“Where’s Red?” somebody shouted.
“In the coach,” said Slaughter. “We’ve been robbed. Four masked men, maybe thirty miles out. Red got one of them, but he’s hard hit. Somebody get the doc.”
Vivian pushed through the crowd, trying to reach the coach, and Nathan followed. He managed to get the door open, and what they saw wasn’t encouraging. Harley Stafford lay on one of the seats on his back, and he had been hit more than once. From a nasty wound in his left thigh, blood still oozed, and the left side of his shirt was bloody. Nathan wasn’t able to find a pulse until he gave up on the wrist and tried the large artery in the neck.
“He’s alive,” Nathan said, “but not by much.”
“The doc’s here,” Slaughter shouted. “Let him through.”
Vivian had been inside the coach. Nathan helped her down and spoke to the doctor.
“Doctor, I’m Nathan Stone, and this is Vivian, his sister.”
“I’m Doctor Wilkes,” the doctor said, “and I have a stretcher outside. Help me lift him out.”
Nathan helped Wilkes remove Harley Stafford from the coach, and when he was on the stretcher, Nathan took one end of it, while Wilkes took the other. They had to wrassle it up rickety stairs, for Wilkes’s office was above a saloon. From somewhere came the discordant rinky-tink of a piano. From the saloon below, there was laughter, cursing, and the clink of glasses.
“May I stay with him, Doctor?” Vivian asked.
“No,” said Wilkes. “I don’t know how badly he’s hurt, and I want no distractions. In two hours I should know whether or not he’ll live. I’ll talk to you then.”
Nathan and Vivian left the office, meeting Johnny Slaughter at the foot of the stairs. Miners crowded around, awaiting some word. Anything that interrupted the regularity of the stage concerned them.
“We might as well find us a comfortable place to wait,” Nathan said.
“I feel just terrible,” said Vivian. “I should have tried harder to get him to accept me. Now he may die, hating me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Nathan said. “I reckon he came west and hasn’t done all that well, so he feels uncomfortable with you.”
“I didn’t come looking for him because I believed he was successful, or for what I thought he could do for me. He’s my kin, my brother, and what’s all I cared about. Why couldn’t he understand that?”
“Maybe he will,” said Nathan. “He’ll be laid up awhile, I expect, and if he’s the man I think he is, he’ll see you in a different light.”
At the appointed time, Nathan and Vivian returned to the doctor’s office. Wilkes had a grim look that Nathan didn’t like, and he heard Vivian catch her breath.
“He’s still alive,” Wilkes said, “but I had to dig the lead out of his side, and he’s lost a lot of blood. The bone in his thigh has been damaged to some extent. When it mends, he will walk with a limp. I’ll need to keep him here for the next several days, until the threat of infection has passed.”
“One of us can set with him, if need be,” said Nathan.
“There’ll be plenty of need for that, later,” Wilkes said. “He’ll be laid up for a good six weeks. Miss Stafford, Johnny Slaughter wants to talk to you. He’s arranged for a room at one of the hotels for your brother, when he’s able to be moved.”
Nathan and Vivian found Slaughter at his freight office, his arm in a sling.
“It’s not much of a hotel or much of a room,” said Slaughter, “but it’s the best the town has to offer. It’s his for as long as he needs it.”
“We’re obliged,” Nathan said.
Fighting infection, Harley Stafford slept almost continuously for three days, awakening only when the doses of laudanum were lessened. At first, Wilkes allowed only Vivian to see him, and he refused to speak to her.
“He just lies there,” the girl cried.
“Doctor,” said Nathan, “I want to talk to him.”
“Go ahead,” Wilkes said, “but don’t excite him. Should he thrash around, he could get that wound to bleeding again, and he can’t afford to lose any more blood.”
“I don’t aim to fight with him,” said Nathan. “If he fires up his temper, I’ll leave.”
“Good,” Wilkes said.
When Nathan entered the room, Harley Stafford lay on his back, his eyes on the rough plank ceiling.
“Harley,” said Nathan, “I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You’re afraid of something,” Nathan said. “What is it?”
“Damn you, I’m not afraid of anything or anybody, and you know it. Leave me be.”
