by Tim Champlin
"Matt! Curt!"
We heard running feet on the boards behind us and turned to see K.J. chasing us, waving a piece of paper.
"What's up, kid?" He had shed several layers of his floppy clothes, but what remained still engulfed his small body.
"Telegram came for you just after you left the office."
I took the folded sheet and handed it to Curt as I reached for some coins to tip K.J.
"It's from Cathy and Wiley. They're coming back!"
"Great! When?"
"As soon as they can get a stage up from Cheyenne."
"Should be just a matter of a few days, then. I'm glad we hadn't started for Thunder Valley. We can wait for them."
"Why don't I go out to our camp and get it in shape before they get here?" Curt suggested.
"Better yet, I'll go," I said. "You stay here and meet them. I know you're anxious to see Cathy, although," I added, glancing him up and down, "she may not even recognize you."
"Why?"
"You're about as scruffy-looking a character as I've seen in these hills. Hair and beard haven't been trimmed in weeks, boots caked in mud, clothes that look like you slept in them for a week. .
He grinned. "You don't look as though you just stepped out of a bandbox yourself."
"I don't have a girl coming to town who's interested in me. But, come to think of it, now that warm weather seems to be here for good, I may get a bath this afternoon and send these clothes down to one of those Oriental wash houses."
"Good idea. But right now, let's get some lunch. I'm starved."
"Hey, K.J., come and join us for lunch. I'm buying," I yelled at the boy as he jumped down onto one of the planks laid out to help cross the muddy street. His dark eyes lit up with pleasure.
"Sure will." He hopped back up onto the boardwalk. "Thanks. I got some chores to do, but they can wait."
The three of us clumped on down toward the Grand Central, weaving our way through the crowd on the sidewalk. I had left my hat in our room, and the warm sun felt good through my corduroy jacket whenever we came to a break in the boardwalk roof. In spite of the mix of mud and manure in the street, the air had a soft, sweet smell of fresh pine and new flowers and earth. I took a deep breath and exhaled. It was a good day to be alive.
"Oh, no!" Curt halted abruptly, and swung toward the street, almost knocking me and K.J. into the front of the building we were passing.
"What's wrong?" I caught him by the shoulders and tried to look into his face, but he was staring at something that was passing down the street.
"I don't believe it," he breathed.
"Believe what?" Over his shoulder I tried to pick out what he was looking at, but the street was full of wagons, carriages, and riders, passing up and down in both directions.
"It's him again." His voice was grim but he had a look in his eyes that told me he had not even heard my questions. K.J. and I looked at each other blankly and then back at Curt.
"For God's sake, Curt! What the hell spooked you?"
"As sure as I'm standing here, that black, two-wheeled buggy that just went by had Major George Zimmer and banker Jacob Stoudt in it!"
CHAPTER 15
"Pass me some more of that corn, Curt."
But Curt continued to stare straight ahead, chewing his steak without hearing or replying.
"Curt!"
"Huh?"
"The corn."
"Oh." He absently reached for the dish and handed it to me. K.J. sat on a third side of the table, doing justice to his meal.
"Are you sure you couldn't have mistaken that man for someone who looked like Zimmer?" I suggested, correctly reading Curt's thoughts. "I'm constantly seeing people who remind me of someone else. There are hundreds of new people in town now. And besides, you just got a quick look at him."
But he was adamant. "There was no mistake. It was Zimmer all right."
"How can you be sure?"
"Well, first of all, I got a real good look at both of them as that buggy came toward me. And secondly, I suffered too many years under that bastard not to know him."
"But it just makes no sense for him to be here. He's not eligible for retirement, is he?"
"Not yet. But he could be on some kind of leave-of-absence. Maybe the Third Cavalry was given some relief from campaigning through the winter."
"Even assuming it was Zimmer, what would he be do-doing with Stoudt?"
