Fireblossom (16 page)

July 25, 1876

"I can't believe my eyes!" Annie Sunday Matthews declared, hands on hips, as she stared at her son. The tall, handsome woman with the rich chestnut hair wore a tasteful gown of burgundy that set off her eyes. Hazel and beautifully direct, they never had been able to keep a secret of her feelings and judgments.

"Ma, what're you doing here?" Fox's mouth was so dry he could scarcely form the words, and as he lay on Victoria's bed he found that he couldn't move, couldn't even rise to greet his mother. Shame broke over him in a mighty wave.

"Look at you, Daniel Matthews! How could you have allowed yourself to sink so low? I would think you were sick, but I can smell the whiskey and your unwashed body." There was no condemnation in her eyes, only sadness. "You're made of stronger stuff than this. Whatever it is that has laid you low, you must fight against it. Get up!"

"I can't," he cried.

A hand shook him, gently at first, then more forcefully. "Fox, wake up. You're havin' another bad dream, honey."

He opened burning eyes and saw Victoria's face above him. "Where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She rose from the bed, clad in lace drawers and a chemise. Her bottom jiggled as she went over to the mirror and began pinning up her hair. "You know, honey, I been waiting for you to come out of this, but I think you're gettin' worse. I like you too much to let you drink yourself to death in my bed." She tossed him a coquettish smile over one dimpled shoulder. "Frankly, I had other plans!"

Gingerly Fox attempted to sit up and found that he could swing his legs over the side of the bed. His head didn't pound quite as much as it usually did when he wasn't drunk, and it came to him that Victoria hadn't brought him a new bottle the night before. He'd lain down to wait for her to come with it about nine o'clock and must've fallen asleep... or passed out. The twelve hours of sleep had brought him a measure of sobriety; apparently enough to allow Annie Sunday to squeeze into his conscience.

"I appreciate your kindness, Victoria," he said in a husky voice.

She stared in surprise, then rushed to pour a glass of water and bring it to him. "Why, I think you're gonna live after all!"

After drinking the water down, Fox said, "I'm afraid it's true. And I'm going to get a bath and a huge, hot breakfast."

"You're leaving me, aren't you?" Boldly Victoria sat down beside him on the lumpy bed and leaned forward so that her breasts pushed against his arm.

There was a new, heightened cynicism in the half smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You overestimate me. Just because I'm moving doesn't mean I'm hot to get laid." The flare of passion in her eyes gave him pause. "Not yet, anyway."

"I don't know what it is about you, but whatever it is, you sure got it strong." She was practically purring now. "Will you come back? Don'tcha owe me that much, for taking care of you?"

Fox laughed harshly. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? You're the one selling it, Victoria."

"Not to you, honey."

She was leaning closer, and her full lips were nearly touching his. What the hell, he thought, and slid an arm around her back. When he kissed her, there was a slight spark in his lower region that gave him hope. Maybe he was meant to live after all, just like Victoria said. He wouldn't be the same man; how could he be? But Fox guessed that it was better to be alive than dead, even if he did feel like he'd lost his honor.

"I gotta go now," he muttered, drawing back.

"I know." She gasped for breath. "Today's Monday, the day all us girls go to the bathhouse. You want to come back tonight and have me when I'm all clean and powdered?"

Fox stood up and stretched. "I appreciate the offer, but don't wait for me. I need a lot of fresh air. I don't know when I'll be ready to come back inside the Gem."

He dressed, ran a hand through his grimy hair, and caught a glimpse of himself in the hazy bureau mirror. It was a sobering sight. His eyes were bloodshot, his color was terrible; he looked like a man near death. For an instant the memory of Annie Sunday in his dream returned. Fox was disgusted with himself.

Victoria held the door for him and he escaped. Suspenders dangling, he descended the stairway. His head had begun to ache as if his brain were swollen, and his eyes felt as if they were on fire. Rounding the corner, he nodded to the few men playing cards. The saloon was nearly deserted this early in the morning except for Bessie and a few other girls. He barely glanced at them, but that was enough.

There was only one female he'd ever seen in the world with hair that color. Fox saw only the girl's back as she talked, gesturing, to Bessie. Her marmalade hair was arranged in a cluster of ringlets, and she wore an immodest gown of puce silk.

