The Killing Season (62 page)

Deadwood being a lawless town, it was controlled by the cardsharps, gamblers, and gunmen. With killers such as Jim Levy and Charlie Storms in town, Deadwood had all the makings of an outlaw empire. While Hickok did nothing to attract attention, Nathan heard talk that Hickok was about to become the marshal of Deadwood. The lawless element had not forgotten what Hickok had accomplished in Hays and Ablene. While Hickok had made no threatening moves, Nathan sensed the growing danger, and feared for Hickok's life. He continued to gamble, but lost more often than he won, causing Nathan to wonder. Hickok avoided any pattern, making the rounds of many saloons as though hoping to confuse any who might waylay him. Wild Bill Hickok had become a changed man, and there were times when he was so preoccupied, he didn't even speak to his closest friends. Nathan believed the old frontiersman had a premonition of his own death, and one day, Hickok confirmed it.

“Bill,” said Nathan, “maybe this is none of my business, but I've been hearing talk that the powers behind this town believe you're here to bid for a marshal's job, to do here what you did in Hays and Abilene.”

“My days as a lawman are done,” Hickok said. “How often can a man fail, and still call himself a man? For all my reputation, I couldn't raise an expedition in Saint Louis, and as for my gold claim here, I'd have to pay somebody to take it off my hands. Hell, even the cards have gone sour. If it gets any worse, when I draw a good hand, I'll be accused of cheating.”

Nathan laughed, but Hickok did not. When he spoke again, he was dead serious.

“I had the feeling when I rode in here—and that feeling has grown stronger—that I have ridden my last trail, made my last camp, turned my last card. My friend, I doubt I'll be leaving this gulch alive.”

When Deadwood's livery opened for business, Nathan was its first customer. While it was more expensive, living in the boomtown, Nathan had earned enough at the poker table to afford it. Several boardinghouses had sprung up, their weekly and monthly rates more reasonable than the makeshift hotels, and Nathan took a room where Empty was welcome. Nathan had received a letter from Vivian Stafford, telling him that she and Harley had reached Dodge City. While Nathan was glad for them, he still missed the woman, and living in town amid the shouting, shooting, and hell-raising, he was less inclined to think of her.

 

It was Friday, the first day of August. Nathan and Hickok had just left the Bella Union, on their way to a cafe for supper. The westering sun was an hour high, in their eyes, and just for a second, Nathan caught its reflection in a moving object. He literally fell into Hickok, shoving him into the dusty street. The slug struck Nathan in the right side and he fell across Hickok. A second slug kicked up dust just inches from Hickok's head, but he had freed one of his Colts and was returning fire. Men came on the run, two of them moving Nathan onto the boardwalk.

“One of you get the doc,” Hickok shouted.

Dr. Wilkes came, pulled aside Nathan's bloody shirt, and shook his head.

“Bad?” Hickok asked.

“Bad enough,” said Doctor Wilkes. “A couple of you bring him to my office, and be quick about it.”

Dr. Wilkes dug out the lead, bandaged the wound, and sat up with Nathan most of the night. When Nathan's temperature rose, the doctor dosed him with whiskey. Hickok and Nathan's few friends were there early on Saturday morning.

“With luck, he'll make it,” Dr. Wilkes said.

Shortly after noon, Wild Bill—wearing a Prince Albert frock coat—entered Nuttall and Mann's Number Ten Saloon. Charles Rich, Captain Massie, and Carl Mann already had a game in progress. There were no more than ten men in the saloon.

“Sit down, Bill,” Mann urged.

“Only if Charlie will swap me the wall seat,” said Hickok.

“Aw, hell,” Rich scoffed, “sit down. Nobody's gonna back-shoot you.”

Uneasily, Hickok sat down, but after only a few minutes, he stood up.

“Charlie,” said Hickok, “change seats with me.”

