Shadow of Legends

by Stephen A. Bly

  Lord, this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Send Rebekah and the others off to Deadwood. Lord, get them out of there before these men show up. I was up at an empty cave thinking myself heroic. Lord, I’m not a hero. I don’t care if I’m ever a hero. I don’t care if I have to live in the shadow of Brazos Fortune my whole life. I don’t care if I live in Rapid City or Omaha or Chicago. Just don’t let anything happen to Rebekah and the others.

  For fifteen minutes he slammed into the bounce of the saddle and prayed hard.

  Gunfire from over the next pass caused Todd to kick the already lathered horse and quit praying. When he reached the descent toward the old tollhouse, he could hear more gunfire. Gunsmoke drifted up from the stagecoach and the building.

  He spied two gunmen using the parked stagecoach for cover. Todd couldn’t spot a third outlaw but assumed he was nearby.

  I need to wait for the others to catch up. But I can’t wait. I’ve got to get them to stop. I’ll get myself killed if I ride in there now. I could get Rebekah killed if I don’t ride in there, quick. At least they’re putting up a fight. I’ve got to do the same. Lord, I’m tired of thinking about it . . . fools rush in . . .

  Todd’s first shot was at the dirt in front of the lead horse of the stagecoach. The white horse reared, and he blasted another .45 bullet under the horses. As if on command, all six horses bolted the rig forward. Totally exposed, the two men scrambled for shelter.

  A shot from inside the tollhouse clipped the dark-haired man in the thigh. He dropped his gun and screamed. Falling to the mud, he tried to drag himself to cover. More shots from the tollhouse’s window and from the approaching posse stung the yard around him, and he collapsed, too wounded or too scared to move.

  A tall, blond man with broad shoulders, hat dangling down his back on a stampede string, sprinted toward some boulders near a huge, rusted, abandoned winch. Todd galloped straight at him. His first shot sailed just over the man’s head, and caused Todd’s horse to jerk sideways. The second shot slammed into the boulders ahead of the man. Todd kept the horse at a gallop and jammed his gun back into his holster.

  The man fired a couple of wild shots over his shoulder. He stumbled, picked himself up, then bolted toward the boulders. Leaning low next to the galloping horse’s head, Todd continued straight at the fleeing man. He dropped the reins on the saddle and kicked his left foot free from the stirrup. He stood with all his weight in the right stirrup just as the man stopped running, spun around, and pointed his gun.

  Todd was no more than fifteen feet away.

  He saw fear in the man’s narrow eyes.

  When Todd leaped from the racing horse, he felt the dry, cracked stirrup leather bust. He dropped more quickly than he planned. Suddenly it was as if everything was enlarged and in slow motion. Flying through the air, he could see the finger pull the trigger. The hammer slammed against the cartridge.

  Fire flew from the barrel.

  Smoke swirled.

  A report blasted.

  Todd didn’t think of dying.

  Or the pain a lead ball could bring.

  Or Rebekah dressed in widow’s black.

  At the moment, the whole focus of his attention was upon tightening his clenched fist and making sure it landed on the face of the gunman below.

  The crash of knuckles into the jawbone, the collision of two men on the Dakota mud silenced the rest of the shooting.

  The outlaw didn’t move.

  Todd did.

  He scampered, gun drawn, behind the boulders that the unconscious gunman never reached. Lord, I don’t know where that bullet went. But I’m mighty glad it’s not in me. Thank you for broken stirrup leathers.

  There were no more gunshots.

  Carty Toluca, Dacee June, and Dover slowly rode up toward the tollhouse, their guns focused on the two downed men.

  “Rebekah,” Todd shouted. “Rebekah, are you alright?”

  It was, for him, the sweetest song he had ever heard in his life. He wanted to mount a tall white horse and lead a giant parade when he heard Rebekah’s voice call out. “We’re safe!”

  “I’m shot in the leg. You got to help me,” the dark-haired outlaw screamed from the mud.

  “You raise your head up one more time and you’ll get it shot too,” Todd yelled back. “Stay down. We’ll get you some help.”

