by Paul Lederer
‘Get your hands off of her!’ the girl shrieked rushing at us. She tried to claw my eyes, but I spun away and rose so that she fell across Della’s lap. Backing away from the bed I heard a small metallic sound and glanced up to see the big Colt revolver in Brian Adair’s hand, cocked and ready. I backed off a step, raising my arms.
‘You like roughing up women?’ Brian Adair said. His face was lean, his body narrow, his eyes pale blue and just now filled with cold fire.
‘Don’t be a fool, Brian!’ Della said, coming to her feet. ‘Put that gun away.’
‘I saw what he did to Gina. I saw him with you.’
‘Gina tripped over her own feet,’ Della said, her voice returning to a normal level. Standing there coolly in her red silk dress, I saw her gather the firm manner that she must have used many times in the Eagle’s Lair to break up a saloon fight between drunken men. ‘Put that gun away. This is my friend, Miles Donovan.’
‘A good friend?’ Regina Adair asked, smoothing her own gingham skirt, her eyes glaring at me and at Della in turn. She was petite, sparingly built as a little doll, with golden hair and fiery eyes. Her question implied that she and Brian had, indeed, heard some stories about Della’s lifestyle in Deadwood.
‘Yes,’ Della said as icily as I’ve ever heard her, ‘a very good friend.’
It wasn’t much of a start to a family reunion. Brian still hadn’t holstered his Colt Peacemaker, the two women stood glowering at each other. Me, I stood there foolishly, not knowing if I should even lower my arms to shake hands with Brian Adair.
I said to Della, ‘I’ll be going. Besides, with Brian here, you won’t be needing a driver anymore, will you?’
‘I don’t like jokes at my expense, friend,’ Brian Adair said in a voice that made a rattler’s quivering tail sound friendly. It was only then that I noticed that the left sleeve of his tan jacket was pinned up at the elbow. Brian Adair had lost that arm. Feeling the fool, I nevertheless could think of nothing more to say.
‘I think you should go talk to Henry,’ Della said, drawing me out of the awkward situation. ‘I’ll explain things to my family.’
Brian Adair now slowly holstered his gun although he looked as if he’d as soon use it. I glanced at Della, at the furious little girl with the mass of golden hair, and nodded. Picking up my hat from the bedpost, I eased past the cold eyes of Brian Adair and out into the hallway, the door to the room closing behind me as I started down the dimly lighted corridor. I could hear their voices, but did not pause to try to overhear any of their conversation.
I liked none of this, but I had given my word to Della, and I would follow through on my promise. Over the rest of it I had no control – what the family thought of Della, what they believed me to be. I shoved all those concerns aside as I stepped out into the cool night, and decided to approach it as I would any other job. You didn’t have to like your boss, but if you were drawing wages, you did what you were hired on to do.
I went looking for Henry Coughlin.
I couldn’t say that Henry was drunk when I found him in his lonely little shack behind the Eagle’s Lair Saloon, but neither could I say that the rheumy-eyed old man was sober. At his invitation I had entered the shack through a leather-hinged door to find him sitting on a tick mattress flung over a loosely sprung iron bed, a bottle of whiskey half empty on the round table near its head, a candle guttering in an iron holder. He looked up with surprise.
‘Miles?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Haven’t seen you for a long while. Sit down and have a drink with me. There should be a chair somewhere under that pile of clothes,’ he said, with a nearly toothless grin. I shoved his dirty laundry aside and sat on the heavy, homemade wooden chair, facing him, my hat tilted back.
‘Good to see you, Henry.’
‘What brings you down Deadwood way?’ he asked, pouring another two fingers of whiskey into a greasy glass.
‘Work,’ I told him.
‘That’s something, then,’ the old man said, working his knuckly, arthritic hands. ‘Me, I’ve got a job for two more days, or so they tell me. You heard about the Scotsman buying Della’s place?’
‘I heard,’ I nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here, Henry.’
He rubbed his whisker-stubbled chin. ‘Have a drink. What’s your meaning, son? Why are you here?’