Curt shrugged. "Don't know. But he always liked to play the big operator. Wherever he goes, he likes to associate himself with the rich and influential. Even if he didn't know Stoudt before the troops came through here last fail, it'd be natural for him to worm his way into his company now."
I could see how nervous Curt had become. "Well, don't worry about it. We'll be out on our claim shortly. If it is Zimmer, we probably won't see him again. However," I added, "just to be safe, it might be a good idea if you kept your beard a while longer." The smooth, dark-brown beard rounded out Curt's lean cheeks and changed his appearance considerably. "As greedy as Zimmer is, he may have taken leave from the Army to join the gold rush himself."
I dropped the subject for the time being to concentrate on the fresh bread the waiter had just brought and help myself to more fried potatoes and onions. "It's a wonder nobody who wintered over here got scurvy," I commented half-aloud, relishing the taste of the long absent vegetables.
My elbow brushed something in my jacket pocket, and I suddenly remembered the old newspaper Jack Colcroft had given me. I took it out and unfolded it on the table. Four-month-old news was better than no news of the outside world.
K.J. finished stuffing himself, thanked us and left, while Curt and I lingered over our coffee and pipes. Curt was absorbed in his thoughts and I in my newspaper. Suddenly, an article caught my eye, and I sat upright in my chair, scanning the column quickly.
"Curt, I think I just confirmed that you did see Zimmer."
"What?"
"This newspaper is dated December thirteenth. Look at this story. General Buck and the Third Cavalry were apparently sent out from Fetterman on a winter campaign against the Cheyenne. Look … right here." I folded the paper and shoved it around to him. "Sounds like it may have been written by Strahorn."
Curt's eyes dropped quickly down the page, scanning the piece, reading half-aloud.
"…struck the Cheyenne village of Dull Knife on the morning of November twenty-fifth … driven from the lodges…tipis and all equipment were burned … holed up at one end of the valley babies frozen to death in their mothers' arms during the bitterly cold night that followed … many relics of Custer's Seventh Cavalry found in the tipis Lieutenant McKenney and four soldiers were killed and seventeen wounded. Estimates placed the number of Cheyenne killed at twenty-two…"
He looked up. "God, the whole thing is a shame. More killing. More senseless killing." He shook his head. "But what's this got to do with Zimmer being here?"
"Read on."
He glanced back at the paper. "What?" he said incredulously as his reading slowed.
"…charges were preferred after the battle by Colonel Ranald MacKenzie against Major George Zimmer for being intoxicated on duty. General Buck would not give any details except to say this, to his knowledge, was the first time anything like this had happened while actually engaged against the hostiles … Major Zimmer was placed on administrative leave pending a court of inquiry into the incident."
He looked up. "So that's it. I'd sure like to get the follow-up to this story." He grinned. "The hard-drinking Major may be an ex-officer now, just like I am. Maybe there is some justice in this world, after all."
"I never doubted it for a minute." We both burst into laughter.
"Let's pay up and get out of here."
Curt snatched the bill off the table and glanced at it. "Whew! Ten-fifty. We're going to have to go to work soon."
"I tell you what," Curt said as we left the dining room, "I don't care whether Zimmer sees me or not, now that I know he's got a lot more
on his mind than turning in a deserter. Let's go get that bath and get these beards shaved."
About midafternoon we emerged clean, trimmed, shaved, and fresh-smelling. We were even wearing clean clothes and had had our boots cleaned and blacked by K.J.
"I feel about ten pounds lighter," Curt remarked. "I didn't realize how grubby I had gotten."
"Yeah. My skin feels like it's breathing again."
"Rather than you going out to Thunder Valley alone to get our camp in shape, why don't we both go, in case we run into any trouble—like claim jumpers. We can leave in the morning and come back the next day. Our animals really need the exercise, and I doubt if Cathy and Wiley could get here before we get back. Even if they do, we can leave word with Bundy to have them wait. What do you think?"
"Great idea. We've got enough money left between us to get a few provisions together, if this flood of people hasn't cleaned out the stores, already."
