The Deadwood Stage

by Mike Hogan

  “You must be Bobby White,” I said. “You have caused us all a great deal of bother.”

  Bobby shrugged. “No bugger asked you to chase me.”

  He spoke with a slight American accent, but with the vocabulary of Lambeth.

  “There, young man, you are wrong. Mr Holmes was engaged to find you by your worried friends.”

  The boy glanced across at Wiggins.

  “Well,” he said. “I didn’t know of that. It was main good of you to look out for me, Harry.”

  “Our current client is Mr Maxwell Taylor, of Milwaukee,” said Holmes.

  Bobby stiffened. “I want nothing to do with him.”

  “He claims a father’s rights,” said Holmes.

  “He is not my father. I do not have a father.”

  “Young man,” said Holmes, “I have had nothing to eat since luncheon but an orange and the disgusting puffed corn dripped in butter that caused the dreadful stains on Churchill’s jacket. May I invite you all to join me in a late supper? Doctor Watson is in visible distress, my joints are creaking, and Churchill and Billy will need to be carpet beaten to rid them of prairie dust. We have much to tell you, Bobby. Let us adjourn to Baker Street.” He waved his programme. “We can have a ‘pow-wow’.”

  Holmes ducked out of the tent, and I stumbled after him. My leg ached abominably. The boys followed us out.

  Wiggins immediately took Holmes aside. Bobby came up to me.

  “I’ll go with you, Doctor Watson,” said Bobby. “I’ll go out of respect for Harry and because I know from his face that he has some bad news for me and I’d better hear it. But no power on Earth will make me return to that coward Taylor, or to the murdering coward, White.”

  “I’ll get horses,” said Running Deer.

  “Billy, a cab,” said Holmes.

  A light drizzle began to fall. Four-wheelers were impossible to find at the gates of the Olympia Ground, but we caught a hansom dropping off a passenger. The driver agreed to take Billy squatting outside the doors at our feet. The other boys rode, with Wiggins looking terrified two-up behind Churchill on a huge bay. Bobby was on his palomino. He wore a giant sombrero that almost extinguished his head. The Indian boy rode bareback on a chestnut pony.

  As we set off, Bobby rode alongside our hansom and leaned across to Holmes. “Churchill and me will scout ahead for bushwhackers.” He slapped the leather rifle case attached to saddle and rode off.

  “Do they know the way?” I asked Holmes.

  He shrugged. “Cabby,” he called up through the hatch. “Follow that cowboy!”

  Holmes turned to me.

  “Grave news from Wiggins, Watson. Herr Wolff, or Mr White as we know him, has slipped our net. The murderer of Bobby’s mother, of Joe, and perhaps of his brother Aaron, is loose in the city.”

  12. The Deadwood Stage

  Nay to Derring-do

  We arrived at Baker Street in good order, although all of us were more or less damp. Billy recruited a couple of street Arabs to help him lead the horses around the corner to the mews. Bobby hung his oversized hat on the hat stand in the hallway, and stood his repeating rifle in the umbrella bin below it.

  Churchill led him, the Indian boy, and Wiggins out to the back kitchen to wash while I tackled Mrs Hudson regarding supper.

  We assembled upstairs in the sitting room. Billy served coffee and Holmes offered cigars. Wiggins took one with an insouciant air. I guarded the whisky Tantalus.

  “Do you begin, Wiggins,” said Holmes. “How in the name of reason did you lose White?”

  “Reason weren’t in it, sir. He paid more. We was outbid by the Herr. The reception clerks got five pounds each to look the other way when he scarpered, all in solid yellow gold. He paid his room bill too. It ain’t natural, Mr Holmes. A fiver would have tempted a cardinal of Rome to wear blinkers. It’s bad for business when foreigners are paying over the rate; it harms the local trade.”

  “All right, tell your tale,” said Holmes.

  Wiggins explained to Bobby that he had come to Holmes for help after Bobby and Aaron had suddenly disappeared. Churchill showed the portrait done by the forger, and described his first mission to Lambeth and his interviews with boys who had been approached by Mutton-chops.

