Greed in Golden Valley #2 of the Michelle Tanner Series

Greed in Golden Valley

#2 of the Michelle Tanner Series

 

 

 

 

By

Ron Lewis

 

 

 

© Copyright 2019 by Ron Lewis

Published by Lewis & Young Publishing

All Rights Reserved

 

 

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

 

 

Greed in Golden Valley

Prolog

 

Rocky Mountain News

Monday, March 14^th, 1865

 

This reporter has just returned from a visit to our Territorial Capital, Golden City. While I never agreed with the decision to locate the Capital there, I must admit one thing. Golden City is, more than likely, the safest mining camp in the entire Colorado Territory.

Some will insist it’s the amalgamation of the US Marshal’s office, Indians as a deputy and jailer, the legend of Nathan Meeker himself, and the oddity of oddities of a woman deputy. I’ll go you a step further; I stake a bet that if you removed Meeker from the equation, the city would still be the safest place in Colorado. I’ll go further, remove all the law dogs save Deputy Tanner, that wonderment of a female deputy, and the place would retain the title.

My first writing about the woman stated that I believed she was in for a rough go of it in Golden City. I am a man who can admit when he is wrong. There may have been those in the early stages of this experiment, that doubted her abilities. There may have been hardened miners unwilling to give her a chance. A few merchants expressed doubts she would rise to the challenge. The bar, dancehall, and casino owners questioned if she could keep the peace. After all, she is a mere woman.

Well, if they doubted Deputy Marshal Tanner when she arrived, they have no such uncertainties now. In my brief stay, Miss Tanner broke up a bar fight, knocking one participant’s front left tooth out in the process, stopped an attempted robbery, and shot a firearm from the hands of a miscreant trying to blast an unarmed card shark for cheating.

This strange menagerie of peace officer gives the impression of a grand experiment. Most such endeavors fail miserably and are lost in forgotten and dusty volumes labeled Bad Ideas. This one, well, it defies the odds and with such aplomb that I find it totally entertaining.

****

With such a proclamation of safety set to print, how could fate resist making a mockery of the writer?

Greed in Golden Valley

Chapter One — What’s This?

****

Colorado Territory was a wide-open place, where one could make their fortune in the 1860s. Men of pluck migrated there in significant numbers; along with a few cowards fleeing the war. There were the former soldiers, those who mustered out from both sides, and then there were the deserters.

Do not suppose because a man deserted, he was a coward. One cannot argue that all deserters were cowards. Most of them were just weary of the war, sick of the killing, and the worry of being killed. So, to avoid the Provo Marshals, deserters made their way west. Other men and a few women came west for different reasons.

The lure of gold, a desire for a new life, free of whatever troubled them in the east. Some evaded arrest warrants. Some women fled bad marriages, only to end up in a worse quandary. Taking all that into consideration, all too often, men rushed westward to find their fortune. However they might make it.

By April 1865 in the east, the war wound down an inevitable path toward its end, while the Golden Valley was a hotbed of action. Golden City was the center of the mining universe, holding that title since the discovery of gold in Colorado Territory in ‘59.

The wild, wicked town sprang up overnight in the Colorado Gold Rush. It was a rough and rugged mining camp. Golden (as it would come to be known) was the territorial capital in those closing days of the Civil War. The growing community attempted to be somewhat civilized.

The harsh mountain winter begrudgingly yielded to spring. That notwithstanding, snow with a stubborn resistance to the warming air, lay thick on the rugged mountain slopes, while deep icy drifts, with the tenacity of a bulldog, refused to melt away in the alleys of Golden City.

While officially Golden City was the territorial capital, it was such in name only. The territorial legislature met in Denver City most of the time; even though local businessman, W.A.H. Loveland, had constructed a building for their meetings, the first building of brick and motar every constructed in the upstart town. The Governor lived in Denver City, as did the United States Marshal. The only official territorial functions held in Golden City was the territorial court and a US Marshal’s office.

Over the years, Golden City changed little. Wooden structures took the place of tents. A more diverse citizenry wandered the streets, and yet, a mining encampment it remained. The camp was a wild and raw place filled with violence and treachery. A wide-ranging mixture of humanity inhabited the rowdy municipality.

Vice abounded in the inhabitants. Some folks were consumed with greed, while others felt dark passions and lusty cravings. Then there were those driven by the better angels toward compassion and kindness. The godly coexisted with the godless and worse, each group exerting its influence on the other. Golden City was not that different than anywhere else. Perhaps rougher, certainly less refined than its eastern cousins. Yes, indeed, it was more violent. In short, Golden City was a bang-up place to find your fortune.

Miners themselves covered the gamut of humanity, from near-do-wells to out and out brigands, from thieves to killers. Even the holy righteous panned or dug for gold in the Golden Valley. Men who work hard, play hard. That is just the nature of such men. The merchants were happy to take their gold, coin, or folding money. Those who supplied the prospectors did well, and those who fed them prospered, but those who entertained these hard men flourished the most.

In a strange unification, brothels, saloons, and gambling houses lined the streets interspersed between less extreme businesses. It wasn’t at all unusual for a general store or haberdashery to be flanked by a saloon and a brothel while directly across the thoroughfare stood a gambling hall.

Some business comprised all three of the sourdoughs’ favorite entertainments. The biggest, most impressive, and most famous and infamous was the Painted Lady. There was no hour of the day or night that the Painted Lady closed its doors. It provided soiled doves, tables for every kind of gambling, and a bar par excellence, along with a theater. Singers, dancers, and comedians performed nightly. Often, there were plays and even readings of poetry or Shakespeare. The theater lent the establishment the illusion of respectability.

One could buck the tiger there from four o’clock in the morning until six that night. Follow this activity with a succulent steak. Retire to the theater at eight and watch singers, comedians, and actors for four hours. After all this, you could top the evening off in the arms of a strumpet upstairs in the comfort of a private room.

The Painted Lady occupied the better part of a city block, sharing the final 25 feet with a small church. The irony of the closeness of proximity for these competitors for the souls of men was lost on no one. The preacher felt outflanked at every turn but persevered, making and selling leather goods for his livelihood, preaching on Sundays and fighting the good fight every day.

The proprietor of the Painted Lady, Charlton Healey was a man of unknown origin. He possessed a quick wit, silver tongue, and dubious moral fiber. Having been elected to the town council, he set his sights on more lofty goals. His refined Boston accent, polished manners, and slick business dealings made him the envy of many a businessman in the Colorado mining community. Healey had prospered since his arrival during the first frenzied days of the strike.

Charlton Healey, often called Chuck, had a vision of his future. A concept of being the wealthiest man in all of Colorado Territory. The recently opened US Marshal’s Office hampered his plan. The Deputy in charge, Deputy US Marshal Joseph Nathan Meeker, wouldn’t be an easy obstacle to navigate. The two Deputies under him were an oddity, a half-breed Yale-educated Crow, and a gal-boy woman. The latter possessed quite the reputation, having already killed at least two men in a gun battle at a bank robbery in Colby, Kansas.

Often, the simplest solution is the best. Money, if they would take it, could ease the burden of the law being present. Healey didn’t like Redskins, and the thought of a tomboy law officer repulsed him. He believed women to be a commodity, nothing more. A woman parading around in men’s clothing, thinking, and acting like she was the law as if she was equal to any man? Well, that just wouldn’t do.