‘An offer of work – from Della.’
‘Della.’ His eyes closed briefly and he shook his head. ‘What a woman. Took me off the street and set me up behind the bar. I’d have been dead by now if it weren’t for Della. Woman’s got the biggest heart any ever had.’
‘She needs your help now, Henry.’
‘My help? I don’t know what help I can be to anybody – myself included – but Della don’t even have to ask. What is it, Miles?’
I explained matters to him. The old man wagged his head heavily, his thin arms dangling between his bony knees as he listened. Sorrowfully he told me, ‘You do have trouble now.’
‘What do you mean, Henry?’
‘Brian Adair, is what I mean. How much do you know about him?’
‘Nothing at all – except that he took an instant dislike to me.’
Henry waved a hand as if my remark were insignificant. Lifting those weary eyes he told me, ‘He spent three years in Andersonville. You know about that place, don’t you, Miles.’
I nodded. Everyone knew about that Confederate prison camp in Georgia where 13,000 men had died and thousands of other captured soldiers had been beaten, starved and left to freeze under the watch of indifferent or sadistic guards. The first warden, a man named John Henry Winder, would certainly have been tried and hung for war crimes had he not died in February of 1865, just three months before hostilities ended.
Henry Coughlin went on. ‘Brian Adair was captured after his horse was shot out from under him – at Bull Run, I believe. His arm was broken in the fight, a musket ball shattering it. He was captured and taken to Andersonville, but his arm was never treated, and in time gangrene set in. They sawed it off without morphine or any other anesthetic. He might have recovered when his arm was first set, but they made him work with it that way, even used clubs to beat on it.’
‘I could see where that would make a man bitter.’
Henry stroked his whiskered chin and hoisted his whiskey glass to his lips again. ‘There’s more to it,’ he told me as he slapped the glass back down on the rickety table. I waited.
‘Tom DeFord was one of those guards at Andersonville.’
I was silent for a minute, hearing two dogs barking in the muddy yard outside the cabin, the sounds of raucous cowboys in the saloon. ‘Does Brian know that?’ I asked Henry.
‘’Course he does. A man treated that way don’t forget a name or a face. Not even after all the years that have passed since then.’
‘Does he know that DeFord’s here? In Deadwood at this moment?’
‘Hope not. Hope he don’t find out. You see now what Della was trying to avoid, why she’s so upset?’
I did. As much as she did not want her brother and young sister to know the kind of life she had been living, they had probably surmised as much long ago. Della was trying to protect her fragile reputation as much as possible, but more she was trying to keep Brian from being killed – or being hanged as a killer himself. Knowing Brian was sure to fight if he ran across DeFord, knowing her brother was on his way west could even have been a part of the reason for her deciding to sell the Eagle’s Lair in the first place.
‘We’d better not let any grass grow under our feet,’ I said, rising from the chair. ‘Best find us a wagon and team and get Della and Brian out of town before anything can happen.’
‘I agree with you, Miles,’ Henry said. His grim face grew taut with determination. He picked up the cork to the whiskey bottle and thumped it into place.
‘You’re still willing to go along with us,’ I asked, ‘knowing all that you know?’
‘Miles,’ the old man said
lifting his eyes. ‘Look around you. This is my life and I won’t even be able to get a job good enough to support this way of life. Della said she would take me in once she builds her place in Steubenville. Della’s word is her bond; I know her. Dying slowly in this cold shack is my only alternative – ’course I’m with you. Let’s go look at some horses.’
Tramping across the muddy street to the stable I had time to consider how things had suddenly snarled up. DeFord undoubtedly knew about Della’s gold and wanted it. Having me along wouldn’t deter him any. He hated my liver. Now with Brian Adair we had another gun, but yet another reason for DeFord to attack us, before Brian could smear DeFord’s reputation all across the territory. Or come stalking him. I had been right – we had to depart Deadwood as quickly and secretively as possible. In fact, I had it in mind to try it on this very night under cover of darkness.
