The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

  “It’s in the holster. But it’ll be out if you make a break. Let’s go.”

  Page walked into the hotel, past the sleepy clerk and up the stairs. His mind raced as he climbed, and by the time he unlocked the door and stepped in, he’d made up his mind.

  “Get the cash and the watch. I’ve got you covered.”

  “All right.” Billy stepped to the dresser, his back to the man. As he opened the drawer he reached in, picked up his spare gun, and whirled. “It’s one against one now. What do you want?”

  “You’re pretty sharp.” The man didn’t seem too concerned. “My name’s George Ives.” He waited as though the name might remind Page of something. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Yes. You’ve made a name along the way.” Ives was not posted as an outlaw, but in the Grasshopper strike he had come close. He was an expert gunman and always in the midst of trouble. Now he smiled fearlessly at Page.

  “Neither of us wants to die, but one will for sure. Let’s make a deal. I like the way you handle yourself. I like smart people, and you’re smart.”

  “How’d you find me, Ives?”

  “I’m not so dumb myself! You covered yourself pretty well, but not many men wear a ring like that. Next time you hold up somebody, you better take it off.”

  Billy wore a massive gold ring with a blue stone and a heavy letter P in the center. He was chagrined, but showed nothing to Ives. “What makes you think I’ll hold up another stage?”

  Ives laughed softly. He had strange eyes, gray-green and bright even as he stood facing the other gun. “Why, you’ll be doing that—or something like it, Billy. Here’s the deal. I’m in the same line myself.”

  “What makes you think I won’t shoot?”

  “I’m not alone, Billy,” Ives shrugged. “We’re organized, and the boys know about you.” He laughed shortly. “I’ll admit I was stupid coming alone. I thought I could take you. But if you get me, you’re finished. You’ll never get out of Virginia City alive. That’s the way we work.”

  “Who’s we?”

  Ives said, “There’s about thirty of us. We’re here to fleece this town. It’s ripe for the picking. Right now there’s over fifty thousand in the safe at Jackson’s office. He’ll have to ship it—and when he does, we’ll know about it. How’d you like to have part of that piece of cake?”

  “Join you?”

  “Why not? Like I said, you’re smart, and we need smart people.”

  Billy stared at him. “What if I double-cross you?”

  “You won’t do that, Billy Boy,” Ives said. His agate eyes suddenly turned hard. “You think it’s funny I’d trust you? I don’t trust you. But there’s a fortune to be made here—and I see in you a man who likes easy money.”

  “Always liked to play a lone hand.”

  “Won’t do this time,” Ives shook his head. “If you’re not in with us, we’ll do you in.”

  Ives said no more, but stood there confidently. He was a sharp student of the human race.

  “You’re the boss?” Billy asked.

  “I’m the boss in this place. Well, Billy, are you in or out?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Fine! You’ll do well for yourself.”

  “It’s a deal.” Billy lowered his gun, aware of the risk.

  “Don’t worry. You’re with us now.” He touched the knot in his neck piece. “See that? All of us wear a knot like that.”

  “What do you call yourselves?”

  Ives smiled. “If you ever get in a jam, just holler ‘I’m innocent!’ and we’ll be right with you.” He turned to leave, a sly humor in his eyes as he said, “That’s what we call ourselves—the Innocents.”

  After the door closed, Billy stood there, thinking it over. He had a quick inclination to leave, to get away from the whole thing, but his natural carelessness made him confident. He began to whistle as he washed his face.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A VISIT FROM YEAGER

  As summer wore on, Alder Gulch continued to grow. Though it lay in one small fold of the obscure Montana hills, the fever generated by the yellow metal floated across the boundaries, reached across the country. It was a restless America, torn by the war, and many of the disillusioned, the misfits, and the seekers of quick wealth flowed daily into the Gulch’s confines. They came up the Missouri to Benton and across the Rocky passes, or over the Oregon Trail to Fort Hall or from Lewiston through the Bitterroots.

