The true gravity of the heartache hit her mid-walk back to Bluewater. The tears that flowed free since the men rode off lodged a deep ache in her chest that burned with anger and frustration. She screamed at whatever would listen – the trees, the rocks, the sky – eventually slumping down against a tree in helpless sobs.
None of them had stood up for her. None of them had defended her.
Did she really mean so little to them? To all of them?
She hadn't meant to stay against that tree all night, but it had been too easy to rest her head against her arms atop her bent knees. When she'd woken up to discover it was night, it just made more sense to wait until morning to keep moving.
Her stomach growled with hunger as she continued to make her way back, deciding that food would have to be the first order of business. Would there be any left at the saloon? Or had the law officers ransacked the place?
The uncertainties tossed about in her head the rest of the way until the prim row of cabins along the west edge of town came into view. The McClure's cabin was by far the nicest of the group, and the neat rows in her vegetable garden were second to none.
The elderly woman hunched low over the last row – cabbages, if Lily's memory served right. Her stomach growled as her gaze dropped to the full basket of carrots that sat beside the woman as she worked. Was it worth it to call out and beg a carrot? But all too late, the woman looked up, eyes widening as she looked at Lily.
"Good heavens! Miss Martin." Mrs. McClure stood to her feet, wiping her dirt smudged hands on her apron. "My goodness – I heard what happened at the saloon. We all did. Harboring a fugitive, indeed. I can't believe Mr. Winters would do such a thing,"
She forced a hard swallow, nodding with a hesitant grimace. "Yes, ma'am. It…it was awful."
"I don't doubt that. I can't imagine an all-out gunfight like that." The elderly woman shook her head, her chin raising with an air of judgement. "But I can imagine justice served for those that betray and lie to the people of their community. It hurts me to now count Mr. Winters among them, and yourself, too."
"What?"
"Mr. McClure! Come quickly!" The woman turned, continuing her calls towards the shed that stood apart from the house. "Mr. McClure!"
The sturdily-built, older man emerged, wiping a hand on his brow under his hat. "Yes, Mrs. McClu – is that Miss Martin of the Easy?"
"Yes, it is."
Every hair on the back of Lily's neck stood up in fear for survival as the older man rapidly approached.
"Come on now, Miss Martin – please don't struggle." Mr. McClure said as she started to back away, glaring between the couple. "Unfortunately, Marshal Dike has put out a reward for bringing in anybody who worked at the Easy Saloon."
"No! He can't!" She looked panicked between them. "I didn't do anything!"
"Then just tell him that – and remember, child, God hates a liar." He reached out for her arm, and she jerked away, just out of reach.
"I won't go with you!" She turned, trying to kick her tired feet into a run. But her movements were uncoordinated from exhausted hunger, and she caught the edge of a rock, falling ungracefully into the dirt.
"Please don't make any more of a scene, Miss Martin." Mr. McClure's solid hand fell to her arm, helping her back up to her feet and keeping his grip firm. "If you are innocent – as you claim – then you shouldn't fear talking with the marshal."
With the insisting pressure of Mr. McClure's hand on her arm and the prying stares of the people of Bluewater, she had no choice but to be dragged before Marshal Dike.
Only, the marshal wasn't in right now. 'Out on bidness', the gapped-tooth man sitting in the rocker on the porch had said. But the marshal was sure to be overjoyed on his return to find an employee of the Easy Saloon cooling her heels in his jail cell.
She'd protested the whole way. Pleading with Mr. McClure and the gapped-tooth man. But it all fell on deaf ears, and the silence of the marshal's office was all that she had left now.
She paced the length of the cell again, arms crossed tight to her chest. She hadn't done anything wrong to deserve to be locked up like this. But nothing about her previous meetings with the marshal lead her to believe that she would be released, no matter what she said.
Her stomach growled with hunger as a wave of lethargy rippled through her. She hoped that Dike would arrive soon, before her hunger grew much worse. She utterly refused to ask that man for food. The protesting rumble of her stomach, however, made her fear how long that conviction could stand.
Heavy footsteps thumped on the porch outside, voices following. She couldn't make out the words, but the familiar, lofty tones of the marshal were easily recognizable. Her gaze fixed on the door, bracing herself as it opened.
Dike stepped in, looking straight at her with a pleased smile. "Well, well." He chuckled a small sound, closing the door. "Isn't this just a fair turn."
"There ain't nothing fair about this." She spat, leveling him with her best glare. "Your flunky out there locks me up unjustly when I ain't done nothing!"
