Cheyenne Reckoning

by Vivi Holt

  “Who are ya?” she cried, holding Gracie tight to her chest. “Whaddaya want?”

  “You can call me Jack. And what I want is for you to listen and mind. Think you can do that?”

  The rope around Claudine’s neck had worn her skin raw. She tugged at it and coughed.

  “Come on!” shouted Jack, yanking the rope and making her stumble. She gasped for air and held tighter to Gracie.

  After weeks on the road, she felt as though she’d walked clear across Arkansas with Gracie in her arms and a rope around her neck as Jack rode ahead of them on his gray gelding. Her feet had worn through the soles of her shoes, her clothes seemed like they would fall off, and she could feel her collarbone protruding beneath her bodice whenever she ran her fingers across it. Gracie mewled weakly against her breast, but she ignored her, too exhausted to comfort the child.

  They’d entered a town, and she noticed people staring as she stumbled down the street. She wanted to yell at them, scream that they should do something, help her in some way. But she didn’t have the strength. How could they look at her and not do anything?

  Jack led her down a dark alley, then stopped. She halted as well. Ahead of him, she saw lines of slaves chained in place. They stood with hunched shoulders as men walked between them, examining them. A buzz of conversation and clanking sounds filled the marketplace and Claudine gazed around in dread.

  Jack exchanged words with a man whose bald head shone in the morning light, then tugged Claudine over. “I don’t know … she looks kinda worn out,” the other man said, scratching his shiny pate as he studied her with narrowed eyes.

  Jack shook his head. “No, no, she’s got plenty of life in her yet. She’s just had a long journey. A plate of food, some water and a bath, she’ll be as good as new. I swear she has domestic experience – she looked like it anyway when I picked her up.”

  “Do you?” asked the man.

  Claudine tried to focus on his face. “Huh?”

  “Do you have domestic experience?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yessir.”

  “Where?”

  “Worked for a family in Memphis since I was eight years old.”

  He frowned. “All right, Jack, I’ll take her off your hands. But if she dies before I can sell her, I’ll be wanting my money back.”

  Jack laughed and shook the man’s hand. “Sure thing, Virgil, you got it. Course the baby’s extra,” he added.

  The man nodded. “I don’t need a baby. I’ve got all I need. Headin’ out to Fayetteville on the train in a few hours.”

  Jack reached for Gracie and pulled her from Claudine’s arms. Immediately, she began to holler and Claudine lunged at Jack. “Noooo!” But Jack ignored her and concluded his business with Virgil, then disappeared into the crowd.

  Claudine stared at the place where she’d last seen him, tears running down her soiled cheeks. She tried going after him, but the rope around her neck held her in place. “Gracie!” she cried. “Gracie!” But now her voice was only a hoarse whisper, and no one paid her any mind.

  3

  October 1870

  Dan walked down Bozeman’s main street, his head throbbing. He’d barely gotten any sleep in the days since finding Dolly’s body. This morning he’d buried her in an unmarked grave behind the Presbyterian church. Several folks from Paradise Ranch had attended and given their condolences, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that had come over him since he’d left Emily in town that day. It had crept into his soul, grown and grown until now it threatened to consume him.

  He was angry. Not just angry – enraged.

  Someone had taken Dolly from him, ripped her from his arms and his heart. He’d planned to propose to her that day, and had imagined in his mind how their lives might look – how Emily would grow and call him Papa, how they might have more children together, how it would feel to hold Dolly in his arms when they were alone, every day for the rest of their lives.

  All that had been stolen from him. And he wanted to know why. He charged into the sheriff’s office.

  Sheriff Ed Stanton glanced up with a frown from where he sat at his desk. “Dan Graham. Good to see ya.”

  Dan put his hands on his hips. “Sheriff, I want to know everything you’ve got on Dolly Hampton.”

  “The woman who was hit over the head?” asked the sheriff as he stood. “I heard you found her out there by the Yellowstone – that right?”

  Dan nodded.

