The Long Trail Home (21 page)

“Thanks,” Sam tipped his Stetson. “I reckon I'll take a little hike down there and check this out. Where 'bouts is the Piedmont?”

“I think I'll come along,” Robert offered.

“No reason to go. It's somethin' I have to deal with all the time.”

“Not in my town, you don't. Think I'll go, too.” Todd added, “You never know when you might need The Flying Fist of Deadwood Gulch.”

“Well, shoot, boys—we're all goin',” Brazos announced. “I told you the four of us ought to do somethin' together.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Outside the Piedmont Saloon & Gambling Emporium, badlands district,

Deadwood, D.T.

The cloud-draped sun had long disappeared behind Forest Hill. For a moment Deadwood was caught between pale gray and black. Even the steady breeze had died off, as if waiting for night to officially arrive. In the distance, the stamp mills of Lead rolled their dull thunder down Whitewood Gulch.

The four men walked shoulder to shoulder down the center of an almost deserted Main Street. “Sammy, do you know who we're lookin' for?”

“No, but I surmise I'll recognize him the moment I walk through the door.” Sam pulled his Colt pistol out of his holster, checked the chambers, and reset the hammer on the empty one. The grip felt slick. The trigger cold.
It's been a month since I've drawn this pistol. That must be a record.
“Now, look, boys, the last thing I want is for you to go home to your mamas tonight carryin' a bullet because of your no account brother. I appreciate your offer to help, but don't get in front of me. If I can't face down one ol' boy from Dodge—well, I need to know that right now.”

Robert adjusted his dark blue, close-fitting double-breasted surtout coat that sported an insignia with two braids and a single knot. “We aren't about to let you come down here and ruin li'l sis's wedding day by getting yourself killed.”

“You think the inside of the Piedmont is a good place to confront him?” Todd parked his hand on the .45 Colt tucked into his brown belt.

“This is where that famous Todd Fortune captured the nefarious Cigar Dubois single-handedly,” Robert prodded.

“And I haven't been back since,” Todd added.

“Whoever he is, I'd rather confront him inside a saloon than in some dark alley or wait until he shows up at li'l sis's party.”
Lord, I certainly hope I know what I'm doin'. I've never had to worry so much about my partners before.

Brazos pulled the massive hammer back on the Sharps carbine until it clicked once, then cradled it in his hand. The top button of his white shirt was still fastened, but the black wedding tie flagged on the railing back at the Merchant's Hotel. “Son, you aren't wanted for a crime and have bounty hunters sniffin' you out, do you?”

The four men stopped in the street in front of the Piedmont to watch an open stage from Sturgis pull up in front of the saloon. Sam shrugged, “That's always a possibility. Servin' time in prison doesn't always make everyone happy. I was supposed to stay in there ten years and got out in less than three. Some folks surmised I was in cahoots with the authorities by revealing information about them.”

“If they thought you'd betray a friend, they don't know Fortunes very well,” Brazos declared.

“I didn't do it, of course,” Sam cleared. “Though I would hardly call some of them my friends.”

“How did you get out so soon?” Robert asked as he threw his arm around his brother's shoulder. They were both a couple of inches taller than Brazos, but several inches shorter than Todd.

Sam glanced at his brothers. “Officially or unofficially?”

“Both,” Robert pressed.

“Officially, I was listed as rehabilitated, the model prisoner. It's nice to find out I could do somethin' right.”

“And unofficially?” Todd prompted.

“I got out because of the warden's wife.”

Todd raised his eyebrows. “She pulled strings?”

“Nope. The warden pulled strings. Seems he didn't want me within fifty miles of his wife.”

“But you were in prison,” Robert protested.

“For some gals, that just doesn't make a difference.”

“Some things never change,” Todd gibed.

Sam rubbed street dust out of the creases of his eyes. “Well, I've changed now, boys. I'm not very proud of the way I've been livin'.”

