by Cotton Smith
“Do you think this Eyes-of-the-Wind will come back…some time?”
“Good question.” Lockhart looked at the cat, still massaging Beezah’s leg, and changed the subject. “That’s quite a cat. Yours, I take it.”
“Yes, she is a spirit, I think. I call her Mawhu, the name of the goddess of the moon in my religion.”
Lockhart knelt and held out a hand.
“Be careful, Governor. Mawhu does not take well to…strangers…” Beezah’s caution ended as the cat approached Lockhart, meowed an introduction and enjoyed the businessman’s strokes along its back.
As he patted the cat, Lockhart said softly, “Yes, I know. You are a cousin to the panther.” He stood and said, “Tell me more about your religion. It reminds me of others, yet it sounds quite different.” His interest was genuine and it showed in his eyes.
“Of course. I am surprised at your interest, Governor. And pleased.”
In a few sentences, Beezah explained his religion was voodoo, learned as a boy in Haiti. He had grown up there, coming to New Orleans as a young man. The religion was largely focused on ancestors with each family of spirits having its own priesthood, usually related to the spirits. The word, voodoo, itself meant spirit. His religion, as he was taught, was built around a double-divine concept with the God-Creator, Nana Buluku, as the supreme force, and a group of voduns, or God-Actors, who looked over things on earth.
He shrugged his shoulders and said it was a very complex religion. He reminded Lockhart of Iwa, super natural beings who represented the great forces of nature. They were in the trees, the streams, the mountains, wind, plants and fire. They also represented human sentiments and values, like love, courage, truth, justice, fidelity. In certain voodoo ceremonies, they would enter the human body.
“Voodoo has many pieces, for it is built from African religions and is tightly connected to all that has happened in Haiti over the centures,” Beezah said, motioning in a large circle. “It even has Catholic—and Freemason—tributes within it. I guess you would say it ties the unknown to the known, connecting those of us who are living with the dead and to those not yet born. It is quite complicated.” He sighed.
“Aren’t they all?” Lockhart replied. “It has taken me a long time to understand the different religions of the white man.”
Beezah chuckled. “Ah yes, and each is the only true one.”
Proudly, he added that Haiti was the world’s first in depen dent black republic, created by a revolution led by slaves at the turn of the century. Several of his slave ancestors had been in this struggle and he himself was named after Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the legendary founding father of the republic.
Holding his arms, Lockhart shared the fact that his interest in religions had mostly come from his partner and good friend, who had taught him much. Beezah said that his knowledge of voodoo was limited to his own temple and his own priest there, that he didn’t really know the great picture of the African-based belief system.
Their discussion was interrupted by Norborg returning with a tin plate of food and a cup of coffee. The driver asked Lockhart if he intended to come inside to eat. Puzzled by what he had overheard, the big Swede wondered to himself why two men of the gun were talking about religion and decided it was none of his business.
Lockhart examined the plate; it was some kind of stew. “How about some dinner company, Beezah?”
“I would like that, Governor.”
“Be right back,” Lockhart said and headed for the station.
Norborg nodded and headed for the new team to check on the harness.
Walking away, Lockhart stopped and turned back to Beezah. “No offense, but have you checked out the men riding on top? Gold is a tough secret to keep.”
Beezah’s smile was glistening white against his dark skin. “Two have guns, but trouble they are not.” He cocked his head to the side. “And inside?”
“The man next to me is carrying a shoulder holster—and he’s got a small gun in his boot,” Lockhart said. “Two of the men behind me are also armed. Guns are in their coat pockets.”
“What about the spirit man?”
“No, he’s not armed,” Lockhart said and then added, “At least, I don’t think he is.”
“His ladies?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t looked.”
Beezah laughed. “Do you want to share them, Governor?”
It was Lockhart’s turn to laugh.
“Will you give me a hand—if there is need?” Beezah asked and took a small bite of the stew, balancing the plate in his right hand.
“Of course,” Lockhart said and grinned.
“What if it is Indians?”
“I’ll help you stop them. They won’t be any of my friends.”
