Creed took it as long as he could and then, unable to control his temper any longer, he did what he'd been longing to do since he was first arrested. He gave in to the urge to hit something.
Mort never saw what hit him. One minute he was relaxing against the wagon wheel, jabbering about the superiority of the white race, and the next he was flat out on the ground with blood pouring out of his nose.
Creed was breathing hard as he stepped back. It had been a stupid move, hitting the boy, and he knew he'd pay for it, but damn, it had felt good.
Retribution was swift. Watkins and Joe West came running to the boy's rescue. Creed grunted with pain as the Texan struck him across the back with the butt of his rifle.
"You okay, Mort?" West asked.
"He broke my nose," Mort complained, using a dirty kerchief to mop up the blood.
"Want me to break his?" Joe West grinned at Creed as if he'd be only too happy to oblige.
"No, I'll do it."
Creed braced himself as Sayeski lurched to his feet. He glanced briefly at the other two guards, who were standing on either side of him now, and then at the other two prisoners, who were sitting in the shade of the prison cart.
Creed swore under his breath as Sayeski came to stand in front of him.
"Why'd you hit me?" the kid demanded.
"Because you're a little shit with a big mouth."
A flush crept into the kid's cheeks as his two companions started to laugh, obviously agreeing with the gunfighter.
Creed saw the indecision in the kid's eyes, and knew the exact moment when Mort decided that hitting back was the only way to save face. Avoiding the kid's fist was no trouble at all.
The flush in Mort's cheeks went from bright pink to dull red as his fist closed on empty air.
Watkins and Joe West were laughing out loud now, clearly enjoying the boy's embarrassment.
"Hold him!" Mort shouted.
"What?" Watkins stared at Mort, then shook his head. "Forget it."
"I said hold him!"
Joe West shrugged. "What'll it hurt to let the kid take a few swings?"
I don't know." Watkins shook his head. "It don't seem right."
"Just hold him, Watkins, or I'll tell Joe about that little escapade in Amarillo."
Watkins glared at the younger man. "The 'breed's right, Mort," he muttered as he grabbed hold of Creed's right arm. "You do have a big mouth."
Joe West was grinning as he grabbed hold of Creed'; left arm, then drew his sidearm and jabbed it in the half-breed's side. "Just so you don't try anything stupid."
Creed stared at Mort, his gut clenching as he waited for the kid to get down to it. The boy was short and stocky, his arms and legs well-muscled from years of hard living.
With slow deliberation, Mort propped his rifle against a rock, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and flexed his arms and hands. Standing in front of the half-breed, he took a boxer's stance, hands up, legs slightly spread. And then he lashed out, landing two short hard jabs to the prisoner's midsection.
Creed grunted as the breath was driven from his body. Pain spiraled through him, and he would have doubled over if not for the two men holding him up. The kid had a hell of a right hand, he mused, he'd give him that.
For the next ten minutes, Mort vented his humiliation on the half-breed, not content to stop until there was blood running from the prisoner's nose and mouth. Stepping back, he rubbed his bruised knuckles. Then he glanced at his companions, seeking their approval.
Watkins shook his head. ''I hope Maddigan never catches you alone in an alley," he remarked, releasing his hold on Creed's arm.
Sayeski snorted disdainfully. "I ain't afraid of him."
"You would be, if you had the sense God gave a goat," Watkins retorted.
"Is that what you think, too, West?"
Joe grinned. "A smart man knows when to back off."
Sayeski swelled up like a balloon about to burst. "You sayin' I ain't smart?"
"I'm not saying anything, kid." Holstering his sidearm, West released Creed's arm. "But Jack's right. You've got one coming."
Ignoring Mort and the others, Creed bent at the waist, taking deep breaths as he sought to control the pain knifing through him. Blood oozed from a cut in his lower lip, and he wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, then lifted a tentative hand to his nose. Sayeski hadn't managed to break it after all.