  “Taylor,” said Bobby. “I knew it must be him on our trail, so we took off. I am sorry about that, Harry. We should have told you everything straight up, so we should.”

  Wiggins told Bobby about the arrested pocket-picker who had identified the corpse of a Negro man pulled from the River as Aaron. I described our visit to Doctor Purchase at the mortuary and Wiggins’s inability to identify the corpse.

  “White did for Joe, I guess,” said Bobby. “He was a bad ‘un, mind. When I heard that Joe and Aaron were in cahoots putting the squeeze on White and my dad - I mean Taylor - I ran for it. The only place I could think to go was the Show. They have been good to me.”

  He and Running Deer exchanged shy smiles.

  Holmes described the trap that we had set for Taylor at the murder location in Limehouse. He emphasised Taylor’s fierceness when he thought that White held Bobby in the house.

  Bobby listened impassively.

  Wiggins detailed White’s transformation to Herr Wolff, and I gave a description of our journey into the courts of Whitechapel in search of Aaron. We laughed as we recalled Churchill’s impersonation of Spring-Heeled Jack.

  “And Aaron?” asked Bobby.

  “Dead,” said Wiggins.

  The sitting-room door opened and Mrs Hudson and Bessie carried in trays of food.

  “I have telegraphed to Mr Taylor,” Holmes said. “I have a duty to my client to say that we have found you and that you are well. I have asked him to visit at ten tomorrow morning. If you should choose to call at the same time, you would be most welcome.”

  “I don’t see why I should,” said Bobby.

  “I suggest that you give Taylor the opportunity to tell his side of the story before you rush once again to judgement.”

  “I know the story,” said Bobby.

  “There is also White,” I said. “We found you out. So may he. Taylor has promised to return with you to America. You will have a far better chance of disappearing there.”

  “All right,” said Bobby. “I’ll come and talk. But I won’t go anywhere with him.”

  “Good,” said Holmes rising. “It is getting late. Should you boys like to stay here or return to the show ground?”

  Bobby looked across at Running Deer.

  “We’ll go home,” he said.

  We shook hands.

  “A word of advice, Bobby,” said Holmes. “If you do not want Mr Taylor to know where you are staying, you might want to come dressed more soberly, and in a less voluminous hat.”

  The boys clattered downstairs.

  “Well, Holmes,” I said, “a most satisfactory conclusion.”

  I sat back in my chair and filled my briar pipe.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Whether the boy goes with Taylor, or continues with the Wild West Show is his affair. I have written to Lestrade with all information we have about White’s alias, and with details of his confederates. They are ex-Detective Force, kicked out of the police in that betting and corruption scandal a few years back.”

  “Monstrous,” I said. “Let us hope that Lestrade can bring them all to book without further involvement from us. I have had enough adventure for this month, more than enough. Let us say nay to derring-do until at least the autumn, if not until 1888.”

  I lit my pipe.

  “One question must be resolved, Holmes. We must let Churchill return to his home, loving or no. I am sure that Lord and Lady Randolph -”

  A thunder of hooves and a deafening rumble of wheels came from the street. We sprang to the window. A cl
osed carriage skidded to a halt in a shriek and a shower of sparks as the wheels creased the pavement edge below us. It ground to a stop under the gas lamp outside our door. The two horses attached to the carriage capered, prancing and rearing, striking sparks from the flagstones and spray from puddles. A dark figure in a top hat, swathed in a cloak, sat on the driver’s bench wrenching on the reins.

  Our horses had bolted in terror, except the huge bay; it plunged and kicked with Billy hanging on to its bridle.

  As we watched in horror, two men leapt from the carriage and charged into the group of boys below. They grabbed the boy wearing a sombrero and hustled him towards the coach.

  “They’ve got Bobby,” I cried. I turned and darted for my pistol. Holmes made for the door.

  I heard wild screams and shouts, then bright flashes lit the window and a burst of gunfire echoed from the street below. I got back to the window just as the coachman whipped his horses and the black carriage surged away, the horses slipping on the wet road and bucking in the traces. I sighted the revolver, but could not get a clear shot.