Beezah laughed and it was deep and guttural as Lockhart disappeared into the building.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Heavy dusk found the stage pulling into a gray-looking station for a fresh team of animals. Anton Norborg brought the tired mules in at a full run as he liked to do. His reins gave a special command to his off-leader and the right-front mule responded as he wanted.
No stock tenders were in sight. Neither was the fresh team.
“Hey, Roberts! Dusty! Var are my horses?” Norborg yelled.
Lockhart was dozing on and off, but was aware the man next to him was not asleep, only faking. He heard Beezah tell the Swede that the fresh team was on the side of the building. At that moment came the sounds of the harnessed horses, followed by a gruff “Settle down. We’re comin’.”
Hooves clattered on the hard ground. Leather creaked. Trace chains rattled. Horses snorted. From around the far corner came the harnessed team of horses.
“Ja. Ja. Hurry up. I am behind the schedule an’ du know vad the boss think of that,” Norborg said, laid the reins over the front edge of the driver’s box and prepared to get down.
The two men eased the horses toward the coach; their faces mostly covered by their hats and growing shadows.
“Vad is this? Who are du? Var are…”
“Shuddup and don’t move.” Both men had rifles aimed at Norborg and Beezah.
Inside the coach, Lockhart awoke, pushed aside the pulled-down, leather curtain enough to see what was happening. His hand slid inside his coat to his shoulder holster.
“Don’t do that.” His leering face fat with victory, Dr. Milens leaned forward; a two-shot derringer cocked in his right hand. “Sorry it had to end this way for you, Lockhart. You should’ve stayed in Denver with your idiot friend.”
Above, Jean-Jacques Beezah’s response was to swing his gun toward them and fire twice. The closest outlaw winced and spun to the right. A shot from the other outlaw drove into Beezah’s right leg. As the guard levered his rifle for another shot, a blast from behind Beezah straightened him. Dropping the gun, he pitched forward, crashed into the front boot and fell to the ground, narrowly missing the coach tongue, and lay still. His rifle bounced off the left-rear mule’s back and clattered on the hard earth. Both of the closest two mules jumped at the intrusions and the right-rear mule stutter-stepped away from the sudden addition to its space.
Snarling, the black cat jumped from the driver’s box and sprang at Beezah’s attacker behind him. A curse, followed by a fierce swing of his arm, sent the small black shape hurling from the stage.
From the ground, the second outlaw tugged on his bell crown hat and yelled, “Ya got the nigra, Billy Joe! Good work.”
The wounded outlaw, wearing a faded, woolen poncho, grimaced and held his side. “I’m shot, dammit, Gleason. I’m shot! Did you kill that black sonvabitch?”
“Me an’ Billy Joe did.” The second outlaw, named Nolan Gleason, waved his rifle in the direction of the coach roof. Thick-mustached and square-faced, he wore two belted-on handguns; one holstered with the butt forward, the other with the butt to the back.
“Get the box, Billy Joe, and throw it down,” Gleason demanded.
“I have only a mail pouch.”
Norborg held up a filled leather bag.
“Don’t play games. We know you’re carryin’ gold,” Gleason responded. “It’s under your seat.”
From the stagecoach roof, a silhouette stood. The miners there were flattened against the coach, heads down. “If one of you bastards moves, I’ll blast the lot of you.” Billy Joe Thornton motioned with his gun.
“Give him a hand, driver—and be quick about it,” Gleason yelled, pointing his rifle for emphasis
“How do you know about this? No one was…” Norborg mumbled and shook his head, then leaned over and yanked on the unseen strongbox. A moment later, he turned toward the outlaw behind him. “Ja. I need some help. It is heavy. Jean-Jacques helped me with it. Please, I cannot.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Just wait. I’m coming.” Thornton stepped closer.
The outlaw’s corduroy coat was filthy and wrinkled, matching his woolen shirt; a misshapen, narrow-brimmed hat was yanked low on his lanky, unshaven face. Except for the shiny revolver, he looked just like the other miners on top.
As he passed, one miner looked up. “Thought ya was gonna look for gold with us.”