“I won’t leave you be,” said Nathan, “and I’m glad you’re not afraid, because I aim to lay some truth on you that only a brave man could swallow. You’re ashamed, Harley, and you don’t want to face up to it, but by God, you’re going to. Not so much for your sake, but for the sake of your sister. You came back from the war bitter, mad as hell, and not caring a damn for anybody but Harley Stafford. Your parents were old, in their declining years, and the war had stripped them of everything they owned. You left them, Harley, to be cared for by a girl who had only a garden for food and the clothes on her back. You pushed them out of your life for ten long years, and now you’re hiding your guilt behind a wall of don’t care. But you do care, damn it, and it’s tearing you apart.”
“Get out of here, you bastard,” he said venomously. “Get out.”
“I’m going,” said Nathan, “but I’ll be back. If you’re the Harley Stafford I knew—the man who survived Cemetery Ridge and Chancellorsville—you’ll have the guts to stand up to this.”
Nathan stepped out, closing the door.
“What did he say?” Vivian asked.
“Very little,” said Nathan. “He told me to get out. But I said some things that needed sayin’, and if he’s half the man he used to be, he’ll come around. If he fails, then he might as well die.”
“Oh, God,” Vivian cried, “don’t say that.”
“He speaks the truth,” said Doctor Wilkes. “A man must have the will to live.”
For three weeks, Vivian sat with Harley, while he said little or nothing. Nathan spent his time in the saloons, winning more than he lost, returning to the canyon each evening to cook his supper and feed Empty. Finally, when Nathan saw Vivian, she had a surprise for him.
“Harley wants to see you, Nathan.”
Nathan went to the hotel, knocked on the door, and when Harley spoke, entered. He no longer lay in the bed, but sat on the edge of it. There was no hostility in him when he spoke.
“I need to talk to you before I talk to Vivian. You nailed my hide to the wall, forcing me to take responsibility for my own sorry life. I have nothing, Stone. No dreams, no hope, and now I have two bad legs. I’m afraid to promise Vivian any kind of life, because I’m not sure I can earn enough to keep myself alive. If I can count you as a friend—and God knows, I need one—what should I do? What can I do?”
“I rode the rails, working security for the AT and SF Railroad,” said Nathan, “and there is a chance you could be hired for the position I had. You’d be working out of Dodge City and earning more than you’ve ever made riding shotgun. If I can get Foster Hagerman to consider you, will you do it?”
“I’d jump at it,” he said, “and thank God for the opportunity.”
CHAPTER 33
Johnny Slaughter’s wound had healed to the extent that he had again begun making his weekly runs with the Deadwood stage. Nathan, after speaking to Slaughter, wrote out a lengthy telegram for Slaughter to send from Cheyenne. To be sent to Foster Hagerman, the message highly recommended Harley Stafford as security for the AT and SF. Nathan asked for an immediate reply, so that Slaughter might bring it with him on the return run.
“Oh, I hope he accepts Harley,” said Vivian. “He’s starting to hope, to believe he can be somebody. But I’ll miss you, Nathan. You will come to see us, won’t you?”
“You kn
ow I will,” Nathan said, “but I’ll have to take a room in the Dodge House.”
“No,” said Vivian. “Harley knows about us, and about all you’ve done for me. He’s no longer the man he was when he left Virginia. You’ll see.”
Harley Stafford lived up to Vivian’s faith in him. Quickly he and Nathan Stone became friends, reliving the terrible last days of the war, recalling comrades who had gone seeking glory but found only death. Then came the day, when the Deadwood stage rolled in, that Johnny Slaughter handed Nathan the response to his telegram. The message was brief:
Stafford accepted stop. Need him immediately.
It was signed, “Foster Hagerman.” Nathan passed it to Harley, and Vivian read it over his shoulder. With tears in his eyes, Harley turned to Nathan. Words failing him, he offered his hand and Nathan took it.
“I’ll have just about enough wages coming to pay Dr. Wilkes and buy a horse,” Harley said.