  To accommodate the travelers, a stage line was started by A. J. Oliver, running through Bannack and on to Salt Lake. The population in Alder Gulch swelled to twelve thousand—men of all sorts: frontiersmen from the Platte, trappers out of Ogden’s Hole, Maine men and Ohio men and Tennessee men, dance-hall girls, and gunmen. Even professionals—doctors and lawyers—turned to mining.

  The gulch around Virginia City was staked out solidly, and the newcomers pushed into adjoining gulches and deeper into the Rocky Chain. Whereas the previous fall Zack had seen only a roving trapper or a solitary Indian hunter on his way to town, now the country was busy with prospectors all the way to the hills, digging into the earth and panning the small streams for yellow gold.

  Two of these were John Crenna and Nolan Stone. They had come from the east to find the early comers elbow-to-elbow along Alder Creek, and had gone to the hills looking for new territory. The two staked claims on Dancer Creek, just south of where it ran across Zack’s land.

  Zack had known that would happen, and dreaded to see it, for he knew if they struck pay dirt, others would follow. But he had no choice, so he carefully staked off the section of the Dancer he held title to.

  Late one afternoon, Crenna and Stone showed up at Zack’s cabin asking if they could buy some food. “Sure could use some fresh grub,” Crenna said. He was the younger of the pair, not over twenty-five, with an easy manner. He was strongly built, thick in the chest, with over-sized hands. The slow soft echoes of the South were in his talk, and he took off his hat at once when Choiya emerged from the cabin. He nodded, “Howdy, ma’am,” which made Zack relax.

  “Why, you’d have to ask this lady about that,” he said indolently. “She’s got a fine vegetable garden over there.”

  “I saw it,” Crenna said. He smiled at Choiya, adding, “Makes me think of home, back in Tennessee. I get so hungry for a fresh tomato I’m likely to head out one day just to get one.”

  “I think we can spare a few tomatoes—and some other things too,” Choiya said.

  “Be real kind of you, ma’am,” he said. “My name’s John Crenna, and this is Nolan Stone.”

  Stone was a slight man with black eyes and sharp features. “We’ll be glad to pay whatever you ask,” he said. He had none of the rough speech of most miners, and there was a trace of culture in his voice that Zack identified as eastern.

  “I’m Zack Winslow and this is Choiya.” He hesitated, and added, “She and another lady, Bronwen Morgan, take care of all of us.” It was a poor way to phrase it, but he could not put their delicate arrangement any better.

  Nolan Stone seemed to sense his awkwardness, for he smiled. “I’ve heard of Miss Morgan from Parris Pfouts. My own parents were missionaries, so I’m anxious to meet her.”

  “Is that so? Well, right now she’s milking in the shed around back. Maybe you can talk her out of some milk and butter while Crenna wheedles Choiya out of vegetables. If you need any fresh meat, I can let you have half a doe I shot two days ago.”

  “John, you check it out with Choiya,” Stone urged. “I’ll see if Miss Morgan can spare a drop of milk for a fellow missionary—or at least the son of one.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” Zack said, and led Stone to the milking shed.

  Choiya picked a bucket off the table beside the cabin. “I’ll get you a few things. What do you like besides tomatoes, Mr. Crenna?”

  “Just John will do, ma’am.” He hesitated, then asked cautiously, “Do you have a last name I can call you by? Like Miss Smith or something?”

>   She smiled. “My father’s name was Lafayette. He named me after his own mother—Jeanne.”

  “Why do they call you Choiya, then?”

  “That’s what the Arapaho named me after I was captured. It means cactus. They said I was as hard to get close to as a cactus—all sharp needles.”

  Crenna stole a glance at the young woman, admiring the smooth oval face and clear eyes. He was a shy young man, having little experience with women. “Why,” he remarked, “that don’t seem likely, Miss Jeanne. Maybe they meant that pretty little bloom that’s right in the middle of some of the cactus. You know, with those fine pink centers and the tiny little yellow edges.”

  Her lips tightened with suspicion, but he had such an open, honest face that she relaxed. “They didn’t mean that.”

  They walked to the garden, and she picked a big red tomato. “How does this look?”

  He reached out, took it almost reverently, and whispered, “Glory to God! That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since I left Tennessee.” Then he flushed. “I—I mean except—” He stopped and his face grew even redder. “Didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Jeanne.”