****

At 69, Henry Buffalo Head felt ancient. Knowing his days neared their end kept him mindful of making the most of each day. The old Indian busied himself, building a fire in the stove, preparing the breakfast and coffee. Perhaps, to both the workers and guest of the jail, the coffee was most important to a happy day, first thing in the morning.

It was a special day, as the day before had been. April 6^th and 7^th could be considered red-letter days. They were the birthdays of Sarah Culbertson and Michelle Tanner. The former had turned 15 the day before on the sixth, while the latter turned 21 that day.

Henry wanted nothing more from life. He had found his place in the sunset of his days. In truth, though, he did have one more desire. He wanted to see Sarah into adulthood. The old man believed he owed the orphan that much. The 15-year-old studied to be a teacher, and soon she would have students of her own. The old man thought of all the changes in his life. For a moment, an ever so brief instant, he contemplated the Trail of Tears and those hardships.

Let the past live in the past, he thought, the future is not yet upon us, and the present has trouble enough.

He was the Jailer. How strange that Henry ended up a jailer for the same government that dispossessed him of his land and moved him and his family all those miles. Working for the government that had cost him everything and everyone he had held dear. Ironic, in a certain way, that Buffalo Head served at that institution’s pleasure. In truth, he served Joseph Nathan Meeker, not the government, but that distinction was lost on most.

The Harvard-educated veterinarian had come a long way from his Georgia roots. All the way to Indian Territory. Then a Colorado Ranch and now in the Golden Valley. Here in Golden City, Henry Buffalo Head worked for Joseph Nathan Meeker minding the jail and its inhabitants. Both those at the hoosegow by choice and those there against their will.

“What a fast ride life is,” the old Indian sighed. He chuckled, opened the door, and walked out into the muddy street. Beholding the eastern sky, he turned his lined face toward the yellow haze above the craggy horizon. The temperature dropped as dawn neared, and again Henry pondered why the impending break of day caused a cooling. There was a reason, and he had always intended to find out what it was.

Never is there enough time for everything. Buffalo Head’s thoughts turned back to the here and now.

The city streets were a slushy mess, while the slopes surrounding the town hung heavy with thick blankets of snow. After cleaning the muck from his boots, Henry moved back inside the Jailhouse to tend his cooking.

The smell of the bacon, eggs, and coffee wafted through the jailhouse. There came a grumbling from behind the big sturdy locked door leading to the cells. Two of the three prisoners began to give complaint. One of the prospector detainees took to running his steel coffee cup over his bars.

Buffalo Head moved to the door, unlocked it, sticking his head into the back room.

“Keep it up, and I won’t bring you hombres any breakfast a’tall today,” Henry smiled at the three men. “It’ll be a few minutes yet fellers.”

Buffalo Head’s bark always exceeded his bite; a congenial soul trapped in Indian flesh. If not for his reddish-brown flesh, and long gray hair you might think Henry to be a banker or doctor. He always wore a three-piece pinstriped navy-blue suit and black derby hat. The old Cherokee returned to the stove and finished the prisoner’s breakfast.

After a short wait, the Indian returned with meals for the men. Henry slid each inmate his food tray underneath the bars of their cell door. He came back with coffee and filled their metal cups. Soon the three men ate their fair portion of bacon, eggs, and southern biscuits while drinking their coffee. Buffalo Head was always generous with the coffee.

“You’re a good cook,” one of the prisoners said.

“Right good cook,” another younger fellow told him. “Old man, you should open a restaurant.”

“What do you call this?” Buffalo Head laughed, “the Hoosegow Café, right? See, boys, already have me a restaurant.” The two prospectors laughed. “If you miners will promise me to behave yourselves from now on,” he shook his index finger at the pair, “I’ll let you go. I think you two have sobered up, haven’t ya?”

“Let us finish the meal first,” the older one said shoveling in another mouthful. The man talked while he ate. The food sprayed from his mouth landing on the uneaten food still residing on his plate.

Oblivious to his own spittle, the man shoved in a fresh gulp, tore off a large chunk from his southern biscuit, and filled his mouth to overflowing. That notwithstanding, he accompanied it all with a fork full of eggs.

“I like sourdough bread,” the old miner told Buffalo Head.

“I reckon that’s why you guys are called sourdoughs,” Henry said. “Well, I don’t have any sourdough,” Henry huffed at the man. “Bring the starter to me, next time Wounded Hawk, Meeker, or Shell locks you up, and I’ll have it for you.”

Buffalo Head stood watching the prisoners consume their breakfast. He had given the drunks some doxology the night before; Henry wondered if it would do them any good. Then there was the other one, Daniel ‘Two Tongues’ Hannover, who would swing in a few weeks.

The rascal had been quiet in the months since his trial. Few words came from his mouth. He had been polite to everyone. The change worried Henry. He didn’t trust the sly brigand, not one whit. Hannover looked at Henry and smiled.

“You going to be preaching to me today?”

“You thinking of repenting further?”

“Would do no good. Made my afterlife first time I ate human flesh,” Daniel said.

“Well, God bless you, in spite of yourself,” Buffalo Head said.

“Not likely, more as damned by God,” Hannover said, laughing.

“Don’t mock the Lord,” Henry cautioned.

“I ain’t, brother Henry,” he said, his refined accent in sharp contrast to the Americanized words he often used. “It’s just, well, I don’t think God should waste his time on the likes of me. He has freed me of my passengers. Not a peep out of them since you prayed over me back in Benham, remember that night?”

The lie had rolled from his tongue more natural with each repetition. Dark, evil voices still tried to influence Daniel Hannover. The difference came down to just not listening. Especially to the one who had his voice. He was the biggest devil of all.

“I remember, you told me you believed,” Henry said.

“I do, but repenting ain’t the same as being saved. No time remains to make up for the wrongs,” Hannover insisted, positive his sins were too dark for forgiveness. “I’m heading for hell, sure as,” he paused and changed his intended word, “shooting.”

“Daniel, God can save anyone. If you truly repented, you’re saved.” Henry Buffalo Head couldn’t help himself; he took his calling seriously.

“I can’t go to heaven…” Hannover’s voice trembled slightly. “Wouldn’t be right … I might run into someone I killed … or did worse too. Besides my heaven has been in this cell with the peace and quiet in my head,” he said sliding the plate with the remnants of his food through the small slot at the bottom of the door. “Henry, as always, a feast fit for a king,” he belched, then thought a moment.

“But if you want to pray for me, I wouldn’t object.” In truth Hannover coveted the prayers. He felt they gave him the strength to resist the demons inside his head.

“I do every day and night,” Henry replied.

“Ya think the young buck, Deputy Hawk, will be there when I get my necktie?” Hannover took a big swig of his coffee, then set it down empty. He went back to his little cot and lay down, gazing at the ceiling.

“Yes,” Henry replied. “I don’t think he’ll pray for you though.”

“Don’t blame him. My killing his sister and her husband didn’t endear me to him, not to mention murdering his partner.” Hannover’s eyes glassed over, “Wish it were May. This waiting is killing me,” he said, then laughed at his own joke.

Buffalo Head sighed, shaking his head. Despite not knowing if Hannover told him the truth or not, he felt for him. To know the day and hour of your death had to be a hard thing.

“Tell my angel, Miss Sarah, I’d like to have a word with her. If you don’t mind, Henry.”

