Deadman's Revenge (The Deadman Series Book 3) Read online

  His nose, although obviously scarred, was almost improved in appearance from his former, pointier proboscis and he had gotten himself a pair of spectacles, which gleamed within shiny gold rims. He did not look anything like the man Josh had come to know… rather, he looked like one of those fancy swells he had learned to avoid.

  Earl studied the two men, in turn, and was satisfied by what he saw. Although neither man was dressed in anything fancy, they had washed away their former grime, shaved their chin whiskers, and wore their new clothes well. For once, both Josh and Dave looked… respectable.

  Nodding in approval, Earl handed Dave a bundle of cash and said, “You look good—both of you. Now, I want you to head on down to that carriage company you were talking about and buy the best four-seater money can buy. Then, find a matching pair to go with it. Take the wagon, and pick up some hay and oats for the stock. While you’re at it, you might as well outfit the horses with the best tack.”

  Dave answered, “Yes, sir! Er, I hate to say it, but I never really caught yer name…”

  Earl grinned. “That’s because I never gave it. Now that you’re working for me, you will call me, Mr. O’Donnell… Allen O’Donnell.”

  Dave looked a little intimidated, but answered, “Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Mr. O’Donnell.”

  Josh asked, “What about you, Sir?”

  Earl turned around and stared up the street a ways. “First, I am going to the Yellowstone National Bank, and then I’ll head on over to the Montana and Minnesota Land and Improvement Company. I expect to be business owner by the end of the day and own a new home by weeks’ end.”

  He paused for a moment, adding, “Meet up with me about 7:00 this evening for supper. I’ll be at The Grand Hotel. Just tell the maître d that you’re meeting Mr. O’Donnell… I’ll make sure he knows you’re coming.”

  “What kind of business do you plan on starting up?” Dave asked.

  Remembering a place he once visited back when he was a younger man in New York City, Earl grinned and answered, “I’ve been thinking about it all night, and decided I’m going to open a dance hall, across the tracks, in the new part of town. I’ll call it, The Little Haymaker Dancehall. There will be high-dollar dancing girls, a can-can show, a good restaurant and the best bar in town. Billings is ripe for the pickin’ boys, and I intend to make the most of it!”

  When Earl turned around to face Josh and Dave again, both men saw an avaricious gleam in their boss’ eyes that promised two things. Earl Dickson (now known, forevermore, as Allen O’Donnell) was going to be the new boss in town—come hell or high water!

  Chapter 10

  Matthew—an Awful Ruckus

  Matthew, and Patty Hanson’s sons, Trevor and Lucas, found Lincoln right where Matthew had left him. He was snoozing when they pulled up in the squeaky wagon, but awoke with a snort and whinnied when Matthew walked up with a little blue bottle of mercurochrome in one hand and a bucket of oats, in the other.

  “Hold him steady, boys,” Matthew said, handing the bucket to Lucas and placing a rope over the horse’s ears and nose in a makeshift halter. Lincoln, normally an overly friendly horse, jerked his head and rose up, slightly, on his back hooves in alarm at the strangers who suddenly surrounded him.

  “Whoa, son!” the younger boy, Lucas, said with a nervous chuckle. Lincoln stood over seventeen hands tall, after all, and if he wanted to, he could take out all three men where they stood with one quick kick of his front hooves.

  Matthew simply stood with his arms around the horse’s neck, crooning meaningless endearments into its ear while Trevor emptied most of the medicine into the gashes on Lincoln’s rump. There was a little ointment left and while Trevor finished the doctoring with a little sage-paste and Lucas fed the horse plump oats from the bucket, Matthew poured the rest of the mercurochrome into the gouges on his mount’s neck and crest.

  Finished with their ministrations, Matthew tied Lincoln to the back of the wagon and said, “Let’s head on back, boys. We need to go slow, though, okay? I don’t want Lincoln blowed any more than necessary.”

  “Yes, Sir,” they answered at once.

  Matthew grinned into his whiskers. Placing the rest of his hidden gear in the back of the wagon, he decided to compliment Patty on how well behaved her boys were, and to caution her as well. The first thing Lucas and Trevor had done (once out of their mother’s line of sight) was hand Matthew’s guns over. He worried that one of these days their trust would be rewarded—and in the worst possible way.

