The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I’d like to see Parris, anyway,” Bron said.

  When they were ready to leave, Bron told Crenna, “I’ll tell Dr. Steele what a good job he did on you, John.” She walked outside and heard Zack say, “I’ll send Stone up to stay until we get back, Jeanne.”

  “No, I have your rifle,” Jeanne replied, her gaze fixed on him.

  He shrugged and they left in the wagon, taking Paul and Alice along. Buck sat in the back with Lillian, who lay on a pallet, her face flushed and her eyes cloudy.

  As they passed into the gulches, Zack said, “Something’s wrong, Bron.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look around.” He waved his hand toward the creek. “Where is everybody? Something’s going on.”

  They found out when Nick Tybalt greeted them. He was hurrying toward town and pulled up long enough to ask, “You hear about Dillingham?”

  “What about him?” Zack asked.

  “He’s dead, Zack! They caught Hayes Lyons, Buck Stinson and Charley Forbes!” He kicked his horse into a gallop, shouting, “They’re going to be tried soon—better hurry!”

  The streets were packed with miners, and talk filled the air as Zack worked his team along to Steele’s office. He pulled up and said, “We better get off the street.” He leaped to the ground and saw that Lillian was almost unable to sit up. Buck helped her to the edge of the wagon, and Zack picked her up. “You’re too sick to walk.” He carried her up the stairs that led to the office.

  “What’s this?” Steele asked with a look of surprise.

  “Lillian’s got a bad fever,” Bron explained.

  Zack headed for the door. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

  Outside he spotted a small group, Pfouts among them. “What’s going on, Parris?” he asked.

  “Dillingham was in the recorder’s tent with Doc Steele. He’s president of this district. Forbes, Stinson and Hayes Lyons rode up and yelled for Dillingham to come out. Just as he pushed the tent flap back, they shot him!”

  “Why? They were all deputies, weren’t they?”

  “Nobody knows. Dillingham was straight, but those three are crooked as corkscrews!” Pfouts went on. “Jack Gallagher popped up and arrested them—but he’s another bad one!”

  Dutch Beidler, carrying his shotgun as usual, broke in. “Dillingham was the only square lawman in the Gulch. He probably wrecked their plans in some way. “We’ll hang ’em for it. Trial starts tomorrow. Doc Steele and Doc Bissell and Sam Rutgar are judges.” His eyes probed Zack’s. “We need every square man we can get. You be there in the morning, Winslow.”

  Everyone stared at him with a “don’t you dare back out” look, and he nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  He listened to the angry swirl of talk until Bron came down. “Doc. Steele’s worried about Lillian. He wants us to keep her in town overnight.”

  “I’ll see about a room,” he said.

  “No, he’s found a place for her. A new family in town named Rogers. Steele says they have room and we can check in tonight.”

  “All right. Buck and I will make out.”

  The next morning Virginia City was filled with throngs of men from other towns along the Gulch—Summit and Virginia and Nevada and Central. They filled Main Street, where the three judges—Steele, Bissell and Rutgar—were seated on a platform mounted on a wagon. As Zack and Buck arrived, the attorney for Stinson and Hayes Lyons was making his plea.

  When he finished, Ed Cutler, the prosecutor for the court, made an extremely brief speech, declaring the men were guilty of murder beyond any doubt. They ought to be hanged. Even as he spoke the friends of the pair began to shout.

  “They’re going to fight this thing,” Pfouts predicted to Zack. “These toughs are organized!”

  The vote was informal, Steele saying, “What’s your verdict?”

  The crowd roared, “Hang ’em!”

  Steele shouted over the noise, “Beidler, see that a gallows is built and dig some graves!”

  Charlie Forbes was tried next, and the crowd grew more lenient—in addition, the toughs began to protest any hanging. Forbes made his own appeal. He was different from the other two—younger and with an air of honesty about him. He made a good speech, admitting he had been with the other two, but claiming he had not fired on Dillingham. When Steele called for a verdict, the crowd shouted out for acquittal. Gleeful, Forbes raised his arms in triumph and jumped to the ground.