  Her eyes opened wide at the sound of her name. “It’s all right. Why don’t you sample that one.”

  He nibbled at the tomato, tilting his head back, and as the juice touched his tongue, his eyes half closed with pleasure. He ate the entire thing, not allowing a drop to escape, then sighed. “That’s better than any nugget in the creek! Lord, I’ve missed my vegetables.”

  She was very proud of her garden, having watered it by hand and fought the bugs constantly. “Do you like carrots?” She began filling his bucket.

  “Now, don’t cut yourself short, Miss Jeanne!” And he got down on his knees as they moved along the rows, admiring the neat lines. Soon they were deep into a conversation about the best way to fertilize the soil and to kill bugs.

  Meanwhile, Bron had been sitting on a stool, her head leaning against Penelope’s flank when she heard Zack say, “Bron, you’ve got a customer.” She straightened up and looked quizzically across. “This is Nolan Stone, Bron. He’s got a claim south of us. This is Bronwen Morgan.”

  “I can’t shake hands just now,” Bron smiled, “but if you’ll wait until I get through, it’s glad I’ll be to talk with you.”

  “His folks were missionaries,” Zack informed her. Turning to Nolan he said, “I’ll cut you off a quarter of that doe while Bron’s finishing.”

  “Where were your people from, Mr. Stone?”

  “From England originally. A little village called Boughton.”

  “Oh, I’ve been there!” Bron exclaimed. “My own home isn’t too far away.”

  “Are you serious?” Stone exclaimed with surprise. “I’ve never been there myself, but my parents told me about it so many times sometimes I get to thinking I’ve seen it. They came to America before I was born and worked with the Indians in New York before moving onto China.”

  “It’s a lovely little village. My fiance and I went there in May three years ago. We held services in a little Methodist church.”

  “Unless there were two Methodist churches, it must have been the same one my parents were married in.”

  “There was just the one. It sat in a little valley facing a small stream—I’ve forgotten the name of it.”

  “The Cooley River?”

  “Why, there it is! The Cooley, and a lovely stream it is!”

  She paused in her milking motions, and her eyes half closed. “We stayed there a week, with a lovely family. And the sermons Owen preached—!” She broke off, and the light faded from her face. She began milking again, silenced by memories of Owen welling up in her, and she blinked her eyes to free them of the tears that surfaced.

  Stone noticed the change, something about that time that had brought sorrow, and with great tact, said, “My parents left shortly after they were married. They moved to London where they studied before going to the mission field.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “To China. With a minister, Robert Morrison.”

  “Reverend Morrison! I’ve known all about him! Owen and I read stories of all the missionaries, and the dear Reverend Morrison, why he was a prince among them!” She got up and set the frothy bucket of milk down, then came to stand near him. “Is it home they are now?”

  He dropped his head. “They would say so. They died in China. I was only sixteen years old.” He managed a smile. “But they wrote me just before they died, and Father said, ‘We’ll be going home soon, Nolan—not to America, but to a house not built with hands.’ ”

  Tears rose again in Bron’s eyes, and she whispered, “How beautiful!”

  “I didn’t think so, Miss Morgan,” he shrugged. “As a matter of fact, I got so angry with God that I’ve pretty well kept out of His way ever since.”

  She shook her head and her soft red hair swung freely. “Wait you—I will have a word or two on that subject!” Then she said, “Will you carry the milk for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  As they rounded the corner of the cabin, Bron spied Choiya and Crenna on their knees examining the small shoots that pierced the ground. “Well, devil fly off!” she exclaimed. “She won’t let the rest of us into that precious garden of hers.”

  “She’s a very beautiful young woman,” Stone said. “Her story is well known in town—as is yours.”

  “I suppose we’re pretty well discussed then?” Bron asked. “Well, no matter. Zacharias Winslow may not be a Christian, but how kind he is—taking in this whole menagerie.”

