Black Hills Hellhole (A Wild Bill Western Book 6)

by Judd Cole

  “My eye!” Esther cried out in a feral, hysterical voice. “Oh no, dear Lord no, not my eye!”

  Indians? Ned asked himself, a puzzled numbness flowing through him as he drove the team to a reckless pace along the sloping trail. So all the crazy rumors weren’t so crazy, after all? The Copper Mountain Sioux had jumped the rez and greased their faces for war? Holy Hannah!

  He could hear the unmistakable sound of their yipping war cries though Ned couldn’t actually see any of them. Injun trouble this late in the game …

  At least the attack seemed to be over—no more flint-tipped arrows pelted them.

  “You just hold on, Andy,” he told the pitifully groaning youth. “I know it hurts, son, but you know we dar’n’t stop. There’s a doctor in Buckhorn.”

  Ned shouted this same news to the passengers, advising them they dare not stop yet. The only response from the coach was Esther’s horrible cries of pain, terrible and almost inhuman in their despair.

  ~*~

  Wild Bill knew, damn good and well, there’d be trouble tonight if he visited the Number 10. But he figured he was in Deadwood to lance a tumor, not to treat it.

  It was well after dark by the time he arrived, fresh off a good feed of corn pone and back ribs at Elsie’s. The place was lively as a bordertown bordello. Stratton, Morgan, and Beckman occupied their usual table in the back. But at least there was no sign yet of Merrill Labun or Danny Stone.

  Those two, Bill reminded himself, tend to come and go at odd hours.

  Bill found an open spot at the far end of the curving bar. The barkeep in the gray Stetson, Jim Bob Lavoy, kept his face averted when Hickok ordered. Lavoy banged a schooner of foaming beer down, scooped up Bill’s nickel, and moved on with a gruff, “’preciate it.”

  Bill liked a cold beer now and then. But his usual habit was to nurse a bottle of Old Taylor. However, he dare not live beyond his means as Ben Lofley. Old Taylor ran almost six bits a bottle.

  Even as he mulled all this, Hickok could feel Cassie Saint John watching him. His eyes found hers in the mirror.

  She smiled and then openly waved, ignoring the ring of clamoring bettors surrounding the faro table.

  Bill gave the slightest of nods to acknowledge her greeting. A moment later Lonnie Brubaker tugged at Bill’s sleeve.

  “Mr. Lofley? I got a message for you from your friend Charlie Mumford.”

  “Written or spoken?”

  “Uhh, spoken, sir.”

  “Say it low, Lonnie, just for me.”

  “Yessir. The message is this: Labun met with his boss. Something will happen tonight.”

  Bill nodded. “Thank you, son. Labun leave town tonight?”

  “Yessir. About six o’clock.”

  “He back yet?”

  “Nuh-unh. Leastways, not so’s I know.”

  “Good man. Here, get a sarsaparilla to take with you.”

  “Thanks, Mister Lofley.”

  The kid bought a soda pop and threaded his way toward the batwings. Bill flicked his eyes toward the mirror again to watch Cassie.

  She and the case-tender were evidently on break. As usual, she rose to join Deke Stratton at his table. But before she did, Bill watched her snap open a little alligator jewel case.

  Cassie removed a gold quarter-eagle and handed it to the case-tender. She said something to him. He nodded and relayed both message and money to Jim Bob Lavoy.

  A moment later the barkeep thumped a pony glass and a signed bottle of Old Taylor onto the deal counter in front of Hickok.

  “Compliments of the faro dealer,” Lavoy said in a surly tone, his face still averted. He was gone before a surprised Bill could even say thanks.

  He stared at the bottle, realizing that Cassie Saint John had just upped the ante in their little seduction game. By now there could be no more doubt of it—she knew the quiet laborer was in fact legendary killer Wild Bill Hickok.

  Bill turned away from the bar and bowed in her direction—a gesture not wasted on Deke Stratton. But Hickok was glad Stratton noticed. He wanted to stand out as a cut or two above the common man. Bill’s goal was to make Stratton decide he needed this new man.

  But Hickok’s moment of glory appeared to be short-lived—even as Cassie settled between Stratton and Beckman, the batwings banged open. Merrill Labun and Danny Stone stood there side by side, their eyes seeking trouble.

