CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
It was the opinion of the D’eth brothers that the forlorn attack on the valley where Thomas Clouston’s men were encamped was driven by an old man’s vanity. How else to explain seven men riding against five times their number?
Three of the seven, two of them wounded, had survived and had fled the valley, convincing Milos and Petsha that there was no advantage to be gained from the attack. To ride in after Clouston now when his men were on edge and ready would be suicide.
“Brandy, brother,” Milos said, passing a silver flask to Petsha.
Petsha took a swig and glanced at the sky. “Will this rain never end?” he asked.
“It will end when next the sun decides to shine,” Milos said.
“We must kill Clouston soon.”
“We will. Never fear,” Milos said. Then, his eyes on the hills, “Hello, what do we have here?”
Petsha, more far sighted than his brother, rubbed rain from his eyes and peered into distance. “Two riders,” he said. “They must be the doctor’s men.”
“Then we will follow and see where they lead us,” Milos said.
“And then kill them,” Petsha said.
“That,” Milos said, smiling, “is one of life’s few certainties.”
Judy Campbell was not hard to find. A scared, barefooted woman does not run far across brush and cactus country in a lashing rain.
She’d taken refuge in the thin cover of a struggling piñon, her sodden shift covering the curves of her body like a second skin. When the two riders approached her she recognized Hansen’s bearded, grinning face and tried to make a run for it.
The big man easily rode Judy down and forced her to the ground. He jumped from the saddle and pulled her to her feet. Hansen pulled back her arms and showed her to Simpson. “Like what you see, Matt?” he said.
Simpson’s tongue flickered over his top lip. “I sure do. Is there anywhere we can take her out of the rain?”
“Nah. We’ll take turns here, then you can cut her throat. You like that, Matt. Don’t you?”
“Always have,” Simpson said. He was a small, thin, snake-faced man, an abuser of women who was lightning fast on the draw and shoot. He reached under his slicker and produced a silver dollar from his shirt pocket. “Heads I have first go,” he said.
“Toss the coin high and let it fall on the ground where I can see it,” Hansen said.
Simpson swung out of the saddle and grinned at Judy, “You ready?”
The girl struggled like a wildcat. “My father will kill you for this,” she said.
“No, he won’t. The old coot is dead,” Hansen said. Then, “Get on with it, Matt. I’m growing mighty impatient.”
Simpson flipped the coin high, the dollar spinning through rain—and Milos D’eth shot it out of the air.
“What the hell!” Simpson said. He turned and his eyes widened as he saw a couple of rubes step from the cover of thick brush, both with a Colt in hand.
They ignored the two men and the terrified girl.
“Good shot, Milos,” Petsha said. “I could never do that.”
“It’s a party trick of mine,” Milos said. “It’s very much easier than it looks.”
“Well done, just the same,” Petsha said.
Hansen was the first to recover from his surprise. “What the hell are you farm boys doing here?” he said.
“Do you work for a man called Dr. Thomas Clouston?” Petsha said.
“Sure we do, me and Matt there,” Hansen said. “What of it? Now get lost and leave us alone to enjoy our woman.”
Two shots, close together, fired by Milos. Two hits. Right between the eyes of Hansen and Simpson. Two dead men sprawled on the wet ground. All this in less than two ticks of the watch in Hansen’s vest.
This time Petsha did not praise his brother’s shooting. Hitting the silver dollar in midair had come as a surprise, but killing two men with deadly efficiency was a matter of routine.
The sound of the shots was still ringing in Judy Campbell’s ears as Milos said, “Who are you?”
“My father . . . is my father dead?” she said. She was unaware of her naked breasts and shoulders where Hansen had torn her shift and of the rain that fell on her.
“A man with gray hair riding a gray horse?” Petsha said.
“Yes, yes. That was my father. Have you seen him?”
“He lies in the valley with his dead,” Petsha said. “It was his fate.”
Judy buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Milos and Petsha exchanged glances.
