Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  “Well, well, good morning, Mr. Lockhart. I almost didn’t recognize you in that outfit. Are you going to war?” The voice was throaty with a forced cheerful manner.

  Dr. Milens stood in his cell; hands wrapped around the bars comprising the door. His suit coat was badly wrinkled and his shirt was streaked with dirt from his abrupt exit from the stagecoach. His bowler lay on his cot; a dent on the crown’s left side. Next to it was his untied cravat.

  Lockhart looked up. “Good morning. Breakfast will be along shortly.”

  A smirk rushed across the mesmerist’s face and vanished, but not before Lockhart noticed.

  “How come you’re here?” Dr. Milens asked.

  Lockhart didn’t answer, sipping his coffee. The other gang members were slowly awakening. The wounded Diede groaned and cursed; Old Man Grinshaw told him to shut up; Gleason chuckled. Dr. Milens frowned at the disruption and squeezed the bars with his hands as if they might crumble if he did it hard enough. His voice belied his concern.

  “Where’s Marshal Hogan? And that Pinkerton agent? How come they aren’t here?”

  “Getting some sleep.”

  Lockhart stood and walked toward the stove; his nearly empty cup in his left hand; his sawed-off shotgun in his right hand at his side. At the groaning stove, he placed the gun under his left upper arm to hold it against his chest, freeing his right. He poured the steaming liquid into the cup, placed the pot back and retrieved his gun.

  Dr. Milens watched him without speaking. Old Man Grinshaw had found an old newspaper left by the previous cell occupant and was reading it while sitting on his cot. Gleason was standing and looking out of the tiny, barred window at the back of his cell. Diede had laid back on his cot.

  “Hey, it says here that Will Bill Hickok’s in town. How ’bout that,” Grinshaw said, looking up from The Leader, getting no response. He added, “An’ Calamity Jane’s been arrested for grand larceny. Wonder why she’s not in here— with us?”

  Turning in the older man’s direction, Gleason declared, “You dumb ass, that’s a June eighth paper. She was let go awhile back. When I was in town last week, I heard she’d left for Fort Laramie.” His voice softened. “But I heard Hickok’s still in town. Him an’ Colorado Charley.”

  From his bed, Diede said, “Thought Hickok an’ Cody— and Texas Jack—were in some stage play back East.”

  Grinshaw rustled his paper authoritatively. “Talk about me bein’ behind. That was three years ago, Frank. Damn.”

  “Wonder if Hickok’s gonna join up with them army boys goin’ after all them Injuns. Up north,” Gleason said and motioned in that direction. “Heard Cody’s with ’em.”

  Lockhart listened without commenting. He was pretty certain the conversation wasn’t for his benefit. He sipped coffee and watched Milens without appearing to do so. There was more to the mesmerist’s questioning than mere curiosity, Lockhart guessed. The edge to Dr. Milens’s voice indicated worry and that could only mean one thing: a breakout was planned and scheduled to happen soon. It was easy to see Dr. Milens liked being in complete control, knowing all the angles, and right now he was troubled by Lockhart’s unexpected presence. Did it mean the plan was known and marshals were waiting outside? Or was it just happenstance?

  Lockhart was alert, but decided to act like he was relaxed. He kept his eyes on Milens’s hands. If they left the bars, he would expect a hidden gun.

  “Heard you wanted to see me, Milens,” Lockhart said. “What’s up? Got some ghosts with no place to visit?”

  Deciding the Denver businessman’s appearance was merely coincidental, Milens was almost jovial in his response. “Spiritualism is not a laughing matter, in spite of what you may think. My skills are beyond reproach and are sought by many believers across the land,” he declared. “I shall be found innocent of this awful mistake.” He pointed with his finger, then returned his hand to the bars.

  Knock! Knock!

  “Breakfast!”

  The cheery female voice from the other side of the sheriff’s office door was not familiar.

  Yet something about it was. What? The answer slid into his mind as he watched Milens trying to act nonchalant. The voice was the same as the one pretending to be Mrs. Wilcox’s departed sister. During the séance. Of course. One of the mesmerist’s assistants, or both, were at the door.

