Blood Storm

by Bill Brooks

  Cole wondered, as she told him these things, if he hadn’t made a mistake in not finishing off Stevens when he’d had the opportunity.

  “It broke my mother’s heart to have Arthur turn on us, and she immediately left him and returned with me to New York. It ended up costing her life. She contracted tuberculosis from someone on the ship on the voyage over. She died within the year. I was then fifteen years old, alone in a city where orphans slept on the streets and ate other people’s garbage to survive. I decided I would never eat garbage or depend on a man for my survival. Look what it had cost my mother. Shortly after, I saw an ad in the papers advertising for young women to go West with a local touring group of actors. At least, that was what the manager in charge called us at first. Later, in the cow towns of Kansas, he called us something else. The fact is, we were called lots of things other than what we were.” She gave Cole a weak smile, the pain still there, buried deep, trying to rise to the surface. “The names men have for their whores,” she said with a toss of her head. “Chippies, Cyprians, doxies, bawds, brides of the multitudes.”

  “And fallen angels,” Cole said.

  Her gaze revealed something tender. “Yes, and fallen angels, lest we forget. Clever names to hide the truth. Do you think it is easer, John Henry, that men call us those names in order to justify their own lust?”

  “Maybe so, Liddy,” Cole answered, remembering what Doc Holliday had said about truth. “How was he able to find you here?”

  “Purely by accident, as far as I know. I had arrived in Deadwood only a few weeks before Winston. I couldn’t believe it when I ran into him. He wanted to start up with me again. I told him I would die first.” Liddy hesitated, the emotion of it cutting off her words.

  “But still you saw him again,” Cole said. “That’s the part I don’t understand.”

  She took a deep breath. “I have a daughter,” she said. “She is back East, attending a Boston finishing school. She is Winston’s daughter, a result of his raping me. I did everything within my power to keep her protected, to keep her from finding out the truth of her birthright.” Her hair shone rich and red under the blades of sunlight piercing through the tops of the trees. “Winston somehow learned of her. He threatened that, if I did not see him again, he would go to her and tell her the truth about me. His version of the truth, whatever that was.”

  “Why would a man do that to his own daughter?” Cole asked.

  “Because he enjoys his own madness.”

  “So you gave in to him?”

  “What choice did I have? Even if I had left Deadwood, he could still find me, or find our daughter and tell her whatever lies he wanted to.” Liddy paused. “Her name is Angelique.”

  “Like in angel.”

  “Yes, like in angel.”

  “So to hide the truth from me, you made it sound like he was just someone in your life when the subject came up between us that night?”

  “Yes, and I would do it over again if it was to protect my daughter. I would tell whatever lies I had to, do whatever it took, to protect her.”

  “And you never suspected that Stevens might be behind the killings?”

  “No. I knew he was after me, that he wanted me, to control me, to keep me for his own private sickness. But I never suspected he had anything to do with the murders. Did he confess them to you?”

  “No, Leo did.”

  “You have them both?” she asked.

  “Leo’s dead. I’m taking Stevens back to Cheyenne to stand trial. If the law doesn’t hang him, I will.”

  “Then that’s the end of it,” she said.

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “What about us? Have you thought about us, John Henry?”

  “I have, Liddy. I’ve thought about us a lot.”

  “And what did you conclude?”

  “I figure you knew from the beginning that Stevens was behind the killings, Stevens, Leo Loop, and Johnny Logan. You couldn’t kill them yourself, so you did the next best thing. You wrote to Ike, asking for his help, and then, to hedge your bet, you offered a reward, enough money to attract men like King Fisher and Kip Caine. Ike, or all of them combined, would even the score and set you free. You never really cared about those murdered women. You wanted Stevens out of the way, and, if it meant that Ike or any of the others got killed, eventually one of them would get Stevens, no matter how many guns he had around him. It was a long-shot gamble, but it paid off for you. In that set-up, where do you figure I fit in? So, what about us? Nothing about us. The job’s done and Stevens will no doubt be hanged, if not for killing the women, then for murdering a deputy U.S. marshal in the performance of his duty. I was there. I saw him do it. I heard Miguel Torres’s last words. I even know why Miguel had to bring Stevens in. I have some memories I need to put to rest before I can move on. I’m afraid you’re one of them.”

