by Cotton Smith
Lockhart moved toward the three outlaws, to complete their surrender and make sure none were carrying a hidden weapon. Sensing movement at the station window, Lockhart dove to his left, rolled and came up firing. It was instinctive.
A rifle shot from there cracked the earth where he had just been.
Without waiting for the hidden shooter to find him in the shadows of the coach, Lockhart came up from his roll in a fierce run to his left. Hogan guessed his strategy and fired two shots at the window; Buenstahl did the same from the coach. Lockhart looped wide, then dashed for the station and came to a stop beside the front wall. The window from where the shot came was ten feet away. It was the only window on this side of the building. There was no sign of the shooter.
Lockhart guessed there was more than one door and eased himself backward to the corner and around it. The shallow building had no windows on this short side and he raced to the back. Mounting one of the seven waiting horses was the last outlaw.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Lockhart said, motioning with his revolver.
Midway into the saddle, the gray-haired outlaw held his rifle in one hand and the reins and a fistful of mane in the other. He was older than the others. By far. Too old for this kind of work, Lockhart thought. But probably as mean as an old bull.
“Toss the gun—and climb down. Or do you want to gamble I can’t put three bullets in you before you can fire it.”
“None of them boys has ever taken a bullet. Just a bunch of posies. I have. You point a gun at ’em and they’ll fall down. Not me. Think I’m too old to be game, mister?” the older man with a weathered face and whip-lean body growled. What passed for a smile was stopped at the right corner of his mouth by a long scar.
“No, I think you’re too smart.”
The rifle flew in the air and the aging outlaw swung down. A minute later, Lockhart brought him to the assembled group of would-be holdup men, including the mesmerist and his assistants.
All of the passengers were huddled in another cluster; Buenstahl had satisfied himself that none were a part of the attempted holdup. Marshal Hogan had already informed the passengers that the gang intended to kill them so there would be no witnesses. The reaction was a range of anger, dismay and utter fear. The gang’s weapons had been placed inside on the stagecoach floor, except for the shotgun. It was in Buenstahl’s hands.
One businessman, wearing a black broadcloth suit sprinkled with trail dust and a plantation-styled straw hat, said he appreciated what had been done, but wanted to know when they would be going; he had an important appointment in Cheyenne. A miner laughed and said he did, too, in Deadwood. Neither the marshal nor the Pinkerton agent responded; they were too surprised by the audacity of the question.
Stepping next to Lockhart, Hogan explained the situation. “We’ve been tracking Dr. Milens, or what ever his name is, since Kansas City. He called himself Dr. Woodsmeier there. Gets information about bank deliveries—by mesmerizing a bank president. Like your mayor. Or a stage-line manager. Then his gang hits the coach when there’s a valuable shipment on board. Agent Buenstahl is from Pinkerton’s home office—in Chicago—and I’m from the Kansas U. S. Marshal’s district. Didn’t figure anyone around here would know us. We didn’t tell anyone. Not even the mayor. Looks like our mesmerist friend managed to get the news of the gold without much trouble.”
Stunned by the suddenness of it all, Norborg walked over to Marshal Hogan, finally working up the nerve to declare, “Roberts und Dusty, dey should’ve been the ones to ge out the new horses. If they killed dem, I think vee should hang dem right here. Ja, I do.”
Lockhart’s eyes flashed angrily. “What about Beezah? Has anyone checked?”
Norborg’s expression was first fearful, then annoyed. “Reckon he is dead. Dey put fyra or fem slugs in him. Ah, four or five, ja.”
Lockhart broke away, headed for the coach. His words trailed him. “Warriors like Beezah are hard to kill. The stones sing to them.”
Slightly amused, Hogan watched him for a moment, then returned his attention to the Swede driver who was rattled once more. “Should I go with…him? Should I look for Roberts und Dusty? Should I hitch up new horses? Vad are vee doing?”
“Go look for them. See if you can find some rope, too. We’re going to need it,” Marshal Hogan said. “You can hitch up the new team, but we’re not pulling out until I say so.”
A few feet away, Solak groaned, “I-I need a d-doctor.”
Marshal Hogan motioned with his head toward Dr. Milens.
“Not that kinda doctor. I need a real one. I’m gut-shot. Right here, dammit.”