The rest of the day was spent in selecting our supplies and redeeming and packing our horse and mules from the livery stable. They were heavy and unruly from inactivity. As we retrieved our own animals, I remarked to Curt that Floyd Mortimer must be back in town, since his horse was in the stable and his made-to-order wagon was in the back of the building.
We headed for Thunder Valley at daybreak the next morning, and I was holding my breath as we got closer to it, for fear we would find someone had worked the claim in our absence. But we were relieved to find my fears unfounded. The only signs of life we found were deer tracks and the marks of various small animals near the creek. Our tent had about half blown down or collapsed from the weight of heavy snow, but we got everything back in good order before dark. While cleaning up the camp, sewing the ripped canvas, cutting some new tent poles, storing our food and gear, I was constantly tempted to stop and do a little panning, but resisted, knowing I would not be able to get back to my chores.
We cooked some bacon and beans over our campfire that evening and slept in our tent again. After several months away, it was good to be home. Before starting back for Deadwood the next morning, we checked our claim markers to be sure they were intact and easily recognizable.
We got back to Deadwood the next afternoon and stabled our animals. One stage had come in since our departure, but the Jenkinses were not aboard, Bundy told us. We knew they couldn't have gotten here that quickly, anyway, so we went to get a beer from Burnett. Even in midafternoon the Golden Eagle was crowded, and Burnett was very busy, so he was unable to visit with us. But as I looked around the crowded room for a table, I spotted Floyd Mortimer in the back of the long room, deep in conversation with two men at one of the tables.
"The man must have some other source of income than his elixir," I remarked to Curt as we finally gave up trying to find a seat and stood at the bar. "He'd have a lot of potential customers right now if he were out there pushing the stuff."
We were halfway through our second beer when a yell from outside alerted us that a stage was arriving. About a third of the men in the saloon started outside to meet it. Even in a boomtown the arrival of a stage is a big event, primarily because it brings the mail.
By the time we arrived at the Wells Fargo depot, the mud-spattered Concord coach was already discharging its cargo of humanity. And a cargo it was. I was surprised the coach's leather thoroughbraces had been able to withstand the load.
The driver and Chuck Bundy were in the middle of a crowd of passengers and bystanders. I could hear the driver talking excitedly and some of the others interrupting and trying to talk at the same time. I heard a voice mention Sheriff Pierce's name, but before I could speculate on anything, Cathy and Wiley came running toward us to hug us and grip our hands.
"By golly, you and Matt look thin," Wiley remarked, finally stepping back to take a good look at us. "Pickings musta been mighty lean here last winter."
"You don't know the half of it," Curt assured him. "We'll tell you all about it later."
By contrast, Wiley had filled out and looked strong and healthy. And Cathy looked even better than I remembered her, dressed in her pale gray wool skirt and matching jacket. She was hatless, and her dark brown hair was swept back from her face and held by a clasp on each side and fell loose past her collar. After the initial hug and kiss, Curt, even though he talked to Wiley too, had eyes only for Cathy.
"How was the trip up? You really made excellent time."
"Long and tiresome. The train was delayed twice by washouts. Thought we'd never get to Cheyenne. And then we were stuck there for a week before we could get passage on one of the inbound stages, they were so full," Wiley answered. "Right after we sent you the telegram, we got aboard one."
"I can't wait to get out of these clothes and into something comfortable," Cathy said with a grimace.
"Let's get your luggage and go, then. When we got your telegram, we rented you a room near ours."
"Thought all the rooms would have been rented, from the looks of this crowd," Wiley commented.
"Most of these pilgrims are in here on a shoestring, and can't afford boom-town prices," Curt said. "Which reminds me: we need to get back on our claim as soon as you get rested up; our money is nearly gone."
"Don't worry about that for a while," Wiley said. "After they settled up our father's estate, Cathy and I inherited enough to keep us for a time, provided we don't go out and blow it."
"We got one helluva welcome back to the Hills on the way up," Wiley said as we started for the hotel.
