Death Rides the Black Hills: A Frontier G-Man Novel

by Franklin D. Lincoln

Rain had pelted them since noon. The black low hanging clouds had hung over them like threats of impending doom and the wind whipped the rain against horse and rider in torrential sheets of water. Jack was glad he had saved the assassin’s slicker. Though not much protection, it at least kept some of the rain off him. There was little he could do for the rivulets of water that pooled on the upturned brim of his black J.B. and then streamed down the back of his neck.

  Marysville was dark and dreary in the gloom of the storm and the darkness of early dusk, as Jack rode down the narrow, brick streets toward the river docks. Rain water pooled along the curbs, and Regret’s hoofs slopped through the puddles. The clop of his shoes against the brick and the splash of each step was drowned out by the falling rain and the roar of thunder which was now finally subsiding.

  It was nearly 6:30 When Jack found the Union Belle. In the darkness, it loomed as a large ominous shadow, rocking and creaking in the unsettled waters of the Missouri. Faint lights seemed to flicker from the windows of the upper and lower decks, only to be hidden by the torrent of rain.

  Regret shook his head and pulled back against the reins as Clayton led him, unwillingly, along the wooden planking of the dock toward a ramp leading into a sub deck of the ship. Horses and cattle were being led aboard to be stabled here below the passenger decks.

  A slicker clad handler met Jack at the mouth of the ramp, checked his ticket, and directed him to proceed. As Jack stood at the entrance into the ship, another handler at the foot of an inside ramp motioned him forward. Lightning flashed, briefly silhouetting Clayton in the doorway. Thunder clapped.

  The dining room on the upper deck of the Union Belle was fairly empty when Jack entered and took a table next to the wall, as usual his back was next to it so he could view the entire room before him. The lights seemed to flicker as the storm churned waters rocked the boat more than usual.

  After Jack had taken care of Regret, now stabled quietly in the livery below, he had found his own room which to his surprise was on the upper deck and did not correspond to the state room number that had been written on the back of the ticket. It might be well to find out the meaning of that lower deck location.

  Jack had washed up and changed into a black broadcloth suit, with white shirt, string tie and gray vest. He had dispensed with the gun and holster that usually rode low on his right hip, but had retained the shoulder holster rig and pistol tucked out of sight under his left arm and concealed by his suit coat.

  He had strolled nonchalantly into the dining room trying to be as invisible as possible. Tall and broad of shoulder and dressed as a dandy, with dark wavy hair and slate blue eyes, he did cut an unforgettable figure. He passed three gaming tables occupied by other fancy dressed gentlemen who looked like professional gamblers. He could easily pass as one himself.

  Now he sat leisurely at his table, sipping hot coffee as he awaited his meal. Without showing particular interest, he surveyed the room and the people in it. Diners were busy with their meals and gamblers were engrossed in their games. So far, so good. No one seemed to be interested in the lone man against the wall. Except….perhaps or perhaps it was imagination or possible wishful thinking. One person may have noticed him. At least he noticed her. But why not? Not only was she a striking young lady with blond curly hair, light complexion and rosy cheeks with long lashes above clear blue eyes, and dressed in a stunning blue gown, but she was notable as a gambler at the middle gambling table. A sight rarely seen in the genteel south.

  She obviously knew what she was doing, for she would play her cards and then reach out to sweep the pot from the center of the table and leave the cash lying in a disorganized pile in front of her. Her disgruntled competitors grumbled and threw their cards into the middle of the table and groaned with disgust.

  The woman expertly gathered the cards, shuffled, and split the deck, and reshuffled with the ease and grace of a practiced professional. She flipped the cards around the table as if disinterested. Occasionally, her long lashes would lift and she seemed to peer out across the room, glancing in Jack’s direction.

