Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  “Why wouldn’t he? Jean-Jacques is an employee. He was wounded, protecting the stage, its passengers and its entrusted valuables.” Lockhart’s explanation was straightforward.

  The doctor, however, wasn’t certain what to think of the comment or the man beside him. Was the stranger goading him?

  “Come on, man, he’s colored,” Dr. Ainspeace countered. “That’s not the same as white Christian employees—and you know it.”

  Lockhart studied the physician without speaking as he neared the stage-line office door.

  Wiping his brow with his fingertips, Dr. Ainspeace let his voice soften, almost purr. “Of course, I have no problem with that personally. Others do. Not me. I am a doctor of medicine.”

  “Figured that,” Lockhart said and opened the door to let him enter.

  Inside, the main room was split roughly into two equal sections by a low railing. Half was a small waiting area with five chairs, a scratched table with a soot-covered lamp, a black stove with an empty coal scuttle resting on top, and a posted schedule controlling the south wall. The other half of the room was a cramped ticket-purchasing section. A high-backed, rolltop desk was the only furniture in this area and the only thing that would fit there. Another lamp rested on its flat ridge-top and the writing portion itself was cluttered with stacks of papers. No one was in either part of the main room.

  Motioning toward a rear door, Lockhart laid down his gear, sawed-off shotgun and rifle, and led Ainspeace through to a second room of six bunks and a lone washbasin with a cracked mirror precariously attached to the wall above it. In the far corner, a larger stove was quietly belching heat. Beside it, on the floor, were a coal scuttle and a tin shovel.

  Only two beds were occupied. Anton Norborg was in the closest, snoring. The magnificent sounds befitting his enlarged nostrils. In the far corner, Beezah lay on another. A gray silhouette hovered over his bed. The silhouette looked up as Lockhart and Ainspeace entered. In his hands were a cup and a spoon.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Lockhart. It’s you. Good. Good,” Ellison said eagerly. “Just finished giving him a little broth. A little broth. Got it from Wagner’s. Across the street. Just across the street. Wagner’s.”

  Walking closer, Lockhart asked, “How did he do?”

  Repeating himself frequently, Ellison explained the wounded guard had taken about half of it, but was sleeping again now. The manager planned to give him some more after letting him rest. He was proud of his effort, hoping it would be enough to satisfy this unusual stranger. Norborg had told him enough to know Lockhart was not a man to trifle with.

  “How about Mawhu? Has she?” Lockhart said.

  Pleased with himself and the question, Ellison said, “Yes. Yes. Half of the cream is gone. See? Half is gone.”

  “Good.”

  Ellison turned toward the doctor and greeted him eagerly, “Evening, Dr. Ainspeace. Evening to you. Came to see our patient? Came to see him, right? Our patient.”

  The doctor’s answer was to step closer, carefully avoiding the sleeping cat next to the bed. He saw Beezah’s folded coat, pistol belt with one holstered revolver, and his Henry rifle laying beside it. He opened his heavy leather satchel and withdrew a stethoscope. Settling himself on the side of the bed, he noticed Beezah had a revolver in his hand.

  “Does he need this?” Dr. Ainspeace pointed at the gun with his stethoscope.

  “Yes, he does. It makes him comfortable,” Lockhart said.

  “I can think of a lot of better things for comfort.”

  “Probably so. But you didn’t face a gang of armed highwaymen trying to kill you, did you, Doctor?”

  Hesitantly, the doctor resumed his examination. As he touched the end of the listening device to Beezah’s bare chest, the stagecoach guard sat up with the revolver pointed straight ahead.

  “What the…?” Dr. Ainspeace exclaimed, jumping off the bed.

  “It’s all right, Jean-Jacques,” Lockhart said calmly. “It’s me, Vin Lockhart. It’s all right. You are safe. It’s all right.” He eased past the frightened physician, next to the head of the bed, and put his hand on Beezah’s left shoulder. “Beezah, Mawhu is right here, too. She is asleep. She has a broken leg and bruised ribs. Like you, she has been treated. Like you, she will be well again.”

  “Do you want some more broth? Some more broth?” Ellison asked, his right eye straying toward the wall.

  Beezah’s ebony face was drawn and pale as it slowly took on a smile. He looked down at his gun hand, chuckled and lowered the weapon until it rested against the bed’s blankets. He stared at Lockhart and said, “Well, Governor, did you stop them? I wasn’t much help. Where am I?”

