Rafe looked at the man. "Whaddaya say, judge?"
The man smiled. "I'd say lock them up, deputy."
Slim groaned and sat up. His hand went to his head, exploring for damage. It came away tinged with red. "Sumbitch clobbered me with a bottle. Ain't fair. Damn Injun."
"Young man," the judge said.
Slim squinted. "Me?"
"Yes, you. May I ask where you obtained that bright red shirt?"
"Shirt? Oh. Yeah. Shirt. Um. Hanging on a tree limb? Maybe?"
White Deer's hard voice interrupted. "You lie," he said.
Slim held up his hands to ward off the blow he thought was coming.
"Deputy. Off to jail with them. Find out where the rest of this young man's possessions are and get them returned to him."
"Will do, judge."
The man faced White Deer. "Now. I understand you want to see me."
White Deer stared.
The man with the bowler put an eagle on the bar. "Not much damage," he said. "This should cover the broke bottle." He stepped over by the judge. "You carry yourself well, young man. And you know right from wrong. My name is Gillicuddy, and I own the livery. If you want to work, come see me."
"Yes ... sir." White Deer nodded his thanks, but his attention was on the man people called judge.
"Come with me," the man said.
"I do not know you," White Deer said.
"Of course. I am Evan Hickey."
"Hickey?"
"That is correct. The deputy said you wished to see me."
White Deer tugged the old letter from his trouser pocket. "My dead father wrote this, I think," he said, giving the letter to the judge.
"Do you know the contents?"
"No ... sir. I don't read white man writing."
Judge Hickey took the letter. "Hmm. Yes. It is addressed to me, but at my Boston address. Goodness." He opened the letter and extracted a single sheet. He read. "My God," he said in a quiet voice. "My dear God."
After reading the letter, Judge Hickey stared out the window of the Bucket of Blood for a long moment. "John said he was going west," he said. "He and Emily lost almost everything in the panic of '47." He looked up, seemed to see White Deer for the first time. He smiled, but his face seemed sad. "So John and Emily are gone these many years, then?"
"My father and mother were killed in the fighting between bluecoat soldiers and Arapaho and Cheyenne warriors at Fall Creek," White Deer said. "Lightning Cloud and Elina made me their son."
"Well. Come along. A shave and a haircut, then some good food. That will make a new man of you."
"Free food here," White Deer said. "Rafe say to buy nickel beer and eat free food. I buy the beer. Not eat the food yet."
The judge tipped his head back and laughed. "No. No. Let's leave the smell of beer and old tobacco, shall we. Once you're cleaned up, we'll go to Bescher's on Fifteenth Street. Best steak in Cheyenne. You need some red meat. I can tell."
"But. But. Why would you do that?"
"Son. John and Emily Laramie fed me many times when I studied in Boston, long before you were born, and that even though I was older than most students. You are John Laramie's son. I can do no less for you than they did for me."
"Laramie?"
"Yes, you are a Laramie."
"What is my white name?"
"I don't know, son. But maybe we can find out."
5
White Deer ate a man-sized steak, two baked potatoes, a side order of beans, four slices of sourdough bread with butter, and two slices of apple pie. His stomach felt stuffed to the base of his throat. "I can't swallow any more," he said.
"I reckon you'll sing a different song by the time we get home. Supper will be ready then, and you probably will be, too," Judge Hickey said. "Growing boys are like that. Shall we?"
"Shall we?"
"Yes. That means we should go."
"Yes. I have money."
"No. I will pay. You are my guest."
From Beschell's Restaurant, they walked east on Fifteenth Street to the livery. Gillicuddy came from the little office at the side of the barn as they approached. "That job's waiting, you know," he said to White Deer. "Your bay is in the third stall, Judge."
"Thank you, Bowler. Do you have something the boy could ride?"
"Maybe he'd like to take a pick." Gillicuddy led them through the livery barn to a corral at the back. He waved at a bunch of horses on the far side. "You can ride any horse you want," he said.
White Deer went back into the barn and stopped at the second stall on the right. "This one?" he asked.
The stall held a small pinto of no more than fifteen hands. Its arched neck and small nose spoke of Arabian or maybe appaloosa ancestry.