He held her gaze, judgement ripe across his features. "Unjustly? I give that man out there high praise for holding you here. You were involved with the harboring of a wanted man. And that crime is justifiably punishable."
"A wanted man…." She shook her head, lips curling in anger. "He was only wanted because you didn't want him knowing what he knew about you!"
"And there you go – implicating yourself so beautifully. You admit to knowing that Speirs was wanted by the law." Dike smiled, cold and hard.
She held his gaze as she walked up to the bars, uncrossing her arms and bracing them against the cold metal. Far more intimidating men had stared her down without metal bars in between. Hell, she might have even lumped Speirs into that group when she'd first met him that day. It also didn't escape her notice that Dike now knew his name, even though the poster hadn't been edited.
"Does it really matter what I say? Or don't say?" She shook her head, biting her lip in mounting anger. "I know from that wanted poster that you're a master at coming up with reasons to frame people for breaking the law."
"I truly resent being called a liar. Let alone, being called a liar by a godforsaken whore."
"You son of a bitch!" She railed against the bars, eyes blazing. "You're goddamned right, you fucking liar! Lying to save your neck and cover up your crimes. But it won't work, I tell you – your badge won't save you!"
Dike laughed, the gleeful sound dissolving in an unbothered yawn. "But that's where you are wrong. That badge gives me all the power here, whore. To see you convicted of hiding a fugitive. To see you condemned for a godless life of sin. To see your neck snapped in the hangman's noose and hasten your arrival at hell's gates."
Her hands fisted around the bars, knuckles white as she could only stare back. "You better pray that I never get out of here. Or that I never tell him the things you've said."
"Is that so?" He eyed her with a sideways look, intrigue plain on his face. "Is ol' Speirs beholden to the harlot hellcat?" His lips pursed, his eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief. "You know, I always assumed it was Winters or Nixon who had lost themselves between your legs and couldn't break free. Hell, maybe you do have both of them, and Speirs, too. Dammit all - it's just like I told Winters - just cause you don't open your legs for money, doesn't mean you ain't still for sale. Or maybe you charged them? Played them for their hearts?"
"You don't get to say nothing bad about Richard Winters - that man is a purer soul than you or I could ever hope to be!"
"It's telling that he's the only one you rush to defend."
"I owe him my life."
"And you'll owe your death to him, too. Well, you might chalk that one up to Speirs. Knowing him and knowing where he was holed up, yet you didn't alert the law." He shook his head, disappointed. "You see, we keep ending up back here. And you're still in this cell. And, if I'm being honest, I don't see your prospects looking up any time soon. Judge Sobel will soon preside, and then you're bound for the gallows."
"You talk like I've already been found guilty."
"It's only a matter of time."
"Then why does it matter if I tell you anything?" She turned from the bars, walking the few short steps along the length of her cell.
"It doesn't. Not really." His voice sounded closer to the bars now. "But you have nothing to do but sit in there and consider what I tell you. So, you believe me when I say that I will see justice served. That you will serve as a warning for all others. You will hang for conspiracy, and you will continue to hang with nothing but the crows for company. And all the boys of Easy will just have to watch until we get them. But make no mistake that they will all burn for this. Maybe even literally. Anyone who gets between the righteous hand of justice can expect no less. And my dear, you just happen to be the first."
Tears burned in her eyes, fists clenching at her sides. She wanted to scratch his eyes out, make him eat his words but there was nothing she could do with the bars. He had her, and that only bristled her further.
He sighed, a smug sound. "A soul with less moral constitution might consider you pathetic. But you're just a whore who got lost so long ago."
Maybe they all knew it, but Gene knew for sure that something wasn't right with Speirs.
Never had been since the man's first day at Easy.
Quite clearly, he had started out an eastern city boy, even though he never spoke of it and had broken far from it at some point. A former cavalryman with some past hurt – no one could escape the cavalry without some. But Gene couldn't say what drove the stern aura of selfless, single-minded focus that the man always possessed.
Gene's horse shifted underneath him as he watched Speirs walk about the site of the ruined church remains. He and the others were on strict orders to stay put, to not further disturb anything. Gene looked over at Dick, still similarly mounted on horseback watching Speirs explore. If Dick was following Speirs' orders, then clearly, the smart decision was to sit tight.