****

The smell invaded her sleep. The succulent aroma rolled up the stair and wafted into the room. Her eyes fluttered open, and Michelle Tanner observed as the room grew lighter. Dawn, she thought. She rolled out of bed, yawned then dressed, preparing herself for the day. Her 21^st birthday.

Pulling the curtain to one side, Michelle gazed out at the mountain sky. Soon, the sun would cast its warming rays over Golden City. Sunrise, not always an easy moment to capture in the mountains, depending on where you were. Already some people mulled around in the streets. Miners headed to their digs or their claim on Clear Creek. Less of them looked hungover than usual.

Everyone seemed to hold the same feeling, as one and all supposed the end of the war back East drew close. The miners slowed their revelries in anticipatory conservation of their strength, to throw all their efforts into celebration when the word broke. Nonetheless, a fair amount of them managed to beat one another, shoot, or even kill each other.

Shell looked at the other bed, saw Sarah’s eyes roving around under her lids, and knew the girl dreamed. Shell wondered if some pleasant vision danced in Sarah’s head or if terrors gripped her. Perhaps, a nightmare about her parents’ murders.

From the gentleness of her breathing, she assumed that the images pleased the girl. With gentle insistence, Michelle shook Sarah’s shoulder, waking her. Fluttering her eyes open, Sarah smiled at the older woman.

“Morning,” Michelle said. “Sleep well, Little Dove?”

“Morning,” Sarah Culbertson replied. “I dreamed of something. I think it was pleasant. Yeah, I slept well.” Remembering the day, Sarah lurched up, smiled, and blurted out, “Happy birthday!”

“Well thank you,” Michelle grinned at the girl. “Now let’s drop that, shall we?”

“Aren’t we going to have a big tadoo for you?”

“No, don’t like that sort of thing for me,” Shell said. “Better get ready. Wouldn’t do to be late,” Michelle reminded her. “Not for your second day of preparation. School starts in less than a month remember. The schoolmarm tells me you’re coming along well, says you’ll be a good assistant.”

Sarah beamed at the compliment. The fifteen-year-old had adapted to her new life well. Orphaned the year before, she had been taken in by this unorthodox band of people. The women hurried down the stairs together, each the complete opposite to the other.

Sarah dressed in a plain gray cotton dress. Michelle’s garb consisted of a black frock coat, a fancy striped vest, a man’s white silk shirt, black and tan riding pants, and her gun belts with their big .44 Colt Army’s tucked in the Slim Jim holsters. The Crescent Star badge hung on the left side of her vest, under the frock coat.

“Good Morning,” Buffalo Head said, smiling at them. He poured coffee into everyone’s cups, adding a touch of milk to Sarah’s coffee. “Happy Birthday, Hair of Flame.”

“I told you about that,” Shell reminded him.

“What?” Henry said, “I gave you that name. Now I can’t use it?”

“Not the name, the birthday thing,” Michelle said, sipping her coffee.

“Oh, that. Well, think nothing of it, I won’t say another word.” The old man’s eyes sparkled as he glanced at Sarah. “What kind of cake do you like best?”

“Henry!” Michelle snapped.

Buffalo Head laughed loud and long, and despite herself, Michelle grinned at the old Indian.

“Nate and Hawk left already?” she asked, looking around the office.

“Yeah, headed out a little bit ago. Some feller got a little too much of a good time last night.”

Michelle’s eyebrows raised at that. “Well, we got room in the back for another one to dry out.”

Henry nodded, then turned to the young girl and motioned to the cells. “Speaking of which, Sarah, he wants to see you.”

Jumping from her chair, Sarah ran into the back of the jailhouse, heading straight to the bars at Hannover’s cell.

Daniel Hannover sensed her approach, then heard her come in the room. Opening his eyes, he scrutinized her for a moment as his crooked, sly grin broadened to a smile.

“Ere’s my angel,” he said. “When I’m gone, my lawyer will visit you and give you something from me. ‘Tisn’t much but I want you to have it.”

“What?”

“That’s for after May 15,” he stood up and turned his back. “Thank you, my little Angel, for the kindness you showed me when I didn’t deserve it. Don’t watch me swing, please. I couldn’t take it if you saw me do the jig. In the future, if you ever have an occasion to talk about this unrepentant sinner, if you use one of my nicknames when you speak of me … use Two Tongues … not that other one.” The Indians called him Bone Picker, and he hated what it represented about him.

“I wouldn’t use either of them,” Sarah told him. “Those voices pestering you today?”

“Promise ya won’t tell Henry,” Hannover asked her, turning back to face the girl. Sarah nodded.

“Yes, they’re there, but not too loud anymore. I don’t want Buffalo Head to know his…” he paused, searching for the right word. “His exorcism didn’t work.”

“Sarah,” Henry Buffalo Head called from the other room. “Come and get it before it gets cold.”

“Just a matter betwixt you and me,” Sarah told Hannover. “Well, breakfast is ready, I should go.”

“Angel,” Hannover said, “Don’t come back here anymore. Don’t soil your eyes looking at me.”

“But, I…” she said, her fingers on the bars. Sarah felt an odd affection for the former malefactor.

“It’s what I want, child,” he said, “You go on now.” As she left, he dropped to the bunk and didn’t watch her leave.

“Mister big bad curly wolf taint so bad na more, is he Jim?” the older miner said.

The younger miner looked at the man the Crow had named Bone Picker. In a freakish way, he felt only pity for the once fearsome berserker, seeing only an old worn-out man.

“Nei, han er bare en gammel mann,” Jim said.

“English, Jimmy boy, English.”

“He just an old, broke-down man,” Jim said in his thick Norwegian accent.

“Would you bet your breakfast on that?” Rising, Hannover faced the two fellow inmates. He stared them down, and then broke into a small, crooked smile. His fists clenched, giving a hint of the man he truly was.

Whatever courage his momentary melancholy had given the sourdoughs vanished. Ducking their heads, the two men turned away from him, sat on their bunks and sipped their coffee, thankful the bars kept them safe from this madman.

****

Sarah made her way back to the office area. Shutting the door, she wondered if Hannover was as frightened as she thought he was. Shrugging off the thought, she sat down to eat. The trio sat at the big library table that doubled as their dining table. The old Indian looked at the girl, smiling at her, then reached over to her, and patted her on the head. His grin broadened, taking on a beaming smile of comic proportion.

“Grandpa?” the girl asked. It was her habit to call him Grandpa even though they were not related.

“Yes, child?”

“Something wrong? You’re a grinning something awful.”

“I’d say everything is right,” he said. Sipping his coffee, then taking a bite of his eggs, his smile grew to a toothy grin, “Just right proud of you.”

“Oh,” the girl answered. “Well, I don’t know why you would be.”

“You’re kidding,” Shell said with a chortle.

“No, what the heck have I done?”

“You’re turning out right good,” Buffalo Head explained. “Considering the bad time, you had last year. Losing your parents, seeing all those terrors, and him…” his eyes drifted up to the cells. He broke off his statement when they heard a loud rapping sounded at the front door.

“Second visitor today and breakfast isn’t even over,” he said, winking at Sarah. Standing, he strode to the door, pulled it open but there was no one there. As he went to close the door, Henry saw a folded scrap of paper. Scrawled on it were the words, “To the Big Gal-boy deputy,” written in a barely legible hand. Bending, he picked it up the torn shred of paper.

