Hour Glass Page 7

  “Don’t you even fuckin’ try to shoot that.”

  “But . . .”

  It was all happening so fast. We were standing just off the road that the stage was following. With a wild yelp, a group of Indians at least ten deep came up behind it, rounding the bend. The stagecoach was heading toward us with the Indians right behind them, painted up like something out of a nightmare. They had rifles and were waving them in the air. I could tell the lot of them were Lakota, but I didn’t recognize any faces.

  Jane pulled her own rifle from her saddle holster and aimed it from atop her horse. The stage was almost to us and would pass us soon. It was only a matter of time before we were surrounded by the war party hot on our heels.

  “When he goes down, turn and ride like hell after that coach, you got it?”

  “After who goes down?”

  I never got a verbal answer. With a well-aimed shot, Jane fired her rifle and took down the Indian leading the pack. The man and his horse fell to the ground as if hitting an invisible wall. His arms and legs splayed out on the ground in an unnatural way, and he didn’t move once he hit the dirt. Behind him, the others stopped in their tracks behind their fallen warrior.

  The smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils, threatening to burn out my insides if I inhaled too deep. Electricity flowed through my body, and, for an instant, I was sure I could breathe smoke if I was so inclined. That minute, that perfectly quiet minute when the world turned sharper than it ever had, passed before me as though it might never end.

  It did end though, and all of a sudden, things were happening far too fast. All of the events moved like the world had been sped up too quickly to see properly. I never had a reason to believe that time sped up or slowed down before. Time had just always been constant; an hourglass turned over and nailed to the floor with the pellets of sand constantly and evenly moving at the same pace all the time.

  Suddenly, time shifted, and I was filled with a new reverence for the heroes and legends if they had to act like Jane did right then. She turned her horse immediately and tore after the runaway stagecoach. The sense flooded back into my head, and I followed suit. It felt like sprinting through a bog of mud.

  We raced after the coach as it banged and rattled against the will of the stampeding team. Our horses overtook it easily since they had only the burden of their own riders to bare. The coach’s frame had been hit several times by rifle fire, and the driver was slumped over in the driver’s bench. There were six terrified people inside the coach looking frantically at one another. Desperately, I wanted to look back to see how close the Indians were to us now, but I was too afraid of losing my balance.

  Jane’s horse reached the nose of the front horses and, with one deft hand, she grabbed the reins and slowed the horses to a stop. I halted my horse too, wondering why we were stopping with attackers on our heels, but when I turned around, I saw that there were no Indians behind us, save the lead warrior lying in the middle of the trail. Jane was down from her horse in a blink, barking orders to all of us.

  “Get that luggage off the coach now. Everything but people and mail gets dumped here. I said now!”

  I hopped off my pony and ran to help unload the bags from the stagecoach with the others. Three women and three men bustled about, doing whatever they were ordered with pale faces. I don’t reckon a pint of blood flowed through the lot of us with the way our faces looked. A shot rang out as a bullet ricocheted off the side of the wagon. A few of the women screamed and everyone ducked inside the stage coach. I joined Jane, who had climbed up to the driver’s bench to check the wounded man. It weren’t as protected as the coach but not as blind either.

  “Stay in the goddamned coach and unload it from inside!” she yelled down to the passengers.

  There were scuffing sounds and more thuds from bags hitting the packed ground beneath us. One chest was launched off to the left side and rolled into the brush off the road. We slumped low, using the wagon as a shield to check the bleeding man beneath us. He had been shot in the chest and there were no signs of life from him. He was dead. I was fairly sure of it. Another bullet ricocheted near us when Jane tried to reach down for the reins that had fallen into the coach’s rigging. It weren’t close enough to grab at fast like, and another round of shots ended her campaign. She sat up quickly and looked me in the face.

  “Where’s the shooting coming from?”

  “They’re in the fuckin’ bushes,” she replied.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause they ain’t fuckin’ stupid.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Yer gonna stay low. I ain’t about to have you lookin’ like John Slaughter here.”

  Jane pointed to the dead driver. Now that I knew the man’s given name, it made his death suddenly more frightening.

  “Deadwood is only twelve miles yonder. With a lightened load, we can make it. Injuns ain’t gonna follow us into the town proper, no way.”

  “What about Dora’s horses?”

  “Leave ’em. We ain’t got the time.”

  There was a sudden silence of gunfire, and Jane took the opportunity to swing down and gather the reins to the team in one big movement. In another second, she was up in the driver’s bench, whipping the horses and yelling for them to make tracks. The team was strung out and jerky, so they responded immediately with a jolt of motion.

  A smattering of yelps sounded from the passengers as we took off down the trail as fast as the horses would carry us. Bullets continued to rain on us but not in the constant torrent they had before. If the Indians had gone to ground, it would have taken some doing to mount up again and commence chasing us. Nevertheless, I held my head down. John Slaughter’s dead body was close enough to smell, even with the wind passing us the way it was. That sight was enough to keep me from sticking my head up to see if we were being pursued.

