He nodded sideways and said, “In here.”
She proceeded timorously into the abandoned mine. It was no bigger than a pantry and contained a wooden chair and a pile of straw covered with a holey horse blanket. It took a valiant effort to keep her voice steady as her eyes darted around the dirt walls.
“This is your jail?”
“This is it.” He set the lantern on the floor beside the chair and headed for the door.
“Mr. Campbell!” she called, panicked at the thought of being left alone.
He turned and fixed his cold gray eyes on her but refused to speak.
“How long do you intend to keep me in here?”
“That’s up to the judge, not me.”
“And where is the judge?”
“Haven’t had one assigned yet, so the town appointed George out there as acting judge.”
“George? You mean the grocer?”
“That’s right.”
“So I’m to be tried by a kangaroo court?”
He pointed a finger at her nose. “Now, listen here, sister! You come in here and cause a man to get shot and now you’re not happy with the accommodations. Well, that’s just too bad!”
“I have rights, Mr. Campbell!” she shot back, her spunk returning. “And one of them is to present my case before a territorial court.”
“You’re in Indian territory now, and the territorial government is powerless here.”
“A federal court then.”
“The closest federal court is in Yankton, so all we’ve got is George. But the miners themselves picked him as the fairest man they know.”
He turned toward the door again.
“And a lawyer!” she interrupted. “You cannot incarcerate me without a lawyer!”
“Oh, can’t I?” He glanced back over his shoulder. “You’re in hell-roaring Deadwood now. Things are done differently here.”
On that ominous note he walked out and closed the door behind him. The last thing she heard was the key turning in the lock.
CHAPTER
4
She stared at the door and listened to the hiss of the lantern, the only sound in the silence. Her pulse thumped, filling her throat. The top of her head felt tight. The backs of her arms felt tingly, a sure sign of impending panic. How long would she be left here? Would anyone come to check on her? What kind of vermin lived in that straw pile? What if the lantern went out?
She fixed her eyes upon it, the only other semblance of life in the room, and perched as near to its warmth as possible, on the edge of the chair seat. With her hands pinched between her knees, she concentrated on the flame until her eyes began to ache, then tightly closed them and chafed her arms. It was so cold in here, and she was hungry; she had not eaten at noon.
Who cared enough to come to her? Addie didn’t seem to, and anyway, who’d tell Addie? What would happen to Father’s printing press, sitting there under the tree? And her precious newsprint, which had survived the trip clear from the railhead without getting wet, and the type she valued so dearly because it was the same her father had used all his life? Neither it nor her braver had been cleaned. There hadn’t been time in the chaos. The brayer would be ruined.
When she was released from this mineshaft, what would she face? Suppose the oxcart driver died, could the blame possibly be pinned on her even though she hadn’t touched the gun? What recourse had she if Campbell failed to send a lawyer? And what would happen if she had to face their “judge” unaided? Was the assault on the marshal serious enough to be called insurrection, and would she be liable for that, too?
She kept seeing his face with the knuckles battering it, feeling anew her horror at how spontaneously things had gotten out of hand, hearing the voice from down the street crying that a man had been shot. I didn’t mean to cause all that! I only meant to stand up for my rights! Again the squeezing began, in her throat and scalp and down her arms, which began to feel numb.
Remember a newspaperman’s first qualification, Sarah.
Resolutely, she found her father’s watch, opened it and laid it on the floor beside the lantern. She rose from the chair, fetched the horse blanket and shook it. Lifting it to the light, she checked it for movement and saw none discernible. On the chair again, she draped it over her lap, removed her spectacles from the organdy pouch, donned them and opened her notebook and ink vial.
She contemplated a long time before dipping the pen and writing her first words.
Riot in the Street: Man Shot, Newspaper Editor Jailed.
With the unshrinking veracity instilled by her father, she set about writing an impartial account of what had happened on Main Street during the last two hours.