  A boy with a rifle leapt into the centre of Baker Street and fired a blazing fusillade of shots at the rear of the carriage, to no effect that I could see. The carriage roared along the street, turned on two wheels at the station, and was gone.

  The attack had taken seconds. I looked down and saw Holmes standing with two boys. As I watched, a yellow tendril wrapped itself around the lamppost: fog.

  I made my way downstairs and out onto the pavement. Lights were lit in the street, neighbours called across to one another from windows, and I heard the watchman at Portman Mansions furiously springing his police rattle. Billy clung to the bridle of Churchill’s bay horse as it plunged and jumped; horse and boy both wide-eyed with fear.

  The Red Indian boy stood on the pavement in the light from our doorway holding a large knife.

  “I cut one,” he said. He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled a loud, undulating sound like a birdsong.

  There was an answering whinny and a clop of hooves as the chestnut horse appeared through the wisps of fog and stopped in front of the boy. He stroked its nose, said some soft words and leapt onto the pony’s bare back. He galloped away, not in the direction that the coach had taken but in the other, towards Paddington Street. I moved up beside Holmes and the two boys.

  “Muster the Irregulars, Wiggins,” said Holmes. “Damn this fog. Go when you’ve calmed the horse. Get an apple from Mrs Hudson. Ah, Watson.”

  “They took Bobby,” I said. “I couldn’t get a proper shot.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow and pointed.

  “I could have done for the lot of them,” said Bobby waving his Winchester rifle at me. “But this danged thing is full of blanks. I shot to scare them off, but they grabbed him.”

  I blinked in astonishment.

  “Churchill wore Bobby’s cowboy hat,” said Holmes.

  “He wanted to try it on,” said Bobby. “They got him instead of me. I don’t understand what’s happened to Ciqala.”

  He whistled.

  I clutched at the lamppost for support. “Dear God, we’ve lost a Marlborough.”

  The palomino pony appeared out of the fog dragging a street Arab along the ground by its bridle.

  “Get the hell away from my pony,” said Bobby. He cuffed away the child, leapt into the saddle, holstered his rifle and took off after the black carriage.

  Posse Comitatis

  “I shall have to inform the Churchills.”

  “It can wait,” said Holmes. “Nobody is getting far in this pea soup. The Irregulars will be on the trail soon.”

  We stood at the window with restorative brandies and sodas and looked out at the yellow muck that obscured the other side of Baker Street.

  “Running Deer lived up to his name,” I said. “And Bobby is chasing the devils with an empty rifle. Good Lord, Holmes, an hour ago I congratulated us on a job well done.”

  “Billy says that he saw a group of men arrive at the mews when he went to check our horses after supper,” Holmes said. “They had hired the coach, and they wanted top-quality horses for it. They must have had a watcher who saw Bobby with us. They lay in wait at the top of the street for him to emerge from our door.”

  “What will they do when they discover that they have the wrong boy?” I asked.

  “They might not. White - we must suppose he is the devil behind this business - last saw his son when he was six. Churchill is the right age. He is quick thinking enough to fake the accent; his mother is American.”

  “I don’t agree, Holmes. Churchill will plant his legs wide, his arms akimbo, declare that he is Winston Spencer-Churchill, son of Lord Randolph Churchill, and demand that White take him immediately to Blenheim Palace. What is that noise?”

  A tremendous clatter of hoof beats, a loud rumble of wheels and jingle of harness came from the street below.

  We looked down into Baker Street as a huge glare of light illuminated the street. A crowd of riders reined up below us, followed by a six-in-hand coach.

  “Is it White come back for Bobby?” I asked.

  Holmes smiled. “It is the Deadwood Stage.”

  I pocketed my loaded revolver and joined Holmes and Colonel Cody on the pavement outside our door. Billy served nips of Scotch from a tray to us and a dozen or so riders dressed in cowboy clothes that sat on their horses in the road.

  It was ridiculously like a stirrup cup being served to a pack of foxhunters.

