| Western Fiction posted March 8, 2024 |
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Story Set in Wyoming in Old West 1891
Monty and the Bounty Hunter
by CrystieCookie999
My name is Nettie Miller, and I am going to tell you a story about when I was seventeen years old. My fifteen-year-old brother, Archie, and I lived in Buffalo, Wyoming. It wasn't much of a house, just four small rooms in all, but then again, in 1891, Buffalo wasn't much of a town. Archie and I were orphans, due to our parents having died of influenza during a really bad winter in Wyoming two years ago. But winters in Wyoming have a life of their own, and I have never seen a mild winter in Wyoming. Winter lasts from about October to April, and sometimes stretching clear to May. Both Archie and I were done with school by eighth grade. Since I was already a tall girl at age fifteen, I took a hotel maid job after our parents died so that Archie could finish his last two grades of school. We had to sell my father's two horses and wagon that our father used, just to pay for the doctor bills and our parents' funerals. But at least Archie and I still inherited the house my father had built, plus all the furniture and keepsakes my mother liked best.
At the end of the winter in early 1891, Archie found an orphan raccoon in the foothills and brought him home for us to take care of. "Let's name him Monty," he suggested, and I agreed. We had to borrow a baby bottle from the Nelsons, our neighbors, to figure out how to feed him. Mrs. Nelson even brought over a cup of milk from their cow every morning to help the little raccoon grow stronger. I helped Mrs. Nelson weed her garden a few times to show our appreciation, and she often asked us how Monty was doing.
I think taking care of a little raccoon kit eased the heartache in both Archie and me. Monty still rates as the most intelligent, most curious, most affectionate, and most mischievous animal we have ever owned. Then again, maybe Monty owned us. It takes a lot of work to keep track of a raccoon at any age. Archie was ready to send Monty back out into the wilderness after the first week, but after I lectured him on taking on responsibility, he relented. Archie was just finishing up his last grade of school, so he could come home at lunchtime to give Monty another feeding. We decided it would be worth it as long as Monty didn't destroy the furniture and bedding. Well, Monty came close to it a couple of times, but the furniture and bedding survived...and so did we. Once in a blue moon, I would invite people in town or from church to eat dinner at our house, but I had to be particularly careful that they were animal enthusiasts, especially when it came to raccoons.
Archie and I both worked at the Occidental Hotel in the business part of town. Its official address is 10 North Main Street in Buffalo. Some people think the town of Buffalo was named after herds of bison that formerly ranged through the Wyoming Territory. An apology here; make that the state of Wyoming. I keep forgetting we have been a state since July 10, 1890. We are better known for being the first territory in the United States to grant female suffrage, so all women can vote, ever since 1869. Anyway, the town of Buffalo was named because of a name drawing. One of the County Commissioners had the bright idea of collecting suggestions for city names from everyone, then drawing one out of a hat. One fellow from Buffalo, New York entered his hometown's name in, and that was the name that was drawn. He was so pleased that his New York hometown's name was drawn, he stayed an extra month in town before moving on to Oregon. We were just lucky he wasn't from Schenectady or Poughkeepsie, or some other hard-to-pronounce New York town, or else the lot of us citizens would have demanded another name drawing.
Anyway, the hotel where my brother and I worked started out as the brilliant idea of one Charles Buell from Wisconsin. In 1879 Buell had just decided to build a tent and settle along the Clear Creek near the Bozeman Trail in northern Wyoming. Some hungry men, who had been uncommonly lucky while mining for gold, approached him for a place to rest from their labors. The way our supervisor, Ada Fullerton, told the story made me think the miners must have been the most gullible men in the Wyoming Territory. Hear me out on this one. First they asked Buell if he knew of any banks in the area where they could deposit their gold stores. Anyway, Buell directed the men to accompany him to the rear of his tent, where he revealed a large hole in the ground, concealed by a buffalo robe. The miners grinned, and every last man in the group unloaded their gold into the first "bank" in Buffalo. I don't know why they thought Buell's hole looked like a bank vault, but maybe they were just near-sighted or a little drunk. One time I asked Archie, "Have you ever heard of gold fever affecting a man's eyesight long-term?" But he just shrugged.
Then Charles Buell and a man named A.J. McCray expanded the structure of the hotel with long Ponderosa pine logs. The rooms in the hotel rented out for $2.50 a day. That was where my job came in. I cleaned the rooms, helped launder the linens, dusted the furniture, fluffed the pillows, and hauled in one full basin of clean water daily for each room. The part of my job I hated the most was emptying out the saloon spittoons and the hotel chamber pots. I couldn't always dump the chamber pots in the outhouse, because people were often utilizing those facilities. So I had to lug the pots out another hundred feet behind the outhouses to a drainage pit. Sometimes I could catch the eye of Archie or another boy to come help shovel a layer of dirt and lime powder over the night's remnants and keep the odors contained. At least in the summer time, people were more likely to head outdoors to the outhouse on their own. My brother and I worked nine to ten hours a day, except for having every other Sunday off. Archie helped chop wood for the big fireplace to heat the main saloon and restaurant rooms on the first floor. He also helped hotel visitors keep their horses fed and watered.
The other thing about the Occidental Hotel that you ought to know about is that we often got famous visitors in our hotel, known for its. That included people like Calamity Jane. I was just one of the hotel maids who cleaned up all the 'spit' in 'hospitality.' The story I want to tell you has to do with a bounty hunter named Clive Ames. He checked into the Occidental Hotel in early 1891 and stayed for nearly two weeks. So my brother, Archie, and I got to know him pretty well. But Monty got to know Clive even better.
