Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  “Thank you, my good friend.”

  “Be sure to pack that old sawed-off shotgun of mine— and take your medicine rock.” Crawfish smiled. “For luck.” He glanced away and added, “Better pack those pretty cardinal feathers. She’ll ask about them.”

  Lockhart tried to smile, but couldn’t.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next day, Lockhart was aboard the northbound stage. He would buy two horses and supplies in Cheyenne and continue his quest from there. Crawfish had reminded him to use the telegraph office where he could to keep them informed.

  He was surprised to find himself sitting across from Dr. Hugo Milens and two women he hadn’t seen before. He guessed they were the mesmerist’s assistants. The voices from the spirit world. One was thin-faced with light brown hair in a bun; the other was heavily made-up with long, auburn hair bouncing on her shoulders.

  The mesmerist wasn’t too happy to be riding with Lockhart, but had already decided he had secured all that he was likely to get from Denver and if things went as planned, it would be small potatoes anyway. He didn’t like surprises and Lockhart being on board was certainly one. At the right time, he would have to make certain his presence was known to his men.

  Jammed together, Dr. Milens and his ladies sat on the back, leather-upholstered row with the wall of the carriage to lean against. Equally pressed together, hip to hip, Lockhart and two other men sat in the center bench with leather loops suspended from the ceiling to steady them. Three other passengers sat in the front row, all men. Nine in all inside. All jammed together for the long, discomforting trip. The Concord coach’s front and rear boots, and some of the top, were loaded with express freight, luggage and mail. Only five other passengers were allowed on top, instead of up to twelve. They looked like miners bound for Deadwood. Lockhart had boarded too late to select any of those seats, or either of the preferred front or back benches.

  Six stout Morgan horses pulled the coach at a steady trot as the more-than-a-ton, sturdy vehicle jostled and bounced in response to the chewed-up road, rocking the passengers like a ship at sea. The carriage itself was suspended on two thoroughbraces; three-inch-thick strips of leather did their best as shock absorbers. Above the noise of the road, the driver’s shrill cries to his team—and the crack of the nine-foot whip—were a constant reminder of the stage line’s emphasis on speed.

  Next to Lockhart was a hard-looking man in a herringbone suit too big for him and a boiled shirt with a soiled paper collar and a black ribbon tie that needed retying. His slouch hat was pushed up in the back and had seen better days. The bulge in his coat indicated a shoulder-holstered gun. To this man’s right was a short, stocky man in thick glasses trying to read a book while holding the strap with his right hand extended. Lockhart thought he might be a college professor or an accountant.

  Lockhart took a deep breath and closed his eyes, but made no attempt to grasp the leather loop. He hadn’t slept much last night, going over details about the ranch with Sean and Crawfish. The Silver Queen Saloon and the Black Horse Hotel were barely discussed. Falling Leaf would stay with Crawfish until he returned. It was too dangerous for her to go venturing north right now—and Lockhart didn’t think it would be wise for her to accompany him either.

  His energetic friend had insisted Lockhart take along his sawed-off shotgun and special quiver, for added firepower. The double-barreled shotgun had been shortened in both barrels and stock for use in one hand, like a pistol; Crawfish had used it in his prospecting days. It was with his other gear, packed with the other passenger luggage in the back coach boot. So were Morning Bird’s remembrance feathers wrapped carefully in a white handkerchief and resting among his extra clothes.

  Into his thoughts wandered the recollection of Stone-Dreamer telling him that Crazy Horse wore a special pebble into battle, behind his ear. He was carrying a pebble, too; his fingers went to the small stone hanging from his watch chain. The sacred tunkan carried the power of Eyes-Of-The-Wind, an ancient shaman Stone-Dreamer had revered as a young man.

  A part of him wanted to repeat the vision quest so many years ago. He frowned, but the thought remained, as did concerns about Crazy Horse. The charismatic leader was a Thunder Dreamer and was committed to the old life. The old Sioux life. Would his friends be drawn to Crazy Horse? He knew he would have been if he were still among them. Will the unbending leader take them to their deaths?

