“Big grin and a two-fingered salute, huh?” Ludlow threw back the last of the whiskey, ran his hand across his mouth, and started toward the door. “Well . . . we’ll see about that.”
* * *
Sure enough, Frank Stillwell was sitting right where Avery had said he was—at a table near a front window in the broad, carpeted saloon of the well-appointed Territorial Hotel. He was, indeed, playing solitaire while sipping a cream-topped dark ale and a shot of whiskey.
What’s more, he had the gall to wear his five-pointed sheriff’s badge on the lapel of his black clawhammer coat.
His dark brown hair, parted in the middle, shone with pomade, and his mustache was freshly brushed. He looked amazingly well rested for a man who’d lit out of his office as though the devil’s hounds had been nipping at his heels.
Ludlow stood just inside the broad arched doorway leading into the saloon from the hotel lobby, silently fuming while trying to keep the crab in his chest sedated. Unclenching his fists at his sides, he walked over to stand beside the sheriff’s table, glaring down at the man. Stillwell did not look up at Ludlow until after he had set a three of deuces on a four of hearts.
“Well, Mr. Ludlow—what a pleasant surprise.” Stillwell smiled and laid down another card.
“You comfortable?”
Stillwell set down another card and looked up at his employer again, one brow arched. “What’s that?”
“I asked if you were comfortable. Is there anything I can bring you? I see you have a pair of drinks before you though it is not yet noon . . . and a fresh deck of pasteboards. Your clothes look freshly brushed, you yourself freshly bathed after a good night’s sleep and a little slap-’n’-tickle with Jane Campbell. Perhaps a chicken sandwich from the bar, a cigar, maybe a velvet cushion for your ass?”
“Ah,” Stillwell said, setting down another card, “you’re angry.”
“Angry?” Ludlow said, frowning down at the maddeningly calm lawman setting down one card after another. “No, anger is for when someone steps on your toe or kicks your dog for no good reason. I’m not sure I can describe how I feel about you—sitting here as relaxed as a whiskey drummer waiting for a train—after the stunt you pulled the other day.
“After that embarrassing, humiliating display of cowardice on the field of battle. You do realize, don’t you, that Hunter Buchanon not only ran you into the brush like a chicken-thieving dog—after he and his two brothers and one-armed farther massacred every deputy in your employ—but that he also turned loose all of your prisoners. They’re likely crowing about what a coward you are right now in every parlor house between here and Deadwood!”
If Stillwell had heard what Ludlow had said, he wasn’t letting on. The disgraced lawman was nibbling a corner of the seven of hearts in his hand while scanning the other cards arranged in neat columns before him. You’d swear he’d gotten the upper hand on Buchanon and not the other way around. “Ah, there we go,” the lawman said, and snapped the seven down on an eight of spades.
Ludlow sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table from Stillwell. He extended his hand across the table, palm up. “Your badge.”
Stillwell glanced up at him. “What for?”
“You’re fired, you fool. You will never work as a so-called lawman-for-hire again. You’re a charlatan. A confidence man. A coward. Everybody in the Hills knows it by now.”
“Good.”
Ludlow scowled, pinching one eyelid nearly closed. “Say again.”
“Good. I’m glad they think I’m a coward. That’s what I was going for.”
“That’s what you were going for?”
Stillwell took the card deck in both his hands and held it against his chest as he leaned back in his brocade-upholstered armchair. “Correct.”
“Oh, I see, so there was a strategy to you throwing yourself through that window.”
“Correct.”
“Pray tell!”
Stillwell smiled. He set the card deck down and reached inside his coat pocket for a cigar and a single match. “I saw I was outnumbered and that all my men were down. If I had drawn my gun, I’d be just as dead as they are right now. Just as useless. Just as unable to perform my duties—which, I’m satisfied to inform you, I did. Yesterday. I’m sorry about your daughter, but, well . . .”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll know soon enough.” Stillwell smiled. “Part of it you’re going to like. Part of it”—he shrugged—“maybe not.”
“You’re not only a coward, you’re a mad coward!”
The sheriff fired his lucifer to life with his thumbnail, touched it to the end of the long nine in his mouth, and inhaled, making the flame leap and causing smoke to billow.
