by Cotton Smith
Crawfish’s thin eyebrows jumped in response to the last bit of news. The corner of his mouth twitched in rhythm with the movement. He listened intently as Beezah told him of the initial arrest and Lockhart’s role in it, and his stopping the gang’s first attempt to escape. All of it had come to the black guard secondhand from Marshal Hogan.
“Well, I’m sure the authorities will catch them soon enough.”
“Let us hope so. The Sioux and Cheyenne are enough worry, running wild all around up there. Some fear Crazy Horse himself is going to attack Deadwood,” Beezah said. “It doesn’t seem to me that the army moves very fast.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Crawfish replied.
Beezah nodded. “Ah, did you hear Wild Bill Hickok has been murdered?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “He was shot in the back of the head. By a fellow named McCall.”
“Really? Oh my gosh, how awful! Vin told us in a wire about meeting him—and you.” Crawfish glanced at the sun, which was nearing its zenith in the sky. “Do you have time to eat? I’d enjoy hearing more. About Vin. About you.”
“I go out again tomorrow morning, Governor,” Beezah said. “I would like to talk with you. Perhaps we should do it out here. Black men are not exactly welcome in most places.”
“You’re welcome here.” Martha motioned toward the house. Her eyes sparkled with defiance.
Both Beezah and Crawfish glanced at her, as if not realizing she and Falling Leaf had been standing there all this time. Beezah looked surprised and pleased. So did Crawfish. He hadn’t talked about blacks with the Rhymers, but both had welcomed Falling Leaf like she was a long-lost aunt.
“That is most gracious of you, madam,” Beezah said, “but I would not want to cause you any trouble.”
Martha completed the welcome, wiping her hands against a wrinkled apron at her waist. “Mr. Crawford, you and Mr. Beezah go on back and tell Harry and Sean that dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.” Her attention returned to Falling Leaf who was still studying the open land. “Falling Leaf…Vin Lockhart…will come…later…ah, many…suns…from now.” Her words were deliberately slow, hoping they would be understood.
Falling Leaf nodded her head to indicate she understood.
Without waiting for further response, Martha took Falling Leaf’s hand and turned toward the house. As they retreated, Falling Leaf peeked over her shoulder at the vacant hillside, then at the cat sitting on Beezah’s saddle, then at Beezah himself, and back to the door. She halted, pulled her hand free and went to Beezah’s horse to retrieve the cat. Her smile was broad as she carried it to the house, along with her pipe bag. Martha had already disappeared inside.
Watching her, Beezah smiled his approval.
“Well, Jean-Jacques, we have an assignment.” Crawfish waved toward the corral. “Please call me Crawfish. Everyone does.”
“I thank you for the kindness. All of your kindnesses. It is easy to see why you and Vin Lockhart are friends. He saved my life.”
From his pocket, Beezah withdrew the small black stone he carried and told about its significance, and Lockhart giving him a small pebble to hold, one that was also magical, and Lockhart’s efforts to help him heal.
As they walked, Crawfish explained the development of the horse ranch. He pointed out Magic, the bay stallion in the second corral and said they were expecting some good colts next spring and summer. Beezah asked if they were interested in selling horses to the stage line, indicating he would arrange a meeting with the manager. Crawfish thanked him for the offer but that the operation would be under Lockhart’s direction when he returned.
They stopped beside the under-construction house. Ominis wasn’t in sight. Hammering inside indicated where he was. Crawfish explained what the construction was all about and Beezah seemed impressed.
“Did you grow up in New Orleans?” Crawfish asked, then realized such a question might be misunderstood. “Forgive me. I wasn’t riding your back trail as some like to say around here. But your manner of speaking isn’t…Cajun.”
“I did not take it that way. I was born in Haiti. Grew up there. Mostly in Port-au-Prince. Came to New Orleans as a man. A young man.” He patted his guns. “My skill was rewarded well. It was not so in Haiti.”
“You know I read a fascinating book about the Caribbean— and Haiti,” Crawfish said, ignoring the comment about gun-fighting and resuming his walk toward the corral.
They began an energetic conversation about Haiti with the red-haired businessman eager to share his new knowledge of the small country.
