The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I can think of a worse one,” Parris said. “You’ve got a lot to live for, my boy. Go somewhere else, make a new start.”

  Page searched Pfouts’ eyes for the real reason, then saw something that made him nod. “You may be right, Parris. I’ve been thinking on it. I’ll be leaving in a few weeks.”

  “Be best for you.” Pfouts smiled with relief. “Why don’t you tell Bron that, Billy? She’s been worried about you.”

  “Sure.” Page left the store and went straight to the stable. As he rode out of town, he passed Pfouts’ store. Parris knows I’m with the wrong bunch, he thought bitterly. I guess Bron knows too—maybe Zack. He had been only half serious when he told Ives he was leaving, but now he knew he had to get out. Just this job today—then the gold shipment. That’d be the end of it!

  The new coat felt snug and warm against the cold air. Page looked up at the sky and decided the snow would hold off for a day or two. Just two jobs, he mused to himself. He rode steadily on, and a little before noon pulled up in front of Zack’s cabin and slid from his horse. The door opened as he tied his horse to a post, and there stood Bron with Paul and Alice on either side.

  “Christmas is a little bit early,” he said as they came out to meet him. He untied the sack, and they all hurried in, the children jabbering and pulling at him for attention.

  “Well, Billy,” Bron smiled. “Come to the fire and thaw you out.”

  Handing her the sack, he said, “Thanks, Bron.” He added, “Got to thinking that you might be snowed in by Christmas—so I thought I’d have it early. Hello, Zack—Buck.” He turned and gave Jeanne and Lillian a smile. “How are you, ladies?”

  “Have some coffee, Billy,” Zack said. He got up and went to the fireplace. As he poured Page a cup of steaming coffee, he asked, “How’s things in Virginia City?”

  Page swallowed a mouthful of the coffee, then replied, “The same, Zack. Getting ready for the winter.”

  He thawed out, and for the next two hours entertained them all. He played a game with Paul and Alice, then told Lillian about a drama troupe that had put on a performance two weeks earlier. Bron noticed how the girl’s face relaxed as he spun the story out, and thought, Billy’s at ease with anybody he meets. What a wonderful gift! He talked with Jeanne and with Buck, both of them smiling at his humor. Finally he said, “Well, I’ve got to get back to town. Let’s have Christmas!”

  He stood up and began pulling presents out of the sack. The next thirty minutes were filled with an enjoyment he had rarely had. Alice and Paul stuffed their mouths with hard candy, and all the others laughed and exclaimed over their gifts. He had gotten a set of silver brushes and a comb to match for Jeanne, which caused her eyes to shine with warmth. For Lillian, Parris had chosen a pair of soft doe-skin gloves and half boots to match. Bron stood there looking pleased with the sewing kit enclosed in a finely wrought leather case, and Buck could not believe his eyes when Billy handed him a Navy Colt with a tan leather holster.

  Overcome with the coveted gift, he swallowed and said, “I never saw anything so nice.” He looked up in awe and whispered, “Thanks, Mr. Page!”

  “You’re welcome, Buck.” Billy next plucked a bulky package out of the bottom of the sack and handed it to Zack. “I knew you liked books, so I asked Parris to pick you out a good one. Haven’t seen it, though.”

  Zack opened the package, hesitated, then held up a beautifully bound volume. “The Bible,” he smiled. He ruffled through the pages and looked up. “Thanks, Billy—and I’ll tell Parris he made a good choice.” He handed the Bible to Page. “Sign it for me, Billy, with the date.”

  Page took the Bible, and Bron scurried around to get the ink and a quill. He paused, and gave a rueful grin at them. “This has been a fine Christmas. Best I ever had, I reckon. I’m no scholar, but I know one verse.” He squared away and wrote slowly on the first page of the Bible, then handed it to Zack.

  Zack read it aloud: “There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother—and I’m glad to have a few friends in this dark world. Merry Christmas to you, Zack.”

  “Don’t know where that verse is,” Billy confessed, somewhat embarrassed by the sentiment he’d expressed. “But you people have been the best friends I’ve ever had.” He jumped up suddenly and said, “I’ve got to get out of here. Next thing you know I’ll be bawling.”

