This is a work of fiction any similarities between the characters, events, or locations in this story and actual locations, events, or people are purely coincidental.
© 2004 Warlord
Porcine was the first word to jump into my head. Grossly fat -- like a pig for instance. Douglas needed only an apple in his mouth to be ready for the spit.
His tiny piggy eyes looked out over his pig like nose with his jowls hanging down. The rolls of fat on his neck were flopping over the collar as well. His moist little mouth that his tongue constantly dampened was disgusting.
Did I mention the sweating? Douglas was a wet mass sitting there. He was constantly and ineffectually mopping his face and neck with his handkerchief.
He saw me, and tried to stand. He was stuck fast in the wooden chair, wedged between the chair arms. I walked over with my hand out. His handshake was limp, with a soggy hand.
He said, “Good afternoon, William? I am Douglas Gansevoort, manager of the Dakota Stagecoach Company. I have a business proposition for you.”
I nodded. I sat down across from him waiting for him to continue.
Douglas told me that they had ‘some trouble’ with their stage line into Fort Cheyenne.
I asked, “What kind of trouble would bring you here?”
It was as I had turned on a sprinkler. Gansevoort was a sodden mess. He was looking everywhere to avoid my eyes.
I said, “Trouble? That could be robbery with all the people on the stage killed and the gold stolen, over and over, so NO stages get through.”
Finally Gansevoort said all in a rush, “Yes. Exactly that kind of trouble. I have a passenger who must travel to Fort Cheyenne. Hannah Norton. Daughter of the town’s eminent preacher must travel to the railroad to collect her sister Beatrice and return. The stage company verges on losing the mail contract. Mail must be delivered to Fort Cheyenne. I will pay a premium for your service. If you will agree to protect the stage, the mail, and Miss Norton in both directions, I will pay five hundred dollars for this round trip.”
I said, “To face certain death? Only five hundred?”
He quickly blurted, “A thousand. One thousand dollars for one round trip.”
I asked softly, “Who owns the livery stable on the north end of town?”
Gansevoort looked confused:
“Our stage coach company. We built it for our extra teams of horses. Those stage routes never materialized. It is seldom used.”
I said, “That’s what I want! I want that livery stable and one thousand dollars in payment for my guarding your stage one round trip to Fort Cheyenne with passengers and mail.”
I sat quietly as Gansevoort shook his head. He sat looking at the table with a sad expression mopping his face and neck incessantly while the stains under his arms grew by the minute.
Finally he looked up at me with a hangdog expression slowly saying, “Done and Done. The deed and One thousand in gold coin will be in your hands before you mount the stage box. When can you leave?”
Briskly I answered, “Midnight tonight!”
Douglas stood up finally shaking loose of the chair, which crashed to the floor on its side.
He said, “We’ll be ready. Be at the stage office at 11:30. Leave at Midnight.”
I said, “One additional item. I have a person who is traveling to Fort Cheyenne to pick up their relative. The travel is free to the fort and both free back to Deadwood?”
Gansevoort agreed impatiently, nodding, “Yes. By all means. Bring along anyone you want. Just have them at the stage office for the midnight departure.”
I walked Douglas Gansevoort to the door receiving one last flaccid damp handshake as he departed. One of the girls behind the bar threw me a bar towel with a sympathetic smile.
My three amigos, Emma and Gabrielle were coming through the sliding door to join me.
K said, “We watched through the two way mirror behind the bar. We couldn’t hear, though. What happened?”
I answered, “It’s far worse than I ever imagined. He agreed to my exorbitant demands without negotiation.”
Emma nodded, “The gold is only part of his dilemma. He must deliver mail immediately, resuming a regular schedule to the fort, or he loses his mail contract, bankrupting his company.”
Gabrielle shouted, “My hero! When do we leave?”
I said, “Gaby honey. I don’t know if WE are leaving. This trip is fucking dangerous. No. This trip is way beyond that. You should wait right here.”
Gabrielle shook her head as she spoke forcefully. “No. You must allow me to go. This is very important.”
