by Ron Schwab
“I will die first,” Marta said without hesitation.
The young Sioux spoke with conviction, Kate thought. “And what about the others?”
“Four of the girls are so afraid, they will do whatever they are told by these pigs. They have been beaten and raped so many times, they have become obedient dogs, who follow their masters’ commands. I do not understand, but the rest of us have not been raped, only kicked or struck by fists when we do not do as we are told.”
“You are being saved to bring higher prices in Chicago. Your virginity will be determined there, and, if you are found chaste, you will be sold to special buyers.”
“This is so strange.” She shrugged and gave a wistful smile. “I would not qualify for sale to a special buyer, but it would please me to disappoint them.”
Kate returned a conspiratorial smile. “I would disappoint them also. But I have reason to believe they will not take me to Chicago. If I do not escape, I will be dead. It is that simple. You said four of the girls will not likely be helpful. What about the others?”
Marta moved nearer and spoke so softly, Kate could barely hear her. “Raven and Olive will help, if I ask. They must be led, but they will be strong followers if they are given clear instructions. But Maybelle cannot be trusted. She will betray us to seek the favor of our jailers. There is a phrase that describes her kind . . . a bird.”
“A stool-pigeon?” Kate whispered.
“Yes. A stool pigeon. Be careful what you say when she is near.”
They both started at the rattling of the chain and padlock on the steel gate. A man Kate did not recognize spoke in a raspy voice. “Bluebird and Celia, you are going to the dance tonight.” He chuckled. “Come with me, we’ve got company for you to greet.”
Two of the girls standing near the wall stepped out and walked toward the gate. Kate could not make out their features, but she could see one was of stocky build, perhaps, a bit on the plump side. The other appeared thin as a walking skeleton. Both walked with their heads bowed.
After the gate was locked and the selectees had disappeared, Marta and Kate got up. While her head ached, the dizziness had abated, and Kate began to orient herself.
“Let me show you the accommodations,” Marta said, steering her away from the others and moving deeper into the cave. “The squatty troll was Spud. Watch out for him. He is smarter than he looks. And twice as evil. He will mount both girls before the night is done. The others will get their turns, but Spud and Solly will fuss over who goes first. If I had been chosen, one or more would not live the night, and I would disappear into the mountains.”
As they stood together, with their blankets pulled tight around their shoulders, Kate realized Marta was much taller than she, with broad shoulders and sinewy arms—statuesque, an artist might call her. It occurred to Kate that the young woman’s apparent strength should be considered in any plan she might come up with. She had already decided she was not going to wait to see what fate had in store for her. She believed people were largely responsible for their own fates.
Kate was surprised to find that the cave narrowed as they went into its depths and that the walls and ceilings were shored-up with timbers. “It must have been the beginning of a mine shaft years ago,” she said. “How far does it go?”
“Not far. It turns to our left here, and we sleep just past the turn. It appears they were digging a mine shaft and then one day just stopped. A path to nowhere. After twenty feet or so, it ends at a solid wall of stone. There is also a right turn that hits a dead end after no more than fifteen feet. If you cannot see it, you can smell it.”
At that instant the stench struck Kate’s nostrils. “The latrine?”
“There are no pots or buckets. You hold back for long as you are able, and then you release your bowels and bladder on the floor. I’m sorry, there is no delicate way to tell you this. Be careful where you step when nature calls.”
Kate’s urge to pee faded, and they turned back. “Do they feed you?”
“They leave three buckets of water every morning and replace them at night. At the same time, we are given a bag of stale bread or biscuits to divide. When the offering is small, some fight like squealing pigs for more than their shares. While they do that, I drink all the water I can. My father told me that a person can live without food for many days, but water is the first requirement of life.”
“There can’t be a well up here, so there must be a spring or creek nearby.”
“Yes, I assumed that, and when I escape, I will follow that creek, and they will never catch me.”
“When you escape? Not if?”
“When.”
“I think we are going to be great friends.”
As they approached the cave opening, a figure slipped from the shadows and stepped in front of them. “Now, ain’t the two of you a pretty pair. Find a friend to share your blanket, Marta? I should warn you, Miss Bluenose, I been told Marta ain’t choosy about a person’s plumbing when it comes to the lustful side of life.”
“Meet Maybelle Red Hawk,” Marta said, her voice betraying her hostility.
Kate worried Marta was on the verge of flattening the horse-faced intruder.
Maybelle made little effort to cover her feminine attributes with her blanket, and Kate surmised men would find her body voluptuous, but she was not otherwise an attractive woman. “My pleasure, Maybelle. I’ve heard so many things about you, I look forward to getting better acquainted.”
“Good things, I’m sure,” Maybelle said sarcastically, glaring at Marta.
Neither Marta nor Kate replied.
Later, Kate joined the others in what she thought of as the sleeping chamber. There were extra blankets that were welcome in the cave, which tended to be on the cool side even without the chilly mountain night air. After initial awkwardness she wedged her blanket-shrouded form between her cellmates, so each might draw warmth from the others. She was glad to be buffered by Raven on one side and Marta on the other. She had firmed up an alliance with both. The petite Raven, who could not be more than fifteen years old, worshipped Marta and would likely follow her lead, even if it were dangerous to do so. An optimistic, adventurous girl, Kate worried that Raven did not truly appreciate the gravity of their situation, but that fact only solidified Kate’s determination to protect her.