  They drove the cart slowly toward the homestead in the darkness as Lincoln, nickering irritably, trailed behind them. The boys chattered like magpies while the sheriff alternately checked his horse’s progress and stared into the shadows. He held his shotgun at the ready.

  Glancing at his pocket watch, Matthew saw that the time was 11:34 pm and he felt weariness press down on him like a heavy quilt. The same arduous road he had walked before was a mere jaunt now by wagon, and soon he saw lantern light on the whorehouse’s porch and above the open barn doors.

  An old Negro man met them in front of the barn and walked back to where Lincoln stood behind the wagon, quivering. “Ho, boss man… how you doin?” he whispered, and scratched his fingers under the horse’s chin as though he knew, exactly, where Lincoln liked to be petted the most.

  Matthew watched as his horse shifted his weight and leaned into the old man’s embrace. He felt both pleased and, almost, a little jealous of the man’s effect on his animal, but thanked his lucky stars that this isolated whorehouse was a decent place, filled with good people.

  “I’ll take your horse into the barn and put him in a stall for the night, suh.” The old man stared at his feet when he spoke, and the marshal understood that this man would always be frightened of white folk.

  Doffing his hat, Matthew replied, “Thank you very much. I appreciate it and so does Lincoln, apparently.”

  The black man glanced up quickly—a mere flash of white eyes and teeth in the moonlight, and ducked his head again. “This be a good horse, suh. I’ll take care of him proper.” With those words, Lincoln followed the old man into the barn and out of sight.

  When he turned around, Matthew saw the boys leading the draft horses out of their traces and in to a nearby paddock. Then they walked up, grinning. “Let’s head on in. Ma told us to let you sleep in the parlor,” Trevor said.

  This was welcome news to Matthew, who felt like was ready about to melt right into his boots with pain and fatigue. The last hour or so had not improved the long scratch on the back of his neck and he wished he had a little more of the mercurochrome for himself.

  He followed the boys up on to the long porch and into the house. Finding himself inside an alcove, he looked through a curtain of beads on his left and saw a number of pretty women sitting here and there in assorted states of undress. One plump girl sat in nothing but a union suit with her feet in a pail of sudsy water, while another lounged on a settee in a see-through, scarlet negligee.

  Still another sat in a prim, high-collared, cotton nightgown playing the piano. Perfume and a deeper, earthier odor wafted from the room to where he stood, staring.

  “Mister,” young Lucas said. “The house is here on the right.”

  Matthew jumped slightly and turned toward another door, following the teenagers inside to a worn but clean kitchen. The room was empty of people but a coffeepot steamed on the woodstove and a rough, plank table held a loaf of bread, preserves and slices of cold ham under a dishcloth.

  He sat at the table with the boys and enjoyed the good meal and the warmth of the cook stove at his back. Finally, when hardly a speck of food remained, Trevor stood up and said, “Come on in here, sir. Ma has a bed made up for ya.”

  Matthew followed the boy into the small parlor and saw that a couch was made in to a bed. Trevor smiled and said, “See you in the morning, sir. Sleep tight.”

  “It’s Matthew, Trevor…” Matthew grunted, as he pulled off a boot that seemed welded to
his foot.

  Trevor just smiled and said, “Yes, Sir. Good night.”

  Matthew pulled off his other boot with some effort, and winced as he stripped his shirt off. The dried blood on the back of his neck and shoulders tore and he yelped, slightly, in discomfort. Eyeing the pretty, clean quilt on which he was about to lay his head, he pulled his only other clean shirt out of his bag and laid it on the pillow for protection.

  Then, finally, he laid his head down, asleep before he hit the pillow.

  ~

  The next morning, Matthew awoke to sunshine streaming into his eyes and Patty Hanson standing over him with a steaming pan of water in her large hands. “Fer God’s sake, Marshal Wilcox… why didn’t you let on you was a lawman and… that you was injured?”

  Matthew blinked, discombobulated and tongue-tied. He cleared his throat to speak and the woman said, “Turn over on yer belly, Matthew, and let me tend to this scratch on yer neck!”