Clive Ames didn't sign the hotel register with his real name. He signed it: Bart Altman. I noticed him when he came in, because he was the same height as my father, and if you looked at him from behind, his head was almost the same shape and size, too. He looked like an ordinary rancher in his attire and the way he walked, and he seemed about the same age as my father, too. Only his eyes were different, kind of a light brown color. But when I was cleaning his room after the first night, I noticed his leather carry-all pouch had the initials C.A. on the front. Well, "C" doesn't look anything like "B" in my opinion, so I was puzzled. Now sometimes men with checkered backgrounds check into the hotel under assumed names, but he didn't strike me as that kind of scoundrel. So while I was dusting the furniture, I accidentally-on-purpose opened all the drawers to see if I could find a clue to who Bart Altman really was. I found a couple of letters in the corner of one drawer, addressed to Clive Ames. Since Clive had gone downstairs to eat in the saloon, I read one letter which told a man named Clive how to recognize a couple of men who had evaded justice. It took me another minute to figure out that Bart was really Clive. And if Clive was looking for people who had eluded the law, he must be a bounty hunter. That's the kind of occupation that impresses my brother, Archie, plus I seemed to recollect reading about Clive Ames once in a newspaper from Deadwood, South Dakota, that another hotel guest had left behind in their room. So after cleaning the other hotel rooms on my docket, I watched until Clive Ames appeared to be going back into his second-floor room.
"Mr. Altman?"
The man turned to face me. I noticed he had a small scar, maybe an inch long, in the middle of his right cheek.
"My name is Nettie Miller. I know you registered for a longer-than-usual stay in the hotel here. If you're not against makin' acquaintances with people in town, I was wondering if you might like to come to eat dinner with my brother and me at our house tonight? I can promise you venison steaks, baked potatoes, and my mother's best cornbread, which was the only thing I was glad she taught me when she was alive, besides sewing."
Mr. Altman smiled and even looked intrigued, maybe because he had found out the saloon food downstairs, as good as it was, still wasn't as tasty as home cooking. "Sure, I appreciate the invitation. Were you thinking about six or seven?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Altman. I'll be expecting you at seven at 500 North Main, just up the street a bit. We have a cottonwood tree in the front yard."
"Sounds like a great deal to me. Thank you, Miss Nettie Miller." He entered his hotel room and closed the door.
Even though I referred to him by the name Mr. Bart Altman, when he arrived at our house, I asked him point-blank if maybe he went by another name.
He looked half-sternly at me for a moment, in a way that also reminded me of my father, and then he said, "What other name do you think I go by?"
I hemmed and hawed. "Well, sir, I was wondering if maybe you are the one and only Clive Ames. If that really is you, then my brother, Archie, would be honored to make your acquaintance. He should be home for dinner in a few minutes."
"Hmm. Well, you found me out," Clive said, with only a half-frown. "Normally I don't try to pass muster as another person, but there's someone in the area I came to find. I reckon he'll stay out in the open, if he doesn't know I'm in the town of Buffalo here."
I nodded. "That certainly stands to reason. Oh, and by the way, there's a pet raccoon in our house. Goes by Monty. He might or might not be afraid of you." I had only finished my sentence, when I heard a shuffling sound under my bed, and Monty came strutting out, friendly as ever. I could tell he had been sleeping most of the day, because the fur on the side of his face was flatter than the other side.
Clive Ames' eyes went wide. "Hello, little fellow. What a funny ringtail. This is Monty, you said?" He bent down slightly and cupped his hand out, as if he had something to eat for Monty. Our pet raccoon trotted over hopefully and looked in Clive's hand. Clive held out his other hand immediately, this time with a peanut in the shell. Monty instantly grabbed the peanut and scampered a few feet away to crack and devour the treat. Clive sat down in our best parlor chair to watch the amusing creature.
I laughed. "You just made yourself a friend, Mr. Ames. I'll get back to finishing cooking the venison steaks and potatoes now. The cornbread should be ready soon, too."
A few minutes later, Archie came home. "Who's this, Nettie?" he asked. He looked pretty tired after working a full shift at the Occidental. A large spot of sweat stood out on the front of his shirt.
Clive stood up from his chair. "I'm Clive Ames, and you must be Archie." He held out his hand in friendship. Archie and Clive struck up a conversation, and even though my cooking was nearly flawless, they talked more than they ate. After Archie explained how our parents died, most of the remaining conversation seemed to be about Clive's work and frightening or funny things that had happened to him. During most of the dinner, Monty climbed into my lap, Archie's lap, and then Clive's lap. He seemed to especially like Clive's neck, because he sort of draped himself over Clive's shoulders during half of the meal. Some of our visitors have found a live, furry animal against their skin will make them feel ticklish, but Clive wore his new accessory well. Monty even chattered on a bit, too, as if he were eager to be included in the conversation. He also tried picking up pieces of Clive's buttered potato to sample. I offered Clive another potato to make up for having to share the first one with Monty.
After dinner was over, Clive looked around our parlor again, then at us. "You know, I've taken a shine to you, Archie and Nettie. I am wondering if I could ask you a favor."
"Sure, Mr. Ames." I smiled. "What did you have in mind?"
"I'm wondering if I could borrow your raccoon, Monty, for a card game."
Archie and I were silent for a moment as we looked at each other, then I laughed. "Uh, Mr. Ames? Monty is a mighty smart raccoon, but I'm pretty sure he's never learned to play any kind of card game."
"Ah, I guess I didn't make myself plain enough. What I mean is that I'd like to have him accompany me to a card game in the hotel. I have a hunch that he would help me play a lucky game."
"Oh," said Archie. "You mean like a good luck mascot? You don't need him to hold the cards or anything like that?"
