Chapter 28: No Joking Matter

Cal Saunders was a thoroughly unpleasant man, seemingly devoid of redeeming features. Other than innate character, there was no reason for his anti-social attitude. He had been brought up in a small town in the Midwest, where his parents owned a clothing store. They were quiet, conventional, law-abiding people and were as surprised as anyone else by the conduct of their only child.

Young Saunders was one of those people who give the impression that that their main purpose in life is to induce headaches and heartaches in others. Well before he reached school age, he demonstrated an aptitude for seeking and finding trouble. He pestered other youngsters, maltreated animals and generally got up to all the usual kinds of mischief, plus a few varieties he thought up himself.

If Saunders’ infancy had been disruptive, his educational curriculum was downright chaotic. He was sent home time and again because of his violent ways. On every occasion, his mother pleaded with the school to take him back. Each time she succeeded and invariably, further mayhem ensued. As far as his school contemporaries were concerned, the main trouble with Saunders was that in addition to his mean streak, he was well above average in size and strength and a ferocious brawler, so even if a thrashing would have cured him, there was never anyone near enough his own age around at the right time, able and willing to give him one.

When the question of work arose, it produced another problem. In such a tight-knit community, everyone knew everyone and nobody wanted to employ young Saunders. For a time he helped, or more often hindered, around the family store, but his behaviour – even his very presence – made matters nearly intolerable for his parents. When he was seventeen, his mother died. Liberated from the need to consider her intercession, Calvin Saunders senior acted quickly. A month after becoming a widower, he stuffed young Cal’s belongings into a sack, which he threw to the end of the garden, giving his son firm instructions to follow it, and return only if he mended his ways.

Moving to the Northwest, Saunders spent three years crisscrossing a large area, getting such casual work as he could. He never stayed long in one place. Usually, his temper caused him to be fired from whatever nondescript position he held. Once, he assaulted a ranch hand with such fury that the man was permanently scarred. Another time, he came within an ace of choking a man to death. In due course, he graduated to firearms.

A hefty six foot one frame, a savage disposition and a ready six-gun made a formidable combination. It didn’t take long for Saunders to kill a man, though the fellow had been seeking trouble and it was a fair fight. Soon afterwards, Saunders killed again, this time a back-shooting. Fortunately for him, there were neither witnesses nor circumstantial evidence, so he escaped retribution.

Saunders was about to try his luck further south, when word reached him that his father had died, leaving the family business to him. He lost no time in returning to his birthplace, selling the store and setting out again, well supplied with funds.

A further four years passed, during which time Saunders carried on much the same as before, except that his gambling losses increased, while his spells of employment shortened. He realised that he would at some point need to acquire more money, though getting steady work did not feature in his list of methods for doing so.

Now, after seven years of drifting, Cal Saunders was lying near the top of a grassy hill that overlooked a small town in northern Colorado. He had reached the end of a month-long vengeance trail. The town was home to Jim Curry, the man he’d been following. Knowing that Curry had been making for this place, where he had family and friends, Saunders had been hoping to overtake his man before the two arrived at this spot. He had fallen short by only three miles, having seen Curry enter the town that morning.

There was one thing in the pursuer’s favour. With the exception of his vantage point and a large stand of trees a little way to the north, the terrain was flat and featureless. It would be easy to see whether Curry tried to leave in daylight. The hours of darkness didn’t matter, for Saunders didn’t intend to wait so long. Smoking cigarettes in rapid succession, he considered his next move. He also reflected on how he came to be there.

It had started on the one and only night Saunders had spent in the Montana township of Bitterroot Gap. The only reason for the existence of the place was mining. Mushrooming as a result of local gold strikes, the town had grown from next to nothing into a community of two thousand souls, almost all imbued with the single desire to get rich quickly. Some worked their own claims, some were employed by the two large operators who had grabbed the lion’s share of the spoils and paid high wages. Still others brought goods and services, offered at wildly exorbitant prices.