“You don’t owe Dr. Wilkes anything,” said Nathan, “and you won’t need a horse to get to Dodge. You’re going to take the stage to Cheyenne. From there, you’ll take the Union Pacific to Omaha. From Omaha to Kansas City, you’ll take a steamboat, and when you reach Kansas City, you’ll board an AT and SF westbound to Dodge.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Vivian said, “but we could never afford it.”
“Oh, but you can,” said Nathan. “Deadwood’s paying your way. I’ve won a thousand dollars at the poker tables, and five hundred of that goes to you. That’ll be enough to get you to Dodge and to keep you fed along the way.”
“Nathan,” said Harley, “I can’t let you do it. You’ve already done more than enough.”
“Harley,” Nathan replied, “I’m a Reb by birth and a western man by choice. I look out for my friends, fighting for them if need be. If the time ever comes when my back’s to the wall, I hope my friends will remember.”
“That’s a code a man can live with,” said Harley, “and I’m making it my own. Should you ever have your back to the wall, and I’m alive, I’ll be there alongside you.”
On June 5, 1876, Harley and Vivian took the stage to Cheyenne. Nathan sold the extra horse, but continued to make his camp in the canyon. Deadwood was intolerable, especially at night, and there was the possibility that some drunken miner might shoot Empty, just for the sport of it. Each time the stage arrived, Nathan expected to see Bill Hickok step down, and each time he was disappointed. Finally, in an Omaha newspaper, Nathan found a few lines on Hickok’s proposed expedition. Hickok was in St. Louis, preparing to depart for Dakota Territory. Unless one dug for gold, there was little to do except gamble, and that’s what Nathan chose to do. His favorite of all the saloons was the Bella Union, and it was there that he encountered Jack McCall.
McCall was about twenty-five, in runover boots and the rough clothes of a miner. But he had no claim, and as far as anyone knew, he never laid hand to pick or shovel. He fancied himself a gambler, and although he lost more than he won, he never seemed to lack for money. There were rumors that McCall was responsible for a rash of robberies in which miners, for the gold in their pokes, were knocked in the head or shot. But there was no law in Deadwood, and nothing was ever proven. The game was five-card stud, and Nathan was a hundred dollars ahead. It was a four-handed game when McCall showed up.
“If nobody objects,” said McCall, “I’m buyin’ in.”
“If you got money, come on,” said one of the men. “Five dollar bets. It’ll cost you twenty dollars a hand.”
McCall laid down his twenty, which he promptly lost. He lost three pots in a row, and each time he lost, Nathan won.
“By God,” McCall shouted, his eyes on Nathan, “somethin’ ain’t right.”
Nathan slid back his chair before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was cold.
“Are you by any chance accusing me of cheating?”
“I ... I ain’t got no gun,” said McCall.
“You won’t need one,” Nathan said. With his left hand he seized a fistful of McCall’s shirtfront, dragging him halfway across the poker table. A hard-driving right slammed into McCall’s chin, sending him over the back of his chair and onto the floor.
“McCall,” said the barkeep, “get up an’ get the hell out of here.”
McCall, dazed, got to his feet and stumbled toward the door. He seemed irrational, and Nathan felt a little sorry for having hit him.
“Old Broken-Nose Jack ain’t playin’ with a full deck,” said a miner next to Nathan. “We just kinda tolerate him, like locusts an’ blizzards.”
Deadwood, Dakota Territory. July 4, 1876
While Dakota Territory wasn’t part of the Union, most of the miners were from the states. What might have been a rip-roaring July Fourth fizzled out with the arrival of the stage. It brought newspapers from Cheyenne, Omaha, and Kansas City, and the headlines were shocking:
Custer and half his command wiped out by the Sioux.27
“My God,” said a miner, “twenty-five hunnert Sioux, an’ it wasn’t all that far from here. The gover’ment’s playin’ hell protectin’ us.”
The Custer massacre had a sobering effect, but it didn’t cool the gold fever, and Deadwood continued to grow. While the weekly stage brought a few men seeking wealth, many more came by expedition, much along the lines of what Hickok had in mind. Leaders of expeditions, for a fee, gathered men at St. Louis, Kansas City, and Omaha. From Omaha the expeditions traveled the Union Pacific to Cheyenne, and by horse, mule, or wagon to Deadwood. Wild Bill Hickok arrived in Deadwood on July twelfth, and the few men with him fell far short of what was expected. Hickok was accompanied by longtime friends California Joe and Colorado Charlie, all of them friends of the recently slain George A. Custer. In memory of their friend, the three men got roaring drunk, and it was four days before Nathan had a chance to speak to Hickok. They met in the Bella Union.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Nathan said. “A piece in the newspaper said you were in Saint Louis raising an expedition.”