  “Stay for the night, Billy,” Bron urged, and the others tried to prevail on him, but he shook his head.

  “Got to get back to town. Don’t want to get snowed in for the winter out here in the woods!”

  He walked to the door, but Bron said, “Wait you now, Billy Page!” She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a loud kiss on the cheek. “Merry Christmas!” Then the others came, Lillian giving him her hand, shyly, and Jeanne smiling and doing the same. Alice and Paul hugging him, and Buck nearly breaking his hand with a bone-crushing shake.

  He pulled away, and Zack walked with him as he left the cabin and mounted his horse. “That meant a lot, Billy,” Zack said. He put his hand out and smiled. “Thanks for the Bible. I need it.”

  Page gave him a quick glance. “Do you? Well, now, I reckon Mrs. Page’s oldest son could use a little of it himself.” He took up the reins, then paused, “Zack, I may not see you again.”

  Winslow looked at him sharply. “You pulling out, Billy?”

  “In a couple of weeks.” His horse fidgeted, and Billy said, “Got to go. Tell Bron, will you?”

  “Sure.” Zack studied the young man’s face. “Maybe I won’t see you again, Billy. So you’ve got to hear me say something. You pulled me out of the fire twice, Billy—once with Yeager and then when you kept Stinson from putting a hole in me. I won’t ever forget that. Thanks.”

  “Sure. Makes me feel a little better, Zack, knowing I gave you a hand.” He glanced at the cabin. “Take care of Bron. She’s special.” Then he grinned and pulled his horse around. “Merry Christmas, Zack!”

  He kicked his horse into motion and rode away from the cabin, turning around to wave at Zack, then disappearing around the flank of alders that skirted the road. A mile away, he slowed his horse to a walk and thought with pleasure of the visit. He had formed few ties in his life, staying at no one place long enough to make fast friends. Regret came to him at the prospect of leaving Zack and Bron.

  The dark streak of pessimism that ran underneath his cheerful manner rose to the surface; and as he turned off the road to take a shortcut to the Singer place, the dull winter sky seemed ominous and foreboding.

  He emerged from the woods two miles south, and followed an old game trail that tilted downward across the land. When he got to the small barn—all that was left of Singer’s abortive attempt to farm—he saw two horses tied to saplings. He dismounted and went inside.

  He stood by the fire where Yeager and Boone were cooking a supper of beans and bacon. “You want some grub?” Yeager asked.

  “No. Just coffee.” He poured himself a cup and sat back on his heels while the pair ate. Yeager, he noticed, had trouble eating with his upper front teeth missing, and Page knew that a bitter hatred raged against Zack.

  The trio scarcely talked while they ate; then when they finished and had thrown their cooking gear into saddlebags, Helm asked, “Did George tell you what we come to do?”

  “Plummer says we been too easy on these miners strung out here away from town. Told George we got to get tough.”

  Yeager said, “Clubfoot heard Stone tell Harold Reiner he’d took five thousand out of that claim of his over on Dancer Creek.” He grinned and said through the toothless gap, “We’ll pick that up, Page. That’s the job.”

  “Might put up a fight,” Billy said. He wished he hadn’t come, but it was too late to back out now. “Him and that fellow Crenna could be pretty tough.”

  “Crenna went over to Bannack,” Helm said. “We won’t have no trouble with Stone all by hisself. Let’s go.”

  They mounted and Yeager led the way across the ridge to Dancer Creek. T
he sun was falling behind the mountains, throwing a dull reddish glow across the creek as the three came out of the woods and looked down on the small cabin built back against a line of fir trees. The cabin windows showed orange, and Boone said, “We’ll get a little closer, then sneak up on him. Don’t make no noise, and when we get there, I’ll go through the door first. You two follow.”

  They moved down the trail, then left their horses tied to saplings as they crept closer. No sound came from the cabin. When they were alongside, Helm pulled his neckerchief over his face, and the other two did the same. Boone drew his gun and motioned with it toward the front of the cabin. There was no window on that side, and they all ducked under the one in the front. When they were all in front of the door, Helm nodded, then threw his shoulder against the door.

  Nolan Stone jumped out of his chair as the door burst open, but halted when he saw a gun trained on him. “Hold it right there!”