It was uncanny, though. In the past several days since the saloon was shot up, Speirs had displayed a shocking talent for tracking. The way he picked footsteps and indents out of the grass and mud, pairing and sorting bootprints of the different people present. How he tracked the leaders separate from the lackeys just by telling how deep a horse hoof-print was. Able to tell if what he saw was one day old or a week past. It was…almost like…
Now, Gene knew a thing or two about spiritual healing and the power of native wisdom. After all, his traiteuse Grandmere had been accused of witchcraft multiple times during his childhood. But he grew up in the Louisiana countryside, speaking just as much French as English, and learning everything he could from her. He knew what tribal knowledge looked like. He just never expected to find it in a city-educated cavalry officer.
For there was no denying it – Speirs knew how to read the natural landscape all too well. Yes, the man was instinctively sharp-eyed, but he knew things that only people who had lived here for years, even decades, knew. That only the local native Indians knew.
The man in question currently crouched down low, pointing with his index and middle fingers, brow furrowed as he tired to make sense of something in the ground cover. At last, he looked up, face set with a hard resolve as his fingers followed, pointing much like a compass needle.
"Southwest." Speirs simply said, pushing up to his feet and waking for his horse. "Not four days out."
Nix snorted from his horseback, shifting in the saddle. "You're sure? If you saw them here when Dike spotted you – however many weeks ago that was – why would they still be here?"
Speirs situated himself in the saddle, looking down to the reins. "If you don't want to come, you're welcome to wait."
And that had been the end of that. They sunk spur and rode hard on.
Ever since then, it had been pretty quiet as they followed the trail that only Speirs could see.
But by day three, even Dick had started showing signs of his impatience. Subtle tells as they were – the tense set of his lips, the tapping of his fingers against the reins.
But that's when they saw it.
They weren't anywhere special that Gene knew about. But it must have been something – dead squirrels without eyelids weren't just pinned to trees for no reason. The poor creature must have already been dead when the eyelids were removed as not much blood had run down the critter's face, but the lifeless gloss of the beady eyes was plenty disturbing. To say nothing of the arrow right through it's middle, affixing it to the tree trunk. At a quick glance, Gene could see at least two or three more pinned to other trees.
"What on earth?" Lip asked softly, face pale with an uneasy look.
Speirs' mouth tightened to a grimace, cursing under his breath.
Dick sighed slowly. "Poor thing. We should take it – and the others – down."
"Don't touch it." Speirs snapped in a tight whisper. "Or we'll likely be next."
Nix's eyebrows shot up underneath his hat. "Next? What do you mean 'next'?"
Speirs' face hardened as he looked around. "We're on sacred hunting ground. This here's a charm to ward off evil spirits – help keep the sacred land sacred. It's recent which indicates there's an active hunting party near here. Stands to reason they know we're here." He paused, licking his lips. "We haven't exactly been trying to mask our own movements."
"Son of a bitch." Nix gripped his reins tighter, looking around with anxious movements. "I did not sign up to be scalped."
"Steady." Dick calmed, looking between everyone until his gaze landed on Speirs. "What do we do?"
"No sudden movements." He glanced around as he raised his right hand, palm open, and spoke.
Another language. A native language.
Gene smirked. It always felt good to be proven right.
xxx
Nix could absolutely not believe it. Any of it. If he had a liquor bottle, he would have emptied it. As it was, his hand shook instead as he inhaled his cigarette.
The natives had simply appeared out of the trees, as if summoned into being by Speirs' voice. Boy, that was a chilling thought. And now the man stood with a circle of them, conversing in their native tongue like it was something he was born to do. It didn't make sense.
He took another deep draw on his cigarette, turning to Dick who looked equally stunned at the revelation. "Did you know about this?"
"Not a thing." Dick confessed, looking over with wide, surprised eyes.
Lip nodded in Speirs' direction. "He spent almost two years with them."
"How do you know that?" Roe asked.
"He told me. They found him wounded after a raid. Took him in, trying to prove they were better than their enemy. English wasn't spoken much, so he had to learn their words."
"But for two years?" Dick asked softly. "Did he say what that was about?"
"Not in so many words, but I think he would have stayed longer had something not happened. Sounded like he had a wife - or, if not, at least someone he cared about. He didn't say what happened, but it was enough that he left."
Nix shook his head, glancing back over at Speirs with a whole new understanding as the man started to walk back over. "No wonder."
Dick looked over at Lip. "Why did he tell you?"
A private, maybe even fond smile, warmed the other man's face. "That's not for me to say."
