Black Hills Hellhole (A Wild Bill Western Book 6) Page 8

  But refusing to go was not an option. Bill decided to hide behind his best poker face and just play it hand by hand.

  Halfway to Stratton’s office, Bill had to pass through the squalid housing area. Women old before their time hung stained laundry out in the hot sun while little shirttail brats clung to their skirts. Men who worked the night shift, loading ore, gathered in groups to drink beer, pitch horse shoes, arm wrestle, or bet on footraces between the children—anything to alleviate the boredom of a miner’s life.

  Bill also noticed several armed guards around the powder magazine. Miners were a disgruntled bunch of workers, capable of violent riots at any moment. That posed problems for big mining operations, which kept plenty of dynamite and nitroglycerine on hand. Also kegs of black powder for shaped charges.

  All that destructive power, Bill mused, and it’s in the hands of Keith “Boomer” Morgan. The pride of the Confederate Army. Immortalized in one Union ballad as “the Grim Reaper in Gray.” The man should have been hanged for war crimes; instead, he was a mine captain sharing the good life with Deke Stratton.

  By now Hickok had reached the last building on the sprawling lot, Stratton’s private office. Two more hard-eyed security men stood guard out front. But they greeted Hickok with some deference—why? he wondered. Unless they had orders from Stratton to do so?

  The door stood propped open with a chunk of ore. Stratton saw Hickok approaching.

  “Come on in, Ben!” he called out affably, even rising from behind his neat desk to shake Hickok’s hand, dirt and all. “Take a load off, working man.”

  Bill slacked into a chair at the corner of the desk. The office was pleasant, but hardly pompous. There was the usual American flag, of course. And a huge map on the back wall showed every shaft or stope that had been blasted into the mountain.

  Stratton picked up a copy of the Rapid City Register from his desk. He read out loud for the new arrival’s benefit:

  “‘The victim, Mrs. Esther Emmerick, was a Methodist missionary from Indiana who came west to teach the savages how to speak and write English. Evidently, the same arrow that pierced her eye also penetrated the skull, lacerating the brain. She died of internal hemorrhaging in the cranium—’”

  Stratton fell silent and slapped the newspaper back down onto his desk.

  “Tell me, Ben,” he said pleasantly. “How do you feel about this unfortunate incident?”

  Bill shrugged. “It’s a damn shame for the lady, Mr. Stratton. But it’s none of my mix. I’m not one to worry unduly over what doesn’t concern me.”

  Stratton smiled at Bill’s candor. Most men would have made rhetorical statements of outrage.

  “I’ve been watching you, Ben. And I like what I see. To quote an old trailsman, you’re one of those rare men whom bees refuse to sting. Men like you shouldn’t be lugging lunch pails.”

  Hickok returned the smile. “Now you mention it, I don’t recall ever being stung by a bee. Wasp nor hornet, neither. But I have been snakebit.”

  Both men laughed.

  “Hell, even Cassie likes you, Ben, and she’s not easy to please. Tell me—did you grow up poor?” Stratton demanded bluntly.

  “Poor as Job’s turkey, boss.”

  “So did I, Ben. Christ, my people were dirt-poor. My old man topped sugar beets in Colorado right alongside Mexicans.”

  Stratton rose, crossed to the open front door, and pulled it shut. He returned to his desk and sat down. He spoke in a lower vice.

  “Ben, between me and my … closest associates, there are no complicated arrangements. And very little that’s put down on paper. Just a sort of ... subrosa accord. Do you know what that means?”

  “A sort of unwritten agreement, right?”

  Stratton beamed. “Exactly. And loyalty is at the heart of this unwritten agreement. Loyalty is just as essential in business as in war, don’t you think, Ben?”

  Wild Bill Hickok was notorious for being a one-man outfit, loyal to nothing but the harsh code of gun law. Thus, the lie came easily.

  “To me, that’s not even debatable,” he told Stratton. “Even a simple cowboy will fight for the brand of his employer. Even if he hates the man personally.”

  Clearly Deke could not have wished for a better answer.

  “So that’s where you got that steel in your eyes,” he said enthusiastically. “Range wars, right?”