  The court was adjourned for two hours. The judges returned after conferring about the three defendants; then Dutch Beidler reported that the graves and the gallows were ready. The crowd grew silent when Steele stood up. “I sentence you both, Hayes Lyons and Buck Stinson, to be hanged.”

  At once the sympathizers in the mob began to shout. One man pulled a gun and shot into the air, shouting, “They won’t hang them while I’ve got a gun!” Several fights broke out and Zack turned to Pfouts. “That ought to be stopped.”

  The two sentenced men were hoisted into the wagon, and Beidler ordered, “Move this thing along!” Several men picked up the tongue and began to trundle the wagon along toward the gallows at the next corner.

  Up to this time, Hayes and Lyons had been cocky, but now both grabbed the side of the wagon, faces white as the death they faced. Lyons cried out, “I am innocent!”

  Instantly a group of dance-hall girls began screaming, “Let them go! Let those poor boys live!”

  At the sound of the women’s cries, Jack Gallagher ran forward and stopped the wagon. He waved a piece of paper in his hand. “I’ve got a letter Lyons wrote to his mother!”

  “Let’s hear it!” the toughs shouted.

  Gallagher jumped on the wagon and read a letter of such grief from a wayward boy that it brought murmurs of sympathy from the crowd. As soon as he finished, the women cried, “Let them go!”

  Shouts began to grow louder.

  “Let’s have another trial!”

  “We want another vote!”

  Beidler contested, “You’ve already voted!” But he was drowned out as Gallagher called for a new vote. “Everyone who wants them hanged, go up the hill—everyone who doesn’t, go down!”

  It was obvious the mob had changed its mind, and as the mass moved downhill, Lyons and Stinson jumped from the wagon, grabbed the arms of the girls, and headed for the saloons.

  As they moved, Red Yeager came face-to-face with Zack and laughed rashly. “Well, if it ain’t the hermit!” The crowd formed a small circle, enclosing the two men. The gunman grinned. “J.W. won’t be around to fight your battles for you, will he now?”

  “No.”

  The curt answer amused Yeager and he winked at George Ives nearby. “This here is the squaw man, George—the one I told you about. She got to loving on me over at Crenna’s place—couldn’t keep her hands off me!”

  “I heard you had a little trouble with Crenna about that, Red,” Ives said. His eyes gleamed as he looked at Zack, adding, “I thought this was the fellow who should have stood up to you.”

  “How about that, Hermit?” Yeager asked. “You got anything to say?”

  The pressure was mounting. Zack knew that every man listening expected him to accept Yeager’s challenge. Yeager was braced for trouble, eager to fight; and the crowd stepped back, half expecting Zack to go for his gun.

  “I’m not looking for trouble, Red,” Zack replied quietly. A gasp swept through the crowd, and he saw Beidler, who had come closer to hear, shake his head angrily.

  Yeager taunted, “You’ve got a yellow streak a mile wide. I’ve a good mind to open you up and let it run out.”

  Zack stood stoically, waiting, but before Yeager could strike, Hayes Lyons interrupted.

  “Beidler,” Lyons said as he rushed forward, cursing, “you’re the one who dug a grave for me!”

  “Yes,” Beidler replied, “and you’ll get there yet—you and all your kind,” casting a meaningful look at Ives.

  George Ives shifted uncomfortably. He hated to take an
ything from anyone, but Beidler held the shotgun loosely, and was known to be a man who would pull a trigger. Ives had nerve, but he saw half a dozen men around them who would support Beidler, and grinned. “Go fill your graves in, Beidler,” he said, and stalked away, his cohorts following him to the Silver Moon.

  Zack, too, left.

  “What’s the matter with that fellow, Parris?” Beidler asked, puzzled.

  “He’s got problems, Dutch,” Parris shrugged. He looked down the street at the gallows and sighed, “There’s a monument to defeated justice.”

  “It’ll be a lot worse now.” Beidler nodded at the miners, adding, “They cried for Lyons and Stinson—but they’ll be crying for themselves soon enough. Lyons and his kind will let a pack of wolves loose on the Gulch!”

  Meanwhile, Zack ran into Steele and got the scoop on Lillian and how to find her.

