Back at the campsite, he quickly threw his saddle on the buckskin, then took any weapons and cartridges he could use from the bodies and the horses. He hesitated for a few moments, trying to decide if he should take the horses and saddles. At this stage there was really nothing he could do with them. In fact, he couldn’t afford to be caught with them. In the end, he settled for weapons, cartridges, and what money he found on the bodies, knowing he would need that. He pulled the saddles off the two horses and set them free. When he was ready, he climbed aboard the buckskin and started him off up toward the pine thicket. Behind him, he heard excited voices in the dark as someone finally came up to see what the shooting was about.
Sheriff John J. Manning had all he could do to watch over the crippled town of Deadwood amid the chaos following the tragic fire. For this reason, he was not happy to get the report that there were two dead men up at the same site where two were found previously. Bullet holes in them, he was told, plainly a case of murder. He walked from the tent that served as his temporary office to find Malcolm Bryant standing there.
“Two bodies, Sheriff,” Malcolm volunteered without waiting to be asked. “Shorty Fagen and Bull Lacey, one bullet each, right through the heart. I found ’em this morning.”
“Fagen and Lacey, huh?” Manning responded. “Well, I don’t expect there’ll be much mourning over the loss of those two. Anything else you can tell me?” He made no attempt to hide his lack of enthusiasm for investigating the report. He had too much on his plate as it was, and no one he knew of would count the elimination of those two as anything less than a blessing.
“Not much,” Malcolm replied. “Last night—we’d already gone to bed—this big volley of gunfire woke me up. It sounded like a war right up the hill from my place. You know I’ve got two women and two small boys at my house now, so I couldn’t run off and leave’em unprotected. So there’s not much more I can tell you.” There was actually much more that he could tell Manning if he chose, for he had a pretty fair notion who was responsible for the two new corpses at the burned-out house.
“Well, I’ll send somebody up there to get the bodies,” Manning said, “but I doubt I’ll have much to go on for a suspect. Anyway, thank you, Malcolm. I’ll see to it.”
“Just trying to do my civic duty,” Malcolm replied, and went on his way.
“You hear that?” Manning asked his deputy, who was also his brother, Tom, when he returned to the tent. “That happened last night, and nobody said anything about it till this morning. The whole damn town’s gone crazy since the fire.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Tom answered. “Kinda strange, don’cha think? All of a sudden we’re getting four murders, right in a bunch. Remember that bulletin we got on that scar-faced fugitive wanted for killing a deputy sheriff in Kansas, just before everything got burnt up in the fire? Wasn’t that about the same time that fellow Beaudry came in complaining about some man breaking his nose? He said that man was a stranger with a big scar across his face. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
The sheriff had to stop and give that some thought. “Damn, I don’t know,” he said. “Could be that bastard has showed up here in Deadwood. Couldn’t be at a worse time, if it is him. If the telegraph is up again, might be a good idea to wire the marshal’s office and let them know what we’ve got up here. Then if they’ve got somebody they wanna send up here to help us out, we’d sure as hell appreciate it.” He paused for a moment, when a thought occurred. “Whoever it was sure did the town a favor—gettin’ rid of those two.”
At that moment, the scar-faced fugitive Manning and his brother were discussing was searching for something that would show him where he had lost Cheney the night before. He retraced his ride to the end of the road and the sheer drop-off to make sure the ponytailed killer had not somehow continued over the edge. There were no tracks, save that of one horse, which he knew were from the horse he rode that night. Watching closely for any sign, he rode slowly back along the road, stopping at a point about one hundred yards from the end of the road. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was the only set of tracks plunging off the edge of the road, so he figured they had to be his man’s. He descended the steep hillside carefully to keep his horse from sliding until he reached the road below. That was as far as he could rely on tracking, for there were too many tracks on the road, in both directions. He had to make a decision—go right to Lead, or left to Elizabeth Town. Chances were good, he thought, that Ponytail would head back to his regular hangout, so he turned the buckskin toward Elizabeth Town.
He killed a great part of the day looking around Elizabeth Town just on the chance of finding the man, even riding down as far as Montana City. There was no sign of the ponytailed villain, nor did he hold out much hope that there would be, and he wondered if he was in some other part of the ten-mile gulch, looking for him. There was only one other place he could think to look. It might be a dangerous, even foolish, place to return to, but he was becoming more and more desperate to finish this thing he had silently promised Cleve he would do.
Marvin Thompson paid little attention to the dark figure standing just outside the door to scan the patrons in the crowded barroom. A lot of his customers took a cautious look to see who was inside before walking in. When he glanced up to see the man approaching the bar, however, he dropped the glass he was rinsing in the water bucket on the shelf next to him. He had not counted on seeing the scar-faced gunman in his establishment again, and this time he was carrying a Winchester rifle as well as the pistol on his side. Wondering if the grim messenger of bad news was there to eliminate another one of his customers, Marvin backed away from the counter and stood gaping until he spoke.
“Have you seen that feller with the long yellow ponytail lately?” Ben asked.