“Well, if he can’t help you, no one can. Or will,” Hogan replied.
His eyes narrowed into slits, Dr. Milens snarled, “Shut up, you fool.”
“Shut up yourself, Jefferson,” Gleason snorted. “You said this was gonna be easy.”
Marshal Hogan grinned. “Jefferson, huh? That’s a third name.”
The mesmerist looked up at Hogan, then at Lockhart who was disappearing around the front of the coach. “You’re quite mistaken, sir. I am a law-abiding citizen. I will be talking to the governor about this treatment. You are in for serious misfortune, I guarantee it.”
“And I guarantee you’re going to prison, Milens, Woodsmeier, Jefferson, or what ever your name is.”
The gray-haired outlaw looked at Dr. Milens, then at the two wounded outlaws and Gleason. “This was my first job with ’em, Marshal. Honest. I didn’t know anybody was gonna get hurt. I’m…jes’ an old man. Grinshaw’s my name. Of the Kansas Grinshaws.”
The auburn-haired assistant named Geraldine straightened her glasses. “I understand why you have these men under arrest, but why us? Elsie and I were forced to do what this awful man made us do.” She motioned toward Dr. Milens.
Marshal Hogan’s smile was a sarcastic one. “Anyone else just strolling by?”
Buenstahl snorted and motioned with the shotgun for someone else to speak.
In response, Solak knelt in obvious pain, but none of the gang spoke or tried to help him. Dr. Milens acted like he didn’t know him. Solak wheezed and was quiet.
After shoving the dead Billy Joe Thornton aside, Lockhart knelt beside Beezah and turned the black man slowly over on his back. His coat and shirt were blood-soaked. Why hadn’t the two lawmen acted quicker? Or the driver? The thought angered Lockhart, even as he realized they didn’t know when or where an attack might come or who on the stage might be involved. Even Beezah. Even himself.
One of Beezah’s revolvers lay on the ground; the other remained in his right fist. A few feet away was his bowler. Next to the black man was a small derringer that had evidently fallen from his pocket.
A soft groan.
Lockhart’s energy level jumped. “He’s alive,” he said with more confidence than he felt. He straightened Beezah’s legs, then removed the man’s bloody coat and vest. The guard’s shirt was mostly glistening crimson and its buttons quickly surrendered to Lockhart’s pressure.
In spite of the softening nightfall, he could see four bullet holes in the man. Slugs were imbedded in his lower back. Another piece of lead was in his upper left bicep. His right leg was bleeding badly, but it looked like the bullet had cut through the fat side of his thigh and not penetrated.
“You will live, Beezah. They do not know how to kill a strong man,” Lockhart said. “I will be right back.”
Beezah’s eyes fluttered open. “Where is Mawhu? Is she…”
Lockhart frowned. “I will look for her. Later. I promise.”
“She is my…”
“Be quiet now.” Lockhart retreated to the rear boot, climbed up and pulled free his canteens and a folded shirt from his bag. The water was tepid, but it would do. He looked over at Hogan, Buenstahl, and the two groups watching him.
“Beezah’s alive,” Lockhart said. “He’s hurt bad, though. I’m going to need help.”
He returned to Beezah, who had passed out. Methodically, he tore apart the s
hirt and began cleaning the wounds with wet rags.
From the building, Norborg reappeared, holding two fat coils of rope. Walking beside him were two men, rubbing and stretching their arms.
“I found dem. Ja, tied up inside dey were. Not hurt none, though,” Norborg announced proudly. “Got some rep, too.” He held up the coiled lariats.
Marshal Hogan held up a hand to stop them. “Quick. Start a fire. We need hot water. Ban dages. The guard’s alive.”
The taller stockman, Roberts, turned in midstride and headed back; the shorter man was a step behind.
“Get a lantern, too. Two, if you’ve got them,” Hogan added, “so we can see what we’re dealing with. Going to need a sharp knife. Clean it in the hot water.”
From the front of the coach, Lockhart yelled, “Bring the can of kerosene, too. I’m going to want it.”
“Vad? Fotogen? Du aren’t going to burn my coach, are du?”
Lockhart shook his head. “I’m going to put it in the wounds. Sterilize them. Help them heal.”