  Buck had been trailing along, and now Zack said, “Let’s go see about Lillian.” When Zack pulled up, Bron came out.

  Zack spoke up. “Doc says Lillian has to stay. What do you want to do, Bron?”

  “I’d better stay with her. Besides, I need to see Parris. Can you come back in about three days to pick me up?”

  “Sure.” He lifted the lines and drove off.

  Wonder if there’ll ever come a time when I’ll get to the real Zacharias Winslow? Bron pondered.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AT DANCER CREEK

  Billy Page intercepted Bron walking down Ballard Street and doffed his hat, saying, “Carry your packages, lady?”

  “You’d be bored stiff, Billy,” she smiled. “Men hate shopping.”

  He ignored that, took the basket out of her hand, and the two strolled along together. The sun was hot and the dust raised by the horses rose in the air to form a fine screen, but Billy looked immaculate.

  “You always look so cool and comfortable, Billy. How in the world do you stay that way?”

  “Never hurry, never take anything seriously.”

  “Why, that sounds like a definition of a corpse!”

  He burst out laughing. “You say the dangedest things, Bron! But tell me, how’s everything in the back country?”

  “Oh, I’ve been in town for almost a week,” she said. “Lillian got sick and she’s staying with a family called Rogers until Dr. Steele says she can to go back, but—”

  “But what?” he prompted.

  “Oh, like an old mule she is!” Bron’s eyes flashed. “She hates the country, Billy. She’s been nagging me to let her stay with the Rogerses. They have a daughter two years older than she, and they seem to get along.”

  “Might be a good thing,” Billy suggested. “Must get pretty boring for all of you out there. I’d go loco in a month.”

  Bron walked along, her head down, and he saw she was troubled. When they reached the Rainbow, he suggested lemonade. As they sipped their drinks, she began to talk, mostly about Lillian. She told him of the girl’s background and her attraction for men. “But I can’t keep her cooped up forever, Billy. She’s fifteen years old, and that’s a woman for many.”

  “You can’t change people, Bron,” he offered.

  “What a funny old boy you are!” she exclaimed. “Of course, you can change people—or you can help them to change themselves!”

  “Don’t really believe that,” he returned. “We come into this crazy world with something in us. Some have honesty, some are crooked. You can take a crook, send him to the finest schools and put him inside a mansion—and he steals the first chance he gets. Or, you can take a girl who’s born straight, and no matter how tough it gets, or how many try to get her off track, she’ll keep clean.”

  “Oh no! If there ever comes a time when I start thinking like that, look for me on the floor!” she countered. “You mean you’ve never seen a man or a woman on the bottom who has come out of it? I have! Not a few times, either, Billy!” She leaned forward. “In the revival in Wales, I saw prostitutes saved! They became pure women! David McCollum was a drunk and a womanizer, but he gave his heart to Jesus Christ—and he’s one of the finest ministers in Wales to this day!”

  “But, Bron, those people were born with the will to lift themselves up. Some have it—most don’t.”

  “You’re wrong. None of us can lift ourselves up. No matter what we are when we come into this world, we’ve all got a chance. The Captains and the Kings, the Tinkers and the Tailors—all of us are what Jesus came to change!”

  “I’m glad you believe that way, Bron,” he said soberly. “I hope you never change—but I think it’s all written out for me.”

  Beneath his jolly ways, Billy Page showed a sadness. Bron suspected she was one of the few he’d ever permitted to see it. “I’ll pray that you see how much Jesus Christ loves you, Billy,” she said simply, then added, “You and Zacharias Winslow are the two sheep I long most to come into the family of God.”

  He laughed, “You picked a sorry pair, Bron. A gambler and a coward.”

  “He’s no coward!” she defended, her cheeks coloring when he smiled at her reaction. “Well, he’s not! And you’re no gambler.”

  “Not a very good one,” he admitted. “But I hate to see you put such confidence in Winslow. He’s pretty well proved to be afraid of Yeager. The whole camp’s nailed him as yellow.”

