Authors: Joe R. Lansdale
Tags: #Deadwood -- Fiction., #Western stories -- Fiction.
Blood Dance (3 page)
Mix was carrying a modern revolver, and racked near the fireplace were two shiny Winchesters and a fine double-barreled shotgun. I kept them, as well as the armed men outside, in mind.
I was certain of one thing. If we did not join Carson, we’d be buzzard chow by sunup. Once recruited, you were in, like it or not. Knowing Bucklaw, I figured that was the way he saw it too.
“I reckon you got something planned?” Bucklaw said.
Carson nodded, called to the Indian woman for more coffee and food. She brought a pot of coffee to the table and a bowl of some sort of greasy gravy. Carson poured coffee in his cup, gravy in his plate, and chased the greasy stuff around with a biscuit.
“You can talk about it,” Bucklaw said. “I’m not shy.”
Carson grinned. “I can talk about it, but I won’t. I like to put it to my men right before I do the job. Two weeks at the earliest.”
“Well,” Bucklaw said, “There aren’t many banks around here, and no immediate railroad. That means we’ve either got to go to Bismarck and jump the Northern Pacific, or down to Cheyenne and jump the Union Pacific.”
Carson let the biscuit hang halfway out of his mouth.
“We just look stupid,” I said.
“Remember what I told you, Jim,” Bucklaw said. “You look stupid. Me, I look bright and handsome.”
Carson finished off his biscuit. “All right, so we’re going to rob a train.”
“Probably the Northern Pacific, now that I think about it,” Bucklaw said. “Not quite so many settlements around.”
Mix looked like a rattlesnake ane attlesnbout to strike. “You just might be too smart for your own good, boy.”
“I’ll worry about that, Mix,” Bucklaw said.
“Shut up, Mix,” Carson said. “You too, Bucklaw.”
Bucklaw looked at me. “You think maybe he’s talking to me?”
“I think he is, Bob. Let’s see. I’m Melgrhue, that’s Mix, and he isn’t talking to himself, and he did say Bucklaw. Yeah, it’s you.”
“You boys ought to try and get in one of them stage shows since you’re so clever,” Carson said. “You boys in or not?”
“We’re in,” I said, “but let’s not talk around it. Tell it straight and tell it now. Your other boys may be too stupid to figure a little thing like that out, about the train and all, but we’re not. Tell it.”
“Very well,” Carson said, and he poured himself another cup of coffee. “The Northern Pacific it is. Mix here knew a man that worked in Bismarck. He says that they intend to haul a lot of miner’s gold out of Bismarck and back east shortly. Says there will be as much as one hundred thousand dollars.”
“That sounds like an awful lot,” I said.
“Comes on good authority,” Mix said.
“There’s enough for everyone, a good share,” Carson said. “Between you and me, boys, the four thousand apiece I offered you is more than double what most of these fellows are getting. I took you two for a smarter-than-average pair right from the start. And them Crows, well, they don’t hardly get a damn thing. Whisky keeps most of them happy, that and a few dollars here and there.”
I liked the man even less than I thought. “When’s all this happen?” I asked.
“That little secret stays with me,” Carson said. “Couple of smart boys like yourselves just might decide to do the job on your own, leave me out. If you knew when the gold was going out, that is. You don’t. I do.”
I looked at Bucklaw. “And we wonder why we lost the war.”
“I advise you,” Carson said, “to keep the war out of this. We lost because Lee was foolish, gave up easy.”
“That it?” I said.
“We shouldn’t have lost,” Bucklaw said.
I looked at Bucklaw again. “Hey, didn’t I come in here with you?”
“Yeah, but Carson’s right. We shouldn’t have lost.”
“The hell with it,” I said. “War’s over.”
“Enough then,” Carson said. “You boys in?”
“I reckon,” I said, and then we all shook on it.
Mix took us outside and showed us our bunkdown spot. “You boys play your cards right,” he said, “and you’ll do just">
“I was real worried about that,” Bucklaw said.
“Keep it up,” Mix said. He went back to Carson’s shack.
“I hate that little shit,” Bucklaw said.
When we had our bedrolls laid out, I said, “Are we going through with this? We could sneak off.”
“Why not? Want to go back to mining?”