Speirs' voice cut through the conversation. "They have the men we're after - they were also caught trespassing on sacred ground. We've been invited to follow them back to their camp."
"Invited?" Nix echoed.
"Yes." He walked over to his horse, mounting up in a graceful, efficient motion. "Come on. They won't wait for long."
With uneasy looks, they fell into place behind Speirs as they moved towards the native Indian hunting party.
Dick rode up alongside Speirs, glancing over with a sympathetic look. "Sounds like quite a story."
"Lip told you?"
"Only what he knew."
"There's nothing else to know."
"If it's true, I'm sorry to hear it."
"Nothing that can be done about it now." He winced afterwards, as if just realizing how it sounded. "But…thank you."
A silence lapsed as Dick licked his lips, glancing up at the wild, intricate trappings of the natives. "You trust them?"
"I trust them not to kill us yet."
Surreal was the only word for it. The sight of the natives' camp. The stares and glares from the tribespeople as the group of white men approached with the hunting party. The bewildering surprise and suspicion that had overtaken the chief's face as Speirs spoke the language. The sheer ability of Roe to nap – to snore, even – as Nix and Lip sat, watching Speirs and Dick converse with the chief at a distance.
Despite Nix's personal level of discomfort and disbelief, he couldn't help but notice Speirs looking positively at ease by comparison. Something had changed in the man's demeanor during their ride. Nix wouldn't dare say softened, nor was he relaxed – but it was hard not to miss the small lift to Speirs' lips, the way his posture radiated none of its usual, rigid severity. Especially now as he sat with Dick, the chief, and a couple others, serving as translator to tell both sides of the conversation.
"I'm beginning to think he made a mistake leaving." Nix said without preamble, catching Lip's attention.
"I don't think he'd agree with you about that."
"No? Look at him. He looks…at ease. Almost happy." He shook his head. " Hell, I almost feel bad for the guy now. Never thought I'd say that."
Lip huffed a breathy laugh. "Don't let him hear you say it. He doesn't want the pity."
"I think you're right – he would shoot me if he knew." Nix's face softened with an amused smile. "Dick looks fairly uncomfortable, though."
"I think I would be too if I was the only one of that group who didn't speak the main language."
Nix glanced back over, watching the conversation continue, looking for signs of frustration or escalation. But it all looked rather quiet and surprisingly civil. "I have to give Sparky credit, though. He's playing a lot nicer than I thought he might."
"He can be diplomatic if he chooses."
"Could have fooled me."
"He knows that storming against the tribe isn't going to get him what he wants."
Nix looked over with a sly smile. He'd known that Lip and Speirs had been closer ever since the winter of '78, but considering the usual lengths that Speirs kept people at, this degree of insight was shocking. "You sure know an awful lot about him. More than anyone else, I'd wager."
Lip shrugged under an embarrassed smile as he looked down. "He's not impossible to riddle out. Haven't you noticed?"
Nix looked back over at Speirs, watching his hands move in elegant motions to match the foreign words. "There is a part of him that he keeps locked away, sure. He, uh, obviously prefers for everyone to think a certain way about him. But there is more."
"There is more."
"Hmm. That's probably why Lily was cracked about him."
xxx
It was fascinating to watch Ron converse with the tribe chief. Clearly, he was a little rusty. But Dick guessed it had been at least six years, if not longer, since he had used the language fluently. Perhaps dialects were slightly different, too. It was impossible to say as he sat in the small circle, just watching the adjacent conversation.
The chief kept shaking his head, mouth defiantly upturned. It didn't seem to bode well.
Ron's transition back to English came abruptly. "The chief is still adamant those are the men that killed his people. Even though I've told him they were given those weapons by someone else."
"But we have no hard proof to offer them otherwise." Dick sighed softly. "It is hard to argue against something so obvious as having the weapons of the murdered tribesmen."
Ron drew a sharp breath, turning back to the chief. He resumed speaking in low, slow tones – the syllables unfamiliar as his hands moved to further emphasize the words. The chief's face tightened ever so slightly, brow pinching together. Whatever Ron was saying, it certainly seemed to intrigue him. When he finally spoke with a deep, rumbling timbre, he sounded weary.
"Chief says if it was indeed other men who are murderers, he wants proof. And he wants them brought here to account."
"Can we speak with the captives?"
Ron turned, asking the question of the chief, and the chief replying in turn.
"He's afraid he'll lose his leverage if they come with us. He has no reason to trust us anymore than the men they have captured."