“Oh. Never heard of dat.” Norborg shrugged his shoulders and hurried after the two stockmen, catching up with the shorter Dusty.
“What’s this all about?” Dusty asked, his big ears poking out from his woolen cap. “All this worry about a colored man?”
The round-bellied Swede frowned and walked faster, motioning for Dusty to do the same. “Jean-Jacques Beezah is from Orleans.”
“But he’s a nigra, ain’t he?”
“Ja, that he is. He is also a friend of Vin Lockhart’s. Keep walking. I will tell du later.”
Lying on the ground now, Solak groaned again, “What ’bout me? My gut’s all ripped up and you’re worried about some nigger.”
Glancing at him, then in Lockhart’s direction, Marshal Hogan said, “I wouldn’t say that real loud, mister. If Lockhart hears, I doubt the lot of you will see the sunrise. Including you, Doc What ever-your-name-is.”
The gray-haired outlaw folded his arms. “Who is that hombre anyway?”
“Lockhart. Vin Lockhart. From Denver.”
His eyes widening, the old man began to cackle. “Ain’t you somethin’, Jefferson. Dun led us into a trap with a federal marshal, a Pinkerton agent—an’ Vin Lockhart to boot. You’re a damn fool.” He spat for emphasis.
Dr. Milens stared at his feet, but said nothing.
The auburn-haired assistant pushed her glasses on her nose, looked at Dr. Milens and said, “It could’ve been worse. I hear Wild Bill Hickok’s coming back to Cheyenne. He could’ve been on the stage, too.” Her laugh was trilled.
Marshal Hogan turned away and headed toward the front of the coach. “Lockhart, do you want to move him? Inside?”
Without looking up, Lockhart responded, “Not yet. He’s lost a lot of blood. I’m afraid moving him would just make it worse.”
“How much lead’s still in him?”
“Three slugs.” Lockhart placed a folded wet cloth on Beezah’s forehead.
“Can you get to them?”
“I think so. Come morning.”
With a look of exasperation, the plantation-hatted businessman stepped forward. “Now see here, Marshal. We must get moving.” He straightened his back. “I demand you get those new horses hitched up and let’s get moving.”
Hogan cocked his head to the side. “There are saddled horses out back. Take one and leave.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Ride out or shut up. The stage leaves when I decide it does,” Hogan growled. “If you want to help, you can put those gold pouches back into the strongbox. Then two of you can hold the lanterns for us while we work on Mr. Beezah.”
The businessman’s expression flashed from surprise to annoyance to fear and he stepped back with the other passengers, not daring to meet any of their eyes. Two miners offered to help with repacking the money. Another said he would hold a lantern. A businessman volunteered to take a lantern as well.
Moving Beezah’s discarded coat to give him more room, Lockhart remembered the black stone the shootist had shown him earlier. Reaching into Beezah’s coat pocket, he retrieved the stone. From his watch chain, he yanked free the small red pebble. Carefully, he placed both in Beezah’s left hand and closed his fingers around them. He left the revolver in the guard’s tightly gripped right fist and slipped the derringer back into Beezah’s wet coat pocket.
“May the stone songs find you and make you strong.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cheyenne was bustling when the stage finally pulled up next to the stage-line office. Jean-Jacques Beezah lay on top, sleeping and covered with a blanket. His revolver remained tightly grasped in his right hand and the small stones were gripped in his left. Both rested on his chest. Beside him sat three miners; none had made any attempt to comfort him during the trip.
Trailing the stage was Pinkerton Field Agent Roger Buenstahl riding one of the outlaw horses and guarding Nolan Gleason, Frank Diede and Old Man Grinshaw on three other mounts, with their hands tied behind them. The bodies of Thornton and Solak were draped and lashed over two other horses, led by the lawman. Inside the coach were Marshal John Hogan, a tied Dr. Milens and both women, neither bound, as well as the remaining miners and other passengers.
Sitting in the driver’s box, next to Big Nose Anton Norborg, was Lockhart holding Beezah’s Henry carbine. In his lap lay Beezah’s black cat. Like its master, the cat was injured, but alive. Lockhart had splinted its broken leg and wrapped the bruised body with torn pieces of a station bedsheet, then with a blanket for warmth. Bound within the splint were Morning Bird’s cardinal feathers from his gear. He thought Morning Bird’s nuturing ways might sink into Mawhu’s broken leg and help heal it.
