The Accomplice: The Silent Partner

by Marcus Galloway

  In the space of half a second, Caleb decided he was probably going to die.

  Even after the eternity it took for him to blink, he hadn’t prepared himself for what was about to befall him.

  Clang.

  That sound came suddenly and echoed through Caleb’s ears like a choir of angels. The clean-shaven man’s eyes rolled up into their sockets and his knees buckled under his weight. As the man dropped, he revealed another fellow standing behind him. This fellow also looked even more like a miner, mainly due to the large, dented tin pan he held in both hands. Although it was made to sift through river water, the pan had done a mighty fine job of bouncing off the top of the clean-shaven man’s head.

  “Nothin’ I can’t stand more than an unfair fight,” the man holding the tin pan said.

  Another shot was fired, but this one blazed into the air and was followed by a steely voice. “Next man who shoots won’t live to regret it!”

  Caleb relaxed his trigger finger, but wasn’t about to take his eyes off Jake. He didn’t have to look at the new arrival to know it was Sheriff Bullock.

  Bullock was a well-dressed man, but hardly a dandy. His lean features and sharp eyes made it more than clear that he meant whatever he happened to be saying at the time. “Holster your weapons before I gather them up,” Bullock said.

  “Start with them,” Caleb said as he nodded toward Jake and what was left of his friends.

  Jake was breathing as if he’d just run all the way in from the badlands. “Those two started it, Sheriff!” he grunted as he waved toward Caleb and Paul. “They meant to gun us all down in the street.”

  “He wanted his money back after he was done with me,” Stephanie said as she stepped forward.

  When Bullock looked over at Jake, there was a hint of a smirk on his face. “That true, Jake?”

  “Yeah . . . well . . . she didn’t . . .”

  “He couldn’t—”

  Once more, Stephanie was cut short as Jake hastened to add, “She didn’t do all of what I wanted, but she did do something.”

  “Then maybe you should pay for it.”

  “That’s all we were asking for,” Caleb said.

  Bullock slowly shifted his eyes toward Caleb and obviously wasn’t completely happy with what he found. He then looked over at the two men who were lying on the ground. “Pay what you owe, Jake.”

  “Fine,” Jake muttered as he dug some money from his pocket and threw it at the man filling up Hazel House’s front doorway. Paul let the money bounce off his chest without blinking an eye or moving a finger to catch it.

  “But that Injun better answer for what he done!” Jake said. “He killed my cousin!”

  As Bullock watched, the man who’d been shot rolled onto his side and let out a pained howl. Although it had looked as if he’d caught Caleb’s round in the chest, it was obvious now that the bullet had ripped through the meat under his left arm.

  “That man’s not dead,” Bullock pointed out.

  “Yeah, well, it ain’t my fault if the Injun is a bad shot. He should still rot in a cell for it.”

  “If I put him away,” Bullock warned, “then I’ll also have to drag in anyone else who may have fired a shot or caused any sort of harm in this instance. Is that what you want?”

  Jake thought that over for all of two seconds before allowing his head to droop forward like a wilted flower. “No.”

  “Then get your friend to the doctor and have him stitched up.” With that said, Bullock holstered his pistol and started to walk away. He paused and asked, “You going to square up the rest of that bill, Jake?”

  Jake let out a measured breath, took some money from his pocket, and cocked back his arm as if he meant to throw it just as he’d tossed the first batch. Not only did he walk the remainder of that money over to Paul, Jake even stooped down to pick up what he’d thrown before so he could hand it all over properly.

  “Nice and civil,” Bullock said. “Just the way I like it.”

  Once the sheriff had walked away, the rest of the crowd began to disperse. It seemed that watching a man bleed from his armpit wasn’t nearly as interesting as what had come before. Caleb stood his ground to ward off the rest of the men who’d stepped forward on Jake’s behalf. Those fellows had plenty of glaring to do, but not much else. They left without another cross word.

