Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  In his late twenties, the man’s dress was a mixture of clothes, all filthy; a once-red flannel shirt was pulled mercilessly by his enlarged biceps and thickened chest, signs of consistent hard work. His was a harsh face with a nose like a potato stuck in the middle of pockmarked cheeks. His scarred knuckles bore the signs of fistfights.

  The frightened businessman brushed himself off and went hurriedly toward the door. Crawford met him there and urged him to stay with a drink on the house. The man glanced back at the miner and saw Lockhart engage him, paused and accepted the offer, moving to the far end of the bar.

  “You’re kinda hard on that old man, aren’t you?” Lockhart said in a low, friendly voice.

  His eyes blazing, the young miner swung in the stool toward Lockhart. Heavy eyebrows with a life of their own arched defiantly. His mouth became a snarl readying itself to spout more defiance.

  The blur of Lockhart’s hand was missed by everyone, except Crawford. Lockhart’s right fist grabbed the combative miner’s testicles and squeezed hard.

  The younger man’s whiskey-laden eyes widened and his face shattered into white fear. “I-I d-didn’t…”

  “My friend’s worried that I might get violent. You know, slap you silly in front of everyone here. But that’s not going to be necessary, is it?” Lockhart’s voice was a razor through the saloon’s thick air. “I’ve already had to kill two men to night. I’m not in the mood for bad manners, like yours.”

  The obnoxious man nodded negatively. Sweat lines raced down his frozen face. He tried not to move, but his half-raised arms flapped slowly like a giant bird. The only sound from him was a teeth-locked groan.

  “I can tell you need a fight—and I always want to help my fellow man when I can,” Lockhart said. “Kinda like the idea myself. Might help clear my head. I’m a lot older than you. Smaller, too. That ought to fit your needs about right. How about you and me stepping outside? It’s nice outside. Real nice. Spring and all.”

  “I-I d-didn’t mean nothin’. H-Honest, I’m sorry. R-Really, I’m sorry…”

  “Too late for that, partner. I don’t think you mean it anyway,” Lockhart said. “Pay your bill, add a nice tip, then walk out. I’ll be right behind you.”

  As Lockhart released his hold, the miner looked like he was going to vomit. He scrambled for coins in his pocket and left most of them. Sliding from the stool, the stunned bully took two steps toward the door and spun toward Lockhart with a vicious haymaker aimed at his head.

  Lockhart’s left forearm met the oncoming blow and deflected it past himself, ducking with the strike. Lockhart’s right fist disappeared into the bigger man’s stomach with a fury that drove away most of the breath there, leaving a painful fire in its place. Lockhart’s left fist followed to the same spot an eyeblink behind and extracted any remaining air. Another thundering right followed like a cavalry charge into the stunned miner’s gut.

  The icy fury swelling within Lockhart translated into the beginning of an unneeded, finishing kick. But a scream that found no sound stopped him as the miner held his midsection and retched. Lockhart stepped aside to avoid the projectile vomit. The bent-over man grabbed at his stomach and wobbled sideways. The rage within Lockhart disappeared almost as swiftly as it arose.

  Somewhere in the back of the room came a long gasp, followed by: “Did you see that?” “That bastard’s been asking for it ever since he came in.” “Looks like he picked on the wrong guy.” “Yeah, looks that way. Who’d want to mess with Lockhart anyway.” “Is that Lockhart?” “Yeah, that’s Lockhart.”

  Lockhart put his hand on the man’s heaving back and said, “You sit over here, until the pain goes away.” His voice was comforting.

  With that, he guided his groaning adversary to a bentwood chair. It didn’t match the other three pushed around one of the eight square tables in the open area of the saloon all filled with customers. No other table had an empty chair; the rest sported patrons in various stages of curiosity, relief and amazement. Immediately, the half-dazed miner sank into the chair and put his head on the table, both hands remained grasped tightly to his midsection.

  “When you’ve caught your breath, you’re going to clean up that mess, right?” Lockhart asked, standing over the young man who looked up at him with glazed, fearful eyes and whitish spittle in the corner of his mouth.

  “Y-Yes, sir, I-I will.”

  “Good. I’ll bring over a bucket and a mop,” Lockhart said. “After that you’re gone. I don’t ever want to catch you here again. Understand?”