  “There is another one out there, Todd!” Rebekah shouted. “Be careful. I saw a third man.”

  Todd waved at Dacee June and the others to keep their distance. The third one must be the new stagecoach driver. He should be with the stage but it rolled off.

  With gun pointed toward the stage, Todd stepped out from behind the rocks and marched across the yard toward the restless six-up team.

  No one in sight . . . but the lines are drawn tight . . . Under the seat? If he’s a little man, he could be under that seat.

  Todd’s shot splintered the back of the driver’s bench. The horses lurched forward, and a short man with a long black beard unfolded himself from under the seat. He slapped the ribbons, and the stage bolted for Todd.

  Pointing the .45 straight at the driver, Todd squeezed the trigger. Deafened by thundering hooves was the dull click of the hammer on an empty chamber. Todd holstered the empty gun as he jumped out of the way of the frightened horses. He vaulted for the iron railing next to the driver’s seat.

  What he grabbed was the long hickory stick of the hand brake. The impact jerked his feet off the ground. His right hand reached up and clutched the hand brake as well. The result was to throw all ­hundred and seventy five pounds of Todd Fortune against the brake-levered brake pad. The stage jerked sharply left. The horses stopped instantly. The stagecoach driver tumbled out among the prancing hooves.

  The short man hit the ground between the two wheel horses who danced and strained at the brake, terrified of what was lying at their feet.

  “Get me out of here,” the man screamed.

  “Crawl out under the horse’s belly,” Todd instructed.

  “He’ll trample me!”

  “They will all trample you if I let go of this brake. Crawl on your belly.”

  “I ain’t crawlin’,” he hollered.

  “And I’m not hanging on any longer.”

  “Wait! I’ll crawl . . . I’ll crawl!”

  On his stomach, his hand wrapped over his hatless head, the man scooted in the mud as the eleven-hundred-pound wheel horse pranced above him. When the man’s muddy boots cleared the ground under the horse’s belly, Todd released the brake. The nervous team rumbled the stagecoach up the trail.

  Todd pulled his gun and started shoving cartridges into the cylinder from his bullet belt. “Carty, tie that blond one up before he comes to,” he yelled. “I’ll take care of this one. Dacee June, you and Mr. Dover tie up the injured man.”

  “You cain’t tie me, I’m shot!” the man hollered.

  “Tie him!” Todd replied.

  Rebekah scurried out of the tollhouse, still holding her revolver. Abigail was right behind. Todd hugged Rebekah’s shoulder but kept his focus on the stagecoach driver at his feet.

  “Are you all really alright?” he asked.

  “No one got shot. They had just got here when you rode up.”

  “Mr. Lander and the doctor aren’t doing too well,” Abigail added, “but we were all safe inside.”

  Watson Dover, with shoulders back, head high, and a new strut in his pace, marched into the tollhouse.

  Dacee June scampered up to them. “Who shot this one?”

  “I believe I did,” Rebekah admitted. “I got angry and lost control.”

  “First, I don’t win the beauty contest, then I don’t even get to shoot anyone. But I did fire my gun! Rebekah Fortune, you’re the luckiest woman alive.”

  Abiga
il folded her hands together under her chin. “I don’t think I’ve ever been rescued by a handsome knight who rode up on a black horse and saved the day.”

  “You’ve been in too many theater productions,” Todd mumbled.

  “I’ve never been in a play where a man dove off a horse and put a man out with one punch, then walked straight up to a galloping stagecoach and shut it down like that. In fact, you couldn’t even put that in a play; it would be too unbelievable,” the actress reported.

  “She’s right,” Carty called out. “For a minute there I figured I was watchin’ a young Daddy Brazos.”

  “Some of it was mighty reckless and other sheer luck. The Lord was kind to me, that’s all. It was nothing special, I can assure you.” Todd finished tying the man on the ground, then holstered his revolver.

  Rebekah stared at the creases around Todd’s eyes. You will make a handsome middle-aged man, Mr. Todd Fortune. And you aged ten years today. “What made you think to do such a foolish and brave thing?”

