by Cotton Smith
“He’ll be buried in the cemetery. Just outside of town,” Lockhart said.
“A proper headstone will there be?”
Lockhart shook his head. “Not unless someone pays for it. Just a wooden cross.”
The boy hesitated, waiting for more, but the hard man facing him was through with the subject.
Lockhart nodded. “Wait here for Doc Wright—and Hammer Hawkens. He’s the undertaker. Cabinetmaker, too. Might just be two Orientals that work for him from time to time, though.” He studied the frightened boy. “If anybody asks, tell them I said for you to stay until things were taken care of. Your friends don’t need to bring you into this. Anymore.” His gaze sought the boy’s eyes. “You understand?”
“A-Ay, that me does, sir,” Sean Kavanagh said and licked his chapped lips again. “Ah, wonderin’ I be. Woulda your offer still stand…after?”
“Of course it does, Sean, but I expect you to work for your meal.”
“Ay, an’ ye can be certain I be the best dishwasher ye’ll ever see,” Sean declared. “Enough for a fine headstone, too, I be hopin’ to earn.”
“Good. Come to the Silver Queen and ask for me.” Lockhart pointed at the knife on the ground. “Don’t forget your knife.” He turned back and walked away.
The boy watched him. He had never met anyone like this before. Big Mike and Lightning Murphy had told him that all businessmen were weak and foolish. What else had they told him that wasn’t true? He picked up the knife, shoved it into his belt and turned toward the dying Murphy.
“T’ weren’t it the good an’ great Wild Bill Hickok hisself ye just faced? Or were it that crazy New Mexico outlaw, Clay Allison, ye be talkin’ of?” The boy stopped and took a deep breath.
No recognition of the boy or his words came from Murphy. Only the fingers on his right hand twitched, held against his bleeding stomach.
“May be there is another such pistol fighter. May be ’tis Vin Lockhart.” Sean continued, “Sure, and a blessing it is that ye gave me no gun. Or meself be lyin’ in me own blood as ye. Oh, I’m a proud one. Wrong it was to think himself to be weak—an’ wrong me be to listen to ye.” He paused again and his shoulders rose and fell. “But I forgive ye. Ay, revenge, I must be gettin’…for you…an’ for Big Mike. I promise on me mither’s grave.”
CHAPTER TWO
Vin Lockhart walked into the night, his mind and body seeking their prefight state. During battle, a cold fire always seemed to fill his soul, driving him on and on. Always attacking. Always charging. Afterward, the roaring ice-flames vanished and his manner became subdued and reflective.
This internal force, what ever it was, had almost killed him in that near-mad attack on a Shoshoni war party years ago. Alone. They had killed his young wife and burned much of the village. His intensity made everything and everyone move in slow motion. It was so then, and only three Shoshoni escaped to raid another day. Stone-Dreamer said it was the Grandfathers grabbing his enemies and holding them in place.
Indeed, it was a remembered fight; the “spirit rain battle” they named it, and a song of the Grandfathers coming to aid him was sung. He knew it was just a foggy day. His fellow Oglalas thought the awful battle had killed him. They began honoring him as a Grandfather. Wanagi. A spirit to be revered. Wanagi Yanka, they called him. Rides-With-Spirits. Spirit Rider.
As soon as he was well enough, Lockhart had left, rather than be treated so. He was a man. Merely a man. Not some ghost. He was Panther-Strikes. He knew part of the problem was what his adoptive father had told the village about the great remembered fight. He also knew Stone-Dreamer believed what he said.
“Hoka hey. It is a good day to die. I am Oglala. Only the earth and sky live forever. It is a good day to die.” The Oglala battle cry tumbled from his lips, followed by the Kit Fox song, “I am a Fox…I am supposed to die.” He and his one-time brother-in-law, Touches-Horses, had been members of that elite warrior soldier society.
He blinked and realized his thoughts were grinding back to the days when he rode as an honored warrior. He shook his head. Those days were long gone.
That was years ago. Years ago. Now he was a successful businessman. A rich businessman. Yet he continued to think of himself as an Oglala warrior.