  “Well, I don’t have much. From what the doc tells me, she was struck with somethin’ hard – metal, most likely.”

  “That I know.”

  “Let’s see now … I know you reported a run-in between her and Angus O’Leary some weeks back.”

  “Yep.”

  “How well did ya know Dolly?”

  “I was about to ask her to marry me.”

  Stanton shook his head. “I’m sorry for yer loss, Dan. Sure is a shame, a young woman like that.”

  Dan’s throat tightened. “Did you find out anythin’ 'bout O’Leary?”

  The sheriff picked up some papers from his desk. “Matter of fact, I sent some requests over the wire and got back somethin’ interestin’. A sheriff in Cheyenne in Wyoming Territory sent back this …” He read it out loud. “‘O’Leary works for Augustine Kellogg of Cheyenne. Recommend leaving pursuit of issue to me. Will update as needed. Willie Fisher, Cheyenne Sheriff’s Office.’ Short version is, Fisher over there wants me to let it lie.”

  Dan frowned. “That sound suspicious to you, Sheriff?”

  Stanton sighed. “A little. Might just be that he wants to help, or doesn’t want me piddling in his pond. I couldn’t say – I’ve never met the man. But I thought you might like to know.”

  “Who’s Augustine Kellogg?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Bigwig from New York City – he runs Cheyenne and anything else he can get his hands on. He’s into saloons, gambling, brothels, hotels, you name it. And from what I hear, he’s tryin’ to get into the minin’ business, startin’ with Paradise Valley.”

  Dan tried to wrap his mind around what the sheriff was telling him. “So O’Leary’s just one of his boys.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Have you told that Fisher fella in Cheyenne ‘bout the murder yet?”

  Sheriff Stanton shook his head. “Hadn’t felt the need. There’s no way for us to know whether O’Leary was involved. Far as we know, he went on back to Wyomin’ Territory. No one’s seen hide or hair of him since.”

  “I noticed they’re building the mine,” Dan hissed.

  “That they are.”

  “So who else could it have been?”

  “Anyone. It could’ve been anyone. We got no witnesses, no evidence. I don’t know what more I can do, Dan. I’m sorry.”

  Dan pushed his hat back and scratched his head, willing his racing heart to calm itself. “O’Leary wanted her out of that cabin. That’s reason enough in my mind.”

  “We need more than that to accuse a man of murder.”

  “Tell the sheriff in Cheyenne what happened and see what he says.”

  “I will – but I still can’t accuse O’Leary.”

  Dan shook his head. “Fine. Let me know if you find anythin’ else. I’ll be stayin’ at the Gold Hill Hotel.” He turned toward the door.

  “Will do. And Dan? Don’t go gettin’ involved in this.”

  “Course not, Sheriff. I’m just a cowpuncher.”

  “You goin’ somewhere?” asked Cookie, holding his ladle above a pot that simmered on top of the cast-iron stove in the bunkhouse kitchen.

  “Got some … personal business to take care of,” replied Dan, shoving supplies into his saddlebags.

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll be gone a few days, maybe longer. Let Tom know for me, will you?”

  Cookie nodded, his red-rimmed eyes full of curiosity. “Sure thing. Sorry about Dolly. I know losing her’s been hard on ya.”

  Dan nodded. “Thank ya, Cookie.” He reached
for his bedroll and slicker, as well as a spare set, then hefted the saddlebags over one arm and left the bunkhouse without a backward glance.

  “Howdy there, Dan,” said Ost, holding the bunkhouse door open. “Where ya headed?”

  “I’m leavin’ for a few days. Take care of the chores for me, will ya?”

  Ost nodded, looking puzzled. “Will do, boss.”

  Goldy stood ready, saddled and hitched to a post in the snow. A blanket covered his back and saddle, and he chewed silently on a bale of fresh hay Dan had left by his feet. “Ready for a ride, boy?” asked Dan as he removed the blanket and added the bags behind the saddle. He tied the bedrolls and slickers behind the saddle as well, rolled up the blankets and added that to the pile.