  Jack’s meal came and he proceeded to attack it, occasionally glancing at the gaming table. Her winning streak was continuing, but he could see the irritation the young woman was beginning to show with the game. The man to her left was dark with a lean angular face, dark eyes and straight black hair, greased back, slick and shiny, seemed to be more disgruntled than the rest and flashing expressions and words were sporadically being exchanged. This continued for several hands and the exchanges appeared to become more frequent and more heated until the man jumped to his feet and pushed the lady’s chair aside as he grabbed for the pile of cash in front of her. She quickly grabbed a whiskey glass and flung the liquid into the man’s eyes. He yelped as the alcohol stung deep and he threw his hands to his eyes in reflex and staggered backward as the lady came to her feet and kicked the man in the shin. He doubled in pain, grasping his lower leg. While stooped, the lady flung the point of her folded parasol into his mid section. He groaned in agony. The handle of the parasol caught him full force in the chin and he fell backward onto the floor writhing. She tossed the broken and twisted parasol onto his heaving chest.

  Without a word to anyone, she scooped her cash into her purse and stalked away from the table, walking straight and deliberate toward Jack Clayton’s table and sat down across from him. “How about a drink, stranger?” She said , not waiting for an answer. “Waiter,” She called. “A bottle of whiskey and two glasses.” The waiter hurried nervously forward, placed the bottle and glasses on the table, and scurried away.

  Jack seemed speechless, tried to decide what to say now . And why was she here? He tried not to show his curiosity. He’d have to play along. “Well, I think that would be great. I certainly wouldn’t argue with you.” He nodded toward the gaming table where the game had broken up and the beaten man was slinking away.

  “You’re a smart man,” She smiled. “I like your looks.” She was very forward. Jack, on the reserved side, felt a bit uncomfortable with the approach, but he needed to find out her game and just what was her interest in him.

  “Well,” he replied. “I like yours too. I guess that makes of even.”

  “Good. Looks like we’re going to get along fine. What’s your handle Mister?”

  Jack hesitated. “Jones, Jack Jones.” Coming up with a name quickly.

  “Now isn’t that a coincidence?” She giggled. “Mine is Jones too. Francy Jones.”

  “Are we related?” Jack retorted.

  “Maybe we should be.” She flirted coyly.

  “Maybe we should at that.” He chuckled appreciating the insinuation. Then he changed the direction of the conversation. “So what brings you to my table?”

  Her expression changed like a cloud passing across the moon. Gone was the aggressiveness and exuberance in her voice. Instead she lowered her tone and said. “That man I had trouble with. His name is Bert Fleming and he is a very mean man. He’s not going to let me get away with what I did to him and I don’t dare leave this room without an escort.”

  “Meaning, you think I could protect you?” Jack leaned forward and said low. “What makes you think you don’t need protection from me? Besides, I am a bit of a coward and I might not be of much help.” From what Jack had just witnessed, he doubted she needed protection from anyone. He wouldn’t mention that. He would just play along.

  “Fleming won’t know that. I just want to be seen with you. Perhaps, it will discourage him.”

  “Just who is this Bert Fleming?” Jack asked.

  “Just some two bit tinhorn gambler I met at the game. He cheats.”

  “Didn’t seem to do him much good against you.”

  “I cheat too,” she stated matter of factly.

  “Hmmm,” Jack nodded with a wry smile. “I just bet you do.” He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Then I suppose we ought to make this look real, so let’s just have a good time here for a while and when we are finished, I�
��ll escort you to your room, oh so gallantly.”

  “I just knew I was going to like you.” She raised her glass and drained it.

  They talked a while, Jack finished his coffee but did not partake of the offered drink. It seemed obvious that the couple were enjoying each others company and were having a pleasant evening.

  Almost an hour had passed. The other dining tables were empty now and only one game was still in progress on the other side of the room. Jack left payment on the table and the couple arose. Jack took Francy’s arm and walked her slowly through the wide entranceway, showing enraptured attentiveness to her. For all to see, they were a very happy couple.