Brazos pointed past the Sturgis stage at the open front doors of the Piedmont. “Son, that saloon is a den of snakes. You can't never tell which direction they'll strike from. You aimin' to go through the back door, just to look things over first?”

Sam put his hand on his father's shoulder, grinned, then looked at his brothers. “Is Daddy tryin' to test me? A man in there wanted to see me, so I'm goin' through the front door. Never show any sign of weakness—you taught us all that.”

Brazos brushed back his long drooping mustache with his fingertips. “I was younger then and didn't reckon there were exceptions to the rule.”

Sam waved his arm in the still, Dakota twilight. “How about you and the general takin' the back door. Me and big brother will go through the front. With the legendary Todd Fortune and his flying fist of destruction at my side, I imagine they'll all cower down.”

“The book was all fiction,” Todd muttered.

“Where do you think fiction writers get their ideas? They steal 'em from the truth, that's where. Then they twist it around and disguise it as a story. Writers are all liars and thieves. It's the nature of their business.” Sam nudged his father's shoulder. “Daddy, we'll wait about three minutes for you two to get around back.”

Although the Piedmont Saloon had been rebuilt in brick after the 1883 fire, the masons had spent more time at the bar than at the wall. The mortar was mixed too sandy in many places. After only two years, bricks began to tumble on hapless patrons. This lead to the abandonment of the upstairs dance hall. Most figured the entire building would collapse someday. A fact that did not seem to worry citizens of the bad lands.

That was usually the least of their worries.

“Let me walk in first,” Todd offered. “He's not looking for me. He doesn't even know me. At least I can see if he has an ambush set up.”

“Nope. This is my life. I've got to face the consequences of my actions. Stay inside the doorway. I don't want someone sneakin' up and bushwhackin' me from behind.” Sam pushed his suit coat behind his holstered revolver and positioned his right hand on the walnut grip.

Pipe and cigar smoke was so thick inside the saloon, Sam couldn't see the back door. But he sensed his father and Robert's presence. He strolled straight to the bar. Todd dropped back and stood, hands on his hips, by the front door.

With each step toward the bar, the banter and conversations died a little more. By the time he reached the brass footrail, the crowded room was quiet.

“Are you Sam Fortune?” the bartender asked as he broke off a hunk of obviously stale bread.

Sam turned his back to everyone in the room.
Lord, if it wasn't for Daddy, Todd, and Robert, I would never turn my back on this crowd.
“Yep. I hear someone is lookin' for me.”

The bartender took the yank of bread and wiped a whiskey glass clean with it. “You related to them other Fortunes?”

Sam stared right at the man. “Yeah. I'm the mean, ornery one.”

The bartender dropped the whiskey-soaked bread in a milk bucket half full of similar hunks. “I didn't think you was of the same family. Fortunes around here ain't known for bein' outlaws. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have let him send for you.”

Sam tried to study the man's eyes, but the bartender examined the short glass, as if searching for imperfections.

“Fortune!” a man hollered from across the smoky room. “I want to talk to you!”

Even in the dimly lit room, Sam could spot the gold earrings that framed an unshaven, grimy face. “Mr. Burns, you're a long way from the alleys of Dodge City.” Sam put his back against the bar. Several men, including the bartender, scurried away from him.

Burns sat alone at a round wooden table that was draped by a double-barreled shotgun. A wooden splint and dirty linen bandage girded his right wrist. His hair curled out from under his wide-brimmed, brown hat. His clothes were dirty. His eyes were amber-colored, like the whiskey bottle on the table before him. “Come over here, Fortune, I want to talk to you!”

“I'm here . . . talk.”

“Ain't no need to shout. Come sit down. I'll buy you a drink.”

“Are you too drunk to shoot straight this far, Burns? I'll stay right here. What do you want?”

Burns waved his shirt-clad arm at the empty chair across the table from him. “It ain't hospitable to shout across a room.”

Sam now stood alone at the bar. All the other patrons shoved up against the walls near the front and back doors. “There's plenty of room over here,” he challenged. “Come on over, and you can whisper for all I care. Where's your partner?”