  Here comes the fandango, Bill told himself as he knocked back his first swallow of bourbon. I’m damned if I’ll break this bottle over their heads, Bill thought as he pushed his whiskey to a safer spot.

  In the mirror, Hickok watched the two new arrivals approach him. Everyone at Stratton’s table watched, too. But nobody, Bill told himself, is watching closer than Jim Bob Lavoy.

  “Lookit this son of a bitch,” Stone’s nasal voice carped beside him. “Swaggering it around like a big man, drinking top-shelf liquor. Ain’t you the big toff, Lofley?”

  Bill flicked his cold gaze to the loudmouth, then to Labun. The latter was taking no sides in this confrontation. Stone’s bandage, Bill noticed, was smudged with dirt.

  “Merrill, I thought you said this jasper doesn’t hold a grudge?” Bill remarked.

  “Oh, ain’t he the funny bunny?” Stone jeered. “I say your mother’s a whore Lofley, know that?”

  “My sister’s better,” Hickok replied calmly. Several men nearby laughed. This only further enraged Stone.

  “It’s past talk, you white-livered bastard! I’m bracing you.”

  “I’m not armed,” Bill said truthfully.

  “That won’t work, jelly guts, on account I got you a gun right here.”

  Besides the long-barreled Walker Colt in his tied-down holster, Stone had a .44 shoved into the waist of his trousers.

  “Here, take this and—”

  Stone never finished that sentence or any other. The very moment the .44 cleared his belt, a pistol spoke its piece. Merrill Labun swore in shock and disgust when Stone’s bloody brains sprayed one cheek.

  The big man collapsed, a corpse even before he—it—hit the floor. The barroom went so silent the tinkle of the player piano seemed like a roar.

  Lavoy stood behind the bar, his pistol still smoking.

  “You goddamn fool!” Labun managed. “You just murdered a man in cold blood!”

  “He’s the fool, you big-mouthed lout. From where I stand, that peckerwood just drew steel on an unarmed man. Any pea-brained idjit will tell you you never clear leather in a crowded bar room.”

  “He’s right,” Earl Beckman affirmed. “By frontier tradition, recognized in court, the only justification for drawing a weapon in a saloon is self-defense. Jim Bob was in the right.”

  “Good thing for you, Mr. Lofley,” Deke Stratton added, “that our bartender seems to like you.”

  Deke paused and glanced at the bottle of Old Taylor, then at Cassie. “As do others,” he concluded.

  By now Hickok had guessed the truth about who Jim Bob Lavoy really was. And he was damned if having a love struck Calamity Jane on his trail was a “good thing.” Sure, she had saved his bacon a few times in the past. But something about that man-hungry female made Bill prefer to face down a blazing six-gun.

  Labun was still outraged. Stratton and Beckman had returned to their table, dismissing the incident. The saloon returned to its normal controlled chaos as two Chinese workers began dragging the body outside—more money for the undertaker.

  “You ain’t heard the last of this,” Labun threatened the bar dog.

  “Then you ain’t heard the last of this,” Jane assured him, as fearless as a rifle. She wagged the pistol at him before she dropped it back into its holster.

  “Go ask a real marshal, you tin star,” she added. Her eyes finally met Bill’s directly. “Ask somebody like Tom Smith or Red Dog Malone or maybe even Wild Bill Hickok himself. They’ll all tell you I was in the right.”

  “Wild Bill Hickok can kiss my ass,” Labun retorted.

  Jane chuckled, for Wild Bill w
as in fact close enough to do just that.

  “He sure could,” she agreed, still goading Bill with her eyes. “But I doubt he’ll ever do that, Merrill. More likely, he’ll just free your soul for you.”

  Chapter Nine

  “One thing’s for sure,” Joshua goaded Wild Bill. “With Jane working at the Number 10, you’d best be discreet with that pretty faro dealer. Jane figures you complete her destiny. She’s only keeping you alive until you figure that out.”

  “It ain’t just her jealousy I got to fret,” Bill corrected him. “What I’m worried about most is Jane getting drunk. Christ, you’ve seen her, kid. You saw it tonight. She knocks back a few quarts of Doyle’s Hop Bitters, and she gets those crazy impulses to start shooting whatever moves. That’s why she’s blacklisted from every bar west of the Mississippi.”

  The two men shared Elsie Nearhood’s kitchen all to themselves. Elsie had gone to bed. The rest of the boarders had either turned in or were still out in town raising hell.

