Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  “Easy, Vin. Goodness gracious me! The boy’s been through an awful lot in just a few short hours,” Crawfish exclaimed.

  Lockhart shook his head.

  “Sean, you’ve been traveling with two no-good, murdering thieves,” Lockhart said, almost softly. “The kind of thugs that good men don’t want around. At all. The kind that want to take from good men because they’re too lazy to work. The kind who tell themselves that they’ve gotten a bad break—and hard work is for suckers.”

  Sean’s forehead rolled into a frown and stepped back.

  Crawfish put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, fearing what his friend was going to say next, yet not daring to stop it.

  “You have a choice, young man,” Lockhart continued. “A real choice. You can take advantage of this opportunity to learn something worthwhile. Something worth doing. Crawfish here is an amazing teacher. He turned an Indian warrior into a successful businessman. Me.” He paused and leaned his hand against the back edge of the desk chair. “Or you can decide your friends are worth your loyalty—and try to kill me. For revenge. You probably promised Murphy that— or he asked for it.”

  Crawfish’s eyes widened and his mouth popped open as his hand recoiled from Sean’s shoulder.

  “Here. This will help you make up your mind.” Lockhart let go of the chair back, reached inside his coat, and pulled free his Smith & Wesson revolver. He spun it in his hand to leave the butt toward Sean. “Take it. Come on, take it. It’s what you want, isn’t it? Revenge?”

  Sean’s eyes blinked and matched Crawfish’s in surprise. His hand twitched at his side for an instant and then was still.

  Lockhart took a step closer and pushed the gun butt into Sean’s stomach. “Take it, boy. It’s a lot better than that knife. This is your chance. To honor Big Mike and Lightnin’ Murphy.”

  Crawfish stammered and dropped his walking stick. “Q-quit that, Vin. P-put that damn thing away. P-please.”

  Lockhart spun the gun butt back into his hand and holstered it. “I’ll see you boys later.” He wheeled and walked out of the parlor.

  Crawfish and Sean heard the front door open and slam shut.

  “Sean…Vin Lockhart is a good man, but he’s a hard one,” Crawfish said, picking up his stick without looking at the boy. “He likes you. He wants you to succeed. Like he did. I can tell.”

  “A funny way o’ showing it, he has.”

  “Maybe so. He wants you to make sure. Make sure…ah, you’re sure.”

  “What would’ve happened if I took it?” Sean asked, looking at his feet, then at Crawfish.

  The red-haired entrepreneur rubbed his chin. “Don’t even think about that.”

  “Would me be right in sayin’ he wonna be goin’ to service—with ourselves?” Sean changed the subject quickly.

  Crawfish smiled. “Vin has a powerful feeling for…ah, God. Not much patience, though, for…church.”

  “Seems they kinda be goin’ together.”

  Making a circle with his hands, Crawfish explained what Lockhart believed and why. Then he told the boy about Lockhart’s intention to look over some land for a possible horse ranch.

  Sean’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. “By the saints and all that be holy, me dun forgot all about ’em. Ay, that I did.”

  “Forgot what, Sean?”

  “Big Mike’s buckboard an’ hosses, they be outside o’ town. South o’ here. A short ways. Near a sweet pond, they be,” Sean declared. “An’…an’ there be an’ Injun pony, too.”

  “An Indian pony?”

  “Ay. A fine he-hoss he be. Got paint an’ feathers on hisself.”

  Crawfish asked where they got the horse and Sean explained they had just come across the animal on the way from Longmont. It was standing quietly by the road. He also admitted the wagon and horses had been stolen. They had driven it away while the owners were in the general store. No one had even noticed, he added proudly.

  “We’ll go to this pond later today and bring them in. I know where you’re talking,” Crawfish said and hit his walking stick forcefully against the floor. “I’ll wire the marshal in Longmont and advise him of the wagon and horses.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘but’s,’ Sean. We don’t steal and we don’t lie around here. Understand?” Crawfish hit the floor again with the end of his staff.