  Bill nodded, and this time it was no lie. He had in fact ended the bloody Kinkaid County War in Wyoming only a year earlier.

  “Tell me, Ben ... what’s your opinion of Earl Beckman? Frankly now.”

  Hickok knew, of course, that he was being tested. However, the exact nature of the test was Stratton’s secret. But Bill knew he couldn’t penetrate to the heart of the Regulators without taking risks.

  “Well, since you ask, Mr. Stratton, I don’t trust him.”

  Stratton’s behavior now made Bill wish he could laugh outright. Like many pompous men of wealth, Stratton usually feigned a benign indifference to men who lacked money. But he seemed keenly interested in Bill’s insights on Beckman.

  “Why?” Stratton pressed. “Why don’t you trust him?”

  This, Hickok realized, was the moment he had sworn to be ready for. God guide his tongue ... He wanted Stratton to perceive him as a simple man with sound instincts.

  “No special reason, Mr. Stratton. But that man is tricky—tricky as a redheaded woman. And loyal only to himself.”

  Stratton nodded, obviously satisfied with this opinion. Even pleased.

  “Between me and you, Ben, I’m a little worried about having Earl in charge of security. I confess I have his desk searched regularly. The man has a certain penchant for … accumulating documents. Documents he really has no business keeping in his desk. Never the originals, of course. Copies. Why is he bothering to do that?”

  Stratton didn’t need to elaborate. Men in Beckman’s job often worried about future legal actions. He was either covering his own ass or preparing to nail someone else’s.

  “I have a theory about men like Earl,” Stratton mused, perhaps thinking out loud. “Men who live and breathe for the rebel cause even today, almost ten years after the war. I believe their fanaticism makes them loyal only to that lost cause.”

  Stratton seemed to recall himself. He gave Hickok a perfunctory smile.

  “Ben, I’m glad we had this little confab. Keep it close to your vest, eh? I still need time to ... evaluate this matter. Meantime, I’d appreciate you keeping your eyes open wide, if you take my meaning?

  Bill nodded as he stood up, preparing to leave. Deke slid a pigskin wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. He handed his employee several new banknotes. One of them, Bill noticed, was a twenty.

  “There may be some changes around here,” Stratton added. “If so, I’ve already got you in mind, Ben, for a hefty promotion. We’ll be in touch, all right?”

  Hickok kept the triumph out of his eyes. “You bet, Mr. Stratton,” was all he said before he left.

  Chapter Ten

  After almost two weeks on the job, Hickok and Joshua had become regulars at the Number 10. Clerks stood out at night in their clean corduroy pants and low broughams. But it was safe to meet there at lunchtime, when miners and clerks often commingled for the lunch specials.

  “So now we know that Stratton doesn’t trust Beckman,” Josh said thoughtfully when Bill had summed up this morning’s meeting with Stratton.

  “Do we?” Hickok challenged. “That’s what he says, ain’t it?”

  This suggestion made Josh frown. “You mean ... you think it’s a trap?”

  “I don’t think so, no. But why the hell not? What better bait if Deke thinks I might be a Pinkerton op?”

  “So what do we do?”

  Bill stuck a skinny Mexican cigar between his teeth and scratched a phosphor across the scarred table. Intimidated by Calamity Jane’s proximity at the bar, Hickok had insisted on a table.

  “We can’t hedge now,” Bill admitted between
puffs. As usual under pressure, he resorted to gambling metaphors. “The longer we let them bluff, the more danger we lose our entire stake. I say we take Deke’s hand at face value. I think he really is watching Beckman like a cat on a rat.”

  Joshua forked steaming Hungarian goulash into his mouth. Like all the food out West, it was too damn salty. He Repeated his question. “So what do we do?”

  “What we always do, kid—we shake things up a little and see what falls out.”

  To any onlookers, Bill merely appeared to be reaching for a hunk of bread. But as his hand passed Josh’s plate, the reporter heard something clunk onto the table.

  Josh’s eyebrows almost touched in puzzlement. He stared at the queerest-looking skeleton key he’d ever seen. Instead of one bit at the end of the shaft, there were three.

  “What’s that?” he demanded.