  “I prayed and prayed all the way up there that the Lord had sent you all back to Deadwood. But when I heard the gunshots, I figured it was something He wanted me to take care of. I just ­reacted. I think maybe I decided if you’re where the Lord wants you to be . . . all a person needs to do is react. It’s all we have time to do well.”

  “What about me?” The dark-haired man hollered. “Who’s going to take care of me? You cain’t leave me tied up like this!”

  “There’s your chance to shoot a man, Dacee June,” Todd winked at his sister.

  “Really?”

  “What are you sayin’!” the man screamed. “You cain’t shoot an unarmed wounded man!”

  “Of course we can,” Todd called out. “Dacee June, if this man tries to reach over for his revolver, shoot him. It he tries to crawl away, shoot him. If he moves a muscle toward you, shoot him.”

  “I ain’t movin’. Look at me!” he screamed. “I ain’t movin’.”

  “Shall we haul him in there and let the doc look at him?” Todd asked.

  An ashen-faced Watson Dover appeared at the door. “He’s dead,” Dover mumbled.

  “Who’s dead?” Abigail quizzed.

  “Dr. Gordon. He just died.”

  “No!” Abigail blurted out. “He can’t die . . . not now . . . not like this!” She sprinted into the tollhouse.

  The others followed.

  Mrs. O’Neill sat in the corner of the room on the floor, rocking a whimpering Amber in her lap. Thelma Speaker fussed with a teapot at the cookstove, carefully keeping her back to the commotion.

  The two wounded men were stretched out on the floor.

  Neither moved.

  On her knees, Abigail Gordon stared down at the lifeless doctor. Rebekah scooted up beside her.

  “I didn’t want him to die,” Abigail wept.

  Rebekah slipped her arm around her shoulders. “I know, Abby . . . I know . . .”

  “I have never known a man who ever treated me better. And I never have known a man who treated me worse. When I first fell in love with him, it was the deepest I’ve ever loved a man in my life. And this week . . . this week . . . I have never hated anyone so thoroughly. But I never . . . ever wanted him to die,” Abigail whimpered.

  Todd hunched down between the ladies. “I didn’t know his wounds were that serious. What happened while we were gone?”

  Rebekah leaned her head on Todd’s left shoulder. “He had us keep working on Mr. Lander. He kept saying he was alright.”

  “He knew he was dying,” Abigail murmured. “He was a very smart doctor.” She laid her head on Todd’s right shoulder.

  “May the Lord have mercy on his soul. For a man with obvious faults, he made a heroic stand at the end,” Todd murmured.

  “His poor wife in Chattanooga,” Abigail sighed. “It will be a shock to her.”

  “Mr. Dover can explain the circumstances. Perhaps it will soften the grief a little,” Rebekah suggested.

  Abigail glanced over at her mother rocking little Amber. “Could I . . . eh, have a few minutes alone with my daughter? We need to say good-bye to her father.”

  Rebekah stood and clutched Todd’s arm.

  But she couldn’t control the sobbing.

  Somewhere out on the Dakota plains, the sun was up and summer bright. But not in Deadwood. White Rocks and the steepness of Whitewood Gulch kept the town in the shade. Recent rains had cleared the air of its summer dust cloud. The clear sky was prairie blue. But there was no sun. Yet.

  Todd stood on the front porch of his Forest Hill house and sipped the final dregs of coffee. Rebekah scurried out of the door behind him. Her curly light-brown bangs tumbled precisely and evenly down both sides of her narrow face. Her long hair tucked under a straw hat with a white lace band. A wide, black felt ribbon circled her neck, just above the pointed collar of the white blouse.

  “Are you still sick at your stomach?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t last long. I think it’s something I’ll just have to get used to.”

  “Are you sure you feel like going to Columbia’s?”

  “Yes, today is my day. Abigail took a turn yesterday.”

  Todd stepped back inside and set his coffee cup on the entry table, then slid his hat off the peg and plopped it on his head. He offered her his arm as they walked down the steps.

  “Did you hear Wells Fargo hired a new stagecoach driver?” she asked.