Returning his derby to his head, Beezah raised his chin proudly and announced, “I am named for Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the father of the republic.”
“Names-and-glories, that’s great,” Crawfish said and resumed bubbling forth what he knew about the region, sounding very much like the teacher he had once been.
As they walked, Crawfish waved at Sean in the corral without pausing in his dissertation. From atop the brown gelding, Sean waved back, then patted the horse’s neck and resumed working the horse. Leaning against a corral pole, Harry turned, waved his own greeting and shouted encouragement to the boy.
“Are you a follower of voodoo, then?” Crawfish asked, stepping around an unused saddle propped on its side ten feet from the corral gate. A folded saddle blanket lay across its mantle. He noted to himself that Harry encouraged switching saddles often; the older man thought it helped keep back sores from occurring on the green horses. Crawfish guessed it had to do with keeping the leather and saddle blankets dry.
“Yes, I am.” Beezah stepped to the other side of the saddle and continued to the corral itself. “Vin and I decided voodoo and the Oglala religion had…ah, things in common.” He smiled widely. “Maybe something in common with Dr. Milens, too. We believe in communicating with the spirits. They work between man and the all-powerful God, Nana Buluku.”
“I’m not sure how much communicating with the spirits Milens did.” Crawfish reached the corral and waved both his arms to get the attention of Sean and Harry. “Martha says dinner’s ready—and I want you to meet a friend of Vin’s. He just brought us a letter from him!”
Sean’s face lit up and he reined the horse to a stop. “When’s he coming home?”
“Soon, I hope,” Crawfish said and explained the content of the letter.
Harry wobbled toward Beezah and Crawfish, and Crawfish introduced the two men. Discussion ensued about Lockhart and the letter. Crawfish reached into his coat pocket to retrieve it, but Harry told him to wait because his glasses were in the house.
“Let’s wash up. Don’t want to keep Martha waiting,” Harry said cheerfully.
“You’re in for a treat, Jean-Jacques,” Crawfish said. “Martha is one fine cook.”
“I look forward to the meal—and the friendship.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After washing up and leaving their hats outside on the back porch, the men entered the house and walked past the rolltop desk with the framed hand-drawn map of the ranch above it. Beezah noticed a well-used Bible lying on its top. He glanced at Crawfish, but the businessman was talking with Sean about Lockhart.
Smells from the kitchen were tantalizing. The house was small and tidy, swept clean just this morning. On the north wall of the dining area, set off from the kitchen, was a framed Currier & Ives print of a mountain scene. It was one of Harry’s proudest possessions, in spite of the inexpensive framing. The table was set with care and a bouquet of flowers, the last of the year, in a green glass container, decorated the center of the table.
Harry pointed at a chair for Beezah and sat. The others followed quickly. Martha brought a large, steaming bowl of stew, then a platter of biscuits, and filled the white cups with boiling coffee. A bowl of jam and another of butter was added to the table.
Falling Leaf was not in sight; she was feeding the cat, the “little panther” she called it. She joined them as they prepared for grace, carrying her heavy pipe bag. After their dinner p
rayer, Martha said that the Indian woman had been outside, paying tribute to her God, as Mr. Lockhart does.
Sitting between Sean and Crawfish, Falling Leaf laid the pipe bag in her lap and stared at Beezah. Finally she asked Crawfish if the black man was a medicine man, then if he knew about Lockhart. The words came in a mixture of Lakotan and English. Crawfish explained the situation and shared the essence of Lockhart’s letter, trying to find the right words in her native tongue.
She asked another question that he didn’t understand, something he thought had to do with why someone was following Beezah and if they were spirits. He realized his knowledge of the Lakotan language and hers of English created many pockets of misunderstanding and decided not to pursue the matter.
“When do you think Vin will be home?” Sean blurted, interrupting the exchange.
“Wish I knew, Sean.” Crawfish sipped his coffee, understanding the boy’s eagerness.
“Ye be thinkin’ hisself’ll be likin’ the way Magic be doin? An’ the others?” Sean shoved a big spoonful of chunks of meat, potato, carrot and broth into his mouth, followed by a bite of a biscuit lathered with jam and butter.
