by Cotton Smith
As they left, Ellison spotted Lockhart. “You, sir, I’d like to offer you a job as a stage guard. Stage guard, it is. I’ll pay a hundred a week. A hundred a week, sir.”
Lockhart tried to hold back a grin. Norborg whispered something to Ellison and the manager’s face turned crimson; his right eye danced to the side and back. The Swedish driver moved to his horses and began unhitching them and the new driver slid over to help.
“Oh, Mr. Lockhart, forgive me. Forgive me, sir. Oh, I-I didn’t know who…”
“I’m not interested, but your offer was generous,” Lockhart interrupted. “You must believe in taking care of your guards.”
“Our guards. Our drivers. Everybody who works for us. Yes sir, everybody who works for us,” Ellison chirped, waving his arms to make a circle. “Our people have made us successful. Successful. Yes, they have. Our people.”
Lockhart pushed his hat back from his forehead. “I thought so. You’ll be paying for your wounded guard’s stay in a hotel, I take it. Until he’s well. Again.” His right hand motioned toward the top of the coach.
“What? But…he’s a colored man! A colored man. Surely, surely, you don’t expect me. You don’t expect me to do that. Not that. Surely.”
Lockhart’s eyes cut into Ellison’s face. The manager licked his lower lip, shuffled his feet, examined them, then looked up again. Lockhart hadn’t moved; his stare was hot.
“I can’t do that. Can’t. Can’t do that.”
“Mr. Ellison, when Marshal Hogan returns, we’re taking Beezah to that hotel across the street,” Lockhart said. “You’re going to help us. So’s Anton.”
“B-But the hotel won’t let him stay. Won’t let him. No, they won’t.”
Lockhart put his forefinger to his mouth to quiet the man.
Ellison glanced around as if expecting someone to suddenly appear to assist in this discussion with a dangerous man. His eyes glimmered with an idea.
“Ah, we have bunks. Inside. Bunks inside. In the back. In the back, yes. They’re for employees. Employees.” Ellison motioned toward the office and wished his hand would stop shaking. “How about there…instead? How about there…instead, Mr. Lockhart? Sir.”
Lockhart nodded. “That will do just fine. Better even. Beezah will be there for several months, I imagine. So will his cat. It was hurt, too, by the men trying to hold up your stage.”
Ellison looked like he was going to vomit.
Lockhart stepped closer. “If you—and some of your workers—want to help, we can bring Beezah inside now. So you can have room for more passengers up there.”
Ellison gulped and stuttered an affirmation, then started for the office. Lockhart’s continued response stopped him.
“Beezah’s going to need care. Soup for now. Water. A little whiskey,” Lockhart explained. “Same with his cat. No whiskey, though. Some cream would be nice.” He smiled briefly. “I’ll get the doctor to come over.”
“I don’t think Dr. Ainspeace will, uh, see Negroes. No sir, Dr. Ainspeace, not Negroes. He won’t see them.”
“I think he will.”
“But…”
“Understand this, Ellison.” Lockhart’s voice had an ominous edge to it. “You’re going to take care of him—and his cat. I’m leaving Cheyenne for a few weeks, but I’ll be back.” He tugged on his hat brim to return it to its regular position, letting shadow cover his narrowed eyes. “I’ll hold you responsible if anything happens to either of them. You understand?”
“Y-Yes. Y-Yes, I do. I do understand. Yes.” Ellison blinked back tears forming at the corners of his eyes and continued heading inside, ignoring the growing wet stain in the middle of his trousers.
A half hour later, Beezah was resting comfortably in the farthest bunk and Mawhu was sleeping on a pillow, lying on the floor beside the bed. A saucer of cream waited nearby. In spite of Ellison’s dislike of the idea, Lockhart left the gun in Beezah’s hand. Beezah’s hat, gunbelt, with the holstered second revolver, and rifle, and other gear were shoved under the bunk. So was the derringer removed from his coat pocket. His bloody clothes were folded; Lockhart thought he would try to find a laundry and see if they were cleanable. He doubted it, but it was worth trying.
Satisfied, Lockhart stepped outside. His own things waited on the sidewalk. A team of fresh mules was harnessed and ready.
“Du need help, Herr Lockhart?” Norborg came from the front of the coach, where he had been talking with the new driver.