Bowler Gillicuddy grinned. "No fooling you, eh, boy? That paint's as good a pony as you'll find between here and Texas. Sure. You can ride him. Just tell me you'll come to work here and he's yours as long as you're here."
White Deer said, "When should I come to work?"
Gillicuddy laughed out loud. "By God, boy, you'll do. Be here by sunup tomorrow. The pinto's yours to ride until you don't want to work here any more."
White Deer sheepishly got his chest from behind the old wagon and received permission to leave it against the tackroom wall. He retrieved the Colt revolver and its loads, and the rest of his money.
They turned north on Russell. "My place is about six miles out," Judge Hickey said. "Close enough to get to town easily, far enough for me to wind down on the way home so Martha doesn't have to deal with a cranky old man when I get there."
"Martha?"
"Oh, yes, Martha is my wife. Married nearly twenty years now. Happily, I might add."
White Deer considered this news. "Where are your children?" he asked.
Judge Hickey's face went sober. "Martha is unable to bear children," he said. "It was hard at first, but now we go to church and she teaches the children in Sunday school. That helps."
They came to a creek and rode along its western bank. "Crow Creek," the judge said, "but I've seen no more of those birds here than elsewhere."
"The Crows are tough warriors," White Deer said. "It is good to stay away from Crows."
"You know, your father was a policeman," Judge Hickey said suddenly. "He was a good one, too, an excellent officer. Emily operated a boarding house where I stayed. I knew them well. In fact, she was pregnant with you when I had to leave."
"Policeman?"
"Yes. A lawman. And a good one," the judge repeated.
White Deer felt warmth begin deep in his chest. His father was a lawman. Someone who caught those who did wrong and punished them. That was good.
"So John and Emily were lost at Fall Creek. Sad, that. They were moving on, rebuilding their lives. That fight was not a happy occurrence here in Dakota Territory. I hadn't thought about it, but our county carries the name of your parents, Laramie. Coincidental, I'm sure, but it is a fitting commendation." Judge Hickey seemed to be ruminating as much as carrying on a conversation with White Deer. "Arapahos raised you, you say."
"I was one of Lightning Cloud's village."
"What happened? What brings you to Cheyenne?"
"My mother died. My father took his village to Canada. He says the redcoats there allow Arapaho to live in their own way, not the white man's way." White Deer made no attempt to wipe away the tears that escaped his eyes. He held his head high.
"I'm going to get a scolding when we get home. Martha will say, 'Evan J. there you go bringing company home again without telling me.' How she expects me to tell her, I'll never know." Judge Hickey chuckled. "It's not like we have our own private telegraph."
"Evan Jay?"
"Yes. Evan J. That's my given name."
White Deer reined the pinto to a stop. "Judge," he called.
Judge Hickey stopped the bay and turned in his saddle. "What's wrong, son?"
"There was a big tough-looking man standing by me in the Bucket of Blood," White Deer said. "He talked with someon
e beside him. 'Got to teach old Evan Jay a lesson.' That's what he said.
"What did those men look like?"
White Deer told him, and Judge Hickey knew who they were. "Burt and Joe Everett," he said.
"Who?"
"Brothers. Our county was just created last year, and the governor appointed me judge here. One of the first things I did was send Ed Everett to jail."
"This Ed. He did something wrong?"
"He did. He rustled cattle from the Valentine outfit. A man does not steal cattle in this county. He was lucky not to be hanged."
"But why these brothers? Why get even?"
"Ed Everett died in prison. That and the two brothers were drunk and disorderly at the Little House in Cheyenne—that's a brothel. Rafe brought them in and I fined them each thirty-five dollars. They've got reason, in their own minds, at least."
"It was whiskey talk?"
"We can hope."
The night turned cold and White Deer wished Rafe had found his buffalo cape.
The judge reined up when they reached the rise that overlooked his property. "Too dark to see well," he said. "Light in the window. Still ..." He turned to White Deer. "Just in case, you wait here." Judge Hickey pulled a Colt Roots from a holster inside his coat, checked its loads, and put it back. "I'll ride down," he said. "If all is well, I'll fire a shot. Then you come in. If you don't hear a shot, ride for Cheyenne. Ride fast. Kill the horse if you have to, but ride hard and fast. Fetch Sheriff Adams and Rafe. Do you understand me?"
