The Killing Season (60 page)

“Might as well see what they have to offer,” Nathan said.

“Ten dollars a day, fifty dollars a week,” he was told. “Bathtub an' hot water is five dollars. Grub at the cafe.”

“I reckon there's no use going to the other one,” said Nathan. “Somewhere there must be a canyon with water and an overhanging rim. Let's look for it.”

The canyon, when they found it, had sufficient grass for their horses. It was deep enough, with enough rim overhang, to provide shelter. A spring provided water.

“It's so peaceful,” Vivian said, “it's hard to believe there's a mining camp so near.”

“I reckon we'll find prices in the cafes right up there with the hotels,” said Nathan. ”If we can afford a coffeepot, a frying pan, and some grub, we can cook our own meals.”

“I don't want to become any more of a burden than I am already,” Vivian said. “All you promised to do was get me here.”

“My daddy taught me to always go just a little further than you promised, and when you hire on, do just a little more than you're paid to do,” said Nathan. “Since I know your brother, I reckon I'll hang around until you find him. I want to see Wild Bill again, too, and he may still be in Saint Louis, setting up that expedition.”

“I wish we had thought to ask about Harley at the hotel,” Vivian said. “If he's here, he has to stay somewhere.”

“Unless he's set up a camp like we have,” said Nathan. “When we ride in for grub, I'll ask about him.”

When they reached the outskirts of the rip-roaring gold camp, Empty refused to go any farther.

“Keep to the brush, pardner,” Nathan said. “We'll look for you when we ride out.”

The makeshift lobbies of the hotels were jammed with shouting, cursing men, recently arrived and seeking beds.

“We'll go on to the mercantile for our grub,” said Nathan. “Maybe I can learn something there.”

Nathan and Vivian wandered through the store, astounded at the boomtown prices. A coffeepot, an iron skillet, eating tools, tin cups, a side of bacon, a sack of coffee beans, and five pounds of cornmeal cost forty dollars. Nathan asked about Harley Stafford.

“Pardner, I'm looking for a friend of mine. He's a redheaded gent, may or may not be a miner, and he's handy with a gun. Blows a mouth harp, too.”

“You're talkin' about Red,” the storekeeper replied. “Just sayin' he's handy with a gun ain't doin' him justice. Mister, with Winchester or Colt, he's downhill with a tail-wind. He ain't bad on the harp, neither.”

“That's him,” Nathan said. “Where can I find him?”

“Can‘t, till tomorrer. He rides shotgun for the Deadwood stage. Cheyenne to Deadwood and back to Cheyenne. They'll roll in tomorrer near four o'clock. Ain't no better shotgun than Red, and no better driver than Johnny Slaughter.”
²⁶

“I was afraid of that,” said Vivian, when they'd left the store. “He's taken the most dangerous job he could find.”

“He's likely earning more than most of the miners,” Nathan said.

“Yes, but at what risk? I'll have to talk some sense into him.”

“You do,” said Nathan, “and he's likely to put you on a fast train back to Virginia. A man makes his own way on the frontier, and the quickest damn way to lose him for good is to go after him with blinders and a lead rope.”

“I suppose you're speaking from experience.”

“I am,” he replied. “I thought you were an exception, since you haven't asked me anything about myself.”

“I didn't consider it any of my business,” she said, “but Harley's my brother, my only living kin.”

“He's also a man,” said Nathan, “and I expect all the protection he needs, he carries on his hip, like I do.”

“Damn it,” she said, “that's a woman's lot, worrying over a man while he's alive and then grieving over him, when he finally gets himself killed?”

Nathan laughed. “That's it. When you get down to the bare bones of it, a man ain't worth a damn, present company included.”

“Nathan Stone,” she said, taking his arm and looking into his eyes, “I know better than that. I came to you in Dodge, broke, hungry, not knowing which way to turn, and you took me in. My own brother couldn‘t—and probably wouldn't—have been as kind and caring.”

“Your own brother may shoot me in the back, when he learns I'm sleeping with his sister,” said Nathan.