Doc Turley’s office was a frame structure which doubled as his house. It was. located a short distance beyond Loretta Roundtree’s, where the buildings began to climb the steep sides of the gulch. The path to it angled up the side of the sheer slope like the footpath of a mountain goat. After the rain it was slippery, but Noah Campbell negotiated it with long strides and arrived at Turley’s door worried. He entered without knocking, directly into Doc’s waiting room, which was furnished with a few pole-and-hide chairs, all empty.
“Doc?” he called, advancing toward the rear.
“Come on in, Noah!”
Noah followed Turley’s voice into his examination room, which had walls finished with a layer of pine boards over the studs—a rarity in Deadwood. A glass-fronted cupboard held probes and pinchers and a bevy of other intimidating instruments. In an enamel basin a bullet swam in some bloody water along with a needle and a pair of tweezers. On a leather-covered examination table lay True, out cold while Doc cut bandages for his right shoulder.
“How is he, Doc?”
“I had to chloroform him to take the bullet out, but unless I miss my guess, he’ll be cussing at those oxen within a week or so.”
Noah blew out a huge breath and felt the tension leave his shoulder blades.
“That’s the best news I’ve had today.”
“He’s a crusty old bugger. His hearty condition will stand him in good stead now. Come and help me roll him over while I tie this gauze strip. I made an alum poultice to stop the bleeding.”
Horsehair stitches held True’s skin together and protruded like cat’s whiskers in the area where Doc had done surgery. Noah had to cock his head to one side and watch with his good eye while Doc covered the wound with a white pad and looped gauze strips over True’s shoulder and around his trunk.
“How long will he be out?” Noah carefully rolled True onto his left side.
“Chloroform only lasts ten or fifteen minutes at most. He should be coming around soon. He’ll be groggy, though.” Doc completed the bandaging and poured water in a clean basin before beginning to wash his hands. “He’ll need someplace to recuperate. You got any ideas?”
“He can have my room at Mrs. Roundtree’s.”
“Where would you go?”
“Hell, I can sleep anyplace. I can bunk on the floor of my office or even throw up a tent for a couple weeks. The weather’s warm enough yet.”
“He’s going to need some attention, and I doubt that Loretta Roundtree’s got the time to be looking after a convalescent on top of running that boardinghouse. Furthermore, knowing True, he’d come to his senses at Loretta’s and get up out of bed looking for his ox whip before the blood is dry in these wounds.”
Noah considered for several seconds. “You think he could make the trip out to the Spearfish?”
“After a couple days he could.”
“Then put him at Loretta’s for now and I can look in on him a couple times a day when I’m making rounds to see how he’s doing. Maybe you can do the same.”
“I can.”
“When you think he’s well enough I’ll run him out to the valley. My ma will pamper the piss and vinegar out of him.” Doc laughed, drying his hands. “Matter of fact,” Noah continued, “she’ll give me a dressing down if she finds out True needed help and I
didn’t give her a chance to provide it.”
Setting aside his towel, Doc said, “As long as you’re here, I’d better take a look at that face of yours.”
Noah submitted to Doc’s examination while Turley asked, “What about those Indians out in the Spearfish?”
“Well, on that score, we just have to hope for the best. The treaty is signed, now we’ll just have to see if they honor it. Oww! What the hell you doing, Doc?”
“Making sure you can still see out of that eye.”
“I can see! Now let go!”
Doc released Noah’s eyelid and peered into his ear. “Might have punctured the eardrum. Usually that’s the case when you bleed from the ear. Cover the other one and tell me if you can hear me. Eardrums heal, though, most of the time. They get a little scar tissue that cuts down the hearing somewhat, is all.”
“I can hear.”
“Good. Did you lose any teeth?” Doc reached toward Noah’s mouth, but the marshal reared back.
“I’ve got all my teeth, now quit your infernal prodding!”
“Testy, aren’t you?”