  Stone grew pale, but nodded. “Looks like you’re calling the shots.”

  “You just behave and you won’t get hurt,” Boone growled.

  Yeager moved forward to stand beside Boone Helm, while Billy closed the door and waited.

  “Let’s have your cash,” Helm demanded.

  “Haven’t got much, boys,” Stone shrugged. He pointed with his pipe to the shelf nailed to the wall. “It’s right there.”

  Yeager whirled and pulled the pouch off the wall. He gave it scarcely a look and cursed. “You’ve got your dust cached here, Stone!”

  “Took it into town last Friday,” Stone said. “I dug that out since then, but the rest of it’s in the safe at the Station.”

  “We know better!” Helm said. “Think we don’t know who puts his dust in that safe? Now, just give us the dust, Stone, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Stone said steadily, “I thought somebody might be by, just like you fellows. Crenna and I talked it over, and we took the dust in last week.”

  Yeager lunged forward and brought his gun down hard over Stone’s head, driving him to the floor. Red yelled, “Lying ain’t gonna help you none. Now, get that gold—or we’ll have to burn it outta you!”

  Stone was dazed, and made two attempts to stand before he got to his feet. He wiped the blood off his face and said, “All you have to do is ask Tyler. He took the gold and put it in his vault.”

  “Where’s the receipt?” Helm demanded.

  Stone blinked, “Crenna has it.”

  Yeager cursed. “We gotta work on him! Come on—let’s tie him to that chair.”

  He stepped forward, and at the same time Stone reached out and pulled Yeager’s bandanna down. “I thought it was you,” he said. Then his eyes opened wide and he cried, “Don’t—!”

  But it was too late. Yeager drove two shots into Stone’s chest, killing him before he crumpled to the floor.

  Helm leaped forward, crying, “You fool! Now he can’t tell us nothin’!”

  Yeager sheathed his gun, turning from the body of Stone. “Got to be in this cabin. Let’s find it.”

  For over an hour the three plundered the cabin, tearing out shelves, digging in the floor, but the gold was not to be found. “Let’s get out of here,” Helm swore in disgust. “We’ll have to work on Crenna when he gets back from Bannack.”

  Yeager walked over and bent over the body of Stone, taking a ring off his finger and the watch out of his pocket. He rose and followed Helm out into the night where Page had already gone. They groped their way back to their horses, and rode back to town. Yeager and Helm talked as they rode along, but Page said nothing. The night was dark, and the thought of Nolan Stone lying dead in his own blood made Billy ill. He had opened his mouth to protest just as Yeager’s gun had lifted, but the shots had drowned out his voice.

  He was sick to his stomach, and when he left the pair, he gripped the reins until his fingers cramped. He had known Stone, had played cards with him a few times. He’d liked the man, and now he was dead. It did Billy no good to think he’d not been the one to pull the trigger. Bile rose bitterly in his throat as he put his horse up in the stable. He went straight to his room and lay down on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. When morning came, he had not slept, but the cold light of the winter sun struck his eyes, and he rolled over on his face, wishing he’d never left town. But no matter what he wished, he kept seeing the body of Nolan Stone crumpled and still in the cabin on Dancer Creek.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SHOOT OUT

  Stone had been well liked in the Gulch, so his death brought sorrow to the community. His funeral was held in the church, which was filled to overflowing. Reverend Phineas Wiley, the Methodist pastor from Bannack, gave the sermon, and afterward read the scripture at the graveside, quoting “I am the resurrection and the life. . . .”

  The biting wind that swept down out of the Bitterroots numbed Bron’s face as she stood between Buck and Lillian. She had shed her tears in private over Stone, for he had not been open to the gospel. As the minister read the words, she looked around the circle of roughly dressed men, noticing that John Crenna’s face was scored with grief. He was not a man to show his feelings, but even as Bron watched, the man’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared down on the rough pine box. Jeanne stood beside him, and Bron’s heart warmed as she saw the woman put a hand on Crenna’s arm. He turned to look at her dark face with some surprise, and she said something to him in a low voice that seemed to give him some support. He nodded and reached out and touched her hand before turning to face the preacher again.