  “You got two of them—and the rest surrendered pretty fast after that,” Lockhart explained and told about the incognito marshal and Pinkerton agent, and the fact that Beezah was resting in the stage-line station’s back room in Cheyenne, being cared for by the manager, and repeated that his cat was resting beside his cot.

  “I should’ve listened to you, Governor, and checked out those miners more carefully,” Beezah said. “Did you say I was in the stage office? The bunk room?” He glanced down at the blanket around him. “I’ve got to get out of here, Governor. I can’t be in here, you know that.”

  Lockhart’s gentle hand on Beezah’s shoulder stopped his attempted rise. “No, Beezah, you’re supposed to be here. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ellison?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Supposed to be here. Supposed to be here.”

  “Lie down now, Beezah. Relax. The doctor’s here to check out your wounds.” Lockhart motioned for Dr. Ainspeace to resume his examination.

  As the annoyed physician stepped forward, Beezah held up his left fist and opened it to reveal the two stones. “Plenty of healing spirit I already have. Right here. They sing to me, songs of healing.”

  Looking from the stones to Lockhart to Ellison, the physician said, “Ah yes, of course. That’s…ah, real good.”

  Beezah’s smile widened. “Governor, I don’t think he believes in our stone songs.”

  After the examination was completed, Dr. Ainspeace gave Ellison an amber-colored bottle of dark liquid and told him to give Beezah a spoonful twice a day until the medicine was gone. It was a stimulant for the entire body, he said. The doctor seemed impressed by the treatment of the man’s wounds, and especially, the removal of the bullets.

  “Smells like cod-liver oil. Cod-liver oil. Yes, it does,” Ellison said, sniffing the uncorked bottle.

  “It is. That will be seventy-five cents,” Dr. Ainspeace announced. “Twenty-five cents for the medicine. Fifty for the…examination.”

  Ellison fished in his vest pocket, retrieved some coins and handed them to the doctor. Ainspeace’s demeanor was changing, from mere annoyance to full disgust.

  “Where are the rest of your employees, Ellison?” The question carried an understanding of the answer.

  The slick-haired manager looked like he had swallowed something rotten. Using his good left eye, he glanced at Lockhart who was saying good-bye to a reclining Beezah.

  “Ah, eating supper. Eating supper. Or sleeping. No stage in ’til morning. Not ’til morning.”

  “Thought they slept here when they’re on duty,” Dr. Ainspeace challenged.

  “Well, yes. Yes. Drivers. Ah, drivers.” He pointed toward the sleeping Norborg while watching Lockhart out of the corner of his eye. “Billy Taws is over at the hotel now. Billy Taws. He’ll take the reins in the morning. In the morning. To Salt Lake. Salt Lake is where he’s headed. Anton Norborg takes the reins back to Denver this afternoon. Denver, it is.”

  “Didn’t want to sleep here, did they?” the physician fumed. “No wonder. What about your stock tenders? Where are they? In the hotel, too, I imagine. Did you make them pay for their rooms? Or did the company pay? Costly move.” He straightened his back like a snake about to strike. “Who are you going to bring in here next? An Irishman? A Chinese pagan? A painted redskin?”

  Lockhart patted Beezah on th
e shoulder and joined them. His face was unreadable.

  “I think he’ll be up and around in no time. Up and around in no time. Don’t you, Mr. Lockhart?” Ellison said, hoping the fearsome stranger hadn’t heard the doctor’s comments.

  Finding courage, Dr. Ainspeace turned toward Lockhart. “Sir, I find your manner most distressing. You have forced this good man—and his employees—into an untenable and costly position by insisting on housing…a Negro of all things. My God, man, don’t you know the way of civilized society? A black man sleeping in a white man’s bed! They don’t belong there, even if the whites are mucking out stables.” He folded his arms and his eyebrows pinched together in a hateful frown.

  Cocking his head to the side, Lockhart imitated the folded arms motion. “Doctor, you scurry on, back to your drugstore. You aren’t worth my anger—and I don’t want your kind smelling up this place of honor any longer than necessary.”

  His glare was more than the physician could handle and Dr. Ainspeace lowered his eyes to wipe at his trousers.

  Ellison put his hand over his mouth to hold in the gasp that wanted out, lowered it and added, “I’ve got cod-liver oil. You can take this with you.” He held out the amber bottle.