An occasional petting of the quiet animal assured Lockhart of the cat’s continued survival. “Little panther,” he called it. He was rewarded with a soft licking of his hand.
The sight of the coach, outriders and dead bodies drew a curious crowd, which Norborg was glad to oblige with a loud report of the attempted holdup, laced with Swedish words and exclamations. If he was tired from his all-night driving, his enthusiasm covered it well.
Marshal Hogan shoved open the door and stepped out, brandishing his revolver. “Move on, folks. This is federal business. We’ve got prisoners. Go on now.” He looked up at Lockhart. “We’ll help you get Beezah to some place comfortable as soon as we have this bunch behind bars.”
“That’s fine. He’s resting easy.” Lockhart studied the sleeping guard, then patted the cat’s head.
A well-dressed businessman in a herringbone suit and boiled shirt with a crisp collar pushed his way through the gathering, yanked the cigar from his mouth and said, “Marshal, I’m Jonathon Crispin, president of the Cheyenne Cattlemen’s Bank. The strongbox, is it…”
“It’s right up there,” Hogan assured. “It will be turned over to the stage office manager. You can deal with him. Standard procedure. Got it?”
“Oh, of course. Of course. Thank you, marshals,” the banker said and realized Beezah was lying on the coach roof. “You have wounded?”
“Yes.” Hogan took another step away from the coach and motioned for the mounted prisoners to dismount. “The guard was shot up. Bad. Thanks to him—and Mr. Lockhart up there—we caught the whole gang.” He glanced in Buenstahl’s direction. “Oh, and, of course, the great Pinkerton agency played a crucial role in their capture.”
Buenstahl nodded his thanks. Founder Allan Pinkerton always insisted his field agents secure proper credit for the national detective agency whenever news was good.
The banker’s eyebrows arched in appreciation. “That is good news, sir. Indeed. Indeed. My thanks to all of you for your courageous actions.” He rubbed his hands together and his smile was a controlled response. Acknowledging several customers in the crowd, he folded his arms to wait.
All of the prisoners were led away by the marshal and the detective to the Cheyenne sheriff’s office and jail. Buenstahl mentioned to Hogan that he sho
uld also stop by the newspaper office and make sure the capture was “properly recorded.” Eagerly, the passengers exited the coach from inside and on top; those staying in Cheyenne retrieved their luggage with help from Norborg and the replacement driver, a lanky man with a curled mustache, a long coat and pushed-up-front brim on his hat.
Lockhart got his gear, left it on the sidewalk and returned to the driver’s box to help with the strongbox, which was tied shut with rope. The coach was going on to Deadwood, but he intended to buy horses and supplies, and head in that direction by himself. He had experienced enough of riding in a stagecoach to last a long time. Besides, he didn’t intend to go east; his intentions were to the north. His planned destination was the Rosebud, possibly his tribe’s last encampment; he would scout from there until he found his friends. A strong part of him hoped they weren’t in that area.
The stage-line district manager came out to take control of the strongbox. Beside him were two larger men with shotguns who would have rather been elsewhere, judging by their expressions. A suit coat that needed considerable shortening at the sleeves accentuated the manager’s lack of height. His string tie wasn’t quite centered at his neck and his right eye wandered free of its relationship with his left. Hatless, his dark hair was parted in the middle and slicked down on both sides.
“God middag, Herr Ellison,” Norborg said and hurried to the front of the coach where Lockhart handed him the strongbox. “I am behind schedule, but the gold is safe—and so are my passengers. Ja?”
“Under the circumstances, it is well. It is well,” Noah B. Ellison said, adjusting his tie, and offering his customary repetition of key phrases, “but our company is built on being on time. Being on time. Regardless.” He frowned and glanced at the armed men next to him, then at the waiting fresh driver. “I want you pulling out of here in fifty minutes. Fifty minutes. No later. Pulling out of here.”
Before the new driver could respond, the manager told the two guards to take the strongbox from Norborg and carry it to the bank. The banker stepped forward again, thanked Ellison and left with the guards lugging the locked trunk.