They reached the prison at midday. Creed knew all about the penitentiary. It had once been his misfortune to share a jail cell with an ex-con who had done some time at Canon City. Built by convict labor, it was made of cut stone. The prison itself fit inside the main building and contained thirty-nine cells arranged in three tiers. The roof was made of tin to reduce the risk of fire. The floors were of brick. Adjoining the prison was a bakery, kitchen, and quarters for the staff. A massive stone wall surrounded the prison site. All work done within the prison was done by convict labor. Prisoners were also put to work quarrying stone and making brick, which had been used in the building of the town.
An hour after the wagon arrived, Creed found himself locked in one of the dismal little cells. He'd been informed of the rules, and just in case he forgot what they were, a copy was posted on the wall, right next to a copy of the Bible. There was to be no talking except outside the cellblock and then only about the task at hand. He would be required to clean his cell each morning at reveille. The blankets were to be folded and placed at the head of the narrow iron bedstead, the litter swept into the passageway outside his cell, the slop jar emptied. He would be allowed to write one letter a month and to receive letters on Sundays.
Letters, he thought bleakly. He had no one to write, no one who would write to him . . . except maybe Jassy, and even that was a slim hope. He had made her promise to start a new life for herself, to forget about him. He shook her image from his mind. He hoped she had done just that.
He spent the rest of the afternoon pacing his cell, silently cursing the prison garb he was forced to wear. He'd worn custom-made shirts and boots most of his adult life, and he didn't like the feel of the rough cotton against his skin or the fit of the heavy black shoes.
He spent the next week locked in the cell, endlessly pacing. His only relief came at mealtimes, and then only for a few moments when he was allowed to leave his cell to fill his plate from the large table that stood in the passageway. He hated the regimentation of meal times, hated the guard who unlocked his cell, hated being treated like a trained animal. At a ring of the bell, he was expected to step out of his cell with the other prisoners, fold his arms and face left. At the sound of a second bell, he was to march in single file around the table, take his plate, and return to his cell, all in complete silence.
The meals were filling, but unimaginativebread, meat, and coffee for breakfast; soup made of cabbage, potatoes, beans, and peas, rice and hominy, meat and bread for dinner; mush and molasses and coffee for supper.
He longed for a thick steak, fresh vegetables, and fruit. And sweets. He admitted to a craving for apple pie find chocolate cake, fried chicken and dumplings. For sweet pink lips and luminous brown eyes.
Lord, he thought in dismay, twenty years of this slop.
Twenty years without a woman.
Twenty years behind bars.
Chapter Twelve
Jassy let out a sigh, one hand massaging the small of her back. She had been working at Mrs. Wellington's boardinghouse for over a month. Every day she made the beds, swept the floors, emptied the slop jars, and dusted the furniture. Once a week, she washed and ironed the sheets, turned the mattresses, and mopped the hard wood floors. She washed the windows, set the table at mealtimes, and did the dishes afterward. She had never worked so hard in her life.
A week after Rose had left town, the landlord came to collect the rent. When Jassy couldn't pay, he had tossed her out. To her relief, Mrs. Wellington had reluctantly agreed to allow Jassy to occupy the small room under the stairwell, deducting the rent and her meals from her meager salary
. But she wasn't complaining. She was grateful to have a place to work and a bed to sleep in.
Taking a deep breath, Jassy finished making the bed in Mr. Cuthbert's room. Only four more beds to go. Then it would be time to go down and help Mrs. Wellington prepare the noon meal.
Jassy made the rest of the beds automatically, her thoughts centered on Creed. She wondered how he was doing, if he had received her letter, and if he had, why he hadn't written her back. Every day, she stopped at the post office, hoping for a letter from Creed, for some word from Judge Parker. And every day she left the building empty-handed and heavy-hearted.
Last night, she had written another letter to the magistrate, begging him to reconsider Creed's case, to see that justice was done. She had mailed the letter first thing this morning.