“No, but I’m not real keen on robbing trains. Law frowns on it.”
“Yankee law.”
“You and Carson can’t accept change.”
“I reckon not,” Bucklaw said, and he got into his bedroll and was soon fast asleep. A light sleep, I knew. Once when we had been set upon by claim jumpers—just like there was a claim there to steal—I had seen him roll out of the covers and shoot two out of three before I could drop the other. The boy was fast.
I positioned my saddle under my head and decided I wouldn’t get much sleep this night. No sir, I didn’t trust that old major, not one damn bit.
Well after midnight I awoke from an uneasy sleep. Sound had brought me around. Not stealthy sound, just plain old noise. Bucklaw was already sitting up. He had that .38 Prescott revolver in his lap on top of the blanket.
“Those Crows,” he said. “They’re drunk.”
Sure enough, they were. All except one. The man with the eagle feathers.
The Crows were clustered together about the fire, turning up jugs of whisky—all but Eagle Feather. He sat on a log in front of the fire and looked into the flames. Behind him one of the Crows laughed, stumbled and fell on his back.
“To hell with them,” Bucklaw said, and pulling the Prescott under the covers with him, he went back to sleep.
One of the Crows stumbled over to Eagle Feather with jug in hand. He laid an arm around Eagle Feather’s shoulders, jabbered something.
Eagle Feather jumped up, wheeled and forearmed the drunken Crow, knocked him reeling to the ground. He snapped something at the drunk Indian, then at the others. All of them were silent a moment, then Eagle Feather turned and stomped off to where the horses were tied. I heard him ride out of there, and I couldn’t help wishing it was me.
The Crows started up again. The one Eagle Feather had knocked down rolled to his knees and puked. The others laughed.
I pulled back under my covers and tried to sleep.
Next morning Eagle Feather had not returned, and it would be some time before I saw him again.
All of this went through my head as we rode down to meet the train. We had been with Carson only a short while before it was time for the job, and every minute it drew closer, I wished I’d gotten out.
I didn’t, though. Reckon it was because I knew Bucklaw wouldn’t.
So I rode down to meet the train.
The plan was simple. Carson and his men had blocked the track with trees. At a designated time we were supposed to come out yelling and shooting, as were other men posted on the far side. Carson thought this might dishearten the soldiers who were supposed to be guarding the train; might make them think that there were more of us than there were and that we had them properly surrounded.
We would take the gold, with as little force as possible, then fade back into the Hills and Sioux country. That in itself was a bit risky, but it would keep the army off our tracks to some extent, would allow us time to split our spoils and split the team, let every man go his own way.
It would be a good haul. I was worried that one train wouldn’t do Bucklaw, however. He was a good man and I loved him like a brother, but he was eaten up by the bitter aftertaste of the war. Easy money looked good to him.
No matter what Bucklaw wanted to do, I had decided this was it for me. I had plans to go down to Texas, or maybe Mexico, for awhile. No more trains for me.
We could see the train clearly now, slowing to a stop. There was the deadly sound of gunfire. Bucklaw and I began to fire our rifles in the air.
The locomotive sputtered and creaked to a stop. The central core of Carson’s operation—three Crow Indians, Mix, and a blonde giant named Taggart—rushed the engine.
The train gave up without a fight. We didn’t see any soldiers. After a moment or two, a couple of men were pushed down from the engine and they crumpled in the dirt before a dozen leveled rifles and revolvers.
“Up against the train,” Carson ordered.
They did as they were told. The men who had pushed them out turned back to the train to search for the gold. They forced the passengers out at gunpoint, lined them up in front of the cars. One of the Crows confiscated weapons.
We sat on our horses and waited.
After awhile the two men who were searching the train came back with confused looked on their faces.
“You looked good?” Carson said.
They nodded.
“Look again. Mix, Taggart, help them.”
Mix climbed down off his horse and Carson said, “I thought you said there were supposed to be soldiers.”
Mix shrugged.
“He sounded disappointed,” I said to Bucklaw.
Carson rode down the length of the train and back. After a bit Mix came out of one of the passengers cars and dropped to the ground.
Carson rode up to him, said, “Well?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! You said there was gold.”
“That’s what I was told.”
“You stupid sonofabitch! Search the passengers, dammit! Take what they got!”