  Paul wore a wide smile that was only partially caused by the quick grope Stephanie gave him by way of a thank-you. “Hell of a way to earn a day’s wages, huh?”

  “Sure,” Caleb said. “If you say so.”

  “I hear there’s a game being held tonight and you should be able to sit in. That usually cheers you up.”

  “It would if I’d saved up enough to last more than a few hands. Thanks all the same, though.”

  “Then have a word with Steph a little later,” Paul said. “She’s gonna be grateful for at least the rest of the night.”

  Caleb couldn’t decide what made him feel worse: the fact that he was truly too poor to ply his preferred trade or the fact that getting some private attention from a squat, foul-mouthed whore like Stephanie actually sounded appealing.

  2

  Deadwood was on its way to becoming a real stop along the gambler’s circuit. Joining that group of saloons preferred by professional cardplayers and cheats alike was something every saloon owner prayed for. The big games attracted all kinds of big fish. Some games grew big enough to draw crowds away from the more well-known establishments and pack them into a place like the Hazen House. Leaning against the bar several hours after his tussle in the street, Caleb nodded to himself and grinned.

  “Admiring your handiwork?”

  The question drifted through the air in a voice that was colored by a distinctive, if somewhat slurred, Georgia drawl. Caleb didn’t need to look to know who’d stepped up beside him to ask that question. The smell of whiskey was thick enough to bring the slender gentleman to his attention from several feet away.

  “Hello, Doc,” Caleb said.

  Although he was a dentist by trade and still hung a shingle whenever he needed to earn some money or build up a bit of respectability in a town, John Henry Holliday didn’t look like a dentist. The clothes he’d been wearing of late had drifted more toward the extravagant end of the spectrum and tonight was no exception.

  His dark blue suit was tailored to fit the Georgian’s slender frame while also falling nicely over the guns that were always strapped to his person. Doc’s face was sunken, but not overly so. While the cold air ripping through the Dakotas had played havoc with Caleb and everyone else in Deadwood, it had done a bit of good for Doc’s consumption. His coughing fits had been slightly fewer and farther between and when he did get them, they didn’t confine him to bed as had been known to happen for men in his condition.

  Actually, most men in Doc’s condition would have been dead long ago. When he wasn’t coughing up blood or wheezing into a handkerchief, Doc was inhaling more tobacco smoke and whiskey than fresh air. Even though he’d been given a month or two to live several times in the last several years, Doc still kept a smile upon his face.

  “I’d say you haven’t lost your touch when it comes to spreading the good word,” Doc said.

  Caleb took another satisfied look around and nodded. “When it comes to poker games, I’d say you were right.”

  “Of course I’m talking about poker. What better word is there?”

  “Did you convince anyone else from the Bella Union crowd to stop by?”

  “There was no convincing required, my good man,” Doc replied. “A good game is a good game. It hardly matters where the tables are set up.”

  “I believe there’s plenty of folks in town who would disagree on that score.”

  “That’s just because those folks own their own saloons.” Doc tapped the bar a few times, which was enough to catch the barkeep’s attention and get a glass of whiskey sent his way. Even though he may not have spread himself equally among all the gambling establishments, Doc
was well-known at nearly every one.

  After tossing back the whiskey like it was nothing but dirty water, Doc cleared his throat and looked at Caleb. “Why don’t you join us for a game? It’s been a while since we’ve played in the same hand.”

  “I don’t have enough to buy in, Doc. If I did, I wouldn’t be spending my nights tossing drunks into the street. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” With that, Caleb gave Doc a quick wave and then waded into the crowd that was growing inside the saloon. Caleb looked even bulkier now that his coat was off and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. Inside the Hazen House, there was too much heat pouring out of too many bodies in close proximity for the outside chill to be much of a bother.

  “Howdy, Doc,” Paul said as he slapped the dentist’s shoulder and sidled up next to him.

  “Why, Paul Vasher, whatever have you been putting my friend through these recent weeks?”

