“Ah, a glorious morn,” Colonel Cody said, and stepped outside. He did not pull the canvas down as he went, presumably, to answer nature’s call.
Dooley sighed. One eyelid lifted. He saw gray, not light, not black, somewhere between dawn and night. But he realized this might be his only chance to actually sleep, so he squeezed that eyelid shut and tried to sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Deeply. Without dreams.
Maybe he did doze, but not for long. Because he happened to wake as the coach lifted off its front wheels, then dropped, then almost turned onto its side. Blue was up, barking, snarling, the hair standing up on all ends. Dooley sat up, as well, and felt himself slammed to the floor as the mud wagon lurched to one side, then another. A strange noise ran through his brain.
It sounded like . . . like . . . like . . .
CHAPTER NINE
. . . Like meat being ripped off a carcass.
Which, Dooley seemed to understand, was exactly what was happening.
Blue growled and began digging furiously at the floor. A sack of rice fell off a keg of nails. Dooley caught the musky odor from underneath the mud wagon, and, though his mind felt heavy after a miserable night without sleep or warmth, he understood what was happening.
“Grizzly,” he said.
The bear underneath the wagon, breakfasting on the dead highwaymen, growled.
Blue barked.
Dooley reached over and grabbed the merle-colored hound and pulled him tight against his body. No small dog, Blue scratched and growled like he had the hydrophoby, and the grizzly below did not like the racket. The mud wagon lifted, Blue stopped raising hell and whined, and Dooley felt himself sliding on the floor as the coach tipped to one side and crashed over.
The sack of flour grazed his head. Two bolts of calico smashed his nose. A bag of rice left Blue yelping. Luckily, the keg of nails missed both Dooley and his dog. Dooley slung the cloth off him, saw Blue scrambling to his feet as the mud wagon rocked like a ship in a gale. Holding his breath, Dooley braced for the roaring grizzly to use its brute strength to turn the wagon over again and again. The bear roared. Blue took to barking again, and Dooley lifted the heavy Winchester Centennial.
He spit, and remembered Buffalo Bill mentioning that he had only one round remaining in the rifle. Dooley turned the rifle, worked the lever slightly, and saw it was already chambered. He lowered the lever and thumbed back the hammer. He looked up at the windows and doors.
The curtains hung down, and the early light of morning showed him a sky of gray clouds.
“Hush!” Dooley yelled.
Blue did not obey the command. Nor did the grizzly.
Suddenly, a pistol popped, thudding against the floor of the wagon off toward the rear of the mud wagon. It might have punctured the floor, but so much debris of crates and boxes and barrels and sacks were piled up there, Dooley could not tell.
Another gunshot roared, and Dooley flinched, but that round did not hit the wagon.
Someone’s shooting at me! raced through his mind, but he dismissed it immediately.
“No,” he said, and came to his feet, tentatively. “It’s Buffalo Bill.”
Shooting at the grizzly.
The bear yelped now and roared again. Then Dooley heard the thundering crashes as the bear must have charged. Yes, that’s what the grizzly was doing. Because now Dooley heard Buffalo Bill Cody scream like a little girl.
“Stay,” Dooley ordered, and stood on an overturned barrel, braced between luggage and crates so that it did not roll too much. He pushed the Winchester through the opening, grunting as he climbed onto the side of the coach. The wind had died down now, but the air remained frigid, prickling Dooley’s flesh. He bit his lips, looked until he saw the grizzly.
The bear ran faster than many horses Dooley had bet on in match races. Buffalo Bill Cody certainly wasn’t slow.
It looked like the scout had dropped his revolver—but then a .44 round from a pistol was not likely to do anything more than irritate a grizzly. Cody had found a thin tree and scrambled up it. Dooley came down off the side of the coach and tripped over a mangled, partially eaten dead robber.
Inside the coach, Blue barked ferociously, and Dooley could hear the shepherd jumping toward the opening. He realized he had the grizzly to thank. By overturning the coach, the bear had left the dog caged . . . safe. Dooley could focus on the bear now, and the bear had all its attention on Buffalo Bill Cody, who had climbed as high as he could safely ascend the tree.