  The flimsy-looking stagecoach with its six feisty horses was parked on the other side of the road. Our neighbours again hung out of their windows and clustered in doorways looking annoyed.

  “It took a while to harness up,” said Cody. “Then we had to reload our guns with fighting ball and fix some naphtha lights to the Deadwood. And the Indians had to put on their war paint.”

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  He pointed up the road. “They’re picking up the trail.”

  I chuckled. “You expect to follow a carriage trail through London in a fog with a pack of Red Indians? Are you serious, Colonel?”

  “Speaking as one tracked by Lakota Sioux for three days over rocky ground and very, very, nearly scalped, I would say that I am, Doctor,” he replied warmly.

  The Indian youth, Running Deer, rode up and said something to Colonel Cody.

  “All right, boys,” he called to his men. “Let’s get after the varmints.”

  “Is this legal?” I asked.

  “I am holder of the Congressional Medal of Honour, Doctor,” said Colonel Cody stiffly. “And as Colonel of Scouts in the United States Army, I have the authority to lead these men - with Annie as female sharpshooter - on the trail of those no-good kidnapping sons-of-bitches, and no power on this Earth will stop me. Excuse my French there, sir.”

  “I say, Colonel -”

  “We have formed a posse, Doctor. What did you expect me to do, summon a constable?”

  He rode away shouting, “Yo!” to his men.

  “What infernal cheek, Holmes.”

  “Come,” he replied. “Let us hasten aboard.”

  We clambered up into the stagecoach and grabbed straps as it lurched forward and the driver whipped the horses into a spanking trot.

  “Posse, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Posse Comitatis,” he said. “To have the right to an armed retinue. I translate loosely. The sheriff may appoint deputies to help catch a felon. The hue and cry.”

  “An ancient practice.”

  We hung on to the straps as the coach swung past Baker Street Station and around the corner.

  “There is a legal precedent,” said Holmes.

  I kept quiet, but I inwardly doubted that Colonel Cody’s medal or his American rank gave him sheriff’s rights in th
e Cities of London and Westminster or in the Metropolis generally. It was, I thought, typical of Americans of the Cody type that he would attempt to transfer their injudicious blend of mob and six-gun rule to the streets of London.

  I looked out of a side window as we clattered along York Terrace. The fog was lifting. I saw that the Indians ranged ahead, hooting and calling “Yip, yip”. Colonel Cody and his riders had formed a column in front of the stagecoach. It was, I had to admit, a stirring spectacle.

  Cody held up his arm. “Column, yo-oh!” The coach shuddered to a halt.

  Two fiercely war-painted Indians rode up dangling a white-faced police constable between them.

  “Good evening, Constable,” Holmes said gently. “Did you see a closed black carriage go past an hour ago, driving furiously?”

  The policeman nodded and his helmet flopped over his eyes.

  “Direction?”

  “Portland Place, sir.”

  Holmes pointed south. The Indians dropped their policeman and raced off yelping.

  “Thank you, Constable,” I said, patting him on the helmet and giving him sixpence.

  We started again with a jerk and a body slid off the roof and slipped down beside the door. Holmes and I grappled it and dragged it into the coach. We sat him on the opposite seat.

  “Billy,” I said with a sigh.

  As we bowled along, the Indians scooped up several more police constables and private citizens and presented them to us for examination. It was a very effective method of tracking.

  “Do you remember, Holmes,” I said as we passed along Oxford Street, “how we raced home this way in the fog, with the street Arabs lighting the way and a posse of policeman trotting with us? When Mrs Hudson was in danger from the arsenic poison.”

  “You have read my mind, old friend,” he said. “I was thinking exactly that thought.”

  He leaned out of the coach window and called over a splendid Indian who had ridden alongside us from Baker Street. The Indian ran his horse closer and peered through our window. His cheeks and brow were striped in red, black and white; his eyes were outlined in yellow. He wore a magnificent eagle feather headdress and carried a huge silver medallion on a chequered ribbon around his neck and a necklace formed of dozens of tufts of hair tied into beads.