After considerable deliberation, she had written to Creed, too, but then she had crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fireplace. She couldn't write and tell him she loved him, not when he hadn't cared enough to answer her first letter, not when he had made her promise she wouldn't wait for him, that she would leave town and make a new life for herself. She couldn't bring herself to tell him that Rose had stolen the money he had left her and run off with Ray Coulter.
To her shame, she had overheard two of the town ladies gossiping just yesterday, talking about Rose and Coulter and how they'd run off together.
Headed for San Francisco, Mrs. Norton had said, shaking her head with such vigorous disapproval that her hat had almost fallen off. I always thought Ray Coulter to be a decent sort, even if he did work in a saloon. Who'd have ever guessed he'd run off with a harlot?
Mrs. Watson had nodded in agreement. Poor Tess. I don't know how she'll hold her head up after this.
Jassy had felt her cheeks burn when the two women turned around and saw her.
The twig doesn't fall very far from the tree, Mrs. Norton had remarked, and the two women had left the mercantile, their noses in the air.
Creed sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the floor. It was Sunday, the longest day of the week. He'd gladly have worked if they'd let him, because anything beat sitting in his cell, waiting for a letter that never came. Of course, he had no one to blame for that but himself. He'd told Jassy to forget about him, to make a new life for herself, and apparently she'd done just that. He wondered if she had taken his advice and left town, if she was happy, if she ever thought of him. He thought of writing her, just to see how she was, but he never did. They had made a clean break, and it was best to leave it at that.
But damn, it would be nice to hear from her just once.
Stretching out on his bunk, his hands locked behind his head, he closed his eyes. His mind wandered back in time, back to the carefree days of his childhood.
He had spent the first twelve years of his life living with the Lakota. His father, Rides the Wind, had been a wichasha wakan, a holy man. His mother had been a white woman. She had been badly wounded in a raid. Black Otter, the warrior who had captured her, had taken her to Rides the Wind, who had treated her wounds and cared for her during her long convalescence. By the time she was well again, Rides the Wind had fallen in love with the white woman, and so he had bought her from Black Otter and married her according to the customs of the People.
But Heather Thomas hadn't returned his father's love. She had hated the Indians, and she had hated her husband. She had tried to turn her son against Rides the Wind, but Creed had loved and admired his father, and nothing his mother had said could change that.
It had been during the summer of his thirteenth year that the Army attacked the village. Rides the Wind had been killed defending a handful of children, and Heather had been rescued from the savages at last. Creed had begged his mother to let him go, to let him see if he could find Black Otter and his family, who had managed to escape the slaughter, but his mother had refused. Turning a deaf ear to his pleas, she had dragged Creed back East, where she spent the next two years trying to civilize him.
Determined to turn her son into a gentleman, she had burned his clothes, cut his hair, and refused to let him out of the house until he agreed not to speak the Lakota language. To her everlasting regret, Creed had refused to become a gentleman. To spite her, he got involved with a bunch of young toughs. He smoked cigars and drank cheap whiskey; he got into street fights and saloon brawls. And because she abhorred guns and violence, he bought a .44 Colt and practiced with it every day.
By the time he was seventeen, his mother had given up on him. He had been nearly full-grown by then, ornery as sin, and when he was arrested with three other boys for busting up a saloon, she had refused to bail him out. Instead, she had let him sit in that damn jail for two months. When he got out, he sold everything he owned and headed West. He had intended to return to his father's people, but by the time he made his way back to the Lakota, it was too late. Most of Black Otter's band had been killed in a skirmish with the cavalry the winter before; the survivors had been sent to the reservation in chains. As much as he had wanted to stay with his father's people, he couldn't. He had stayed a year, and then he had run away. The reservation had been too much like jail, and he had vowed never to go to jail again.
Creed stared at the iron-barred door and swore softly. So much for never going to jail again, he thought bleakly.
After leaving the reservation, he had gone to Denver looking for a job, but the only thing he was any good at was fast-drawing a Colt, so he had hired out his gun, riding shotgun for the stage line. He had prevented six robberies in the first nine weeks, killing four men and capturing seven others.
