I did not have a destination in mind when I left the homestead in Wyoming on my birthday, but I did have a direction. I was headed south. I chose to go in that direction on a whim. I could have as easily picked any other point of the compass. I rode some and walked a little during the day and at night I slept under a lean-to tent I made out of the oil cloth. I slept warm and cozy wrapped in my buffalo hide. The weather was cold but tolerable with not much in the way of snow. I kept up a good pace and made it to Fort Collins, Colorado in only four days. Fort Collins looked as if it were an interesting place, so I liveried my horse and mule and took a look around. My first stop was the sheriff's office. I was looking to see if the sheriff would secure some of my weapons for me.
The sheriff was in conversation with a man whose back was to me, so I politely waited until they finished talking. The man talking to the sheriff was angry, but was holding himself in check with great effort. From the snippets of conversation I heard, the man was some sort of Wells Fargo agent investigating a stagecoach robbery. The man's voice sounded familiar to me but I couldn't place where I knew it from. The man finished his conversation and turned around. Both of us were startled when we recognized the other. His name was Grady Miller. He was once Major Grady Miller, and for a year he was commander of the headquarters battalion of the Army of Northern Virginia and my commanding officer. Miller's face broke into a smile and he stuck out his hand. I had a passing acquaintance with Miller, but he was one of the real officers I tried to avoid when I served with Lee's headquarters.
"Lieutenant Brock, what an unexpected pleasure. Where's that horse thief Colbert? I'm not used to seeing one of you without the other."
"Likewise Major," I replied. "I'll tell you all about it over a drink as soon as I ask the sheriff for a favor."
The sheriff was more than happy to have two less guns in town and even suggested holding onto my Colt for me. I thanked him kindly for the offer but demurred. I wasn't about to go about unarmed.
Miller and I retired to a dim and smoky saloon and over bad rotgut whisky caught each other up on our lives since the war. Miller was a Colorado native and had been able to return to the same job with Wells Fargo the he had held before the war. He was nominally assigned to the company's Denver office but he was often out on the road keeping the stage coach line running smoothly. He was in Fort Collins because one of the company's coaches had disappeared. The coach, passengers, crew, horses and strong box had vanished without a trace. Miller suspected an inside job because that particular coach was carrying five thousand dollars in newly minted gold coins destined for the army garrison in Sidney, Nebraska.
I ended up becoming an employee of the Wells Fargo company before another hour had passed. I can not recall how Grady Miller managed to slip me working for him into the conversation or why I accepted. It was a whilom point by then though, as Grady led me down to the Wells Fargo office to introduce me around.
Wells Fargo had a good-sized operation in Fort Collins. Besides banking, assaying and stage coach offices, they had a stable, a coach barn, and a bunk house for the drivers, guards and dispatch riders. Miller explained that Fort Collins was the clearing house for silver and gold ore mined in the mountains just to the west. Wells Fargo was under contract with the Denver mint to assay, store and transport bullion down to Denver. They also were the sole supplier for security and transportation for finished coinage. Before I could say it, I was a stagecoach driver and guard.
The station manager for the stage coach operation did not waste any time putting me to work. He issued me a duck cloth duster, a regular cotton duster, a double barreled shotgun with a sixteen inch barrel and a bandolier with thirty brass shotgun shells, then led me to the bunkhouse to meet the other drivers and guards. The men I met were a hard and coarse bunch. I thought it just my luck that I was teamed up to the hardest and coarsest of them for my first run. My new partner was a wiry, wizened little fellow named Bob Randolph. He looked as ornery as a snake and cursed a blue streak. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, however, and stuck out my hand to shake his. "My name is Jeb, pleased to meet you," I said, real friendly like.
He looked at my hand, spit a big steam of tobacco juice onto the floor and proceeded to tell the station manager that he was too old to nursemaid some big stupid plowboy. Except Randolph used language that would have made a sailor blush. I spent four years in the army and had sailed for ten days on a river boat and I had still never heard anyone who could even come close to cussing like Bob. I took about twenty seconds of his harangue then reached down, grabbed him by the collar with my right hand and lifted him off his feet until we were nose to nose. He went for his gun and I clamped onto his wrist with my left hand. I was a big man and a summer of hard work had made me as strong as an ox.
"Do you kiss your mother with that filthy mouth?" I asked softly.
Randolph gave me a crooked grin and patted me on the shoulder.
"All right son, you will do. Now put me down and we will repair to the saloon for some liquid refreshments."
I did not lower him an inch. Instead, I looked at him quizzically.
"It was a test, Jeremiah. I had to know how you handled yourself before I climbed up on that driver's box with my life depending on you tomorrow."
