Nodding while pulling his coat around him, Doc hunkered down to keep most of the icy breeze from cutting into his face. His dark, wide-brimmed hat shielded him well enough, but still didn’t make the cold any easier to bear. He leaned down upon the stock of a shotgun that propped him up like a crutch.
When they arrived at Johnson’s claim, Doc hardly even recognized it. In fact, he didn’t move from his seat until Creek had set the wagon’s brake and climbed down.
“I figure on burying them right here,” Creek said. “Seems fitting since they died trying to sink their claws into this same patch of land.”
Doc scowled at the harsh wind that tore through the clearing like a set of animal claws reaching out from the trees. He made his way down from the wagon and then propped the shotgun against the front wheel. “That’s going to be fairly morbid when you continue to work here.”
“I’m done with mining,” Creek said as he opened the back of the wagon and took one of the picks laying beside the bundled bodies. “At least for the time being. I’m through with mining these hills, that’s for damn sure.”
“You could always come to Texas. There’s plenty of work for stand-up men like you there.”
Creek laughed and replied, “I’d better steer clear of that place, too. At least until something bad happens to Dave Rudabaugh.”
Much to Creek’s surprise, Doc also walked around to the back of the wagon and helped himself to one of the picks. “I’m not sure if Dave Rudabaugh is truly our main concern.”
“Our concern?” Creek asked.
“Of course,” Doc replied sternly. “I nearly got killed right along with you and Caleb earlier, or have you forgotten that already?”
“I didn’t forget. I just thought you’d be glad to wash your hands of this mess.”
“I most certainly will be. But with Caleb preoccupied for the time being, I’m acting in his stead. It was my understanding that he was to become your partner now that these other two are gone.”
“That’s the way it sets,” Creek replied with a slow nod. “Did Caleb arrange this when you went to speak to him in jail?”
“That’s hardly a jail,” Doc scoffed as he hefted the pick over his shoulder. “I should know. And yes . . . that’s the arrangement.”
Creek studied Doc’s face as another wintry breeze ripped through the clearing and froze both men right down to the marrow in their bones. Before long, Creek found himself glancing toward the trees where Doc and Mayes had had their scuffle. “All right, then,” Creek finally said. “If that’s the way it is, I’ll go along with it. By all rights, you earned your own cut a hell of a lot more than the two assholes we’re about to bury.”
Doc’s pick dropped first and cracked against the soil with a loud clang. Wincing at the impact that ran all the way up through his arms, Doc said, “That burying business may be a little harder than we thought.”
Keeping his pick on his shoulder, Creek grinned and asked, “You say you’re from Texas?”
“Georgia, actually.”
“Yeah. That’d explain the accent. It’d also explain how ignorant you are in the ways of winters around here.”
No matter how much Doc plainly didn’t like hearing those words, he couldn’t exactly deny them.
Creek didn’t let Doc stew for very long before swinging his pick high over his head and then bringing it down. The pick cracked against the soil a bit more solidly than Doc’s attempt, but didn’t have any more success. Rather than raise the pick again, however, Creek left it there and asked, “Think you can hit that pick with one swing?”
Pulling in a breath, Doc squared himself to the pick that was partially embedded in the near-frozen ground. He kept his eye on his target, hefted his own pick, and then swung down as if he was driving a railroad spike. Doc’s swing wasn’t perfect, but it struck well enough to send up some sparks as one pick struck against another.
“Try it again,” Creek said. “Just a bit more should do it.”
Doc went through the same motions a second time and wound up driving the other pick another half inch into the ground.
After testing the handle of his pick, Creek grinned, spat on his palms, and rubbed them together. “All right, then. Fetch that dynamite from the wagon and bring a few sticks over here. Set the rest of it next to them rocks. Preferably not facing us.”
Doc took a small wooden case from the wagon and opened it. There were six sticks of dynamite inside, which he divided up as Creek had requested. By the time Doc walked over to Creek, the miner had taken his pick from the ground and was chipping at the hole it had made.