Yet recollections of his brief time with Morning Bird were always close in his thoughts. Would Stone-Dreamer say this was another of the Grandfathers’ tricks? Or was it love as his best friend and business partner, Desmond T. “Crawfish” Crawford, said? Lockhart and Morning Bird had spent many hours together, as his bullet wounds healed from saving Touches-Horses from an outlaw gang that prized his horse-training skills. That effort had precipitated the return to his old village.
Two couples strolled toward him, chatting and laughing. He stepped to the side, next to the corner lamppost, to let them pass. The coal-oil, yellow light from the street lamp cut across his chiseled face and magnetic blue eyes. A touch of his brim with his hand followed. Automatically. His partner had taught him well the ways of the white man. Very well. His mind was still riding elsewhere. The closest woman’s eyes danced with his as she passed. He barely noticed the flirtation.
After they were safely beyond his hearing, the taller man in a top hat and wielding a silver-topped cane whispered, “That’s Vin Lockhart. He’s a man to avoid. He was a pistol fighter, they say. A dangerous man.”
His female companion’s expression definitely disagreed, but she said nothing, only glancing back to see if Lockhart was watching her. He wasn’t and she was disappointed.
Withdrawing a cigar from his inside coat pocket, Lockhart tried to refocus. He studied the dark city with its glowing street lamps, spotting even now remnants of its boomtown birth. Among brick buildings and multistoried mansions nestled an occasional tent, or basic hut, or split-log cabin. But a city gasworks began operating five years ago, supplying fuel for streetlights, bringing a sense of civic pride and a team of lamplighters to tend them. A year later came city water mains, drawing from deep artesian wells.
In many ways, Denver’s evolution mirrored his own, from adventurous warrior, to hard working prospector, to polished businessman. The last two stages, thanks to his older partner and friend.
Railroads had changed the region. Forever. That and quartz mining. Over the last few years, loose gold had mostly disappeared, except in memory and taller tale. Oh, springtime would bring new optimism and renewed placer mining. But the mountain streams were no longer bountiful sources of wealth. Ore of the day was being ripped from deep within the land. The simple pan had been replaced by shafts and tunnels, as men and machines attacked the rich belt hidden from view. It was an industry involving considerable capital and producing much gain. The nicer weather meant the mines were working in double shifts again. Thousands of workers roamed the streets when not under the land.
His Oglala friends would never understand this raping of Mother Earth. Aiiee, Panther-Strikes, how could one dare to treat her so? Their beliefs were so deeply intertwined with nature and natural phenomenon. Sky. Earth. Winds. Lightning. Thunder. All sacred, all a part of Wakantanka, the Great Spirit. It made understanding Christianity and even Judaism difficult for him, although he wanted to learn, to understand. That driving curiosity had come from his partner, Desmond T. Crawford, who seemed to be interested in everything and anything.
Of course, Central City-Black Hawk was still richer than Denver. Far richer. The “little kingdom of Gilpin” also claimed a more elegant way of life, epitomized by their fine opera house. Opulence had shown itself dramatically three years ago. Silver ingots had been used to create a special pathway for the visiting President Ulysses S. Grant to walk upon.
And Golden had served as the early territorial capital, until Denver City’s politicians finally got the prize in 1865 and immediately shortened the city’s name from Denver City to just Denver. It was all about silver now in Denver, too. He smiled. His partner, Crawfish, as everyone called him, had wanted to change the name of the Black Horse Hotel, aft
er they bought it, to the Silver Horse Hotel for that reason. That and the eccentric businessman liked having it match their saloon’s name, the Silver Queen.
Lockhart had disagreed. He thought it would be confusing, so the hotel’s name remained unchanged.
A passing freight wagon, loaded with timber, caught his attention.
“Evening, Jeremiah,” he yelled warmly. It was good to see a familiar face. “Any news from the Dakota Territory?”
The fat-faced freighter cursed at his lead mules to keep them at a walk and yelled back, “Gettin’ real scary up there, Mr. Lockhart. Ya heard General Crook’s leadin’ an army to get them red niggers all rounded up.”
Wincing at the derogatory phrase, Lockhart lit his cigar as the freighter reined to a stop, cursing his mules again for their slower-than-he-wished reaction.