  “I see,” she said. “But might there still be a chance for us later, when you’ve forgotten about those things?”

  “Yeah, maybe, but why? I did the job you wanted done.”

  “I’d like to believe that there’s some chance, John Henry.”

  “Well, I’m catching the morning stage to Cheyenne. Maybe you could lend me the money for a pair of tickets.”

  She nodded. “It’s the least I could do.”

  “Another thing. You now know that Miguel Torres was murdered in the shoot-out we had with Stevens and Charley Coffey. I told the undertaker I’d come by before I left town and take care of Miguel’s bill.”

  “I’ll see to it,” she said.

  “You think you’ll stay here in Deadwood now?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking of perhaps going to Boston and see Angelique and maybe find something there . . . teaching, maybe. I’ve always thought it would be a worthwhile vocation, teaching.”

  “The pay’s not so good.”

  “Oh, I’ve a little saved,” she said, a slight smile curving her mouth. “Which brings me to the matter of the reward money. You’ve earned it.”

  “Just the stage tickets,” Cole said, “and Miguel’s funeral expenses. The rest you can send to Ike directly.”

  “Can I ask a kiss of you one last time before you go?”

  “I’d be damned disappointed if you didn’t.”

  It was for Cole warm and gentle, the way she kissed him, but it was also a sad kiss as well, and it would stay with him for the entire ride back to Cheyenne and for a long time after that.

  Before Cole left, he asked Rose what her plans were. She said Miss Lydia had asked her and Jazzy Sue to go to Boston with her.

  “You ever been to Boston?” Cole asked.

  “No, Mister Cole, I haven’t,” she replied. “Do you think I should go?”

  “I think you’d like it,” Cole said, “but I’m not sure Liddy would be a good influence on you, teach you what you will really need to know. If it doesn’t work out for you, just you remember you can always get hold of me through the Ike Kelly Detective Agency in Cheyenne.”

  “Me and Jazzy Sue have become the best of friends,” Rose said, “and, despite what you say, Liddy is nearly like a mother to me.”

  Cole kissed her on the top of the head. She said: “That ain’t hardly a kiss at all.” So he kissed her lightly on the lips, and said: “That’s all the kiss you’ll get from me.” She smiled, and hugged him.

  Chapter Forty-One

  They all rode back to town together, and the three women left John Henry Cole at his hotel. The desk clerk was waiting for him.

  “All the shooting going on,” he said, “I nearly rented out your room, thinking maybe you’d fallen victim to the violence.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  His mouth broke open until his purple gums showed above his stained teeth. “Hell, so many of my tenants have dropped like flies lately, I’m having trouble filling the vacancies as it is.”

  “Well, you’ll have one more come the morning. I’m catching the stage out.”

  “Aw, hell,”
he said.

  Cole decided that he would spend his last night in Deadwood in a tub of hot, clean water. He found a bathhouse three doors down from the hotel and ordered a bath. He sank down in the tub, remembering how good it felt and how long it seemed since he’d last had the pleasure of hot water and a bottle of mash whiskey and the peace of being alone.

  In the morning, he would be taking Stevens back to Cheyenne. He’d told Toole to have him at the stage depot early and in chains. Cole didn’t mind everyone seeing what a rich man looked like in chains. He was a murderer and all his money wasn’t going to change that.

  It felt good, the bath and whiskey and the rest of it, and knowing he’d survived and broken the case. “Here’s to you, Francisco Guzman, wherever your damn’ soul is hanging out these days!” he said, lifting a glass to an old friend and an old enemy who in spite of everything he missed just a little. Francisco had kept a little spice in things when he was alive. Men like Francisco Guzman were disappearing fast, and the frontier was going to be a lot less interesting without them. “And to your cousins, who honored you by following you to the grave,” he added, taking another pull of the bottle. “Brave damn’ men, and honorable ones . . .”