  “Y-Yes, sir.”

  Nervous chatter rushed into the entire saloon as Jimmy Helt hurried to Lockhart’s side, looked first at the miner, then at the calm saloonkeeper.

  “Goodness, Vin, I’m sorry you had to step in.”

  “I’m the one that’s sorry. I was trying to get him outside.”

  “Shall I go get the marshal?”

  “No, he’s busy…with something else,” Lockhart said. “He’ll be along later, I think.”

  “I know.” Helt chuckled as Lockhart moved toward his table in the corner. “Vin?”

  “Yeah, Jimmy?”

  “Thank you. That was getting bad. He was in here yesterday and roughed up two of our regulars. They haven’t been back.”

  “He won’t be back either. But he’ll clean up his mess first.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll take care of it,” the bartender said, touching Lockhart’s right arm.

  “No, it’s a good way to learn some manners. You got a mop and a bucket?”

  “Sure, Vin, sure.” Helt shook his head in agreement and scurried to the kitchen, returning quickly with a damp, gray mop and a tin bucket full of soapy water. Crawfish was hurrying behind him.

  Lockhart motioned and Helt handed them to the miner. Taking both without hesitation or looking at either man, the young miner bit his lower lip and wobbled to the area where his retching occupied a prominent place.

  First, hesitating, then slowly dipping the mop into the bucket and out again, he began to wipe up the forced-out remains. He looked up once to see Lockhart’s hard stare and resumed his task vigorously. Two well-dressed men stepped beside Lockhart, patted him on the shoulder, and walked on toward a beckoning poker table.

  As they left, an attractive waitress with long blond-streaked hair and a tightly fitted skirt came up to thank Lockhart for getting rid of the miner. She said the young man had been annoying her and the other waitresses earlier, and she wanted to thank him for stepping in. Her angular face invited Lockhart for a more personal show of gratitude.

  “Thank you, Beula,” Lockhart said and smiled easily. “But I was trying to get him to leave.”

  “I’m sure he wishes he did,” she said, her eyes seeking his attention. Her examination of Lockhart stopped at his belt buckle, then returned to his dark eyes. She touched his forearm and held it. “Did he—”

  “No, no, he was too busy with other things,” Lockhart interrupted.

  “Sure. I understand. Guess I’d better get back to work.” A smile again filled her face.

  Lockhart returned the smile as she gave an exaggerated curtsy and walked away. Returning to her assigned area, she glanced back and was disappointed to see Lockhart wasn’t watching. He was talking with another patron at the bar and slapped him on the back in a warm exchange. The Silver Queen resumed its conquest of the night.

  Meanwhile, Lockhart said something quietly to the young miner no one else could hear. The pale man shook his head in exaggerated agreement and rose to leave, apologizing over and over as he did.

  In the far corner of the saloon, sitting quietly with several others, a rough-looking stranger watched. Mostly, he watched Vin Lockhart. Chewing on an unlit cigar, the tall man stood slowly and headed directly toward Lockhart, who was now talking with an agitated Crawfish at the corner of the bar.

  “Lockhart, my name’s Fisher. I’m the manager of the Rocky Mountain Freight Company. Like a word with you.”

  At the bar
, Crawfish eyed his friend with concern. Cooking was forgotten for the moment. Surely, this stranger wasn’t related to the trouble with the miner, or the earlier violence in the street. Surely. His younger partner seemed undisturbed by such violence. Or he hid it well. Was it just his warrior upbringing or was there something else that made Vin Lockhart so ferocious when threatened? He had heard the stories about Hickok and his fearless eyes. Was his friend of the same cut? Truly dangerous. Truly fearless.

  Stepping toward the stranger, Lockhart held out his hand. “Heard about you, Mr. Fisher. Good to meet you. Please call me Vin.”

  Crawfish couldn’t help smiling. Lockhart’s manners made most people think he had been educated at some exclusive eastern school. His friend had, indeed, been his best pupil.

  “Vin, it is. Make mine just Bill.” Fisher took Lockhart’s hand and shook it. “I’d like to hire you to ride guard on our freight wagons. We’re hauling out some serious ore. Got twenty or so rigs goin’ all the time. Supplies in and ore out. I need a man of your reputation to see that we get to the mint. One of my rigs was hit last week.”