"May be those men wait for you."
"Maybe. But Martha's down there. I will ride in." The judge pulled his hat down tight. "Do what I say."
"Yes, sir."
Judge Hickey gigged the bay and sent it galloping down the hill toward his home. The one with a single light burning in its window.
The rising moon shed some light, but White Deer could not see well. He decided to disobey the judge's instructions. He walked the pinto to the bottom of the rise and took cover behind a copse of lodgepole pines.
Judge Hickey stood for a long moment after he dismounted the bay. White Deer was hidden in the copse before the judge got to the door. Just as he reached for the knob, the door opened and Joe Everett stepped out. He said something to the judge that made him take an involuntary step away. Joe backhanded Judge Hickey across the face.
No shot.
But White Deer was too close now. Besides, what would happen while he was riding those miles back to Cheyenne? Big Joe Everett didn't look like the type that sat around waiting for lawmen to show up.
As White Deer watched, Burt, the other Everett brother, came to join in the beating. They laughed as their fists punished the judge, a man who had done no wrong. But he made no move to protect himself. Strange. White Deer didn't see Judge Hickey as a man who placidly stood still as two big men slowly beat him to a pulp.
White Deer thought for a fleeting moment about going for the sheriff. What would my father do? What would Lightning Cloud do?
Both of his fathers offered the same answer. Those men were wrong. Those men must be stopped and punished. White Deer tethered the pinto to a pine sapling and started for the house.
He heard fists striking flesh. They sounded like village women pounding rawhide to make it soft and pliable. He used every shadow. He forgot the cold. He concentrated on the men beating Judge Hickey. Their attention was on the object of their rage.
A warrior does not hurry. Haste can only alert the enemy. Still, White Deer winced as hammer-like fists beat the man who had befriended him, the man who was a friend of his father. Judge Hickey now made little whimpers when the fists crashed into him. His legs could no longer support him, so Burt held him up while Joe punched.
"How's it feel, Judge?" Joe used a big foot, swinging it around and into Judge Hickey's belly. The judge could only groan. Blood-flecked spittle drooled from his battered lips. White Deer felt a white-hot coal of anger burn in his belly, but his anger did not affect his judgement. He used every wile he learned as an Arapaho warrior in training. He was in plain sight, but the two men beating Judge Hickey did not see him. He only moved when their attention focused on the target of their own anger. He reached the edge of the house and disappeared.
For some reason, the pinto neighed. Perhaps he wanted the company of the judge's bay mare.
"What's that?"
"A horse, stupid." Splat.
"Ain't in the corral."
Splat. "So have a look, asshole."
White Deer continued around the house, peering into each window he passed. At the very back, a window looked in on a bedroom. A candle flickered on the dresser. A woman sat tied to a chair with something that looked like a dishrag stuffed into her mouth. He pulled the old Colt Army from his waistband to use its butt to break the window. The woman saw him. She shook her head. Then lifted her chin. She lifted it again. White Deer pushed up on the window and the bottom half slid up. He climbed through. The woman looked frightened. He shushed her with a finger to his lips. She nodded.
He had no idea of the old Colt would fire, but he noticed a Henry rifle on pegs. He took it down carefully and jacked the lever. Empty. He catfooted to Martha and took the dishrag from her mouth. She gasped as if the rag had cut off her breathing.
White Deer put his mouth close to ear. "Bullets?"
"Top drawer," she whispered. She cleared her throat. "Please help Evan J. Please."
White Deer patted her on the shoulder and nodded. He turned to the dresser and opened the top drawer. A box of .44 rimfire nestled in the front corner. He grabbed it, dumped the cartridges out on the bed, and loaded the Henry.
Rifle loaded, White Deer snuck into the front room. He crouched by the door. Carefully, he eared back the hammer.
"Don't like this, Burt," a voice said. "Damn pinto horse tied in that bunch of pines, but they ain't no one around. Time to light a shuck, I'd say."