Finally Milos said, “What do we do with her?”
“Kill her?” Petsha said.
“Why?”
Petsha shrugged. “It was a suggestion.”
Milos held Judy by the shoulders and talked to the top of her bowed head. “What is your name, girl, and why are you here?”
Without looking up, Judy’s broken, hesitant voice tumbled from between her fingers.
“My name is Judy Campbell. Clouston kidnapped me from my father’s ranch. When . . . when my father attacked his camp I managed to escape.”
“Why did he take you? For ransom?” Petsha said.
“No. He wanted to make me his kept woman.”
“Then your father attacked him and he decided to kill you instead,” Milos said.
“I don’t know,” Judy said.
“It seems likely,” Milos said.
He bent, stripped the slicker from Simpson’s body, and draped it over Judy’s shoulders. She immediately threw it off. “I don’t want to wear that. It’s a filthy thing,” she said.
“Then you will be cold and wet,” Milos said.
“I don’t care. He probably helped to murder my father and he would have murdered me.”
“Eventually,” Milos said. “Now you will come with us.”
Judy dropped her hands from her tear-stained face. “Where will you take me?”
“Back to Broken Bridle,” Milos said.
“Or we can leave you here,” Petsha said. “When his men don’t return, Thomas Clouston will send others to investigate. We must be gone.”
Judy nodded and Petsha said, “You bob your head up and down. What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll come with you,” Judy said.
“Then you can ride our horse,” Petsha said. “It is not a filthy thing like the slicker.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy was on the street when the D’eth brothers led in a horse with a drenched, half-naked woman on its back. Most of the reflector lamps along the boardwalk were out, barely holding the night at bay, but Purdy recognized the slender form and tear-stained face of Judy Campbell.
The young lawman stepped into the street and grabbed the horse’s bridle. The D’eth brothers flanked the animal, neither of them with any great liking for peace officers.
“What happened?” He asked the question of Milos.
“Let the woman tell you,” the man said. He reached up and effortlessly lifted Judy from the horse. “She is cold,” he said.
Milos turned his back on Purdy as Petsha turned the horse and headed for the livery.
“Wait,” Purdy said. “I want to talk with you two.”
“No,” Milos said. “No talk. You will infect us with your weakness.”
Embarrassed by Judy’s nakedness, Purdy pulled her shift up to her shoulders and led her toward the Streetcar, a place where there was bound to be womenfolk.
Milos D’eth’s last comment still stung, but the sheriff knew that the insult was no more than he deserved and he had no answer to it.
Sunny Swanson sat by the piano located near the staircase where she could hear Burt Becker if he called out for her, or rather groaned for her. But when Purdy assisted Judy inside, she stepped quickly across the saloon floor and confronted the sheriff, a frown gathered between her eyes.
“That’s Judy Campbell. What did you do to her?” she demanded.
Purdy was flustered. “I . .
. I mean, I did nothing to her. The D’eth brothers brought her into town.”
“What did those two freaks do to her?”
“Nothing,” Purdy said. “I don’t know what they did.”
Sunny took the girl in her arms, called for brandy and a blanket, and led Judy to a table. She waited until the girl took a few sips of brandy and was wrapped in a white, red, and green trade blanket before she spoke.
“What happened, Judy?” she said. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
“You were always very nice to me, Sunny,” Judy said, talking in a small, quiet voice.
Sunny squeezed Judy’s hand. “We’re both part of the sisterhood, honey. We may have our petty jealousies and our moments of backbiting, but when the chips are down, women help other women, and now I’m trying to help you.”
Judy Campbell took time to gather her thoughts. Pete Caradas, ever the Southern gentleman, added brandy to her glass and said, “From the beginning, Miss Campbell. Take it slowly.”
Judy gave the gunman a smile, then told her story, from her kidnap to her life being saved by the D’eth brothers.
“I think my father is dead,” the girl said. “He was always a very headstrong man. He led six men into the valley and only three came out, two of those wounded.”