  Zack stood between James Miller and Dutch Beidler in the open field that had become the burial ground of the Gulch. The three men had been friends of Nolan Stone, and their faces mirrored the bitterness they felt. The gusty wind swept across the field, blowing Zack’s hair over his forehead. He lifted his eyes and met Bron’s gaze. Gone was the humor she’d seen in him during happier times. Instead, his face was frozen with the same fury—his jaw set, his eyes like steel—as when he challenged Yeager and Ives. Again, the intensity of it shocked Bron, and she dropped her head and tried to concentrate on Reverend Wiley’s words: “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. . . .”

  After the service, Zack and his “family” dispersed for a short while. Bron met with Parris and Tod Cramer at the church. Buck and Lillian took Alice and Paul to the cafe for dinner. Zack needed to see the gunsmith, and as he turned to go he saw Jeanne and Crenna walk away, carrying Sam and Hawk. Zack continued on to go to the gunsmith shop. He found Will Porter at work, and handed him his Navy Colt. “See if you can do something about the trigger action, Will. It’s hanging for some reason.”

  “Sure, Zack.”

  Zack sat down to wait, and picked up a month-old Helena newspaper. Though the news wasn’t current, it gave him some perspective of the war, which was far from being resolved. Grant was forging steadily on, losing more men than anyone had thought possible, while Lee still managed to regroup his ragged Army of Northern Virginia after every battle in time for the next one.

  “All finished, Zack,” Porter said thirty minutes later. “Had a burr on the heel of the tension bar.”

  Zack tested the action of the Navy Colt, then holstered it. “Seems good. How much?”

  “Two dollars, I guess.” As he took the money from Zack, Porter gave him a searching glance. “Miller and Clark talk to you yet—about organizing to stop this kind of thing?”

  Zack put on his coat and shrugged. “They’re always talking, Will.”

  “This time we got to do it!” Porter’s face was stiff with outrage, and he hit the workbench with his fist. “Nolan was too good a man to die like that!”

  Zack nodded, but said only, “I guess we’ll never know who did it. But if I knew, I wouldn’t wait for any committee.” He left the shop and made his way down the street to Pfouts’ store. Bron was already there, sitting in front of the stove drinking coffee with Parris. They look like husband and wife, Zack thought. Don’t think I like that.

  “Have so
me coffee, Zack,” Parris said, getting up to pour a cup of the brew. The three talked about mundane happenings, but didn’t broach the subject of Nolan’s death. They all felt the weight of the tragedy, though.

  After fifteen minutes, Zack wanted to get away from the oppression and rose to leave. “Guess I’ll go down and see if I can find—”

  “Parris!” The door opened and A. J. Oliver, manager of the stage station, burst in, his countenance agitated.

  “What’s wrong, Oliver?” Pfouts asked.

  “You know how I keep gold coins on hand? Sometimes people like to change their dust for hard coin.” It was a common practice, for most of the miners found it easier to carry coins than pokes of dust. “Well, a fellow came in a few minutes ago, wanted some coins, so I took his dust.” He held up a leather poke, pulled the drawstring, and removed something. “See that nugget?”

  Zack took it. “Looks like a little skull,” he said, handing it to Parris. “What about it, Oliver?”

  “That nugget belonged to Nolan. He and Crenna came in last week. They wanted to put their dust in my safe, and they did—all but this nugget. Nolan said he was going to have it made into a charm for his watch chain.”

  “Who brought the poke in?” Zack asked quickly.

  “Boone Helm.”

  “I’ll get Miller,” Pfouts said to Zack, then called to his clerk, “Watch the store.”

  Winslow shook his head. “You won’t get him—or if you do, he won’t hang.”

  “We can’t just let this ride, Zack!” Parris protested. “Let’s go.” He waited but saw Winslow had no intention of going, so he said, “Come along, Oliver.”

  After they left, Bron turned to Zack. “You’re going to kill him—Boone Helm.”

  “Nolan was my friend.”

  “Then go with Parris—help the others!”

  “They won’t touch Helm. If they arrest him, the crowd’ll yell for his release, and they’ll turn him loose just like they did Stinson and Lyons.” He gave her a look she couldn’t read. “What’s the difference whether I kill him, or a bunch of men hang him? He’ll be just as dead.”