I looked at Bucklaw. “I got a feeling our cut is going to be a lot smaller than we expected.”
“Looks that way. Maybe next time.”
That’s what I thought. “No next time for me, Bob. I mean it.”
“We’ll talk later.”
I shrugged. It was useless.
The passengers stood against the train with their hands raised. Each and every one of them, men, women and children, looked terrified. I wished I could tell them it would be over in a minute and everything would be all right, but they would know soon enough.
Mix went to the passengers one by one, got their belongings. He went back to Carson with a hatful of wallets and watches and jewelry.
Carson said, “That’s it?” I could see a nerve in his cheek jump.
“That’s it,” Mix said.
“I ought to have you shot, Mix.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Stop your whining.”
“I was told there was gold.”
“Someone’s whisky brag.”
I looked back at the passengers, saw a handsome blonde woman reach over and put her arm around her daughter. The little girl had dropped her doll and she was starting to cry.
The woman picked it up for her, gave it back to the child, said something soothing to the girl.
“You there,” Carson snapped at the woman, “up against the train.”
“Afraid she’ll hit you with the doll?” Bucklaw yelled.
Carson’s cheek jumped again. He had Mix’s hat in his hand, and he tossed it and its contents back to Mix. “Some haul,” he said. Then: “Tell them.”
Mix put the contents of the hat in his saddlebag, the hat on his head, and mounted up. He rode from man to man, finally over to us.
“We’re not leaving any witnesses,” he said.
“Carson said—” I started.
“He’s saying something different now. No witnesses,” Mix said.
“No way,” Bucklaw said.
“Have it your way,” Mix said. He rode back to Carson.
I said, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I am,” Bucklaw bag” Bucsaid.
“Been good riding with you.”
“Same.”
Carson and the others made their move. I jerked up my carbine and had the satisfaction of hearing it roar and seeing one of the Crow Indians bite the dust before a bullet plucked me from the saddle and tossed me to the ground.
More bullets plowed the ground next to me, and one nestled in my side like an angry bee. The world went gray, fuzzed back into view.
Women and children screamed. Through a haze I saw the blonde woman dive over her little girl and her dress and flesh hop up amidst a red spray. She was done for. I was glad I didn’t see the little girl get it.
Bucklaw was still on horseback. He had shot two men and Carson’s horse out from under him with the Henry. When it was empty he dropped it and went for his revolver. A shot hit him in the chest and sent him twisting from the saddle. He seemed to turn and look at me as he fell.
There was another shot, and half his face went away. It was as if I were seeing it all in a dream. Bucklaw seemed to dangle in the air as if on strings, then he fell down on top of me.
I tried to crawl out from under him, get hold of my revolver, but it was impossible. Too weak. I couldn’t move.
Above me was a fuzzy shape. Carson had taken one of the dead men’s horses and remounted. His face faded in and out, then all I could see was his snow-white mustache and three bores—the cold eyes of Carson and the colder eye of the Colt .44.
Then there was thunder. It seemed to rumble for an eternity, mix horribly with the dying sounds of women and children, and then I fell from life down the long trail of death.
Or so I thought at the time.
1
When I awoke, I was first aware of a fly in my ear. I was too weak to brush it away. Bucklaw’s body was still sprawled on top of me. It felt like a boulder.
It was cold. I blinked my eyes open to darkness, and after a bit I could see the stars. I closed my eyes again.
Morning seemed instantaneous. It was cool now, and not too bright. I could hear flapping sounds. Buzzards, probably. God, but I hoped they didn’t eat live men—or half-live ones.
Somewhere I’d heard that they go for the softest parts first: the eyes, face and groin.
I tried to shift from beneath Bucklaw, but I couldn’t. My body ached. My head felt as if it had been split open with a dull axe.
Next thing I knew it was midday. It seemed very warm, but it wasn’t the weather. Fever.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a buzzard. It was walking awkwardly toward me.
“Shoo,” I tried to say. It came out more of a croak. But it was enough. The big bird flapped away.
I wove in and out of consciousness, dreamed. I kept seeing Bucklaw falling off his horse, falling down toward me, blood dripping from his face. And finally there was Carson, hanging over me, pointing that big Colt at my head.