Dick turned his head with a confused tilt. "I didn't say they should come with us. I just asked if we could talk with them."
Ron froze, pursing his lips in frustration as realization dawned. "Shit." He turned back to the chief, a blush high in cheeks as he spoke again.
Dick suppressed a small smirk at the man's curse, guessing there had been a translation error or wrong word used. He still couldn't understand the words that were being spoken, but there was no mistaking the earnest plea in Speirs' voice. If the Chief could understand that and still refused to help them...well, then. Maybe they could prove themselves some other way.
Speirs nodded suddenly, the movement a sharp contrast to the motions of his hands. "He's agreed to let us speak with the prisoners."
The dwelling looked as unassuming as the next as they were lead up to it. A man stood sentinel outside, glaring at the two white men who were not bound, listening with displeasure as the chief explained the situation to him.
Dick watched the exchange between the chief and the guard, careful to keep his face neutral. He didn't want to risk his intentions being mistaken. Speirs, however, did very little to hide the displeasure on his face as the guard continued to protest. The guard looked over at them with a scathing glare, biting off a sharp remark that made the other man tense beside him.
Speirs fired off a rapid response back to the guard and the other man's face fell slack with surprise. The chief's calming words cut through the tension with a clear commanding edge, and the guard stepped aside.
Dick let loose the breath he'd unintentionally been holding. "What did you say?"
"He said that we deserved to be tied up in that hut with the bandits. I told him to try it and see what happens."
"For pete's sake, Ron. We can't afford to lose their help."
"We won't." They started walking forward as the chief beckoned them into the dwelling.
It took their eyes the briefest of seconds to adjust to the dim darkness, but there were three men, arms tied behind their backs and sitting cross-legged. Bands of cloth had been tied across their mouths, no doubt to cut down on the noise. One of them glared fiercely up, eyes blazing. The other two barely even moved on their arrival.
"Let's start with him." Ron said, dropping to a crouch beside the one, pulling down the spit-soaked cloth.
"Why didn't you kill that fucking heathen?" The man seethed, struggling against his bonds. "For treating white men this way – it ain't fucking right!"
"The way you treat them isn't right." Ron said, voice tight and sharp. Dick recognized it all too well – along with that cold, unhinged look in his eyes. "So tell me, what's your side of this story?"
The man stared back, eyes wide. "You ain't…you mean you ain't here to set me free?" The man fumed as Ron said nothing. "Who the fuck are you?! Marshal service? Cavalry? Cause I don't see no damn uniforms."
"We're all that stands between you being served their brand of justice or delivered in one piece to a federal prison."
A ragged laugh sounded. "There ain't no bounty out on us. We ain't done nothing that no white man is going to care about."
"Then I'll ask you again – what's your side of the story that got you tied up?"
The bandit made a show of closing his mouth, glaring up in defiance.
Ron made an equal show in return, sighing heavily and looking up to Dick with a slow shake of his head as he stood. "Well, I guess we'll just have to tell the chief that these men are indeed guilty."
"Wait," the man interjected, "you can't –"
Dick shook his head, ignoring the other man. "Murdering those tribesmen. Such an awful crime. At least the chief will be glad to know he's got the right men."
Ron stepped towards the opening of the dwelling, calling out in the native language.
"Godammit! Stop!" The man yelled, panicked. "We didn't kill those men! Honest to God!"
Ron spun back around, a wry brow raised. "Now you want to talk? I already stood up – and the guard has gone to get the chief."
"Then I'll tell you from here, goddammit!" The man pleaded. "Those weapons that we had – we didn't kill the heathens to get 'em. Someone else gave them to us to use."
Dick looked down. "To use to murder white men?"
"We was only doing as we was told!"
"Who told you?" Dick pressed, the air in the tent going deathly still.
The man's eyes widened, fear tightening every line of his face as he looked up, clearly conflicted. "I…I can't tell you. I'll be killed – we all will."
"Killed by your employer or killed by the natives. Your choice." Ron said, sharp as steel.
The man swallowed thickly, eyes darting frantically between them. "You…you promise that you'll get me out of here?"
Dick quirked a questioning brow. "What about your friends here?"
Another man started mumbling around his gag, glaring pointedly in their direction.
Ron hummed. "Sounds like one of them might be more willing to talk." He started to walk over to the other man who was still trying to talk.
"They – they don't know nothing!" The first man sputtered, turning to look over his shoulder as Ron pulled the other man's gag down.