  Never had twelve miles seemed so far and flew by so fast in all my life. Jane was as focused as a person could be as she spirited us away from the danger behind us. After about five miles, the danger seemed truly behind us seeing as how the gunfire had ceased. I never got up the nerve to look back, but there were no more whooping war cries, and the only sounds of horse hooves came from the exhausted team pulling us. Truth be told though, it wasn’t until we rode into town and saw the saloons on either side that we all hollered for joy.

  Our entrance into the busy thoroughfare of Deadwood was one fit for the books. Dusk was fast approaching, and there were quite a few people about. Most moved from our path due to the speed with which we raced through the street. The others moved because Jane was yelling at them. When the team halted, it was in front of the Bella Union where Sheriff Bullock was talking with a few other men. They halted their conversing when Jane stopped the coach, calling for a doctor. Most of the men looked as if someone had walked over their graves. The good sheriff eyed us carefully without the fanfare of the shocked.

  “We got a man shot here.”

  The passengers disembarked, and a gruff-looking man from among them climbed his way to Jane to check out the injured John Slaughter. I assumed he was the sawbones we were expecting, so I stepped down and gave them room. Before I got a good foot underneath me, a dry hand clasped my shoulder. I looked up into the face of Sheriff Bullock. I had never met the man, but he was known for two things: having a substantial mustache and hating it when people cussed in public.

  “What happened here, boy?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” interrupted a woman who had been one of the passengers of the stagecoach. “We were attacked by Indians coming in from Cheyenne, and this woman saved us.”

  The woman was thin and shapely with disheveled red hair that looked too red to be real. She talked loud and looked men in the eyes the way Dora or Jane might, but her vocabulary, hat, and finery said she was born a higher class than a Madame. Her dress was garish, like that of a prostitute’s,
but of far better quality. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it’s so. My companions and I were heading here to join the theater, but we were attacked on the road. I think our poor driver might be dead.”

  “And you are?”

  “Miss Adeline Freis.”

  “Thank you for your account, Miss Freis,” said the sheriff dryly.

  All eyes went to Jane and the doctor on the driver’s bench. A decent gathering of people had made their way out to the thoroughfare to see what all the commotion was about. The gentlest of silences fell over the crowd as they waited to hear the verdict of the fallen driver.

  With a sullen shake of his head, the doctor told one and all that the poor man had passed. Heads were bowed and hats were removed. Had a man died from cheating in poker or after a fair fight, perhaps the feelings would have been mixed about his passing. As it was, John Slaughter was instantly and unanimously grieved on the spot as a hero by everyone.

  When Jane jumped down from her perch she had the dead man’s blood smeared on her. She dusted her hat, shook her head in remorse, and replaced the old thing on her head. The sheriff looked her over and nodded. They had a recognition that told a story of two people who knew the measure of one another. I wasn’t sure how or why, but it was there.

  “Jane.”

  “Sheriff.”

  “All they say is true?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Sheriff. What all did they say?”

  “That you saved them from Indians.”

  “Yeh, I s’pose that’s true.”

  “I should give you a commendation then.”

  Jane started to shake her head but didn’t get a chance to. Just then, the crowd parted for one angry woman dressed all in finery. She parted the people before her like a corseted Moses before the Red Sea. The shouting and hollering would have frightened those Indians had they still been chasing us. Dora DuFran was in a state, and she was barreling right for us.

  “Jane! What in blue blazes?!”

  “Oh Dora, get your back down. We are among the livin’.”

  Dora looked me up and down, and upon seeing I was in one piece, squared her shoulders at Jane. Without a second glance my way, she held out her hand in my direction. I knew in a second what she wanted, and the great Madame didn’t want to have to ask. I slapped that derringer in her hand without protest, and she took it as was her due.

  She drank in the scene around her and appraised everything as she scanned. I could almost hear her calculations as she surveyed the people and animals present. Sheriff Bullock scowled at her, obviously trying to figure out what to say to such a woman.

  “Yeah, and where are my horses?”

  Jane and I looked down, remembering we ditched the horses back where the Indians were hiding. More than likely, those ponies had become property of the Lakota-Sioux by now. They hadn’t gotten the stagecoach, but my money was on them running off with the horses and whatever bags we dumped by the roadside. When Jane looked back up again, she was actually smiling. How anyone could smile in a moment like that, after a chase like that, I will never know, but Jane did. She turned to the sheriff in front of all the people present and addressed him.

  “Thank you for the offer of commendation, Sheriff, but it appears that my exploits have put me in the debt of a certain Madame. Could I possibly ask that the good city of Deadwood pay the price of two fuckin’ horses in lieu of a commendation?”

  Sheriff Bullock scowled at the vulgarity but nodded.

  “Thank you,” said Jane as she grabbed my shoulder and flung me toward Dora. “Come now, kid, it’s been a hell of a day, and I think Dora owes me a goddamned drink.”

  8

  There was quite the party at Diddlin’ Dora’s that evening. Everyone wanted to meet the infamous Calamity Jane and her sidekick who had saved the lives of six passengers from certain death at the hands of warring Indians. The saloon was at top capacity, about filled to the gills, with miners, dancing girls, and gawkers. Singing and drinking went on long into the night, but unfortunately, I only knew about it from my room in the back.