I sat him down still looking at him funny. He was testing me? That seemed strange given that I was a foot taller, eighty pounds heavier and a seasoned veteran of the greatest army ever assembled. I also wondered where his profane and vulgar speech went because his last two utterances were in the cultured and refined manner I associated with Lenora Quiller and her well to do friends in Richmond. I followed my new partner to a saloon called Dead Eyed Dick's to find some answers. The saloon was thick with smoke, both wood and tobacco, and it was loud and raucous. My mother would have had a conniption fit had she known I was already in my second saloon on my first day in town. Miners were jostling with cowboys over the affections of a few bored looking fallen doves as a man in a bowler hat clanged discordant notes on the keys of a battered upright piano. I was trying to look everywhere at once because it was my first venture into the world that JC used to inhabit. Bob chuckled and led me to the bar.
"Innkeeper, a flagon of your most quaffable elixir for my young friend and me," Bob said regally.
The harried looking barman raised his eyebrows, gave Bob a mock salute and pulled a bottle off the shelf behind him. He put the bottle on the bar between Bob and me then produced two lead crystal glasses with a flourish while still keeping one hand firmly on the bottle of whiskey.
"There you go professor," the barman said, "that will be six bits silver."
Bob made a production out of checking his pockets for money then shrugged and turned to me.
"I seem to be temporarily without funds, Jeremiah. If you will stand for our libations, I will take care of our next visit."
I plunked a dollar down on the bar. As soon as the barman reached for the money, Bob snatched up the bottle and pulled the cork stopper with his teeth. He poured me a small shot of the whiskey then turned the bottle up and drank a quarter of it in one continuous gulp. I sat and nursed my shot of rotgut rye as I quizzed Bob about his past. He had not been a college professor. Instead, he was a lawyer back in his native Philadelphia before running afoul of his social class by seducing the wife of one of his wealthy clients. His vindictive client had ruined him financially and socially. Bob left Philadelphia a bitter and broken man and headed west to strike it rich in the California Gold Rush of 1848. He prospected unsuccessfully for three years before taking a job with Wells Fargo. He had been drifting around the west from Texas to Oregon for the last fifteen years. I was enthralled by his story.
"What would you do differently, if you could relive your life?" I asked.
He grinned and took another healthy swig from the almost empty bottle.
"Not a damned thing!" he replied emphatically.
Bob woke me up the next morning at five. He was cheerful and bore no signs of being hung-over despite the quart of whiskey he had consumed the night before. I dressed warmly and followed him out to the stable. Bob picked four horses and we harnessed them. The Wells Fargo tack was high quality and in excellent repair. We led the horses to the carriage house and hooked them to the stage coach's double tree tongue. The coach was in even better repair than the tack. It was bright red with Wells Fargo & Co. lettered in gold leaf on both sides and the back. We climbed up into the driver's box, Bob took the reins, and we drove over to the Wells Fargo offices.
We swung by the sheriff's office to pick up my rifles and were sitting in the front of the stage coach office at six on the dot. I hopped down off the box to help the three passengers waiting on the porch with their baggage. I piled their bags onto the boot shelf at the rear of the coach and lashed them securely with a rope. The passengers mounted the cab of the coach as Bob and I went into the bank to retrieve the strongbox we were delivering to Denver. Bob lifted one end of the box with a grunt while I took the other. The box was heavy for its size; it probably weighed a hundred pounds. Its steel construction and hefty lock still did not account for its weight. Bob frowned but did not say anything to the two bank guards or the teller as we walked out. I hefted the strongbox over the lip of the driver's box and set it in the foot well on the passenger side.
Bob clucked the horses into motion at exactly six-ten and we headed south for the two day trip to Denver. Bob schooled me on my duties as we rode. He explained that, in the vernacular of Wells Fargo & Company, we were called express messengers, a name given us because we also carried mail. We would share driving duties; the man not driving was commonly called the shotgun messenger. Our first duty was to insure the safety of our passengers while our second was to safeguard our cargo. In our case that was the sack of mail and strongbox we carried. Mention of the strongbox made Bob frown again.
"That strongbox is the heaviest I have ever transported. A most worrisome fact coming on the heels of Cottonwood Joe and his coach disappearing last week," he said.
I agreed and asked why more guards were not riding with us. He replied, "Not every coach carries a strongbox worth stealing, so extra guards only identify those that do and invite an attack. Until last week, it was not a problem."
I was extra vigilant because of Bob's concerns but our day was uneventful. We changed teams at a way station six hours after our departure. All Wells Fargo routes were laid out in that manner. Some of the stations were company trading posts set along the road, while others were private farms or stables. At most of the stops you could buy a meal and a drink if you were so inclined. Way station stops were generally thirty minutes or less.