"I know everything, you son'uva bich." The other man snarled, staring up at Ron. "It was a marshal gave us them weapons to use."
"Where did he get them?" Ron pressed. "Did he kill those tribesmen?"
"We only been there once – "
"Barry!" The other bandit hissed, a threat clear in his eyes. "If you don't shut your fucking mouth – "
"Fuck you, Frank! You's the one gonna leave us here at the mercy of these godless people!" Barry looked back at Ron. "If they're offering a jail cell over a heathen scalping or worse, or the marshal's noose – I'll take it!"
"Where was the place you've only been one time?" Ron asked.
"Outside Frymore. It was full of stuff – all sorts of injun belongings for sale. We got them weapons special in the woods, but another job took us to the shack where they come from."
"For sale?"
"Ye-yes, sir." Barry nodded to emphasize his point. "And that's all I know – swear to god, honestly! Now please – you gotta get me out of here. I need to see my son again before I die."
Ron glanced over at Dick with a small shrug. "It's more than what we came here with."
"It's a start." Dick agreed, looking over at Barry with a nod of his head. "Much obliged."
"Wh-what's that mean?" Barry pulled against his bonds. "You said you'd get us out of here!"
"We didn't say that." Ron corrected with a stern gaze. "But at least, we'll know where to find you if Frymore doesn't add up."
Barry's mouth dropped, his eyes wide and blazing. "You – you work for the marshal, don't you? Well, you can tell that yawning son'uva bitch just where to find us! The heathens out there'll do for him long before they can get us in here."
"Goddammit, Barry!" Frank roared against his bonds. "Now, he's gonna know that you ain't worth fuck all to him. He's gonna let the heathens just have at us!"
"You ain't so smart – you bast – no, don't you – I won't be -." The rest of his words dissolved in an angry mumble as Ron returned the gag to its former place.
He flashed a predatory gleam of teeth, his voice calm and lethal. "Now there. That's much more peaceful." He pushed up to his feet, walking over to the other man who wasn't struggling.
"You're gonna see to it that we're done for, ain't you?" Frank sighed, not looking up as Ron reached for the gag.
"I ain't gonna stop it, but I ain't gonna go promoting it." He nestled the gag back in place, turning to nod at Dick before they headed back out into the glaring light.
xxx
"That didn't take long." Lip said quietly, nodding subtly over at the dwelling that Ron and Dick had just exited.
Nix snorted, pushing his hat up to look over. "Well, when Sparky's got his mind set on something, he usually gets what he wants."
Lip nodded, biting his lip. "So long as it gets us closer to Dike – closer to ending this."
Nix glanced over at the other man, face pensive. He remembered what Lip had said before – about losing the lives they'd built in Bluewater. A grin cracked his face. He hadn't considered just how much the school teacher meant to Lip. "You're thinking about Miss Cartwright, aren't you?"
The other man sighed, an uncertain sound. "I'd like to think that I can still think about her. That she wouldn't despise me doing so."
Nix knew the reassurances that polite society dictated he should say. But the words felt unbearably hollow. He had heard plenty of those reassurances when he and his wife were going through the troubles that ended their marriage. He could only imagine what Lip had been told during the end of his own marriage.
"I hope she wouldn't despise you, either." Nix said softly. "She doesn't have any reason to. You're a good man. Better than most."
Lip smiled awkwardly under the praise. "I suppose we'll see. It's a long road back to Bluewater from here. To say nothing of my future prospects for her."
"Future prospects." Nix shook his head, disgusted with the words. "Love is love. If there's nothing more you want in life, the rest can find its way." He hoped he hadn't said too much. It was all that he had with Dick, after all. They would never be able to marry or live happily ever after in the traditional sense. But if they loved each other, they would figure something out. Providing, of course, no one found out and arrested them. Or lynched them.
"You shouldn't look at him like that." Lip spoke hesitantly, glancing over with concern heavy in his gaze. "It gives you away."
Nix jerked his gaze to other man's, suddenly feeling way too exposed, unaware that he'd been staring at Dick. His mouth went dry as he struggled to come up with something – some way to dismiss it. But…shit. Lip wasn't wrong in calling him out. Was it just too new? Or had he always looked at Dick that way when talking about matters of the heart? Not that he actually did that all too often. But maybe even more startling was the lack of revulsion or judgement in Lip's tone.
Nix sighed, trying to piece words together. "You might be right. I – you…you're not as repulsed as I thought you'd be."