"That's right," said Clive.
Archie and I conferred a couple of minutes about it, then after Clive offered us three whole dollars for the privilege of using our raccoon for a couple of hours, we consented. The card game was going to take place that Saturday at the Occidental Hotel. I must admit, the gambling and card games in our hotel were known throughout the whole state, and even outside of the state. But it always meant more work for me on Saturday nights, cleaning up spittoons before they overflowed and sometimes mopping up different kinds of messes if our loyal customers got too drunk. I was working just about the time that Clive Ames' card game started, so I could check on Monty a couple of times. Monty was having the time of his life, draped over Clive's neck. I could tell Monty was also eyeing a bowl full of peanuts at Clive's elbow, so I knew he wouldn't miss dinner that late at night. I didn't know the men who were playing in the card game in the saloon, but I expected to hear more about it after the card game was over, when Clive returned Monty.
I was not disappointed. When Clive Ames came to our house just before midnight to return our roguish pet, I could see by the light of our kerosene lamp that Clieve was accompanied by another man on a horse who had a dark, scowling expression. He didn't dismount but stayed on his horse in the yard, with an attitude of not wanting to be there in person. His arms seemed to be held by force behind his back.
"Here is Monty, as I promised," said Clive, handing over a wiggly ball of fur that was Monty. "He brought me real luck. In fact, he helped me identify a killer tonight."
I coughed and nearly choked in surprise. "A killer?" I knew a few rascals and ruffians frequented our hotel, but it was another thing to find out we had a killer in the saloon.
"Yes, Miss Miller. I was looking for a man who had not only killed several people, but he was known for being cruel to animals as well. But all I had to go on was a general description, since he was never photographed and usually struck in pitch darkness. Your raccoon was comfortable and at ease with everyone in the card game, until a particular man sat down to play. Suddenly Monty was clutching my head and neck for dear life. His reaction convinced me I was sitting across from the man I had been informed about. He is being accused of killing three women and five men in Kansas."
"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!" That is the closest I have come to swearing, in spite of hearing about every word you can think of in the saloon of the Occidental Hotel.
"Yes, I thought you would want to say something," Clive wryly observed. "He is also suspected to have engaged in animal tortureâ?"namely, foxes and raccoons. Lately he has been going by the name Otto Gualtierro. But I have him now, and in handcuffs."
The other scowling man coughed and spit off to the side. I took a slight step backward in the door frame. Monty had draped himself around my neck and suddenly started screeching. It took me a minute to calm him down, and even then I could tell he was considerably agitated. Apparently our little raccoon, Monty, was a mighty fine judge of character, and he still recognized the depraved character of the man seated on the horse only feet away from him.
Clive added, "I'd like to thank you again, Miss Miller, and your brother, Archie, although I realize it is late."
"Oh, Archie has already fallen asleep. He has to wake up earlier than I do to work with the hotel stables."
"I understand," Clive nodded. "Since my experiment worked, and I feel a little guilty about causing Monty distress, I'd like to give you another five dollars in payment. You might not ever get a chance to rent out your raccoon to identify another suspect, but I'm surely grateful to have friends like you—and Monty, too!"
Clive Ames reached out to pet Monty's head, and then he departed into the night with his quarry firmly under control. I locked and bolted our front door and turned down the kerosene lamp, with a glance upward at Archie's Winchester rifle on its hooks above the doorframe. I tucked Monty into bed by the side of me, and in the morning I told Archie what had transpired.
Now some of you fine folk may call this story into question, but I guarantee that if you were to contact Petersburgh Penitentiary in Kansas, you might get told a version of this factual story all over again. I must admit, Archie is better at telling a story than I am, and if you come over for cornbread and fresh butter this Sunday, I'll make sure he is present to tell you an even better version. I suspect it will include how Monty not only reacted to the killer across the gambling table, but he also gave the man a particularly deep bite on his ankle and marked him with his scent, so other raccoons would steer clear of such a cruel human being. But I promise you this, you can prove this story is true if you show up with a few unshelled peanuts. Monty will be sizing you up as well!
Western Writing Contest contest entry
My name is Nettie Miller, and I am going to tell you a story about when I was seventeen years old. My fifteen-year-old brother, Archie, and I lived in Buffalo, Wyoming. It wasn't much of a house, just four small rooms in all, but then again, in 1891, Buffalo wasn't much of a town. Archie and I were orphans, due to our parents having died of influenza during a really bad winter in Wyoming two years ago. But winters in Wyoming have a life of their own, and I have never seen a mild winter in Wyoming. Winter lasts from about October to April, and sometimes stretching clear to May. Both Archie and I were done with school by eighth grade. Since I was already a tall girl at age fifteen, I took a hotel maid job after our parents died so that Archie could finish his last two grades of school. We had to sell my father's two horses and wagon that our father used, just to pay for the doctor bills and our parents' funerals. But at least Archie and I still inherited the house my father had built, plus all the furniture and keepsakes my mother liked best.
At the end of the winter in early 1891, Archie found an orphan raccoon in the foothills and brought him home for us to take care of. "Let's name him Monty," he suggested, and I agreed. We had to borrow a baby bottle from the Nelsons, our neighbors, to figure out how to feed him. Mrs. Nelson even brought over a cup of milk from their cow every morning to help the little raccoon grow stronger. I helped Mrs. Nelson weed her garden a few times to show our appreciation, and she often asked us how Monty was doing.