  “Business taking you to Cheyenne, Mr. Lockhart?” Dr. Milens asked, ignoring Lockhart’s attempt at resting.

  From under his pushed-down hat, Lockhart opened his eyes, nodded and closed them again.

  The closest woman assistant flitted her eyelashes at him. “Did yo-all see that colored fella riding guard? He looks dangerous. Do yo-all know him? Why does he have a cat with him? Do they expect Indian trouble? We’re not going close…to where that awful fight was…are we? Why aren’t there troops with us?”

  Her voice was syrupy and Southern with none of the airy, gentle quality he remembered from the seance. Lockhart started to comment on that fact, but decided it would be impolite. Maybe the other woman, the one with long hair and thick eyeglasses, had such a voice. From the looks of her, she hadn’t smiled in a long time and that didn’t match the angelic voice he remembered. He didn’t really care, one way or the other; just wanted to get his body adjusted to the constant rocking.

  Beside him, the hard-looking man in the slouch hat grunted, “That’s Beezah. Jean-Jacques Beezah. He’s from Orleans. Supposed to be good with a gun. Stage line hired him for awhile. Don’t know about his cat. Likes them, I guess.”

  The man with the book looked up, frowned, then returned to his reading.

  She acknowledged the statement, but continued to look at Lockhart waiting for his comment.

  “I don’t know him, ma’am. Sometimes, men who look dangerous, aren’t. And ones that don’t look dangerous, are.” Lockhart’s smile curled along his tightened mouth. “Like your magic tricks. You and the doctor here.”

  Dr. Milens’s eyebrows jumped in defense and his bowler tilted backward. The man next to Lockhart chuckled cruelly.

  “A-Are you calling me a f-fake?” Dr. Milens’s words were laced with condescension.

  “No. I was calling you a crook.” Lockhart’s stare was more than the mesmerist could handle.

  The closest woman’s eyes blinked once, twice. She huffed, started to say something, thought better of it and looked out the window. The long-haired assistant, next to her, whispered something and pushed on the leather curtain to make certain it was fully rolled up. In the distance, the Rocky Mountains looked like an oil painting.

  “Sir, I’ll have you know…you are angering the spirits with such talk. They are always near. To me. They trust me.” Dr. Milens sat with his arms folded and wore his most serious expression. His eyes flashed anger, but couldn’t quite hide the fear in them. The man across from him was not what he had expected. Even at the seance, his sudden reaction was a disappointment, a setback of sorts.

  Lockhart leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Maybe you should ask some of those ghosts to leave, so we’d have more room.”

  This time, even the bookish passenger laughed as well as the man beside Lockhart.

  Dr. Milens drew himself up and tried to look indignant as the coach rocked and snapped back and forth.

  “How much did you take from Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox?”

  Eyes widening, Dr. Milens was surprised at Lockhart’s question. He glanced at the men beside Lockhart who were still amused.

  “I’m sorry the ways of Egyptology are beyond you, Mr. Lockhart,” Dr. Milens declared. “Only a few are gifted with this insight. It is a rare and precious thing.”

  Lockhart leaned closer toward the upset spiritualist. “When we get to Cheyenne, you can send the money back. To them.”

  “What? I’ll do no such thing. They gave me that. Out of appreciation.”

  Lockhart straightened his back and reached up for the support strap. His
narrowed eyes never left Dr. Milens’s face.

  The mesmerist fidgeted in his seat, looked over at his lady friends, but both were engaged in the passing scenery.

  Bump! The coach hit a rut in the road and jerked sideways, then straightened itself like a cracking bullwhip. All nine passengers groaned. Above, a miner cursed loudly, followed by swearing in Swedish from the driver, Big Nose Anton Norborg, a transplanted Swede with a tendency to swirl his native tongue into his speech.

  “Perhaps, I could refund some of their money,” Dr. Milens purred. “After all, they were most generous with my bringing their loved ones to them. Yes, I could do that.”

  Lockhart sat without speaking; his stare forcing the mesmerist to look at his own trembling hands.

  Bump! The coach hit another rut and the passengers rose as one and banged down against their seats. Only the man next to Lockhart grunted his displeasure. The bespectacled man lost his page and muttered to himself as he sought its return.