  “Jesus, Jack, ya’ve gone to talkin’ to yarself!”

  Cole didn’t want to believe it, but there she stood. “Calamity,” he said. “How’d you find me here?”

  “Aw, hell, hon, I’d be able to find ya in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  For once she wasn’t drunk or indecent. She had on clean clothes, and Cole couldn’t swear to it, but it looked like she’d taken some care in washing and fixing her hair as well. “If you came for a loan, Jane, you caught me at the wrong time.”

  She slid a chair over, turned it around, and sat down on it. “Didn’t come fer no loan, Jack.”

  “A drink?”

  She looked at the bottle. “Well, maybe just a little one,” she said, holding her thumb and forefinger apart a couple of inches.

  “Help yourself.”

  She took a swallow, then set the bottle back down again.

  “You’ve changed,” Cole observed.

  She smiled. “Time to get on with my life, Jack. I’ve mourned Bill long enough. Let the dead rest in peace, that’s what I say.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “Going to Denver,” she said. “I met me a drummer and he wants to take me to Denver and asked me to be his loving wife.”

  “You agreed to that?”

  “Not yet I ain’t. I’ll have to see how it washes out, me and him, first. Give it a few weeks, ya know.”

  “You look happy,” Cole said. “Maybe it’s the right thing, going to Denver with your drummer friend.”

  “Ya know the best thing about him, Jack?”

  “No.”

  “He calls me Martha. Says it’s a lot prettier than Jane. Ya know how I like to be called Martha.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Damned if it don’t.”

  She sat there with a pleased look on her face and didn’t say any more until Cole told her that the water was getting cold.

  “Well, ya better get out of there before ya catch pneumonia, then,” she said.

  “What, with you in the room?”

  She grinned sheepishly. “Don’t hurt to try, does it?”

  “Good luck with your drummer, Martha.”

  “See ya around, Jack.” She stood and walked in that stiff way she had, closing the door behind her.

  Cole hoped the drummer and Denver would be kind to her. He’d lied to her about the water growing cold. He had just wanted a little more time to himself and a chance to finish the bottle. He thought of the long ride back to Cheyenne and meeting Ike, and what he was going to tell him when he got back. He thought of Liddy, what they had shared with each other, and what they had talked about in their last conversation.

  He felt he owed Ike his friendship, just as he owed Liddy her private pain. He thought about it for a long time, until the water did grow cold and the bottle rang on empty. Then he knew what he was going to tell Ike, next to nothing about Deadwood, but he would tell him why Frank Straw had been wearing a dress the day he’d brought him back to Cheyenne in the rain.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Bill Brooks is the author of twenty-three novels of historical and frontier fiction. After a lifetime of working a variety of jobs, from shoe salesman to shipyard worker, Brooks entered the health-care profession where he was in management for sixteen years before turning to his first love—writing. Once he decided to turn his attention to becoming a published writer, Brooks worked several more odd jobs to sustain himself, including wildlife tour guide in Sedona, Arizona, where he lived and became even more enamored with the West of his childhood heroes, Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. Brooks wrote a string of frontier fiction novels, beginning with The Badmen (1992) and Buscadero (1993), before he attempted something more lyrical and literary in the critically acclaimed: The Stone Garden: The Epic Life of Billy the Kid (2002). This was followed in succession by Pretty Boy: The Epic Life of Pretty Boy Floyd (2003) and Bonnie & Clyde: A Love Story (2005). The Stone Garden was named by Booklist as one of the top ten Westerns of the decade. After that trio of novels, Brooks was asked to return to frontier fiction by an editor who had moved to a new publisher and he wrote in succession three series for them, beginning with Law For Hire (2003), then, Dakota Lawman (2005), and finishing up with The Journey of Jim Glass (2007). The Messenger (Five Star, 2009) was Brooks’s twenty-second novel. He now lives in northeast Indiana.