Buckskin & Lace

Winner of the 2022 Ozark Creative Writers Dusty Richards Memorial Oxbow Prize

AWIDE-SHOULDERED FIGURE in dirty buckskins, Rose Barton, locally known as “Red” because of her long, crimson locks, leaned against the bar in the Crystal Palace Saloon and licked the final drops from an upturned whiskey glass. Orphaned as a child and raised by her muleskinner uncle, she worked like a man, fought like a man, and drank like a man. But tonight, she was a woman. A woman in need of a man.

She set her sights on the piano player, Pete, who had ignored her advances for the past two weeks. She thought he was a handsome devil with his crow-black hair and a waxed handlebar mustache riding atop a gap-toothed grin.

Red ordered another whiskey and watched Pete jiggle on his stool, pounding out a lively version of “Camptown Races.” He turned and smiled toward the bar.

“I think he needs a kiss,” she slurred, the words barely intelligible. She threw back the whiskey, slammed her empty glass on the bar, and staggered toward the piano. Two steps from the apple of her eye, she stumbled and fell on top of him.

Pete hit the floor with a resounding His bowler hat rolled toward the swinging doors. The card games stopped. The bartender froze, bottle in hand. Wide-eyed dance-hall girls stared, mouth agape at the two bodies thrashing on the floor. Grunts, groans, and cuss words shot from the piano player as he struggled to free himself from his leather-clad attacker.

“Will… Get this crazy bitch off of me!” Red had him pinned to the floor and was doing her best to plant her whiskey-stained lips firmly on top of his. Willie, Pete’s black musical companion, leaned his banjo against the wall, stretched both arms in the air, and yawned.

“Now, Miss Red, ya’ll needs to get off po’ old Pete. He don’t seem to be in no mood for romance.”

By the time Willie got to his feet, the bartender had ambled over. They each grabbed Red by an arm and helped her to her feet up.

“My God, woman, have you no decency?” Pete wiped at his mouth.

“Aw, come on Petey,” she slurred. “A little lovin’ ain’t gonna hurt ya. Wouldn’t you like to roll in the hay with a real woman?”

“No, thank you. You can wallow in your livery stall if you want. I’ve got a hotel bed to sleep in.”

“Okay.” She grinned and staggered closer. “We can use your room—if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want. Not with you. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. What does it take to get that through your thick head?”

Shoulders slumped, a lone tear trickled down Red’s cheek.

Willie broke the silence with a whisper, “Mista Pete, we needs to get back to playin’. The girls are wantin’ to dance.”

Pete huffed, retrieved his hat, and sank onto the piano stool without another look at Red.

Red awoke and squinted. From the sunlight peeking between planks of the stable wall, she judged it to be around ten o’clock. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and brushed the straw from her long red hair.

Rolling onto all fours, pain threatened to disable one shoulder and a hip, but those were minor in comparison to the throbbing in her temples.

How much did I drink? Then the pieces started to come back. Falling. Pete’s hateful words. People laughing at her. The bartender telling her to go home and sleep it off.

I made a fool of myself. Again.

Struggling to her feet, she gathered her meager belongings. It was a good thing she’d signed with the stage line for the trip to Bisbee. Getting out of town for a few days would do her good and give the regulars at the saloon a chance to find something else to talk about before she returned.

The stage didn’t leave till noon, which left her about an hour to find some coffee and grub before the long, rough ride to Bisbee. After breakfast, she found the driver, helped harness the team, load the mailbags and a strongbox onto the coach.

By a quarter to twelve, a half-dozen passengers had assembled in front of the stage depot.

She recognized two of them right away.

Willie stepped forward. “Mornin’, Miss Red. You goin’ to Bisbee, too?”

She rolled a chaw of tobacco from one side of her mouth to the other and spat a brown stream in Pete’s direction. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one anxious to leave town.