Cal Saunders entered this rumbustious place one July evening. He was on his way from nowhere in particular to no special destination. Psychologically, he was starting a new journey, which he hoped would lead to financial security. Two months earlier, he had found himself in Helena, where he’d been thinking about his cash situation. Then he made the acquaintance of an old man, a former cardsharp who had abandoned his calling because of arthritis in his hands,

Saunders had paid the man three hundred dollars and received in return a great deal of instruction. Expecting this investment to be the best one of his life, he had been an attentive and apt pupil. The older man was pleased. He hadn’t really needed payment for imparting his knowledge, but was gratified at having ensured that his art would survive. It seemed a mutually beneficial transaction.

Saunders’ arrival in Bitterroot Gap was for him an auspicious occasion, as the place was to be the venue of his first solo effort at cheating with cards. He lost no time in making a tour of the town’s saloons. Grattan’s Bar, a dingy but well-patronised place, looked as likely as anywhere, so he decided to begin there. Most men in his position would have approached what he had in mind with some trepidation. He didn’t. He was tense, but not scared.

The newly graduated swindler joined a game with three other men who were playing casually, concentrating more on their conversation than on the cards. One of the trio was much older than the other two. He was Bob Cresswell, an under-manager at one of the larger mines. The other two were miners, plain and simple, working for the same company as Cresswell. Both were in their early twenties. One was Dave Backhouse, a tall dark fellow with not much to say for himself. The other was Jim Curry. He was a short slim fair-haired man and an irrepressible chatterbox.

Saunders was not to know it, but Jim Curry was described by some people as ‘quite a character.’ There was no malice in the man, but he had one attribute which had made him the talk of his hometown. He was a prankster, given to such japes as crawling under tables to tie drunks’ shoelaces together or balancing bags of flour atop half-open doors, then concealing himself to await events. Once, he had sneaked into the church and loosened all the strings of the piano. The preacher’s wife, arriving for her evening practice was, so she later claimed, convinced that she had suddenly gone deaf. On another occasion, Curry had made wooden cut-outs of two enormous bare human feet and pressed them into the dust of the main street at distances indicating ten-foot strides. The town was in uproar at the prospect of dealing with a feral giant.

There was plenty of money circulating in Bitterroot Gap and though Cresswell, Backhouse and Curry could have played for substantial stakes, they never did so. Cresswell, who notwithstanding his seniority in years was more reckless than the others, would have gambled less temperately, but the younger men were disposed to hold on to their money. Also, they didn’t entirely trust their companion.

It didn’t take long for Saunders to show what he had gathered from the tutelage in Helena. With most of his funds now gone, his opening bankroll was a modest hundred dollars. He was soon well ahead and continued to win throughout the evening. Backhouse and Curry folded frequently, keeping their reverses to modest levels, but the under-manager was less circumspect and lost heavily. Shortly before midnight, the game broke up, with the young miners having suffered little. Cresswell was cleaned out. He had lost nine hundred dollars – a setback he could ill afford.

Saunders, who had taken a room at the saloon, moved over to the bar, where he drank a lot of whiskey very quickly, then took a full bottle and lurched upstairs. Cresswell had left, but Backhouse and Curry were still there, in conversation with a small, well-dressed man at the bar. As usual, Backhouse made mostly monosyllabic contributions to the talk, but Curry quizzed the dapper fellow at some length. At last, Backhouse and the small man left. Curry stayed behind, lost in thought.

In his room, Saunders got to work on the whiskey bottle. His preparations for bed were perfunctory. He removed his hat, coat and gun, then yanked off his boots, shoving his money into the right one. A quarter of an hour after entering the room, he had sunk two-thirds of the liquor and collapsed onto the bed. Five minutes later, he was snoring mightily.

It was well after midday when the barkeeper looked up as he heard his only guest clumping down the bare wooden stairs, looking dishevelled, shirt half hanging out of his trousers, face like thunder. Saunders had emerged from his stupor to find that apart from his original hundred-dollar stake, all the money he’d had the night before had disappeared. Furious, he demanded to know how he’d been robbed.