“It’s for you,” Henry said.

Michelle took the note, reading it aloud. “Fowl deed planned for taday at the Painted Lady this noon. Rekwires your atendance to pravent trajadee!”

Michelle read the note as her brow furrowed, then tucked the message in her vest pocket.

“Feller needs some tutoring. His spelling is wicked awful,” she said, smiling at Sarah. “Want the job, girl?”

“Only if he pays real money for it,” Sarah said. “You going to do anything about this?”

“Not much I can do, except be there at noon and see what’s what,” Michelle said, her interest piqued. She pocketed the note, then pushed her chair back. “I should go see what’s takin’ Nate and Hawk so long.”

“Well before you do that, finish your breakfast,” Henry said, adding more eggs to her plate. “I think the two of them can handle one drunk.”

****

Across town, in the safe room of Bartoli’s Casino, Thomas Bulker’s hands were moist. They shook, with every nerve on end. He’d never done anything like this before. Wiping his palms on his pants, he began again. “Four turns to the right and stop on the number 14. Turn to the left past 14 three times and stop on 92. Come back to the left and past 92 and turn one more turn and stop on 25. Turn back to the right until it stops. Turn the handle and open.”

As he worked the tumblers, he read the instructions on the note, step by step, and this time everything went according to Hoyle. The hefty safe door opened, creaking and squeaking as it swung away from the interior to reveal its contents. Piles and piles of paper script, gold and silver coins, and sacks of gold dust, all lined up neat rows in the huge safe. Bartoli’s was doing well.

Bulker let out a sigh. A release of the tension he’d been under while he worked. He wondered how his employer had gotten the combination but pushed the pesky pang of conscience from his mind. He had to remember what his boss said — having a conscience was a cankerous tumor to be cut away and discarded. Easy said; not so easily done. Grabbing a handful of the paper money, he forced it into a sack.

The door opened, and a man shouted at him, “What the blazes are you doing in here?”

Bulker turned, saw Neeley the bartender, and fired a shot above the man’s head, splintering the door frame where the ball stuck. He stood, grasping his sack full of loot, then rushed toward the bartender. The bartender instinctively stepped away, leaving a clear path.

Golden City Marshal, Isaiah Johnson, was enjoying a large breakfast when he heard the shot. Spry for his age, he was up in an instant, gun pulled and ready for action, already running for the back room.

Bulker saw the lawman, and took aim to the left of the Marshal, pulled the hammer back, and jerked the trigger. The bullet whistled past the Marshal’s ear, missing the lawman. But though the bullet had missed, a sharp pain flared in the marshal’s chest. He skidded to a stop, felt his legs go weak and dropped to his knee. He clutched his chest tight, gasped, and red faced, dropped to the sawdust covered hardwood floor with a thud.

Bulker ran past the dying man, seeing the fear etched in the marshal’s eyes. Not waiting for return fire, he ran out the rear exit, to the sounds of shouting from the casino floor. He jumped on his horse, put the spurs to the cayuse, and galloped out of the town to the west as fast as possible. Thomas Bulker knew he’d done it now. He had killed the City Marshal.

Drawn by the shots, Deputy Joseph Nathan Meeker was on the scene in moments, with Deputy Wounded Hawk at his heels. As they entered the casino, they were met with mayhem.

“The brigand killed Marshal Johnson!” Neeley cried, pointing to the back room. “Shot and killed him!”

Meeker’s heart lurched. Damn. Running to the back, Meeker eyed Johnson, flat on the floor in the back hallway. Sliding past, Hawk kneeled at the marshal’s side, feeling the man’s neck. He looked up, shaking his head. “He’s gone, Nate.”

“He’s getting away!” Shouts from outside drew Meeker’s attention. The two deputies ran outside, shading their eyes against the bright light. The sun had risen.

“Well, that tears it,” Meeker said. He watched as the man’s horse grew smaller, moving west out of town. Ducking his head, Meeker let out a string of profanities, clearing his mind, then turned and looked at Hawk. “Would you go saddle our horses and the mule, Hawk? Usual supplies, please.”

Nodding to his boss, Hawk left the scene as Meeker went back inside, pushing past a gathering crowd. Standing in the hallway, he looked down at his friend laying at his feet. Taking off his hat, Meeker kneeled down, then turned the dead man over. There was not a mark on the body.

“Damn bastard shot him,” Neeley repeated.

“You’re wrong, Neeley. He ain’t shot,” Meeker told the bartender. “Maybe had a heart attack,” Meeker said, observing the bulging eyes and red face of the dead marshal.

Behind Neeley, Michelle Tanner walked down the hallway, the crowd parting in her wake. Meeker turned to the tall red headed woman as he stood.

“Gotta go get the feller that did this,” he told her, placing his hat back on his head. Michelle gazed back at him, knowing what was coming.

“Me and Hawk,” he clarified. “You’re in charge till we return.” He held up his hand to the objection he knew was coming. “So, try not to kill anyone, but don’t you dare get killed, ya hear me, girl?”

“I hear you, Nate,” Michelle said, resigned, as they stepped back outside. She didn’t want to be left out of the manhunt. “You fellers might need me out there, though.”

Meeker walked back to her, placing his hands on the young woman’s arms. “Shell, you know I understand you want that. I know you ain’t pleased to be holding down the fort here. But I ain’t changing my mind, ya hear? Hawk and I got this one.” He looked into Michelle’s eyes.

“I’m leaving you in charge, because someone has to be the law. Hawk’s the best tracker among us. Buffalo Head’s too old for this tracking business. He isn’t a deputy, he’s a jailer.” He dropped her arms, his decision made. “I need you here.”

“Right boss,” Michelle said, accepting it. Meeker was right.

Meeker’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I’m right, terrible sorry I’ll miss any birthday shenanigans, Hair of Flame.”

Michelle nodded, smiling at his use of her Indian moniker. “You fellers are all determined to ignore my wanting to ignore that.”

Meeker laughed and slapped her on the shoulder. “Happy Birthday, Shell.” He looked toward the west again, in the direction their quarry had headed. “I’d best go see what the holdup is getting the horses.”

Michelle nodded to her boss. “I’ll do you proud, Nate.”

“I know you will, girl,” Meeker turned and walked away from Michelle, heading toward Wilson Banning’s stable.

Standing on his balcony, Charlton Healey watched with mild amusement, “Oh, Deputy Tanner, have we had trouble at Bartoli’s joint?” he called down.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Michelle said, looking up at him.

“My dear … woman, everything in this camp concerns me,” Healey said. Sipping his coffee, he walked back into his office.

Doctor Bentley ran to the scene clutching his medical bag, asking if he could be of assistance.

“You can do the autopsy,” Shell told him. “It’s Marshal Johnson.”

“So, it’s true then. Isaiah’s dead?” The doctor’s shoulders drooped at the news.

“Wouldn’t want an autopsy if he weren’t.”

“Of course not,” Bentley said, shaking his head. “Damn. He was one of the good ones.”

“That he was, Doc.”

Michelle turned away from the doctor, gave a longing look as Meeker and Hawk rode off, and headed back toward the marshal’s office. She stepped onto the boarded sidewalk, mulling over how she’d make do lacking the help of the other two deputies. She squared her shoulders, up for the challenge, including her mysterious noon meeting. Until they returned, Michelle was the deputy in charge.