  Hickok had heated up the huge pot of coffee Elsie always left on the stove. Now he and Josh were working on their second cup—they still had a long night ahead of them.

  “Jane can be useful at times,” Bill conceded, both hands wrapped round the pottery mug. “But she’s like lit dynamite, and you don’t know when she might go off. I want to stand out in Stratton’s mind, sure. That’s how a man gets noticed. But the wrong kind of attention will just get me killed.”

  Bill said all this matter-of-factly, as if quoting beef prices. He drained his coffee mug and set it on the sideboard.

  “That cowboy coffee should keep us sassy for a few more hours. C’mon, kid, let’s get our horses.”

  “Where we riding to?” Josh demanded as he followed Bill into the foyer.

  “Hold it down, you’ll wake everybody up. We’re taking a little ride out to Stratton’s breeding ranch.”

  A feather of fear tickled the bumps of Joshua’s spine. “Man alive! But why?”

  They were in the street now, enveloped in shadows. Bill looked carefully all around them before he answered.

  “I want to cut some sign, that’s why. I’ve got this little theory about those Indians’ that attacked the Rapid City Express.”

  “What theory is that?” Josh pressed. But he had learned by now that Hickok answered questions in his own good time. Sure enough, Bill ignored him.

  Ore wagons still rumbled through the streets, lanterns hanging out from the lead team’s yoke on long metal arms. But the two men were nearly invisible on the rammed-dirt sidewalk. They reached the livery and found Lonnie curled up asleep in one of the stalls.

  Bill reluctantly shook the kid awake.

  “Sorry to disturb you, son. Just one question: How do I get to Deke Stratton’s spread?”

  The kid muttered directions, then nodded off again. Wild Bill and Josh grabbed their riding rigs and went out into the moonlit paddock. Their horses seemed to welcome the prospect of exercise—both animals readily submitted to the bit.

  The two riders left Deadwood at a trot, bearing southwest toward Lead.

  “Could just be happenchance,” Hickok remarked. “But this same route eventually takes you to Cheyenne Crossing—that’s near where the express was attacked.”

  Moonlight was generous in a starlit sky. They heard little besides the clopping of their horses’ hooves and the steady crackle of insects. The rolling landscape surrounding them was scarred deep by erosion gullies.

  After a long climb they pulled in to let their horses blow. Only now did Hickok open a saddle bag to retrieve his ivory-grip Peacemakers. He strapped the gun belt on and adjusted it low on his hips. Josh watched him slide a box of .44 rimfires into his shirt pocket.

  They hit the trail again. Just north of Lead, Bill pointed out the marker Lonnie had mentioned—an Indian cairn that rose about fifteen feet into the air.

  They veered at right angles from the main trail, following the private lane to Stratton’s Double-S spread. Soon Josh could see horses grazing in a big, grassy draw on their left.

  “Hold it,” Bill told him. “This will be far enough for checking my theory.”

  Both men swung down and quickly hobbled their mounts. Then Bill squatted on his ankles and studied the ground for some time. Josh had seen him read sign like this before—an impressive skill that hinted at Hickok’s earlier life on a dangerous frontier.

  “Yup,” Bill announced after about two minutes of ghostly silence.

  He stood up again, working the kink out of his back.

  “This is where the so-called Regulators rendezvoused before attacking,” he told Josh. “I count fresh tracks for at least a dozen men. They all rode in about the same time, all on iron-shod horses.”

  The wind gusted, pressing the grass flat, and Bill paused to listen. Both hands rested on the butts of his Colts.

  “Then you can see,” Bill went on, “where the same number of riders left on unshod horses. Different animals, smaller—Indian scrubs. Providing that many animals is a cinch on a horse ranch. This wouldn’t hang a man in a court of law, but it proves my hunch.”

  “But why would Deke Stratton want to attack a bunch of missionaries?” Josh wondered.

  “He doesn’t. The target was intended to make headlines. Headlines about Indian trouble in the Black Hills.”

  “Yeah,” Josh said, “I get it now. That supports his crazy claims about Sioux stealing ore wagons. And those newspaper stories will back him in court. He can also send them overseas to his partners.”

  “Now you’re thinking like a criminal,” Wild Bill praised him. “C’mon, let’s vamoose. Sunup comes mighty early when you’re a working stiff.”