"Yeah. But these here assholes ain't dead yet. Only take a minute. Get the old lady. Let her watch our judgement on Ol' Evan Jay."
Burt Everett took a step toward the door as White Deer swung it open. "God damn," he shouted, clawing for his gun. Joe Everett drew first. As he raised his gun, White Deer triggered the Henry. Lightning Cloud's words echoed in his mind. Look at what you want to hit. Let your heart guide your arrow. Bullets had to be the same, and the bullet from the Henry smashed into Joe Everett's left shoulder, knocking him back and turning him away. He lost hold of his pistol, which dropped to the ground. Grunting with pain, Joe scrabbled for the fallen weapon.
Burt's Colt cleared leather and he fanned away three rounds, but White Deer was already moving. Three steps, and he dove headlong from the porch, holding the Henry out in front of him with both hands. He hit, rolled, and came up with the rifle ready. He jacked the lever and fired. A hole appeared like magic in Burt Everett's forehead. The big chunk of .44 caliber lead tumbled through his brain and exited the back of his head in a shower of gray matter, bone bits, and blood. The gunman collapsed like a rag doll.
Joe found his gun and snapped a shot at White Deer. The bullet tore into his thigh and his leg suddenly would not hold him up any more. He tipped and fell, keeping a firm hold on the rifle. He skittered away, Joe Everett's bullets chasing as he went. He gritted his teeth against the pain and stood. He faced Joe Everett dead on and began to sing his death song. He planted his feet and raised the Henry. Singing. Singing.
Joe fired and missed. White Deer sang. Joe thumbed the hammer back. White Deer sang. As Joe pulled the trigger, White Deer fired. Joe's bullet took White Deer in the muscle of his shoulder. White Deer's bullet plowed into and through the second button of Joe's shirt. He was dead before he hit the ground.
White Deer staggered to the porch and sat down on the top step. Sweat drenched him, though the night was cold. He bled.
Judge Hickey crawled over, his face an unrecognizable mass of lacerations, bruises, and dried blood, and his nose was swollen twice its usual size. He tried to say something, then tried
again. All he could do was grunt.
At last his voice came. "You saved us, son," he said, his voice grating like chains over rock. "Hang on. I'll get Martha. Hang on. Hear me? Hang on. She'll patch you up. Hear?"
"Yes, sir," White Deer mumbled, then passed out.
***
Judge Hickey followed Martha into their extra room where White Deer slept. In the week since the exchange of shots with the Everetts, he'd stayed there. Martha stitched his wounds, a through-and-through in his left thigh and a wicked gouge in the muscle of his left shoulder. White Deer was up and around the second day, but Martha insisted on bringing breakfast into his room every morning. Today she had a stoneware bowl full of oatmeal, a pitcher of creamy milk, and a cut-glass bowl of brown sugar.
"Sure smells good, Mother Martha," White Deer said.
"If a man doesn't eat, he can't mend, son," she said as she placed the food on a small table by White Deer's bed.
"Thank you, Mother Martha, but don't you think it's about time I joined you and the judge for breakfast in the kitchen. I'd really like that."
Martha placed her hand on his brow. "Well. No fever. And you do walk about well. I suppose so. Tomorrow, then."
White Deer grinned.
"We're proud of you, son," the judge said. "You did a mighty brave thing the other night."
"The men did wrong," White Deer said. "Someone who does wrong must face what he does. If he changes his heart and does right things, then okay. But wrongs need to be set right. I just set the men right." White Deer concentrated on the porridge, coating the top with two heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar and pouring milk to the brim of the bowl.
"I wish we had sheriffs and marshals who thought like you," Judge Hickey said. "Your pa would be right proud of you, son. Your ma, too." A wistful look came over his face.
"Do you feel up to study?" Martha asked. She'd taken it upon herself to teach White Deer to read.
He swallowed a spoonful of oatmeal. "Yes. A man must be able to read. I know that now. But first I will eat." He spooned more porridge into his mouth. After he'd swallowed it he said, "Today I will ride Paint into Cheyenne. The man at the barn said he wanted me to work and I took his horse. I must keep my promise."
Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Vol. II Page 4