From the patient came a mumble as his eyes fluttered open, then closed. Noah turned to the table and stood beside it, waiting. After several seconds True mumbled again and opened his eyes. They were blue as cornflowers, surrounded by deep grooves.
“Hey, you old hornswoggler. ‘Bout time you were waking up.”
“Take more’n a bullet t’ put me t’ sleep.” His words were slurred.
“Doc’s got the damn thing out. He’s makin’ soup with it.”
True managed a weak grin. “What the hell’d you run into— Sitting Bull?”
“You just shut up about what I run into or I’ll have Doc plaster a little more chloroform against your mouth, you old buffalo hoof.” Noah smiled the best he could with his puffy lips, then said, “Listen, True, we’re going to put you at Mrs. Roundtree’s till you get a little stronger, then I’m going to take you out to the valley and let my ma feed you some of her good cooking and sass you back, just the way you like. How does that sound?”
True let his eyes close and spoke sleepily. “Can’t. Got a train to unload.”
“Oh, no you don’t! You just forget about unloading trains for a while.”
True’s blue eyes opened quite wide this time and fixed on the younger man leaning over him. He spoke with surprising irascibility. “Some sonofabitch charges me three dollars for a license to unload my freight, now he says forget about it. What kind of town you running here, boy?”
“The unloading’s all taken care of. You need rest now.”
“Rest, hell...” True grunted and attempted to rise. Only one of his shoulders cleared the examination table before he fell back, panting. The marshal and the doctor exchanged glances.
Turley stepped forward. “True,” he ordered, “you lay still or I’ll tie you down. You want that?” True waggled his head while his eyes remained closed. “All right then. Sleep while you can, because that shoulder’s going to hurt like a son of a gun tonight. Noah will come back later and help me get you over to Mrs. Roundtree’s, then in a couple days when you’re stronger he’ll take you out to the Spearfish.”
Noah thought True had drifted off again and said quietly to Dan Turley, “I’ll be back. I’ve got to clear that woman’s stuff out of the street.”
True opened his eyes. “Met your match with that one, didn’t you, boy?” he said.
“Yeah, well, she’s not talking so smart right now. I’ve got her locked up behind Farnum’s.”
True smiled and nodded as if speculating to himself. “Yup,” he said, “she’s a hellcat. Look out you don’t get scratched.”
Heading away from Doc’s, Noah considered True’s words. Sarah Merritt was a hellcat, all right, and though his wrath had diminished somewhat upon learning True would live, he had every intention of letting her mildew in that mole hole until she’d learn a damned good lesson about the value of freedom, and about harassing the local lawman! By now she was bawling so hard she was probably treading brine. Well, let her tread! Let her consider what kind of a disaster her bull-headedness had nearly caused. Let her wonder when she’d see the light of day again, and how hungry she was going to get, and how long it would be before anybody remembered she was in there! No damned gangly female troublemaker was going to sashay into Marshal Noah Campbell’s town and get by with the kind of shit she’d pulled.
So just what in thunderation was he supposed to do with that rig of hers anyway? He should be making his rounds right now; instead he had a thousand pounds of steel to get moved, and a tent to fold up and all that other paraphernalia she’d unloaded in the middle of...
Where the hell is it?
Rounding a corner onto Main Street, he gaped at the big pine tree. Her outfit was gone! Press, crates and tent... gone! Nothing left but the depressions in the mud where they had stood, and those obscured by boot- and hoofprints.
His pulse began to thump as he glanced up and down the thoroughfare. She’d have something to say about this. Somebody stealing her equipment from the middle of Main Street, where the marshal should have set somebody to guard it. But who’d think anyone would have the audacity to take something so big from such a public spot? And how hard could it be to find? The press alone was as tall as a man and weighed half a ton! Goddammit! As if he didn’t have enough to contend with today, now this!
He spent an hour searching and turned up nothing. Not in alleys or at the freight office or at his own office. Grumpily, he plunked down in his chair and filled out a few of the sonofa-bitchin’ licenses—what they needed licenses for was beyond him. He knew every person who’d paid their tax and every person who owed.