  “Ay, that I do. But what about the Injun pony?”

  “Well, he should go back to his owner, too. But I don’t know how to do that,” Crawfish said. “We’ll see what Vin thinks.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dr. Hugo Milens’s piercing green eyes had a glow to them that reminded of a summer day. Or was it eternity? The newspaper had spoken of him as “a mesmerist of note, someone that Denver was most fortunate to have in their midst for a short time” and “an accomplished professor of the ancient secrets of Egypt.” Both were phrases used by Milens to describe himself.

  The self-proclaimed mesmerist caught himself starting to smile at the full congregation. The beginning grin transformed into a scowl. There was much to be done—and quickly. Acquiring money from desperate believers must be done with a swiftness. He didn’t plan on staying long in Denver. He never did anywhere. His long prayers—and longer sermons—would build an image of himself that would allow for certain opportunities to take place.

  He decided on coming to Denver, after leaving Wichita. Things had gone well there. Very well. One wealthy widow had given him half her riches just to listen to her dead husband. He had been happy to oblige. So far, Mayor McCormick and Marshal Benson had been easy to get close to and aid, unwittingly, in the development of choice victims. Others would be similarly sought out and brought under his hypnotic spells. What a gift, this ability.

  He was also curious about this Vin Lockhart. His interest had come initially from the man’s reputation with a gun and had been whetted a few days ago when he ran into an old mountain man at a restaurant. The buckskin-clad trapper said Lockhart had lived with Indians for a long time and had actually stopped breathing once. Stopped breathing! Stone dead, the mountain man said, before an Indian holy man brought him back to life.

  With relish, the grizzled man related that the Indians believed Lockhart was blessed so he couldn’t be killed unless their ancestors decided so. Some, he said, thought Lockhart was a ghost, a spirit. When Dr. Milens asked the old-timer how he knew this, the mountain man said he had visited the same Oglala camp a week after Lockhart had left for good. He said the Indian holy man was a friend of his. A fine man, he had added, warming to his storytelling.

  Dr. Milens knew he could use this to his advantage in courting the wealthy Lockhart. He thanked the old man and paid him to leave town immediately. A man like Lockhart might prove to be an easier prey than most would suspect. He had already placed Desmond Crawford on his list to solicit.

  Not an empty seat on the wooden pews could be found in the Methodist church. Crawfish and Sean managed to squeeze into the next-to-the-last row. Behind the last pew was an ever-growing group of people standing. Waiting.

  Clearly nervous, Pastor Jeffrey Tiemann, the regular minister, stepped to the front of the crowded church. His eyes sought approval from Dr. Milens before beginning. The crowd-attractor sat in a special chair to the side of the pulpit. He nodded his agreement and settled himself more comfortably.

  “Good morning and welcome to the Lord’s house of worship,” Pastor Tiemann said, his voice gaining strength as he proceeded. “Let us begin by singing Hymn 308, ‘Lift Up Your Heads, Ye Gates of Brass.’”

  Crawfish looked at Sean, then opened the hymnal and began to point at each word as it was sung by the congregation. The Irish boy frowned and tried to concentrate on the gathered marks, comparing them to the sounds he heard.

  Two rows in front of them were Mattie Bacon and her father. Crawfish was certain she had noticed them when he and Sean entered the church. He didn’t really know why the relationship between her and Lockhart had cooled. His friend’s only s
tatement on the matter was that he wasn’t ready to get married and she was. That had come shortly after he returned from freeing Touches-Horses and a visit to his old Indian tribe.

  Mattie’s soprano was clear and bright, cutting through the clutter of other voices. When the hymn ended, Mattie turned slightly in the pew, then a little more, so she could see Crawfish. Their eyes met briefly and he nodded. She smiled stiffly and turned back.

