by Tim Champlin
In the few seconds of quiet that followed, I could hear shouting in the street below and the hollow thunder of boots on the stairs at both ends of the hail. A sudden gust of wind through the broken window showered the floor with burning pieces of wood, and the room grew brighter with the loud crackling of flames. Sweat was trickling down my face from the heat and excitement.
Curt and I carefully got up.
"Matt! Curt! Where are you?"
Cathy and Wiley rushed into the room, looking wildly around.
"Oh, there you are!" Cathy was in Curt's arms instantly.
"Are either of you hit?" Wiley asked, punching the empty shells out of his Colt.
"No. Where's Floyd?"
Wiley and I spotted him on the floor at the same time. Just as we grabbed his legs and pulled him back from the sparks that were beginning to fall from the ceiling onto his clothes, he moaned and rolled over. He looked up groggily at us, then reached for the back of his neck. "Musta hit my head on the washstand when I fell."
"Probably saved your life."
"Where're Stoudt and Zimmer?" he asked suddenly.
"Gone. Busted out a minute ago while my gun was empty," Wiley said. "Let's go."
The three of us grabbed our guns off the bed, which was already ablaze.
A crowd of faces jammed the doorway, but I hardly saw them as we pushed our way through the shouting mob.
"What happened?"
"Is anybody hurt?" Voices were yelling questions, but nobody paid any attention.
"What the hell's going on here?" I recognized Sheriff Pierce's voice trying to shout down the tumult and get some answers.
"Fire! Fire!" the hotel clerk was screaming. The alarm was taken up by voices down the hall, and I heard the shout being echoed by voices in the street as the four of us thundered down the back stairs, through the scattering patrons in the dining room, and out into the street.
From the front we could see the flames pouring from the window. They had already taken a hold on the roof.
The wind was still gusting along the gulch, fanning the blaze as the leaping tongues licked hungrily at the top of the adjacent building.
"FIRE!" Like a death knell from a thousand voices, that most dreaded word in all frontier towns rolled in a chorus down the Main Street of Deadwood.
CHAPTER 19
"Where did they go?" Mortimer yelled. "Quick! We can't lose them."
We frantically dodged about among the crowds of running men.
"I don't see them."
"Where are their horses?"
"Probably at the livery."
"Which one?"
"Floyd, you and Wiley and Cathy check the one at the lower end of the street, and take a look at Stoudt's house on the way," Curt ordered. "Matt, come with me and we'll check the livery at the upper end of Main."
We split without another word, Curt and I running up the middle of the street, scanning every passing face and the walks on both sides for some sign of the fugitives. We had to fight our way through the tide of humanity, both afoot and on horseback, that was sweeping down the street toward the fire.
"Curt, let's get our horses. We may need them."
Just as we turned back toward the Alhambra, I spotted our Morgan over the heads of the crowd. I looked again to be sure. He was still saddled, but riderless, and was moving at a walk away from the fire, breasting the tide of townspeople. I thought he had pulled his reins loose in the excitement, but just then, he jerked his head up and his rein was taut! He was being led!
"Curt, there they are! With our horses!"
The crowd was quickly growing denser as we tried to shove our way through the mass of bodies. The Morgan and our other horse were about thirty yards from us.
But reaching them was like trying to run in a dream—no matter how we struggled, we could barely make headway against the mob that was converging on the fire.
The crowd thinned for a second or two, and I caught a glimpse of Stoudt and then Zimmer before the gap closed and they were lost to sight.
"I don't think they saw us," I said to Curt.
"Maybe not, but they know we're close behind 'em somewhere. Dammit!"—he burst out in frustration—"they know we can't use our guns in this crowd. That's a pretty slick trick. They know they're safe as long as they don't mount up."
We shouldered our way along, guns drawn, our eyes riveted on the heads of our horses that stayed always ahead of us. But, less than thirty seconds later, we saw the pair break free of the crowd and immediately swing into the saddle.
"They're getting away!" Curt shouted.