Creek took the two sticks of dynamite, stuck them into the hole, and then covered it up with what little dirt had been chipped away thus far. “You see anyone lurking about?” Creek asked.
Doc was at the rocks already and hunkering down to get a look under the canopy of branches.
“Doc?”
Pulling his attention away from the rocks, Doc walked over to the wagon and removed a lantern that had been hanging from a hook on the driver’s side. Once the lantern was lit and the flame was as bright as it was about to get, Doc held it into the small opening.
“Good Lord in heaven,” Doc whispered.
When he heard footsteps coming up behind him, Doc turned and reached for his gun. Creek stood there, gazing past him and into the glittering little hollow within the rocks. “Pretty, ain’t it?”
“To say the least,” Doc replied as he took his hand away from his holster and used it to brace himself against the rocks. “I may be able to get in there and chip away some of that gold. That is . . . if it’s real.”
“Oh, it’s real. It just ain’t worth the effort.”
“You brought shovels, then?”
Creek blinked once or twice and then looked toward the wagon as if he wasn’t quite certain where Doc was headed. “No offense or nothin’, but it’s too damn cold to dig a proper hole without using dynamite. It is cold enough to kill us both if we stay out here too long after dark, which is right about now anyway. This is my claim and I intend on washing my hands of it. Seems to me that whatever gold is under them rocks probably has some sort of curse on it.”
Doc let out a noise that was part cough and part laugh. “Cursed? If I followed that logic, I would have quit after losing my first hand of poker. There’s money down there and we need to get whatever we can.”
“There’s money all through these hills. That don’t mean we can just scoop it up, pretty as you please.”
“Then what’s this batch of dynamite for?” Doc asked while tapping the remaining sticks with his foot.
Creek eyed the dynamite that had been placed next to the rocks. He then looked at Doc carefully. “I was gonna blow these rocks sky high so nobody could get to this hole. The rest of it will make a hole big enough to hold Albert and Brass.”
“It’s a good thing you’re a miner, Creek, because you’d make a terrible poker player.”
Knowing better than to push a bad bluff, Creek said, “All right, then. How do I know you won’t kill me for this gold the way my other partners tried to do?”
“Because I’m not a miner and I sure don’t want to break my back digging in these rocks for however long it’ll take to clear it all out. Unlike the fools who’d be happy to waste their lives scratching in the dirt for a few more pretty rocks, I’d like to get as much gold out of there as possible and then move on as quickly as possible. I’ve got some big plans for that money.”
“I may not be able to lie as good as a poker player, but I can spot a lie pretty damn well. That’s what saved my bacon from getting fried by those two dead men over there.”
“And what’s that sixth sense of yours telling you now?” Doc asked.
After a slight hesitation, Creek replied, “That you’re good enough with them guns to have killed me by now if that was your intention.”
Doc’s eyes narrowed a bit as he rasped, “I couldn’t exactly be rid of you until you help me with this digging
, you know.”
Keeping his faith in his initial conclusion, Creek waved off the vague threat and headed back to the little hole that had been picked out of the ground. “Then it’ll have to wait until these bodies are buried. That’s what I came here to do and that’s what’s gonna get done.”
A minute or so later, there was a muffled thump announcing that the first two sticks of dynamite had gone off. The blast left a good-sized crater in the ground that was just big enough to hold two bodies without leaving more than a slight mound of dirt and a simple marker written upon a plank.
Not long after the marker had been placed, a louder thump rolled through the cold night, followed by the scrapings of picks and shovels against chunks of broken rock.
8
Caleb had been to a trial or two in his day. Although he didn’t expect a fancy courthouse or even a formal judge, he didn’t quite expect to be tossed into a dry-goods store and forced to sit on an overturned crate. Bullock and a younger man stood behind Caleb to make sure he didn’t try to escape. Once he saw the official making his way to the proceedings, Caleb didn’t want to do anything that would cause him to miss seeing what happened next.