  Paul looked at Caleb, then back to Doc and then took another look around before asking, “You mean Caleb?”

  “When we arrived in this camp, we were both right as rain. Now, just look at the poor soul.”

  Scowling at the tone in Doc’s voice, Paul shrugged and lowered his own voice to something just above a whisper. “Between the two of ya, you’re the one that’s been soaking up all the luck. Or couldn’t you tell as much by comparing the two of you’s attire?”

  Doc looked down at his perfectly tailored suit and the silver watch chain running from one half of his vest to the other. “I see your point. I heard there was some commotion in the street earlier.”

  “Sure there was, but it didn’t amount to much.”

  “Was that man a part of it?”

  Paul looked in the direction Doc pointed and saw the miner who’d stepped up on Caleb’s behalf. “Damn right he was. That fella dropped one of Jake’s buddies before he could get a shot off. Nearly caved his head in with a gold pan.”

  Nodding slowly, Doc eased his hand away from the gun hanging under his left arm. “Then I’ll just let him surprise Caleb. Lord knows he could use some cheering up.”

  “I thought you two were friends,” Paul said.

  “That doesn’t always mean he’s happy to see me,” Doc replied with a smirk. “Besides, my table is filling up and I always like to get a feel for my competition before the cards are dealt. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Paul shrugged and let Doc go. When he looked over to Caleb, he saw his fellow bouncer wasn’t going to be too surprised after all.

  Caleb twisted at the hip as his hand snapped down toward the gun at his side. His eyes narrowed reflexively to take in the man before him the way a hawk summed up a nearby mouse. The miner was tall and a bit meatier than most of the other men who shared his trade. While a good portion of miners had been slimmed down by the lean times of their chosen profession, this one looked more like a cowboy. His shoulders weren’t stooped from hunching over a section of river for days on end. His legs weren’t wobbly from crouching and his eyes didn’t have the anxious sharpness of a man who’d spent his life searching behind grains of dirt and thin layers of silt for the one glittering bit of hope that would put some food on his table.

  The man in front of Caleb at the moment had a prominent nose that jutted from a long face. His hair was cut short, but at odd angles that gave away the fact that he’d either cut it himself with a knife or had a drunkard for a barber. Thick whiskers sprouted from his chin and upper lip, but none of those things struck Caleb as much as the gun that was slung high in a well-worn holster. Obviously, this miner was more concerned with his draw than with keeping the pistol out of his way while working the river.

  “Don’t shoot,” the miner said as he raised his hands well above hip level. “I’m the one who dented my pan on that gunman’s head, remember?”

  Already nodding, Caleb shifted his hand away from his gun. “Sure I remember. Your drinks are on me tonight, friend. You want anything else around here, just let me know.”

  Keeping one hand up, the miner extended his other. “I’ll take a drink or two, but an introduction was all I’m after.”

  “Caleb Wayfinder,” he said while shaking the miner’s hand.

  “Sounds like an Indian name.”

  “It is,” Caleb snarled.

  “No offense meant. Just pointing out a fact.”

  After spending his entire life hearing the smug, often-times hateful comments made about his family tree, Caleb could recognize that brand of contempt from miles away. There was nothing of that sort coming from the miner’s scruffy face.

  “Pardon my tone,” Caleb said. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

  The miner grinned. “You don’t have to tell me. I was there, remember? My name’s Jack Johnson, but friends call me Creek.”

  “Now that sounds like an Indian name.”

  “Heh. It’s just short for Turkey Creek.”

  “There a story behind that?”

  “Yeah,” Johnson replied, “but it’s a long one. If you got the time to share a few of them drinks with me, I’m sure I’ll get around to telling it.”

  Caleb’s eyes drifted toward the poker tables that were quickly filling up. “I don’t have the time. The games are getting started.”

  Still nodding slightly, Johnson glanced toward the tables. It was plain to see that he wasn’t paying too much attention to what was going on there. Just then, one of the girls who worked the Hazen House slipped her arm around Johnson’s waist.