  “You’re wasting your life, Billy,” she said, “but I can see something in you that’s fine. Zacharias refused to fight Red Yeager, but he has all kinds of courage. Sometimes it takes more courage to refuse to fight than to roll in the dust like an animal.”

  “You don’t think a man ought to fight—ever?”

  “A boy should learn to fight, or let him put skirts about his knees!” she snapped. “But fight for what? A dog will fight, but it doesn’t mean anything. Let a man or a woman fight for something that’s real, Billy, not for some silly pride!” Then she realized she was lecturing him, and laughed, “Oh, Billy Page! You just like to keep me all stirred up.” She rose to her feet. “Come to church tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you a really good currying down!”

  He paid for the drinks and walked her to the Rogers’ house. At the gate he removed his hat and smiled, “I’ll see you in church.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Right, you. In church.”

  She went into the house and Lillian met her. “Who was that, Bron?”

  “Billy Page. He helped me get here from Lewiston.”

  “He’s so handsome! What does he do?”

  “Nothing, if he can manage it,” Bron shrugged. She put her basket down. “How do you feel this morning? Any fever?”

  “No, not a bit.” Lillian hesitated, then begged, “Bron, Ann wants me to stay with her—please let me!”

  Bron knew she had little choice. Better to give in while she had the power than to have the girl run away for good. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Rogers. If she says it’s all right, you can stay for a week.”

  “Oh, Bron! Thank you!” she cried, her face glowing. “Ann wants me to help her pick out some clothes, and there’s a social next week at the hall.”

  Bron reached into her purse for some cash. “Here’s a bit for you. Not much, I’ve got, but maybe enough for a dress and a ribbon.” Lillian hugged her, and Bron thought, I should have done this before! I’ll bring her to town more often after she comes back.

  The next morning was Sunday, and Parris stopped by to pick her up. The Rogers were warm-hearted people, though not church-goers, and she said as much to Parris as they walked along the streets. “Someday we’ll have lots of families like them in church, Parris,” she said confidently.

  “Of course. Just a matter of time.” He looked at her and asked, “Are you going back, Bron? To stay with Winslow?”

  “Why, yes,” she answered, then saw that he was disappointed. “I always intended to, Parris. I just stayed with Lillian while she was sick.”

  “I see. Are you still determined to begin a work with the Indians?”

  “As soon as possible! It’s what God brough
t me here to do!”

  “Well,” he smiled, “I’ve talked to a few folk, and we feel it’s time to begin mission work. We’ve started a fund, but we need you to give us direction.”

  “Oh, Parris!” She stopped stock-still. “See how proud I am of you!” She reached out to touch him, but drew back with a giggle. “I’d kiss you if we weren’t in the middle of the street!”

  Pfouts had little humor, but he said, “Well, later, perhaps, when we’re in private.”

  She burst into laughter. “Have you got some romance in you, then?”

  He smiled. “I’ll hope to let you see that side of me.”

  She took his arm and chuckled. “And I’ll bet all the people watching us think we’re talking about sermons. Wouldn’t they be shocked if they knew it was kissing you were saying?”

  Her comments gave him courage and he waved his hand with a flourish. “To every time there is a purpose—a time to embrace and a time to keep from embracing.”

  “Oh, ho! Now it’s careful I’ll have to be around you, Mr. Pfouts! When you start using scripture to get a girl soft on you, I know it’s old Slewfoot who’s been at you.”

  They interchanged lightly until they entered the church. “Looks like a fair crowd this morning,” Parris said with pleasure.

  It was a typical service. The forty-five people who gathered were a good sample of the population of the camp—mostly roughly dressed miners, a few storekeepers, and a few families with children. Tod Cramer, the sawmill owner, was the song leader. He had a clear tenor voice, and knew the verses to every song written insofar as Bron could tell. The others followed him.

  Pfouts led in prayer and made several announcements, including the one about the mission work for the Indians, then said, “Next week Reverend Simms from Bannack will be here to preach for us. This week our own missionary, Sister Bronwen Morgan, will speak.”

  Bron smiled to herself at the word “speak.” In public she was never said to “preach” but to “speak.” It was not acceptable among Methodists for women to preach, but she had noticed that the churches usually found a way to do what they wanted.