I think taking care of a little raccoon kit eased the heartache in both Archie and me. Monty still rates as the most intelligent, most curious, most affectionate, and most mischievous animal we have ever owned. Then again, maybe Monty owned us. It takes a lot of work to keep track of a raccoon at any age. Archie was ready to send Monty back out into the wilderness after the first week, but after I lectured him on taking on responsibility, he relented. Archie was just finishing up his last grade of school, so he could come home at lunchtime to give Monty another feeding. We decided it would be worth it as long as Monty didn't destroy the furniture and bedding. Well, Monty came close to it a couple of times, but the furniture and bedding survived...and so did we. Once in a blue moon, I would invite people in town or from church to eat dinner at our house, but I had to be particularly careful that they were animal enthusiasts, especially when it came to raccoons.
Archie and I both worked at the Occidental Hotel in the business part of town. Its official address is 10 North Main Street in Buffalo. Some people think the town of Buffalo was named after herds of bison that formerly ranged through the Wyoming Territory. An apology here; make that the state of Wyoming. I keep forgetting we have been a state since July 10, 1890. We are better known for being the first territory in the United States to grant female suffrage, so all women can vote, ever since 1869. Anyway, the town of Buffalo was named because of a name drawing. One of the County Commissioners had the bright idea of collecting suggestions for city names from everyone, then drawing one out of a hat. One fellow from Buffalo, New York entered his hometown's name in, and that was the name that was drawn. He was so pleased that his New York hometown's name was drawn, he stayed an extra month in town before moving on to Oregon. We were just lucky he wasn't from Schenectady or Poughkeepsie, or some other hard-to-pronounce New York town, or else the lot of us citizens would have demanded another name drawing.
Anyway, the hotel where my brother and I worked started out as the brilliant idea of one Charles Buell from Wisconsin. In 1879 Buell had just decided to build a tent and settle along the Clear Creek near the Bozeman Trail in northern Wyoming. Some hungry men, who had been uncommonly lucky while mining for gold, approached him for a place to rest from their labors. The way our supervisor, Ada Fullerton, told the story made me think the miners must have been the most gullible men in the Wyoming Territory. Hear me out on this one. First they asked Buell if he knew of any banks in the area where they could deposit their gold stores. Anyway, Buell directed the men to accompany him to the rear of his tent, where he revealed a large hole in the ground, concealed by a buffalo robe. The miners grinned, and every last man in the group unloaded their gold into the first "bank" in Buffalo. I don't know why they thought Buell's hole looked like a bank vault, but maybe they were just near-sighted or a little drunk. One time I asked Archie, "Have you ever heard of gold fever affecting a man's eyesight long-term?" But he just shrugged.
Then Charles Buell and a man named A.J. McCray expanded the structure of the hotel with long Ponderosa pine logs. The rooms in the hotel rented out for $2.50 a day. That was where my job came in. I cleaned the rooms, helped launder the linens, dusted the furniture, fluffed the pillows, and hauled in one full basin of clean water daily for each room. The part of my job I hated the most was emptying out the saloon spittoons and the hotel chamber pots. I couldn't always dump the chamber pots in the outhouse, because people were often utilizing those facilities. So I had to lug the pots out another hundred feet behind the outhouses to a drainage pit. Sometimes I could catch the eye of Archie or another boy to come help shovel a layer of dirt and lime powder over the night's remnants and keep the odors contained. At least in the summer time, people were more likely to head outdoors to the outhouse on their own. My brother and I worked nine to ten hours a day, except for having every other Sunday off. Archie helped chop wood for the big fireplace to heat the main saloon and restaurant rooms on the first floor. He also helped hotel visitors keep their horses fed and watered.
The other thing about the Occidental Hotel that you ought to know about is that we often got famous visitors in our hotel, known for its. That included people like Calamity Jane. I was just one of the hotel maids who cleaned up all the 'spit' in 'hospitality.' The story I want to tell you has to do with a bounty hunter named Clive Ames. He checked into the Occidental Hotel in early 1891 and stayed for nearly two weeks. So my brother, Archie, and I got to know him pretty well. But Monty got to know Clive even better.
Clive Ames didn't sign the hotel register with his real name. He signed it: Bart Altman. I noticed him when he came in, because he was the same height as my father, and if you looked at him from behind, his head was almost the same shape and size, too. He looked like an ordinary rancher in his attire and the way he walked, and he seemed about the same age as my father, too. Only his eyes were different, kind of a light brown color. But when I was cleaning his room after the first night, I noticed his leather carry-all pouch had the initials C.A. on the front. Well, "C" doesn't look anything like "B" in my opinion, so I was puzzled. Now sometimes men with checkered backgrounds check into the hotel under assumed names, but he didn't strike me as that kind of scoundrel. So while I was dusting the furniture, I accidentally-on-purpose opened all the drawers to see if I could find a clue to who Bart Altman really was. I found a couple of letters in the corner of one drawer, addressed to Clive Ames. Since Clive had gone downstairs to eat in the saloon, I read one letter which told a man named Clive how to recognize a couple of men who had evaded justice. It took me another minute to figure out that Bart was really Clive. And if Clive was looking for people who had eluded the law, he must be a bounty hunter. That's the kind of occupation that impresses my brother, Archie, plus I seemed to recollect reading about Clive Ames once in a newspaper from Deadwood, South Dakota, that another hotel guest had left behind in their room. So after cleaning the other hotel rooms on my docket, I watched until Clive Ames appeared to be going back into his second-floor room.
"Mr. Altman?"
The man turned to face me. I noticed he had a small scar, maybe an inch long, in the middle of his right cheek.
"My name is Nettie Miller. I know you registered for a longer-than-usual stay in the hotel here. If you're not against makin' acquaintances with people in town, I was wondering if you might like to come to eat dinner with my brother and me at our house tonight? I can promise you venison steaks, baked potatoes, and my mother's best cornbread, which was the only thing I was glad she taught me when she was alive, besides sewing."