  Even as Bill fell silent, both men heard it: the fast drumbeat of riders approaching from the direction of the ranch.

  “Move quick!” Hickok snapped. “We can still get to cover before they spot us.”

  Both men quickly untied the rawhide hobbles. Hickok vaulted into the saddle, wheeled his roan around, then waited for Josh.

  Unfortunately, Joshua had forgotten a valuable lesson that Hickok had repeated to him several times: When you leave your horse with the girth loose, you always place a stirrup on the saddle horn as a reminder.

  The moment Josh stepped into the stirrup, his loose saddle slid around and dumped the kid in the dust. And now the riders were so close Hickok could make them out in the buttery moonlight.

  “Who goes there?” one of them shouted. “Give the pass!”

  Bill cursed as Joshua scrambled to his feet and began resetting his saddle. “Any old damn day now, sweetheart!”

  Bill spotted five, no, six riders, all abreast. Maybe some of the Regulators or perhaps Stratton’s ranch hands. Whoever they were, they weren’t likely law-abiding citizens.

  A rifle spoke its piece, and Bill heard the bullet hum by. Now several of the men were shooting, and the horses were starting to spook.

  “Well, God kiss me!”

  Bill cursed at his bad luck—fancy shooting would announce the presence of Wild Bill Hickok like a calling card. But he had no choice now thanks to Josh’s greenhorn idiocy.

  Bill drew his right-hand gun and did something he hated doing—he shot the horses, all six of them. He simply had no alternative. He dare not kill possibly innocent men. After all, he and the kid were trespassing, so these men had every right to shoot.

  Bill’s stunning display of marksmanship shocked the men into passivity. They merely crouched behind their downed animals, afraid to shoot back—their muzzle flashes would give this ace shooter easy targets.

  “Are you finally ready, young lady?” Bill said sarcastically when Josh mounted his line back.

  Their horses had been craving a good run. Now they got one as the two men returned to Deadwood.

  They made it back to town without further incident. But now Bill was worried. Whoever those men were, it wouldn’t take them long to noise it about: There was a dead-aim gunsel somewhere around Deadwood. A man able to drop six h
orses, in the dark at rifle range, with six shots from a short gun.

  Despite the late hour, both men curried the sweat from their horses and rubbed them down good before turning them out into the paddock.

  “Still got time for about three hours’ sleep,” Wild Bill remarked as they left the darkened livery stable.

  “Sorry I botched it tonight,” Josh said.

  “So am I, kid. I’ve never met a horse yet that deserved to be killed. Wish now I’d just shot the riders.”

  Josh frowned, dejected at letting his hero down. Hickok threw an arm around the reporter’s bony shoulders.

  “Buck up, Longfellow. For a jasper raised in Philadelphia, you’ll do to take along.”

  The two men parted in the shadows beside Elsie Nearhood’s boarding house. Hickok climbed the narrow back steps to his tiny room and dropped the bar across the door. Then he fell into bed wearing everything but his boots.

  Bill fell into a deep, dreamless sleep until the shrill steam whistle blasted him awake at dawn. He woke up feeling good—three hours of uninterrupted sleep was a bounty for Wild Bill.

  Still, as he trudged up the slope toward Harney’s Hellhole, a feeling of expectation tickled Bill’s scalp.

  Today something important would happen. And Hickok knew he had to be ready when it did.

  ~*~

  “Lofley!”

  For three straight hours Hickok had been hard at it, sorting ore from muck and tossing it out of swaying slusher buckets. The monotonous, repetitive labor tended to put a man into a trance.

  “Lofley!”

  The voice finally slapped Bill back to the present. One of Beckman’s security men trotted beside Bill’s bucket.

  “What?”

  The guard hooked a thumb up toward the complex of offices on a far slope.

  “Mr. Stratton wants to talk to you. His private office is that building that sits off by itself, above the others.”

  Bill nodded and finished his bucket. Just before it reached the edge of the pit he jumped out. He told Taffy he was temporarily in charge. Then Bill headed toward the offices, wiping his filthy hands on his Levis.

  Did Stratton know who he was? Cassie might have told him. Or maybe that equestrian slaughterfest last night, at Stratton’s ranch, had tipped Bill’s hand. If so, Hickok knew he might be walking into a trap.