I shoved one man aside and dodged another, then sprinted a few steps after them through the thinning crowd. But they had too great a start. We'd never catch them on foot. We had to fire, or they'd be gone. They dug their heels into the flanks of our horses, and the animals responded by lunging ahead.
"Take the one on the left!" I yelled. "Aim high so you don't hit anyone else."
Curt fired, then quickly fired again, and I saw Zimmer reel in the saddle and topple forward off his running horse.
Stoudt was leaning forward, making a smaller target as I drew back the hammer of my Colt, deliberately, and tried to level off on the bouncing figure. The hammer fell and my pistol roared.
For an instant I thought I'd hit him, because the horse reared. But the Morgan just danced and jumped around sideways. Stoudt was jerking the reins savagely and kicking him in the sides, trying to turn him. I sprang toward him again.
Then he spotted me and our eyes locked. He was less than fifteen yards away, his left side partly facing me. For an instant I could see the bitter hate of frustration in the cold eyes behind his glasses. It was like staring at a deadly snake, and for a second I was frozen into inaction and failed to see his right hand come up from the opposite side of his body, holding a gun. Just as my eye caught the glint of flames on the black gun barrel held across the saddle horn, he fired.
The movement of the horse must have ruined his aim, because white-hot pain seared my left cheek and earlobe, and I spun away to one side, rolling on the ground, trying to get into position to fire as I avoided any second or third shots.
But I needn't have bothered. The gun-shy Morgan went berserk. He bucked and kicked like a rodeo bronc. Stoudt clung desperately to the saddle horn as the horse tucked his head and spun in a tight circle, trying to rid himself of the terrifying thing on his back.
I watched from the ground as the horse threw his hindquarters into the air in one mighty buck and pitched Stoudt heels-over-head into the street.
But he was on his feet like a cat, and scrambled toward the livery as our horse galloped away up the street, dragging his reins.
"Where's Zimmer?" I yelled as Curt came running over to me.
"There he goes on foot. I winged him."
"Let's go."
Zimmer and Stoudt reached the door of the livery at almost the same time. But the padlock stopped them. They glanced back and saw us coming. All four of us fired hurried shots at nearly the same time. And all four of us missed. Our slugs thudded harmlessly into the wooden door behind them. They darted around the corner of the stable into the darkness, Zimmer holding his right arm.
We jumped for the darkness of the sheltered boardwalk on the same side of the street.
Breathing hard, I tried to count how many shots I had fired. I couldn't remember more than two.
"Reckon they ducked up that alley to make a break for the hills?"
"No. Since they're afoot, I'd bet they'll try to steal some horses, or else are trying to lose themselves in town somewhere in all the confusion," Curt panted hoarsely as we hugged the wall.
"It's going to be tough flushing them out," I whispered back.
The firebell was clanging desperately somewhere in the distance. I heard the crash of falling timbers, and the flickering light grew even brighter. People were rushing into the street with lamps, chairs, trunks, and any valuables they could carry.
No one paid any
attention to our shooting in the street. Gunfire and killing were common in Deadwood; fire was not.
"If only we could get Pierce or some of the men up here, we could cut 'em off."
"Everybody's down at the fire," Curt said. "Hope Cathy stays down there, even though they didn't find Stoudt." Curt looked over at me. "Hey, you're shot!" he said, alarmed, as he reached for the left side of my head. There was no pain, but his hand came away red. I felt the sticky mass that coated the side of my neck.
"The tip of your ear's shot away," Curt said, taking a closer look by the firelight. I gave him a big, clean bandanna from my pocket, and he quickly bound it around my head. "Press your hand against that ear. The bleeding should stop in a couple of minutes."
"Hell with that. What do we do now? Wait for them to come out?"
"No. They may be going down behind this row of buildings right now. We can't come this close and let 'em get away," Curt said.
"Looked like you got Zimmer in the arm or shoulder."
"Yeh. And I think one of them took a little buckshot when Cathy turned loose on 'em."