“Found mine early,” Thornton snapped and climbed into the driver’s box. “Stand easy, Nolan. I’m gonna check on that nigger first.” He leaned over to look at the downed coach guard lying on the ground at the base of the coach. Thornton’s long-barreled Colt was cocked in his right fist.
On the ground, a grasping Beezah turned on his side and fired both of his Remington revolvers into Thornton’s peering head. The outlaw’s face disappeared in blood. His Colt fired in death’s reaction, slamming its lead into the dirt beside Beezah. Thornton jerked and pitched forward, tumbling out of the seat and crashing into the coach tongue, then sliding to the dirt nearly on top of Beezah. The outlaw’s Colt clattered against the tongue and thudded to the ground. The closest two mules jumped again and, this time, the right-rear mule kicked Thornton’s unmoving shoulder.
The badly wounded Beezah collapsed with his guns still in his fists.
“What the hell?” Gleason blurted and fired rapidly in Beezah’s direction; one bullet splintered a wedge from the front part of the coach itself; another pounded into Beezah’s left arm; a third thumped into Thornton’s back. Beezah was again motionless; the gun in his left hand spun free, a foot from the dead Billy Joe Thornton.
“Driver, toss that box down here, before I put a bullet in you,” Gleason yelled and swung his rifle in Norton’s direction.
“Ja, I be doing that. Ja.”
With the adrenaline of sheer fear, Norborg managed to push the heavy box against the side and shove it over the side. The green trunk, with the white lettering “Wells Fargo & Co.,” on its side, landed with a dull sound. The lock and hinges rattled, but held.
“Do you want the mail, too?” Norborg again held up the pouch.
“Hell no,” Gleason barked.
A fourth outlaw, pig-faced and long-haired, in duckin trousers and canvas suspenders, came from the station, brandishing a shotgun and leading a horse strapped with readied canvas bags. He paused beside the first outlaw, kneeling, holding his side.
“Are ya going to be able to ride, Diede, or are we gonna have to leave ya?”
“I can ride,” the poncho-wearing Frank Diede grunted through clenched teeth. “It j-just h-hurts. Just cut along the side of my belly, that’s all.”
Jerking on the reins of the pack horse, the pig-faced outlaw grinned and walked over to Gleason standing beside the strongbox. “Thornton’s dead, I take it.”
“Guess so, Solak. He guessed wrong. But I took care of the black bastard.”
“Thornton’s tough luck. One less to split with,” the pig-faced man named Solak said. “Anything inside the coach worth taking?”
“Don’t know. The boss’s two good-looking ladies are there.” Gleason grinned.
“We’re in no hurry. Let’s get ’em out of there. Might be somethin’good on them other passengers, too.”
“He won’t like it, if’n ya mess with his ladies,” Gleason warned. “He said they-all were plannin’ on goin’ with us.”
“What’s he gonna do about it? We’re not gonna hurt ’em any, jes’ poke ’em a little.”
Both men laughed and Diede joined them, holding his side and trying to act like he wasn’t hurt badly. His rifle remained in the dirt beside the waiting horse team.
Pushing aside the curtain in the coach window, Dr. Milens yelled, “I heard that crap. Hurry up and get the gold loaded. The good mayor said it was full.” He snickered. “He didn’t think anyone would suspect.” A cackle followed. “I’ll bring the passengers out.”
As he finished, Dr. Milens heard the unmistakable cocking sound of a revolver.
“Drop the gun,” the hard-looking man next to Lockhart growled.
Dr. Milens swung the derringer in his direction.
Lockhart’s left hand was a blur, grabbing the mesmerist’s gun hand and slamming it against the door. The hideaway gun sprang from his opened fingers and clunked against the stagecoach floor. A fraction behind, Lockhart’s right fist rammed into Dr. Milens’s jaw, driving his head backward.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on in there?” Gleason yelled, but made no attempt to move.
“You all right, boss?” Solak asked, dropping the pack horse reins to put both hands on his shotgun.
Shoving the unconscious mesmerist toward the assistants, Lockhart slid into Dr. Milens’s seat and stuck his hand out of the window, beside the curtain. His face remained in the dark as he pointed emphatically at the strongbox.
“Sure. Sure. We’ll get it packed,” Solak responded. “Blow off that lock, Gleason.”