“No thanks, Anton. Take care of yourself.” Lockhart held out his hand.
“Ja. The same to du.” Norborg shook his hand eagerly and said he would return Dr. Milens’s envelope with the money to the Wilcoxes on his return trip to Denver.
After thanking him, Lockhart slipped the shotgun-holding quiver onto his shoulder over his suit coat, followed by his filled saddlebags. Taking his rifle and two canteens in his left hand, he started across the street. Dr. Ainspeace’s drugstore and office was a half block away, according to Ellison.
Like most once-an-end-of-the-track towns, Cheyenne had survived its overnight tent-city status and become a mixture of structures, many shabby and unpainted, some of adobe and logs, a few of brick and fine appointments, some of packing boxes and building paper and flattened tin cans for roofing, and a few more of finely trimmed gables and white fences. Besides two hotels, two churches, two newspapers and twenty or so saloons, there were three banks and a one-story, white-framed house for the territorial governor. No capitol building, however; the state legislature rented several rooms for their meeting purposes. Cows and hogs meandered along the streets, as well as dogs. Vacant lots were gathering places for empty bottles, rusting cans and rotten lumber. Yet the railroad had brought new profits and the year-old military bridge over the North Platte at Fort Laramie made the town a major jumping point for the gold in the Black Hills, vying with Sidney, Sioux City and Yank-ton for the honor.
“Mr. Lockhart! Mr. Lockhart!”
The Denver businessman with the gunfighter reputation looked toward the salutation. Hurrying toward him was a young clerk holding a folded piece of paper. Lockhart completed his crossing, stepped up onto the planked sidewalk and waited.
The pimply-faced youngster with a dirty white shirt and green armbands swallowed his haste and said, “Telegram for you, sir. Marshal Hogan told me you would be at the stage office.”
“Thank you, son.” Lockhart laid his rifle and canteens on the sidewalk and handed the clerk a coin.
Happy with himself, the young man excused himself and trotted away, retracing his earlier path.
Unfolding the message, Lockhart noted it was from his partner and smiled. So like Crawfish.
“ALL IS WELL HERE STOP SEAN WANTS YOU TO KNOW MAGIC LIKES THE MARES STOP KOLA IS DOING FINE STOP DR MILENS GOT A THOUSAND DOLLARS FROM MRS WILCOX STOP HE WILL BE ARRESTED IN CHEYENNE AND HELD STOP WIRE WHEN YOU CAN STOP CHANDELIER ARRIVED STOP YOUR FRIEND CRAWFISH P S NEWTON SAYS HI”
He looked up as a freight wagon rumbled past in the street, followed by a man on a bicycle. His mind raced to watching the Irish lad riding the big war horse, then wandered onto Touches-Horses, Stone-Dreamer and Morning Bird. Would he find them? Safe? His gaze took in the retreating messenger and he called after him.
“Where is the telegraph office, son?”
“Around the corner, sir.” The boy stopped and pointed. “Big sign out front. Telegraph office. It’s in McGinnis’s store there. You know, lumber and coal. Building material. His sign’s there, too.”
“Thanks.”
He watched the boy run ahead, guessing the youngster would make a stop at the general store to use some of his just-acquired money for a stick of candy. Shoving the refolded note into his pocket, he picked up his rifle and canteens and headed in the indicated direction. Falling Leaf came to his thoughts and he wondered if she was doing well. Crawfish hadn’t mentioned her. Was that a good sign or a bad one?
His telegram to Crawfish and Sean covered several subjects quick
ly: his safe arrival; the arrest of Dr. Milens and his holdup gang; the guard Beezah being shot, the U. S. Marshal and Pinkerton agent being onboard and making the arrests; the coming return of the Wilcox money; and asking about Falling Leaf. Satisfied, he set out on his original task to bring a doctor to Beezah. An argument was expected from the physician and he kept reminding himself that getting angry wouldn’t help matters.
There wasn’t much this Dr. Ainspeace could do, or at least he didn’t think there was. Marshal Hogan and he had managed to remove the embedded bullets without complications. Yet, Beezah deserved the attention of a real doctor. He stepped off the end of the sidewalk into the alley opening between the resuming sidewalk. Halfway back in the shadows, a magpie was pecking on something red and raw. Lockhart stopped.