****

The coach bobbed and weaved, as the driver yelled at the horses. “Get a move on,” he snapped, heaving up and then down on the reins to encourage the animals. The steep, winding mountain road proved a hard obstacle for the six-horse team.

The shotgun rider dozed as the stage made its way toward the mining camp. Nothing remarkable about this trip. The return, however, that would be different. Gold would occupy the boot on the trip back to Denver City.

Inside the stage, two men looked at one another. James Richter studied the stranger sitting across from him. The man wore all black, one handgun occupied a holster tied low on his thigh. The other men were no worry, salesmen, nothing more. But the man in black was a gun hand like him. Richter, a two-bit gunfighter who’d survived more by chance and good luck than an individual skill with the tools of his trade.

“Name’s Richter,” he said, “Jim Richter.”

“Lovely,” the man in black told him. Craning his neck, he took a gander at the countryside.

“What’s yours?” Richter asked.

“My what?”

“Your handle,” Richter said.

“None of your business,” the stranger told him. Turning, the nameless fellow looked at him. The man’s glower burned into Richter.

Out of instinct, he reached to the grips of his firearm.

“Pull your reins in,” the gunslinger warned Richter. “Don’t be in such an all-fired hurry to take the defense. It’s jest … I don’t like talking,” he said. The nameless man returned his gaze to the landscape. The stage pulled into Golden City at 10:45am. The passengers disembarked, collecting their luggage the group dispersed to their intended destinations.

The man in black traveled light, picking up his two small valises. He noticed that Richter didn’t collect any luggage. He knew about Richter, cheap gunsel back shooter, the man thought, works for some saloon owner. Making his way to the Lake House Hotel, he scrawled something on the ledger. The desk manager looked at his name.

“Can’t quite make out your name, sir,” he said. The man just stared at the clerk.

“Sir,” the desk clerk insisted. “Your signature is illegible. I must have your name.”

“Leland,” he said.

“First or last?”

“Yeah,” the stranger said.

“I need a full name,” the clerk insisted. The stranger turned, glowering at the man.

“L…E…L…A…N…D. Leland … now, just give me the key,” Leland said, placing his hand on the rosewood grip of his Remington revolver.

The clerk felt an urge to run, but calmly held out the key with a barely trembling hand, where the man in black snatched it from him. Making his way to the stairs, he paused as a miner walked into the lobby.

“Thank you, sir,” the clerk said, casting his gaze away from the stranger, to the old miner who had entered. “Mr. Hays,” he nodded in greeting. His racing heart calmed as Leland left.

“Want a room for a few days,” Sanford Hays told him. “Got me a good poke and I want to have a rip-roaring time for a month before I go back to freezing myself in Clear Creek. Ground floor this time,” Hays said, “took me a wicked fall on thum stairs last time.”

Upstairs, Leland moved to his own room unlocked the door and went inside. Looking around he thought, it’ll do. Putting the bags on the bed, he pulled out more clothing, again all black. He emptied one of the bags, hanging the change of attire over a chair.

He liked black clothes; they concealed blood well. He removed a long, thin-bladed Arkansas toothpick from the other bag, then a penknife. Inside his big frock coat, he put the large knife into the sewn in sheath.

“Miners. God bless them geezers.”

****

Michelle Tanner sauntered down the gnarled boarded sidewalks and muddy streets of Golden City. Tipping her hat to the women, she felt amused by the men scurrying to get out of her path. In the months since her arrival, the attitude of the citizenry toward the young woman had undergone constant change. At first, outrage, then amusement, followed in short order by fear or respect.

A larger than life character, the young Deputy Marshal showed the community a friendly, boisterous personality. Nevertheless, she proved to be an apt officer of the law. Quick to use reason, her fist, or as a last resort, her side arms to keep the peace.

In many ways, Michelle Tanner took to the job of Deputy Marshal like a hand in glove. Despite her short-fused temper, Shell’s friendly nature, and easy manner helped her fit in, somewhat.

Despite all she had going for her, Shell often displayed her fiery temper. The inescapable fact that Michelle Tanner was a woman worked against her with many of the menfolk and more than a few of the women. In the 1860s men had a natural resistance to a woman being in anyway perceived as their equal. Many a man felt she lorded her authority over them. There were those who accepted her at face value, others tolerated her, while a few others wanted her gone.

With a wicked speed and deadly accuracy, Michelle Tanner had shot a gun from an assailant’s hand around Christmas. Meeker had rebuked her about being too polite over the incident. Shell countered she wasn’t killing anyone she didn’t have to, especially at Christmas. This drama played out in front of several miners and endeared the young woman to these hardened men.

Michelle had pistol-whipped more than one man in her months in Golden City. When Michelle realized that two men were going for guns, she moved with a swiftness that blurred the action. First smacking one man over his head, she turned to the other cracked his wrist with the barrel of her gun. What could have been fatal, turned into only bruised pride for two drunken friends that otherwise might have killed each other.

Yet resentment of the woman, by a few miners, bartenders and business owners, the refined women of the community, and even a few of the whores, bubbled just under the surface. Angry statements, delivered to someone in earshot of Michelle, could hurt her feelings if she paid a mind to it. But Michelle held her wounded pride in check.

However, should one of her detractors fall from grace and Shell had to deal with them, Deputy Tanner found something satisfying in that, with no regard to their standing in the community. Tanner was known to have thanked prisoners for putting two dollars in her pocket, the fee she collected for every arrest.

“Howdy ma’am,” a miner said, his words whistling through a missing tooth in his mouth.

“Hey, Jake how you doing?” Michelle replied, pulled from her thoughts.

“Purty good,” he said, rubbing his jaw, “think I’m all healt up from our encounter,” he said, laughing. Jake MacGregor referred to his involvement in a drunken fight the previous week. His participation ended when Shell knocked out the tooth now missing from his smile, yet he felt no ill will toward the woman. Michelle smiled, spoke with him, and moved on about her rounds. Ever mindful that she had the noon appointment, she regularly checked her pocket watch.

A tall, thin man was leaning against a post across the street, and he caught her attention. She felt his stare, as her neck prickled. The Deputy spied on him from under the brim of her hat as she walked. From just a glance, Tanner knew he was a gunsel. A small man who wanted to cast a big shadow. Did the man maybe consider besting her as a prize to be sought?

She knew he amounted to nothing. Just a scallywag who made a reputation by killing for money, though no one could prove that fact. His gunfights happened over perceived wrongs. She’d monitor this fellow. Just might be that he and the note were connected. Either way, Michelle Tanner would be at the Painted Lady before noon.

James Richter watched the tall woman from across the street. This was different than his usual work; this woman was a deputy marshal. He couldn’t get into an open gunfight with Michelle Tanner, no matter the perceived reason. He wasn’t going to swing, and he knew he couldn’t out draw or out shoot the woman.

No, this would be a private affair, if it came to that. The big muscled up gal-boy offended him. Her wearing men’s garb, and the fact she performed a man’s job, wore on his nerves. The woman, who Richter had dubbed the bull-bitch, needed to be dead and gone.

He waited, then followed her, watching from afar, analyzing the way she moved. He had seen her in action, and he knew the fast as lightning woman hit where she intended. Lethal best described the deputy marshal. She cracked six feet, maybe by two or three inches. She sported two Colt sixguns, or sometimes she carried a nine-shot LeMat revolver.