"How's that?"
"Got held up."
"They hit an inbound stage?"
"Maybe thought the passengers were carrying a lot of valuables or money. Anyway, he never got a chance to find out. It was a lone gunman with a hood over his head. I was ridin' up top with about four others, to give the women a sheltered seat inside, and I got a perfect view. He rode out of the trees at the side of the road just as the horses were nearing the top of a long upgrade."
"Sounds like the same method as the others," Curt remarked.
"So anyway, this rider throws down on us with a Winchester and yells for the driver to pull up. The horses were already at a slow walk."
"What about the shotgun messenger?"
"There wasn't one. They were tryin' to save room for passengers. And besides, there was some talk at the Wells Fargo station that they'd never hit an inbound stage. So the driver—Rob Ellsworth was his name—pulled back on the reins and raised his right leg to step on the brake lever. Well, sir, while his leg was still in the air, there was this terrific roar, and that gunman was blown right out of his saddle. He was in another world before he hit the ground. Scared the hell out of all of us on top, it was so unexpected. And the horses, too. They jumped and plunged, and Rob just gave 'em the reins, cracked his whip over their heads, and we took off, with us topside passengers grabbing for the iron rail to keep from being pitched off. Old Rob never looked back, just as though it was the most natural thing in the world and happened every day. Turns out he'd been held up a few times before, especially when he drove for Wells Fargo a few years back in California. It was then he got the idea of strapping a shotgun inside his pants leg with the trigger wired up the inside of his clothes to his right hand. When he lifted his leg to apply the brake, he aimed his leg at the rider and pulled the wire."
"So that's what all the commotion was about with the driver and Bundy just now."
"Yeah."
"I just saw Sheriff Pierce saddle a horse and ride out with several men."
"Reckon he's still alive?" Curt wondered. "If so, he may be the first lead anybody's gotten to this band of gold robbers."
"Since he was ridin' alone and robbed a coach going the wrong way he may have been operating on his own" I suggested.
"'Course, if he's dead, it won't matter much, unless he's carrying something that shows his identity."
"There's not a chance he's alive," Wiley said with a tone of finality. "That blast hit him square in the chest from no more than ten or twelve feet. He'll
be a mess when they find him."
"When did this happen?" I asked.
"Less than an hour back."
A short time later we were all seated in the Golden Eagle catching up on the news. Cathy was dressed casually in soft doeskin breeches and boots. Her pale green-and-white checked shirt was equally tasteful and well fitted.
"I knew I was coming back, so I invested in some decent clothes in Louisville, and then had these pants made in Cheyenne," she replied when Curt commented on how good she looked. "Women's clothes are totally impractical in this country, but at least these fit, and they're not just small-size men's clothes."
Somehow, her sitting there in buckskins drinking in a saloon full of men did not detract from her femininity in the least. She was a far cry from someone like Calamity Jane. She still had that fetching habit of tossing her glossy, dark brown hair back from her face every now and then. Her long-absent smile brightened our table, and by the look of things, Curt's heart.
"We got about three hundred dollars more out of our claim after you left and before the weather shut us down," Curt was saying. "And nothing's happened until we went out there yesterday to clean up the place."
"For the first time in my life, I have enough money that I don't have to worry about where my next several meals are coming from," Wiley said. "Although I'd rather have my father alive and not have his inheritance. But I'm still itching to get my hands on a shovel or a pan and get back at that gold."
"Well, it's been locked up for you all winter in the ice and snow," I said. "Nobody's bothered it."
"So, what did you two do with all your time this winter?" Cathy asked. "Probably chased these saloon girls when you weren't gambling," she added, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
"Have you taken a close look at some of these girls?" Curt asked. "We weren't that bored."
She laughed. "Wiley found out that all his old girl friends were married or gone, and things had changed a lot since he was last home. But we did get reacquainted with all our kin. It was good to be back in civilization again. We had a good visit and a good rest. How was your winter?"