  “My room is on the top deck,” She whispered, digging into her purse looking for the key. “B2”

  Jack refrained from commenting that he too had a room on the top deck, B4. He had lucked out. It could be fortunate that they were housed so closely together. But then again, Jack never believed in luck. He would play along.

  As they traversed the passage way, the swaying deck affected their balance and they appeared a bit tipsy. They laughed. All this added to the illusion of a couple having a good time. They glanced to the right to see out on the promenade deck and could see the rain lashing in over the outside rail. Tonight was not a good night to walk out there.

  “Here it is,” She said, turning to the door at her left. She handed the key to Jack. He took it without a word, leaned a little forward looking down at the lock as he slid the brass key in and turned it until it clicked in the lock.

  The click was echoed much louder behind him as the hammer of a pistol eared back, and he felt the pressure of hard steel pressing into his spine. “Hold it right there, Galahad. Raise your hands and turn around. One false move and I’ll blow you away. Got that?” A harsh menacing deep voice growled quietly close to Jack’s left ear.

  Jack slowly raised his hands and turned slightly toward the voice. It was Fleming.

  His piercing dark eyes were cold and menacing. A little behind Fleming and a bit to his left, Francy stood silently. Her face placid and calm.

  “Thanks for the warning, Miss Jones.” Jack chastised. She shrugged. No verbal response.

  “Get his gun, Francy.” Fleming ordered.

  Francy moved forward, reached inside Jack’s coat and plucked the pistol from the shoulder holster. She looked up at him through her lashes. Remained silent.

  “Thanks for such a lovely evening.” Jack taunted wryly. He felt the weight of the pistol leaving the rig. “We must do this again sometime. But, it will be my treat.”

  Francy handed the pistol to Fleming and stepped back out of the way.

  “Funny man,” Fleming sneered. “I’ll bet you’d like a night cap to top off your evening. This way.” He waved a pistol barrel toward and exit leading onto the promenade deck. “Come on move!” He shoved the muzzle into Clayton’s ribs.

  Jack moved slowly, eyeing his captors warily. He knew what was coming. “Delighted,” He shrugged. Fleming shoved him through the port.

  The wind whipped rain hit them with tremendous force and tended to push them backward, their feet trying to remain a hold on the rollicking deck floor, but Fleming braced himself, shoving Clayton ahead of him toward the rail.

  Gun or no gun, Clayton knew he had to try something or for sure he would be going overboard into the murky churning water below. He twisted his body sharply, jabbing his elbow into Fleming’s jaw. Fleming fell backward, stunned, the heaving deck adding to his instability. Fleming dropped Clayton’s pistol to the deck, but his own, held tightly in his right hand, went off, spurting flame skyward into the darkness of the night. The roar of the wind and rain and drone of the steam engine drowned the noise of the shot to a mere pop.

  Clayton dove at his captor, driving him into the outside wall of the upper deck. His left hand gripped Fleming’s right wrist and held his arm high so he couldn’t bring the weapon low enough to draw bead on Clayton. He buried his right fist into Fleming’s midsection. Fleming groaned and doubled forward. In desperation he stamped on Jack’s foot pushed him backward until Clayton felt his back against the outside rail. Fleming came on stronger bending the G-Man’s back over the top of the rail, gripping Jack’s left wrist. It was a death match as both men struggled in each others grasp, the rain pouring into their eyes, blinding them and heightening the sense of danger.

  Clayton could feel his strength waning against Fleming and the rail at his back was digging into his spine with fantastic pain. Fleming had pushed him higher and further over the rail by now. Then with a tremendous burst of strength, Fleming pulled his gun hand free and in one swift, sweeping movement, he arced the weapon forward and slammed the barrel against the side of G-Man’s head with a thud.

  Blackness absorbed Jack’s brain and numbing pain was only momentarily realized as all consciousness left him. He could not even feel himself falling as he pitched backward over the rail into the raging waters below.

  ****

  Chapter FourOne

  Watery Grave