“The Honorable Justice of the Peace E. B. Farnum presiding,” announced a gangly man with a bulbous nose and hair that looked like stray bits of brown thread hanging from a faulty seam.
Even more amusing than the sight of the gangly man was the fact that he’d just gone through the trouble of heralding his own arrival.
E. B. Farnum swiped the back of his hand under his bulbous nose and then dug a pair of spectacles from his pocket. After going through the trouble of getting those spectacles situated, Farnum looked at the three men in front of him and asked, “Is this all the witnesses that’ll be showing up?”
Following the little man’s line of sight, Caleb glanced around and eventually picked out Creek sitting on an old stool, Doc leaning against a table of blankets, and Samuel pacing in front of a shelf full of jarred preserves. Mayes was an even more welcome sight because his arm was in a sling and discolored enough to look like it must have hurt immensely.
“I think this is all there is, E.B.,” Bullock said. “Let’s get on with it.”
“You say these men shot your friends?” Farnum asked Doc.
Before Doc could unleash the comment that was on the tip of his tongue, Samuel spoke up.
“They were my friends, sir!” Samuel snapped. “And I won’t be satisfied until justice is served and I get what’s rightfully mine!” Just to emphasize his point, Samuel smacked his hand flat against the nearby shelf. That caused the old woman perusing the preserves there to jump and let out a surprised yelp.
“Don’t be alarmed, ma’am,” Farnum said. “There won’t be any more outbursts like that.” He then shifted his weight on the stack of flour sacks he was using as a bench and asked, “What’s supposed to be rightfully yours?”
“The deed to that claim, of course. Either that or the cash equivalent of whatever gold may have been taken out of there.”
“What?” Caleb asked as he jumped to his feet. Before his legs could completely straighten beneath him, he felt Bullock’s hand close upon his shoulder and shove him back down again.
“And on what are you basing this claim?” Farnum asked in a tone that seemed wildly out of place for a man perched on a stack of flour sacks.
Placing his hands upon the lapels of his dark blue coat, Samuel replied, “I can produce witnesses that this deal was struck no more than two days ago.”
“Now’s the time.”
Samuel nodded at a few grizzled old-timers whom Caleb had figured were only there for the dry goods. As they stepped forward, the old-timers removed their hats and held them humbly in their hands.
“I was there in the Nuttall,” the first old-timer said. “This fellow here and them two that wound up dead the other day, they were all talking about a deal.”
“What deal?” Farnum asked.
The old-timer pointed toward Samuel. “That one there gets made into a full partner and that one there,” he said while pointing toward Creek, “was out.”
“That’s a damn lie!” Creek said. “Who the hell is this man, anyway?”
“He’s my witness,” Samuel replied. “At least I’m not the one keeping company with known murderers.”
Farnum leaned forward and wagged his finger. “That’s not known just yet.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
Grinning and straightening his posture in hearing that title thrown at him, Farnum said, “Go on. I’ll allow it.”
Caleb stewed in his spot and let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl.
The second old-timer stepped forward. Although his hair was a bit longer and had a bit less gray, he had the same dirty face and sour expression as the first one. “I heard it, too,” he said while shooting a few glances at Samuel. “Fact is, I also heard talk that they were worried something might happen to ’em and if it did, then that fellow there should get everything.”
“That would be me, Your Honor,” Samuel said victoriously.
“What about you?” Farnum asked as he looked at Caleb. “Do you have anything to say?”
Caleb sat up and cleared his throat, but wasn’t able to put on nearly as convincing a display as Samuel. “First of all, I don’t know about any deals struck by that man there and the two that were killed,” he said while hooking a thumb toward Samuel. “What I do know is that we weren’t expecting any trouble when we went out to look at that claim. The next thing I know, we’re being attacked. We would have been killed if we hadn’t defended ourselves.”
“So says the hired gunman,” Samuel muttered.
