exactly? In the way of speakin’, we need to know what cities ya’ plan on going through, and what routes ya' plan to take. If this line's comin' outta Tempus, we need to know it's reputable. Moreso to that end, Mr. Deprophetis, can you provide references for businessmen who've agreed to such a venture? Your proposal is exciting, but we still gotta verify it."
If ever I was to see Sealo discomposed, surely it would be this moment. He did not react quicky. He gave a gentle smile after Richlik wrapped up. He looked around to see if anyone else had a question. When they didn't he stood to answer.
"Well ah couahse a man such as yahself needs t'ask these sortsa things. And men in mah position, well, we gotta ansah. I was gonna head on up ta Canon City aftah buyin' the Groving house. If we can runna line down the Ahkansas' north bank from heah to theah, that'll be a proof a' concept to those folks down in Pueblo, Central Pueblo, and Bessemah. We could prolly service all three a' those cities from one station. When we's got the Ahkansas valley connected, we can runnah wiah up Fountain Creek outta Peublo, through them ranches, and straight ta Colorada' city. Folks'll be much moah likely t'want ouah line when it connects five cities instead 'a one 'er two."
I don't think anyone was expecting it to be this well thought out. We'd heard of the telegraph making it to Denver last November, but outside of that news I, and a lot of others in the room, hadn't given the telegraph a second thought since then. Tempus wouldn't have need for such a thing. Sealo continued.
"'Nd's fah as youah conceahns about reference, I got fellas I been writing in Canon City and the Pueblo ahea foah about a yeaah now. I'm not sure what mannah a' reference would be most amenable to ya'll. I gots copies a' ouah lettahs. If that ain't enough, well, Ah suppose Ah could ask them busy men t'come down heah fah some reason 'er anothah."
Andrew Longmyer piped up.
"Good answers, man! The more ya' speak, the more excited I get. But ya've yet ta mention what sorta benefit, asade from the machine itself, would be reaped by us Tempusers."
Sealo smiled, looking down to examine the notes he'd brought.
"Well Ah'd imagined a bit a thah profits would go towahds Tempus, especially aftah the initial investment has been reclaimed. I'd estimated it t'cost about $3,000 to place the wiah from here to Canon City. That estimate makes it 'bout $1,500 ta get ta Pueblo. Once we got ouah lines laid, we can start negotiatin' the price o' this wiah to Colorada City. I'm invested in that new forma telegraph, Moah's scratchpapah. We'll need some operatahs to deciphah the code, but it can send, pah wiah, seventy woahds pah minute. Even if we chahged a half-cent pah woahd, thinka' how many minutes is in a day."
With the introduction of numbers, the men began to murmur excitedly among themselves as all tried for a moment to do the math before Sealo. He had it written down, and read it after the theatrical moment.
"Fouahteen hunned and foahty. That's hah many. Even if we only chahge a half cent, that's the potential t'earn roughly seven hunned dollahs in a day! Thirty-five hunned a week! Times the fifty-two week'sa the yeaah, that's a hunned n' sixtysix thahsand dollahs right theah. Annual. If even just ten pahcent ah that goes tah the city, that's still around sixteen thahsand dollahs. Lotta money could come in to a place lahk this."
George Delasalle, Tuck Groving's former neighbor, gave his two cents.
"With all due respect Mr. Deprophetis, I think ya're tha only man'in town who could thinka seventy words a minute."
Even I cracked a smile at this. A few folks outright laughed. Delasalle continued.
"'N even if ya' weren't, I don't think those numbers is as realistic as ya' say. I think a lotta folk in Tempus don't really talk with too many outsiders. Sure, we might if it was easy, but I don't even think sevenny wordsa minute get spoken here, let alone written down."
The excitement died as the forum was reminded of this constraint. Sealo had the floor.
"Well o' couahse, the wiah won't be at peak capacity all the time. Use'ally it jumps way up in the evenin', n' late aftahnoon while the woahkday wraps up. 'N keep'n mahnd, Tempus is the centah, so we'll be a throughway fah them othah cities. Makes the wiah about three tahms's busiah. Does that mean sevennty woahds pah minute? Well Ah can't say 'till it's talkin', but I bet that’s a lot hiah than Tempus alone.”