  The sun bathed the land in a frigid pale light that reflected off the snow-covered ground. Dan mounted Goldy and glanced around Paradise Ranch, the sprawling ranch house with its gardens now in winter hibernation, the long squat bunkhouse, smoke curling from its chimney and filling the air with a delicious aroma.

  He turned up the collar of his coat against the cold and leaned forward over Goldy’s neck as his eyes narrowed. “Hi-yaaaa!” He spurred Goldy forward into a trot and headed down the long, winding drive. He didn’t know when he’d make it back to Paradise Ranch. But one thing he did know – he wouldn’t return until he’d avenged Dolly’s murder.

  “She’s in Cheyenne,” stated Jackson Munson. The private detective sat behind his desk, his thinning hair combed over his scalp, and grinned, displaying a row of stained teeth.

  Claudine crossed her ankles in front of her and tucked her reticule beneath one arm. “Where’s that?”

  “It’s in Wyoming Territory, just over the state line from here. You can catch a train that’ll take you there direct.” Munson shifted his chaw of tobacco across to his other cheek, chewing it briefly before he spit into a spittoon on the floor by his desk.

  She frowned. “How do you know she’s there?”

  “You asked me to look for a girl name of Gracie Hopkins. That’s what I did, and I found one. If it ain’t your girl, that ain’t my fault – I just did what you asked me to. I believe we agreed on one dollar for the information.” He held out his hand.

  She nodded and opened her reticule to withdraw the coin. It had taken her months to save that much, but if his information was accurate and Gracie was in Cheyenne, it’d be worth it. It had been eight long years since she’d last seen Gracie, eight years of wondering, wishing, hoping and dreaming that one day she’d hold her baby girl in her arms again. This was the closest she’d ever gotten to finding her – that is, if this private detective was to be trusted. She still wasn’t sure on that point. She handed him the coin and stood.

  “Here,” he said, shoving a piece of paper across the desk. She took it and put it into her reticule. “Ain’t you gonna read it?”

  “I can’t read.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s got the address of a man named Augustine Kellogg. My source tells me there’s a girl working for him fits your description. He lives just outside of Cheyenne. You should be able to find him easy enough – just ask around when you get there.”

  She nodded. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Munson.”

  He leaned back in his chair, set his boots on his desk and crossed his ankles. “Don’t mention it.”

  She let herself out, her mind racing over all she’d discovered. Augustine Kellogg … she should be able to remember that name easily enough. Now, all she had to do was pack up her life and catch a train to Cheyenne. After all she’d been through, the thought that she might be close to reuniting with her daughter made her heart race and her palms sweat.

  As she walked along the street, she tugged off her gloves and shoved them into the reticule swinging against her side. She glanced around at all the activity, people running here and there, going about their business as though everything was the same as it’d been the day before. Only it wasn’t, not for her. Everything looked different to her now – lighter, brighter, more hopeful.

  The streets of Denver, Colorado were dusty and full of life. Miners and cowboys dominated the foot traffic, and horses trotted along or lazed by hitching posts. The town had changed so much since she’d first arrived in 1863, after the Union Army took Fayetteville and she’d fled the South with so many others.

  Soon after she landed in Denver, a fire had wiped out most of the town, taking her own small room with it and almost claiming her life. The following year, floods decimated what remained, including the cafeteria where she worked. The next year, it was a plague of locusts. Many of the town’s earlier inhabitants moved on, overwhelmed by their losses. But Claudine didn’t have the money to leave, and struggling to another town on her own held no appeal. So she stayed and rebuilt her life yet again.

  Now she’d finally found stability. She had a good job at the Rocky Mountain Inn, a small establishment on the outskirts of Denver. She’d saved some money, something she never thought possible. The days of slavery, of being held captive by the Williamses or Jacks and Virgils of the world were behind her, and behind the country thanks to all those amendments to the Constitution.