Fox didn't think; he acted. Stars seemed to flash before his eyes as he strode to the bar, grabbed the girl by the arm, and pulled her toward him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice was raw with anger.

The girl cried out, frightened, and when she tried to break free he saw that she wasn't Maddie at all. Fox felt as if he were in the midst of another crazy dream. Bessie stepped between them and scolded, "Fox, what's got into you?" She put an arm around the new girl, murmuring, "Don't you pay him no mind, Lorna. He's just come from a... sickbed, I guess it was, hmm, Fox?"

He rubbed his face, then peered at the frightened Lorna over the top of his hand. "Ma'am, I apologize. I was struck by the color of your hair, and I thought you were someone else. It didn't occur to me that two women could have such beautiful hair, especially in the same town."

Lorna, who was now calming down, managed a philosophical smile. "I reckon you're right about that, 'cause I sure wasn't born with this color."

Al Swearingen came up behind Fox and clapped him on the back. Known around the badlands as the "whore man," Swearingen was a person Fox went to great lengths to avoid. "Good to see you up and around, pard. I'm sure you'll understand if I charge you for the accommodations. Say... three dollars a night?"

The ingratiating tone of Swearingen's voice made Fox want to shoot the man and put them all out of their misery. It was a pleasant thought, anyway. Instead he paid up, even though he'd already given Victoria more than this much. But he had no intention of telling her employer that, for fear the snake would demand his share from her. Intellectually Fox realized that the girls at the Gem and the other sporting houses were not prostitutes because Swearingen or anyone else was holding a gun to their heads, yet he had always felt an urge to liberate them.

This morning Fox told himself to mind his own business like everyone else in the West. Now honor and ethics were muddy territory for him. If he tried to maintain his old conscience, he would never sleep through the night again.

When Swearingen had stuffed Fox's payment into the bag of gold dust he kept in his trousers, he turned back and clasped his shoulder. "What's yer hurry, son? A minute ago you looked hungry for an introduction to our newest girl." Al gave her a meaningful look. "Lorna, say hello to Fox, one of Deadwood's finest."

She smiled dutifully. "Hello."

With a nod, Fox said, "Sorry again if I was rude." As they exchanged pleasantries, he looked her over, astonished at how closely she resembled Madeleine. It really was ironic... and oddly reassuring. The way he'd begun to feel when he was near Maddie was disturbing, to say the least—especially now that he saw himself as permanently tainted by his guilt over Little Bighorn. If he began to sense that he was losing control with Maddie, he could come to Lorna. A vaguely cynical smile played over his mouth as he took her hand, remarking, "I hope to see you again, ma'am."

"Do come soon to hear me sing!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Swearingen's brought me all the way from Cheyenne, he admires my voice so much! All I need's a few lessons."

Bessie glanced at Fox from behind Lorna's back, lifting an eyebrow, and Al cleared his throat. "In that case," Fox replied, straight-faced, "I'll be looking forward to your performance."

With that he made his farewells and headed out into morning sunlight. The sights and smells of the badlands had never appealed to him until now. Life, even tarnished, was welcome, and it was bliss to be outdoors.

His first destination was Wang Chee's laundry, located up Main Street in Chinatown. Fox's senses were nearly overwhelmed by the exotic panorama. Tiny tumbledown shops were heaped with Chinese embroideries, silks, teak, precious china, sandalwood, and carved ivory. Merchants squabbled, then with wheedling tones endeavored to entice Fox to buy. And here and there were opium dens and gambling games. Plenty of whites wandered through Chinatown when they were looking for a good time; the aura of foreign-steeped danger added to the excitement of misbehaving.

Fox wasn't interested personally, but today he enjoyed the drama. In Chee's laundry, where the clothes were as thoroughly washed as the gravel in the creek, Wang Chee's wife was elated to see him, though Fox could see the concern in her eyes as she took in his appearance. The fact that he had come at last for his clean clothes seemed to reassure her.

Carrying the neat package, he made straight for the bathhouse, striding down the bustling wooden sidewalks that stopped and started along the muddy street. There, after making Old Frenchy haul in a double load of fresh water from the creek, he scrubbed himself twice, then shaved. Finally, clad in boots with light gray trousers tucked in the tops, a loose red calico shirt, and suspenders, Fox gave old Frenchy the rest of the money he had on him and emerged onto Main Street feeling almost lighthearted.