  The men were invited to stay for supper, which they accepted with only a slight protest. John Crenna said little, but Stone made up for it. Once he started there was no stopping him. He had traveled widely and made the places come alive as he told story after story. Obviously, he was well-educated and aroused curiosity as to why he would be in a mining camp, working with his hands. He divulged nothing, however, but he did make one disturbing comment.

  “We had a visit the other day. Two men rode up and made us an offer for our claims.”

  “Offer!” Crenna scoffed in disgust. “They wanted our claims for nothing, that’s what it amounted to! It was Red Yeager and Long John Frank—part of the Ives’ crowd.”

  “Who’s Ives?” Buck asked.

  “George Ives,” Crenna replied. “He’s the kingpin of the toughs. Nothing’s been proved on him, but everybody knows he’s up to his ears in all the robbing and killing that’s been going on.”

  “Better not say that too loudly, John,” Stone warned. “Everybody knows what Ives and his crowd do—but nobody’s tried to stop them.” He frowned. “Frank and Yeager put it pretty strong to us. Oh, nothing you could pin down, just vague warnings about how ‘dangerous’ it was way out like we are.”

  “They made it worse when they went to see Nick Tybalt,” Crenna said. “He’s got a claim downstream from us. He gave Yeager a tongue lashing, and the two men beat him to a pulp. If they come around again, I’ll let them have it with my shotgun.”

  “No, they’re gunmen, John,” Stone said. “We’ll just have to hang on until the law gets a better footing.”

  After the meal, the pair rose and Stone spotted Zack’s little library. “Who’s the reader?” he asked, going over to look at the titles. He read a few titles and said, “I like Dickens—especially Great Expectations.”

  “Don’t know that one,” Zack said. “Take any of these if you need something to read.”

  Stone took a copy of a book of essays. “See you got some of Emerson’s stuff. You like him?”

  “Can’t read it,” Zack confessed. “He’s over my head.”

  “He’s over his own head,” Stone snorted. “Once in a while he blunders into saying a really fine thing—but most of the time he’s full of hot air. I’ve got a copy of Great Expectations. Stop by and pick it up.”

  When they walked to the door, John Crenna said, “I sure do thank you for the vegetables, Miss Jeanne.�
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  Zack and the others looked blank, and then they realized he was speaking to Choiya. Her cheeks flushed, and she said quietly, “You’re welcome, John.”

  After they left, Buck asked, “What did he call you?”

  “My real name is Jeanne Lafayette.”

  Zack stared at her. “You never told me that.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Lafayette?” Bron mused aloud. “I wonder if he was related to the Marquis de Lafayette who fought with Washington in the Revolution?”

  “That was his uncle,” Choiya said. “My father had a silver presentation sword that belonged to him.”

  They all looked at her in amazement. Zack said in awe, “Well, I’ll be . . .”

  “I studied all about him in school,” Bron said.

  Choiya was embarrassed at the attention.

  Zack hastened to ask, “Well, what do we call you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Bron put an arm around her. “See how soft you are! Are you having a name or not?” Morgan fixed her eyes on the others. “You can do what you please, but I’m calling her Jeanne from now on.”

  “Good enough,” Zack grinned. “Jeanne Lafayette—sure does sound important.” It was a game at first, confusing Paul and Alice, but by the time a week had gone by, she was Jeanne to all of them.

  ****

  “Be at the top of Highland Ridge at seven tonight . . .”

  Ives had stopped by to drop that single sentence in Billy’s ear on Tuesday morning, and after supper, he got his horse and made his way out of town. The stores and saloons were open, and the solid procession of gold seekers made a continuous line, heading for town, all the way to the ridge where Billy found George Ives waiting. The lights of camp and tent and hillside fires burned endlessly.

  “Let’s go,” Ives said, and led the way for ten miles, coming at last to what appeared to be an abandoned house—except there were at least fifteen horses tied to saplings around the place. “Come on in,” Ives said, and stepped into a single large room. Some of the men Page recognized at once. Ned Ray, the saloon owner, Boone Helm, and Steve Marshland. Others he knew only by sight, but was most surprised to see Jack Gallagher, Henry Plummer’s deputy sheriff in Virginia City, as well as the other two deputies, Hayes Lyons and Buck Stinson.