Mr. Altman smiled and even looked intrigued, maybe because he had found out the saloon food downstairs, as good as it was, still wasn't as tasty as home cooking. "Sure, I appreciate the invitation. Were you thinking about six or seven?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Altman. I'll be expecting you at seven at 500 North Main, just up the street a bit. We have a cottonwood tree in the front yard."
"Sounds like a great deal to me. Thank you, Miss Nettie Miller." He entered his hotel room and closed the door.
Even though I referred to him by the name Mr. Bart Altman, when he arrived at our house, I asked him point-blank if maybe he went by another name.
He looked half-sternly at me for a moment, in a way that also reminded me of my father, and then he said, "What other name do you think I go by?"
I hemmed and hawed. "Well, sir, I was wondering if maybe you are the one and only Clive Ames. If that really is you, then my brother, Archie, would be honored to make your acquaintance. He should be home for dinner in a few minutes."
"Hmm. Well, you found me out," Clive said, with only a half-frown. "Normally I don't try to pass muster as another person, but there's someone in the area I came to find. I reckon he'll stay out in the open, if he doesn't know I'm in the town of Buffalo here."
I nodded. "That certainly stands to reason. Oh, and by the way, there's a pet raccoon in our house. Goes by Monty. He might or might not be afraid of you." I had only finished my sentence, when I heard a shuffling sound under my bed, and Monty came strutting out, friendly as ever. I could tell he had been sleeping most of the day, because the fur on the side of his face was flatter than the other side.
Clive Ames' eyes went wide. "Hello, little fellow. What a funny ringtail. This is Monty, you said?" He bent down slightly and cupped his hand out, as if he had something to eat for Monty. Our pet raccoon trotted over hopefully and looked in Clive's hand. Clive held out his other hand immediately, this time with a peanut in the shell. Monty instantly grabbed the peanut and scampered a few feet away to crack and devour the treat. Clive sat down in our best parlor chair to watch the amusing creature.
I laughed. "You just made yourself a friend, Mr. Ames. I'll get back to finishing cooking the venison steaks and potatoes now. The cornbread should be ready soon, too."
A few minutes later, Archie came home. "Who's this, Nettie?" he asked. He looked pretty tired after working a full shift at the Occidental. A large spot of sweat stood out on the front of his shirt.
Clive stood up from his chair. "I'm Clive Ames, and you must be Archie." He held out his hand in friendship. Archie and Clive struck up a conversation, and even though my cooking was nearly flawless, they talked more than they ate. After Archie explained how our parents died, most of the remaining conversation seemed to be about Clive's work and frightening or funny things that had happened to him. During most of the dinner, Monty climbed into my lap, Archie's lap, and then Clive's lap. He seemed to especially like Clive's neck, because he sort of draped himself over Clive's shoulders during half of the meal. Some of our visitors have found a live, furry animal against their skin will make them feel ticklish, but Clive wore his new accessory well. Monty even chattered on a bit, too, as if he were eager to be included in the conversation. He also tried picking up pieces of Clive's buttered potato to sample. I offered Clive another potato to make up for having to share the first one with Monty.
After dinner was over, Clive looked around our parlor again, then at us. "You know, I've taken a shine to you, Archie and Nettie. I am wondering if I could ask you a favor."
"Sure, Mr. Ames." I smiled. "What did you have in mind?"
"I'm wondering if I could borrow your raccoon, Monty, for a card game."
I think taking care of a little raccoon kit eased the heartache in both Archie and me. Monty still rates as the most intelligent, most curious, most affectionate, and most mischievous animal we have ever owned. Then again, maybe Monty owned us. It takes a lot of work to keep track of a raccoon at any age. Archie was ready to send Monty back out into the wilderness after the first week, but after I lectured him on taking on responsibility, he relented. Archie was just finishing up his last grade of school, so he could come home at lunchtime to give Monty another feeding. We decided it would be worth it as long as Monty didn't destroy the furniture and bedding. Well, Monty came close to it a couple of times, but the furniture and bedding survived...and so did we. Once in a blue moon, I would invite people in town or from church to eat dinner at our house, but I had to be particularly careful that they were animal enthusiasts, especially when it came to raccoons.
Archie and I both worked at the Occidental Hotel in the business part of town. Its official address is 10 North Main Street in Buffalo. Some people think the town of Buffalo was named after herds of bison that formerly ranged through the Wyoming Territory. An apology here; make that the state of Wyoming. I keep forgetting we have been a state since July 10, 1890. We are better known for being the first territory in the United States to grant female suffrage, so all women can vote, ever since 1869. Anyway, the town of Buffalo was named because of a name drawing. One of the County Commissioners had the bright idea of collecting suggestions for city names from everyone, then drawing one out of a hat. One fellow from Buffalo, New York entered his hometown's name in, and that was the name that was drawn. He was so pleased that his New York hometown's name was drawn, he stayed an extra month in town before moving on to Oregon. We were just lucky he wasn't from Schenectady or Poughkeepsie, or some other hard-to-pronounce New York town, or else the lot of us citizens would have demanded another name drawing.