The bear stood on its hind legs and pawed for Cody, but came only a few inches below Cody’s dangling boots.
Dooley brought the Winchester to his shoulder, but held his fire. One shot. That’s all he had. Miss, and the bear might kill Cody or might turn its attention and come charging after Dooley. He wet his lips, adjusted the sight, and saw the bear push the tree.
Roots holding firm in the frozen earth, the tree seemed to crack, and did tilt some toward the mountains. That was enough to send Buffalo Bill Cody dropping to the earth. His knees bent, but he did not fall, and he shot forward, away from the bear. He staggered, trying to keep upright, trying to run away from the bear, but it was fruitless.
A man cannot outrun a bear, anyway.
Buffalo Bill slipped and cried out as he slid across the earth.
The bear dropped down to all fours. It charged.
Dooley swung the barrel.
One shot.
That’s all he had.
He held his breath, let it out, kept the rifle moving with the bear.
His finger touched the trigger and felt the Centennial kick like a cannon.
* * *
“Shouldn’t he have been hibernating?” Dooley asked. He kept rubbing his shoulder, for he had fired many a rifle and shotgun over his life, but nothing that packed the wallop of Buffalo Bill’s rifle, which he handed to the great frontiersman.
Buffalo Bill Cody circled the dead grizzly and shook his head. “It’s spring. Close to it. Something could have disturbed his nap, or he could have just woke up. You never can tell about a griz, sir.”
Sir. No longer son or sonny. Buffalo Bill Cody must have finally realized that Dooley was older than the scout. Or now, after Dooley had saved Cody from an agonizingly painful death, the fabled frontiersman had grown to respect the keen eye of Deadwood Dick.
Dooley smiled at the thought. Then he rubbed his shoulder again, and the jovial thoughts left him.
The grizzly was dead. He had never killed an animal so magnificent, so huge, and he regretted that he had to do it—like he often regretted having to kill the men he had killed. But those men had been trying to kill Dooley, and the bear had been trying to kill Buffalo Bill Cody, who now lowered himself to his knees and began praying some Indian prayer, raising his hands skyward, singing in some guttural chant, asking the Great Spirit to take the bear to the happy hunting grounds.
Still trapped inside the stagecoach, Blue barked.
Buffalo Bill finished his prayer and rose, letting out another sigh of frosty breath. “That,” he said, “was the finest shot I have ever seen—and I have made many outstanding shots over the years.” He moved around the dead animal and extended his hand.
Embarrassed at all the attention, Dooley shook the hand, and the two men walked back to the overturned mud wagon.
“Do we wait for Motz?” Dooley asked.
“No,” Cody said. “For I am hungry. And we do not know what has become of the intrepid jehu. Besides . . .” He hooked his thumb toward the graying clouds that hit the mountaintops. “Spring might be near, even here, but you cannot tell that to Old Man Weather.”
Dooley handed Cody the heavy, empty rifle and reached out for the nearest wheel. He climbed to the mud wagon’s side, slid over, and reached into the ruined coach. “Here, boy,” he said. “Jump.” After a few tries, he lifted Blue out, and slid down, somehow managing not to step onto a dead outlaw. The dog growled at the dead bear, but seemed to understand that the grizzly no longer posed any threat.
“What now?” Dooley asked.
Buffalo Bill sighed and nodded at the road.
“As much as I detest the thought, we walk.” And the frontiersman led the way.
* * *
“How far is it?” Dooley asked when they stopped to catch their breath.
“Ten miles,” Cody said, his chest heaving. “Perhaps a little less.”
The East Fork of the Arkansas River flowed, or froze, to their left. The ruts held ice and snow, as did the forests. Dooley’s lungs burned for oxygen.
“I’m usually . . .” Dooley shook his head. “This . . .”
“It’s the altitude,” Cody explained. “Air’s thin. Takes some getting used to.”
Dooley made himself walk. Buffalo Bill Cody followed.
Dooley had no idea how far they had traveled, or how often they had stopped to rest and struggle to find more air, but when they rounded a bend and covered a few hundred more yards they came to another bridge where a creek met up with the river.