Gleason fired and the lock burst apart, and the two men began removing the tied pouches of gold dust and placing them in the canvas bags on the pack horse.
Inside, the hard-looking man said quietly, “Smart move. Name’s Hogan. John Hogan. I’m a Deputy United States Marshal. Looks like we can count on you. Wasn’t sure.” He picked up Dr. Milens’s derringer and shoved it into his pocket.
Lockhart said in a low voice. “Lockhart. Vin Lockhart. Wasn’t sure about you either.” He moved back to his seat, straightened the out-cold Dr. Milens and drew his Smith & Wesson revolver.
“Yes, I know who you are.” Hogan glanced at the middle assistant. “Lady, you’d better be coming out of that bag with a powder puff.”
The closest woman cursed and eased her empty hand from her purse in her lap. The bespectacled assistant folded her arms in disgust and looked out the window again.
“Who’s ‘we’? What about the men behind you? Two are armed.” Lockhart motioned with his head.
What passed for a smile preceded the marshal’s statement. “Roger’ll handle them.”
“Roger?”
“Next to me. Pinkerton Field Agent Roger Buenstahl. On assignment from Wells Fargo and Company.”
Lockhart wanted to ask if the professorial-appearing man would hit them with a book, but decided it proved his earlier point about not looking dangerous and being so.
As he discarded the thought, the bespectacled man spun toward the men behind him; in his fist was a short-barreled pistol. His voice was thick with grit. “We’ll sort this out later. Right now, I want your guns on the floor. Don’t do anything I don’t like.” Satisfied with the passengers’ immediate compliance, Roger Buenstahl looked back at the two women. “You neither, ladies. I haven’t put lead in a woman. Yet. But I will if I need to. Real fast.”
Hogan glanced back at Lockhart. “Consider yourself deputized, Lockhart.”
“All right. How do you want to play this?” Lockhart studied the outlaws outside, filling the canvas bags. “They’re expecting us to come out.”
“That’s what they’re going to get. Milens goes first. You and I’ll be right behind him,” Hogan declared. “Roger, you cover us.”
Shoving another stack into the bag, Solak squinted at the moving shadows within the dark interior of the coach. “Nolan,
go take a look. Something’s wrong in there. The boss said the passengers were coming out.”
“Frank, you go,” Gleason pushed the wounded outlaw, Frank Diede, toward the coach.
“Me? Why me? You do it. I’m hurt.”
“They’re going to kill us all,” one of the passengers muttered from the back.
Buenstahl frowned and glanced in his direction. “Watch and see.”
“You ready?” Lockhart pulled the unconscious mesmerist next to the door.
Behind him, Hogan said, “I’ll take the long-haired one. Before he can use that scattergun. Be careful, there might be somebody else in the station.”
“I’ll slide over as soon as you leave,” Buenstahl said.
“Let’s go.” Lockhart opened the coach door and shoved Dr. Milens out.
The mesmerist’s limp arms and legs fluttered like some giant, ungainly bird and he flopped against the ground.
“What the hell?” Solak blurted and swung his shotgun toward the motion.
Marshal Hogan fired twice from the opened coach door as Lockhart jumped. Like it was a red-hot branding iron, Solak dropped the shotgun and grabbed his stomach.
Lockhart demanded their surrender. Solak groaned and begged him not to shoot. He grabbed his shirt, trying to hold back the seeping crimson. Already wounded, Diede cried out his submission and held up his arms to reinforce it, wincing as he did.
Gleason hesitated, squeezing his rifle with both hands.
“Drop the gun, mister, or you’re next,” Lockhart barked, pointing his revolver at the outlaw.
Behind him, Marshal Hogan cleared the coach. “The gun. Drop it. Now. Then those pistols. Unbuckle the belts and let them drop.”
Gleason started to jerk his arm upward, thought better of it, and raised his hands. The rifle thudded on the ground, sending a puff of dust spinning away. The pistol belts followed.
Lying prone on the ground, Dr. Milens was jabbering to himself, not yet aware of where he was, or what was happening. “The spirits are…waiting. Waiting. They will…come. For…money…they will come.”