Turning so he could stare directly at Samuel, Caleb asked, “What did you just say?”
Samuel held up his hands and put a look on his face that reminded Caleb of a puppy that was afraid of getting kicked.
“Do you see, Your Honor?” Samuel asked. “He’s a violent man.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Caleb growled.
“And obviously not a churchgoing man, either.”
This time, Caleb wasn’t able to contain himself. Jumping up and lunging for Samuel was part reflex and part frustration after spending so much time locked up in a stinking old shed. He actually made it half a step this time before Bullock caught his shoulder and shoved him down.
“I am afraid I’ll need more than that,” Farnum said. “Do you have anything signed in regard to this arrangement?”
Caleb felt his breath catch in the back of his throat. The possibility that he may get a somewhat fair hearing after all suddenly seemed more than possible.
“No,” Samuel said. “It was a verbal contract.”
Farnum thought that over for a few seconds and nodded. “A contract’s a contract. Hand over the deed, Mr. . . .”
“Johnson.” Creek sighed.
“If you please, Mr. Johnson.”
Following Farnum’s order, Creek dug into his pocket for a piece of paper that was folded into fourths. His knuckles grew white as his fingers tightened around the precious document. When he looked over at Bullock, all Creek got was a shrug.
“A man’s word around here is his bond,” Bullock said.
“For something so important, it’s usually a good idea to have witnesses on your behalf.”
“How could he have witnesses for a deal that was made behind his back?” Doc snapped.
“Yeah!” Caleb said hopefully. “Answer that one.”
Samuel rolled his eyes while Farnum cocked his head and scratched his chin.
“I suppose that’s a valid point,” Farnum said. After deliberating for all of three seconds, Farnum snapped his fingers and said, “Since Mr. Johnson and Mr. . . .”
“Fletcher,” Samuel said.
“Since Mr. Johnson and Mr. Fletcher both have some sort of claim to the deed in question, they’re both partners. Sound fair?”
“What about me?” Caleb asked.
Farnum brought h
is eyes back to Caleb and winced. “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. This seems to be a dispute between partners and, by all accounts, you were hired on to shoot those two men. If Mr. Fletcher still maintains that—”
“I’ll sign over my half of the claim if he drops the charges,” Creek interrupted.
“What?” Samuel and Farnum asked simultaneously.
Creek nodded and held out the deed. “If Mr. Fletcher agrees to drop the charges against Caleb, I’ll hand over this deed and be done with it.”
Doc’s eyes had gone wide as saucers. “That’s a lot of money, Creek. We can pay for a lawyer to get Caleb out of there. We can pay for a flock of lawyers.”
“I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror if I knew Caleb was hung on my account,” Creek said.
“Fine,” Samuel snapped. “I’ll drop the charges if you make this official right here and now.”
Creek nodded. “It’s a deal. Is that good enough?” he asked Farnum.
Sitting atop his flour sacks like a king, Farnum looked around at the small crowd that had gathered to watch the proceedings. Even though most of that crowd had their arms full of dry goods and were still in the middle of their shopping, those folks gawked and waited as if it was their futures on the line.
“As the duly appointed official for this camp of Deadwood,” Farnum announced.
Bullock let out a tired sigh and grumbled, “Jesus, E.B. There’s other business to be done.”
“All right, then,” Farnum said with a little less steam behind his voice. “Mr. Fletcher will drop the charges and Mr. Jameson will hand over the deed.”
“Johnson,” Creek corrected.
“Him, too.”
Creek extended his arm and nearly got his hand plucked off in Samuel’s rush to get the deed in his possession.
“This is binding, right?” Samuel asked.
Farnum nodded. “You’re in possession of that deed and the charges against the Injun are dropped.”
Although Caleb normally didn’t like to have that word tossed at him, under the circumstances he didn’t mind this time.
“The charges in the matter of Brass’s death are dropped,” Samuel said as he tucked the deed into his pocket.
The Accomplice: The Silent Partner Page 8