"Why don't I go down here to the next alley and cut around behind the buildings? Maybe we can box 'em in."
"Go ahead, but be careful," Curt cautioned.
"Right. If you hear any shooting, come a'running!"
I didn't have time to check my Colt as I took off running down the boardwalk toward the fire. At the first break in the solid row of wooden buildings I ducked into the shadows and slid quietly to the back of the building and looked around the corner. There was no one there. The trash piles and rain barrels stood silent and alone in the dimness. The only sounds were my own heavy breathing and the growing roar of the flames sweeping up the street, fed by the gusting wind and the resin-filled wooden buildings.
Were they still in the alley? Or had they climbed the hill? Or were they inside one of the buildings, possibly already past me?
The clinking of what sounded like a bottle jerked my head around. I had been looking up the street toward the alley where Zimmer and Stoudt had disappeared, but the sound came from the other direction, about three buildings down. I strained my eyes. Was it a dog, or a rat, that had knocked something in a trash pile? But then I caught a glimpse of a dark figure disappearing into a building, and heard a door bang shut.
I fired three quick shots into the air to call Curt, and then began to reload. Before I could even finish and snap shut the loading gate, he was at my side.
"I think they just went in the back door of the bakery," I said.
"Let's go."
Making no attempt to be quiet, we ran for the windowless back door of the bakery and stopped. Sweat was streaming down my face, stinging the bullet burn on my cheek. My shirt was soaked.
"Don't go busting in there. Could be an ambush."
"We've got them cornered against that fire, unless they get across the street."
The fire, like a searing red and yellow dragon, came roaring up the gulch, devouring everything in its path and growing larger and stronger every minute. It had already reached the hardware store next door to where we stood. The searing heat was so intense I had to turn away and press myself against the bakery wall.
"Let's give it a few seconds and then burst in. They may think they've shaken us. In any case, they can't stay in there long, or they'll burn up."
"Hell, they may have gone right on out the front door."
"Let's go, then," Curt said. "And go in shooting to cover us."
I put my hand on the door latch, eased it up, and then flung it back, and our guns roared together as we leaped inside. I heard some scrambling near the front of the room where the fire was throwing a bright glow through the front windows.
Two shots in quick succession answered us, and I felt a slug tear through the top of my boot and burn the skin of my leg as I dropped to the floor.
"Give it up, Stoudt!" Curt yelled. Three shots was the only reply.
Smoke was pouring in the back door, which still stood open, and through the cracks in the wall. The roar of the conflagration rose to a crescendo as it created its own huge draft and consumed the adjacent hardware store.
What followed next is somewhat blurred in my memory. We had taken cover crouched down behind boxes of fresh bread stacked on heavy wooden tables. This probably saved our lives. All I could recall later was the stunning concussion of an explosion hitting me like a solid blow on my left side. The next instant I was on the floor against the opposite wall with splintered boards and pieces of iron stove falling all around me. Then, everything went black.
I must have been unconscious only a few seconds. I awoke to a feeling of suffocation. Half the room was afire. Shredded loaves of bread, charred and splintered wood, and an iron stove door partially covered me. The heat and smoke were unbelievable. Blood was running down my face from a fresh gash in my scalp but I scarcely felt it.
My first impulse was to escape—to get outside to air—but then I thought of Curt. I wiped the blood from my eyes with a sleeve and shook my throbbing head to clear my senses. There was a ringing in my ears. The deadly danger sharpened my wits instantly, and it took only a second or two to find Curt a few feet from me. He was conscious, but stunned and uncomprehending. The room was bright as day. I had to hug the floor to suck what oxygen was still available.
Curt tried to sit up, but I dragged him down next to me and yelled, "Curt! Are you okay?" He stared at me blankly.
I ran my hands over him quickly when he didn't reply. When I touched his left arm, he winced and cried out in pain. His sleeve was shredded and his forearm was bent at an odd angle. The sharp pain seemed to bring him to his senses.
"Let me pull you. We have to get out!" I shouted at him. He nodded, biting his lips against the pain.