  It made sense, he thought. The women had probably seduced and overcome the deputies, then managed to alert Dr. Milens through the tiny window at the back of his cell. Most likely a passed note, something Hogan wouldn’t have noticed. A gun could have been passed at the same time, if care was taken. Lockhart now had to assume that Milens was armed.

  The knocking came again. Louder and more per sis tent.

  “Open up, please. We’ve got breakfast for the prisoners. It’s hot.”

  Putting down the cup on the desk as he passed, Lockhart turned toward Dr. Milens. “If you say anything, anything at all, Milens, you get both barrels. Same with the rest of you.”

  Dr. Milens’s icy blue eyes widened and a curse neared his lips, but died there, unreleased. The look on the faces of the gang members was genuine surprise; Lockhart realized they didn’t know of the breakout plan.

  “Coming,” Lockhart yelled. “Hold your horses.”

  Diede sat up on the cot, his movements stiff, his face a question mark; Gleason mumbled he was hungry without turning from the window in his cell; Grinshaw kept reading, mouthing the words as he did.

  “Gleason, get away from the window. I want you on your cot—where I can see your hands.” Both triggers of his short shotgun were cocked; an ominous sound in the quiet room.

  The outlaw turned slowly, saw Lockhart’s double-barreled gun pointing at him, and complied.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming. You’re early,” Lockhart yelled, guessing this was the case. He took two swift steps and stood with his gun inches from Milens’s terrified face. “I want the gun, Milens.”

  “Gun? What gun? I don’t…”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Lockhart snapped. “Hand me the gun by the barrel—or I’ll shoot you now and get it myself.” Over his shoulder, he yelled, “I hope you brought plenty. I’m starving.”

  Gulping back his fear, Dr. Milens stepped away from the cell bars. Slowly.

  “Keep facing me.”

  The mesmerist gingerly lifted his bowler, removed a pearl-handled, gold-plated derringer and held it out to Lockhart.

  Moving swiftly to the door, Lockhart shoved the small gun in his waistband and laid the shotgun at his feet. With ease, he lifted the heavy plank, set across the door to provide additional security, from its iron hooks and placed it against the wall beside the hinges.

  The key rested in the lock where it was usually kept for convenience.

  “Just a minute, I forgot the key,” he yelled as he retrieved the shotgun and silently stepped next to the opposite wall.

  Glancing at the unmoving prisoners, Lockhart laid down, placing his drawn revolver beside him. Somewhat awkwardly, he stretched out and turned the key with his left hand. Quickly, he slid back another foot, grabbing his revolver as he moved.

  “Door’s unlocked. Come on in. I’m going to fix some coffee.”

  The door sprung open and both women bounded inside, brandishing big revolvers. Their intense gaze was focused on the desk and beyond. Elsie’s revolver belched fire and jumped in her hand; the bullet struck the forlorn wall near the ceiling.

  For an instant, neither woman realized that Lockhart was on the floor a few feet away from them.

  “Drop the guns, ladies.” His shotgun was pointed at Geraldine; his revolver, at the Southern Elsie.

  Both women froze.

  Elsie’s eyes slid to the side to glimpse Lockhart below and almost behind them. Geraldine glanced at the mute Dr. Milens for guidance. None came. Her mind was a fury; why didn’t he use the gun they had given him? To shoot, she would have to swing to the right and back some. A move that would take longer than she would have
. If Lockhart fired.

  “You wouldn’t be the first woman I’ve shot.” His words were a growl. It was a lie, but it might save bloodshed. “Drop the guns—or try to use them. By the way, I’ve got Milens’s gun. He didn’t want it.”

  Gleason leaped across his bunk and yelled, “Shoot ’im! He won’t shoot a lady. Come on!”

  Lowering his newspaper, Old Man Grinshaw snarled, “You’re dead if you try, ladies. That’s Vin Lockhart.” Almost as quickly, he returned to his reading.

  Dr. Milens nodded his agreement and turned away from the cell door and sat on his cot with his head down. The bowler jiggled at the impact.

  Geraldine’s gun clanked on the floor, followed by Elsie’s.

  “Good decision,” Lockhart said, standing and silently thanking the old outlaw. “Move against the cells. Now.” He kicked both guns toward the wall and holstered the revolver with a reverse move.

