Enjoy my unedited and raw short:
Carson City
Chris hadn’t embraced his latest
endeavor, much too contrary to what he was accustomed to doing. He would give
anything a try but this one might just be a bit short lived. The bookkeeping
part of it just served to get his blood boiling. He didn’t take kindly to
people owing him money long term. He reminded those who did that he didn’t run
and operate a bank; extending credit and accepting huge IOU vouchers was not
something he highly tolerated. He eyed the man clambering down from the buckboard
outside, hitching his horses to the post. Chris prepared himself for the
conversation he was about to have with one of the most arrogant bastards he had
crossed paths with in these parts.
“Has my barbed wire come in yet?”
“Can’t say it has but might be because
I never ordered it.”
“You never ordered? I placed that
order over a month ago. What kind of dry goods store do you operate Chris?”
“One that is much obliged to people
who pay for what they order. Charity doesn’t pay my bills or guarantee I place
your orders. I as much told you so when you were in here last time, Mister
Benson. Laughing it off and paying me no mind was your mistake, not mine.”
“I know you haven’t been here that
long but I reckon I’m going to have to give you a little history lesson and
help you brush up on your manners to boot. It might assure you live a tad
longer educating you on both.”
“If there is one thing I tolerate
less than freeloaders, that is a man coming into my store and aiming threats in
my direction for something he bears responsibility for, and unless you’re
prepared to pay up your account, this conversation is over, including your
history lesson and your offer to help with my manners.”
“We’re not finished with this, I
assure you.”
“You still owe me three hundred
sixty one dollars and twenty three cents. Once paid in full I might be more
obliged to listen to your historical accounts and how you think you can make a
better man out of me; doubtful but a feller has a right to his ambitions and
hope for the best that they’ll work out for him. Either way I would suggest you
consider taking your business elsewhere, Mister Benson.”
“You’ll pay dearly for your poor
judgment and misguided respect.”
“And you, you’ll pay your debt or
face the most unfortunate consequences. By the way, neither of us are Mexican
so consider this no standoff.”
“Store clerk you have riled the
wrong rattler, there’s no cure for my venom.”
“A snake, you couldn’t have painted
a better portrait of yourself, Mister Benson. Believe me when I speak it; I’ve defanged
far worse. You better back up that rattle with a bite.”
“And the next time we meet you
better be totting something besides a broom, store keeper.”
For the remainder of the day Chris
thought no more about the incident other that than the three hundred sixty one
dollars and twenty three cents still pending on his ledger. Mister Benson would
pay up eventually, one way or the other. At this point Chris wasn’t too choosy
how his books got balanced. He hoped Benson would come to his senses. If he didn’t,
so be it. A man best be prepared to not allow his mouth to overload his ass.
Times were changing of course but some things remained the same. Egos got you
buried six feet under, a feast for critters welcoming you to their side of the
dirt. Worms and
maggots weren’t particular with their bedfellows. Even the likes of Benson
would be welcome.
Closing up the store Chris headed
over to Maggie’s for supper but decided to stop in at Cactus Joe’s Saloon first
for a well deserved drink of whisky while he pondered his future. He had all
but decided he would discount his losses and sell the business. He wasn’t cut
out for what it took to run the store and he sorely missed the adventures the
great outdoors had to offer. He kicked his own ass wondering what had he been
thinking becoming a proprietor for the public. It had been by far the hardest
job he had ever endured. Contrary to the name, the saloon was owned and
operated not by a feller named Joe but by a refined Bostonian named Josephine
McDougal, a fiery Red headed Scott. Today Josephine was behind the bar
filling in for Monk Martin, her regular barkeeper, having been kicked
unconscious by his temperamental old mule and still ailing from the
repercussions. A few days of bed rest had been prescribed by the doctor.
The saloon wasn’t much on the
hustle and bustle side for a Tuesday so Josephine joined Chris at his table.
She was a much better listener and advice giver than Monk. Chris laid out the
episode with Benson and his plans to get out of the dry goods business. She
smiled, reminding him that she had told him it was a bad idea the first time he
had mentioned it. Telling him so was easier to swallow coming from her.
Josephine wasn’t bad on the eyes and they had already tussled at time or two
underneath the bed sheets, on the house of course. Not many in town could
afford her anyway. This alone lessoned the risk for bedding her and a chance to
walk away with something unwanted.
Finishing up his second drink Chris
was about to head over to Maggie’s, passing this time on a poke with Josephine,
when low and behold, good ole Mister Benson barged through the swinging doors
like he thought he was the proper owner of the saloon. Josephine placed her
hand on his arm and shook her head no. Obviously she was thinking about
Benson’s well being, not his. Benson was thinking period. He walked directly
over to their table and took a chair directly across from Chris. He turned up
the whisky bottle, took a swig and then slammed it on the table just missing
Chris’s fingers resting by his glass. History lessons and manners were
definitely on the agenda. Difference being Chris would be conducting both.
Josephine stood and stepped away, held up her hands indicating she had tried to
prevent this, realizing she could have never stopped it.
“Did your order my wire?”
“Did you bring a hundred sixty one
dollars and twenty three cents with you?”
“Hell no.”
“Then my response would also stand
as hell no.”
“I warned you, Chris. I’m not a
fellow to be taken lightly in these parts.”
“Who started that rumor, you?”
“Aaron Benson, you might wish to
think hard about what you’re instigating,” warned Josephine, now standing
behind the bar.
“She offers excellent advice. I’d
suggest you take it.”