Crawling backward, I kicked debris out of our way and pulled him by his good arm as he lay on his right side. His cries of anguish every time we bumped something hardly registered in my mind.
Parts of both the front and back walls were blown out, and the sagging ceiling was a mass of flames. I thought only of what would happen if it collapsed on us before we reached the front. Blood and perspiration were blinding me, and the thickening smoke was beginning to make my head reel again. I tried to hold my breath, but the exertion of crawling and dragging Curt was too much—I had to breathe. Every intake of breath was searing hot, and I began to panic. Letting go of Curt, I turned around and threw boards and pots and utensils out of my way and lunged for the street. A quick gust of wind fanned the flames and smoke back from me for a few seconds, and I gulped sweet, fresh, life-giving air. A half-dozen deep breaths, a sleeve across my streaming face, and I fought down my instinctive fear and dove back on hands and knees for Curt. He had passed out, which made it a little easier to drag him to safety.
I finally tugged him to the middle of the street, and the strength seemed to suddenly drain out of me. I flopped over on my back, arms outspread, and stared into the black night sky between the rows of burning buildings. Flames appeared to be shooting as high as the hills on either side of the gulch.
With a roar even louder than the fire, the remaining roof of the bakery collapsed, throwing a beautiful shower of sparks high overhead. I watched this display of fireworks with a detached air, as if viewing it from a safe distance.
Suddenly, I was aware of men and voices around me. "God, what a blast!"
"Yeah, Henson had black powder stored in the hardware in spite of all the warnings," someone answered. "Just blew flamin' stuff all over town. Damn! There goes the rest o' the buildings we mighta saved."
"Ain't no way we coulda saved anything without blastin' a firebreak somewhere. The fire wagon burned first off."
"Yeh. With this wind, nothing can help. Get some o' the boys up to the livery and turn them horses out."
I could hear voices all around, but couldn't seem to move or speak. I imagined myself in the bottom of a pit with the walls of hell surrounding me. The whole wild display seemed staged for my ben
efit.
The voices were coming closer.
"Hey, Charlie, this one's dead. Musta got blowed plumb outta one o' them buildings."
I rolled over on my stomach and pushed myself up on both elbows. I felt very light-headed. The men I had heard talking were bent over a form a few yards away. I began crawling toward them. Three men saw me and ceased examining the corpse and quickly came to me.
"This one's still alive. Boy, what a mess! Hold on, mister. You'll be all right."
"Curt. My friend. Here. Over here," I said weakly, motioning toward his still form.
"Take it easy. We'll get him," one of them said. Friendly hands were swabbing my face with a wet cloth. I pushed the hand away, fighting my dizziness.
"That man who's dead over there."
I struggled to my feet and reeled toward the figure in the street. Yes. It was seared, blackened, and bloody, but I had seen that face too many times to be mistaken—it was Major George Zimmer!
Then I felt myself falling and arms catching me.
CHAPTER 20
"The two of you look a little strange with most of your hair and your eyebrows singed off," Cathy remarked to Curt and me two days later.
"Better my hair than my head," Curt laughed.
"If that explosion didn't damage our hearing, we should be as good as new in a few weeks," I said.
We were sitting with a large group of townspeople on makeshift log benches in front of a row of tents on a grassy area near the edge of town. Or rather, what had been the town. Heaps of rubble, ashes, and blackened, smoking timbers were all that remained of Deadwood.
"I still can't believe it," Wiley said, shaking his head. "It was gone so fast. Only about thirty buildings on the slopes were spared. It got Mrs. Hayes's place."
"I guess no more than three people were killed by it," Pat Burnett added. His massive form moved about, in and out of a nearby tent as he poured free dipperfuls of whiskey along a plank bar for anyone who wanted it. Several women were also dispensing coffee and water to a lot of sweating men who were taking a lunch break from the business of cleaning up. Wiley held out his tin cup for a refill. "At least someone had the good sense to save a couple barrels of the 'water of life,'" he said, smacking his lips at the taste.