There was an unusual grace to the way she moved. At times, when she walked, you knew she was a woman, despite the manner of her dress. But Michelle Tanner could have a rough way about her if her anger flared.

The gal-boy was foul-mouthed, quick with her fists, and when Shell hit you, well, most men crashed to the ground with a single blow. He knew all that, and all that served to feed his perception that Deputy Tanner wasn’t an ordinary person. Her long, flowing, fire red hair made her easy to follow.

Crossing the muddy street, Michelle Tanner stopped as a wagon passed by, aware of the man tailing her. She pulled her pocket watch out again. Noon approached, so Shell headed toward the saloon. As she crossed over the muddy gap between one set of boarded sidewalks to the next, Shell saw the preacher. He nodded at the woman as he sat a new saddle on a stand in front of the Church/saddlery.

“I understand it’s your birthday, Marshal,” he said, removing his hat as if he talked to a lady. “May I wish you the best?”

“I guess you may, but I’m not fond of the fuss.”

“Well, happy birthday anyway,” the tall, thin preacher said. A smiled broadened his face as he bowed and held his hat to the side. He returned the topper to his head, straightened to his full stature, “Does your Indian jailer friend know about your aversion to attention?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Interesting,” he said, dusting the removable plaque hanging on the church door, extolling the Saddlery.

Shrugging her shoulders, she moved on toward the swinging doors of the Painted Lady. Pausing, she took a deep breath, let one hand fall to her side, hovering near her gun, then reached up with the other and pushed on the door, entering the bar.

Henry Buffalo head stood at the bar, his foot on the rail, a cup of coffee in his hand. Other than him the bar appeared to be empty, save for the solitary bartender cleaning a beer mug. He moved the cloth over it, shining the stein to a glistening luster. This action struck Michelle as peculiar.

She strolled inside, stepping up three stairs to the main floor of the saloon. Gazing to the left, she saw gamblers, miners, painted ladies, and a good quantity of merchants standing just inside the gambling area, leering at her.

The back of Michelle’s neck tingled. Out of instinct, her hands fell to her pistols. There was a shout, and everyone moved toward her. What’s this?

 

Greed in Golden Valley

Chapter Two — Gal-boy’s Birthday Surprise

 

“Surprise!” the large group yelled in unison, breaking into song, “For she’s a jolly good fellow.” When the singing finished, the crowd rushed to her. Michelle felt foolish thinking this was an ambush. They shook Michelle’s hand, slapped her on the back, telling the woman how much they appreciated her.

The miner from the street sauntered up to Shell and shook her hand with vigor. Grinning, Jake’s missing tooth had a chunk of bread clinging to the gap. Michelle’s wondered if it was sourdough or cornbread. Funny what you think of when you’re uncomfortable.

“I, sure enough, nearly blurted it out about this here shindig when I saw you today!” the burly miner told her, still clutching her hand while he pumped her arm. “You’re purty much my favorite lawman ever … I mean law-woman.” Closing his mouth, he made a sucking sound, then swallowed. Following that MacGregor smiled, the gap now clean.

One of the soiled doves came up to Michelle and wished her a happy birthday, flashing her flirtatious smile. Walking away from Michelle the woman paused, turned, and smiled even broader. Michelle shook off the strange feeling. She had no interest in such foolishness with either sex. Rubbing her head, Shell felt somewhat amused at the woman’s advances but reminded herself that prostitutes are in it for the money.

“Pay her no attention, Miss Tanner,” Lacey Ward said. “She’s simple minded, harmless, and quite smitten with you.”

“Poor girl should set her sights higher,” Michelle said.

“Oh, you’re the highest she has ever gazed at,” Lacey said, moving away, laughing.

James Richter approached the swinging doors, watching the action for a minute. With a stealthy quiet, Richter walked inside, tramped straight to a table near the bar. Sitting down, he lifted a finger in the air, and the bartender poured a drink, then had a saloon girl deliver the glass and a bottle of red-eye to him. He watched the action, detached from everyone.

Insipid, cheap, rock gut, whiskey, Richter thought. Why couldn’t that wool-headed barkeep learn he drank the good stuff? Glaring at the man, the bartender realized his mistake. Grabbing a fresh bottle from underneath the bar, Scotch this time, the bartender rushed to the man and retrieved the house booze. He poured a fresh glass for Richter and returned to the bar.

Richter pulled some tobacco from his pocket, rolled a cigar, then fished out a match and struck it. Thick smoke curled around his face and around the brim of his hat.

Henry continued to drink his coffee, as if oblivious to the whoopee-dee-do. Soon, Michelle made her way to the bar, glaring at Buffalo Head as the bartender poured a drink and brought it to her.

“On the house,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, turning to Buffalo Head, pushing her hat upward. “What did I tell you about this silliness?”

“I didn’t have a thing to do with it,” Henry said. “Healey’s idea.”

“Healey?” Michelle shook her head. The saloon owner had made his feelings clear regarding the law in town.

Buffalo Head nodded. “I’d be careful Shell. He pays me to stay out of here.”

“What?”

“Charlton Healey pays me five dollars a month to stay away from his place,” Henry told her. “Two reasons, I’m a jailer, and I’m a redskin.”

“I thought the custom was to pay us to visit the place,” Michelle said.

“He doesn’t want the law around,” Henry said. “I don’t drink, I don’t gamble, nor do I frequent prostitutes, so I have no reason to be here. Nonetheless, I’ll take his five dollars. He pays Wounded Hawk to stay away too.” He looked around, then back at her. “I think this place isn’t all together on the up and up,” Henry said, both knowing he was right.

“So, same reasons on Hawk?”

“Yep,” he said. Finishing his coffee, he looked at Michelle. “Made an exception for me today. He tried to pay Meeker to stay away. I’m sure you can guess how that went.”

“Gave him an earful about how he don’t care a continental, I bet.”

“You can count on it,” Buffalo Head said. “I’ll be by the door. Healey’s coming over to visit with you.”

The saloon owner walked up to her, tipping his derby. He held up one finger to the bartender, indicating one for himself, then he lifted a second finger.

“No more for me, thank you,” Michelle said to the bartender.

Charlton Healey looked Miss Tanner up one side and down the other, settling on her face. In an awkward moment, realizing his rudeness, Chuck turned to the mirror hanging behind the bar, still studying the woman. He drank his whiskey down, then smacked the bar indicating he wanted another. The bartender filled his glass and Healey flashed a sharp stare, suggesting it was time for Joe to go.

“I’ll be brief, Miss Tanner,” Healey began as the bartender left. “I’ll pay you twenty dollars a month to stay away from my operation. Look around you. There are no respectable women in here. Not one other gal-boy either. The only females are whores. Should you want one of them, you can make a side arrangement, and I’ll bless the union free of charge.”

Michelle held her cool at his insinuation. She stared him in the eye, via the mirror, just as he stared at her the same way. The animosity in his glare was unmistakable. A moment of silence seemed to last longer than it did. Healey was obviously expecting her to say something. When she didn’t, he spoke.

“You know there are over a hundred darkie prospectors in the area, and none in here. Pepper bellies all over the place, but not one of the bean eaters in my joint.” Drinking down his liquor, he turned to the woman.