  Helpless to move and pinned to the back of the couch by the woman’s ample bottom, Matthew submitted to her ministrations and listened as she talked a mile a minute.

  “Oh, the stupidity of men, I swear!” she grumbled. “Look at this, Hildy…”

  Matthew cringed. Patty had removed what was left of his shirt and, except for his britches, which had somehow come unbuttoned during the night; he was laid out as naked as a Thanksgiving turkey for all the world to see.

  The girl popped up from where she had stood, hidden, behind the couch. Staring into his face with wide, worried eyes, she reached down and patted him on the head with clumsy fingers. “HI!” she cried.

  “Hi yourself, Hildy,” Matthew sighed.

  “Hildy!” her mother admonished. “Quit mooning over the man and hand me some wet rags to clean this wound!”

  Patty pulled Matthew’s too long hair away from the scratch and placed a warm, wet rag over the injury. The marshal stiffened, hissing in pain, but Patty slapped him on the rump. “Oh, stop yer belly-achin! That’s what you get fer ignoring a cat scratch like this! It’s a miracle it ain’t festered! Men…”

  After the first shock of warm water, Matthew relaxed and let the woman tend to his wound. She went on a bit more about the pig-headedness of men and then she asked, “Seriously, why didn’t you say you was a law man?”

  He shrugged which was a bad move and earned him another swat on the rear. “Stop that, dammit, I’m trying to fix you up!” Patty bellowed.

  “Sorry!” he replied. “I didn’t think to mention it, that’s all. Besides, right now, I’m operating outside of the marshal’s service. How did you know, anyway?”

  Patty laughed. “Weren’t too much of a mystery, Marshal. When you pulled yer shirt out of yer bag, yer coat came with it.”

  Matthew looked down and saw that, sure enough, the black coat had come out of his bag, sporting his marshal’s star on the lapel. Well, he thought, It’s not as if I’m trying to hide anything, after all.

  Finished, finally, Patty gave him a parting pat on the backside and stood up. “Come on in to the kitchen when you’ve gotten dressed. The boys cooked some flapjacks and should be coming in, soon, with a side of bacon for breakfast.”

  After his hostess and her daughter exited the room, Matthew sat up and pulled clean pants out of his bag. Standing up, he shook out his one clean shirt and buttoned it up. Then, grunting, he shoved his sore feet into his boots and walked into the kitchen.

  “Wash yer face, Marshal, and sit down at the table. The boys have already come and gone, but I wanted to have a word with ya before ya leave, if you please.”

  Matthew grabbed a washrag that sat beside a bucket of warm water on the cook stove, and commenced to washing his face and arms and then using the rag to wash his teeth. Refreshed, he walked over to the table and sat down while Patty bustled around her kitchen.

  Finally, she placed a plate of bacon, and pancakes in front of him and sat down with a cup of coffee. She watched as he dug into the feast with gusto and then she said, “Marshal, I think you and your horse could leave in a couple of days if you wanted to. Murray… that’s my stable-hand, says that Lincoln is should be healed up enough to travel by then. If you are in a big hurry, my fee for the time and medicine will be five dollars. Does that sound fair?”

  Matthew nodded, for the moment unable to speak past the food in his mouth.

  Patty frowned. Surprisingly, the slight frown emphasized her former beauty as she stirred an extra spoon of sugar into her stiff, black coffee. “Good… that’s fine, Matthew. But, there’s something I would rather you did than pay me cash…”

  Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Matthew sat up and asked, “What is that, Patty?”

  Patty stared in to his face for a moment and said, “You might as well finish yer breakfast… it’s a long story.”

  Matthew nodded and dug in again while Patty spoke about a cattle baron by the name of Miles Atkinson, who was bound and determined to run her off her property.

  Chapter 11

  The Haymaker Saloon and Dancehall

  Two months after Allen O’Donnell (formerly known as Earl Dickson) stepped down from the coach in Billings, Montana, he walked from his lavish office onto the balcony overlooking the bar, stage and dance floor of the Little Haymaker Saloon. His saloon…his pride and joy.