“Mister,” Marvin replied nervously, “Cheney ain’t been back since you shot Frank Worley, and I don’t expect he’ll be back as long as you’re in town. He had a room next door, but it’s empty.”
“Where did he go?”
“I ain’t got no idea,” Marvin said. “He didn’t even tell me he was leavin’—he just went.” Thinking that Ben looked annoyed by his answer, he volunteered, “He always bragged about workin’ for the Homestake. Maybe he went up that way.”
“Much obliged,” Ben said, turned, and left the saloon. Outside, he slipped the rifle back in its scabbard and headed for Lead. It was already getting along toward evening, and by the time he reached Deadwood, it was beginning to get dark. He decided he might as well stop for the night while he was close to the stream he had camped at before. Both he and the buckskin could use a little rest. Now he at least knew the name of the man he hunted: Cheney.
Chapter 13
Suddenly feeling very tired, Ben leaned back against the trunk of a tall pine tree and stared down at the black coffee in his cup, setting his mind free to wander. He had never killed a man before this past summer. To take another man’s life was something he had always hoped he would never have to do, and now, at this point in his life, he had killed many, both white and red, men. The thing that troubled him most was his lack of remorse for any of the lives he had taken. How could he square things with the Man Upstairs? He gave that question a few moments’ thought, and decided there was no way he could be absolved of these sins. Then he thought of Mary Ellen and Danny. Would he see them in another life when this sorry tale was ended? “I doubt it,” he concluded aloud, “’cause I’m gonna kill one more son of a bitch before I cash in my chips.” He stared at the small fire before him until his eyelids became too heavy to remain open. After a while, the coffee cup dropped from his fingers, spilling his coffee on the ground. He was not aware of it, for he was fast asleep, exhausted, and still sitting with his back against the tree.
She picked up the coffee cup and rinsed it in the stream, moving carefully so as not to wake him. She had brought bacon and biscuits for him, but she decided that it was better to let him sleep. He could eat them cold when he woke up. She then picked up the tattered blan
ket lying by his saddle and very gently draped it across his shoulders. Satisfied that she had done all she could to let him rest, she sat down beside the tree and kept watch while he slept.
With the first rays of sunlight filtering through the branches of the plum trees by the stream, he suddenly awoke with a start, realizing that it was morning and he had fallen asleep. Startled for a second time, he almost recoiled when he discovered Victoria sitting next to him, breathing heavily in deep slumber. How the hell . . . ? he asked himself, trying to remember how she could possibly be there, but he hadn’t a clue.
As carefully as he could manage, he struggled to his feet, trying not to wake her, still mystified as to how she happened to be there. Pressed tightly against the tree trunk and hugging herself against the cold, she looked about to start shaking at any moment, so he took the blanket from his shoulders and wrapped it around hers. The weight of it was enough to awaken her. Sleepy eyed and shivering from the chill of the morning, she scrambled to her feet when she realized that she had fallen asleep on her voluntary watch. With a look of alarm, she glanced all around her, looking for signs of danger. With everything apparently all right, her expression immediately changed to one of chagrin, feeling as if she had been caught in a frivolous act.
He waited for her to speak, but when she was apparently at a loss to explain her presence, he asked, “Victoria, what in the world are you doin’ here? How long have you been here? How did you know I was here?”
Quickly regaining her composure, she busied herself rekindling the fire while she answered his questions. “It didn’t take much thinking to know who killed those two murderers at the house night before last. Malcolm talked to the sheriff yesterday morning, and he sent someone to move the bodies. James was there when they took them. They found a campfire beside the graves and James said they figured the man who killed them had been camping there. I knew it was you and I was afraid you might have come back last night and the sheriff might have been watching for you. So I went there to tell you not to camp there.”
“Well, I ’preciate you worryin’ about me, but you ought not be stayin’ out all night like that. Your mother must be worried sick.”
“I told James to tell Mama where I was if I wasn’t back by morning.”
“Your mama will be fit to be tied,” he said.
“Why? I’m with you,” she replied, as if it were elementary.
“When I wasn’t at the house, how’d you know I was here?”
“Well, I didn’t know for sure,” she said. “But I thought you might be here, because this is where you always took your horse to water him.” She smiled then. “I brought you some biscuits and bacon, but you were asleep. You can have them for breakfast.”
With fresh coffee working on the fire, she questioned him while he shared the biscuits and bacon with her. “As soon as we heard the gunshots the other night, I knew you were involved,” she said. “Like Malcolm said, why would anybody else be around the place? What are you going to do now?”
“Well, you already know what happened. I got two of ’em, but there’s still one on the loose. Just like I figured, they came lookin’ for me,” he answered matterof-factly. “But all they killed was that blanket wrapped around your shoulders.”
Still alarmed that he would risk his life in such a manner, she said, “Oh, Ben, let this be the end of it. Let the sheriff go after the other one. Malcolm can tell him who the other man is.” She closed her eyes momentarily while she shook her head in exasperation. “When I think about you hiding in that burnt-out mess waiting for those murderers—”
“How’d you know I hid in the house?” he interrupted.