  A thin smile began to creep across Lockhart’s face. He glanced at Crawfish, then back to Fisher. “That’s mighty flattering, Bill, but no thanks.”

  “You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

  “No, I haven’t. But my gun isn’t for hire,” Lockhart said. “Don’t know what you might have heard about me, but I defend myself when necessary. That’s all.” He waved his arm toward the main part of the saloon. “I’m sure there are many good men who’ll be glad to oblige you.”

  Shaking his head, Fisher chomped down on his cigar, before responding. “Yeah, there are. I need somebody special. Even thought about tracking down Hickok and seeing if he’d be interested.” He removed the cigar. “See, I don’t want trouble. I want somebody who nobody’ll want to try. That’s what I want.” He placed a heavy hand on Lockhart’s shoulder. “I want you.”

  Lockhart’s eyes followed the movement, then returned to Fisher’s face. “Sometimes, we don’t get what we want.”

  “A thousand dollars a month—and you can hire whoever you want to help you—and I’ll pay them three hundred apiece.”

  Reaching over to remove Fisher’s hand, Lockhart smiled again. “I’m sure you’ll get somebody real good for that kind of money. Bill.” His attention was drawn to the saloon door where Sean Kavanagh stood, looking wide-eyed. “Excuse me, Bill, I see a friend I’ve been expecting. Good luck to you.”

  With that, Lockhart spun away and headed toward the boy.

  Crawfish chuckled and said, “Well, sir, I’d tell you to try again, but I know Vin. He’s not going to take that kind of job. No offense, but he’s just not going to do that.”

  Jamming his cigar back into his mouth, Fisher glowered at the red-haired man. “I didn’t get where I am takin’ no for an answer.”

  Folding his arms, Crawfish chuckled. “Hickok, huh?”

  “Yeah, him or Lockhart. Or Jean-Jacques Beezah, that black gun from Orleans.”

  “I read where Hickok is with Cody and, eh, Texas Jack Omohundro, in some play,” Crawfish said. “Back East. Some-thin’ Colonel Judson put together. You know, he goes by Ned Buntline—in his writing.”

  Fisher’s face became a smirk. “Well, if you really wanna know, Hickok’s headed this way. Left the show. Didn’t like all that silly crap. Tried putting together an expedition to the Black Hills. Miners, you know. He’ll be in Cheyenne soon. So’s Cody, I hear. Scouting for the Fifth.” His lower lip protruded and stayed there. “That’s where Beezah is, too.”

  “Did I hear Hickok got married?” Crawfish asked.

  “Yeah. March. In Cheyenne.” Fisher chuckled. “Wild Bill broke a lot of ladies’ hearts.”

  “I see. Wonder if his new bride will join him? In Deadwood?”

  “Naw. Heard she was staying in Cincinnati. ’Til he makes enough to buy them a house.” The hard man shook his head to emphasize the point.

  Crawfish glanced around the crowded room. “You seem to know a lot about Mr. Hickok.”

  Fisher inhaled and his chest extended. “It’s my business to know people who can help me—or hurt me.”

  Crawfish nodded and returned his gaze to the freighter. “Well, you don’t know Vin Lockhart very well, if you think he’d be interested.”

  Fisher’s right eyebrow popped upward in anticipation of responding.

  Crawfish decided it was time to change the subject. “How would somebody get away with a bunch of twenty-mule team wagons loaded with silver anyway? Wouldn’t that be easy enough to track?”

  This time Fisher frowned and his eyebrow arched defiantly. “Yeah, probably so. I just don’t want anybody trying. There’s a gang that’s hit a bunch of stagecoaches. Don’t want them getting greedy and lookin’ my way.”

  Pushing his eyeglasses back on his nose, Crawfish blinked, muttered “Good luck” and headed to the front door, where Lockhart and the boy were talking. He didn’t hear Fisher say, “I want Lockhart.”

  “Sean, I was just going to have some eggs and ham. Would you join me?” Lockhart said to the wide-eyed youngster.

  The boy’s eyes were all the answer needed.

  “What say, we eat and, if you’re interested, we can check out a job in the kitchen.” Lockhart nodded toward their table in the back.

  Sean bit his lower lip and stared at his worn boots. “M-me not be havin’ any…coin.”