  “I don’t know if you can trust money of that kind to the postal services,” Dr. Milens sputtered. “Perhaps, you could return it for me.”

  “The driver’s a good man. You give it to him. All of it. I guarantee it will get to the Wilcoxes.” Lockhart’s voice was harder now.

  “Oh.”

  “When we stop to eat. At a home station. Be in a few hours. You give it to him then.”

  “If I refuse?” Dr. Milens’s lower lip trembled slightly.

  “If he doesn’t shoot you, I will,” the man beside Lockhart snarled. “I don’t believe in spooks—an’ I don’t like cheats neither.”

  Pulling on his coat lapels to smooth them, Dr. Milens attempted to smile, but it was more like someone with an upset stomach. Nothing more was said until they reached the dusty-looking stable, granary and a corral, the swing station. Two stock tenders brought out the new team, six mules.

  Regaining her poise, the closest woman asked, “Mr. Lockhart, you said we would eat…at a home station, was that it?”

  “Yes. They’ll change horses about every twelve miles. But we’ll stop for dinner there,” Lockhart answered. “It’s bigger than here. Might even have a telegraph office. We can tell the Wilcoxes their money is coming back.”

  “Will we sleep…there?”

  Lockhart shook his head. “No, ma’am. The stage doesn’t stop.”

  “But, Dr. Milens, didn’t you say there were beds there? Bunks?” Her eyes flashed at the mesmerist.

  Lockhart shifted his weight. “They do have bunks, ma’am, for the stage-line employees.”

  “You mean we have to sleep…here in this?” Her eyebrows leapt upward.

  The long-haired assistant turned away from the window; her sloe-eyed gaze studied Lockhart for the first time.

  “You can sleep on my lap,” the middle man said and grinned.

  She snorted her disgust and said something to the other woman, who giggled and looked at Lockhart.

  Arriving at a home station, Anton Norborg, the roly-poly Swedish driver, was mildly amused when the well-dressed mesmerist came to him with the request that he give a brown envelope to Mr. Earnest Wilcox on his return trip. Lockhart stood next to the main building where the passengers would eat before continuing. Watching silently.

  Norborg agreed, unbuttoned his shirt, shoved the envelope inside his once-blue shirt and rebuttoned it, then said Dr. Milens should join the others inside. The stage would be moving again in fifteen minutes.

  Climbing down from the lofty driver’s seat, Beezah watched the exchange with mild curiosity, leaned his .44 Henry against the front wagon wheel and stretched himself. Remaining in the box seat was a shotgun; its twin barrels staring upward. Next to it was a black cat. The ebony-skinned man wore a gray Prince Albert frock coat and a matching bowler. A black-handled .44 Remington revolver was carried in a black, form-fitting holster and silver-accented gunbelt strapped over his vest. Shoved into his belt was a second Remington revolver, matching the holstered gun.

  The black man spoke with a soft French accent. Almost rhymthic. Definitely not New Orleans Cajun. “Excuse me, Governor, where am I to eat?”

  Norborg hadn’t thought about that before; his face showed it.

  “Ja, well, I check wit’ Herr Howell,” Norborg said and hurried away, checking his shirt to make certain it remained buttoned.

  “Just bring it out. I shall eat here.”

  The thick-waisted Swede waved over his shoulder.

  “Bonjour. You are the one who talks with the spirits,” Beezah said. “How are you doing with this trip?”

  Dr. Milens bowed slightly. “I am Hugo Milens, doctor of Egyptology. At your service.”

  “Those are ladies of yours?”

  “Ah, no sir. They are my assistants.” Dr. Milens glanced around, but both women had already gone inside.

  “I want one of them. Tonight when we hit the next home station. I will pay what she asks.”

  Frowning, Dr. Milens swallowed. “Ah, you misunderstand, sir. They are my assistants…ah, employees. They are…not whores.”

  Beezah looked beyond the mesmerist to Lockhart. “Has he already paid for them?”