The black-and-white bird stared at him, flapped its iridescent wings and flew away crying its annoyance. Chug. Chug. Chug. Chug. As it passed, the dark color seemed to change from a greenish bronze to a purplish hue and back again.
A magpie in town was not that common, he thought. Perhaps it had come to bring a message from Yata, the North Wind. From the north. Probably where Crazy Horse was camped now. Were his friends with him? He followed the flight of the dark bird, wishing it would return. How silly, he thought to himself and glanced down at his watch chain with its missing red pebble charm.
His mind returned to the devastated camp after the Shoshoni war party attacked while he and his fellow warriors were away hunting. His adoptive father had told him prior to their leaving that the tunkan had whispered something bad was coming from the north. Yes, it had been the stones that told him, not the sometimes irresponsible magpie.
The whispering had come when he poured sacred water on the stones as part of his daily ritual. The holy man had misread the warning as an alert about an early winter storm, not an attack on the village. Misinterpreting messages from the spirit world happened.
Or sometimes, the messenger got it wrong. Like the magpie. Or the meadowlark from Okaga, the South Wind. They could get things mixed up. It was rarer, though, with the sacred stones. It was the listener who misunderstood, not the tunkan. They were the first people and had sung to knowing men since they created Mother Earth and the mysterious power, Taku Skan Skan, that flows unseen through everything in this world. However, their songs could be misunderstood. Even by the greatest of holy men. And had. His thoughts turned to the question: When the Indians were forced to the reservations, would the stones stop singing? Or would there simply be no one to listen?
He suddenly realized that he was kneeling in the alley, examining the many small pebbles strewn about in the dirt. His rifle and canteens lay beside him. His mind slid once more to an earlier time when he told Touches-Horses of his frustration at not hearing the stones sing, and his concern about disappointing Stone-Dreamer.
“But I do not hear the stones song. They did not come to my vision. They do not come to me in my lodge or in my dreams. I bring special stones into my lodge, but they do not speak to me as I prepare for war or ready myself for the hunt. I call out to them, but they do not answer. I know it has to hurt his soul. I know he has fasted and dreamed to receive understanding from the spirits.”
Touches-Horses responded evenly, “Few hear the stone songs, my brother. The panther is your spirit helper instead. That is a strong life-guide, and your deeds in war show it.”
“But I am…the son of Stone-Dreamer.”
“Did you lose something, mister?” The question from behind him snapped Lockhart from his daydream.
Still on his knees, he turned toward the tall questioner. Another man with a dark goatee, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and fringed leggings, was with him. He had never met either, but it was obvious who the tall questioner was, dressed in a black Prince Albert coat, brocaded vest, salt-and-pepper trousers, long boots with half-moon designed tops and a wide, flat-crowned hat over shoulder-length hair.
James Butler Hickok. Wild Bill. The two engraved, ivory-handled .38 Colt revolvers, butt-forward in a scarlet, embroidered silk sash.
Both men seemed genuinely interested in Lockhart’s behavior.
“Can we be of assistance?” Hickok asked. His voice soft.
Lockhart stood and brushed off his pants. His mind raced for a possible excuse to share. The truth would be difficult to explain. And sound silly. Yet, nothing in him was comfortable with a lie. His father, Stone-Dreamer, would never allow it. Lying was simply not the Oglala way.
“Well, thanks for asking,” Lockhart said. “It’ll sound strange, but I was looking for a special stone.”
“Gold?” The shorter man asked.
Nattily dressed in linen pants and a fringed buckskin coat to match his leggings, his outfit was completed with beaded moccasins, a huge belt buckle and two pearl-handled revolvers with gold-and-silver plating.
Lockhart shook his head, thinking the man was either a dandy desiring to look like a frontiersman—or one of the flashiest plainsmen he had ever met. He explained that a special pebble had been given to him by an Indian holy man and he, in turn, had given it away to a wounded friend. He was hoping to find one similar to replace it and held up his watch chain to show where it had hung.
“Oh, a good luck charm.” Hickok’s friend immediately knelt and began combing the loose rock with his fingers.
“That’s all right. It wasn’t important,” Lockhart said, embarrassed by the attention.