  “You don’t need any. Right now. I invited you to join me. Besides, I don’t like eating alone.” Lockhart pointed at the advancing Crawfish, leaning on his walking stick, and proclaimed, “Sean, this is my good friend and business partner— and soon-to-be bank president, Desmond Crawford.”

  “Crawfish, boy. Crawfish to my friends,” the red-haired entrepreneur bellowed. “Welcome to the Silver Queen.” He held out his hand.

  Hesitating, the gawky lad took his hand and shook it slowly at first, then hardily. “Honored to meet ye. Sean Kavanagh, me be.”

  “Hop-a-bunny, Vin. With all that commotion, I forgot all about the eggs and ham. Still want them?”

  “You bet. Over easy.”

  “Sean, you can help me,” Crawfish said. “I want to hear all about you. Then we’ll eat.”

  “Be careful, Sean,” Lockhart teased, “he’ll have you working for his new bank before you can say ‘silver.’”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  From his boarding house window, Vin Lockhart saw the sun bring a new morning to a quiet Denver. He didn’t want to; it was his mind’s idea. He grabbed his watch lying on the bedside table, along with his Smith & Wesson revolver. It was 5:20.

  He lay on the wood-framed bed in his sparsely decorated room and stared at the pink halo brightening against the dark mountains. Stone-Dreamer’s stories about Wi, the Sun, filled his half-awake thoughts. He let them come and saw again the intense shaman in a full-length, white elkskin cape worn over his customary white buckskin shirt and leggings. On his head was a winter wolf’s head with owl and eagle feathers dangling from the side of the whitish hide. Across his shoulder was a large white pouch with long straps. In it were many sacred stones.

  The holy man, his adoptive Oglala father, had told him often of the mysteries of the universe. How Wakantanka represented all sixteen supernatural beings and powers. In the sacred language, this was known as Tobtob. Four-four. He held up four fingers and told the young Lockhart, then known as Angry Dog, that there were four groups of powers; each with four beings. The superior group was Wakan akanta. In this foursome were Wi, the Sun; Skan, the Sky; Maka, the Earth; and Inyan, the Rock. Each power had an associated power. The moon was the sun’s associated power. Wind was the sky’s; Falling Star, the earth’s; and the Winged-Being, the Thunder-Being was the rock’s.

  In Lakota creation myths, the Sun’s wife was the Moon. When they separated, night and day was created. Falling Star was their daughter who eventually took up with South Wind. Tributes must always be given in the order in which the dir
ections were born—west was first born, then north, followed by east, and lastly by south.

  He blinked and Stone-Dreamer was gone. In his place was the smiling face of Morning Bird. He bit his lower lip and blinked her away. Yet his mind wandered to the Sun Dance where selected warriors were honored by being chosen to dance for the tribe’s well-being for the coming year. The scars on his chest were a reminder of that ordeal for him. A time of great honor.

  He was again riding beside his best friend, his kola, and former brother-in-law, Touches-Horses, the warrior with the gift of training great horses. He heard Touches-Horses tell him again that they were true brothers in deed, in friendship. Brother-friends. Touches-Horses was Young Evening’s brother.

  “You honor him every day, Panther-Strikes,” Touches-Horses said. “The wasicun firestick is magic in your hands. You have already led three successful war parties. Only Bear-Heart and Thunder Lance are seen as greater warriors—and they are much older. You are also skaiela, a white speaker. And you can talk the words with our wasicun brothers. And you were chosen for the Sun Dance at the gathering of all Lakota. Any father would be proud of such a son.”

  “But I do not hear the stones sing.”

  He sat up in bed and let his bare legs slide over the side. It was Sunday. The Lord’s Day, so the town proclaimed. His Oglala friends believed every day, every hour, was to honor Wakantanka. Every step was, therefore, sacred; every action, a prayer.

  From the beginning of their relationship, Crawfish had shared Bible stories and the white man’s various religions with him. Lockhart hadn’t embraced any of them, however, although he vaguely remembered his white parents reading the Bible often and praying. Mostly, though, it was because he couldn’t imagine an all-powerful God being locked up in a small building. Deeply engrained in him was the belief that God, what ever His name, was everywhere and watched over all creatures and all things. That was Stone-Dreamer’s teaching.