“Don’t give up hope yet, Judy,” Sunny said. “Your father could have been captured.”
“Yes, perhaps that’s the case,” Judy said, very little hope in her voice.
“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and I’m not sending you to the hotel,” Sunny said. “You’ll stay in my room tonight here at the Streetcar. The brandy will help you sleep and now I’ll help you upstairs.”
Judy Campbell made no protest.
She woke to darkness. Somewhere in the Streetcar a clock chimed two, then fell silent again. Judy Campbell turned on her back and stared up at the mirrored ceiling. How tiny she looked in Sunny’s huge brass bed, made for fun, not sleep. Slightly embarrassed by the thought, Judy sat upright on the billowing pillows and the memories of the previous day flooded back to her.
Her father was dead. She knew that with certainty. His loss hadn’t quite reached her yet, but it would soon and she’d wear black for a year to mourn him. She’d been too young to remember her mother’s death, but her father’s hit her doubly hard.
Judy lay back and closed her eyes. Outside coyotes yipped, a hunting pair moving in close, and a dying fly buzzed on the windowsill. Somewhere a woman sobbed . . .
Judy sat upright, listening into the night. Her borrowed nightdress slipped, leaving her left shoulder bare and her hair, flattened by rain but now dry, fell in tight ringlets over her forehead.
There it was again, definitely a woman’s sobs and from close at hand.
Could it be Sunny? Was she pining for a lost love? No, that couldn’t be. From what she knew of Sunny she wasn’t the type to sob over a man, or over anyone else.
Was it . . . ? No, it was impossible. A saloon girl would not grieve for Duncan Campbell. But she may be hurt and sobbing for herself.
Judy’s instinct was to curl up in bed, mourn for her father, and put all else out of her mind. But the sound of the crying girl was insistent, demanding her attention.
Forcing herself to get up, Judy used a box of Lucifers to light the single candle by her bed. She then opened the drawer of the side table and found what she’d expected. Sunny kept a Sharps .30-caliber pepperpot revolver there to discourage drunk and abusive clients.
Judy opened her room door and stepped onto the balcony. A dark saloon empty of people is a gloomy, shadowy place, and the guttering light of the candle did little to banish the murk. The girl paused in the doorway, then determined the sobbing came from a room to her left. Holding the candle high, the revolver ready in her right hand, she stepped in that direction.
Her bare feet made no sound as Judy stopped at a door where a man groaned and turned in his sleep, the bed creaking under him. Was the girl in there? She tried the door handle, but the room was locked. Again she stood motionless and listened. Rain ticked on the roof just a few feet above her head. For a moment she imagined her father’s body lying cold and blue in the downpour, untended, abused. Judy closed her eyes and banished the thought. The sobbing had started again.
But there was no room beyond that of the groaning man, just a sheer wall covered with flocked red and black paper. The sobbing came from behind the wall. But there was no apparent door, unless . . . was the entrance to the hidden room in the groaning man’s quarters?
Judy tapped on the wall and determined that it was made from thin boards and seemed to be quite flimsy in construction. She put her mouth against the wall and whispered, “Who is there?”
There was a long pause, then a girl’s faint answer. “I’m Jane Collins. I’m being held captive.”
Judy’s excitement spiked and she said, louder than she intended, “Jane! It’s me! It’s Judy Campbell.”
A little squeal of delight from behind the wall, then, “Judy, I knew you’d come for me. I knew it.”
“Step away from the wall, sister, and drop the stinger.”
A hard, raw muzzle of blued iron pushed into the back of Judy’s neck. “Do it now or I’ll bury you beside your pa.”
The Sharps thudded to the floor and Sunny Swanson tapped on the wall with the barrel of her Colt. “You in there, shut your trap or I’ll put six through this wall.”
Jane Collins hushed as though she’d just been gagged. She knew Sunny was capable of carrying out her threat.
“Back to your room, Miss Campbell,” Sunny said, shoving her gun into the girl’s side. “I’ll lock the door so you don’t sleepwalk again.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Judy said.