I looked around at the rest of them. I finally shrugged as I said, “You know the risk far better than I. I will do my very best to keep you safe.”
I turned to Dan. “Dan. I need a favor. I need a special load for my 50-95. It’s very dangerous for you to load or handle. Will you do it?”
Dan smiled. “Of course I’ll do it. What?”
I said, “Mercury. I need a small ball of mercury in the base of the lead bullet for every 50-95 load I carry on the stage. Are you willing to risk the side effects?”
Dan said, I can do that. I have enough safety equipment along to accomplish loading safely. One problem. No mercury.”
I replied, “Thank you. I’ll go to the apothecary to buy some. They use it in gold refining. It should be available in the small quantity we need.”
D said, “The sooner the better; I need some time. This might be a busy night.”
Gabrielle was immediately interested. Was I going shopping? When? I now had company. Krista was amused. She said, “You two have fun. Gabrielle needs to be back for her exam, so not TOO much fun.”
Gabrielle and I walked out to the barn. Two kitchen girls had Francis hitched to the buckboard. Caitlin was standing next to it with my Winchester Yellow Boy. She handed me the fully loaded rifle. I shoved it into the scabbard next to my seat.
I handed Gabrielle onto the buckboard seat. A kitchen girl gave me the reins. I clucked to Francis. Always ready to perform for a pretty girl, Francis was immediately at a trot as we left the driveway of Miss Emma’s.
As Francis trotted toward Deadwood’s commercial establishments, I reached in my jacket to retrieve one of the handful of cigars Emma handed me as we left. Gabrielle took the cigar from me. She bit off the end, and lit it with a match from her clutch. She tucked the now lit cigar in the corner of my mouth. Gabrielle sat under her brightly colored parasol looking like the Grand Marshall of the Rose Parade.
The commercial center of Deadwood was on the north end by the Bullock House Hotel. The hardware, apothecary, clothing store, and other shops were clustered around it.
I pulled up next to the wooden sidewalks. I gave Gabrielle a hand down from the buckboard seat and my arm as we entered each shop.
My first stop was the apothecary where, as predicted, I was able to buy a quart Mason jar filled with liquid mercury. I carried this out to the buckboard, placing it in the box.
Next was the clothing store, pleasing Gabrielle no end. The store had the latest fashions from Paris, London, New York and Chicago. Given the amount of money to be spent on Deadwood’s Main Street, the exotic origin and expense of the clothing should not have been a surprise.
We shopped for her first -- an unavoidable task that I took with good humor. I bought Gabrielle a new hat direct from Paris. She was extravagant in her promises of my later reward.
I wanted a straw boater skimmer hat. The hat, made of natural white straw, had a three inch crown and two inch brim, with a thin black leather band around the crown. I’m guessing mine would be the first one sold from the entire shipment here in Deadwood.
Gabrielle was desperately trying not to snicker at my appearance with my new straw hat. Even the clerk trying to sell me something was hard pressed not to laugh. Finally Gabrielle asked why.
I answered, “I need an edge. The fact is really bad men in the west avoid confrontations with other equally bad men. A reputation will surely follow on reaching Fort Cheyenne. This funny, completely unwestern hat will become my unique signature.”
Gabrielle nodded in understanding now. We sauntered through the tightly packed store on our way back to our buckboard. Gabrielle stopped, with her eyes narrowing. She turned to me with a question:
“Would you like to meet your passenger for the trip to Fort Cheyenne?”
I nodded. Gabrielle swept forward with me in her wake to meet Hannah Norton, the Preacher’s daughter. The contrast could not have been more striking. Gabrielle’ a riot of color like an exotic beautiful tropical bird of paradise, with her legs and breasts tantalizing the onlooker, while Hannah was a drab study in floor length covering of dark gray and black, with her dowdy cloth bonnet securely knotted under her chin. Gabrielle introduced us. I tipped my hat with a polite greeting as Hannah said with some asperity, “I know about you. I don’t like you. I don’t like your looks. I don’t like anything about you. We will converse only as necessary for our journey.”
I looked at her smiling, as I replied, “You know. People say that and the first thing you know -- they’re married.”