  It was 11:00 in the morning, one hour before the doors opened for business. The day-shift bartender, Joey Landraith, was stocking shelves behind the bar with new bottles of hooch. His janitor, a one-armed man named Kyle Burley was pushing a broom around and his madam, Goldie Adams, sat at a table by the front window, sipping coffee and reading the “Weekly Times”.

  As he watched, the local doctor stepped in the front door. Walking up to where Goldie sat, he spoke to her for a minute and then they both moved to the back of the room where the door to the whore’s quarters was located. Here on pussy patrol, Allen thought with a smirk. His nostrils quivered with the smell of today’s offering from the restaurant’s kitchen.

  “Hey Joey!” he called. “Bring me up a pot of coffee, and have one of the girls in the kitchen bring me some lunch when it’s ready.”

  “Be right up, Boss,” Joey shouted in response.

  Calling out to the janitor, Allen said, “Kyle, make sure you wash that wall in the far corner. I think I saw someone pissing on it last night.”

  “I already got it, boss. Bet yer boots it was that asshole, Little John Barbre. That damn scroat don’t think a bar is legit unless he christens it, himself!”

  Allen waved in acknowledgement and stepped back inside his office. Sitting down at his desk, he lit a cigar, and spun the chair so it faced toward the room’s one large window. Puffing the expensive tobacco with pleasure, he looked down at 28th street and watched carriages and buggies dodging past over-laden wagons and one large herd of cattle. He grinned in satisfaction.

  It’s all working out as planned! he thought, gleefully. The day he sent Dave and Josh to Cothron and Todd’s coach and buggy store, he had marched into the Montana and Michigan Land and Improvement office. He spent most of that day riding around in a fancy coach looking at homes and businesses alike, and had finally settled on the new but abandoned warehouse in which he now resided and ran his dance hall.

  Almost a city block long, the warehouse was, originally, built to process and bale wool, but the owners had lost their financial shirts somewhere along the way, and were forced to sell out.

  Even as Allen walked around the huge, empty building that day, his mind pictured the stage, the two bars that would run adjacent to one another and the restaurant in front by the street. The upstairs rooms were already built. Intended as office space, they could easily be transformed into living quarters and rooms for the girls he planned to hire.

  Turning to the land agent, Allen had done his best to mask his excitement. “How much for this property?” he barked.

  The agent, a sweaty, little fat man said, “Well, the previous owners are motivated to sell, but one must consider the size of the
building, and its newness when setting a… a price…” he stammered, as Allen turned on him with a glare.

  “I asked, how much?” the dapper gentleman snarled.

  “The asking price is $30,000, but you can make an offer…”

  “I’ll pay $25,000 and not a penny more!” Allen snapped, hoping he wasn’t over-playing his hand. He had watched many a rich man over the years, and seen them act… and talk, exactly like this. They often acted cavalier about money and the power it could buy, but the whole time they were busy calculating how best to turn a piece of silver into a gold dollar.

  The little agent smiled and said, “I should have an answer for you by day’s end, Mr. O’Donnell. May I inquire as to what business you plan on opening?”

  “You may not,” O’Donnell snapped.

  “Oh… well alright then, Sir. Can I have my driver drop you off somewhere?”

  “Yes,” O’Donnell answered. “Take me to the Yellowstone National Bank, please. I am staying at the Grand Hotel if you need to send me a message. Please don’t dally… I will be happy to find another agent if you can’t get this deal done for me in a timely manner.”

  A few minutes later, O’Donnell stepped out of the carriage, leaving a red-faced land agent behind and walked into the bank. He emerged an hour later with a $35,000 line of credit, and a powerful need for a drink.

  The rest was history and Allen thanked his lucky stars. No sooner had he finished a couple of stout whiskeys and returned to the hotel, the desk clerk handed him a note saying his offer had been accepted for 25,000.

  The next three weeks were spent hiring an army of carpenters to build the dance hall to Allen’s specifications, hiring staff, and outfitting the whole establishment from Yegen Brothers… the magnificent dry goods store down the street.

  Taking up two square blocks and three stories tall, the store boasted everything from flour to tractors. One whole floor held suites of furniture and what could not be found within the building itself could be ordered and was guaranteed to arrive within two weeks’ time on the new transcontinental railroad.