Burns reached for the shotgun then pulled his hand back. “He's dead, and you're the cause of it,” he hollered.

Sam tried to study the man's eyes, but the smoke in the room made it difficult. “He was alive when I left Dodge.”

“Well, he ain't now. Gangrene set in that foot where you crippled him.” Sweat coursed down the man's dirty forehead.

“Dodge City must have a dozen doctors, Burns. He was doctored in jail; I was there. If he died over that wound, he died because of stupidity.”

Red-faced, Burns reached for the shotgun again but jerked back as Sam Fortune cocked his still holstered revolver. “Don't get too cheeky, Fortune. I've got friends in this room who will back my play.”

Sam lowered the hammer back down to safety but left his hand on the walnut grip. “That's good, Burns. A man needs friends. Although, I don't understand why they would want to side with a man who kicks women when they're down.”

“That' a lie,” Burns screamed. “I didn't kick that woman! It was McDermitt that kicked her.”

Sam surveyed the others in the bar. “At least I know what kind of friends you run with.”

“Don't push it, Fortune, or there will be a dozen guns pointed at you.”

With his finger pointed like a gun, Sam tilted his hat back with his left hand. “A dozen guns? Well, that should make it about even. Burns, you and me are new to Deadwood, but the rest of these boys probably already know that tall man at the door is my brother Todd. Some of you read about him in that Hawthorne Miller novel. Then, through the smoke, standin' at the back, is the Captain—little brother Robert is one of the army's best sharpshooters. He's been with General Crook down on the border lookin' for Geronimo. And, of course, you all know Daddy Brazos. That's a .50-caliber Sharps carbine in his hand. Did any of you ever see how big a hole that bullet makes in a man?”

“Only four of you? I told you, I've got a dozen men. So you better come over here, sit down, and listen to what I have to say,” Burns raved.

“You ain't got me, Burns,” a man at the back of the room called out. “I ain't goin' up against them Fortunes, no matter how many is on our side. I ain't that drunk.”

“There's only four of them,” Burns shouted.

“Four Fortunes is worth forty of any other breed,” another man hollered.

“I ain't standin' with you either, Burns,” a broad-shouldered man blustered, his face still smudged from a shift in the mine tunnels. “I got too many leads left to follow and too many trails left to ride. I ain't goin' to git in a fight I cain't win.”

Burns paced behind the table like a lawyer pleading with the jury for a guilty verdict. “But he jumped me and my pard from behind in an alley!”

A heavy, dark-skinned man, missing a lower button on his soiled, blue shirt, ambled to the front door. “Maybe folks believe that in Dodge City,” he called out. “But in Deadwood, Fortunes face you straight up ever' time. Your story don't float with me. I'm goin' to drink somewhere I ain't so liabled to get killed.”

Burns scurried around the table, the amber whiskey bottle in his left hand. “What's the matter with you? You lose your sand? You goin' to let this bunch run the town?”

The bartender, looping his thumbs in his soiled, white apron, blurted out from the corner, “I was behind the counter the night that tall Fortune by the front door came in here, buffaloed Cigar Dubois without a scratch, and held the rest of the saloon at bay. You multiply that by four and take 'em on by yourself—well, you'd be the biggest fool to ever set foot in the Piedmont. And believe me, we've had some fools.”

“You better watch what you say,” Burns screamed. “The last bartender that double-crossed me nearly got his head bashed in, down in Dodge City.”

It was like a bolt of lightening hit Sam's neck and flashed to his toes. He took two steps toward the man behind the table. “What do you mean, ‘the last bartender'?”

Burns spun around and plopped down in the chair, his back to the wall. “You come sit at my table, and I'll tell you an interestin' story about your old pal Talbert.”

Sam stomped to the table.
Not Talbert . . . not with a wife and kids and a picket fence . . . Lord, I'll kill him right here in the chair if he . . .
“What about Talbert?”

Burns pointed to the empty chair across from him. “Sit down. I'm tired of yellin'.”