by Cotton Smith
Puffing on his cigar, Lockhart tried to free his mind of such wandering. The soft glow from the glass windows of the Silver Queen were a welcoming sight. He wasn’t as fond of saloons as Crawfish, but he liked their friendliness. They reminded him a little of an Oglala council fire.
He chuckled to himself that few white men ever thought of Indians as laughing and joking with each other. Some of his favorite tribal memories were of such wonderful times. Men and women gathered in a secluded encampment with bright tepees standing in a sacred circle to hold in the greatness of the universe and to honor it. Laughter ever reverberated from the circle as they worked and played together. Honored each other for bravery. Cared for their elderly. Revered their young. Prayed for their continued bounty.
Would their way of life soon be just a memory?
The fighting with the U. S. Army would not be about counting coup and showing how brave an individual warrior could be in battle.
It would be about death.
He shook his head to push away that idea and entered the saloon. Golden light from hard working wall lamps tried their best to make everyone forget the day’s harsh trials. Men of every manner of dress and station crowded around the gaming tables to try their luck at faro, twenty-one, Spanish monte, chuck-a-luck, poker or roulette. Others lined the grand bar, told lies about their strikes of ore and flirted with the town’s fanciest waitresses.
News of gold in the Black Hills was never far from any conversation, taking over from gossip about President Grant’s cabinet and their disgraceful actions. Nor were bloodthirsty tales of the Indians who waited there, or now, the U. S. Army tracking them with varying opinions about what would happen when they finally met. Most often, it was that Custer would once more prove his military merit over the savages.
“Where the hell have you been?” the red-bearded man hurried toward him, walking as fast as his stiffened leg and silver-topped walking stick would allow. He had started using the fancy piece a month ago, instead of his cane.
Still more hyperactive professor than serious businessman, “Crawfish” Crawford pushed his wire-rimmed glasses into place on his strawberry nose and waited for his younger friend’s response. His full, reddish beard was laced with gray and sporting unruly, wiry hair of several colors. Crawfish’s clothes were rumpled, but they usually were. Lockhart wondered if his friend deliberately rolled them into a ball before he put them on.
“Had a little trouble. Outside of the hotel.” Lockhart’s cigar slid from the left side of his mouth to the right, propelled by an unseen tongue.
“A little? Hop-a-bunny!” Crawfish spoke rapidly; the gap between his front teeth as prominent as always. He always did talk too much and too fast, often incorporating phrases that meant something only to him, or so Lockhart always assumed. Sometimes, Lockhart thought his friend’s voice sounded like a bird chirping. Certainly, it was that high-pitched. Rarely, it seemed to Lockhart, did a thought pass through Crawfish’s mind that didn’t go expressed—and elaborated upon.
“Galloway and Hairston came in here, all blustery and full of themselves,” Crawfish said and waved the walking stick. “Nothing new there, of course. Told me about the gunfight. Irish hoodlums. Right? Leprechauns-and-toadstools!” His eyebrows jumped in rhythm to the expression and the questions that followed like a Gatling gun. “Are both of them dead? Did you get hurt? Did you see them coming? Did they shoot first? How did you get your gun out without being shot yourself? Two gunmen! Two! Do we need a guard at the hotel? That kinda stuff’s bad for business, ya know. Bedclothes and bullets, no siree.”
Lockhart didn’t think it was necessary to hire a guard, that he wasn’t hurt even though they shot first, that one hoodlum was dead and the other seriously wounded. He looked around the crowded room, to end the discussion and to see if Sean Kavanagh had come. He didn’t expect to see him, though, at least not this soon.
“A boy hasn’t come in, has he? Looking for me?” Lockhart asked, continuing to look. “Maybe thirteen, fourteen years old? Irish lad. Poorly dressed.”
“No. Nobody like that,” Crawfish said, his left side twitching slightly and talking with considerable, and typical, speed. “Oh, I gave the two jaybirds, Galloway and Hairston, a free drink. Said you promised them.” He studied his younger friend for a moment; there was more to the question about the boy.