“Yeah, reckon I am. They needed someone to ride shotgun, so I signed on. Didn’t know the damn piano player would be goin’, too. You’ll have to ride on top,” she told Willie. “Negroes ain’t allowed inside the coach.”

“No problem, Miss Red. The view’s better from up there, anyway.”

“All aboard,” the driver called.

Four other passengers skirted around Pete. Two were middle-aged women. One short and chubby, the other tall and long-faced. A gentleman in a top hat helped the ladies inside. From the cut of his cloth, Red judged him to be a gambler. The other man reeked of cow manure, sour whiskey, and urine.

The gambler seated himself next to the ladies. Pete eased into the seat across from them and pressed his body close to the window, staying as far as possible from the rancid cowhand.

A couple of hours into the trip, the road cut through a narrow, rocky pass. The coach had slowed to a crawl in the roughest part of the ravine when someone atop yelled, "Bandidos!"

The driver whipped the team into a full run. Gunshots echoed down the canyon. Inside, the passengers ricocheted off each other like billiard balls. The rancid cowboy bounced off the slender woman then flew face-first into the other woman’s bosom.

Pete saw a body fall from atop the stage. More gunshots followed. The stage, enveloped in a cloud of dust, rumbled to a halt in a dry creek bed.

The coach hadn’t stopped rocking when a man yanked open the door and shoved a revolver in the gambler’s face.

“Everybody out,” he ordered. Two men stood behind him, pistols drawn. All three wore bandanas covering their noses and mouths.

Pete got out of the coach with his hands held high. Over his left shoulder, he spotted another member of the gang, still mounted, holding the harness lines in one hand, and pointing a gun at the driver with the other. The seat next to the driver was empty. Red, nowhere to be seen.

One of the bandits scrambled atop the coach and threw down the mailbags, luggage, and strongbox.

“Be careful wit dat one,” Willie begged. “Please! It’s my banjo.”

The big man who appeared to be in charge arched an eyebrow. “So, you’re a traveling minstrel, eh, boy?”

“Yas, sir, me and Mista Pete. He plays de piano. We’re on our way to California.”

The robber turned and studied the passengers, his eyes coming to rest on Pete.

“You ever played a wedding, ‘Mista’ Pete?”

Pete nodded. “Yep. Quite a few back east.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind playing one in Mexico.” He turned to the man holding the team. “Diego, unhitch a couple of those horses. We’re taking these two with us.”

Red opened her eyes. She hurt all over. Wiping her fingers along the side of her head, she felt something wet. Blood. It felt like a bullet had grazed her temple. Daggers of pain stabbed with each movement. The world was spinning. She struggled to her feet and grabbed a mesquite bush to steady herself. It was coming back now. The The gunshots. Then darkness. There was no sign of the coach or the robbers. She’d traveled this route enough times to know there was a small creek not far from where they’d been ambushed. Hopefully, there’d be water.

If she was lucky, they’d send someone back to look for her. Or perhaps there’d be another stage tomorrow. Either way, it was getting dark and too far to walk at night, especially the way her knee was hurting.

Downstream from the crossing, she found a puddle, no larger than a man’s hat and two inches deep. It tasted stagnant. But it was wet, and that was all that mattered.

An acacia anchored the sandy bank above the puddle. Stretching out beneath the tree, she closed her eyes. Moments later the howl of a coyote snapped them back open. It was close. Real close. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, knuckles white around the handle of her revolver.

THE Bandidos rode at a leisurely pace. By the time the sheriff was notified, they would be well across the border. The trail snaked through scrub brush and mesquite before ending at a hacienda overlooking a valley.

Along the way, Pete learned the leader of the gang went by Big Sam. From their conversations, he gathered they worked for Francisco Javier López, owner of the

López had a daughter, Maria, who was engaged to Pablo Ortiz, the son of the governor of Sonora.

“Senor López,” Big Sam announced upon their arrival. “I brought you some musicians to play for Senorita Maria’s wedding.”