I took the reins when we departed the way station. The difference between driving the coach, as opposed to driving a freight wagon as I was accustomed, was the pace we set. The horses pulling the coach were only in harness for six hours at a stretch and they were trained to move at a lively canter. As a result, we could cover about fifty to sixty miles a day over smooth terrain. It only took me a few minutes to find my rhythm as I allowed the horses to set their own pace. We rolled into Boulder at four in the afternoon; our trip uneventful so far. We unloaded our passengers and their bags in front of a hotel near the Wells Fargo station. Bob admonished them to be on time in the morning because he was pulling out at six ten precisely.
We wrestled the heavy strong box into the office and placed it into the big Diebold vault before taking the horses and coach to the stables. We unhitched the team and passed the tack to the stable hand. As soon as the man led the horses away to their stalls, Bob grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the stable.
"Come lad," he urged, "for your education has just begun."
Bob led the way down the wooden sidewalk to a building on the edge of town. A small sign above the frosted glass door announced that we were about to enter Madame Devereaux's Gentlemen's Emporium. Before we entered the door, Bob gave me an embarrassed smile and held out his hand palm up.
"I loathe asking you for money, Jeremiah, but you have my sacred oath that I will return your largesse on payday."
I sigh and fished a five dollar gold piece out of my poke and dropped it into his palm. Bob's tentative smile grew much larger.
"Most excellent, my lad. For your generosity, I will insure that you have a marvelous evening."
Inside the door we were met by a large, robust woman with a great mass of dark red hair piled atop her head. The woman was every bit as large as me. She squealed in a surprisingly girlish voice when she saw Bob and pulled him against her bountiful bosom in a smothering embrace.
"Robert, Mon Cherie," she gushed.
I looked back and forth between them as they twittered away in what I assumed was French. Bob finally remember I was there and introduced us.
"Camille, may I introduce my associate, Mister Jeremiah Brock. Jeremiah, this ravishing creature is Miss Camille Devereaux."
Camille was dress in a voluminous shiny green gown of an oriental design. It must have taken half the silkworms in China a month to produce that much material. Not to be outdone by the loquacious Mister Randolph, I took Camille's hand in mine and brought it to my lips. "Charmed, I am sure," said suave and debonair Jeremiah.
"Another well bred gentleman," Camille remarked in accented English. "We see very few of those here."
Camille put her finger beside her nose and squinted cutely as she seemed to be deep in thought. She suddenly smiled as if she had a revelation. "I think I have the perfect companion for you, Mister Brock," she gushed.
The perfect companion of whom she spoke was a blonde woman of medium height. She was nowhere near as well upholstered as Camille, but she was far from waifish. Her name was Colette. She smiled when I did the hand kiss trick again, then took my arm and led me down a hallway. This was my first ever visit to a bawdy house so I did not know what to expect. Still when she ushered me into a room whose only adornment was a large bathtub, I was flummoxed.
"You bath awaits, Mister Brock," she said in her throaty French accent, and then she twirled around and departed.
I mentally shrugged then quickly stripped and settled into the tepid water. A bath after five days on the road suited me just fine. I was lathering up my face with some perfumed soap when Colette reappeared with a bucket of steaming water. She smiled demurely as I scrambled to cover my privates, then poured the hot water into the tub. As she left, she took my shirt and trousers with her. Colette returned ten minutes later with my clothes. They had been brushed clean and sprinkled with scented talcum powder. She left my folded clothes on the floor and headed for the door.
I hurriedly dressed and walked back into the hallway. Colette favored me with another radiant smile. "Better," she said as she slipped her arm through mine. She led me down to the other end of the hall and opened yet another door. Instead of a bedroom as I had expected, it was a cozy dining room. Bob and Camille were already seated at the table. Bob had cleaned up nicely, as even his grey stubble of a beard was gone. As soon as I sat down, Colette served us all from dishes that were sitting on the sideboard. The meal was chicken in some sort of white gravy, along with a few vegetables, bread and cheese. The food was excellent, what little there was of it. I could have eaten about three more servings.
I was half way expecting it when we retired to a room that was outfitted as a parlor. It was furnished with two couches facing each other across a low table. The women fetched us brandy and cigars, my first experience with either. I followed Bob's lead by firing up a cigar and sipping the brandy. The women perched themselves on the couches next to us. Bob, Camille and Colette started conversing about Shakespeare's historical plays, so I took the time to look around the room. The first thing I saw was a violin sitting on a music stand in the corner. I stood up and walked over to it, Colette artfully draped on my arm. It was a very fine instrument, I could tell that right off. It was used mostly for decoration, I would wager, as the hair on the bow was not frazzled at all. Camille and Bob were looking at me curiously, their conversation abated.
"May I?" I asked Camille.