  Dr. Ainspeace grabbed it and reached into his pocket for Ellison’s repayment.

  “Keep it. Yes, keep it. I don’t want your money. Your money,” Ellison said, raising his chin defiantly. “Beezah is an upstanding employee of our stage line. A hero. I agree you need to leave.”

  With an exaggerated harrumph, Dr. Ainspeace spun around and walked toward the door. As he passed Norborg’s bed, the big Swede grunted and raised his head off the pillow.

  “God afton, Doc. Du not be komma here no more. We vill take care of our own.” Norborg’s sleep-heavy eyes burned with fury.

  Dr. Ainspeace paused momentarily, snorted his disgust, and continued out the door. Norborg watched him leave, patted his pillow into a more favorable shape, laid his head down again and was snoring loudly within thirty seconds.

  As Lockhart turned to express his gratitude to Ellison for his strong response to the doctor, U. S. Deputy Marshal John Hogan came into the sleeping room, carrying a doublebarreled shotgun.

  “What did you boys do to that fella with the satchel?” Marshal Hogan asked with a wry smile. “He looked like someone had made him eat a cow pie.”

  Lockhart explained and Hogan said, “We thank you, Mr. Ellison, for your courtesy to Beezah. He saved lives—and valuable property. Put his own life on the line. Color doesn’t have anything to do with courage.”

  With the shotgun at his side, held casually in his right fist, he turned back to Lockhart. “I see you didn’t wait for our help. Somehow, I didn’t think you would. Left Agent

  Buenstahl standing guard at the jail. Didn’t think he would be needed—and the local law was a bit overwhelmed with our load of prisoners.”

  “Well, Mr. Ellison insisted on taking care of his brave employee in the bunk room,” Lockhart said. “So he and Anton and I moved Beezah here.”

  “How’s he doing?” Hogan asked, looking past them to Beezah’s bed and cradling the shotgun in his arms.

  Lockhart smiled. “He’ll be back, good as ever.”

  “You bet. Good as ever,” Ellison supported. “You bet. Good as ever. In a little while. Just a little while.” He wiped his forehead quickly with his fingers, hoping no one saw the sweat beads building. “Beezah is a hero. A hero, yes.” He said it like he believed it, even more forcefully than before.

  “There’s a reward for bringing the gang to justice,” Hogan said, nodding agreement. “From your own company, Mr. Ellison, and the bank. A thousand dollars. We figured to split it between Mr. Lockhart and Beezah. Even though he is an employee of the stage line.”

  Lockhart stared at Hogan, then pulled on his hat brim. Tiredness was creeping into his body. “There’s going to be extra expense for Noah…Mr. Ellison…in caring for him, give my half to Ellison—to take care of that. Or if that’s awkward for the company, give it to me and I’ll give it to him.”

  Ellison beamed and, for once, was silent.

  Hogan invited them to have some supper and celebrate the day’s victory. Lockhart liked the idea; Ellison was pleased to be included.

  “Looks like I’m going to be here in Cheyenne for awhile,” Marshal Hogan explained as they headed for the door. “My boss wants me here for the trial. Got orders an hour ago. Just as soon as we wired the results.” He paused and added, “Roger’s supposed to return to Chicago. By train. Tomorrow or the next day. Soon as possible, anyway.”

  He opened the door, stepped out into the front room, stopped and looked back. “Come to think of it, we’re going to need your testimony, too, Lockhart.” He smiled. “Since you’re still legally a deputy, I was hoping to talk you into helping stand guard, too.” He pointed toward Lockhart’s gear against the wall. “These your things out here, Lockhart?”

  “Yeah, haven’t had time to check into a hotel. I’ll do that after we eat,” Lockhart said. “I also need to take Beezah’s clothes to the laundry. Maybe they can get the bloodstains out.”

  “Leave them here, Mr. Lockhart,” Ellison asserted. “I will talk with Chou Wung about them. Tomorrow.” He paused, feeling quite proud. “He does our company laundry. Down the street.”

  “That’s great. Proably won’t come clean, though.”

  “Chou Wung is quite good at getting out things like that. He is a real magician,” Ellison said.

  “We can eat and get you registered at the hotel at the same time. Roger and I are staying at the Rollins House. If it sounds okay to you, you can check-in there. Got a huge restaurant there.” Hogan stepped over to Lockhart’s gear, shifted his own shotgun to his left hand and held up the quiver holding the sawed-off shotgun with his right. “This looks like it would be mighty handy—in case of a jail break.” His smile cut across his face.

