He walked up the street along the railroad tracks until he came to an intersection where everyone seemed to be turning in or coming out. The new brick building on the corner lacked only a roof, and a boardwalk stretched up the block, inviting people to get up out of the dust of the street. White Deer turned onto the busy road and joined the throngs on the boardwalk. He'd never seen so many people and couldn't help wondering why they were in such a hurry.
A stagecoach thundered down the street, dust rising in a manure-fragrant cloud, and the driver shouting and hollering and cracking a long whip near the ears of the lead team. The rig flew by and White Deer caught a glimpse of the passengers grimly hanging on as the driver made his entrance. The teams and the stage plunged through the main intersection. "Hold up you motherless beasts," the driver yelled. "Stop when I yank on them leathers, you basties." He sawed on the long reins, bringing the teams around so the stagecoach came to a stop exactly in front of the train station. He said something to the passengers, but White Deer could not hear what.
He continued up the boardwalk. As he passed a frame building, he heard the tinkling of a piano, then the batwing doors flew open and a chunky man staggered out at a half run, windmilling his arms to catch his balance. He wasn't successful, and fell flat on his face in the dust of the road.
A big man with his hair parted in the middle and slicked down held the swinging doors open. "If I told you once, I told you a dozen times, Shorty. You're not welcome in the Bucket of Blood. Stay. Out."
Two women in low-cut dresses with lots of lace joined the big man.
The man called Shorty staggered to his feet. Squinting, he aimed a finger at the slick man. "Why, you, I just oughta ..." Shorty's eyes rolled up and he crumpled, smashing his head against a hitching post as he went down. He lay sprawled in the dust, unconscious.
The women laughed. One of them looked at White Deer. He snatched his floppy hat from his head. "Hey cute boy," she said, simpering. "You comin' in? I'm getting tired of old duffers. Seems like everybody's over twenty-five. Coming?"
White Deer shook his head. He couldn't take his eyes off the twin bulges of her bosom.
"'S okay," she called. "Looks like you could use a haircut and a shave anyway." She disappeared into the Bucket of Blood.
White Deer watched. He wondered what people did in the Bucket of Blood. Shorty lay where he fell. Everyone in the street and on the boardwalk ignored him. White Deer decided to do the same. He started up the boardwalk again.
Halfway to the end of the block, he noticed a small building on the other side of the street. A star was painted on its only window with two words above it. A star meant a sheriff or at least a lawman. Lawmen knew what went on, who was who, and all.
He crossed the street, dodging men on horseback, farm wagons, and buggies, but he almost fell over a sleepy old dog. As he got closer, he could see a bald-headed man with mutton-chop sideburns sitting in a high-back chair leaned against the wall. He looked like he was asleep, his fingers clasped and his hands resting on an ample belly.
White Deer knocked.
The man jerked. "Huh? Wha?" The chair came down. He stood up. "Now you see, Sheriff ..." His mouth snapped closed. He smiled, relief written on his face. "Thought for a minute you was Sheriff Adams." The man had a star on his vest. "How can I help you, son. I'm Rafe."
White Deer had not said a word aloud since Lightning Cloud's people went to Canada. "Um." His voice sounded rusty. "Um. I look for one man. One man name of Hickey."
Rafe looked at him for a long time. "Just who are you, boy? You got a name?"
"My father named me White Deer," he said. "I come here from beyond Fall Creek."
"Ain't never seen a blue-eyed Injun," Rafe said. "You a vagrant?"
White Deer frowned. "What is this ... vay grunt? I am not one of those."
"Who'd you say you wanted to see?"
"Man's name, Evan Hickey. Evan J. Hickey."
"Judge Hickey? Why?"
"I have a letter for him." White Deer pulled the yellowed old letter from his trousers pocket, taking care not to tear the paper. He held it out to Rafe.
"Eighteen and sixty, it says. Boston." Rafe turned the letter over in his hand, but didn't open it. "Where'd you get this here letter?"
"My mother and my father were killed when the bluecoats and Arapaho and Cheyenne warriors fought at Fall Creek. This letter is almost the only thing I have from them."