  The rest of the service couldn’t go fast enough for most. They sat on the edge of their pews or shifted their feet while standing. Waiting to hear Dr. Hugo Milens. All except an old man in the fourth row, who was asleep. His low snoring was a giveaway. Several small boys also fidgeted in the back. Their mother, standing beside them, was too interested in the service to be stern with them, or even aware of their disruptive behavior.

  At last his sermon came.

  With a nod of his head, Dr. Milens stood slowly in response to Paster Tiemann’s introduction and headed to the pulpit. He stood behind it for a long moment, as if studying each and every person in the room.

  “Good morning to you. I bring you news from your beloved brethren who have gone on before you. They gather close to watch and listen. They are heartened by your love—and your prayers.”

  A few sobs and several gasps rattled through the church, followed by almost absolute silence. His sermon was a mixture of heroic phrasing about the area…fearful deliverances of the ungodliness of the city’s vices…earnest pleadings to let the riches of the area be handled by godly men…direct references to his special ability to help people talk to the spirits of departed loved ones, complete with three dramatic examples…all wrapped around verse four of the Twenty-Third Psalm: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

  He loved the look on parishioners’ faces as he twisted this sentence from one of their favorite passages into something that suggested the spirit world—and let its unstated mystery seek their already timid souls. As he expected, the eyes of most of the women reflected their belief in his special calling. He couldn’t help smiling as he spoke.

  To cap off the sermon, he used a magnificent soliloquy from King Richard II, where Shakespeare had King Richard making a long-winded threat: “‘Draw near and list what with our council we have done…For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soiled…With that dear blood which it hath fostered;…And for our eyes to hate this dire aspect…Of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbours; award,…And for we think the eagle-wing’d cradle…Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;…Which so roused up with boist’rous untuned drums, With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace, And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood; Therefore we banish you our territories…’”

  At least half the audience wouldn’t even realize his long recital hadn’t come from the Bible—and most wouldn’t understand what this brilliantly written monologue even meant. But they would get the alarming words and phrases like “dear blood,” “wake our peace,” “fright,” “kindred’s blood,” “wounds,” and “dreadful.” He delivered this segment of the sermon as his closing, envisioning himself in the role of King Richard as he performed the words. His face was rich with practiced emotion.

  The last sentence dropped upon the crowd like an ax in a quiet wood. A woman in the fifth row was so overcome with emotion, she applauded. After a few unfettered, but solitary, handclaps, she realized where she was and looked around sheepishly, her red face ripening. Her smile was somewhat akin to the expression of someone tasting a sour persimmon.

  Crawfish listened, appreciating the incorporation of the Shakespearean soliloquy and reminded himself to share more of the great writer’s work with Sean some time.

  Dr. Milens caught the movement of Marshal Benson entering from the back. The lawman was beaming. He nodded greetings to people who turned to see who it was. He was in a good mood from earlier praise about the way he had handled the Irish holdup men last night. The second hoodlum had passed away, early this morning.

  After the passing of the collection plate, which resulted in a far-above-average return, Dr. Milens stood beside Pastor Tiemann and closed with a prayer: “O Lord, you have been our protector in times of danger, in times of need, in times of sorrow. From the tall mountains around us…your mountains…has come a vicious menace tearing into our families, our homes, our commerce. Ah yes, Lord, we understand that the lifting of ore from your mountains is not good in your precious sight. Deliver us from this…this evil of greed…and give us peace as we work together to build our valley…your beautiful valley…into a place of happiness and goodwill. Grant us the ability to hear those who have gone before us—and learn from them. Amen.”

  Pastor Tiemann seemed stunned by the words, but managed to mumble, “Go in peace.”

  People began to put on their coats, to speak with neighbors. Mingled conversation became a sort of garbled song.

  “Reverend, may I speak to the group for a moment?” The voice was that of Alexander McCormick, mayor and town banker. The interaction was planned.

  “Of course, Mr. McCormick. My friends, will you please give our mayor your attention. Please!” Pastor Tiemann glanced at Dr. Milens as he finished.