Henry agreed with me. ‘Sooner the better. But, say, has Della gotten her money from the Scotsman yet?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he was waiting for the bank to open tomorrow. Maybe he keeps that much on hand. I’ll have to ask Della. Meanwhile, let’s do what we can to get the trek organized.’
I didn’t know what Brian and Regina had arrived on, but the stable hand, Jocko Gates, a little gnome of a man, pointed at a well-used little surrey resting in the corner of the high-ceilinged stable. That would have to be abandoned. Maybe Brian would agree to sell it, maybe not. No matter, it wasn’t fit for what we intended. I explained to Jocko that we needed a heavy wagon and strong team.
If Della had any furniture and such household things she had intended to take with her to Steubenville, I would try to talk her out of it. I wasn’t acting panicky, by any means. My mind was cool and deliberate, but we urgently needed to get out of Deadwood before Brian and DeFord discovered each other.
In these far-flung settlements, every new arrival was scrutinized with interest. By now someone knew of the presence of a one-armed man and a pretty young girl. They were a pair to raise interest.
‘Their horses are a pretty fine pair,’ Jocko Gates was telling us, ‘but they’re worn down, not fit for another long trip without some rest. Besides, they ain’t built for wagon hauling.’
I looked Brian Adair’s team over. Two leggy, good-looking sorrels. They were beautiful animals, but not suited for drawing a covered wagon, which was what we needed for the road to Steubenville. Would he be willing to sell them? I had no idea. How was I to explain to him the need for urgency? Probably he had meant to rest up in Deadwood for a day or two and then head back toward Steubenville with Della. I would have to put my head together with Della and let her try to figure a way to explain this to her brother.
‘You’re right, these are beautiful horses, but they’re too light, their legs too slender. What can you show me by way of dray horses?’
‘You can take this lantern,’ Jocko said, taking one from the wall and handing it to me, ‘and look over the stock in the pen out back as best you can. You said you needed a wagon, too?’
‘If you’ve got one.’
‘I’ve got,’ Jocko said.
‘Henry, maybe you had better take a look at it. You know what we need.’
Henry nodded and the two older men started out the front of the stable, turning toward a yard where Jocko kept a variety of rolling stock. I went to the back entrance, pausing to visit my own horse, a rangy black with one white ear and a splash of white on his flank named Dodger. He seemed pleased to see me, if a little irked because I hadn’t exercised him. He would get plenty of that soon. I dipped a scoop of oats from Jocko’s bin and put it into Dodger’s feed trough, stroking his sleek dark neck for a time. Then I went out into the chill dark night to look for a pair of tough, heavy dray animals, if such I could find.
I paused, put the lantern on a fence post, turned up my collar to the cold wind and reached for a match. It was then that they jumped me.
I heard the rush of boots before I turned to see their bulky shadows coming at me from out of the darkness of the stableyard. Two big men and bent on mischief, they slammed into me as one, and I was driven to the ground, the lantern flying free of my hand.
I grabbed for my Colt, but, anticipating that, one of them had pinned my arms to my sides while the other yanked the revolver from my holster and flung it away.
Then they got to work. I was thrown roughly to the ground and they set upon me.
One of them kicked me in the ribs as I tried to roll away from them and the other tried stomping my face. I was able to grab his ankle, twist and shove him off. He went sprawling as the second, bear-like thug tried kicking me again. I managed to reach out and grip the lowest rail of the horse corral and drag myself to my feet even as my assailant swung two hard punches into my ribs.
The horses circled and whinnied in fright, their peace disturbed by the brawl. The night was dark and moonless, and even as the second man recovered to join his friend, they had trouble finding targets for their heavy punches as I rolled my head and body from side to side, ducking and weaving.
My head, foggy from their first attack, was now clearing and I felt a surge of anger. The man in front of me took a step back, trying to get leverage for his fists, and I doubled up my leg, kicking him in the chest with all the strength I could muster. He sagged to his knees, clutching his heart.
Without waiting to see what he would do next, I turned my attention to the other faceless hoodlum. Stocky, of medium height, he wore a beard. That I discovered as I hooked a right-hand shot into his jaw, staggering him. He growled a curse and came in again. From the corner of my eye I could see the other one rising heavily to join in the beating.