Rafe studied White Deer's face. Finally he nodded. "I know Judge Hickey. His place ain't far from mine. I'll tell him you're looking for him when I go home in a couple of hours. That do?" He handed the letter back.
White Deer took a deep breath and nodded. He put the letter back in his pocket. "You have my thanks," he said.
"Got any money?"
"Money?" White Deer said, surprise in his voice.
"Yeah, money, moola, dinero. Whatever you want to call it."
"Yes."
"Show me."
White Deer dug the coins from his pocket and showed them to Rafe.
"Two-bit pieces. So you've got seventy-five cents. That's good."
"What about these?" White Deer showed Rafe a bill.
"Jayzus. A treasury bill. Fifty bucks. I'll be damned."
"But the paper and the coins, they are money, yes?"
"Ye-es, they are, but ..."
"But?"
"Son, there's been a war, North against South, something you wouldn't know about. Now money's a bit different. So. Do you trust me?"
White Deer nodded. "You wear a star," he said.
"Son, don't you go trusting every man who wears a star. Some are crooked as a dog's hind leg." Rafe cackled at his own joke. White Deer didn't.
"Give me all your paper money," Rafe said.
White Deer hesitated. He wondered if he should tell Rafe about the other bills in the trunk.
"I'll take them over to Wells Fargo," Rafe said. "Get Elmer to change them for eagles or something." White Deer gave him all four bills.
"You wait right here. Fargo's just up the street and around the corner." Rafe clapped on a short-brimmed hat and left the sheriff's office at a brisk walk. White Deer could not help but notice how his belly jiggled. No Arapaho had such a belly. Maybe Rafe was like a grizzly, fat in the fall so the winter can be passed slipping in a cave in the high country. White Deer smiled. Rafe didn't look like a grizzly.
He studied the room. Square, with one window in front and one in back. One desk. Four wooden chairs lined the wall across from the desk. Some kind of yellow pot on the floor, made of brass. A squat metal box in one corner with a round dial and a lever handle. A rack with guns. White Deer stepped over to take a good look at the weapons. A long gun like the ones buffalo hunters used. A rifle with a yellow metal body, one that could shoot many times just by working the lever behind the trigger. Another gun with two large barrels.
He was still examining the guns when Rafe returned. "You sure as hell ain't no vagrant, kid," he said. "Four fifty-dollar treasury bills means you've got two hundred dollars. I got Elmer to break it up some. Here." Rafe sat down at the desk. He put a handful of coins on it. "Eight double eagles worth twenty bucks each. Three eagles worth ten each. Eight silver dollars and eight two-bit pieces. That's two hundred, kid. Can you handle that much money?"
White Deer wasn't sure, but he said, "Yes I can."
"Sure you don't want to leave some of it here? We've got that strong box." He pointed at the squat metal box. "Some of the people out there would slit your throat for a dime, much less two hundred dollars."
White Deer stood for a moment, thinking. Then he pushed all of the gold coins to Rafe's side of the desk. "I can get this when I want it?"
"Sure." Rafe put the money in the safe, then wrote on a slip of paper. "Here. This is a receipt. Bring it in anytime and I'll give you the coins."
"Thank you."
"Think nothing of it. Now. It'll be a while before I can get out to the Hickey place. You've got money, so here's what I think
you should do." Rafe leaned toward White Deer like he was going to tell him a secret. "Goldaker's got a barber and bath joint over on Eddy."
"Eddy?"
Rafe stopped. "Sure. You just got here." He pointed out the window. "This street is Ransom. You just go down to the corner, turn left." Rafe gestured. "Keep on going west for four blocks. The fourth street over is Eddy. Turn south on Eddy and you'll see a sign with red, white, and blue stripes. That's Goldaker's."
White Deer gave a tentative nod. "Go to Gold Acre?"
"Yeah. Go get a shave and a haircut. Two bits. Then you won't look like no vagrant. Understand?"
"Yes, Rafe."
"Good. I'll go make my rounds. Oh, if you're hungry, go to the Bucket of Blood and order a nickel beer. They've got free lunch. You can eat all you want."
White Deer's ears pricked. Food. He'd not eaten for two days.
Rafe strapped a gun rig around his hips below the overhanging belly. See ya later," he said. "Just leave the door open."