Blue wagged his tail, then growled. Cody and Dooley drew their six-shooters and cautiously approached the horse, on the side of the path on the other side of the bridge.
Ordinarily, Dooley would be overjoyed to find General Grant, safe and sound, but the dead man on the side of the road near his horse spoiled the reunion.
As Dooley scanned the forest, looking for the sign of any threat, Buffalo Bill unhooked the dead man’s foot from the stirrup and rolled the body over.
Dooley, figuring that whoever had committed murder was long gone, slid the Colt into its holster and dropped to a knee beside Chester Motz.
“At least,” Cody said, “old Chester did not know what had become of his mud wagon. That would have broken his heart had not a bullet pierced it first.”
Dooley frowned. He saw the powder burns on the dead man’s chest, and little blood, but the old wagon man had not died so cleanly.
“Look at him,” Dooley said. His chest ached, but not only because of the thin air.
“Yes.”
The pockets had been pulled inside out and blood had dried or frozen in his busted lips, his broken nose. Another wound had bled significantly in the man’s side, where he had been shot.
“Robbery, no doubt,” Buffalo Bill said, pointing at the pockets.
“He didn’t have anything to steal,” Dooley said, “especially after the holdup back yonder.”
“The ruffian would not know that.”
“I think he did,” Dooley said.
Buffalo Bill pushed back the brim of his hat and waited for an explanation.
“The leader of those owlhoots who held up the stage,” Dooley said. “He shot him. There.” He pointed at the bullet hole and congealed blood in Motz’s side. “Came up to him as he was defenseless.”
Cody now nodded and pointed at the impressions in the snow and mud. “Yes, yes. Straddled him. Probably slapped him first, then punched him.”
“Not for torture,” Dooley said.
The frontiersman nodded excitedly. “But for information.”
They thought they were onto something now.
“That’s why he pulled through Chester’s pockets,” Cody said.
Dooley said: “He needed something.”
“But he already had the deed,” Cody said.
Dooley sucked in a deep breath, exhaled. “Wait a minute.” He pictured the deed the late messenger had signed over to Dooley. He closed his eyes, wishing he had that perfect memory. Oh, he could count cards well enough while playing blackjack, or remember what cards had been turned up after a few players folded during a round of stud poker.
“The deed,” he said.
“That road agent already has the deed,” Cody said.
“But it doesn’t say exactly where the mine is located.”
Cody blinked.
Dooley tried to remember. He had the deed. He had not expected to lose it. Besides, he had Chester Motz, too, who seemed like a good enough fellow to have helped Dooley find the mine—for a percentage, naturally.
“It said off Halfmoon Creek.”
“And . . . ?” Cody waited.
Dooley shook his head. “Horatio Whitman was supposed to give me directions the next morning. But he got killed that night.”
“That’s it? You accepted a deed that said a mine is ‘off Halfmoon Creek.’ Off? Which way? North? South? East? West? Past Elbert Creek? Or the Derry Ditch? South Halfmoon? North? By Champion Mill or just a skip and a jump from the Arkansas?”
Dooley shrugged.
“Confound it, sir.” Buffalo Bill shook his head. “You accepted a deed like that . . . in a poker game . . . in Denver City?”
“Well . . .” That’s all Dooley could manage.
Buffalo Bill rose. “Well, the killer did not take your horse.”
“That would have been hard to explain in Leadville,” Dooley said.
“Agreed.”
Dooley looked down at the dead man. He shook his head. “I guess Chester told the killer what he needed to know and then died anyway. Shot in the heart. At close range.”
“No,” Buffalo Bill said. “Chester Motz would have taken the secret to the grave, knowing he would die anyway. And Horatio Whitman would not have told Motz where his mine was anyway. He trusted no one.”
Dooley tried to think about that. He thought of something else.
“The killer had another gun,” he said. “Remember. He dropped the Smith & Wesson during the ruckus we started.”
“Derringer,” Cody said. “From the size of the bullet holes and the powder burns on his shirtfront.”
“Well,” Cody said, “at least we now have a horse.” Dooley was stepping away from the body and General Grant. Blue was growling again.