“Nonsense. All of us could use a little luck,” the shorter, handsome man said, his blue eyes studying a smallish black pebble. “How’d you come by this Indian rock?”
“That’s getting personal, Charlie,” Hickok said, holding his arms and smiling as he watched his friend scratch among the pebbles.
The stranger held up the pebble for Lockhart to examine and the Denver businessman accepted it. Should he try to explain that his rock was powerful because Stone-Dreamer had placed the sicum of Eyes-of-the-Wind, an ancient medicine man, within it? Should he say something about stones speaking to a fortunate few? That the stone had saved his life, protecting him during his great battle with the Shoshoni war party?
“Here, Bill. Here’s one for you.” The stranger handed a similar pebble to the tall gunfighter. “Sure not as lucky as one blessed by a medicine man, but it can’t hurt.”
“No thanks, Charlie. My luck’s just fine.”
“Suit yourself. Wonder if it’ll help bring the cards my way?” Charlie chuckled and shoved the pebble into his coat pocket and stood, brushing off his leggings.
“My names’s Hickok. Some folks call me Wild Bill. And worse. I answer to a lot of things.” Hickok held out his hand. “And my rock-searching friend here is Colorado Charlie Utter. He’s in the freighting business—and the pony express business—and anything else he can make money on.”
Lockhart shook Hickok’s hand, then Utter’s. “I’m Vin Lockhart from Denver.”
“Vin Lockhart from Denver. May I call you Vin?”
“I would like that.”
“Thanks. Say, Vin, did you just come in on the stage?” Utter asked. “That story true about a gang being caught?”
“Depends on the story, but a holdup gang was arrested and brought in for trial.”
“Got a feeling you were part of the reason for that,” Hickok said with a smile. “Say, Charlie and me are heading to Rowan’s. See if we can stir up a game. Want to join us?”
“Better count me out. Right now, I’ve got to find the doctor. For a friend.” Lockhart motioned in the direction he had been going. “He’s the one I gave the pebble to. Then a steak and a nice bed sound pretty good.”
Immediately, both men wanted to know about what had happened. Lockhart explained about Jean-Jacques Beezah, the two marshals, Dr. Milens and his gang’s attempted holdup.
“Nothing takes it out of you more than a stagecoach,” Hickok said. “Unless it’s a gunfight,” he surmised. “Well, we’ll probably be there tomorrow, too. Who knows? I might get rich right here in Cheyenne and not need to go
to Deadwood. Got a fine new wife waiting in Cincinnati. Figure she needs a nice house, you know.”
“Sounds like you are a lucky man,” Lockhart said.
“Thank you, Vin. I am. Yes, I really am.” Hickok nodded. “If you have any problem with the doc, come an’ get us.” Hickok grinned slowly. “Charlie here can be very persuasive.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The stage was gone when Lockhart returned with the reluctant doctor. Only a lone miner leaned against the building, drunk and mumbling to himself. He saw the two men approach and waved at them as if they were long-lost friends. He started to move toward them, stumbled and decided it was safer against the building.
Lockhart returned his greeting; the doctor did not. The miner nodded and returned to his mumbling as they passed.
Already in a bad mood, Dr. Ainspeace didn’t want to come, but there was something about this man beside him that disturbed him enough to come along. It wasn’t Lockhart’s words; they had been polite, yet compelling. Rather formal, as if the stranger had been educated in the East. A gentleman for certain. Yet there was something the doctor sensed about this man that warned him to be careful.
Maybe it was the unusual weapon carried by the stranger that signaled this was not a man to deny casually. The sawed-off shotgun in its quiver lay over Lockhart’s saddlebags on his shoulder. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Strong. Athletic. Wary. A rifle and two canteens were in his left hand, leaving his right hand free. A man used to trouble and trouble, to him.
Still, it annoyed him greatly to be asked to tend to a Negro, even if he was a stage-line employee. A hero of sorts, according to this stranger. What would the townspeople think if they knew? At least this stranger didn’t seem like the type who would go around talking about it. Dr. Ainspeace decided he would make an appearance, dispense some medicine and get out of there as quickly as possible.
“Did Mr. Ellison, the manager, approve this colored fella being here?” Dr. Ainspeace asked without glancing at Lockhart as they stepped onto the sidewalk.