“He'd better not say one word, or I'll tell him you rescued me from a whorehouse. If I was your sister, wouldn't you rather I'd be with one man, instead of all the soldiers and cowboys in Kansas?”

“I reckon I would,” Nathan said, “given that choice, but I don't aim to come between you and your brother. It's been ten years, and he may not be the same man I knew when we both wore the gray under General Lee.”

Their camp under the canyon rim was peaceful. With Empty roaming around and the horses cropping grass nearby, Nathan felt secure enough. He lay awake, wondering what tomorrow would bring, wondering how Harley Stafford would receive his sister. There was something not quite right. Harley Stafford had come west, leaving his sister and his aging parents behind, allowing ten years to pass without attempting to contact them. Would a man so uncaring welcome a sister he had obviously forsaken?

 

The arrival of the stage was nothing less than spectacular. Obviously, it was the event of the week because it was the only link to the outside world. There was mail, newspapers not even a week old, and more women to liven up the saloons. Down the narrow, winding street eame the rattling stage, rocking on its leather through braces. Slaughter, yelling and cracking his whip, seemed utterly fearless. Then, with jangling harness and the squeal of brake shoes burning on iron rims, he brought the team to a shuddering halt. Dust rose in a cloud, settling on the waiting throng, but nobody seemed to care. Slaughter stepped down from the box. Harley Stafford, though older, had changed but little. He slid the shotgun into a boot alongside the box and stepped down. Nathan looked at Vivian, and now that the time was at hand, she seemed afraid. He stepped forward and spoke.

“Stafford.”

The redhead turned, his hand on the butt of his Colt. Seeing no danger, he relaxed.

“I'm Nathan Stone. Remember the days in Easy Company, under General Lee?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The Yanks shot us all to hell and then took us prisoner. We heard your platoon had been wiped out.”

“I heard the same about yours,” said Nathan. “I picked up some lead, along with a few months in Libby prison.”

“Glad you made it, Stone, and it's good to see you. I'm beat, and I got to get a few hours' sleep before the turnaround, back to Cheyenne.”

“Before you go,” Nathan said, “I have someone with me who you'll want to see.”

“Harley,” she said, “it ... it's me. Vivian.”

“What, for God's sake, are you doing here? This is no place for a woman.”

“I had nowhere else to go,” she said. “You're all the family I have.”

“Oh, damn,” he groaned. “I have nothing. I sleep in a bunk in Slaughter's freight office between runs. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“She's your sister, Stafford,” Nathan said, “and she's gone through a lot, getting to you. Can't you at least pretend you're glad to see her?”

“We got shot in the same war, Stone, but it ends there. Don't preach to me.”

“Harley Stafford,” Vivian cried angrily, “you watch your mouth. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here.”

“Then you're his woman,” said Harley. “Go with him. I have no place for you.”

With that, he stomped off through the gathering crowd. Miners who had heard the bitter exchange looked at one another in anger and disgust. Nathan took Vivian's arm and led her away, toward the horses. Her face was pale and she seemed in shock. Nathan had to help her into the saddle, and she spoke not a word until they reached their secluded camp. Nathan unsaddled the horses, and dreading the moment, turned back to Vivian. She came to him and he held her tight, allowing the tears to flow. It was precisely the situation he had feared, and faced with the reality of it, he had no answers.

“What am I going to do?” Vivian cried. “He's all the family I have.”

“You're going to stay here until he gets used to you,” said Nathan. “You're blood kin, and unless he's a lowdown, skunk-striped coyote, he'll face up to that.”

“But I don't want you having to stay here because of me. Will you dig for gold?”

“I won't be staying because of you,” Nathan said. “I told you I want to see my friend Hickok again, and he'll likely be a while getting here. I won't be digging for gold. There's something I haven't told you. I'm a saloon gambler. While I'm not exactly proud of it, I've made a living at it since I came west. There must be thirty saloons in this place, and I'll likely try my luck in some of them.”

“I want to go with you.”