“I don’t like your kind of woman. A woman that thinks she’s like a man. The law in here … dampens people’s spirits. I have an operation that runs smooth. I don’t need you or Meeker in here. Twenty a month to leave me alone. Call it a nuisance payment, as in, you won’t become one.”

“No,” Michelle said.

“Thirty then,” he snapped.

Michelle said nothing, then swiveled away, sauntered toward the door, then paused a moment.

“No, I’ll come and go as I please,” she told him, twisting her head his direction, Shell’s brilliant green eyes bore into him. Her scowl as hard and hateful as his own gave him the answer but she added words to emphasize her meaning, “And, by God, you can count on that.”

“I’ll take measures if you stick your nose in my business,” he replied.

Michelle turned and joined Buffalo Head at the door. They stepped outside and moved away from the Saloon.

Inside, Charlton Healey bobbed his head to the gunman sitting behind him. Richter stood, traversed the short distance to the door and waited till Michelle and the old Indian stepped off the sidewalk to the gap. The hired hand followed them, keeping the odd pair in sight.

“Joe,” Healey said, turning back to his bartender, “What do you think of that bull-bitch deputy?”

“You want the truth?” Joe questioned.

“Yeah,” Charlton said, “the truth.”

“She’s a better man than me or you,” Joe said. “Boss, she cusses better than most men. Hell, she can drink like a man, acts like one too. I never seen a woman such as her. If you killed her, or have her killed, will you feel more of a man, or less?”

“It ain’t about that,” Chuck Healey insisted. “She’s an abomination to nature. And for a woman, she’s whip-sharp. We can’t have no smart deputies in here, be they women, Indians, or legends. I won’t allow them to mess up what we have.”

“What you have boss,” Joe said.

“No, what we have. You have a quarter of this joint,” Healey said. “We have a lot to lose, you remember that,” Sipping his drink, Healey continued, “Don’t go getting squeamish on me, Joe.”

“Just don’t ask me to do the deed,” Joe said, returning to his glass polishing.

“When have I ever asked you to do anything all that hard?”

“Time or two,” Joe said. “And I done um. Just don’t ask this of me.”

“Well, like you allowed, she’s too much man for you,” said Healey. “I hope you aren’t all that fond of the britches wearing… woman.”

****

“Damn, I don’t like that pig one bit,” Michelle told Buffalo Head as they walked away from the Painted Lady, their boots echoing on the sidewalk.

“Me neither. Might be trouble,” Henry said. “Actually, no might about it. Healey is trouble.

Michelle resisted the urge to look back, both at Healey’s establishment, and at the prickle down her spine. They were being watched.

“Speaking of trouble, see that tall gangly boy over yonder? The young feller leaning against the side of the general store?”

“Yeah?” Michelle asked. “He trouble?”

“You might say that.” Henry grinned, looking at the boy. “He’s got his self … smitten with our young Miss Culbertson. Follow’s her like a puppy dog at a distance.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Michelle said, checking the kid out. “Got a crush on her, does he? It’ll pass.”

“Sure, or it won’t. Time’ll tell.”

Behind them, the gunslinger kept his distance, waiting for his opportunity. It would be out and out murder. James Richter knew he would have to be careful. He was no match for her head to head. Richter bided his time, keeping the pair in view as they meandered through the bustling town.

“A bushwhacking then,” he whispered. He would wait for night. Under cover of darkness he could back shoot her and get away clean. The boss would be happy with that outcome.

****

Sanford Hays stumbled out of the Painted Lady, before making his way to another drinking establishment. He crossed each gap in the wooden sidewalks, slipping and sliding, his boots sinking into the slushy mire. The gold coins clanged and chimed in his pockets. The roulette wheel had been kind to him that night. At one such gap, he heard something in the alleyway.

“What’s wrong?” Hays asked, looking at someone doubled over and moaning in pain. He stumbled into the dark to see if he could help the man. The figure continued to groan and Sanford rushed to him, grabbing the stranger by the shoulders.

With a quick twist, Leland turned into him. The blade of the knife jabbed into the chest of Hays. With an expert aim, Leland shoved the long thin knife between two ribs, just missing the sternum. The steel punctured Hays’s heart. The old man’s eyes went wide, his mouth lolled open, and he slumped down to the ground, landing on his knees.

Leland pulled the blade out, as a small amount of blood gushed from the wound. Sanford Hays fell face down in the grimy alley, bleeding profusely. The killer rolled Hays over, rifling through his pockets where he found gold coins, folding money, and a bag of gold dust. Gazing at the open dead eyes, the assassin smiled and opened the dead miner’s mouth.

“Nice fillings,” he said. Cleaning the blade off on Hays’s clothing, he shoved it back in its sheath. Pulling his penknife from a vest pocket, he went to work. When done, he walked away whistling Camp Town Races, as he rattled the gold fillings around in his hand. He loved the feel of gold.

The miner’s body would be found in the morning. Hays was the first.

****

The hour grew late as Tanner walked the streets. Had she noticed the bundle in the alley sticking out from some crates, she would have found Hays. But Michelle walked by, passing a man whistling and couldn’t help but hear the words in her mind. Michelle hoped the night would be peaceful, as the day had proved to be a slow one.

Her belly grumbled and Shell wondered if Henry had food ready. Walking down the darkened streets, a cold chill of apprehension passed over her. Stopping dead in her tracks, she turned, observing the street behind her. Two drunks were propping each other up as they crossed the street, moving from one drinking establishment to another. A young woman walked down the boarded sidewalk with a quick stride. She looked somewhat out of place in the calm of the night as she scurried to a cafe. Two men unloaded a wagon of supplies into an emporium. There seemed to be no one else out on the street.

Nevertheless, Shell felt eyes on her. Moving from the sidewalk, she crossed the road to the other side, repeating her vigilance. There appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary, yet her senses were on alert.

Attempting to shrug off the feeling, she continued to the federal marshal’s office. As she scraped her boots clean, Michelle dug her chaw of tobacco from her mouth and tossed it to the street. A moment of anxiety passed over her again and she scanned the street once more. All quiet, but Michelle determined she’d have to be extra careful that night on rounds.

Opening the office door, she crossed the threshold and noticed the big cake on the table. The aroma of cooking steak greeted her, and Sarah quivered with excitement, standing at the marshal’s desk. On it were two boxes, wrapped in brown wrapping paper, tied with string.

“Happy birthday!” the girl cried out, unable to contain herself.

“Bought them with her own money,” Henry said, turning the steaks. “Like the hoopla or not, it is your birthday.” Michelle moved to Sarah and took the smaller package first. Sitting at the desk, she broke the string and tore the paper from the box to reveal a large bowie knife.

“Well, thank you, Sarah, not sure where I can carry this though,” she said, holding the blade up for Buffalo Head to see.

“Well, open this,” Sarah said, pushing the second box to Michelle, her excitement palpable. “I just hope you like the stuff as much I as do my dresses you got fer … I mean for … me.”

“Well the knife sure is grand,” Shell said, as she used it to cut the string. Opening the second box, she removed black knee-high boots, one with a scabbard sewn into it. “I see, so here’s where I can carry the knife.”

“I figured these black boots would go with your black pants better than the tan ones,” Sarah blurted out, beaming at Michelle. As Michelle looked at the younger woman, she realized how important giving was. It wasn’t just about the receiving.