Shave and haircut. White Deer reviewed Rafe's instructions in his mind. He left the sheriff's office to face the traffic on Ransom Street. He dodged a pale roan horse and its rider, slipped between two Murphy freight wagons, darted across in front of a rickety farm wagon with a bearded man and a stern-faced woman on the high seat, and leaped up on the boardwalk.
A roar from the Bucket of Blood stopped him. Rafe said it has free food. A nickel beer, he said. White Deer's stomach rumbled. Eat, then go to Eddy Street. White Deer pushed his way through the double swinging doors of the big saloon.
4
The batwings of the Bucket of Blood opened on bedlam. Miners, drummers, teamsters, conmen, railroaders, and a knot of soldiers in blue uniforms—perhaps a hundred men crowed the saloon, and they all seemed to be talking or laughing or shouting or banging their tables with cups or glasses or bottles. White Deer could hardly hear the piano, its notes a tiny tinkle in the cacophony.
No one paid any attention to White Deer when he entered. No one minded as he wormed his way to the bar. And no one remarked about his long hair and unshaven face. But the young dove who'd invited him in before saw him, and he saw her. When their eyes met, she raised her hand and waggled her fingers at him.
He bellied up to the bar when a small space opened between two drinkers. Three barmen served the crowd, hopping about like grasshoppers on hot skillets. The men looked everywhere but at White Deer. He raised a hand. No one noticed but the big burly man to his right.
"Hey Drafty," the man hollered. "Order here."
The barman called Drafty trotted over. "This kid? Order? Tell me, kid. Whatcha gonna pay with? Good intentions ain't enough. Show me some money."
White Deer plonked a quarter on the bar. "Got money," he said, his voice hard.
Drafty did a second take. "'K. Waddaya want?"
"Nickel beer."
Drafty drew the beer and slid it over to White Deer. He dragged the quarter to him and pushed back two dimes.
White Deer nodded his thanks and sipped at the beer. He wondered where the food was.
The burly man talked to the drinker next to him, and White Deer could just hear what he said over the bedlam.
"I tell you, and I'll say it straight. Ol' Evan Jay's got to be taught a lesson. A permanent one. Him sending my big brother up and all. I say we ride on over there tonight and give that uppity bastard what for."
White Deer turned his back to the bar as so many did, and his eyes just naturally sought out the young dove who'd first invited him in. She and a heavy one with the too-blond hair carried drinks from the bar to the tables. They deftly avoided grasping hands and laughed away lecherous comments. Then, as the heavy blond went by a table quite close to White Deer, a man dressed in well-worn range clothes took a handful of her generous bottom. She slapped his face like she'd done it a million times. "You can't afford any time with me, sonny, and handling the merchandise comes with a price. You pay, you get to tough and feel."
"Shee-it," the young puncher said. "All fucking high and mighty, ain'cha?" He turned as he spoke to the blond and his shirt front opened. White Deer went stone still. His eyes fastened on the obsidian arrowhead that hung on a thong from the cowboy's neck. One of those Elina had given him.
A scream half grizzly and half wild man tore from White Deer's throat. "You have stolen from me!" he cried. Drinkers backed away from White Deer, who strode toward the cowboy's table with his arm straight out, index finger pointing. "That is mine. Mine." He came to a stop, spraddle-legged, his finger nearly touching the arrowhead.
A flash of recognition showed on the cowpoke's face. Then arrogance. "Who the hell're you calling thief, Injun?" He swaggered to his feet like he was high and mighty, too good for a long-haired "Injun" boy.
"You got it right, Morlan. That un's plum Injun, you ask me."
White Deer turned his ice blue eyes on the speaker. He had White Deer's red flannel shirt on. "You," White Deer said, "you wear the shirt that was on my back."
Morlan cackled. "Hey Slim. Looks like he's calling you thief, too. What say we teach him a lesson or two in manners, how a Injun oughta speak to a white man."
Slim stood, chest puffed out, hands clenched into fists. He stepped over beside Morlan.
"Two of us're gonna kick the shit out of you, Injun boy. Thief my ass."