“I did. Invited Marshal Benson, too. He was going to take care of the wounded man and the body first.” Lockhart pushed back his hat to reveal damp curls. “Got any coffee?”
“Sure do. Just cooked, too.”
“Say, I also promised Jeremiah Elston a free whiskey.”
“Cock-a-doodle-do, you’ve been busy with our liquor.”
“Right. Busy.” Lockhart smiled.
Finally, the red-haired businessman couldn’t hold back his curiosity and asked what the concern about the Irish boy was about. Lockhart explained and Crawfish nodded his understanding, but wondered to himself if the lad would appear. He also imagined the youngster would likely be holding a grudge against Lockhart for having killed the two men in his life. But it was clear Lockhart didn’t want to talk more about the gunfight or the boy.
Crawfish had never killed a man and hoped he never would have to do so; he also knew from what his young friend had told him before, that killing ate at him, even when there was no choice, and the killed man was evil. Regardless of the circumstances, it was destroying something living and breathing, turning it into earth, taking away dreams and hopes and loves. This wasn’t the time to ask more about the gunfight. Later, maybe. Much later.
“How about some ham and eggs? Got some fresh from a farmer.” Crawfish waved his long stick toward the billiard room. “He’s over there, somewhere.”
“Sounds good.” Lockhart drew on the cigar and let the smoke find its way into the busy saloon.
“You know that boy…he’s not going to be your friend, Vin,” Crawfish blurted. “He can’t. Shoot-a-whistle, you killed his friend. Likely both. He’s probably going to want to even the score. That gun-shot Irishman probably told the boy he’s got to do it. Before he…passed, if he has.” Realizing what he was saying, Crawfish looked around, but no one was close enough to hear.
Lockhart’s frown came quicker than his response. “What do you think I should’ve done, Crawfish? Let them arrest him? He’s a boy. Just a boy.”
“No. No, you did right, son. Still, I wouldn’t turn my back on the lad.” Crawfish looked away. He wanted to ask Lockhart what he was doing when he was that age as a fledgling warrior, but didn’t.
It was time to change the subject.
“Got more to tell about opening a bank.” Crawfish pointed with his staff toward their intended table. “Can’t wait for you to hear. Worked up a major sweat about it, I did. Goodness-and-Newton!”
Lockhart smiled. “Newton” was the imaginary friend that Crawfish liked talking to, when he first met the eccentric man prospecting for gold. Since their riches were secured, that name had rarely surfaced. It brought an instant rush of memories. Crawfish had taught Lockhart the ways of white civilization, exceptionally good English, superior mathematics, business principles, social etiquette and the like, in exchange for helping work the claim. Skill with weapons came from his time with the Oglalas. Instinct combined with practice and nerve. Crawfish had also taught him the art of boxing, having been the best in his weight class at Yale.
Eventually this interchange had evolved into a full partnership, true friendship and Vin Lockhart had become a gentleman. A very successful gentleman. Along the way, he had also saved his friend’s life and recovered their gold from bandits.
Midway to their table, Lockhart saw an army captain at the bar and told Crawfish to go on, that he wanted to speak with the young officer. He walked over, taking his cigar from his mouth as he approached. Crawfish nodded and headed for the small kitchen in the back.
“Pardon me, Captain,” Lockhart said to the goateed officer sipping whiskey. “I’m Vin Lockhart. Are you en ro
ute to Montana Territory?”
Looking at him with suspicious eyes, the officer laid his glass on the bar’s shiny surface. “Why do you ask, Mr. Lockhart?”
Lockhart chuckled and crossed his arms, holding the cigar upright in his left hand. “Guess that didn’t sound quite right. I’ll try again. Got some family up north, Montana way. Wondered if you knew anything of the situation up there. With the Sioux and Cheyenne.” He cocked his head to the side. “Not asking for any army secrets.”
“I see.” The young officer smiled slightly and said, “I’m Captain Ferguson Blake. Department of the Platte. Stationed in Omaha. I’m on leave, sir.”