“Best dashed boots I ever saw,” Michelle told her.

“I picked out the leather myself, then Buffalo Head helped me put them together. I used my dad’s stuff to make them. You do remember he was a cobbler, right?”

“Of course, I remember that. You made them, with your own hands?” Shell asked the girl, impressed.

“Sure did! I hope they fit,” Sarah said pulling up a chair.

Michelle pulled off her boots and then tugged the new ones into place. The fit was snug but not too tight. Standing, she hugged Sarah, then walked to Buffalo Head and hugged him.

“Best birthday presents ever,” she said as they sat down to dinner. Buffalo Head even let Sarah have a second cup of coffee with the cake.

After much talk, Shell rose and moved to the door. She smiled at Sarah again, took her hat from its peg and placed it on her head.

“Best, damn, birthday presents ever,” Shell said again as she stepped outside the jailhouse. The weight of the knife would take some getting used to. Even so, a big skinner like that could come in handy. She smiled again, remembering Sarah’s excitement.

The cold of the night caused Michelle to shiver, but she resisted the urge to button the coat, as that would make it harder to access her weapons. Putting up her guard Michelle moved over the wooden boards, cautious, waiting for the nagging worry to take an identifiable form.

As she walked the sidewalks of the community, she was aware that someone followed her. Yet each time she turned to see who was there, she found no one. It played on her mind as she did her rounds. Through a Gambling Parlor, then checking a cathouse, followed by a saloon, there was a constant niggling in her head that danger lurked in the dark.

Walking through the various establishments, the customers shook her hand and wished her a happy birthday. The word of her birthday preceded her, so she endured an endless stream of reminders of the landmark day. In many ways, Michelle Tanner was a private person. She suspected that the gregarious Wounded Hawk was the source of everyone’s knowledge of the event. His affability helped him overcome the handicap of mixed parentage. Not that his personality could ever buy him real acceptance. Hawk put more effort into being liked than feared, but as he was a Deputy US Marshal, inevitability, more feared him than were fond of him. With that said, he managed to walk into almost any establishment in the camp and have at least a tepid reception. Hawk preferred folks who had a mild annoyance with him, to that of out and out hostility.

As she passed in front of the theater portion of the Painted Lady, Michelle, the sounds of merriment reached her ears as some fellow on stage told raunchy jokes. Stepping just inside the fancy stained glass doorway of the theater, she took in the crowd. From the corner of her vision, the Deputy saw Healey glaring at her. She ignored the implication, and in the fashion of her own unbridled, rambunctious personality, Shell tipped her hat to him, turned, then walked outside, back into the night. A flicker caught her eye, and she was sure a man had been watching her in the distance. But like a vapor, the apparition vanished from sight. Her mind flashed back to Mountain View and the imagined ghosts of that town. She shook her head at the feeling.

Again, Shell ambled the sidewalks. She had a few blocks left before she would cross the street and head back toward the office. Most of the businesses were shuttered for the night here. The several blocks left would turn into residential housing soon. Still, Michelle always walked right to the edge of town.

On her way back toward the jail, Michelle crossed the gap between two blocks, then stepped back onto the wooden sidewalk at the small church. Glancing up, she saw Healey standing on his balcony. He tipped his hat to Michelle and she returned the pleasantry, not stopping to talk, and passed under him on her return journey.

Watching her as she moved away from back toward the Marshall’s office, Healey smiled, lit his cigar and pulled the match from his mouth. “Here it comes. Our gal-boy’s birthday surprise.”

Ants crawled over her back as the expectancy of an unseen danger grew. Michelle stopped and turned a circle often, but to no avail. She never caught sight of anyone behind her yet knew someone trailed her. At last, she arrived back at the Jailhouse. Her queasiness subsided as she crossed the manure and piss strewn muck of the nearly frozen mud of the thoroughfare.

When Michell reached the center of the avenue, the hairs on the back of her neck twitched. She halted, her hands went to the grips of her guns, and that was when she heard it. The distinct click of the cocking of a hammer. She spun, pulling one gun free of its holster as a thunderous boom shattered the night. The deep blast made Shell’s skin crawl. She felt the gunfire in her lungs and down her spine.

 

 

Greed in Golden Valley

Chapter Three — Bet My Pony on it

 

Turning the full 180 degrees, Michelle saw the gunfighter, his gun drawn and cocked, stumbling toward her. Shell took aim, but before she could fire, the man dropped into the street, his face buried in muck, his back a bloody mess.

Behind Richter, Jake MacGregor, the old miner, crouched on the sidewalk, as smoke swirled from both barrels of his shouldered shotgun. Straightening, he pushed his hat up, let the gun drop down to his side.

“You all right, ma’am?” Jake asked.

“Yeah,” Shell said holstering her hog leg, kicking the gunfighter’s weapon away as he lay in the street.

People flooded onto the streets, and Henry Buffalo Head rushed to the fallen man. Behind him, Sarah ran into the street.

“Shell!” she cried, staring from the woman to the dead man in the street.

“She’s fine, little one,” Henry said. Standing up, he placed his hand on the girl’s arm.

Jake looked at the man he’d just shot. “He’s been a following you all the duce-ed day. I thought that strange, so I followed him,” he explained. “He was about ta back shoot ya … so … I backshot him.” Jake dropped the firearm to the wooden boards, his hands held out as if he expected her cuff him. “Guess you got to lock me up now.”

“I ain’t locking you up, Jake. You just saved my life,” Michelle said, walking toward the old man. Grabbing his right hand, she shook it with as much vigor as he had hers earlier in the day. “I’d like to buy you a drink, old timer.”

“After that, I’ll buy you one as well,” Jake said, and smiled at her.

As doctor Bentley rushed up, Henry turned to him. “No, need to rush, Doc.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

“Well, I guess it’s Stoglin’s mortuary for him,” Bentley said.

Sarah ran from Henry and grabbed Michelle, hugging her, as Michelle assured the girl that she was all right. At the doctor’s bidding, a few men stepped up, and carried the body off to undertaker.

Standing on the corner, away from the crowd, Charlton Healey watched, steely eyed. “Reckoned I’d given the gal-boy a birthday surprise,” he said under his breath. “I’m the one that’s surprised.”

As the deputy walked past him with the old timer, Healey tipped his hat to Michelle, then turned and marched away shaking his head. Healey had other issues which required his attention. He wondered what transpired in the mountains to the west, how had his man faired? Only the future would tell.

****

High in the Rockies

The Rocky Mountains stretch from the northwestern reaches of Canada, winding south and somewhat eastward for more than 3,000 miles well into New Mexico. The rugged range was heaped up eons ago, from deep inside the earth by some calamitous event. As if God grew angry and pulled the ground skyward, dragging the barren peaks until they touched the firmament.

In that craggy range, there lay a high valley with a small lake. An unpretentious body of crystal-clear water, whose origin reached so far into the past that no human ever saw the valley without the lake. The large pond was cradled in the bosom of that valley, high in the Mountains of Colorado Territory. A lustrous blue body of water filled with cutthroat trout. Fish broke the surface if they spotted a fly or mosquito dancing on the surface of the water. They leapt skyward when a hapless insect happened over their head.

That was a preview of Greed in Golden Valley #2 of the Michelle Tanner Series. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Greed in Golden Valley #2 of the Michelle Tanner Series» to Cart