  Minutes later, both women occupied the two remaining open cells and Lockhart was drinking coffee again as if nothing had happened. Dr. Milens hadn’t moved from his cot; Gleason was asking Elsie why they hadn’t slipped him a gun; Diede lay with his hands behind his head; and Grinshaw was well into his month-old newspaper.

  From the street, Marshal Hogan’s command broke the silence. “Lockhart, it’s me—and Buenstahl. We’ve got trouble. Those two assistants have escaped.”

  “They’re in here, Marshal,” Lockhart said casually and got up to open the door.

  He smiled as he heard Agent Buenstahl laugh and tell Hogan that they should’ve expected that.

  After the door was unbolted and unlocked, the two men entered, both carrying their shotguns. Hogan was sleepy-faced and tense; Buenstahl looked rested and his expression changed from worry to wonder. Lockhart explained what had taken place and showed them the derringer. Hogan said he recalled Dr. Milens getting up a few minutes before Lockhart arrived and guessed that was the timing of the note and gun exchange. He admitted to being drowsy at the time and not wanting to watch what he thought was a man peeing. Lockhart’s arrival kept them from pulling the stunt on him. Buenstahl said the two deputies were unharmed, just bound and embarrassed. Sheriff Crandall was with them now.

  The bespectacled Pinkerton detective, ever looking like a professor, walked to the cells, then along the row, inspecting the quiet prisoners. Beside Grinshaw’s cell, he paused. “You boys realize your boss didn’t trust you enough to have guns slipped to you, don’t you? Who do you think was going to be left behind—if the jailbreak worked? Want a hint? Which one of you had a gun?”

  He walked on. At the last cell containing Geraldine, he turned toward Lockhart and Hogan. With a slight smile, he said, “Looks like we add assault of an officer, attempted jailbreak and…”

  “Attempted murder of a federal lawman,” Hogan blurted. “Lockhart is a duly authorized federal deputy.”

  “What?” Geraldine screamed, spinning toward the front of the cell. “That can’t be. We didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did.” Buenstahl ended her response, pointing to the bullet hole in the wall. “And you’re going to pay for it. Cheyenne will enjoy a good hanging. Especially of two women.”

  The conversation between Lockhart, Hogan and Buenstahl was easy and filled with coffee. They expected the women to eagerly exchange lesser charges in exchange for testimony against Milens. Finally, Hogan said he planned to return and try to get some sleep. Buenstahl said he was ready to resume the jail watch, that he had wired the home office and said he had received approval to stay here for a few days, and that Lockhart could get on with his business. Lockhart wrote out his account of the attempted holdup, as requested. Hogan asked Lockhart if he would consider joining him as a federal marshal, that he was certain an appointment could be arranged. Lockhart thanked him, but declined. Hogan told him to keep the pearl-handled derringer as a reminder of the past two days.

  After leaving the sheriff’s office, Lockhart headed to the livery to see what kind of mounts might be available for sale or, if not available there, where they might be found. Yesterday, he had noticed a string of horses in the accompanying corral and hoped they were for sale, perhaps on consignment from one of the area ranches. That would save him a trip and time. He was pleased to discover they were available. Mostly young and all green-broke, according to the livery operator. They came from the ZBar2 where the owner was in desperate need of cash.

  After some friendly haggling, Lockhart bought a sturdy bay and a long-legged, line-back dun from the string, along with a saddle and blanket, rifle sheath, two head stalls, and a pack rig. Leading the saddled dun and the bay with the empty pack rig strapped to its back, his next stop would be the general store for supplies and ammunition.

  From a distance, he saw two men heading toward the stable. It was Hickok and Utter. He waved and the greeting was returned immediately by Utter, then by Hickok after Utter told him who it was. Stopping outside the front doors of the livery, Lockhart waited for their advance, stroking the muzzle of the dun. He was pleased with both horses.

  “Vin, where are you headed? Looks like you’re preparing for a long trip,” Utter said. “Deadwood, by chance? We’re putting together some men and wagons for the Black Hills. You’d be welcome.”

  Without waiting for Lockhart’s response, he explained further that his brother, Steve, was joining them and so was a friend, “White-Eye Jack” Anderson. They were planning on leaving for Fort Laramie on June twenty-seventh to meet up with a larger train of thirty or so wagons at the fort, then head to Deadwood.

