A slight commotion down the street drew Bo’s attention. When he looked that way, he saw Martha Sutton hurrying toward the bank. She had her dress pulled up a little so she could move faster. Her blond curls bounced on her shoulders.
She was a little breathless when she came up to them and stopped. “You . . . you made it,” she said. “You really got here with the gold.”
Scratch tugged on the brim of his hat. “That’s what we said we’d do, miss,” he told her with a grin.
“I heard people talking about how the Devils tried to steal it. Is that true?”
“It’s true, but we convinced them not to,” Bo said with a smile of his own.
“You should’ve seen it,” Chloride put in. “It was a real battle royal!”
Bo shook his head. “I wouldn’t go quite that far. They tried to bushwhack us, and we discouraged them.”
“There’s no point in false modesty,” a new voice said. Bo looked around to see Lawrence Nicholson standing there, a pearl-gray bowler hat on his head and his hands stuck in his trouser pockets. The owner of the Argosy Mining Company went on. “You’ve done something that no one else has been capable of, gentlemen. You not only survived an attack by the Devils, but you also delivered the shipment of gold they wanted. A remarkable achievement, considering the events of the past few months. I’m beginning to think perhaps I was wrong not to hire you.”
“We’re happy workin’ for Miss Sutton,” Scratch said. “We intend to keep on doin’ it.”
Nicholson nodded. “I understand. I applaud such loyalty. I would point out, though, that the Argosy can afford to pay you more than the Golden Queen.” He smiled at Martha. “No offense, my dear.”
Despite that, she looked a mite offended anyway, Bo thought. But she just said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t try to steal my employees away from me, Mr. Nicholson.”
He laughed. “Of course. Congratulations on getting your shipment through.” He nodded to Bo, Scratch, and Chloride. “And congratulations to you three on surviving your encounter with the Deadwood Devils.”
As Nicholson moved on down the street, Chloride muttered, “You notice he didn’t say nothin’ about bein’ wrong to fire me.”
“He was thinkin’ it,” Scratch assured the old-timer.
Several of Davenport’s clerks emerged from the bank to begin the task of unloading the gold. Bo followed the clerks inside and watched them place the crates full of gold bars into the vault while Scratch and Chloride stayed outside to keep an eye on the wagon. It didn’t take long to get everything unloaded, including the bags of gold dust in the compartment under the seat. Davenport wrote out a receipt and gave it to Martha.
“There you are, Miss Sutton,” he said. “I assume you’ll want some of the funds added to your drawing account?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I’m going to stock up on supplies for my workers and send them back out to the mine with the wagon.”
While they were making those arrangements, Chloride eyed the saloons on the eastern end of the settlement, in the area sometimes known as the Badlands. The fire the year before had wiped out a number of those establishments, but they had been rebuilt. Chloride licked his lips and said, “I could sure use a drink to warm me up. The sun may be shinin’, but it’s still a pretty chilly day.”
“I was thinking more about getting something to eat,” Bo said with a nod toward the Red Top Café.
“That ain’t a bad idea,” Scratch agreed. “I got somethin’ on my mind I need to ask Miz Pendleton about.”
Bo looked over at his old friend. “You’re not thinking about marriage again, are you? I know the idea crops up every time you meet a pretty widow—”
“Especially a pretty widow who can cook,” Scratch said with a grin. “But naw, I reckon I know by now I ain’t ever gonna settle down. I’ve got a question for the lady anyhow.”
“All right, but don’t be surprised if she slaps your face.”
“It ain’t that kind of question,” Scratch said. “Chloride, you comin’ along?”
The old-timer sighed. “I reckon so. Coffee don’t cut the trail dust as well as a shot of red-eye, but it don’t muddle the mind as much, neither.”
Bo told Martha Sutton they would see her later, then the three men walked down the street to the café.
Sue Beth didn’t look surprised to see them when they walked in. As they came up to the counter, she said, “I’ve been hearing all about your exploits. I guess I should have let you pay for those meals a couple of nights ago after all. I just thought that I’d never see you again.”