As white smoke curled around his face before fleeing into the night, the businessman with the haunting Oglala past said, “Yeah, heard that. Heard the Federals announced any Indian not on the reservation was going to be treated as a hostile, too. Wonder if anyone told the Indians.” He watched a fancy carriage with matching sorrel horses prance past the heavy wagon. Both the uniformed carriage driver and the well-dressed female passenger responded to Lockhart’s easy wave.
“More gold up thar…in them Black Hills…than even hyar in the ol’ days, I hear tell,” the freight driver announced and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice toward the back of his right-rear mule. “An’ as many hostiles, all wantin’ your scalp. Gold’s a hard find I figger. Yah sur, a hard find.” He spat again, watching the stream proudly. “Freightin’ ain’t far behin’.”
“Paha Sapa is a holy place for them, Jeremiah. They wouldn’t understand our fascination for tearing it up,” Lockhart said and touched the small pebble hanging from his gold chain stretched across his vest. He had once worn it as a medicine earring when he lived with Black Fire’s band.
Among his Denver friends and acquaintances, only Crawfish knew of the small stone’s significance. It was Crawfish who had retrieved it after Lockhart had tried to leave the memory behind. The pebble and a choker necklace of white elk-bone and dark blue stones were the only physical things remaining of his wild Oglala past. The necklace had been a wedding gift from Young Evening, his murdered bride, and was kept in a drawer.
A curled family tintype, a small box containing a pale-blue-and-moss-green stone pin that had belonged to his mother, and a Bible were the only items left of his real family before that. Except for mental pieces of yesterday finding sunrise in his mind every now and then. The tintype, box and Bible were kept displayed on the top of his dresser.
He was only eight when they died of cholera and the Oglalas found him and took him with them. “Angry Dog” had been the name they gave him, until he earned a warrior’s name, “Panther-Strikes.”
“Pa ha…sappy, I’d say,” Jeremiah Elston yanked on the reins to keep his team quiet. “Heard tell Custer and his Seventh are with Crook. That oughta do it. Custer’ll cut them red niggers a new one. Yah sur.” He spat a third time, frowning at the thinness of the released juice. “Bringin’ in Gatlin’ guns, I hear tell. Gonna be a real war up thar. Real soon, I reckon.” He shook his head and the misshapen hat brim jiggled. “Glad I be hyar. Yah sur.”
“Glad you are, too, Jeremiah,” Lockhart said. “Maybe the Indians will move to the reservations peacefully.” He had finally broken the habit of repeating a person’s full name each time, a habit left over from his Oglala days.
He wondered if his old friends would be seeking their customary spring camping ground in the Black Hills, or would they seek safety farther northwest, perhaps along the Tongue River or at the base of the Bighorns? Or even Rosebud Creek. Stone-Dreamer, in particular, loved returning to that beautiful land of the Black Hills each spring. From a distance the isolated mountain range actually did look black. The sacred center of the world, his Oglala brethren considered it. A place where the spirits and their grandfathers rule. Morning Bird had told him that she loved the Black Hills in the spring as well; a land rich with wildlife and wildflowers.
“Hellfire, that’d be the day. Didn’t ya hear Crazy Horse dun bin a’whippin’ all them redskins into a lather? Tellin’ ’em to leave the reservations.” Jeremiah waved his arms. “Hellfire. Them Sioux kin fi’t. Made ol’ General Reynolds an’ his troops go a’packin’ from the Powder in March.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “Them redskins even stole back the horse herd them soldjur boys had run off.”
“There’s no way the Indians can win.”
“Nope, reckon not. But nobody’s tolt ’em that, I reckon,” Jeremiah declared. “Say, ya still got any whiskey at your place?”
Lockhart chuckled, removed and rolled the cheroot in his fingers and returned it to his mouth. “I do. And I’ve got a tall one waiting for you. On me.”
“Count on it, Mr. Lockhart.”
Lockhart patted the wagon and stepped behind it as the driver’s loud curse and companion snap of his whip started the heavy vehicle again. Lockhart’s heart was heavy. He feared Black Fire, Touches-Horses, and the rest would finally decide to ride with Crazy Horse. What choice did they have? Would they be driven from Paha Sapa? Had they already? What would he have done, if he were still among them? Marry Morning Bird? Probably. The idea was rich in his mind.