“I fared poorly,” said Hickok. “Others spent huge sums of money for advertisement in the newspapers, and I couldn’t match that, so I just brought a few friends. We’ll stake out our claims and take our chances. I’ve never seen such an almighty lot of saloons. Maybe I’ll try my luck at the poker table.”
Hickok frequented the lesser saloons, such as Shingle’s Number Three, Mann’s Number Ten, and the Senate. He still carried two revolvers, butts-forward. They were the latest Colt .38-caliber-cartridge six-shooters, with the triggers filed off and the hammers filed smooth. There were rumors that when Hickok arrived in Deadwood, he brought with him a whole case of cartridges. He spent the first few days sizing up the town and locating a gold claim. He never mentioned his marriage or his wife, and Nathan questioned the truth of what he had read in the newspaper.
Deadwood being a lawless town, it was controlled by the cardsharps, gamblers, and gunmen. With killers such as Jim Levy and Charlie Storms in town, Deadwood had all the makings of an outlaw empire. While Hickok did nothing to attract attention, Nathan heard talk that Hickok was about to become the marshal of Deadwood. The lawless element had not forgotten what Hickok had accomplished in Hays and Ablene. While Hickok had made no threatening moves, Nathan sensed the growing danger, and feared for Hickok’s life. He continued to gamble, but lost more often than he won, causing Nathan to wonder. Hickok avoided any pattern, making the rounds of many saloons as though hoping to confuse any who might waylay him. Wild Bill Hickok had become a changed man, and there were times when he was so preoccupied, he didn’t even speak to his closest friends. Nathan believed the old frontiersman had a premonition of his own death, and one day, Hickok confirmed it.
“Bill,” said Nathan, “maybe this is none of my business, but I’ve been hearing talk that the powers behind this town believe you’re here to bid for a marshal’s job, to do here what you did in Hays and Abilene.”
“My days as a lawman are done,” Hickok said. “How often can a man fail, and still
call himself a man? For all my reputation, I couldn’t raise an expedition in Saint Louis, and as for my gold claim here, I’d have to pay somebody to take it off my hands. Hell, even the cards have gone sour. If it gets any worse, when I draw a good hand, I’ll be accused of cheating.”
Nathan laughed, but Hickok did not. When he spoke again, he was dead serious.
“I had the feeling when I rode in here—and that feeling has grown stronger—that I have ridden my last trail, made my last camp, turned my last card. My friend, I doubt I’ll be leaving this gulch alive.”
When Deadwood’s livery opened for business, Nathan was its first customer. While it was more expensive, living in the boomtown, Nathan had earned enough at the poker table to afford it. Several boardinghouses had sprung up, their weekly and monthly rates more reasonable than the makeshift hotels, and Nathan took a room where Empty was welcome. Nathan had received a letter from Vivian Stafford, telling him that she and Harley had reached Dodge City. While Nathan was glad for them, he still missed the woman, and living in town amid the shouting, shooting, and hell-raising, he was less inclined to think of her.
It was Friday, the first day of August. Nathan and Hickok had just left the Bella Union, on their way to a cafe for supper. The westering sun was an hour high, in their eyes, and just for a second, Nathan caught its reflection in a moving object. He literally fell into Hickok, shoving him into the dusty street. The slug struck Nathan in the right side and he fell across Hickok. A second slug kicked up dust just inches from Hickok’s head, but he had freed one of his Colts and was returning fire. Men came on the run, two of them moving Nathan onto the boardwalk.
“One of you get the doc,” Hickok shouted.
Dr. Wilkes came, pulled aside Nathan’s bloody shirt, and shook his head.
“Bad?” Hickok asked.
“Bad enough,” said Doctor Wilkes. “A couple of you bring him to my office, and be quick about it.”
The Killing Season Page 46