Bo reached for his pocket. “I can pay you now—” he offered.
“Don’t you dare!” Sue Beth said with a smile. “Next time, though, I’ll have a little more faith in you.” She paused. “I assume there will be a next time?”
“You mean, are we gonna bring in another shipment from the Golden Queen?” Scratch asked. He nodded. “I reckon we will, just as soon as we can manage it.”
Sue Beth shook her head. “Amazing.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, what can I do for the conquering heroes?”
“It’s a little early for supper,” Bo said. “But how about some coffee and a piece of pie?”
“Apple or peach?”
Bo chose apple, while Scratch and Chloride both decided to have peach pie. As Sue Beth cut pieces of pie and put them on saucers, she said, “You’re going to ruin your appetites, you know, eating pie this soon before supper.”
Scratch said, “Considerin’ the food you dish up, ma’am, there ain’t no chance of that!” He sat down on one of the stools at the counter, and as Bo and Chloride did likewise, Scratch went on. “You know, Miz Pendleton, Thanksgivin’ is comin’ up.”
“Is it?” Sue Beth asked with a twinkle in her eye as she placed the saucers in front of the three men. “Out here on the frontier like this, it’s hard to keep up with holidays.”
“Yes’m, it is,” Scratch said solemnly. “Where Bo and me come from, back in Texas, we always have a big feast on Thanksgivin’ with turkey and all the trimmin’s.”
“I believe that tradition started with the Pilgrims, not in Texas . . . but go on, Mr. Morton.”
“Well, ma’am, I was just wonderin’ . . . if we can come up with a turkey, how would you feel about fixin’ it for us?”
“A Thanksgiving feast, you mean?”
Scratch nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sue Beth took her time in answering, but Bo had a hunch she was just teasing Scratch. Finally, she smiled and said, “I think that can be arranged, Mr. Morton.”
A relieved grin broke across Scratch’s face. “I’ll be much obliged, ma’am. You don’t know how much. I can’t remember how long it’s been since Bo and me had ourselves a real Thanksgivin’ feast.”
“Well, this year you really have something to be thankful for, don’t you? You brought that gold shipment in successfully . . . and you didn’t get killed by the Deadwood Devils!”
CHAPTER 12
After they finished their pie and coffee, Chloride drove the wagon down to Hanson’s Livery Stable. The Texans walked along behind, leading their mounts. When they got there, the wizened liveryman said, “Miss Sutton came by and told me you’d be leavin’ the wagon and those mules here for the night. Ain’t no charge. She’s taken care of it already.”
“I hope you gave her a fair price,” Bo said.
Hanson bristled at those words. “Of course I did! I treat everybody fair.”
Bo had his doubts about that, but he didn’t figure it was worth arguing over. He gave Hanson instructions to have the mule team hitched to the wagon early the next morning for the return trip to the Golden Queen mine.
“Whatever you want,” Hanson said.
They went to Martha’s office next and found the young woman entering figures in a ledger. She looked up at them with a smile as she said, “Come in. I was just adding the shipment you brought in today to the balance sheets. I have to admit, i
t makes things look a lot better.”
“And Mr. Keefer said there’s that much again ready to ship,” Bo told her. “We’ll be heading back up to the mine first thing in the morning to get it. Be back in town day after tomorrow, if there aren’t any problems. If that’s what you want, that is. You’re still the boss.”
Martha set her pen back in its holder. “The sooner we get the gold here, the better as far as I’m concerned. When I get through here, I’ll go over to Bullock and Star’s store and give Mr. Star the order for the supplies I want you to take with you. He’ll have it ready for you early tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds good.” Bo nodded and started to turn away.
“Wait a minute,” Martha said. As the three men paused, she went on, “Tell me . . . how are things at the mine? Are the men still in good spirits? They . . . they haven’t given up on me, have they?”