Anyway, the hotel where my brother and I worked started out as the brilliant idea of one Charles Buell from Wisconsin. In 1879 Buell had just decided to build a tent and settle along the Clear Creek near the Bozeman Trail in northern Wyoming. Some hungry men, who had been uncommonly lucky while mining for gold, approached him for a place to rest from their labors. The way our supervisor, Ada Fullerton, told the story made me think the miners must have been the most gullible men in the Wyoming Territory. Hear me out on this one. First they asked Buell if he knew of any banks in the area where they could deposit their gold stores. Anyway, Buell directed the men to accompany him to the rear of his tent, where he revealed a large hole in the ground, concealed by a buffalo robe. The miners grinned, and every last man in the group unloaded their gold into the first "bank" in Buffalo. I don't know why they thought Buell's hole looked like a bank vault, but maybe they were just near-sighted or a little drunk. One time I asked Archie, "Have you ever heard of gold fever affecting a man's eyesight long-term?" But he just shrugged.
Then Charles Buell and a man named A.J. McCray expanded the structure of the hotel with long Ponderosa pine logs. The rooms in the hotel rented out for $2.50 a day. That was where my job came in. I cleaned the rooms, helped launder the linens, dusted the furniture, fluffed the pillows, and hauled in one full basin of clean water daily for each room. The part of my job I hated the most was emptying out the saloon spittoons and the hotel chamber pots. I couldn't always dump the chamber pots in the outhouse, because people were often utilizing those facilities. So I had to lug the pots out another hundred feet behind the outhouses to a drainage pit. Sometimes I could catch the eye of Archie or another boy to come help shovel a layer of dirt and lime powder over the night's remnants and keep the odors contained. At least in the summer time, people were more likely to head outdoors to the outhouse on their own. My brother and I worked nine to ten hours a day, except for having every other Sunday off. Archie helped chop wood for the big fireplace to heat the main saloon and restaurant rooms on the first floor. He also helped hotel visitors keep their horses fed and watered.
The other thing about the Occidental Hotel that you ought to know about is that we often got famous visitors in our hotel, known for its. That included people like Calamity Jane. I was just one of the hotel maids who cleaned up all the 'spit' in 'hospitality.' The story I want to tell you has to do with a bounty hunter named Clive Ames. He checked into the Occidental Hotel in early 1891 and stayed for nearly two weeks. So my brother, Archie, and I got to know him pretty well. But Monty got to know Clive even better.
Clive Ames didn't sign the hotel register with his real name. He signed it: Bart Altman. I noticed him when he came in, because he was the same height as my father, and if you looked at him from behind, his head was almost the same shape and size, too. He looked like an ordinary rancher in his attire and the way he walked, and he seemed about the same age as my father, too. Only his eyes were different, kind of a light brown color. But when I was cleaning his room after the first night, I noticed his leather carry-all pouch had the initials C.A. on the front. Well, "C" doesn't look anything like "B" in my opinion, so I was puzzled. Now sometimes men with checkered backgrounds check into the hotel under assumed names, but he didn't strike me as that kind of scoundrel. So while I was dusting the furniture, I accidentally-on-purpose opened all the drawers to see if I could find a clue to who Bart Altman really was. I found a couple of letters in the corner of one drawer, addressed to Clive Ames. Since Clive had gone downstairs to eat in the saloon, I read one letter which told a man named Clive how to recognize a couple of men who had evaded justice. It took me another minute to figure out that Bart was really Clive. And if Clive was looking for people who had eluded the law, he must be a bounty hunter. That's the kind of occupation that impresses my brother, Archie, plus I seemed to recollect reading about Clive Ames once in a newspaper from Deadwood, South Dakota, that another hotel guest had left behind in their room. So after cleaning the other hotel rooms on my docket, I watched until Clive Ames appeared to be going back into his second-floor room.
"Mr. Altman?"
The man turned to face me. I noticed he had a small scar, maybe an inch long, in the middle of his right cheek.
"My name is Nettie Miller. I know you registered for a longer-than-usual stay in the hotel here. If you're not against makin' acquaintances with people in town, I was wondering if you might like to come to eat dinner with my brother and me at our house tonight? I can promise you venison steaks, baked potatoes, and my mother's best cornbread, which was the only thing I was glad she taught me when she was alive, besides sewing."
Mr. Altman smiled and even looked intrigued, maybe because he had found out the saloon food downstairs, as good as it was, still wasn't as tasty as home cooking. "Sure, I appreciate the invitation. Were you thinking about six or seven?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Altman. I'll be expecting you at seven at 500 North Main, just up the street a bit. We have a cottonwood tree in the front yard."
"Sounds like a great deal to me. Thank you, Miss Nettie Miller." He entered his hotel room and closed the door.
Even though I referred to him by the name Mr. Bart Altman, when he arrived at our house, I asked him point-blank if maybe he went by another name.
He looked half-sternly at me for a moment, in a way that also reminded me of my father, and then he said, "What other name do you think I go by?"
I hemmed and hawed. "Well, sir, I was wondering if maybe you are the one and only Clive Ames. If that really is you, then my brother, Archie, would be honored to make your acquaintance. He should be home for dinner in a few minutes."
"Hmm. Well, you found me out," Clive said, with only a half-frown. "Normally I don't try to pass muster as another person, but there's someone in the area I came to find. I reckon he'll stay out in the open, if he doesn't know I'm in the town of Buffalo here."
I nodded. "That certainly stands to reason. Oh, and by the way, there's a pet raccoon in our house. Goes by Monty. He might or might not be afraid of you." I had only finished my sentence, when I heard a shuffling sound under my bed, and Monty came strutting out, friendly as ever. I could tell he had been sleeping most of the day, because the fur on the side of his face was flatter than the other side.
Clive Ames' eyes went wide. "Hello, little fellow. What a funny ringtail. This is Monty, you said?" He bent down slightly and cupped his hand out, as if he had something to eat for Monty. Our pet raccoon trotted over hopefully and looked in Clive's hand. Clive held out his other hand immediately, this time with a peanut in the shell. Monty instantly grabbed the peanut and scampered a few feet away to crack and devour the treat. Clive sat down in our best parlor chair to watch the amusing creature.