  We hadn’t been back long before word spread about the harrowing rescue. Grown men patted my back and offered to buy me a drink, an honest to goodness one. I couldn’t think to do anything but smile and bask in the praise. That’s how Hour found me, grinning like a stunned fool among a horde of people. Missy was right behind her, whispering something in her ear. Whatever she said made Hour look up from the floor directly into my eyes. Tears were forming around hers as she walked determinedly up to me.

  For an instant, I thought she might hug me, but then I remembered Hour didn’t hug much. For her it was like being trapped. The thing was, she was crying and searching my face to see something she was having a hard time accepting. Her little head shook back and forth over and over again. I reckoned it wouldn’t be long before she started flicking her fingers around her head like she did when she was real far gone. I didn’t understand until Missy came up behind her.

  “I told her what happened. Better me than to hear it from someone else and not understand, I reckoned. I tried to explain you weren’t hurt or nothin’, but she got real upset.”

  Tears rolled down Hour’s cheeks and she looked down at my feet, still shaking her head. I hadn’t thought for a second how scary the news might’ve been for her. I was all she had aside from Pa, and Pa was so sick. She sidled up to me, pressing her side against mine, and took my hand. Her little hand was so small and cold. I squeezed it a little for reassurance, but she tugged it away when I did.

  “I’m sorry. I’m okay, really.”

  She grasped my hand again, and I figured this time she wouldn’t let go. I knew there was no way I was going to be able to celebrate with all the fine folks singing my praise. The vision I had for my near future was one where I sat in that sawdust home of ours, reassuring Hour, and playing with her kitten, Fred. It didn’t take a dime-store psychic to see that. Luckily, Dora sent in Joseph during the evening to bring us a special supper, so the entire evening wasn’t a total bust.

  By morning, all the nerve from the day before had left my person. So anxious and jumpy had I been from my adventure that sleeping had been a real issue. Every time I drifted away, I’d see Indians in the darkness or hear a sound that made me jump. What sounded like a stampede in my sleep was merely Fred chasing a nearby mouse. When the morning light came through the window, I just felt tired and scratchy all over.

  In place of the temporary courage I had mustered, an anxiety had taken root. Hour and I hadn’t known a life of leisure, and being left to our own devices without work to do was an odd feeling. My encounter with Jane and the Indians only cemented the antsy feeling in my legs. The only real solution I knew for an issue like that was to work. Hour did best when greeted with routine anyway. We needed to work and keep busy in order not to drive our minds mad.

  The saloon was deserted when we made our quiet entrance. The dining hall had a few tired-looking girls with circles under their eyes eating in silence. Dora DuFran sat at the head of the table drinking black coffee and reading the paper with her mouth like a straight line. Nancy May, the main cook, was bustling about in her apron and seemed to be the only one chipper as usual. I watched her purposefully drop a bowl near the face of one particularly tired girl whose head was resting on the table. The clang startled the girl who grabbed her head with a sour look at Nancy May.

  “Don’t be a-gawking at me, Rebecca. That’ll learn you to drink as much as the customers,” said Nancy May with a mother’s chiding tone.

  We crossed over to the side of the table closest to Dora. Hour sat at the table as Nancy May brought her a bowl of oatmeal without being asked. She tucked into it immediately. It was no secret the cook had taken a shine to Hour. Whether it was because she mistook Hour’s quiet way for politeness or because Nancy May had no chi
ldren of her own, I didn’t know. Maybe she was a mothering type without any little ones to mother. Either way, the show of affection at that moment was the perfect transition to the conversation I wanted to have with Madame Dora DuFran.

  “Miss Dora?”

  “Yes, Jimmy?”

  Her voice wilted as she spoke my name. The strain of the previous evening had taken its toll even on her.

  “I was thinking how kind you been to me and Hour, and how kind Jane has been to us too. I don’t rightly know what we would’ve done without your help. All of you, really.”

  Dora laid her copy of the Black Hills Pioneer on the table and looked me in the eye with a sideways, skeptical kind of glare. The message was plain as her eyes were tired.

  “Stop dancin’ around the thing, kid. I ain’t up for a dance partner so young as you. Spit it out or be done with you. Go on. Out with it.”

  “Well, I was wonderin’ . . . if me and my sister could help you out a bit around here. Earn our keep. You all been feedin’ us and the like, and we’d like to help.”

  Dora’s face went from skeptical to surprise in an instant, then back to skeptical.

  “You ain’t done enough yesterday helping Jane save them people?”

  “I didn’t do much, tell you the truth. I just rode along and tried not to get shot.”

  She hooted with laughter and slapped the table hard enough to startle the other girls from their post party haze. They all looked up half frightened, half frazzled.

  “You’re a funny one, Jimmy Glass.”

  “Thanks, ma’am. Frankly, I just want to have somethin’ to do to keep my mind occupied while we wait for Pa to recover. We’d really like to help. I’d also like to not hafta worry about Hour alone in that room all day too. She’s good in the kitchen.”