“No, ma’am,” Scratch replied without hesitation. “As far as I could tell, everybody’s workin’ hard and pullin’ for you to make a go of it.”
Bo nodded. “I agree. They’re a mite worried, of course, considering everything that’s been going on—”
“How could they not be?” Martha said quietly.
“That’s right. But like Scratch says, they’re still on your side.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m going to do everything in my power to see to it that their loyalty is rewarded. Now, what are the three of you doing tonight?”
The question surprised Bo a little. “We figured we’d get some supper after a while, then head back out to Chloride’s cabin, I reckon.”
Martha shook her head and said, “Why don’t you stay here in town? You can get rooms at the hotel for the night. I’ll pay for them.”
She was feeling mighty flush right now, Bo realized, and he didn’t blame her. Having any sort of success again was probably a big relief to her. But as much as she still owed, she didn’t need to be spending her money on hotel rooms for the three of them.
“We’ll be fine at Chloride’s,” he said firmly before either of his companions could speak up. “You can find a better use for your money than that.”
Martha looked a little disappointed. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Scratch said, following Bo’s lead. “Shoot, I reckon old reprobates like us wouldn’t feel comfortable stayin’ in some fancy hotel.”
“The Grand Central isn’t exactly what you’d call fancy,” Martha said with a smile, “but if you’re sure, I suppose that’s all right. Have a good evening, and I’ll see you in the morning before you leave.”
Bo smiled and nodded and ushered his companions outside.
“I notice you didn’t ask me whether I wanted to spend the night in a fancy hotel,” Chloride complained.
“With the kind of digs you’ve got, I didn’t think you’d even consider it,” Bo told him with a grin. “Come on. Let’s get some supper. Unless you’re still full from that pie . . . ?”
“I could eat,” Chloride said.
After they had eaten supper and traded some more pleasant conversation with Sue Beth when she could find the time in the busy café, Chloride once again brought up the idea of having a drink.
“You and Scratch go ahead,” Bo said, trading a quick glance with Scratch to confirm that the silver-haired Texan would look after the old-timer. “I’ve got another errand I want to take care of.”
“What errand’s that?” Chloride wanted to know.
“Don’t waste your breath askin’,” Scratch advised. “I can tell by the look on Bo’s face that he’s got some idea percolatin’ around in his head, but he don’t like to talk about such things until he’s sure he’s got the whole shootin’ match figured out.”
“It’s just something I want to check on, that’s all,” Bo said. “I’ll find you later at the saloon, if you can tell me which one you’re going to.”
“The Bella Union’s the best,” Chloride said. “If we ain’t there, try the Gem.”
Bo nodded and said so long to the two of them.
While Scratch and Chloride headed down Main Street toward the Bella Union Saloon, Bo turned his steps the other way and headed for the sheriff’s office.
He was glad to see a light burning in the window, telling him that someone was there. When he went in, he found Sheriff Henry Manning sitting behind the desk. The lean, hawk-faced lawman looked up and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“My name’s Bo Creel, Sheriff. My partner Scratch Morton and I helped bring in that gold shipment from the Golden Queen mine today.”
Manning nodded. “I heard about that, of course.” He looked more interested now. “I also heard that you shot it out with the Deadwood Devils.”
“That’s right. I was wondering if you’d let me take a look through the wanted posters and reward dodgers you have on hand.”
“You think you recognized one of the outlaws?” Manning asked with a frown.
“I didn’t say that. I’d just like to check on something.”
For a moment Bo thought the sheriff was going to refuse. Manning was curious, and he obviously didn’t like his questions going unanswered. But then he shrugged and said, “All right. Things like that are a matter of public record, after all.” He leaned over, opened a drawer in the desk, and took out a thick stack of papers that he placed on the desk. “Help yourself, Creel.”
Bo nodded. “Much obliged.”
“If you find anything that would help me bring those thieves and murderers to justice, it’s your responsibility to tell me,” Manning added.