  “He’s a friend of mine,” Caleb said to her. “Be sure to treat him right.”

  The working girl was a bit on the plump side, but only to the point that it gave her more voluptuous curves. Long brown hair hung freely along her back and was splayed over her shoulders as if she’d tumbled out of bed moments ago. The smile on her face made it look like she wanted to go right back under those same covers.

  “Caleb’s kept more than a few rowdies away from me lately,” she said. “Any friend of his is a friend of mine.” Nudging Johnson playfully, she added, “That bodes well for you, mister.”

  Chuckling as he patted Johnson on the shoulder, Caleb told him, “I’d take her up on that if I was you.”

  Creek Johnson was a man and he had a pulse, which meant he was feeling the effects of the curvaceous woman’s probing hands. Judging by how much he squirmed and fretted, however, he was putting up one hell of a fight to keep from being dragged away to her room.

  “Actually . . . uh . . . there was something else I wanted to say to you, Caleb,” Johnson sputtered.

  Genuinely impressed with the other man’s resolve, Caleb shifted so he could look directly at him. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, but this little lady’s making it awfully hard to concentrate.”

  “You mind giving us a minute, Sally?” Caleb asked.

  The curvaceous woman peeled herself away from Johnson and put on a pouting face that would have been enough to change Johnson’s mind if she’d kept it aimed at him for much longer. “All right, but be quick. I don’t know how long I can wait.” With that, she slowly walked away. Sally made sure to keep her hands on Creek for as long as the length of her arms would allow.

  Caleb couldn’t help but laugh at the way Creek Johnson fidgeted from one foot to another. “You sure you don’t want to reconsider? Sally’s awfully popular and hasn’t caused any street fights since I’ve been here.”

  “Oh, I’m not gonna let her get too far,” Creek replied. “But since I’ve got the chance, I’d like to ask what I came to ask you.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It’s serious to me and may be mighty profitable for you.”

  “A business proposition, huh?” Caleb asked.

  Creek nodded. “I’ve only been mining for a short while, but I’ve done well enough to hold my own where plenty of others in these hills have lost their shirts.”

  “I was starting to think you weren’t a miner.”

  “You mean the pan I was carryin’ around wasn’t a big enough hint?”r />
  “I could carry a doctor’s bag, but that don’t make me a doctor. I’ve learned to trust my instincts where reading folks is concerned.”

  “I bet you get plenty of instincts bouncing drunks out of places like this one.”

  “Actually, I got them from owning a place like this. Well,” Caleb added while taking a look around, “a place better than this.”

  “You owned a saloon here in Deadwood?”

  “No. I had a place in Dallas. I sold out to my partner so I could move along and make my fortune in gambling.”

  While nobody could have missed the sarcasm in Caleb’s tone, Johnson knew better than to draw attention to an obviously sore subject. “Luck favors them who works for it,” Creek said optimistically.

  “Which brings me back to your proposition,” Caleb said. “Why don’t you say your piece before someone gets accused of cheating and needs to be tossed out of here?”

  Johnson leaned toward Caleb and lowered his voice to a fast whisper. “There’s some men moving in on my claim and I could use someone like you on my side.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Someone who can handle himself in a fight. I seen plenty of scuffles in and around these saloons, but most men involved run through them like chickens with their heads cut off. You didn’t panic and that tells me you can use that gun of yours for something more than a decoration around your waist.”

  Caleb nodded as he rearranged his thoughts regarding Creek Johnson. “Go on.”

  “I’ve been doing some good business and if I do a bit more, I’ll be able to get out of this mining game before it breaks me like it breaks everyone else.”

  “Don’t you have partners?”

  “Sure I do,” Johnson replied. “But they’re the ones I’m worried about. One of ’em’s in debt up to his ears to a man down in Chinatown and the other’s trying to bring in another partner who’s supposed to make our money situation brighter than Judgment Day.”

  “And that’s not a good thing?” Caleb asked.