She nodded affirmatively so I picked up the violin and bow. I adjusted the screw on the bow stick until the hair was taut and tried a note or two. It took me a few minutes to tune the strings, but I took the time an instrument that fine demanded. Once I was in tune, curiosity made me glance down at the sheet of music on the stand. Amazingly, it was Mozart's Sonata in C for Violin, a piece that I happened to have in the collection JC brought me. I had spent many an hour mastering that piece because its performance required some dexterity. I unfolded the sheet of music, tucked the violin under my chin, held the frog of the bow as I had been taught and let fly.
I sounded pretty darned good, if I have to say so myself. I think it was a combination of the situation and that wonderful instrument that made me better than usual. Camille and Bob were suitably impressed, while Colette positively glowed. I left well enough alone after the sonata and carefully put the music and violin back where I found them. Camille asked for another tune, but I refused. "Maybe next time," I told her. We finished our cigars and brandy; Bob stood up and I followed suit. I figured now that the preliminaries were over, we would get to the true purpose of a trip to a brothel. I don't mind telling you that the prospect did not put me off my feed a whit as Miss Colette's plentitude of curves was most enticing. You can imagine my surprise when, instead of showing us their bedrooms, the women showed us to the front door.
I stood there confused as Camille closed the door in our faces. Bob chuckled and steered me out onto the street.
"What just happened?" I asked perplexedly.
Bob laughed and clapped me on the back and said, "We just spent two enchanting hours with a pair of lovely women. Madame Devereaux is a respectable woman; she entertains gentlemen only in a social setting. For two dollars and a half we had a nice bath, a gourmet meal and fine conversation. What more could a man want?"
I allowed that it had been a nice evening, but that I could think of a number of things I still wanted. Bob grinned and said that I was in luck because Miss Colette had taken a shine to me and we were both invited back after ten o'clock for a nightcap. We did go back at ten and Colette showed me how happy she was to see me. Before Colette, the most substantial woman I had been with was Lenora Quiller. Lenora was a very good lover but she was older and preferred slow, gentle lovemaking. Colette, on the other hand, was young, strong and energetic. She was also loud and lusty. Colette left no doubts about what she liked as she screamed her release. Not only that, but somewhere during the course of our love making her accent disappeared.
As we lay catching our breath after our first vigorous joining, her head on my shoulder, her leg thrown casually over mine, Colette cooed in my ear.
"As soon as you picked up that violin tonight, all I could think of was your hands on me. I somehow knew you would play me with the same skill, but I did not count on your lips and tongue being just as talented."
I smiled down at her and palmed one of her fulsome breasts. "You inspire me, Colette," I said sincerely. I was being completely honest because the more time I spent with her, the higher my desire soared. Our second time was even better than the first; it was just as athletic but not as urgent. We spent more time savoring each other. We stayed up all night pleasuring each other. In between bouts we shared details of our lives. I was not that surprised when Colette told me her name was really Wanda Jean Turner from Saint Louis. She was no more French than my mule Zeke. Camille had recruited her two years ago and had probably saved her from a life as a prostitute. I was amazed that she was only eighteen years old. She was the youngest woman with whom I had been intimate.
I reluctantly left Madam Devereaux's at five-thirty the next morning. Colette did not have to work very hard to convince me to come back to see her. Bob had a hearty laugh at my expense when I made it to the stables to help him harness our morning team. "I suspect I need not ask you if you enjoyed your evening," he teased. I suspect he was correct.
We moved out again at six o'clock exactly. Bob was a stickler for being on time. Bob was driving the morning shift again. He drove from the left side of the driver's box so that my right side was unobstructed. I rode with my shotgun across my knees; my Enfield was in the scabbard attached to the side of the driver's box and my Spencer carbine was in the foot well. I was not tired in the least from being up all night with Colette, in fact the experience had energized me. I was feeling too good to be tired. As we rode, Bob educated me on the subject of Madame Camille Devereaux.
Camille actually was French in a manner; she was French Creole from New Orleans. Although Bob was not certain, he thought that she might have once been a lady of the evening in Denver. Camille hit on the idea of an establishment that catered to men seeking some womanly companionship with no sex involved and started Madam Devereaux's with just herself and one other woman. The concept was a bigger success than she had imagined to the point that she now had eight other women working for her. Bob said that he and Camille were in love and might eventually get married.
"You are a lucky man," I said, "because she is a lot of woman."
Bob rolled his eyes heavenward. "Amen," he said reverently.
Bob was still waxing poetic about Camille abundant charms as we were clopping down grade in a dry stream bed. He was in the midst of extolling the benefits her voluptuous form when three masked men appeared in the middle of the road right after we had rounded a sharp bend. Two men had rifles trained on us while the other held a pistol in one hand and had the other raised as a signal for us to stop. Bob was reflexively starting to pull back on the reins.
"If you stop we are dead!" I bellowed.
Joe J