Blowing a long plume across the table and over Ludlow’s head, Stillwell leaned still farther back in his chair and said, “My men turned out to be utter fools. At least the ones who thought it was a good idea to try to open up on those three rifle-wielding killers—Southern Graybacks known for their outlawry as well as their cold-steel savvy—who had the high ground and beads drawn on our briskets.”
Stillwell took a shallow puff from the cigar, blew it out his nostrils, wreathing his pale, mustached, brown-eyed face in smoke. “Damn fool move. When he drew—I think it was King—the rest drew, as well, and each one of them was dead within the minute. They didn’t have a chance. They were being fired upon by surrounding rooftops, for screaming in the Queen’s ale!”
“Yes, and you let them die without offering a hand. You didn’t fire a single shot until after you ran inside your office. That’s how I heard it told!”
“Exactly.” Stillwell smiled, slitting his eyelids with a self-satisfaction Ludlow found intolerable.
Ludlow laughed and slapped the table. “Do you really think I’m fool enough to believe your act of cowardice was actually part of some strategy?”
“You can believe whatever you want to believe.” Stillwell took a sip of his rye and followed it up with a deep drag from the long nine. When another plume was webbing in the air over the table, he scraped ashes from the cigar into a tray and said, “But I’ll bet you silver certificates to chili peppers that none of the Buchanons are worried about me just now. At least, not the one still alive. Angus Buchanon probably ain’t even thinkin’ about me at all. I just want you to know, Ludlow, I’m sorry about your daughter. But she was with him, and, well, a man can’t control all the outcomes.”
Ludlow screwed up his face. “What the hell are you talking about, Stillwell? If you think Hunter Buchanon is dead, you have another think comin’!”
All the blood appeared to drain out of Stillwell’s face. “What?”
Ludlow slammed his fist down on the table. “Like I said, you’re a bloody coward. And a mad one at that!”
Stillwell’s eyes drew inward slightly and one side of his upper lip curled. “Don’t say that again.”
“Why not? It’s true. Everyone knows it, Stillwell. I just now rode out with a party of men to retrieve the bodies from yesterday’s attack on the 4-Box-B. Hunter Buchanon was very much alive—standing out on the veranda of the Buchanon house with . . . with . . . my very own daughter.” He’d let his voice trail off sheepishly with those last few words, raking a thumb angrily along his jaw. “Damnit all!”
Stillwell looked constipated, deeply befuddled. “Hunter Buchanon and your daughter . . . you just saw them, you say—both of ’em . . . this mornin’?”
“Yes, just this morning, you cowardly fool!”
Stillwell turned to stare out the window for a time, as though digesting the information, which appeared to be going down like fresh-baked crow.
“Why would you think otherwise?” Ludlow asked him.
Stillwell turned back to him, ignoring the question. “They and you can think what you want. But if there is any man in these Hills better equipped to bring Hunter Buchanon’s head to town in a croaker sack, that man is me . . . and the three other men I sent for.”
He added under his breath as though mostly to himself, “Started to think I wouldn’t need ’em after all, but . . . but I reckon I was wrong . . .”
Ludlow thought he might as well play along. “Who’d you send for?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Stillwell sneered, and drew another sip from his shot glass.
“That’s it.” Ludlow had had enough. He placed his hands flat on the table and hoisted himself from his chair. “I’ve indulged your bull long enough. You can leave the badge in the office. Make sure you lock the door on your way—”
“Dakota Jack Patterson,” Stillwell said, cutting the rancher off.
Hands still on the table, half standing, Ludlow frowned at the sheriff.
“Weed Zorn,” Stillwell continued, “and Klaus Steinbach.”
Ludlow straightened, lifting his hands from the table. He stared curiously down at Stillwell smiling up at him again, like a snake confidently scouting a den full of cottontails. “Where in the hell did you find Dakota Jack? Steinbach, did you say?”
“And Weed Zorn, decorated ex-cavalryman. You remember Dakota Jack, do you?”
“Sure.”