Delasalle continued. I could tell from his tone he didn’t care for Sealo.
“I think ya’re right about that. My biggest worry, Mr. Deprophetis, and I think the resta’ us are thinkin’ it too: What’s t’stop ya’ from just usin’ us fer our cheap land? If you don’t benefit from this, what sorta compensation would we see on account’a that land? And, how much do you see yourself makin’ from this, all told? Be honest now, I can check just as well as any other man.”
Sealo pulled a cigarette from the inside of his coat. Its holder was gold-trimmed ivory. I'd never seen him smoke.
"Beyond good virtue it's hahd t'say. I can provide one'a two things: the fiahst is a secahity deposit. Ah'd like payin' that'n installments too. But if'n ya'll want, ya' could get a' share a' the proift. And if ya'll find yahselves wantin' that option, well I suppose I'll need'ta fahnd the answer to yoah third question."
He sparked up his cigarette to punctuate the monologue's transition, ruffling his notes.
"We's been estamatin' fah fifty pahcent capacity. That means eighty-three thaasand dollahs annual if it does half's well as its maximum. Nah when construction's all told, that's at least ten thaasand dollahs ah that gone."
He snapped his fingers dramatically.
"Nah that's what I'm puttin' up. I'd like t'make that back pretty soon, but'd hate t'do it at the cost ah yah folks likin' me. All told eighty-three thaasand dollahs divahded by twelve puts us earnin' close to seven thaasand dallahs a month. Nah, my investahs ah entitled to seein' fifteen hunned ah that monthly, 'n there's two ah em. Means I get foah thaasand dollahs. Of course, estimated cost ah buildin' the wiah to Colorada City's near eighty thaasand. Lot moah land. I gots t'make a livin', so I can split two grand with ya'll, while puttin' the remainin' sum away to help with the longah line. Hopefully, we get maoh investahs by then. We make twenny-foah thaasand dallahs a yeaah off it. That's a real decent livin', in't it?"
There were nods, murmurs, and grunts. I stayed quiet. I can do my own finances just fine. If the money from Sealo's Telegraph went towards making Tempus a better place to live, who was I to question that? Aside from the drinks courtesy demand I provide these men, I had no horse in the race. Delasalle had one last question.
"Ya' just said split it, Sealo. Never said how much."
The rotten smile.
"Well ah'd imagine close tah fiddyfiddy s'wecan get it. Ya'll'r free to do what yah want with yah thaasand. Split it among yahselves, have a bank accahnt setup fah it. Don't much mattah to me, just tell me where that there money's goin' 'n Ah'll see to it."
The room was pleased. It seemed Sealo Deprophetis had fallen on hard times, we could tell that even if we bought what he claimed the truth was. Though it didn't seem like he needed to start all the way over, his sweaty brow and shaking hands told me the man had come damn close.
We were all doing just fine financially. The mild winters of the Arkansas's bank meant an even year in terms of finance. As a result, most folks who'd planted their roots were well off. By the end of the meeting, it was decided the money from Sealo's telegraph would be placed into a community fund. It used to be the land and establishment owners would pay taxes to fix the roads, the churches, dredge the lower bank in spring, enforce bridges and build stables for traveling folks. In making this account for the city, we could likely skip out on formal taxation for as long as the telegraph worked.
Sealo was also upfront in informing us it'd be at least a year before anyone saw any money from this, could be two. He assured us all the risk was being fronted by him and his investing partners primarily, and he'd refund the land in five years if it proved unprofitable. At least he'd have a house here by then. Mr. Richlik said he'd always have a spot in his coal mines for the Deprophetis family. Everyone thought that was mighty funny.
By and by the bar cleared out. Some folks stayed for a nightcap, but it was a weeknight and a lot of them had to be up early tomorrow. My mind was elsewhere, on Sealo. He never made me like him, but he was himself through and through. I don't think he thought about others' opinions too much, and that allowed him the courage to attempt the stunt I'd just watched. It'd worked out for now, and maybe it'd make him richer.
All I knew is that the Deprophetis telegraph would save me in taxes, provided it was successful.