All of the previous victories by the army in the last few years had followed the same strategy—surprise attacks on villages: Harney at Ash Hollow, Chivington at Sand Creek, Connor at Tongue Creek and Custer at Washita. What if they surprised Black Fire’s village? Was their only real option to join with the magical war leader Crazy Horse?
He walked on, glimpsing a sign in the window of a gun shop. It was advertising fireworks for sale to celebrate the Colorado Territory becoming a state. July 1, 1876, would be the grand day and a festive parade was planned, along with picnics, contests and speeches, especially one by John Routt, the first governor. Around the city for miles and miles, “colony towns” created by the railroads would also be celebrating. It would truly be a grand time for the entire region. Of course, it would be nothing compared to the American Centennial celebration planned in Philadelphia.
Probably the holiday’s events were made even bigger to get the nation’s mind off of the scandals riddling the Grant administration. However, Crawfish seemed more fascinated with the destruction of the Tweed Ring political machine in New York. But, then, the eccentric former prospector and teacher was fascinated by many things: politics, science, medicine. Of course, among his keen interests right now was the creation of their hotel’s grand restaurant and the upgrading of the hotel itself. His constant and voracious reading produced a stream of ideas. His dream for the hotel’s restaurant was a glorious place of crystal glasses, good wines, crisp white tablecloths and napkins and neck-tied waiters. A mahogany bar would be a centerpiece of the two-story room.
Still, expectations for a memorable time in Colorado were running high and Crawfish was excited about the coming celebration, too. Lockhart was quietly looking forward to the Fourth of July as well. Celebrations like In depen dence Day and Christmas, especially Christmas, made him feel both happy and sad, at the same time.
“The state of Jefferson,” he mumbled to himself. “The state of Jefferson.” He had liked the sound of the initial proposed name for the territory, so had Crawfish. But “Colorado” had prevailed in powerful political circles.
Shaking his head, he recalled Crawfish badly wanting their hotel restaurant addition to be ready for this wonderful time. From what Lockhart had seen to night, the restaurant wasn’t going to happen. Too much carpentry and decorating were left to be done. Way too much. Besides that, none of the kitchen equipment had arrived, nor the tables and chairs from St. Louis, nor the chandelier—far larger than the one hanging in their saloon—being freighted from Chicago. However, the grand piano had arrived. It was still uncrated, but it was there, right in the middle of the main room.
He would share the bad n
ews with his old friend, who would storm and yell, and then become philosophical. It was the first day in a long time Crawfish hadn’t been at the hotel at all; his momentary attention was on the saloon’s books. Lockhart halfway expected Crawfish to have another business idea to share with him. As long as it wasn’t mining, he would listen with an open mind.
Certainly, Crawfish’s idea to build their own ice house to keep beer cool had paid off immensely. Miners didn’t like warm beer and in the summer months the price of ice was unbelievable.
Two weeks ago, Crawfish had said, in passing, that they should open a bank. Lockhart thought it was a joke at the time. It probably wasn’t. Originally, they were going to build on a casino at the hotel, but his friend had decided on fine dining, instead. Lockhart always let Crawfish make those kinds of decisions.
If the money was right.
The Silver Queen Saloon sat on the corner of Blake Street, the beginning of the city’s sporting district. Saloons, dance halls, whore houses and opium dens were gathered in a three-block area. Over on Holladay Street were the whore houses, from cribs to the single block of more elegant parlor houses, referred to as “young ladies’ boarding houses.”
From the scattered yellow lights of town, his gaze went to the spring sky. The Milky Way drew his attention with its spreading whiteness. Wanagi tacanku. The Ghost Road, as the Oglala knew it. A special place where the spirits of tribesmen went, after dwelling near their families for a year, to await passage to great hunting lands. His old tribesmen believed the lights were the campfires of the departed. He remembered Stone-Dreamer telling him an old woman guarded the end of the passageway and she assessed the deeds of all who would pass. The good did so; the bad were pushed off the Ghost Road. Those evil spirits returned to the earth to do mischief. He couldn’t help wondering if many of his old friends would be walking that road soon.
Crawfish had told him long ago that all men have different views of what was the same God, but that science had long ago proven the existence of the star mass known as the Milky Way. He also said white men enjoyed stories of creation and the afterlife that were no different in feeling than those of his Indian friends. Mankind was meant to believe because God had created men and women with the ability to think.