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.”