I laughed. "You just made yourself a friend, Mr. Ames. I'll get back to finishing cooking the venison steaks and potatoes now. The cornbread should be ready soon, too."
A few minutes later, Archie came home. "Who's this, Nettie?" he asked. He looked pretty tired after working a full shift at the Occidental. A large spot of sweat stood out on the front of his shirt.
Clive stood up from his chair. "I'm Clive Ames, and you must be Archie." He held out his hand in friendship. Archie and Clive struck up a conversation, and even though my cooking was nearly flawless, they talked more than they ate. After Archie explained how our parents died, most of the remaining conversation seemed to be about Clive's work and frightening or funny things that had happened to him. During most of the dinner, Monty climbed into my lap, Archie's lap, and then Clive's lap. He seemed to especially like Clive's neck, because he sort of draped himself over Clive's shoulders during half of the meal. Some of our visitors have found a live, furry animal against their skin will make them feel ticklish, but Clive wore his new accessory well. Monty even chattered on a bit, too, as if he were eager to be included in the conversation. He also tried picking up pieces of Clive's buttered potato to sample. I offered Clive another potato to make up for having to share the first one with Monty.
After dinner was over, Clive looked around our parlor again, then at us. "You know, I've taken a shine to you, Archie and Nettie. I am wondering if I could ask you a favor."
"Sure, Mr. Ames." I smiled. "What did you have in mind?"
"I'm wondering if I could borrow your raccoon, Monty, for a card game."
Archie and I were silent for a moment as we looked at each other, then I laughed. "Uh, Mr. Ames? Monty is a mighty smart raccoon, but I'm pretty sure he's never learned to play any kind of card game."
"Ah, I guess I didn't make myself plain enough. What I mean is that I'd like to have him accompany me to a card game in the hotel. I have a hunch that he would help me play a lucky game."
"Oh," said Archie. "You mean like a good luck mascot? You don't need him to hold the cards or anything like that?"
"That's right," said Clive.
Archie and I conferred a couple of minutes about it, then after Clive offered us three whole dollars for the privilege of using our raccoon for a couple of hours, we consented. The card game was going to take place that Saturday at the Occidental Hotel. I must admit, the gambling and card games in our hotel were known throughout the whole state, and even outside of the state. But it always meant more work for me on Saturday nights, cleaning up spittoons before they overflowed and sometimes mopping up different kinds of messes if our loyal customers got too drunk. I was working just about the time that Clive Ames' card game started, so I could check on Monty a couple of times. Monty was having the time of his life, draped over Clive's neck. I could tell Monty was also eyeing a bowl full of peanuts at Clive's elbow, so I knew he wouldn't miss dinner that late at night. I didn't know the men who were playing in the card game in the saloon, but I expected to hear more about it after the card game was over, when Clive returned Monty.
I was not disappointed. When Clive Ames came to our house just before midnight to return our roguish pet, I could see by the light of our kerosene lamp that Clieve was accompanied by another man on a horse who had a dark, scowling expression. He didn't dismount but stayed on his horse in the yard, with an attitude of not wanting to be there in person. His arms seemed to be held by force behind his back.
"Here is Monty, as I promised," said Clive, handing over a wiggly ball of fur that was Monty. "He brought me real luck. In fact, he helped me identify a killer tonight."
I coughed and nearly choked in surprise. "A killer?" I knew a few rascals and ruffians frequented our hotel, but it was another thing to find out we had a killer in the saloon.
"Yes, Miss Miller. I was looking for a man who had not only killed several people, but he was known for being cruel to animals as well. But all I had to go on was a general description, since he was never photographed and usually struck in pitch darkness. Your raccoon was comfortable and at ease with everyone in the card game, until a particular man sat down to play. Suddenly Monty was clutching my head and neck for dear life. His reaction convinced me I was sitting across from the man I had been informed about. He is being accused of killing three women and five men in Kansas."
"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!" That is the closest I have come to swearing, in spite of hearing about every word you can think of in the saloon of the Occidental Hotel.
"Yes, I thought you would want to say something," Clive wryly observed. "He is also suspected to have engaged in animal tortureâ?"namely, foxes and raccoons. Lately he has been going by the name Otto Gualtierro. But I have him now, and in handcuffs."
The other scowling man coughed and spit off to the side. I took a slight step backward in the door frame. Monty had draped himself around my neck and suddenly started screeching. It took me a minute to calm him down, and even then I could tell he was considerably agitated. Apparently our little raccoon, Monty, was a mighty fine judge of character, and he still recognized the depraved character of the man seated on the horse only feet away from him.
Clive added, "I'd like to thank you again, Miss Miller, and your brother, Archie, although I realize it is late."
"Oh, Archie has already fallen asleep. He has to wake up earlier than I do to work with the hotel stables."
"I understand," Clive nodded. "Since my experiment worked, and I feel a little guilty about causing Monty distress, I'd like to give you another five dollars in payment. You might not ever get a chance to rent out your raccoon to identify another suspect, but I'm surely grateful to have friends like you—and Monty, too!"
Clive Ames reached out to pet Monty's head, and then he departed into the night with his quarry firmly under control. I locked and bolted our front door and turned down the kerosene lamp, with a glance upward at Archie's Winchester rifle on its hooks above the doorframe. I tucked Monty into bed by the side of me, and in the morning I told Archie what had transpired.