Olive was an unknown. She had nodded her assent to the conspiracy to escape, but she rarely spoke. She and Raven were about the same age and could nearly pass for twins. They had apparently been close friends before their capture, and Raven had an annoying tendency to render opinions on behalf of her friend. It was evidently a part of the dynamic of their relationship. Yet, Kate sensed Olive was attentive to every spoken word and harbored a keen intelligence she was not inclined to display.
Olive, not surprisingly, slept on the other side of Raven and had fallen asleep while her friend chattered gossip about their reservation friends. Marta had dropped instantly into sleep, but Kate’s mind raced and resisted sleep in this uncomfortable and hostile place. She eventually surrendered to her exhaustion, but it was well after even Raven had ceased her conversation with herself.
Kate jolted awake when she heard stones clattering as someone came down the cave’s corridor toward them. An iridescent glow from that area told her that sunrise had arrived. She relaxed when she saw that the disturbance was caused by the return of the two sober-faced Sioux girls who had spent the night with their keepers.
Later, Kate and Marta sat, leaning against the walls, on opposite sides of the cave entry when Willy and the guard named Henry, an older man with a whiskery face dotted with angry pock marks, showed up with water pails and a burlap sack containing stale bread loaves. Henry put down the two buckets he carried while he unlocked the gate. When the gate squeaked open, Willy stepped in and dumped the contents of the sack on the ground. He collected the empty buckets from the previous night. Kate noted that both men were armed with pistols, but during a period of several minutes, access would be slo
w and awkward.
Apparently, the men were confident that no one would be brave or foolish enough to attempt escape. She supposed part of the strategy of confiscating clothing was to render the captives vulnerable and dependent. She wondered where their clothes had been stashed. The girls who had spent the night with the men might know. She would have Raven make casual inquiry.
After the men left, she took Marta’s advice and drank her fill of gritty water from the communal dipper that was deposited in one of the buckets. She plucked a few slices of bread from the crumbling loaf on the cave floor and returned to her spot on the side of cave. As she chewed the dry bread, she studied the gate, the barrier that closed her off from the outside world and freedom. She hadn’t even been aware of the lithe form that had slipped in beside her until Olive spoke in a voice that barely rose above a whisper but was smooth as honey. “I can climb the gate and squeeze through the space at the top.”
Kate turned her head and looked at the dark, serious eyes that met her own. Then she examined the gate again. At the top of the arched entrance, there appeared to be about a foot of space between the gate and the rock above. The gap would be no more than a foot and a half wide. Yes, the girl could probably squeeze through the space, but the bars were honed into wicked points at the top. One slip, and she could be impaled on the spikes. She looked at Olive again. She was a tiny, pixie-like girl. Probably wouldn’t top the scales at a hundred pounds holding a five-pound sack of potatoes.
Kate asked, “What would you do if you got out, Olive?”
“Run. I am faster than the wind. Ask Raven.”
“But where would you run to?”
“There seems to be a drop off to a canyon beyond where the guards are camping. There is almost certainly a creek or a stream there. I would follow it southeast until I came to a road, and I would find help.”
“You are truly willing to try this?”
“I want to do it. I do not want these men to send me to Chicago.”
“You would have to leave after dark. Does that frighten you?”
“Yes. But I will do it anyway.”
The definition of bravery, Kate thought. “If you are going to do this, I think it must happen tonight. Let me speak with Marta and then we will talk again.”
Chapter 37
BING
Bing Compton strode into the Big Bison Tavern, walking past the saddled, stuffed buffalo bull that greeted customers just inside the front door. He assumed that the saddle was for customer photo opportunities, although the buffalo looked quite docile and bored—not to mention that his hide was patchy and shedding like he had a skin disease. He noted the bull had no testicles and wondered if that was a common taxidermy omission.
Ollie Wicker stood behind the bar, looking as bored as his buffalo friend. When he saw the deputy, he nodded, which Bing took as consent to join him. He ordered a Coca-Cola, which triggered a frown until he dropped a twenty on the bar. As a law enforcement officer, Bing wasn’t about to buy an illegal beer. When he considered it, he thought it interesting there were so many taverns still operating openly with prohibition in force. Of course, the alcohol products were not listed on the wall menu, but it was open knowledge that booze could be acquired for a price at these places, and local law folks weren’t that interested if things didn’t get rowdy. There were only two customers engaged in serious conversation at a corner table, but the bartender still seemed jittery.
“The local guy’s name is Bull Bullock,” Wicker said, his voice sounding like it was filtered through radio static. “Has a brother called Boss. He’s the ramrod of this so-called Rapid City Gang. Worst I’ve heard about them is they hire whores for the houses in Chicago and do some bootlegging for the speak-easies and other less respectable places. Doesn’t seem like serious stuff. Sounds like a low-class bunch. I never done business with them. That’s all for a double sawbuck.”
“You have enough to make it worth that much?”
“You’ll have to pay up front and then decide.”