That quick, he had a reputation as a fast gun. Men who had once looked at him with scorn because he was a half-breed now treated him with respect. Miners and bankers sought his services, hiring his gun, paying him sizeable amounts of money to guard a mining claim, a bank payroll, a gold shipment.
And what did he have to show for it? Not one damn thing.
With an oath, he slammed his fist into the wall, relishing the pain that splintered through his hand because it gave him something else to think about besides luminous brown eyes and his own wasted life.
Jassy's steps were slow and heavy as she walked back to Mrs. Wellington's boardinghouse. She hadn't really expected to find a letter from Creed, but she couldn't help being disappointed just the same. She had been so sure he had cared for her, and even though she'd promised to forget him and make a new life for herself, she had hoped that they could still be friends, that he would at least answer her letter.
''Hey, Jassy."
She glanced up at the sound of Billy Padden's voice.
"Where've you been keeping yourself?" Billy asked, falling into step beside her.
"I've been working."
"Working? You? Where?"
"At Mrs. Wellington's boardinghouse."
Billy frowned in disbelief. "Mrs. Wellington hired you? To do what?"
"Everything she doesn't want to do, that's what."
"How about meeting me tonight?"
I don't think so."
"C'mon, Jassy. I'll take you to dinner at the Morton House." His hand slid up her arm. "And then maybe we can take a walk down by the river."
"No, Billy." Firmly, she removed his hand from her arm.
"Why not?"
"You know why not."
"Aw, don't be like that. I won't do anything you dont' want me to do."
"Hah!".
"I promise."
"No, Billy."
"Tomorrow night?"
"We'll see," she said, hoping he'd go away.
That night, overcome with loneliness, Jassy sat in her room staring out the window. Maybe she should go out with Billy Padden. He wasn't a bad soil. But he wasn't Creed.
With a sigh, she found a sheet of paper, then sat down and wrote a long letter to Creed, telling him that she had lied when she promised to forget him, that she loved him and would always love him. She told him all about Rose and how her sister had stolen the money he had left her and run o
ff to San Francisco with Coulter. She told him about her job at the boardinghouse, making light of the hard work, assuring him that she was doing fine, that she was saving her money for a trip to Canon City so she could visit him.
She touched the choker at her throat, and then, feeling shy, she poured out her heart, telling him how she treasured the things she had found in his saddlebags, that she wore his beaded choker every day, that she slept on the pillow she had stolen from his hotel room.
In closing, she told him she had written to Judge Parker again, and then she begged him not to give up hope, telling him she was sure that he would be acquitted.
She signed her name and sealed the letter before she had a chance to change her mind.
Creed stared at the guard, unable to believe his ears.
"For me?" he asked. "You're sure?"
"It's addressed to Creed Maddigan," the guard replied, fanning himself with the envelope. "But if you don't want it, just say so."
Creed held out his hand, his gaze fixed on the envelope. "I want it."
"Hope it's good news," the guard remarked. Slipping the letter through the bars, he moved on down the cellblock.
Creed stared at the envelope for a long time, his thumb caressing Jassy's name. Bless the girl, he thought, and sitting on the edge of his cot, he opened the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of white paper.
Dear Creed. Please don't be angry with me, I know I promised to leave town, to forget you and start a new life, but I can't. I think about you every day and wonder how you are. It must be awful, to be locked up. What do you do all day? Is the food terrible?
Creed grunted softly. The food was the least of his problems.
He frowned when he came to the part about her working at Wellington's Boardinghouse, cussed long and loud when he read that Rose had stolen his money and run off to San Francisco with Ray Coulter. Coulter. Creed couldn't explain it, but he knew, deep in his gut, that it had been Coulter's idea to take the money. He'd met men like Coulter in every town west of the Missouri. Sweet-talkin' men who could charm the birds out of the treesand fleece a woman out of a fortune before the sheets were cold. Rose would be lucky if she ever saw San Francisco.
Madeline Baker - Lakota Renegade Page 10