  Still, she’d trudged through each day, her heart heavy, wondering where Gracie might be. She’d lost the rest of her family so long ago she barely remembered them, but Gracie’s face was burned into her thoughts and dreams. She couldn’t move on, couldn’t forget. And now, she might see her again.

  She knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up, but she couldn’t help it. The heaviness in her heart had lifted, if only a little. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and she smiled as she passed the train station. People milled around with suitcases and luggage at their feet or clenched tightly in their hands, waiting for the next locomotive to arrive and take them off to new adventures. And soon, that would be her. She had enough money saved for a ticket, and she’d been preparing herself for this moment for so long it almost seemed unreal.

  Claudine skipped a few steps, then slowed again to a walk as she consider what lay ahead. What if Gracie wasn’t there? No, she couldn’t think that way. She had to hold onto hope – it was the only thing that kept her moving forward.

  Dan peered through the sights of his brand-new Henry rifle. He’d purchased it just for the trip, along with a Colt revolver. The sun gleamed on the freshly oiled wood, and he sighed as he let his body relax against the fallen log where he lay hidden.

  A rabbit loped across the clearing ahead of him, at least twenty-five yards away. He followed its movements with the tip of the rifle, one eye squinting. When he squeezed the trigger, the boom of the shot resounded between the peaks of the mountains that loomed above him. The rabbit fell in the snow, and he stood slowly, then slipped the rifle over his shoulder as he walked to retrieve it.

  He’d tried to keep himself occupied with the journey, but couldn’t keep his thoughts from wandering. He pictured Angus O’Leary’s smug face, and anger burned deep inside him. He thought of Dolly and Emily and the life he’d planned for them to share together and grief overwhelmed him, grief and guilt. He should’ve moved more quickly, done something sooner to stop it from happening. Why had he waited so long?

  He shook his head. No, he couldn’t think about that now. He picked the rabbit up by the ears. It was small and scrawny, but it only had to feed him. It would do well enough for that.

  He trudged through the snow to where he’d picketed Goldy. The horse stood beneath a fir tree, munching oats from a feedbag, a blanket covering his back and saddle and tied around his chest. The snow on the ground was shallow, with pine needles pushing through. It was as good a place as any to camp for the night. He pushed the snow that remained to one side, leaving a muddy patch in the center of the clearing, then foraged for wood and built a fire.

  When he sat on a stump to skin the rabbit, he mulled over what lay ahead. He hadn’t thought through what to do, but he’d need a plan before he reached Cheyenne. His only advantage was surprise. Given what he knew of Augustine Kellogg, the man w
ould likely have a posse of men surrounding him. It’d make Kellogg hard to reach, but not impossible – if they didn’t know he was coming.

  The crack of a stick to his left startled Dan and he reached for his unloaded rifle, then set it down and sighed as he spied a deer walking sedately between the trees. He’d have to clean and reload the rifle as soon as he finished with the rabbit – and he’d have to get into the habit of reloading his weapons right away. He’d brought with him the Henry rifle, Colt single-action revolver, and a pair of well worn six shooters. He’d gotten soft working at Paradise Ranch for so long, and his instincts were rusty. He decided he’d practice the next morning taking shots and reloading before he headed off again.

  Dan was sure he’d reach Wyoming Territory the next day, and Cheyenne a few weeks after that. He needed to use that time to get himself in shape for the confrontation he expected. He resolved to spend each morning exercising and practicing with his weapons and every afternoon riding. And by the time he reached Cheyenne, he’d hopefully be ready to face whatever he found there.

  Claudine stepped from the train onto the platform and hurried along with the rest of the passengers to get out of the way of those behind them. She’d made it. It had been her first time on a train, and the thrill of it had rendered her speechless the entire journey. To move so fast over so much territory boggled her mind.

  She’d spent the trip staring out the window, listening to the chugging of the engine and watching the prairies, herds of bison, lakes and flocks of birds flash past. It had made her pulse race and her skin goose pimple. All around her passengers ate and chatted, children played, one man read a book. She couldn’t fathom how any of them could do anything but stare out there and marvel at the wonder of it all.