Now some of you fine folk may call this story into question, but I guarantee that if you were to contact Petersburgh Penitentiary in Kansas, you might get told a version of this factual story all over again. I must admit, Archie is better at telling a story than I am, and if you come over for cornbread and fresh butter this Sunday, I'll make sure he is present to tell you an even better version. I suspect it will include how Monty not only reacted to the killer across the gambling table, but he also gave the man a particularly deep bite on his ankle and marked him with his scent, so other raccoons would steer clear of such a cruel human being. But I promise you this, you can prove this story is true if you show up with a few unshelled peanuts. Monty will be sizing you up as well!
"Ah, I guess I didn't make myself plain enough. What I mean is that I'd like to have him accompany me to a card game in the hotel. I have a hunch that he would help me play a lucky game."
"Oh," said Archie. "You mean like a good luck mascot? You don't need him to hold the cards or anything like that?"
"That's right," said Clive.
Archie and I conferred a couple of minutes about it, then after Clive offered us three whole dollars for the privilege of using our raccoon for a couple of hours, we consented. The card game was going to take place that Saturday at the Occidental Hotel. I must admit, the gambling and card games in our hotel were known throughout the whole state, and even outside of the state. But it always meant more work for me on Saturday nights, cleaning up spittoons before they overflowed and sometimes mopping up different kinds of messes if our loyal customers got too drunk. I was working just about the time that Clive Ames' card game started, so I could check on Monty a couple of times. Monty was having the time of his life, draped over Clive's neck. I could tell Monty was also eyeing a bowl full of peanuts at Clive's elbow, so I knew he wouldn't miss dinner that late at night. I didn't know the men who were playing in the card game in the saloon, but I expected to hear more about it after the card game was over, when Clive returned Monty.
I was not disappointed. When Clive Ames came to our house just before midnight to return our roguish pet, I could see by the light of our kerosene lamp that Clieve was accompanied by another man on a horse who had a dark, scowling expression. He didn't dismount but stayed on his horse in the yard, with an attitude of not wanting to be there in person. His arms seemed to be held by force behind his back.
"Here is Monty, as I promised," said Clive, handing over a wiggly ball of fur that was Monty. "He brought me real luck. In fact, he helped me identify a killer tonight."
I coughed and nearly choked in surprise. "A killer?" I knew a few rascals and ruffians frequented our hotel, but it was another thing to find out we had a killer in the saloon.
"Yes, Miss Miller. I was looking for a man who had not only killed several people, but he was known for being cruel to animals as well. But all I had to go on was a general description, since he was never photographed and usually struck in pitch darkness. Your raccoon was comfortable and at ease with everyone in the card game, until a particular man sat down to play. Suddenly Monty was clutching my head and neck for dear life. His reaction convinced me I was sitting across from the man I had been informed about. He is being accused of killing three women and five men in Kansas."
"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!" That is the closest I have come to swearing, in spite of hearing about every word you can think of in the saloon of the Occidental Hotel.
"Yes, I thought you would want to say something," Clive wryly observed. "He is also suspected to have engaged in animal tortureâ?"namely, foxes and raccoons. Lately he has been going by the name Otto Gualtierro. But I have him now, and in handcuffs."
The other scowling man coughed and spit off to the side. I took a slight step backward in the door frame. Monty had draped himself around my neck and suddenly started screeching. It took me a minute to calm him down, and even then I could tell he was considerably agitated. Apparently our little raccoon, Monty, was a mighty fine judge of character, and he still recognized the depraved character of the man seated on the horse only feet away from him.
Clive added, "I'd like to thank you again, Miss Miller, and your brother, Archie, although I realize it is late."
"Oh, Archie has already fallen asleep. He has to wake up earlier than I do to work with the hotel stables."
"I understand," Clive nodded. "Since my experiment worked, and I feel a little guilty about causing Monty distress, I'd like to give you another five dollars in payment. You might not ever get a chance to rent out your raccoon to identify another suspect, but I'm surely grateful to have friends like you—and Monty, too!"
Clive Ames reached out to pet Monty's head, and then he departed into the night with his quarry firmly under control. I locked and bolted our front door and turned down the kerosene lamp, with a glance upward at Archie's Winchester rifle on its hooks above the doorframe. I tucked Monty into bed by the side of me, and in the morning I told Archie what had transpired.
Now some of you fine folk may call this story into question, but I guarantee that if you were to contact Petersburgh Penitentiary in Kansas, you might get told a version of this factual story all over again. I must admit, Archie is better at telling a story than I am, and if you come over for cornbread and fresh butter this Sunday, I'll make sure he is present to tell you an even better version. I suspect it will include how Monty not only reacted to the killer across the gambling table, but he also gave the man a particularly deep bite on his ankle and marked him with his scent, so other raccoons would steer clear of such a cruel human being. But I promise you this, you can prove this story is true if you show up with a few unshelled peanuts. Monty will be sizing you up as well!
3,374 words according to Microsoft Word count.
Thanks to Envision for the awesome raccoon on a wood pile. Just right for the 19th Century setting.
There is a reference to violence, but no violence actually happens in the story. Let me know if you think the reference needs a warning.
The Occidental Hotel has been fully restored and is still standing in Buffalo, Wyoming. One of my favorite animal non-fiction books is Frosty: A Raccoon to Remember. In Wyoming, gun ownership is second nature even today.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Thanks to Envision for the awesome raccoon on a wood pile. Just right for the 19th Century setting.
There is a reference to violence, but no violence actually happens in the story. Let me know if you think the reference needs a warning.
The Occidental Hotel has been fully restored and is still standing in Buffalo, Wyoming. One of my favorite animal non-fiction books is Frosty: A Raccoon to Remember. In Wyoming, gun ownership is second nature even today.
Artwork by Envision at FanArtReview.com
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