This time, all three men laughed him down, and again Hickok took his seat. Rich was on his right, Mann on his left, and Massie right in front of him. Hickok had a clear view of the front door, but he was conscious of the small door behind him. The night before, Bill had beaten Massie, but was soon losing heavily to him. Hickok spoke to Harry Young, the barkeep.

“Harry, bring me fifteen dollars' worth of pocket checks.”

Young left the bar, brought the pocket checks, and placed them on the table beside Hickok. At that time, Jack McCall came in through the front door. In a game the night before, Hickok had cleaned out McCall, and feeling sorry for him, had given McCall enough money for a drink and his supper. McCall leaned on the bar, looking around. Wild Bill sat facing him, but was busy studying his cards. Quickly McCall moved down the bar, lest Wild Bill look up. Reaching the end of the bar, McCall stopped, but a few paces behind the stool on which Hickok sat. Suddenly there was the roar of a pistol.

“Damn you, take that!” McCall shouted. In his right hand he held a smoking pistol. The time was just past three P.M.

Wild Bill's head had jerked forward from the force of the slug, and for just a few seconds, his body remained upright. It then relaxed and fell backward off the stool. From his lifeless fingers, his cards fanned out on the floor: the ace of spades, the ace of clubs, and two black eights. Those, and the jack of diamonds. The dead man's hand ...
²⁸

For a few seconds, nobody understood what had taken place. There was a numbness in Captain Massie's left wrist, for he had caught the spent slug after it had killed Hickok. All eyes were on Hickok, and when his body fell back, they knew, for McCall was backing toward the rear door. The gun was in his hand, pointed toward Carl Mann.

“Come on, ye sons of bitches,” McCall snarled.

Twice McCall pulled the trigger, and twice the weapon misfired.

McCall ran out the back door, mounting the first horse at hand. Because of the heat, the saddle cinch had been loosened, and McCall fell sprawling. Staggering to his feet, he ran down the street, but the town had been alerted.

“Hickok's been shot! Wild Bill is dead!”

McCall ran into a butcher shop, but prodded with the muzzle of a Sharps, he was persuaded to come out. He surrendered without a struggle. Saloon Number Ten's doors were locked, with only Hickok's friends and persons of authority being allowed to enter. A miner's court was hurriedly assembled and Jack McCall was tried. His defense was that he owed Hickok money from a gambling debt and feared for his life, and that Hickok had murdered his brother. There was no proof of either claim, but the court set him free, and McCall immediately left town.

On August 3, 1876, Wild Bill Hickok was laid to rest in a coffin covered with black cloth and mounted with silver. His Springfield rifle was placed at his right hand.

Dosed with laudanum, Nathan Stone slept until the evening of August third, well after Hickok had been buried. Colorado Charlie brought the news.

“They got him, then,” said Nathan grimly.

“Yes,” Charlie said. “McCall pulled the trigger, but he was paid to do it. There's word goin' around that he was paid two hundred dollars, but no word as to where the money came from. I could name a dozen men who could have put up ten times that much.”

“All I want to know,” said Nathan, “is the direction McCall took when he rode out.”

“South, toward Cheyenne,” Charlie said.

“Why the hell didn't some of you go after him?” Nathan demanded.

“We all wanted to be here for Bill's buryin',” said Charlie. “Besides, you heard Bill and his talk of dying. It was his time. Wasn't but one live shell in McCall's forty-five.”
²⁹

Three weeks after having been shot, against the doctor's orders, Nathan Stone got out of bed, dressed, and strapped on his Colts. Saying nothing, he bought a few provisions at the mercantile, and with Empty running ahead, rode south.

Nathan's first stop was the Union Pacific depot, where he described Jack McCall to the railroad agent.

“Sorry, pardner,” the man said, “but it's been months since I've had a passenger goin' east. They're all comin'
from
there.”

Nathan sat down on a baggage cart, pondering his next move. It was possible that his quarry had climbed aboard a boxcar and thus escaped, but there was no way of knowing. If McCall hadn't come to Cheyenne with plans for taking the Union Pacific east, where
had
he gone? Nathan returned to the depot, where he had seen a huge map on the wall.