López frowned. “They don’t look like musicians. I don’t see a fiddle or guitar.” He looked Pete and Willie up and down. “Can you play ‘La Marcha?’”

“Do you have a piano or organ?” Pete asked. “If you’ve got the sheet music, I can play anything.”

“What about him?” López nodded toward Willie.

“He’s the best banjo player west of the Mississippi.” Pete grinned.

López scrunched his eyebrows, shook his head, and turned to Sam. “I ask for musicians, and you bring me a runt in a bowler hat and a negro who plays banjo? I’ll be the laughingstock of Sonora.”

Big Sam swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Senor López. I thought—”

“Don’t think. Now, go find some mariacheros who play real music.”

“What do you want me to do with these two?”

“Leave them with me. They can serve food at the wedding. Then afterwards...” he grinned at Sam. “You can dispose of them.”

“Git!" Red threw a rock in the direction of the coyote howl. There was no response. She tightened the buckskin jacket around her neck and kept her fingers curled around the revolver. The crickets and frogs resumed their nightly lullabies.

She awoke to the clip-clop of hoofbeats on the rocky creek bed. Two men wearing badges helped her on a pack mule and took her to a doctor in Bisbee. He wrapped a bandage around her forehead.

“If that bullet had been a half-inch to the right, you’d be dead.”

“It’s a good thing I’m as thick-headed as some people think.” She grabbed her hat and headed for the door. “I hate to stitch and run, Doc, but I’ve got to catch the sheriff before the posse leaves. I’m going with ’em.”

She found Sheriff Hatch in the saloon, instructing the eight men who’d agreed to go after the

“From the driver’s description, we believe it was Big Sam’s gang who robbed the stage.

“They work for Francisco Javier López, who’s no saint himself. Word has it there’s a big wedding planned at the López hacienda tonight. They’ll have lookouts, and I expect we’ll be outgunned.

“Our best bet is to get close, wait until everyone is drunk, and hope to lure Big Sam and his men out of the

“Leave that part to me,” Red said. “I’ll sneak inside and pretend to be a wedding guest.

“Once I find Pete and Willie, I’ll lead them out. Big Sam will give chase, then I’ll give a signal for you to move in.”

The sheriff raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You? What makes you think you can pass as a wedding guest?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard—but I will need a change of clothes.”

“And if your plan works, what will the signal be?”

She grinned. “A few sticks of dynamite should do the trick.”

Preparing food for the wedding was an all day job. Neither Pete nor Willie understood Spanish, and the servants didn’t speak English. Using hand signals, they were able to communicate that Willie was to pluck chickens, while Pete was taught to roll

By mid-afternoon, guests started arriving. Big Sam commandeered four mariachi musicians and a priest from a nearby village.

The wedding was held on a covered patio overlooking the valley. Immediately after the ceremony, the servants began setting up tables for the feast and serving tequila, rum, and sangria.

A couple of hours into the party, a shapely woman wearing an emerald-green dress trimmed in lace grabbed Pete by the arm. Her face was partially covered by a veil and a wedding fan shielded all but her eyes. She leaned close. Her carrot-colored hair cascaded down her shoulders.

“Pete, it’s me,” she whispered. “Hand me a drink. Don’t say anything, just listen good. I’m here to get you and Willie. The sheriff and posse are waiting down the hill. I’ve got three horses tied to a mesquite behind the kitchen portico. Get Willie and meet me there in five minutes.” Pete handed her a drink and nodded.

Red wedged her way through the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Big Sam. He saw her first.

“Well, hello, little lady,” he said, tipping his hat. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Sam Driscoll.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Driscoll.” She curtsied and stuck out her hand. “I’m Rose Barton.”

He clasped her fingers in his giant paw and gently kissed the back of her hand. “What a fitting name. You’re as pretty as a rose. May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Barton?”

“Yes, but I’m not very graceful on the dance floor.”

He grinned. “Neither am I.”