  “Put it in your pocket before somebody sees it. That’s the lad, and keep it hidden, hear? Don’t let the other clerks see it. It’s called a bar key, and it’s illegal to possess one. Matter of fact, in most states it’s five years at hard labor if you’re caught with one.”

  Josh paled and quit eating. “Man alive! And it’s in my pocket?”

  “Easy, kid. If all goes well, you’ll have it less than a day. See, the bar key is the primary tool of cracksmen back East in the big cities. Burglars who specialize in picking locks to gain entry. Locks, especially out here on the frontier, generally fit one of a few simple types.”

  “Cracksmen?” Josh repeated. “You mean me? I have to—”

  “No, you young fool, us. You’ll do the entry part while I take care of the guards.”

  “Enter what?”

  “Deke Stratton’s office,” Bill replied calmly.

  Joshua, the son of a pious Quaker mother and an honest judge father, rarely swore. He did now, making Hickok grin.

  “Jesus Katy Christ, Bill! Stratton’s office? What is wrong with you, and what doctor told you so?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Bill warned him. “You ain’t an auctioneer. Look, kid, you yourself cross that office complex plenty after dark. You’ve already told me they only have one guard for the whole area after the day shift ends.”

  “Sure,” Josh conceded. “Because all the big bosses are gone. But—”

  “All right then. One guard, and I’ll handle him.”

  “And what do I do?”

  “You been to high school, and you ain’t figured that out yet? I just got done telling you that Stratton has got a man going through Beckman’s desk.”

  “So you want me to take something from Stratton’s desk—”

  “Just a copy that you’re going to make right there.”

  “You want me to copy something,” Josh resumed, “then put it in Beckman’s desk?”

  “Sure, that’s the gait, kid. Easy as pie, ain’t it? Something that Beckman has no damn business having, see? Something that might go bad against Stratton in a court of law.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m the muscle, Joshua, you’re the brains in this outfit. You figure that out. I trust you. Just remember, the big idea here is to get me promoted into Beckman’s job. That’s the quickest way I’m going to find out exactly which men are part of the Regulators. The law needs specific names linked to specific crimes. John Doe warrants are worthless for serious prosecutions.”

  Actually, Bill’s risky plan was a pretty good idea, Josh told himself.

  Bill slyly added the clincher.

  “And kid? When all this is over, just think what a story it’ll make. What’s that big scribbling award they give at Harvard?”

  “The Golden Quill,” Josh replied in reverent tones.

  “There you go. Why, you win one of them? I’ll bet that editor of yours will even raise your remittance payments.”

  “All right,” Josh finally surrendered. “When?”

  “Time is nipping at our sitters,” Bill reminded him. “We better try this very night. Maybe around midnight.”

  Before either man could say anything else, a Chinese youth in a floppy blue blouse stopped at their table. They recognized him as one of the Number 10’s full-time employees—one of the workers who helped drag Danny Stone’s dead body outside.

  The kid bowed politely and handed Hickok a folded note on perfumed stationery. Josh watched his mentor read it, then flash a curious little smile.

  “Interesting,” Hickok said, letting Josh read the brief missive. It was written in bold penmanship with plenty of royal flourishes.

  Dear Mr. Lofley, Josh read, if you glance at the far end of the bar, you will notice a blue chintz curtain. The stairway behind that curtain is private and leads to my suite upstairs. I know your lunch break is brief but could you possibly find a few minutes for me? I have some information for you. Cassie Saint John.

  Bill crumpled the note and shoved it into his pocket. Later, Josh knew, he’d burn it. The youth was immediately worried. He had seen no sign of Cassie today—nor of Stratton, Morgan, and Beckman.

  “It might be a trap,” he warned Bill. “She lures you upstairs, and they kill you.”

  Bill mulled this and shook his head. “Why there? Why get blood and gore all over her place?”

  “They don’t need to shoot you,” Josh reminded him. “Labun carries a nasty club on his belt. You yourself told me more men are bludgeoned to death out here than shot.”

  “You could be right,” Bill was forced to concede. “You’re learning how to think, Joshua. Hell, I’m s’posed to die in the Number 10, if you go by prophesy.”

  “Sure. And where’s Deke? He’s usually in for lunch by this time.”