Preacher Smith was standing on his crate on the corner. Spying Calamity Jane among the small audience, Fox kept his head down and hurried to the Grand Central Hotel. Other restaurants were now doing business in town, particularly in the Chinese quarter, but Fox had a craving for Aunt Lou Marshbanks's flapjacks.

Just outside the hotel door, a grizzled old man was selling copies of the
Black Hills Pioneer.
"You heard that Custer an' all his men gone up the flume?" he asked when Fox paused to buy a copy. "It was a bloody bizness, but then you know how those red devils are. Now they're raidin' the Hills, probably comin' for Deadwood next. You kin read all about it in here." The shriveled old-timer fixed Fox with a watery eye. "Wish I could read."

Fox took the paper and arched an eyebrow. "Sometimes I wish I couldn't."

He waited until his second cup of coffee and the flapjacks, fried eggs, and sausage patties were placed before him before he looked at the newspaper. Slowly he ate the breakfast and absorbed the printed words.

Among the exaggerated advertisements for local businesses were columns of news. It seemed that more facts and rumors had been gathered concerning the "slaughter" of Custer and 225 of the Seventh Cavalry. Just as Fox had known instinctively, Company C had been among those who'd fought and died with Custer. Major Reno and Captain Benteen, commanding the other two battalions, had taken different routes and met the Indians first, according to the newspaper account. Custer had proceeded onward and apparently decided to attack without reinforcements. Rumor had it that the "massacre" had been attended by gruesome mutilations and, the
Pioneer
concluded:

There is but one settlement on the Indian question here. The hostile Sioux should be exterminated and white men engaged in trading ammunition to them should be hung wherever found. Let the government call out the Black Hills Brigade and put it in the field.

Fox put down his fork and pushed the plate away. He went on to read the accounts of recent raids made by bands of "hostiles" so near to Deadwood that the townsmen were cautioned to stop shooting their rifles and revolvers indiscriminately. "Save your ammunition, boys," the newspaper advised, "until things become a little more pacific in regard to the Indian question."

Sighing, Fox leaned back in his chair and nibbled at more of his breakfast. Images flashed in his mind of the morning of June twenty-fifth, when he'd ridden away, of the animated men who now lay baking on the Montana hillside, of Custer whooping, "I could whip all the Indians on the continent with the Seventh Cavalry!"

What was it Bloody Knife, the scout, had warned earlier?
"There are more Sioux ahead than we have bullets..."

A chill ran down Fox's spine at the memories. Bloody Knife was dead, too, the
Pioneer
said. He'd been with Reno, in relative safety, yet was hit in the forehead by a stray Sioux bullet. He began to wish he were back in Victoria's room, where he could escape in solitude. He wished he could put out his thoughts like candle flames. Questions of ethics and the fact that Custer had ordered him to depart seemed irrelevant. He just couldn't shake the shadow of guilt.

Rising, Fox paid, then turned to exit. In the doorway he nearly collided with a young fellow who looked like an eastern banker in his brown frock coat, double-breasted vest, spotless white shirt, and slim fawn trousers. When Fox murmured a word of apology, the man's face lit up.

"No, no, pardon
me!
I haven't the least notion where I'm going. I've just arrived and, to be honest, you are the first person who's said a civil word to me." He removed his bowler to reveal a fine head of curly blond hair and put out a smooth hand. "Permit me to introduce myself, sir. I am Graham Horatio Winslow the Third, of the New Haven Winslows."

"Ah." Nodding, Fox bit his lip in an effort not to grin. "Good to meet you, pard. I'm Fox." When he saw that the newcomer was waiting for more information, he added, "Welcome to Deadwood. Here, take my newspaper. It should answer a few of your questions."

"That's very kind of you. Are the rooms decent in this hotel?"

Fox cocked his head. "If you're in search of decency, I'm afraid you may have stumbled into the wrong town, friend. The Grand Central's food is first-rate, though, and if you ask around you may get some better advice about hotel rooms. There are a few new ones I haven't tried."