In a few sentences, it was clear to Lockhart the young officer didn’t know as much about the army’s surge as he did. The captain was en route to visit his parents in Longmont with an approved absence from departmental headquarters. It quickly became clear to Lockhart why the officer wasn’t deemed necessary during this well-publicized push. After listening to Captain Blake’s whining dissertation about the consistent lack of properly filled-out forms by field commanders, their foolish approach to handling the hostile Indians, the leadership inadequacies of Crook, Terry and Custer, Lockhart excused himself and headed to the table where Crawfish had just sat.
Two mugs of steaming coffee, an ashtray and a filled sugar bowl with a spoon sticking from it adorned the tabletop. Crawfish lifted his mug in greeting.
“Learn anything from the army boy?”
“Everything that’s wrong with the army.” Lockhart grimaced and sat.
Studying his friend, Crawfish blew on the mug’s surface, sipped it gingerly, and said, “I know you’re worried, son. About your…friends.”
“Well, it’s a little silly to worry about something you can’t do anything about.” Lockhart removed his cigar and laid it in the ashtray, then poured a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee, then another.
“Maybe they’re already on the reservation.” Crawfish ignored his friend’s remark. “Heard a bunch are.”
Lockhart was silent, drinking from the sweetened mug and returning it to the table.
“You told me Black Fire was a savvy leader. And Touches-Horses, he was, too.” Crawfish looked away at the wall. “What about Stone-Dreamer? Wouldn’t that ol’ boy preach…peace?” He grinned impishly. “And what about that little gal you were so smitten with? In the village. Morning Bird, wasn’t that her name? What about her? Or is she just another forgotten love, like Mattie Bacon?”
Lockhart’s face cracked into a wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Crawfish, you rascal. You really want to talk about this, don’t you?”
“No. I want you to.”
Lockhart shook his head and ran his forefinger around the lip of his mug. “What you call peace, they see as something far worse than death.”
Crawfish nodded, hoping for more.
“How can men who lived free, with honor and courage, with the buffalo and the wolf as their friends,” Lockhart said softly, “how can they stand behind some damn fence and be treated like children? Or dogs?”
“They don’t have a choice, Vin.”
“Yes, they do. They can fight.”
As a refutation of that argument, Crawfish immediately began a recitation of what the Indians were facing. Newspapers had been blaring the details for weeks. Three full columns, under the overall command of General Alfred Terry, were on the march with two objectives: find hostiles and kill them. Their three-directional pincer was to slam through the Indians’ hunting lands and meet in its center, close to the mouth of the Little Bighorn River. A steamship, the Far West, was accompanying the massive pursuit, navigating up the Missouri, then the Yellowstone, up the Powder, the Tongue, the Rosebud, and the Bighorn rivers. Its objective was to establish a supply base for the army upriver.
General John Gibbons was leading his column down from Montana Territory; General George Crook was coming from Wyoming; Terry was marching from North Dakota. Actually, Lt. Colonel George Custer had the field command of this group. The regiment itself was supported by three Gatling guns, 150 supply wagons, a herd of cattle, 175 pack mules, and 34 Indian scouts, most of them Arikara.
When he finished, Crawfish’s left cheek twitched and his eyes found Lockhart’s gaze. The answer he sought was easily read; Lockhart knew his old Oglala band would not go willingly to the reservation. No way.
“Then they will choose death. As warriors.”
“Death’s not much of an answer, Vin. That’s a mighty big territory up there.” Crawfish’s voice was soft. “Ever think they might keep out of sight? Ya know, just keep moving. Keep away from those army boys.” He inhaled deeply before continuing. “Shoot-in-the-air, all those wagons and stuff. They’ll make a lot of noise. Won’t move that fast either. Might be they’re over Deadwood way—an’ not straight north at all.”
“Hotel restaurant won’t be ready for the celebration.” Lockhart’s comment meant further discussion of his Indian friends would not be coming from him. “Maybe a month out.”
“Yeah, figured as much. Three-of-a-kind-beats-two.”
Lockhart shook his head again at the expression, surprised at his friend’s understanding. Obviously, Crawfish had been to the hotel today, before he did.