“A saloon is no place for a woman, Vivian,” said Nathan. “On the frontier, it's a place where men raise hell, cuss, fight, and kill one another. They'll do and say all the things a woman shouldn't see or hear.”

“Nathan, there's not a man in this camp who could do or say anything I haven't seen or heard. I refuse to squat over yonder in that canyon by myself.”

“You won't be by yourself,” said Nathan. “Empty will stay with you. He purely hates saloons.”

“Then he has better taste than either of us. I appreciate his company, but if you're going to gamble in the saloons, I'm going with you. I'll wear my riding clothes and stuff my hair under my hat.”

Since they were already in town, and Vivian had been virtually ignored by Harley, it seemed as good a time as any to see what Deadwood had to offer. They quickly learned that for every store, there were three or four saloons. They were so numerous that some of them had numbers instead of names. Above the click of dice and the clatter of poker chips there were the voices of dealers and players. There was no order, and to this mecca of lawlessness had flocked prostitutes, pimps, gamblers, con men, pickpockets, mountain men, ex buffalo hunters, and ne'erdo-wells of every imaginable stripe.

“Hey, babe,” a brawny miner shouted, reaching for Vivian, “which saloon are you in?”

“None of them,” said Nathan. His right fist caught the miner on the chin and flattened him out in the dusty street.

“That's what you can expect,” Nathan said, “and it'll be worse in the saloons. How am I goin' to keep my mind on the cards, while I'm keeping men away from you?”

“I'll wear one of your shirts,” she said. “It'll be large enough to hide the upper part of me, and with my hair stuffed under my hat, I can pass for a man.”

It was possible, Nathan decided, for her face had been tanned by wind and sun. When the Deadwood stage departed, Nathan and Vivian were there, but Harley Stafford seemed not to see them. The first time Vivian changed her appearance, she accompanied Nathan to Saloon Number Ten, where he won three hundred dollars.

“That was fun,” she said. “I like being a man.”

“Don't get too used to it,” said Nathan. “You could end up sleeping by yourself.”

 

When the Deadwood stage returned a week later, Nathan and Vivian weren't there to meet it. Let Harley Stafford wonder what had become of his sister. Again Nathan had spent a successful afternoon in one of the saloons, and as he and Vivian were leaving, they encountered Harley Stafford, about to enter.

“Damn it,” Stafford said, “is this how you take care of my sister, dragging her into the saloons?”

“At least I've tried,” said Nathan, “and that's a hell of a lot more than can be said of you.”

Vivian said nothing. When they were well away from the saloon, Nathan spoke.

“You just gained a little ground, I think. Maybe it's not a bad idea, having you go into the saloons with me. It'll give old Harley something to think about, while he's ridin' shotgun from Deadwood to Cheyenne.”

 

In the days to come, Deadwood's population continued to increase. New arrivals included a doctor, three lawyers, more gamblers, and scores of women. Spring came early, and by the first of April, grass had begun to green. The incessant west wind had lost its bite, and there was rain instead of snow. Nathan and Vivian seldom bothered meeting the Deadwood stage, but they were there the fateful day it arrived with only Johnny Slaughter on the box. He managed the reins awkwardly with his left hand, and the right sleeve of his shirt was soaked with blood.

“Where's Red?” somebody shouted.

“In the coach,” said Slaughter. “We've been robbed. Four masked men, maybe thirty miles out. Red got one of them, but he's hard hit. Somebody get the doc.”

Vivian pushed through the crowd, trying to reach the coach, and Nathan followed. He managed to get the door open, and what they saw wasn't encouraging. Harley Stafford lay on one of the seats on his back, and he had been hit more than once. From a nasty wound in his left thigh, blood still oozed, and the left side of his shirt was bloody. Nathan wasn't able to find a pulse until he gave up on the wrist and tried the large artery in the neck.

“He's alive,” Nathan said, “but not by much.”

“The doc's here,” Slaughter shouted. “Let him through.”

Vivian had been inside the coach. Nathan helped her down and spoke to the doctor.

“Doctor, I'm Nathan Stone, and this is Vivian, his sister.”