“I don’t know yet,” Sunny said. “That’s up to Burt. But if I was you I wouldn’t make any big plans for the future.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Dr. Clouston was angry, raving, foaming at the mouth mad.
He’d lost seven of his best men including the loyal Deke Hansen, and one of the wounded was not expected to live. But worse, the Chinese were now refusing to work.
“Boss, they say they haven’t been fed since they got here and that undercutting the rock to remove the greenstone will be too damned dangerous.”
A man named Lark Rawlings, a Cajun whom Clouston didn’t particularly like, delivered the unwelcome news.
“Are they insane?” the doctor said. “Did you tell them that food is on the way and wagons to haul the ore to the rail depot? Did you tell them I’m increasing their wages to a dollar a day because of the danger of the overhang?”
“Seems they already know them things, boss,” Rawlings said.
“I want work to get started right away on cutting the greenstone so it’s ready for loading,” Clouston said. “Haul those Chinese off their lazy butts. Hang a few if you have to. That will make the rest pay attention.”
Rawlings, a tall, unshaven man with black eyes and hair, nodded. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll string up half a dozen of the ringleaders and let them dangle for a spell, make a big impression.”
Clouston said, “I wish to attend the hangings,” then waved his hand in dismissal. He’d thought earlier about cleaving a few heads, but six bodies dangling on a makeshift gallows until they rotted would be a potent reminder of his wrath.
He sighed, lit his pipe, and picked up his copy of Dr. J. C. Bucknill’s brilliant treatise on the care and control of the insane. It was clear from the words he read that the Chinese were all demented and must be treated most severely, like naughty children.
In the end, Thomas Clouston hanged the five men and two women who were judged to be the ringleaders of the revolt.
The job was badly bungled by Rawlings and his assistant hangmen, and all seven Chinese strangled to death. Being small and light, their deaths had not been quick or easy.
Clouston, however, was very pleased. The Chinese had learned what happened to those who displeased him, and sev
eral hundred men and boys were already hard at work on the greenstone seam, despite the looming threat of the massive rock overhang that looked like a huge, curling wave about to crash onto their heads.
By right of his fast gun and ruthlessness, Rawlings had stepped into the boots of the late Deke Hansen and Clouston pulled him aside, the elongated shadows of the Chinese dead falling on them.
“Do you think six mounted riflemen are enough to keep the diggers in check?” he said.
“Sure, boss. The Chinese know what those six men can bring.”
“Very well, then I’ll leave that up to you,” Clouston said. “But at the first sign of discontent and muttering, hang a few more, women preferably. I need the men as workers.”
“You can depend on that,” Rawlings said.
“How many men have you killed in gunfights?” Clouston said.
The man thought for a few moments, then said, “White men?”
“Yes,” Clouston said. “Let’s confine it only to those who matter.”
“Seven white men, boss.”
“Anyone of note?”
“Well, I kilt stuttering Willie Newsome down Ellsworth way. He claimed to be the fastest gun and hardest man north of the Red until I taught him the error of his ways.”
“Good, then you are eminently qualified to supervise this enterprise,” Clouston said. “Work the Chinese like slaves, Rawlings, dig, dig, dig, faster, faster, faster, dawn till dusk until they drop. Understand?”
“I got it, boss,” Rawlings said, grinning.
“There’s one other thing that’s of the greatest moment,” Clouston said. “I will attack Broken Bridle very soon and wipe that accursed town off the map. I want to hear plans from you and your men that I can use or adapt.”
“I fit Indians when I scouted for the army,” Rawlings said. “Wiped out a few Sioux and Cheyenne villages in my time. I know how it’s done.”
“Good, then we’ll have a consultation soon,” Clouston said.
He glanced up at the seven hanging bodies, the ropes creaking in the wind. “Building a gallows was Hansen’s idea and it was a good one,” he said. “All things considered I’d say that our golden enterprise is off to an admirable start.”
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