"I've seen it before. Two men in my regiment. It's unconventional, yes, but…doesn't make it any less real. And you haven't always been so obvious. That's a newer thing, for what it's worth."
Nix bit his lip to stave off the embarrassed smile that threatened as Dick and Speirs joined them.
Roe's snore cut through the small group, drawing Speirs' scowl. "We haven't been gone that long."
Lip glanced up at Speirs with the flash of an amused grin. "Seems he's always had a talent for sleeping just about anywhere. And waking up just as fast. Caught him asleep on horseback once." He turned to the younger man, reaching out with a foot to tap against his boot. "Wake up, Gene."
The snoring stopped, but he otherwise remained just as motionless. "I'm awake." His voice came muffled from under his hat, but he sounded strangely alert.
Nix looked between Dick and Speirs. "So, what'd you learn? They didn't happen to serve Dike up on a silver platter, by chance?"
Dick shook his head, a quick succinct motion. "Not quite. But we do have a lead. Unfortunately, it's in Frymore."
Roe pulled his hat from his face, frowning as he sat up with his arms braced against his bent legs.
"Frymore." Lip echoed, squinting up at Dick in the sun. "That's up north somewhere, right?"
Speirs cut him to the answer. "A mining town, if memory serves."
Dick nodded. "Yes, to both. Gene's been there. Not too long ago, in fact."
"I ain't going back."
Nix's face soured with a dark look. "This…this isn't tied to that hospital is it?"
"We don't know." Dick said softly. "Maybe? The man said there was a shack full of Indian belongings –"
"And the hospital was full of Indians." Roe muttered.
Nix licked his lips, brow furrowed in obvious thought. "There's a lot about that mission that you didn't reveal. Christ, you don't think – putting people in that hospital, and then selling or – or handing out their goods – what does that accomplish?"
Speirs turned with an abrupt step. "We sure as hell won't find out sitting around here."
Dick called after him. "Where are you going?"
"To pay our respects. Then, maybe, they'll let us go with our scalps still intact."
Nix raised a wry brow in Lip's direction. "Let's hope he still employs that diplomacy you spoke of earlier."
Roe shook his head, a sharp movement that matched the tight line of his lips. "Doesn't matter if we keep our scalps or not – I ain't going back to that place. Not after what I seen there."
"You know the way best, Gene." Dick said, a solid note of warm support in his words as he gazed down at the obviously distressed young man. "We need your help."
"It ain't right how they were done for. And you want to go back and dig it all up –."
"We don't know that this is tied to the hospital, Gene. But if going back to Frymore turns up more stones that lead us back to Dike – well, then that's worth it. And if it does lead us back to the hospital and the devastation you witnessed, then maybe that will give some peace for those souls. And yours."
Roe grit his teeth, exhaling deeply.
"So how about it, Doc?"
Even at a distance, Frymore was an obvious shithole. During the job, Gene hadn't spent much time in the town proper. More of a camp, than a town, really. A mix of rough buildings and slipshod tents, all trying to entice the miners and travelers to part with their hard-earned money or gold. Or whatever came out of the surrounding mountainsides.
They all hadn't yet ventured into the main thoroughfare. Winters insisted that they make camp in the woods up the valley a spell and strike out in smaller groups. Less likely to draw attention riding in and around one or two at a time, then a posse of five. Especially since Speirs always projected the intensity of a man who knew how to handle himself.
It had been seven days since they'd rode out from the native camp, and two that they'd spent perched on the edge of Frymore. Winters and Nixon had made the first pass through the camp, poking around the more established places to see what they could learn of the place. Today, Lip and Speirs had been sent in to try their luck. Quite frankly, Gene was glad for them to go without him. He wanted as little to do with Frymore as possible.
Besides, there was just something about those two by Gene's way of thinking. Not quite the something that was between Winters and Nixon, but something. Had been ever since Lip and Speirs rode north on a job early in January of '78 and spent the next month stranded in the mountains with an endless stream of impossible snowstorms and deadly cold. They'd both returned, pale and gaunt with an array of wild stories. Well, at least the ones that Lip would tell. About how they had dug holes in the frozen ground with crude shovels just to have shelter. About how they had lived off worms and grubs as they could find them. About how the tree branches, loaded with snow and ice, would crack and break without warning, threatening to bury them alive. Lip said the nights were the worst – so bone cold, impossible to sleep, convinced he would just freeze to death during the night.
Gene wasn't surprised that the two men had formed a close bond during such a harrowing experience. But something in Lip's occasional fond smiles and the random press of Speirs' hand on Lip's shoulder or arm made Gene wonder if it went deeper than that.