“Pardner, I'd like to study your map.”

“Go ahead,” said the railroad man.

Nathan studied the map and quickly decided that if McCall hadn't taken the train east, that he must be somewhere within riding distance of Cheyenne. There was Laramie City, a few miles east, and Denver, Colorado—now a state—a hundred miles south. Recalling all he had heard about Jack McCall, it seemed the man had constantly been in trouble. Before going to Deadwood, he had been involved in cattle rustling in Nebraska. Now, having left Deadwood, Nathan considered it unlikely that McCall had any money, for he had fancied himself a gambling man. It seemed a good possibility that McCall had already run afoul of the law somewhere, and with that thought in mind, Nathan went looking for the office of the United States marshal. The marshal's name was Dave Landers, and Nathan was honest with him, regarding his search for McCall.

“Your search is over,” said Landers. “I had a telegram this morning, from Deputy U.S. Marshal Balcombe, in Laramie City. McCall has been arrested there, and is charged with murder. Balcombe heard him bragging about shooting Hickok, and he's going to stand trial.”

“He's already been tried in Deadwood and found not guilty,” said Nathan.

“That trial was illegal,” Landers said, “and any act by a vigilance committee or court is not recognized by courts of the United States. At the time of Hickok's murder, Deadwood was—and still is—an outlaw town. Every man in Deadwood is there illegally. By treaty, in 1868, the Black Hills were set aside as an Indian Reservation, within the jurisdiction of the United States.”

“That all sounds legal,” said Nathan, “but where will McCall be tried? Here?”

“No,” Landers said. “We at first intended bringing him here for a preliminary hearing before the United States commissioner, and then await a request from the governor of Dakota Territory. But we've decided to keep McCall in Laramie City. There he is to be examined before Judge Blair, with court-appointed attorneys for his defense.”

“Damn it,” said Nathan, “he'll weasel out of it somehow.”

“I doubt it,” Landers replied. “He's already confessed to Deputy U.S. Marshal Balcombe, and he's promised to repeat his confession to Judge Blair. McCall will be taken to Yankton, Dakota Territory, for trial and sentencing. Now, I have some advice for you. Go about your business and leave McCall to the law. there's been enough vigilante justice.”
³⁰

“I only went after McCall because it seemed he wasn't going to pay for killing Hickok. Now that I know he's in the hands of the law, that he'll be tried in a real court, then I'll back off and let the law have him.”

“Bueno,”
said Landers.

Nathan found a hotel willing to accept Empty, and took a room for the night. He had no regrets about leaving Deadwood, for he had left Wild Bill in a grave there. While he had won a few hundred dollars in the saloons, the only thing he looked back on with pride was having united Vivian Stafford with her long-lost brother, and the friendship he had established with Harley. The more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to ride to Dodge and see how Harley had adapted to railroading. But after supper, when he and Empty had returned to their hotel room, he had to admit to himself that what he
really
wanted was to see Vivian Stafford again. At first light, he rode south.

Nathan hadn't been to Denver for a long time, and he took a hotel room, preparing to stay at least a day or two. There were newspapers from St. Louis, Kansas City, and Denver's own
Rocky Mountain News.
The town was still celebrating, for on August first, Colorado had become the 38th state. The stars and stripes flew above the temporary state capitol on Cherry Street. It seemed the town was bursting with civic pride, and even some of the lesser saloons had been fancied up for the occasion. Fireworks crackled at all hours of the day and night, sounding like distant gunshots. Empty was skittish, keeping to the bushes when he could. Nathan discovered a new saloon called the Casa Verde, a two-story affair that promised gambling twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was secluded, surrounded by trees and shrubs, offering sanctuary for Empty while Nathan was inside. The downstairs had a bar, a kitchen, tables for dining, a few poker tables, and a roulette wheel. Nathan suspected the high-stakes gambling took place upstairs, and had it confirmed when one of the waiters met him in the foyer.