After the two men drank their coffee in silence for a minute, Crawfish started in again. This time on the idea he had brought up earlier: a bank. Three local businessmen had approached him about Lockhart and Crawfish investing in the creation of a new financial institution in Denver. Their share would require selling one of their lesser properties, but not the saloon or hotel. The other businessmen also wanted Crawfish to serve as the bank’s president. The last element of the offer was delivered with a giggle and the exclamation, “Hogwash-and-belly-beans!”
“That what you want to do?”
“Ya know, I think I do.” Crawfish wiggled the tip of his forefinger in his coffee. “Been looking for a new challenge. After the hotel restaurant’s up and running.” He looked up. “And I like making money. Didn’t have any for a long time.”
“Me neither.”
Crawfish chuckled. Turning slightly red with enthusiasm, he outlined how a bank would be set up, how J. R. Parks, their head of gambling, could take over full management of the saloon, and the hotel itself was already being run well by C. W. Damian. They would need someone good to run the restaurant, however.
Lockhart listened without commenting. He was considering moving from the Denver House where he had a room to one in their hotel when the redecorating was finished; Crawfish owned his own home, but Lockhart hadn’t yet decided it was something he wanted. In the back of his mind, not yet spoken of, was the thought of starting a horse ranch somewhere outside of town. Good horses were needed everywhere. Maybe he could convince his former brother-in-law, Touches-Horses, to join him. Maybe Stone-Dreamer would come and live out his last years there.
Maybe Morning Bird. The thought startled him. What made him think she would be interested? Could an Indian woman live among whites? Would she want to? He couldn’t bear the idea of his friends being cooped up on a reservation, but the idea of their dying was worse.
The dream of a horse ranch—and all of its possibilities— grew daily in his mind. It was never far from taking over his thoughts. Now, though, it triggered an uneasiness in his stomach. The concept was intricately connected to his Indian friends and he was certain they were in trouble. Or would be soon. But it wasn’t practical, bringing Indians to the white man’s world. It would only produce pain. For them. But how could such a situation be more painful than rotting on a reservation?
“Hey, you know that new minister, the yellow-haired fella?” Crawfish said, returning his attention to his coffee and changing subjects.
Lockhart nodded. He had met Dr. Hugo Milens on the street last week. The preacher’s appearance reminded Lockhart of a coyote. Not the wolf. The Oglala knew the wolf to be a highly intelligent being. A friend. A bringer of messages from the spirits.
Dr. Milen
s gave him the sense of something at home watching others from the shadows. Waiting for the right opportunity.
“Well, he’s a mesmerist, a doctor of Egyptology,” Crawfish said. “You know, a spiritualist.” He rubbed his nose energetically. “You know, one of those fellas who calls up…ghosts. Ah, spirits.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah. Maybe we should sit in on one of his sessions. Wouldn’t that be a kick! Betsy-bell-and-locomotion!”
CHAPTER THREE
Taking another long swallow of hot liquid, Lockhart was dra7wn from his conversation with his best friend by a voice beyond the normal cacophony of bar talk. At the bar, a muscular young miner, quite proud of his frame, was loudly critical of his perceived slow response of Jimmy Helt, the Silver Queen’s oldest bartender. The miner’s comments were increasing in repetition and intensity.
Helt was patient and cheery, as usual, but the customer was on the edge of surly and definitely looking for someone to challenge him.
Slamming his empty glass on the bar, the miner growled, “Come on, you old fart, I said I wanted another goddamn bottle. You so damn old, you can’t hear?”
A middle-aged, slump-shouldered businessman, sitting on the adjacent stool, told him to be patient and the younger man shoved him off the stool.
Lockhart put down his coffee mug and was on his feet.
Behind him, Crawford urged gentleness. “It’s all right, Vin. Let Jimmy handle it. It’s nothing. He was just foolin’. Come on now. You’ve already had one fight to night. Isn’t that enough?”
Lockhart didn’t acknowledge his friend’s observation. Calmly, he helped the disheveled customer to his feet, then sat down at the vacant stool on the opposite side of the puffed-up young miner.