The band struck up a waltz. A few steps into the dance she asked, “Did you hear about the stage robbery north of Bisbee the other day?”

“No, can’t say that I have.” He smirked.

“The bandits stole the payroll for the Bisbee Copper Mine, kidnapped two of the passengers, and shot the person riding shotgun.”

She slid from his grasp, took a step back, and lifted the veil to reveal the wound on her forehead.

“I was the one who got shot. And I’m here to recover the payroll and the two passengers.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. He lunged to grab her but was greeted with a knee to the groin. The music stopped and everyone turned see the commotion.

“Stop that woman!” Sam moaned, as she fled through the crowd.

Pete found Willie in the kitchen.

“I need to go water a tree. How ’bout you?” He nodded toward the back door. Willie followed him around the corner of the building.

“Red’s inside,” Pete whispered. “She’s got three horses tied to a mesquite down there.”

He pointed to a low area not far from the kitchen porch. “We’re to meet her there in a couple of minutes.”

“Praise be!” Willie’s white teeth glowed in the faint moonlight.

They heard shouting from the veranda, followed by gunshots. Red came running toward them, her skirt gathered in both hands. “Mount up! We gotta get out of here—now!”

She heard cursing and glanced over her shoulder. Big Sam was pointing a revolver in her direction. Flame leapt from the barrel. Swinging into the saddle, she lit a stick of dynamite and heaved it toward Sam.

“Dynamite!” the big man yelled, ducking for cover. The explosion slowed the pursuers but didn’t stop a barrage of bullets from ripping through the underbrush.

Riding hard, they followed the road to the bottom of the hill. Sheriff Hatch and the posse were waiting at a narrow pass between two rock ledges.

“We heard the signal,” Hatch said. “Where’s Sam?”

“He’ll be here any minute.”

“Sheriff, set your men up on this side of the pass,” she said. “When Sam’s gang comes through, I’ll create a rockslide behind them so they can’t escape. Willie, you and Pete follow the sheriff.”

She dismounted, handed her reins to Willie, and ran to a cleft in the rocks.

Over his shoulder, Pete could hear thundering hoofbeats growing ever louder and saw an ominous cloud of dust rising in the moonlight and slithering toward them like an angry rattlesnake.

Hatch positioned three men on each flank. He and two others blocked the middle of the road.

Sam and his gang had just cleared the pass when the ground shook with a powerful explosion. When they slowed to look back at the bombardment of rocks hailing down behind them the posse moved in. Big Sam gave up without a fight.

Pete rushed to the rockslide. “Red, where are you?”

No answer. Long minutes passed. A figure staggered toward him in the dusty haze, her hands filled with lace and satin. Pete jumped from his horse and squeezed Red in a bear hug.

“What’s gotten into you?” She smiled. “Is it this fancy dress? Would you take me to your room if I was wearing this?”

“Nah.” He shook his head slowly.

Her smile faded.

Taking her hand, he gazed deeply into her eyes. “I’d rather go to the livery stable and roll in the hay with a real woman.”

RUSSELL GAYER is a fourth generation Ozark native, residing on the family homestead near Goshen, Arkansas. From an early age, Russell fed his brain a steady diet of Rocky & Bullwinkle, Looney Tunes, and that thrilling Test Pattern that appeared when television stations logged off the air. He gorged on the humor of and others without realizing the mental-health hazards. In those days, people like Jonathan Winters came without warning labels. One day Russell opened the back of Field&Stream magazine and read an article by Patrick McManus. It seems that McManus suffered from a rare mental disorder that enabled him to turn mundane, everyday occurrences into hilarious misadventures. Russell had an epiphany right then and there, without even knowing what one was. An award-winning author and speaker, Russell has published two books, ThePerilsofHeavyThinking and OneIdiotShortofaVillage. He also enjoys writing non-fiction articles on local history. Visit Russell’s website at www.russellgayer.com.