  A fairly good speaker himself, McCormick had an unfortunate tendency to make arm motions only with his right hand and only in a stiff outward motion that never seemed to be timed with any phrasing. Like a loose driving rod on a steam engine. Still, he looked and sounded authoritative.

  “Folks, I just wanted to tell you that our fine peace officer, Marshal Benson, has fully brought to justice the two Irish hoodlums who attempted to kill and rob one of our citizens last night.”

  A slight murmur followed this statement. Crawfish stopped halfway toward the aisle and looked back at Sean. The Irish lad’s face was white and his eyes were wide.

  “It’s all right, Sean,” Crawfish said. “This is just politics. I’ll explain later.”

  McCormick continued his presentation. “In our midst right now is our brave officer. Marshal Benson, please…step forward and receive the recognition of a grateful community.”

  He began to clap and most of the congregation followed his lead.

  Waving his hands in an exaggerated attempt to stop the applause, Benson announced, “One of the hoodlums was killed last night, trying to kill and rob Mr. Vin Lockhart.” He paused for emphasis. “I should tell you that the second Irish outlaw met his maker this morning. From wounds received in the same attempt. Obviously, the Irish scum didn’t know who they were tangling with!” He made no attempt to explain that his role was simply to show up and take away the bodies.

  Laughter flitted for attention and whispered observations joined in, filling the church with a nervous clatter.

  “Thank you, Mayor, and you, Pastor Tiemann, for the opportunity to inform our town that it is, indeed, safe—and me and my men will ever strive to keep it so.” He made a quick bow, more of an extended nod.

  McCormick turned to the minister, thanked him and returned to his family.

  “Sounds like this Vin Lockhart fellow is no one to mess with,” Dr. Milens said.

  Nodding agreement, Pastor Tiemann explained that Lockhart and Crawford owned one of the larger saloons and one of the better hotels in town, as well as some other property. Dr. Milens already knew that, but expressed interest and asked if either man was in attendance today. He had already seen Crawfish in the back.

  “Ah, I’m certain Mr. Lockhart isn’t here, but I believe I saw Mr. Crawford. Yes…there he is.”

  “Oh good, would you introduce me?” Dr. Milens asked.

  Pastor Tiemann seemed puzzled by the request.

  “I find it useful to get to know all manner of people in a town, Pastor Tiemann.” Dr. Milens motioned with his hand for the minister to lead the way to the businessman.

  Nearing the fa
r aisle, Crawfish was trying to calm Sean, who was upset about the news of Lightning Murphy’s death and the marshal calling them “scum.”

  Crawfish’s words weren’t comforting and only served to rile the boy more.

  “You’re no different than the rest. Leave me alone!” Sean finally blurted. He pushed the old businessman and hurried in the other direction. He scooted along the pew into the center aisle, brushed through the exiting crowd and disappeared outside.

  “Wait, Sean!” Crawfish said and cleared the narrow pew on the far aisle. He looked up and saw the Bacons standing there.

  Albert Bacon spoke first; his voice, haughty and condescending. “Well, I see Vin Lockhart has found another reason to use his fancy gun.”

  Crawfish pursed his lips and pushed back the glasses on his nose. “Yeah, I reckon so. If it had been you they had jumped, Bacon, we’d be praying over your puny, bullet-riddled body right now.” He looked around, but Sean was nowhere in sight.

  Bacon scoffed. “Come now, Mr. Crawford. Surely you don’t believe every encounter has to be handled with bullets.”

  “You’re a fool, Bacon,” Crawfish snarled. “Get out of my sight. I’ve got a young fellow to find. Before he does something stupid.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Crawfish growled. “Take your beautiful daughter for a walk and explain to her just what you would’ve done if two men had come at you. From a dark alley. Shooting at you. Trying to kill you.” He looked at the church entrance, was relieved to see Marshal Benson still there, talking to two couples, then brought his attention back to Bacon. “Maybe you could’ve told them you had a special sale on cooking pots. Or asked them if they would like to see some cloth.”