  Dr. Milens knew who was there, but he turned around to gain time to think. His gaze brushed past Lockhart who was watching a coyote amble through a nearby wash, searching for supper. The mesmerist wasn’t sure who scared him the most, this strange black man or Lockhart. Nothing came to him of significance to say, or any courage either, so he reluctantly returned his attention to the tall black man.

  “No, no, please, sir. I must go now.”

  “Have her come to me at the next main stop. Dark it will be.”

  Shaking his head, Dr. Milens spun around and shuffled away. The day was turning worse and worse. What would Elsie and Geraldine say? What would they do? He glanced at Lockhart as he passed.

  The black man stood beside the stage, lit a hand-carved, ivory-bowled pipe. His manner was catlike. Haughty and confident of himself, his skills.

  Meowing, the black cat jumped to the base of the brake, then to the front left wheel, to the spoke, and, finally, the ground, where it sought Beezah’s leg to rub against.

  Lockhart was the first to speak. “Hard to believe, the stage would hire a man like you to ride herd on some luggage.”

  “I do not understand, Governor. Do you believe I am not capable because of my blackness?”

  Stepping away from the building, Lockhart smiled. “Hardly. I meant it as a compliment. I have heard of you. You are way above the standard express guard.”

  “Thank you, Governor.”

  “You are welcome.” Lockhart walked toward him. “I’m guessing we’re carrying gold.”

  Beezah met him midway and held out his hand. “Bonjour. You are Vin Lockhart, yes?”

  “I am. And you are Jean-Jacques Beezah.”

  “And you are a good guesser.” Beezah grinned. “The strongbox is full. And heavy. Very heavy.”

  They talked easily for a few minutes with Beezah explaining the obvious, that the stage was carrying a strongbox filled with gold being transferred to a Cheyenne bank. The black man asked if Dr. Milens was a boko, a certain kind of voodoo shaman feared for his magical powers, who also made protective amulets and communicated with the dead. Sometimes, he made zombies, forcing the dead to do what he wanted. Immediately, Beezah said that most voodoo priests and priestesses did only good, helping ordinary people to deal with the natural and supernatural forces of the universe, adding that he had grown up in Haiti, leaving it for America and New Orleans when he was eighteen.

  Lockhart tried to explain what the mesmerist did and Beezah’s only reaction was one word: spirits. Then Beezah reached into his coat pocket and slowly withdrew a small black stone. Nearly round and decorated with small red markings. Smiling broadly, he said a boko had blessed it for him when he decided to leave his homeland. Haiti had gotten too small, he said with an easy grin. It was an amulet made from a pebble he had found on the floor of an ounfo, a voodoo temple. He
said the marking was a véré, a ritual drawing—in miniature—that marked the four winds and created a crossroads to invite the spirits to come.

  “Good luck,” he said and added that he had asked Iwa, the intermediaries between people and the spirit world if it would be all right before he took it.

  Smiling, Lockhart said he had something similar, held up the pebble carried on his watch chain, and explained it was from an Oglala holy man and that stone was considered sacred by his adopted tribe, that it was the oldest of living beings and, therefore, the wisest. He decided not to share the story of spirits riding with him into battle. Protecting him. It was only a myth started by his adoptive father. It had no basis in truth. None, he told himself.

  Instead, he explained that the Oglala Great Spirit, Wakantanka, was seen in the sun, moon, sky, earth, winds, lightning, thunder and other natural forces. All were sacred elements of the whole. Somewhat like the voodoo religion. Spirits lived in the land, the trees, the streams, and most were dangerous.

  “Tunkan, a sacred stone, like this, is named after the dead person whose spirit lives within it,” Lockhart said. “I was raised in an Oglala village, mostly by a holy man.” He smiled; it wasn’t something he shared often and it felt good. “Sort of a guardian spirit within the rock. It is immortal, living forever. My tribe called it sicun. They believe that, sometimes, it is reincarnated.”

  “Ah, fascinating!” Beezah exclaimed. “Could it be the same magic, Governor? May I ask the name of your…stone?”

  “It is named after an ancient holy man, Eyes-of-the-Wind. He was quite famous among my old tribe. I think my adopted father knew him—and respected him greatly.”