“I’ll sure do that, Sheriff,” Bo promised. Of course, that left it open to his own interpretation of what he thought might be helpful, he told himself.
He took the reward posters and sat down in an armchair close to the potbellied stove, where a fire was burning merrily. It promised to be another cold night, and old bones felt the chill more than they used to. As he sat there warming himself, Bo began going through the papers, studying the pictures and descriptions of the wanted men printed on them.
Those posters told a story, too, a sordid tale of lawlessness, death, and desperation. Some of the men whose likenesses adorned the posters had been prodded to their crimes by bad luck. As the outlaw Cole Younger had put it a few years earlier, “We were victims of circumstances. We were drove to it.”
Others, though, had been born bad. Bo had read in a newspaper once about how some doctor back East, or maybe in Europe, had claimed that pure evil didn’t exist, that every lawbreaker had been forced into a life of crime by the way the world treated him. That was complete and utter horse droppings, and Bo knew it. He knew that some hombres were born evil and stayed that way their whole lives. He knew that because he’d had to blow holes in some of them to save his life or Scratch’s or some other innocent person’s.
When he stopped flipping through the reward dodgers to study a particular one, he couldn’t tell by looking at the picture on it if the wanted man was one of the pure evil ones or some fella who’d had a run of bad luck. He was more interested in the name under the drawing of a craggy-faced man with a short, dark beard.
Tom Bardwell.
Wanted for bank robbery, train robbery, murder, and assault in Kansas. Also known as Black Tom or sometimes Four-Finger Tom because the little finger on his left hand was gone, lost in some unknown accident. There was a $2,000 reward on his head, and a $500 reward, minimum, for anybody riding with him in the gang he led.
The date on the poster was two years earlier. It was a good thing Sheriff Manning didn’t clean these out of his desk very often, Bo mused.
He didn’t linger long on the poster before he set it aside with the others he had gone through already. To make it look good—because he could feel Manning’s eyes on him—he continued studying the posters, pausing now and then over one that didn’t mean anything to him. When he was finished, he picked up the whole stack, tapped it on his leg to square it up, and took them back to the desk.
“I
appreciate it, Sheriff,” he said as he set the stack of posters on the desk.
“Find what you were looking for?” Manning asked.
“Not really,” Bo said, “but thanks for letting me look anyway.”
Manning leaned back in his chair and regarded his visitor speculatively. “You know,” he said, “a suspicious man might wonder if you were looking through those dodgers to make sure you and that partner of yours weren’t on any of them.”
That hadn’t occurred to Bo. The thought brought a chuckle to his lips. “There’s no paper out on us, Sheriff,” he told Manning. “At least, not that I know of, and if there is, it’s a mistake. We’re peaceable, law-abiding hombres, Scratch and me.”
“Who carry guns and look like you know how to use them.”
“So do a lot of other men.”
“Other men haven’t been able to shoot it out with the Deadwood Devils and stay alive. I think I’m going to be keeping my eyes on you and Morton, Creel.”
“That’s fine,” Bo said. “We won’t be in town for long, though. We’re headed back to the Golden Queen mine tomorrow to pick up another shipment of gold.”
“Good luck,” Manning said. He added dryly, “You’re liable to need it.”
Bo left the sheriff ’s office and walked to the Bella Union. He found Scratch and Chloride at the bar in the large, ornate saloon. The fire that had raged through the eastern end of Deadwood the year before had almost reached this far, but it had stopped just short of the Bella Union, sparing the saloon.
“Get your errand done?” Chloride asked.
Bo nodded. “I did. Did you get your thirst taken care of?”
“I’m workin’ on it.” Chloride lifted the half-full mug of beer in front of him and drained the rest of the amber liquid in one long swallow. As he thumped the empty onto the hardwood, he wiped the back of his other hand across his whiskery mouth and then let out a loud belch. “There. I reckon that’ll do the job.”
Scratch finished off his own beer. “You ready to go?” he asked Bo.
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