Benson was not the least bit
impressed by the man clearly a foot shorter than his six foot six frame and at
least a hundred pounds lighter. His facial features reminded Benson too much of
a female, smooth skin, high cheek bones, penetrating blue eyes, a man clearly
suited to be a store clerk, no more. He certainly resembled no man who should
be acting so bold and boisterous. Getting killed over a ledger debt didn’t
match the demeanor of the man sitting across the table from him. Still, Chris
was determined to make him play his hand. A man of his word, Benson was willing
to call that bluff and rain tea wholly hell down on him. Not ordering that
barbwire for his fencing had caused him much grief and considerable setback
with winter quickly approaching.
“I own the largest ranch in these
parts. I may as well own and operate the only dry goods store too.” Benson
glared at Josephine and barked, “Might add this saloon and the bank across the
street and rename the town Benson Flats when it’s all said and done.”
Josephine mouthed a very unladylike
response before reaching underneath the bar and then placing a sawed off double
barrel shot gun on the bar top. Her way of saying just try was delivered loud
and clear. Chris couldn’t help but muster up a little smile; don’t mess with a
Scott clearly intended. Benson stood, sweeping the whisky bottle and glasses
from the table with his hand before kicking his chair out of the way, clearly
highly pissed by the antics of both of them. Chris calmly eased back his chair
and stood as well, staring down the mountain of a man standing across the table
from him.
“Three hundred sixty one dollars
and twenty three cents seems to me to be a bargain for your ranch given a dead
man really has no need for it. Do you have a preference for burial plots? It’s a
just reward seeing that you used own it. I call be a tolerable sort of feller
if I set my mind to it. Fair is fair, right? What you say we rename this town, Carson City, Josephine?
You keep the saloon and I don’t have a hankering to own a bank. The store and
ranch will do just fine.”
“Kit Carson having a town named
after him does seem appropriate, given the life of a true frontier legend you
have lived,” replied Josephine.
“Kit Carson,” repeated an astounded
Aaron Benson.
“Christopher
Houston Kit’ Carson
gracing your presence, Mister Benson…retired mountain man, fur trapper,
wilderness guide, Indian agent and American Army officer and now store keeper
with a three hundred sixty one dollars and
twenty three cents debt still pending on my ledger; that is unless you’re
willing to pay what is currently owed. Bank is across the street and it will be
open for business in the morning. I’m sure they’ll grant you a loan given
you still currently have the largest ranch in these parts. Understand,
ownership could change in the blink of an eye and in a puff a gun smoke. I
would consider those odds if I were you. Perhaps these parts aren’t best suited
for your livelihood either; just another humble suggestion.”
Aaron Benson nervously retrieved
his wallet from his coat’s vest pocket and tossed four one hundred dollar bills
onto the table and made a hasty retreat without uttering another word. Chris
counted out three hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents, making
change from his pocket. He gave the balance to Josephine saying he would
appreciate her company later. She refused, folding it and slipping it in his
trouser pocket, adding a well placed squeeze to indicate no charge, saying drop
by when he was free. Chris found a buyer for the store and moved on. He married his third wife, 14-year-old Josefa
Jaramillo, the daughter of a wealthy and prominent Mexican couple living in Taos.
In 1868, at the
urging of Washington and the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Carson
journeyed to Washington D.C.
where he escorted several Ute Chiefs to meet with the President of the United States
to plead for assistance to their tribe. Soon after his return, Josefa died from
complications after giving birth to their eighth child. Her death was a
crushing blow to Carson.
He died a month later at age 58 from an abdominal aortic aneurysm in the
surgeon's quarters of Fort Lyon,
Colorado. Christopher Houston "Kit" Carson accomplishments and
contributions can not be disputed or denied. A river in Nevada is named for Carson
as well as the state's capital, Carson
City.
General William
Tecumseh Sherman met Kit Carson in Monterey,
California. Sherman wrote: "His fame was then at its height, ... and I
was very anxious to see a man who had achieved such feats of daring among the
wild animals of the Rocky Mountains, and still wilder Indians of the plains ...
I cannot express my surprise at beholding such a small, stoop-shouldered man,
with reddish hair, freckled face, soft blue eyes, and nothing to indicate
extraordinary courage of daring. He spoke but little and answered questions in
monosyllables."
Colonel Edward W.
Wynkoop wrote: "Kit Carson was five
feet five and one half-inches tall, weighed about 140 pounds, of nervy, iron
temperament, squarely built, slightly bow-legged, and those members apparently
too short for his body. But, his head and face made up for all the
imperfections of the rest of his person. His head was large and well-shaped
with yellow straight hair, worn long, falling on his shoulders. His face was
fair and smooth as a woman's with high cheekbones, straight nose, a mouth with
a firm, but somewhat sad expression, a keen, deep-set but beautiful, mild blue
eye, which could become terrible under some circumstances, and like the warning
of the rattlesnake, gave notice of attack. Though quick-sighted, he was slow and
soft of speech, and posed great natural modesty.”
Lieutenant George
Douglas Brewerton made one coast-to-coast dispatch-carrying trip to Washington, D.C. with Carson. Brewerton wrote:
"The Kit Carson of my imagination was over six feet high —
a sort of modern Hercules in his build — with an enormous beard, and a voice
like a roused lion ... The real Kit Carson I found to be a plain, simple ...
man; rather below the medium height, with brown, curling hair, little or no
beard, and a voice as soft and gentle as a woman's. In fact, the hero of a
hundred desperate encounters, whose life had been mostly spent amid wilderness,
where the white man is almost unknown, was one of Dame Nature's gentlemen.”