“We also have company,” Dooley said, and pointed down the road.
CHAPTER TEN
Well, Dooley thought, at least these men aren’t wearing flour and wheat sacks and bandannas pulled up over their noses. There were about a dozen of them, wearing coats and winter hats, and carrying shotguns and rifles, which, after reining their horses to a stop, they all aimed in the general direction of Dooley, Blue, and Buffalo Bill Cody.
“Road agents!” one yelled.
Another shouted. “Foul murder! Foul murder!”
But the third voice showed good reason. “Shut up, you dad-blamed fools. That’s Buffalo Bill Cody there. Howdy, Colonel!”
“Good day, old hoss,” Buffalo Bill said, rather cheerfully, and tipped his hat. “A good day to you all.” He lowered his gaze at Chester Motz’s body and removed his hat. “But it has not been good for my fellow man of buckskin here.”
Most of the men eased their horses forward, and Dooley knelt and took hold of Blue’s bandanna collar to keep him from lashing out at the strangers.
“Nice dog,” said one man, which caused another rider, a young man with a cheery face and wearing striped trousers, to stare at the dog, then at Dooley.
“By thunder,” said the oldest of the lot, a thin, lean man with a rawboned face and handlebar gray mustache, “that’s old Chester Motz, struck down by murder most foul.”
“Where’s the shotgun?” asked another. “Whitman?”
“Dead,” Dooley answered. “Killed in Denver.”
“This young man,” Buffalo Bill explained, “took Horatio’s place riding guard. But alas we were waylaid just up the road there, at the crossing near Chalk Creek. Four of the scoundrels are dead, one of which has been now half-digested by a silvertip griz. Two fled. One wounded. And the leader, alas, we suspicion has murdered Chester for ill-gotten gains. It is a long story.”
Someone had the foresight to bring a jug of whiskey. The cork was pulled, and the miner with a black beard nudged his horse forward, took a snootful, and lowered the jug toward Buffalo Bill.
Excitedly, Cody took the offering, drank several swallows, wiped his mouth, and began to recite the story of the ambush, which led to a side story about the attack of the Mormon train in Utah Territory back in t
he ’50s when Cody was but a mere boy, the sending of Chester Motz to bring help, which led to a side story about the time Cody had ridden 267 miles for the Pony Express to deliver Lincoln’s inaugural address to the readers in Sacramento, California, the attack of the grizzly bear, which deviated into a side story about the time a griz had left Cody’s dearest pard Wild Bill Hickok—God rest his soul—grievously wounded and was why he was in Rock Creek Station that time back in ’61 when Dave McCanles and his brood of badmen came to the Express station and got killed for insulting a woman and drawing down on Wild Bill, which deviated into a story about an attack of Sioux Indians over in Kansas but near the Colorado line or might have actually taken place inside the territory, for Colorado was not a state then as it is now, which finally came back to the discovery of Chester Motz, shot dead in the prime of life, beaten before he expired, and dealt a mean bullet into the heart after torture and maligning.
Which led to a round of applause and the passing of the jug, which finally came to Dooley.
“Where’s the griz?” someone asked.
“Where’s the wagon?”
“Where’s the dead outlaws?”
Cody nodded up the road, and a few riders loped off in the direction indicated. Most stayed with Cody, and Dooley, and the second jug of whiskey since the first had been depleted during Cody’s story about Wild Bill and Dave McCanles and had been tossed on the other side of the road.
“And who’s this feller agin?” asked a man in plaid britches and a green bib-front shirt and a sheepskin-lined coat.
“He,” Cody introduced, “is the man who saved my life. Were it not for his keen eye, resolve, and expert touch on the trigger of a Winchester Centennial in. 45-75 caliber, I would not be here to regale you with these stories, which may sound like brag but are just the true, unadorned facts. He lost the deed to a rich and wonderful mine, perhaps, to the nefarious scoundrels and cold-blooded killers who waylaid us and took the lives of a good man, noble and true, and stole two hundred dollars and change from my person.”
“Welcome, mister.”
Hang Him Twice Page 7