White Deer didn't wait for an invitation. He'd grown up in Lightning Cloud's village. Everything a boy did was meant to make him a warrior. Hardly a day went by without a fight, real or in contest. When a warrior fights, there is no such thing as fair play. Only winning. He leaped at the one called Morlan, slipping his arm around the cowboy's throat and throwing him in a classic flying mare. Morlan landed flat on his back, cracking his head on the hard floor of the Bucket of Blood. White Deer dropped on Morlan's belly with both knees. Morlan curled up and retched. Beer foamed from his mouth.
Casually taking the arrowhead from around Morlan's neck, White Deer stood to face Slim. "That's my shirt," he said, his voice cold as the ice in his eyes.
The Bucket of Blood went quiet as a church. All eyes were on the stripling Morlan and Slim called Injun.
Slim's eyes were wide with fright. He called for his tablemates. "Rush. Toad. Come on. We can get him. He's gotta pay for hurting Morlan."
Morlan retched. Bile came, flecked with blood.
The others joined Slim, but didn't look anxious to take on White Deer.
"Come on. We gotta surround him," Slim said, waving for Rush and Toad to go around in back of White Deer. They sidled sideways.
White Deer made no move. He looked at Slim, but his eyes were not focused. He concentrated on his peripheral vision. He stepped back and to the right, putting the table at his right hip. No one could attack him from there.
"You snuck up on me. I killed a deer and you took it. You took my buffalo cape. You took the arrowheads my mother made to keep me safe. You are not people. You are dogs."
Movement showed in the corner of White Deer's eye as Toad attacked. He stepped back, grabbed Toad behind the neck and used the cowboy's momentum to smash his head into the edge of the table.
"Ooooh," said the drinkers in the Bucket of Blood.
Toad's scalp split and blood splattered across the tabletop. He dropped face down on the floor and blood leaked from his head. He didn't move. White Deer ignored him. He faced Slim and Toad.
"Shee-it," a man said. "Four against one and that kid's beating the shit out of them cowpokes. My money's on the Injun, two to one."
"I'll take that. Ten dollars on the cowboys."
Bucket of Blood patrons formed a ring around White Deer and the cowboys. They shouted encouragement to the fighters and made bets. White Deer shut the noise out.
Slim and Rush stood separated by three or four steps. They put their fists up like pugilists. "Fucking Englishmen," someone said.
"Injun'll eat'm alive," another shouted.
White Deer didn't hear. He only saw Slim and Rush.
Drafty hollered from
behind the bar. "You all pay for anything you break."
A man in a three-piece suit and bowler hat called out. "The Indian's half is on me."
Rush shuffled forward, his shoulders hunched to protect his neck. He jabbed with his left, nowhere near White Deer, who stood still with his right hand in his back pocket.
The would-be pugilist shuffled closer. A step away, he threw a roundhouse right that White Deer blocked with his left forearm. His right came from the rear pocket with a six-inch segment of dogwood arrow clenched in it. He plunged the arrow's head into the muscle of Rush's left shoulder, burying it past the barbs.
Rush shrieked and fell to his knees. He clutched at the arrow in his shoulder.
Slim, now desperate, lunged at White Deer, his arms stretched like he was going for a bear hug. White Deer took the half-full whiskey bottle on the table by its neck and smashed it into the side of Slim's head. The cowboy in the red shirt slumped to the floor.
Morlan retched bloody bile. Rush whimpered. Slim and Toad lay silent.
"I think that will be enough." The speaker stood slightly taller than White Deer, but he was heavier. Strands of gray showed in dark hair and his features were weathered and bronzed.
White Deer turned to face him.
The man held his hands up, palms out. "I have no quarrel with you, young man," he said.
"These are thiefs," White Deer said, waving a hand at the four cowboys. He pulled the arrowhead and thong from his pocket and slipped the thong over his own head. "My mother, Elina, made this for me. Now she is dead." He pointed at Slim. "That one wears my shirt, and someone has my buffalo cape. Two more arrowheads like this—" He tugged at the one around his neck. "- and a gold locket, too."
White Deer noticed Rafe standing slightly behind the man. "Rafe. These are thiefs. Take them. Make them give back what is mine."
Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Vol. II Page 3