  Grinning, he added, “Gonna be a bunch of whores joining us there, too. Lots of ways to find gold in Deadwood, you know.” He chuckled.

  “Vin Lockhart, I barely recognized you out of your city clothes,” Hickok declared. “My eyesight’s not what it was, I guess.” He studied Lockhart for a moment. “Heard you stopped a jailbreak this morning. Without a shot. You’re a busy man. You sure you’re not a lawman? Your name’s familiar to me. I just can’t place it. Denver, right?”

  “Denver, it is, Wild Bill.” Lockhart smiled. “No, I’m not a lawman. Just a businessman. If you and Charlie get down that way, please look me up—at the Silver Queen Saloon or the Black Horse Hotel. My partner and I own them.” He rubbed his chin. “How’d you hear about the trouble at the jail? News must travel fast in this town.”

  The tall pistol-fighter nodded. “Yeah, it does. Of course, it helps to run into a U. S. deputy marshal on his way to the hotel.” Hickok crossed his arms. “Hogan told us about it. Asked if I’d help stand watch. Said I would.” He glanced around, out of habit. “So you’re a saloon keeper. Do you run an honest game? Of course, you do,” Hickok laughed. “What are you doing here? Pardon me, that’s mighty personal.”

  Lockhart said he was headed north to join with some friends on a horse hunt, that he and his partner in Denver had just started a horse ranch and wanted to secure additional animals along with a good trainer. Hickok’s eyes showed he was not entirely convinced of Lockhart’s travel purposes. Utter moved to examine the horses Lockhart was leading and asked if he knew if any mules were for sale at the livery. Lockhart said he had seen none, but it was worth checking with Noah Ellison at the stage-line office in case he had mules he didn’t need.

  Utter’s expression indicated he had already checked. “Well, you’re welcome to join us—and leave whenever you want.”

  “Thanks, but I’m in a hurry. Hadn’t planned on helping with guard duty at the jail.”

  “Sounds like it was a good thing you were there. Say, you know you’re headed into some bad Indian country. Sioux and Cheyenne refusing to go to the reservation. And horses mean Indians, for certain,” Hickok said. “Of course, the Black Hills isn’t exactly a tea party, come to think of it.” He motioned toward Lockhart’s quivered shotgun. “Would you mind letting me look at that? Quite a weapon.”

  “Sure.” Lockhart drew the sawed-off shotgun with his left hand, grabbed it by the barrels with his right and handed it to Hickok, shortened
stock first.

  “Look at this, Charlie. A real street howitzer. Haven’t seen one in a long time. No offense, but I reckon this was part of the reason you handled the problem at the jail without shooting. Who would want to face this from close range?” Hickok ran his long, slender fingers along the shortened barrels, cracked open the gun, then closed it and returned the weapon to Lockhart, holding the barrels. “I’m guessing you’re handy with a six-gun, Lockhart, why the hand scattergun?”

  Lockhart returned the weapon to its quiver. “My partner gave it to me. It’s his. From our prospecting days. Comforting, though, especially where I’m headed.”

  “Prospecting? You?” Utter blurted. “Well, I’ll be. I should’ve guessed.”

  Hickok’s expression indicated he thought it was, indeed, the real reason for Lockhart’s departure.

  Shaking his head, Lockhart explained that his prospecting days were quite a few years ago, that he and his partner had done very well and were successful businessmen, but he had a strong desire to create a horse ranch. He added that his friend had a desire to open a bank and was probably doing so.

  Hickok frowned at his friend and said, “Wish you had been here a few weeks ago. Our friend, Will Cody…Buffalo Bill…would have enjoyed meeting you. He left town with the Fifth Cavalry. General Carr’s in command. Cody’s chief of scouts. Might’ve been in that fight on the Rosebud. Haven’t heard.” He folded his arms and continued. “When he’s through gallivanting around, I figure he’ll head back East and start up another one of his melodramas. Made himself a pretty penny on that stuff. Hard to believe what some people will pay to see.” He cocked his head to the side. “I think ol’ Cody would be interested in having you join him. Yes sir, I’ll bet he would.” Both thumbs settled themselves inside his scarlet sash, letting his fingers rest on the two revolver handles. “Of course, I’ve got a feeling you wouldn’t like it any more than I did.”