  Hickok nodded patiently. “All true. But like I said, we can’t afford to hedge. And it ain’t just the big bosses I got to fret.”

  Wild Bill pointed his chin toward the bar. Calamity Jane—Jim Bob Lavoy to everyone else— had seen the Chinese worker deliver a note to Bill. And the stone-cold stare she gave him now made it amply clear Jane also knew who wrote that note.

  “I might get shot in the ass for parting those curtains,” Hickok mused. “Or shot in the pizzle when I sneak back down.”

  Bill glanced at Jane again, then at the perfumed note. He sighed.

  “It’s not just those big green eyes, Longfellow. Duty calls the Pinkerton man. She claims to have information.”

  “Yeah,” Josh replied sarcastically. “Duty calls. But I’ve noticed that when you’re involved, duty’s call always sounds just like the Siren’s song.”

  ~*~

  Hickok waited until Jane was making change at the cash drawer. Then he ducked past the curtains and opened an unlocked door. It gave entry to a narrow stairwell that smelled of beeswax polish.

  A carpeted landing at the head of the stairs led to two doors, both of them marked private. Wild Bill held his breath when he spotted an armed guard sitting on a wicker settee just past the top stair riser. One of the mining company guards, Bill saw from his cheap badge. Compliments of Deke Stratton.

  However, Stratton’s man only gave him a knowing wink. “It’s the door on the right,” he told Bill, trying not to smirk.

  The guard held a sawed-off shotgun in his lap like a favorite pet. Bill tried not to think about it, centered on his back, while he waited for Cassie to answer his knock.

  “Mr. Lofley! How very kind of you to come!” the pretty blonde greeted him effusively. “Won’t you please come in?”

  Hickok couldn’t help wondering if Josh wasn’t right. His eyes rapidly shifted angles to check for danger when he stepped inside.

  All he found, however, was a sumptuously appointed suite of rooms. Gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper and white ecru rugs made a sharp contrast with the rough saloon below.

  Bill breathed deep of the room’s feminine bouquet: jasmine and honeysuckle. He took in gilt chairs and a white brocade couch. Beautiful wash drawings were framed in gold scrollwork—scenes from Paris, Rome, Madrid, London.

  Cassie saw her visitor admiring the drawings
. Bill didn’t bat an eye when she used his real name.

  “I’ve visited all those places, Mr. Hickok. Even had lovers at some.”

  “I would hope so,” Bill assured her. “Certainly in Paris.”

  She smiled. “I won’t tell! But do you know? ‘Memories’ are highly overrated. Nothing but pot pourri in a covered jar, really.”

  It was Bill’s turn to smile. “Less tangible than that, even. It’s experiences, sensations, we crave.”

  “Yes, exactly. So I mean to go back to all those places.”

  Bill gave a slight bow to acknowledge her wisdom. Cassie looked stunning in a pinch-waisted dress of emerald green.

  “But that will require a lot of money, Mr. Hickok.”

  “Please ... call me Bill, Miss Saint John.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Cassie.”

  Bill spread his hands in the European gesture of surrender. “You drive a hard bargain. Cassie it is. About all this money you’ll need, Cassie. I assume that your, ahh, association with Deke Stratton has not been detrimental to your savings?”

  She had to smile at his diplomacy. “I’m grateful, Bill. I see you understand my situation well. Deke Stratton can easily trick the eye. But he’s a callow man who fools the decent with good tailoring. He’s also immensely wealthy.”

  “Mm ... and getting much wealthier than most people know, I’d wager.”

  Cassie shrugged. Her hair was freshly washed and fell, unrestrained, to cover one side of her face.

  “The money part is his business,” she replied as she strolled toward a folding Japanese screen that stood between her and her visitor. “But I hope Deke and his cronies pay for the murders they’ve ordered or carried out. Not just Owen, but Butch Winkler and Esther Emmerick and all the rest of their victims.”

  By now Cassie was watching Bill over the top of the screen as she began undressing. “You won’t mind if I change, will you? I go on duty soon.”

  “By all means,” Bill invited. “Take off anything you feel must go. Tell me, Cassie ... how badly do you want them to pay? Badly enough that you’d provide a sworn deposition against them?”