“Of course he will.”
Sean shook his head. “Me not so sure. He be soundin’ strong on that dun, he be.”
Crawfish smiled and asked Beezah if he had seen the horses Lockhart mentioned in his letter. Beezah started to answer when they heard a thud at both the front and back doors, followed by heavy boots. Before anyone could rise from their chairs, Dr. Milens entered from the back door. His clothes were filthy and his face indicated he hadn’t shaved or washed in a long time. His normally placid face was sunburned; his hair, disheveled; and his piercing green eyes, narrowed into slits. At his side was Nolan Gleason. A step behind came Frank Diede and Old Man Grinshaw from the front door. All brandished revolvers; Gleason held two.
“How nice, just sitting down to eat. Quite a cozy little place you have here, Mr. Crawford. Where’s that bastard Vin Lockhart?” Dr. Milens snarled.
Crawfish pushed on his wire-rimmed glasses and tried to think. He wasn’t armed, having decided it wasn’t necessary any longer.
“Oh no! This is my fault!” Beezah moaned. “They followed me here.”
Dr. Milens sneered at the black guard. “You egotistical darkie, we didn’t even know you were alive.” He waved his gun in Old Man Grinshaw’s direction. “Check out the house to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere.”
The gray-haired outlaw snorted and spun around. He bumped against the end table next to the worn settee and sent the purple-and-gold vase crashing to the floor. Martha let out a whimper. Grinshaw hesitated momentarily and headed into the bedroom.
Gleason stared at the broken vase and giggled. “Oh-ho. Old man Grinshaw was a naughty boy.”
Dr. Milens frowned at Gleason, then turned his gun— and stare—back to Crawfish. “Nolan here went into your fancy hotel and asked where you were. Your clerk was most helpful, gave us directions. Easy as can be.”
“Aaron Whitaker told you Vin was here?” Crawfish asked; the corner of his mouth twitched. “Vin is up north. Has been for months.”
“If that’s your clerk’s name, no, he didn’t. He said you were here. He didn’t know where Lockhart was.” Walking over to the seated Crawfish, he jammed the barrel of his gun against the businessman’s temple. “Where is your meddling friend? Tell me or I’ll put your brains—what there is of them—against that wall.”
“I just got a letter from him. That is why Mr. Beezah is here. He brought it,” Crawfish said, motioning toward Beezah. “Vin Lockhart is, ah, up north. With the Fifth Cavalry. Just left General Merritt’s camp to find some friends of ours.”
“Bullshit!” Dr. Milens said. “Try again. There won’t be a third.”
“Please,” Crawfish said without moving. “The letter is in my pocket. I’ll show it to you.”
“Let’s see it.” Dr. Milens lowered the gun and motioned toward Crawfish’s coat.
Crawfish handed over the folded paper from his coat pocket and Dr. Milens said, “Watch ’em, while I read this.”
“Sure, Jefferson. Say, this chow looks awfully good. Can we eat before we leave?” the square-faced Gleason said, motioning toward the food with one of his two handguns.
Crawfish frowned and wondered why he called the mesmerist that and just as quickly decided it didn’t matter. He glanced at Beezah, but the black shootist was sitting with his hands folded on the table as if praying.
“Of course,” Dr. Milens muttered, then looked up. “Well, the fool was telling the truth. Lockhart is long gone. He’s headed for the Bighorn Mountains.”
“We’re not waiting for him, are we?” Frank Diede asked, tugging on the bent brim of his bell-crown hat with dirt-covered fingers and scratched his stomach where the earlier gunshot wound had not yet healed.
“Of course not, you fool,” Dr. Milens snarled. “If I can’t have his head, I’m going to do the next best thing. I’m going to give him hell.” Dr. Milens licked his lower lip. He looked thoroughly insane. “He’ll come riding in here and find his ranch burned to the ground, his horses gone—and his friends hanging from trees. Rotted. Should be quite a sight.”
Martha whimpered and began to sob. With her hands in her lap, Falling Leaf said something comforting in Lakotan.
Returning to the dining area, Grinshaw announced, “Lockhart ain’t around.”