In the middle of the third form he threw down his pen and cursed silently, wrapped one fist around the other, forgot he was hurt and pressed them against his mouth; yelped and cursed once more. Checked his watch. Going on five-thirty and Farnum would close up at six.
All right, so she’d requested a lawyer. Given his druthers, he’d leave her to stew till morning, but it might not look good, his jailing her without legal counsel. Section two of the Dead-wood City Ordinances laid out clearly what constituted the Common Council of Deadwood City and its legal ramifications. Not only was it made up of the mayor and six of his fellow townsmen, it stated unquestionably that the council could sue and be sued. It wouldn’t bode well if within two weeks of the town’s official formation its marshal got the city council sued. And he had no doubt that self-proclaimed muckraker would do it.
So he’d find her a damned lawyer. The town was full of them—seven licensed at last count—all hard-up for business because of the absence of an appellate court and the fact that there were no lawbooks in town yet.
He made a grab at the coat hook, but his hat was missing, left in the mud after that fracas. Cursing, he stormed outside and headed for the office of the closest lawyer, a bearded, sniffling fellow named Lawrence Chapline, who had set up shop in a tent. When Campbell turned back the flap and entered, Chapline was in the midst of wiping his nose on a damp handkerchief. He took one look at the marshal and exclaimed, “What in blazes happened to you!”
“Got tangled up in that street riot earlier today. The woman who started it wants a lawyer. Are you interested?”
Chapline had his hat on before the question cleared Campbell’s lips. They walked back to Farnum’s store and found it full of curious customers who knew there was a female incarcerated in the mine out back. Some of them nodded silently as the lawman and the lawyer passed. Others called, “What you going to do with her, Noah?” and “Are you defending her, Chapline?”
Businesslike, they proceeded through the store into the passageway leading to the tunnel. Campbell opened the door expecting to find Sarah Merritt engulfed in tears. Instead she was sitting on the hoop-backed chair, diligently writing in her notebook. She looked up, and the picture she made riled him all over again because there were no oceans of tears in sight. No weak, wailing female
terrified of her straits. Instead she sat calmly on a chair and looked up through small oval spectacles that magnified her blue eyes and gave her the appearance of a schoolmarm correcting papers. Her lap was covered by the horse blanket, and her brown hair had been neatened as best she could manage. She might have been sitting at a table on a raised platform with five rows of school desks before her. Calmly, she closed her book, capped her pen and laid them on the floor. Her militancy had disappeared and in its place was strict politeness.
“Marshal Campbell, you’re back,” she said, removing her spectacles.
“I brought you the lawyer you asked for. This is Lawrence Chapline.”
“Mr. Chapline.” She rose, folded the horse blanket over the back of the chair and extended her hand. Immediately when she’d taken care of courtesies she asked of Campbell, “How is your friend?”
“Alive and ornery.”
She rested a hand on her heart. “Oh, thank the Almighty. He’ll live, then?”
“Looks that way.”
“I am relieved. I’ve been so upset thinking I might have been responsible for an innocent man’s death. And what about you? Are you all right?”
“Nothing serious. Maybe a punctured eardrum.”
“Oh,” she said, her mouth a small circle of regret while she looked up at his eye, which had swollen up like a toad’s throat at twilight. And after a lull, “I stand before you remorseful and prepared to pay whatever fines may be imposed.”
Oddly, Campbell had been more comfortable with her ire. Her newfound contrition put him on uncertain ground. He shifted his weight and said, “You’d better talk to Chapline while you have the chance. I’ll be back in a while.”
Left alone with the lawyer, Sarah said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Chapline. What’s going to happen to me?”
“Why don’t you sit down, Miss Merritt, while I give you a little background about the law here. I think it will help you to understand.”
“I’ve been sitting for quite some time. If you don’t mind, I’ll stand.”