‘Hey! What’s going on out here!’
Henry Coughlin emerged from the stable, the open door casting a rectangle of light across the straw-dusted yard. Behind him came Jocko Gates. Jocko had snatched up his double-twelve shotgun and he pulled the trigger, loosing a fiery warning blast of buckshot into the night sky. The two thugs took to their heels.
I considered giving chase, but hadn’t the breath to do it. I bent over, hands on my knees, still leaning against the corral rails as the excited horses continued to mill. Henry was beside me in moments, his scrawny hand around my shoulders.
‘Are you all right, Miles?’
‘Yes. Thanks to you two.’
‘Who were they?’ Jocko asked, staring up the darkened alley where my assailants had fled.
‘No idea,’ I answered. I held my chest where a fiery pain reminded me of a boot toe’s impact. I was hoping they hadn’t broken a rib. Nothing is more painful or takes longer to heal.
‘Let’s go inside and take a look at you,’ Jocko suggested, and I did not argue. My head was still reeling, my legs a little wobbly.
Sitting me on an empty barrel, Henry looked over my face, judging me mostly sound, although: ‘You will have a terrific black eye by morning.’ I rubbed my sore cheek and took a deep slow breath, testing. The rib did not seem to be cracked. It’s difficult to take in a full breath without pain when a rib is cracked – I know.
Jocko brought me a tin cup of dark strong coffee. At first sip I could tell he had added a dollop of whiskey. I made no objection.
‘Who could that have been?’ Henry Coughlin wondered out loud. ‘Think it was Tom DeFord, Miles?’
‘Tom,’ I said sincerely, ‘wouldn’t use fists and boots. He would have just plugged me.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Henry agreed. ‘How about this Brian, Della’s brother? You said you and he had a run-in.’
‘Neither man was him.’ I would know if I had been fighting a one-armed man, no matter how dark the yard was, although he could have hired two rowdies to beat me. ‘We didn’t have a good first meeting,’ I explained. ‘But it wasn’t so bad that a man would set out to do harm to someone over it. Besides,’ I concluded, ‘I mark him as the kind of man who would take care of his own business, and in daylight.’
Shaking his head, Jocko said, ‘Probably two drifters hoping to
rob you of drinking money.’
‘Probably,’ I agreed, rising, handing the empty coffee cup back to Jocko. But neither of my attackers had made a move toward my wallet, tried my pockets where I had some money Della had given me to purchase what we needed. No, there was more to it than a robbery attempt. I might never discover what was behind it. No matter – just now there was business to be taken care of.
‘Let’s have a look at those horses,’ I said.
‘They’ve settled down now,’ Jocko said, glancing toward the corral. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m keeping this scattergun under my arm while you have your look.’
I had no objection at all. I took up the lantern and looked for my gun. I found it where it had been thrown under a bush. I asked Henry, ‘Did you find a wagon?’
‘A sturdy old Conestoga. Even has good canvas on it still. Front axle seems a little splayed, but it’ll do for a run to Steubenville.’
I would have to accept Henry Coughlin’s judgement as sound; besides we didn’t have the time to be particular. I had the feeling that the episode at Jocko’s tonight was just a sample of things to come, and we were well off getting shed of Deadwood as early as possible in the morning.
Someone wanted me out of the way. Someone wanted Della’s hard-earned gold.
And there were two violent men involved in this who would be more than willing to do murder on sight.
THREE
I had to get Della alone to speak to her about matters. It was near to midnight when I again knocked on her hotel room door. My body had begun to stiffen up and there was a fair-sized knot on my temple from the stableyard fight. My head was throbbing heavily and I was beginning to regret taking on the job.
Della in a blue silk wrapper clutched at her breast opened the door, her hair unpinned, her eyes appearing slightly haunted. I didn’t think she had been asleep. Her eyes opened a little wider as she studied my face. Glancing up and down the corridor, she swept me into her room where a lantern burned low on a bedside table.