“Look at you,” she exclaimed. “It wasn’t hard to guess. You’ve got soot smeared all over your clothes and your arms, even some on your face.” She reached up and wiped a black smear from his forehead with a corner of the blanket. He immediately drew back, a reflex since the day his face had been transformed into a hideous mask. “Be still,” she admonished. “I’m not going to hurt you. You need a bath and some clean clothes.”
Becoming a bit impatient with her mothering, he said, “I reckon that ain’t the most important thing on my mind right now. Besides, it’s too damn cold to jump in this stream.”
“If you’ll come on back to the house with me, I’ll heat some water and you can clean up there.”
“I can’t do that, Victoria,” he said at once. “That feller is probably lookin’ for me as hard as I’m lookin’ for him. I can’t take a chance on leadin’ him back to Malcolm’s house. I made him a promise that I wouldn’t involve him or James, and I sure don’t want to drag you and the boy into it. I just hope to hell nobody saw you comin’ here.”
“No one saw me,” she assured him. “And it’s a good thing they didn’t, because you were fast asleep.”
He grimaced, embarrassed to have been reminded of that lapse of vigilance. “Well,” he responded, “I’m all caught up now. That ain’t likely to happen again. So now I reckon it’s time to get on with what I’ve got to do.”
“Can’t you just forget about that one last man?” Victoria implored. “I’m sure Papa and Cleve would tell you that they’ve been avenged enough.”
He reached down to help her to her feet. “I can’t now,” he said. “I started somethin’ that the feller with the long ponytail is gonna wanna finish, so I couldn’t call it off if I wanted to. I expect you’d best get along back to Malcolm’s now, before they start out lookin’ for you.”
She knew he was right, so she paused to brush off her skirt before leaving him. “James saw the two men you killed, and he said the one that got away is Sam Cheney.”
“I know. I just found that out.”
She stood gazing at him for a long moment before deciding; then she stepped quickly up to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You take care of yourself, Ben Cutler,” she said, then promptly spun around and left him standing there dumbfounded.
“Much obliged,” he mumbled, long after she was out of earshot. Puzzling over the entire surprise visit, and especially the good-bye kiss, he was left to wonder if the young lady actually cared what happened to him. She acted as if she did, he decided. Then his focus returned to the dangerous job ahead. He took the cardboard piece from his pocket and struck a line through two more names, Shorty Fagen and Bull Lacey. That left one, Sam Cheney; then his work would be done. He gathered up what remained of his bedroll and saddled his horse. There was one more message to be delivered.
“Victoria!” her mother exclaimed when her daughter walked into the kitchen. “Praise the good Lord you’re safe!” At first registering the relief she felt when seeing her daughter, she quickly furrowed her brow to scold. “James told us where you went. Have you taken leave of your good sense? I didn’t get a wink of sleep all night, listening for you to come home,” she lied. “And this morning you were still gone. I’d already told Malcolm that we had to search for you.” When Victoria casually tossed it off with a shrug, Mary continued. “All night,” she exclaimed. “What would self-respecting people say?”
“Oh, Mama,” Victoria responded impatiently, “what people? Who cares, anyway? All right, I slept with him. Is that what you’re worried about?” Mary clasped her hands together and pressed them to her breast, as if about to have a heart attack. “Oh, Mama, stop it. When I found him last night, he was sitting up against a tree, sound asleep. I sat down and leaned up against the same tree, and I fell asleep. We woke up and had breakfast; then I came home.”
Feeling relief once again, Mary chastised her daughter. “You’re gonna cause the death of me yet. I declare, I don’t think you’ll ever get old enough to where I can stop worrying about you.” She couldn’t help recalling that the last, and only, time a man had taken advantage of her poor plain daughter, it had resulted in the tragic situation they now found themselves in, although, she had to admit, their marriage had produced a fine grandson. Lately she had found herself praying that Caleb had inherited more traits from his mother
than he had from his father.
The man who had come to Mary Marple’s mind was at that moment drinking coffee in the tiny dining room of Felton Price’s Silver Dollar Saloon. Seated to his right, Angel Lopez picked unenthusiastically at a small half-done steak. “When are we going to get out of this dump and go find a real hotel?” she whined.
“When I say so,” Garth replied sharply. Then changing his approach, knowing she would punish him later if he was short with her now, he said, “We’ll just be here till we can find someplace to start again. This was the best I can do right now.”
“This place ain’t fit for a lady,” she complained. “There’s a nice hotel down near Elizabeth Town that don’t have bugs.”
“Just be patient a little while longer,” he said. He wasn’t fond of the rooms they were renting upstairs over the saloon, but he deemed it prudent to remain in Lead close to the Homestake Mine since Deadwood was burned out. His only prospect for future success was to stay in close contact with Arnold Freeman at the mine. He was about to explain that to the pouting prostitute when they were interrupted by the arrival of an uninvited guest.
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