Two years ago, Ludlow and Chaney had hired Dakota Jack to take care of some irritating business involving a man—a wealthy Irishman from a prominent family—contesting the mineral rights of the King Solomon and threatening to bring in Pinkerton mine regulators as well as U.S. Marshals to investigate the matter. Dakota Jack was just the man for the job, leaving Stillwell and his deputies with their hands clean and keeping inconvenient attention away from their employers.
No one ever knew Jack was here in the Hills—except the Irishman, of course. But, lying at the bottom of a deep ravine where only the wolves and wildcats could find him, and scatter his polished bones from here to kingdom come, he wasn’t talking. His mine claim had been used as kindling to start a fire in Ludlow’s big fieldstone hearth.
“Sure, sure, I remember Jack,” the rancher said, his interest growing. “Not a very forgettable fella, Dakota Jack. Definitely leaves an impression. Where’d you find him? I didn’t know he was still around.”
“I heard in one of the saloons that someone had seen him and Steinbach and Zorn in Bismarck. They were tidying up some business for a steamboat outfit. I sent a telegram and was surprised but pleased when Jack wrote right back, thanking me for giving him and the others a reason to take their leave of the cesspool that Bismarck and Mandan have become now that they got the railroad.”
“What reason did you give him?”
Stillwell chuffed a laugh as he absently riffled through his card deck with one hand. “Your old brain is muddled, Mr. Ludlow. Should talk to a sawbones about that. Haven’t you been following the track of our conversation?”
“The Buchanons?”
“Isn’t that who we been talkin’ about? Ain’t Hunter the one you just said you seen just this morning . . . with your daughter . . . out at the 4-Box-B?”
“True, but that Hunter . . . he’s a handful.”
“Oh, I know. Don’t I know! Got him nine lives too!” Stillwell laughed without mirth. “Don’t underestimate that Grayback just ’cause he swore off shootin’ irons after the war. The only reason he done that is because he killed so many men—Union soldiers—that he sickened even himself. But knowin’ how to kill, once you know how to do it, and are as good at it as I heard tell he was—scary good—you don’t forget.”
Stillwell took a pull off the cigar and blew three perfect smoke rings toward Ludlow.
The rancher grimaced his distaste, and waved the rings out of the air before him. “Well, well—maybe you’re worth something after all, Stillwell.”
“What I want to know, Mr. Ludlow, is what Hunter Buchanon is worth to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about what Hunter Buchanon is worth to you. Please concentrate so you’re not losing me every other sentence.”
Anger flared hotly into Ludlow’s chest, causing his heart to quicken and prodding that crab again. He winced against a nettling lance of pain creeping up from beneath his breastbone and into his left shoulder as he bunched his lips and said, “You’re the sheriff of this county, Stillwell. The Buchanons massacred your men. Turned you into a laughingstock.”
Stillwell pointed his cigar at the rancher, snarling, “I told you to quit sayin’ that. I told you how it was.”
“Oh yes, yes, of course—wait, what are you doing?”
Stillwell had unpinned his badge from the lapel of his frock coat. Now he tossed it onto the table where it clattered belly-up before the rancher.
“There’s the badge you asked for. Now, how much for Hunter Buchanon’s head in a croaker sack?”
Ludlow opened his mouth to speak, his eyes glinting angrily, but Stillwell stopped him with a wave of his hand. The sheriff leaned forward, snapping out his words like prune pits. “I figure it’s probably worth a pretty penny to you, seein’ as how your lovely daughter ran off with the man. Not only ran off with him but badly burned her brother and set fire to your barn. All because she wanted to run off with that Grayback.”
Stillwell gave a jeering smile. “Let me remind you that everyone in town saw her ride off with him the other day. Saw them leave town together, practically arm in arm.”
“I wonder what they’re talking more about—my daughter or your cowardice.”
“Your daughter.” Stillwell laughed. “Bet on it!”
As he glared across the table at the smug sheriff, Ludlow drew a breath against his rage. “Half of the men in this county will be after Hunter Buchanon and that old man of his. The Chaneys have many friends. One of them will get him. If they don’t, I’ll throw my own Broken Heart boys at ’em.”