“I already know that.” Dr. Milens waved the letter. “What do you figure we can get for that herd of horses?”
“At least fifty a head. That bay stud, he’ll go for a lot more,” the gray-headed outlaw replied, grinning savagely. “We’ll have to drive ’em south, though. Safer than robbin’ a bank, Jefferson. Might be more profitable, too.”
“Of course.”
Sean jumped from the seat. “Ye be leavin’ Magic alone!”
“Shut up, kid.” Gleason pointed his gun at the Irish boy. “An’ sit your Irish ass down—or I’ll sit it for you.”
Crawfish reached over and touched the boy’s arm. “Sit down, Sean. Please.”
Sean’s face was hot. There was no fear in his eyes, only anger. But he obeyed. Reluctantly.
“Hey, what’s with the redskin?” Grinshaw said, his weathered face crinkling even more into disgust. “Can you beat that? A redskin—an’ a darkie. You people are really some-thin’…to spit at.”
“Stand up, darkie.” Dr. Milens remembered Beezah and aimed his gun at him. “Didn’t think you would make it.”
Pushing back his chair, Beezah rose slowly. “I was cured by a magic stone. It has cured others. It comes from Haiti. A sorcerer made it for me. It is special.”
“What?” Nolan said. “Whaddya mean?”
Dr. Milens smiled, a vicious smile. “Let’s see this magic stone, darkie. I might want to use it in my next séance. When we get to California.”
“Certainly. It is in my pocket.” Beezah raised his hands toward his vest.
“No, first you take those guns out—and put them on the table. Real easy like,” Dr. Milens commanded. “Make the wrong move and I’ll find that stone myself—over your dead-ass black body.”
Without a word, Beezah withdrew the two revolvers, one in each hand with his fingers barely grasping the handles, and placed them on the table. Dr. Milens nodded approval and motioned with his gun for him to resume his search for the stone.
Almost ceremoniously, Beezah’s left hand went to the right-hand vest pocket first, followed by his right. His left hand held open the pocket’s lip as he reached inside with his other hand to withdraw the stone.
He paused with his hands at the pocket and stared at Crawfish. “It’s like you were telling me earlier, Crawfish,” Beezah said, straight-faced; his hands, frozen in place at his vest pocket. “Not everyone should touch this stone. Isn’t that what you said?”
Crawfish was puzzled. He hadn’t said anything like that. What was Beezah doing? What did he want?
“You should tell the
spiritualist,” Beezah urged, “what you said.”
Crawfish’s cheek twitched. “Ah…sure.” He turned toward Dr. Milens. If he was right, Beezah wanted the evil mesmerist distracted for a moment. “Dr. Milens, I have seen healing stones. Like this. It is sacred. It is voodoo,” Crawfish said, holding his hands out toward him and wiggling them to represent power. “It must not be used for evil. It is too powerful. You must promise.”
Dr. Milens threw back his head and guffawed loudly, then glanced at Frank Diede. “You can count on that. Right, Frank?”
“Right.” Diede joined the laughter.
Still chuckling, Dr. Milens spun to face Beezah as the black man’s derringer cleared his vest pocket and fired. Twice. Dr. Milens’s gun exploded and the bullet shattered the stew bowl, spraying food in every direction. The gun slid from his hand and Dr. Milens crumpled to the floor, crying in pain.
Frank Diede stopped scratching his stomach and looked like a man who didn’t believe what had just happened.
From her lap, Falling Leaf lifted her Le Faucheux revolver, firing at Nolan Gleason to her right as it cleared the table. Martha screamed and hid her face in her hands. The first bullet struck the outlaw in his right shoulder, punching him sideways and forcing the revolver from his hand; the second, misfired.
Beezah dropped the empty derringer and reached his guns on the table, tossing one in Crawfish’s direction as he brought the other into firing position in his right hand. All in one blurred motion. His silver revolver roared three times, once at each standing outlaw.
Frank Diede shivered, dropped his gun and grabbed his right arm in pain. “God dammit, I’m shot. Again! Damn. Oh-h-h-h-h.” He went to his knees, groaning.
Harry stood in front of his chair and grabbed Gleason’s pistol.