  Standing in the doorway, Lockhart asked, “How long— until the judge gets here?”

  “Oh, the circuit judge should be here in a week. Maybe sooner.”

  “I’ll stand guard some tomorrow, got to buy supplies and horses; then I’m riding north. Got friends to catch up with,” Lockhart suggested. “How about I write my testimony.”

  “That’s fine. Roger’s writing his. That much hurry sounds like gold,” Marshal Hogan said with a smile. “Didn’t take you for a prospector.”

  “I’m not. Already did that,” Lockhart said. “This is about horses. That reminds me. Hey, Anton, we’re going to get some supper. You want to join us?”

  Norborg’s snore stopped in mid-snort. In one motion, the big Swede raised his head, threw back the blanket and jumped out of bed.

  Everybody laughed.

  “My goodness. My goodness sake!” Ellison exclaimed. “I’ve never seen Anton move so fast. So fast.” He chuckled and shook his head. It felt good to be in the company of men like Vin Lockhart and Marshal John Hogan. The lawman added that they had received signed testimonies from most of the passengers; those who couldn’t write had placed their marks The plantation-hatted businessman had included a comment about the delay costing him considerable loss of time and money.

  As Hogan grabbed Lockhart’s saddlebags along with the quivered weapon, he said, “Almost forgot. The mesmerist— Woodsmeier, Jefferson, Milens, what ever his name is—asked to see you. Said it was something about a young Indian woman. Said she wanted to talk with you.” He stood up straight, cradling the bags and quiver along with his own shotgun. “Mean anything to you?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Early morning found Vin Lockhart sitting in the Cheyenne sheriff’s chair behind a wobbly desk laden with papers and posters. Everything was quiet in the cramped office and jail, except for the snoring of the cells’ occupants and the gurgling of the coffeepot on the grumpy potbellied stove.

  Sipping hot, strong coffee in a chipped mug, he shifted the sawed-off shotgun in his lap with his free hand and left it resting on the trigg
er guard. He had relieved Marshal Hogan before seven and agreed to stand watch until noon. Gone were his business clothes, replaced by the attire of a plainsman. His gray trousers were tucked into knee-length boots with a beaded trim. A herringbone vest was unbuttoned, holding his watch in one of the pockets. At his neck was the choker necklace of white elk-bone and sky blue stones his late Indian wife had presented him as a wedding gift. He had left it at the Ghost-Keeping Lodge of Young Evening when he rode away from the tribe. Four chosen warriors had presented it, along with other tributes, when they sought his help a year ago.

  His Smith & Wesson revolver was now carried in an open-top holster and gunbelt at his waist. Handle forward. Left side. From the other side of his gunbelt hung a war knife in a beaded sheath. A gift from Touches-Horses last year. Across his right shoulder lay the shotgun’s empty quiver; the strap ammunition loops were filled with fresh shotgun shells. The weapon could be drawn with either hand.

  He pushed back the brim of his sweat-tested Stetson and continued to savor the coffee. It was freshly brewed, thanks to Hogan. Breakfast had been swift at the hotel restaurant; some ham, fried potatoes, biscuits and coffee. Sleep, though, had been mostly good with only a brief, fitful nightmare. His unconscious mind had twisted his days as an Oglala warrior into a strange concoction of memory, fantasy and distress, then into a repeat of his dream about Young Evening, Morning Bird and the Ghost Road, induced by Dr. Milens at his house seance. Awakening in a full sweat, he had immediately arose, then washed and dressed. A weary Hogan was glad to see him come early; they talked for a few minutes and the marshal left.

  Four of the six cells, strung along the back side of the small, dreary building, were occupied by Dr. Milens, Nolan Gleason, Frank Diede and Old Man Grinshaw. The two remaining cells were empty because the women assistants had been moved to a locked hotel room, guarded by local deputies. A move recommended by Sheriff Crandall to accommodate the women’s special needs. Marshal Hogan didn’t think the court would be hard on them; he planned on charging them with conspiracy to defraud, but not involvement in the holdups. Actually, the deputies were already suggesting the women were innocent of any wrongdoing, asserting they believed the women didn’t realize Dr. Milens was a crook. Hogan didn’t buy that, but was willing to be lenient, if the assistants testified against their boss.