  “Who is it?”

  “His name is Mink Carlton. He’s about our age.”

  “Now, how did you find that out? Mr. Lander is still in Denver, recuperating. And Handsome Harry’s driving the Cheyenne run.”

  Rebekah laced her fingers together. “A young lady gave me a complete description of him, including a dimpled smile that simply makes one’s heart stop beating.”

  “Dacee June?”

  “Yes, she’s told me he was just the type of man that makes a woman want to settle down, get married, and have children of her own,” Rebekah reported.

  “She said that? She’s only sixteen! How old is this guy?”

  “Around thirty. Daddy Brazos has been gone for several weeks. She’s feeling frisky.”

  “Not that frisky,” Todd cautioned. “I’ll have a talk with her.”

  “Todd Fortune, she is not your daughter. Perhaps you should give her credit for some wisdom.”

  He stared straight at Rebekah’s wide brown eyes.

  “OK,” she grinned, “perhaps you should talk to her. At least until Daddy Brazos shows up.”

  Todd shook his head. “Poor Carty, I suppose I’ll have a depressed clerk for a while.”

  Rebekah held tight on to Todd’s arm. “Maybe this will be the time where he just finds someone less fickle.”

  “Not Carty. She’s his one and only.”

  She brushed some crumbs from his goatee. “Did I tell you about the latest idea Abigail had?”

  “The one about a jewelry shop?”

  “No, that takes too much capital. She decided she wants to open a ready-made women’s clothing shop, specializing in nobby attire.”

  “That will cost money, too.”

  “She has the financing arranged. It seems she’s lined up some prominent citizens to back her.”

  “Anyone I know?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Speaker, Mrs. Edwards, Mrs. O’Neill, Columbia, and, of course, Mrs. Fortune.”

  “Mrs. Todd Fortune?”

  “Yes, you’ve no doubt heard about the courageous exploits of her brave and strong husband.”

  “It’s all a rumor,” he chuckled.

  “Oh no, I assure you it’s quite true.” She held his arm tightly. They were almost skipping down the Wall Street stairs.

  “You know this Fortune
man well?” he asked.

  “You might say I have him wrapped around my little finger.” Rebekah’s eyes danced.

  “I hear he and the missus are moving to Cheyenne City,” Todd said.

  “Cheyenne City?” She stopped their stroll. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

  “Or was it Virginia City? Or Rapid City?”

  “Well, you can take it from me. She’s going to stay in Deadwood for at least nine months.”

  Todd looked at her from head to toe. “Don’t tell me she’s great with child?”

  Tears began to stream down Rebekah’s face.

  “What did I say?”

  “I’m going to get fat and ugly, aren’t I?” she sobbed.

  “Fat, yes, but never ugly. Are you serious about staying in Deadwood?”

  “Yes, I am,” she wailed.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “A friend and a purpose.”

  “Are you through crying?”

  “Maybe,” she sniffled.

  After wiping her eyes on a lace-embroidered handkerchief, they turned the corner west and ambled toward the hardware store. Sheriff Seth Bullock rode up on a yellow gelding with almost white mane. “That hold-up bunch is in the Yankton jail, waitin’ for their trial,” he said.

  “That’s a comfort to know,” Rebekah said.

  “They were a couple of the smartest and yet dumbest hold-up men I ever met,” the sheriff continued. “They set us all up to be too preoccupied to keep track of the gold. They planned it all the way from wounding Handsome Harry, so they could replace the driver, to terrorizing town to get us hidin’ in our homes. They even sent that bogus telegram from the secretary of the treasury. It was the driver that tipped them off about the Sunday shipment.”

  “So why would they ride back to the tollhouse and the scene of the crime?” Rebekah asked.

  “I think that when you get away with things, you reckon you’ll never be caught. Any gang that overlooks the Fortunes of the Black Hills is askin’ for trouble.” The sheriff tipped his hat to Rebekah and rode on down the street. Then he swung back in the saddle. “Todd, I owe you a steak dinner at International for doin’ my work . . . you remember that.”