Bing surrendered another of Trey’s twenty-dollar bills. “This better be worth it.”
“Been doing some heavy thinking. You was asking if I could find somebody that got his hand chewed up by a dog.”
“You found somebody?”
“No. But I’ll bet your doctors and hospitals ain’t turned up nobody.”
“No, they haven’t.”
“Doc Kerrigan’s got some booze money. Spreading it around places. Dropped some of it here. Of course, he didn’t buy liquor here.”
“Of course not. Isn’t Kerrigan the guy who lost his medical license because of his drinking?”
“Yep. That doesn’t mean he don’t have select patients, folks who don’t want to go through ordinary medical channels. And he does some vet work on occasion.”
“Do you know if he worked on anybody with a mangled hand in the last few days?”
“Somebody paid him serious cash, so it’s safe to say he worked on somebody, but I don’t know who or what.”
Bing shook his head. “I can’t believe it sometimes. Booze is against the law, but a drunk can still get drunk easy enough. Practicing medicine without a license is illegal, but a doctor who’s lost his license can treat patients. I don’t like some laws, but folks can’t just thumb their noses at the law.”
“Bing, I bet you didn’t know I was a college man.”
“You graduated from college?”
“I didn’t say that. I went two months and took an economics class. I learned a law there that overrules all other laws.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The law of supply and demand. Politicians and the voters can pass all the laws they want, but they ain’t going to cancel that one.”
“You’re too deep a thinker for me, Ollie. I’m going to track down Doc Kerrigan and have a chat.”
Chapter 38
BING
Bing returned to the sheriff’s office and asked one of the clerks to track down an address for Dr. Clarence Kerrigan and to see what she could turn up in the public records on Boss and Bull Bullock. He asked Sheriff Johnson to assign another deputy to the case for backup. The sheriff grumbled a bit about personnel shortages, but when Bing mentioned he would hate to see the Bureau of Investigation get all the credit for solving the case, he gave in with feigned reluctance and put old Sam Piper on the investigation. Bing found Piper something of a curmudgeon, but if anybody started mixing it up with guns, the wiry, seventy-ish man would come in handy. Sam was taking on outlaws many years before the advent of the automobile, and he had not lost his touch with a gun. He still embarrassed all the youngsters at the department’s firing range with his weapons proficiency.
Bing stopped at his desk to check messages. Nothing pertaining to the Connolly case, and nothing else mattered right now. The young, blonde clerk handed him several pages of notes and smiled. “I hope this helps,” she said, and smiled again before turning away with a noticeable swing of her hips. He was flattered Bonnie apparently had a crush on him. He had planned to ask her out to dinner and a movie. But that was before Carrie.
He shuffled through the notes, which were perfectly organized. An address for Doc Kerrigan. There was also an address taken from property tax records for Claud Bullock. He owned a property just outside of town. No criminal record, so he was either an upstanding citizen or too slick to get caught. One Frederick Bullock aka Bull, on the other hand, had compiled an impressive collection of offenses, most related to drunkenness or assaults of one kind or another. In most instances he got off with fines, but he had served thirty days in county jail a few years back for beating a girlfriend to a pulp. Nice guy. He wondered if Claud was the Boss Bullock Ollie had mentioned. Odds were at least fifty-fifty he figured, since Bonnie had turned up no other Bullocks in the county records.
First stop, he decided, was Doc Kerrigan’s. He stepped over to Sam’s desk, where he found the old-timer with his eyes closed and his head slumped forward with chin on che
st. Napping, he guessed. Or dead. “Sam, I’m ready to go.”
Piper looked up, rubbed his brush moustache with the back of one hand and reached for his ten-gallon hat with the other. He grunted with annoyance and got up and followed Bing out the door.
Kerrigan’s house was little more than a run-down box less than six blocks from the courthouse. Bing parked the Model T, and he and Sam Piper walked up to the door, which was warped and badly splintered. Bing knocked. No answer. He tried again with the same result. “I’d guess he’s out drinking or tending to one of his illegal patients,” Bing said.
“You keep trying,” Piper said. “I’ll circle the house and see if I can see anything through the windows.”
Bing tried the door several more times before he gave up. He turned to step off the porch when Sam sauntered around the corner of the house, his face expressionless.
“Let’s go, Sam. Nobody home, or he’s not answering. We’ll call on Mr. Bullock and swing by here later.”
“Might want to take a look inside.”
“No warrant.”
“Don’t need one. There’s a man sprawled on the kitchen floor. That’s generally an invitation to go in.”
Bing wheeled and opened the unlocked door. The kitchen, in what appeared to be a four-room house, was directly off the parlor. Bing entered cautiously and stopped when he saw the prone figure splayed face-up on the floor near a small table. He approached cautiously, not wanting to disturb the scene any more than necessary. He knelt and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck, knowing the verdict the instant he touched the cold skin. Cause of death was obvious from the raw, red and purplish ring carved in the flesh around the man’s neck.
“Garrote.” Sam said. “Only seen that once . . . when I was working in New Orleans twenty-some years back. Mean way to die, I’d think. I’d take a bullet any day.”
“Somebody decided to shut him up.”