“One of them might get him. For the right price, I will get him. Me, Dakota Jack, Steinbach, and Zorn. We’ll fetch her home to you. After all, that’s gotta be what you really want, ain’t it, Ludlow? Why, a man like you can’t walk around with folks knowin’ how your daughter married up with a Grayback—one you strictly forbid her to see. One who killed damn near all the lawmen in this town. You can’t let your daughter and that no-account Grayback get the better of you, have everyone laughin’ . . . now, can you?”
Ludlow drew another breath and released it slowly, tightening his lips against the crab stirring in his chest. “How much do you want for you and Dakota Jack to go after him?” He hardened his voice. “To kill him?”
“I’m sure Jack and Klaus and the others will settle for a thousand apiece. That’s what I’ll settle for.”
“Five hundred.”
“A thousand. An extra thousand for her.”
Ludlow glared down at him, brushed his fist across his nose, and gritted his teeth. “Another thousand for her alive. Unharmed!”
“Oh, of course, of course. Alive.” Stillwell threw his arms out and grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” His grin broadened as though he was inwardly chuckling at a joke he shared with only himself.
Ludlow swung around and headed for the door, Stillwell laughing softly behind him.
CHAPTER 23
“Damnit, Hunter—get your big bear paws off’n me! I’m gonna stay here and fight for the ranch we carved out of these Hills or die in a blaze of holy glory, whistling Dixie, as they burn it to the ground!”
Old Angus tried to wriggle out of the arms of Hunter and Annabelle, who were half carrying and half dragging the rowdy old Rebel toward the supply wagon parked in front of the Buchanon cabin. He twisted around, trying to turn and stride back to the cabin out of which every window had been shot when Chaney’s men had attacked the previous day.
“Pa, stop fightin’ us, damnit!” Hunter scolded the old man. “You’re gonna jerk Annabelle’s stitches loose an’ start bleedin’ again. I am not letting you stay here, an’ that’s final. Stayin’ here is sure suicide.”
“What’re you talkin’ about—suicide?” The old man stopped and turned to his much younger and mu
ch taller son, scowling up at him. “We built that damn cabin to withstand a Sioux attack. A cyclone. Hell, the only thing that could pester that timbered fortress is—”
“Fire,” Hunter finished for him. “With Shep and Tye dead, and you laid up, there ain’t enough of us to defend all four sides against attackers running a burning wagon of brush up and setting fire to the place. Even if they didn’t burn us out, they could starve us out. We don’t have enough food and ammunition. I was going to refill the larder the other day in town, but as you’ll remember, I had a change of plans.”
Old Angus opened his mouth to refute Hunter’s argument, but he checked himself. Doubt flickered in his washed-out eyes bleary from all the whiskey he’d drunk to dull the pain of his bullet wound. He slid his crestfallen gaze to the stalwart lodge, its wide timbered front porch trimmed with bleached-out animal skulls and old traps and other implements hanging from spikes in the thick, chinked walls.
A water gourd with a gourd dipper hung from the rafters of the veranda’s pitched roof. At the moment, a mountain bluebird—as blue as any blue had ever been—was perched on the edge of the gourd, bobbing its head forward and dipping its beak to drink.
Angus glanced at Annabelle standing to his right. He turned to Hunter and, with a tear dribbling down his leathery cheek, said, “Just leave me here, boy. Leave me here to burn. I’ll die where Shep and Tye died. It’s my time. I’m old . . . an’ I’m tired!”
Hunter grimaced, shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, Pa. You see, if I left you here, I’d have to stay too. And where would that leave Anna? When she threw in with us two Graybacks, she pretty much burned her bridges.”
Angus made a pained look and turned to Anna, who said, “Please, Angus. Come with us. You want to live to see your grandchildren, don’t you? To rock one on your lap?”
Angus drew a deep breath and turned back to Hunter. “Our chances are slim, boy. Damn slim. But, okay. All right. I’ll go where you go. I reckon I’m outnumbered.” He cast a fleeting, dry glance at Anna, who smiled at him. Then, turning back to his son, he hardened his jaws, and anger sparked in his eyes as he said, “But, by God, you better have my guns loaded in that wagon. Pistols, Yellowboy, both bowie knives, and double-barreled gut-shredder!”
The Black Hills Page 18