The barman, a truculent fellow, shrugged. “Don’t ask me, mister,” he said. “You look after your own troubles. I got mine.”

That didn’t help to moderate Saunders’ rage. “It wouldn’t have happened if you had locks an’ keys in this damned place,” he yelled.

“We’ve never needed them here,” the barkeeper replied. “Maybe you’re used to them where you come from, and you can take that any way you like.”

That was the last straw for Saunders. No sooner had the barman got the words out than he was felled by a savage right-hand blow. He was then hauled to his feet by the enraged guest, who shook him hard. “It was them fellers I was playing with last night, wasn’t it?” Saunders roared. “Talk, or I’ll beat it out of you.”

The terrified barman held up calming hands. “All right, mister,” he said. “No need to get rough. I don’t know who did it, but two of those boys were hanging around for some time after you’d gone to bed. One of them went upstairs a while later and I didn’t see him again.”

Saunders continued yanking the man back and forth. “Which one of ‘em was it?”

“The little feller. Jim Curry,”

“Where is he now?”

“Probably working. I think he’s on the eight till four shift this week.”

“What about the other one?”

“That’s Dave Backhouse. He’ll be doing the evening shift, from four till midnight. He’s in town now. I saw him not ten minutes ago, outside Lindley’s dry goods place.”

Saunders pushed the man back against the wall and hurried upstairs to collect the rest of his things. He went out into the street, looking for Dave Backhouse. There was no search involved, for the man was still where the barman had seen him, leaning against an awning post, smoking a cigarette. Saunders drew his gun while still five yards from the man. “Where’s Curry?” he snapped.

“At work.”

“Till when?”

“Finishes in around three hours.”

“He’ll be finished for good when I find him. He stole my money last night. I reckon you were in on it, too.”

Backhouse looked at the gun, his innards quaking. “Now just a minute, mister, he said. “Jim’s nothing to me. Just a feller I work with. If he’s done anything wrong, I had no part in it. Jim’s crazy enough to do most anything, but I never heard of him stealing.”

“Well, he’s started now an’ I intend to take it out of his hide. Where’s he live?”

“In Ward’s rooming house. Along the street there. Second-last place on the right.”

Saunders could see no point in pushing the matter further with Backhouse. Better to intercept Curry when he came back from work. No point in going to the mine, where the man might be surrounded by friends. Taking up a position in an alleyway almost opposite the rooming house, Saunders sat on an empty barrel and waited. His vigil was to be fruitless, for Dave Backhouse had rushed off to the mine and got word to Curry that his life was in danger. It was true that Backhouse had had nothing to do with Curry’s activities during the night, but he knew what they were.

Jim Curry, for once in his harum-scarum existence scared stiff, did not return to his lodgings. He drew what money he had coming and, not daring to show himself at the rooming house, bought a horse and raced off southwards, leaving his few belongings in Backhouse’s care. If he he’d kept his nerve, he might have been able to talk his way out of the situation. But he panicked. Having listened to his friend’s description of Saunders’ mood, his only thought was of flight.

By six that evening, Cal Saunders realised that he was waiting in vain. Never a man to stand on ceremony, he burst into the house where six lodgers were eating. He demanded to know what had become of Jim Curry, his drawn gun reinforcing his bellowed words. The men, all miners, were a tough enough crowd, but none of them owed any favours to Curry, nor did any of them see a reason to tackle an armed and near-berserk man. It took only seconds for one of them to relate what had happened, and to say that Curry was making his way back to his Colorado home. Saunders knew from the previous evening’s conversation where the place was. He rushed to the livery barn, saddled his horse and set off in pursuit.

Now, over four weeks later, Cal Saunders had caught up with his quarry. During the zigzag, thousand-mile chase, he had several times come close to laying hands on Jim Curry, then found that the elusive fellow had slipped away. Finally, to Saunders’ disgust, he had actually had his man in sight when Curry reached his goal. Well, it was a problem, but it could be surmounted. Saunders had been resolute at the outset, but during the chase, he had become obsessed. Nothing mattered to him but catching the young madcap.