"It's almost a wonder your face hasn't frozen in all these years." Nixon's tease drew Gene's gaze up to see Dick returning through the trees.
"I find it bracing." Winters said in return. "You might consider a shave. I haven't seen you this bearded since that winter in the Black Hills."
"Hmmm, the one where they sent us up there without the proper coats?" Nixon shook his head, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "The cavalry at its finest."
Gene glanced at the razor in Winters' hand, still recalling the surprise on their second morning out on the trail to wake to saddle bags of gear for all of them – spare clothes, bedrolls, tins of food, water canteens, bullet magazines. And, of course, a razor for Winters. In fact, the only two who hadn't seemed surprised that morning were Lip and Speirs. He'd always known Speirs had a good talent for procurement, but he still didn't know where Speirs had found everything for all of them. They had been less than a day's ride from the ruined church, and two days removed from Bluewater, so where could Speirs have gone overnight for everything? Winters hadn't seemed overly bothered by it, so he'd let the matter lie.
There were bigger issues at hand, anyway.
Like finding this shack of native belongings. Like staying the hell away from that hospital. Like finding some way to turn the tables against Dike and go on about their lives.
The approaching horse hooves drew their attention, heightening their senses. Lip and Speirs hadn't been gone all that long. Gene's hand twitched for his revolver as Winters and Nixon braced, but he sat still as the horse-mounted figure appeared more clearly through the trees.
"Lip?" Winters called out, face twisted with concern. "Where's Speirs?"
"We have a lead on a place nearby that deals solely in native goods. Ron sold us as guides for a rich, eastern dandy who's out to collect trophies and tales of glory, without getting his hands dirty. Ron's holding the tent vendor accountable for his tale while I've gone off to fetch our boss."
Nixon cocked a wry brow. "The rich eastern dandy, huh?"
Lip shrugged a sheepish shoulder. "If you're willing, sir."
Nixon huffed, clearly unimpressed. "Speirs couldn't come up with anything better?"
"There are worse things." Winters encouraged.
"Yes, yes. I hear you. If it gets us what we need…" Nixon muttered, pushing to his feet, looking over at Lip. "How'd he sell it?"
"Frustrated." Lip said. "Lots of promises about authentic items, trophies, but very little delivery. The tent vendor was all too eager to assure that the collection he knew about would top everything that we could have possibly seen. Ron assured him in return that if the goods don't pan out when I return with our boss, he'd see to it that the man never uttered another lie."
"I didn't know I employed such a homicidal guide."
"No. You hired him to keep you safe from the natives, someone who knows the fake from the real thing."
"I see." Nixon walked over to his horse, stepping up into the saddle.
"Thanks, Nix." Winters called out, a small grin quirking his face.
"I'm not doing this for free - Speirs owes me at least one bottle of bourbon for this."
Lip quirked a small smile. "Thank you. I wouldn't have asked if we didn't need you, Mr. Nixon."
"Vanderbilt." Nixon said with a sigh. "Call me Mr. Van."
"Vanderbilt?" Winters echoed. "Isn't that going a little too big?"
Nixon's lips quirked with a dry edge. "I always found the youngest son to be a total bastard. Perfect for inspiration."
xxx
At least Nix could channel his displeasure into the role. He truly didn't enjoy acting like his father. Like the man he was raised to be, but never wanted to be.
In his early years out west, the stigma surrounding an eastern upbringing had staggered him. His family name notwithstanding – which he had yet to meet anyone who actually knew the name – coming from back east meant assumed money, education and snobbery. It was the last part that bothered him. Not everyone with money was a total bastard.
But if that's what he needed to be now to get them to the next piece of the puzzle, he supposed he could stoop to it. It wouldn't be the first time.
A wet smell of excrement and decay tinged the air as they came down the path into the far edge of the camp. Nix wrinkled his nose, scowling at the offensive odor. At least that wasn't a total put on. He glanced over at Lip, who looked just as unbothered slogging through this muddy bog of an excuse for a street as he had back in the fresh air of their campsite.
"This way, Mr. Van." Lip said, urging his horse forward to thread through the raft of people milling about on their various errands. Nix followed close behind until they came to a stop outside a ramshackle tent that bore a crooked sign. 'Cuality Goods Hear!'
"Don't make a stuffed bird laugh." He nodded to the sign with a derisive air, shaking his head, making sure his voice carried. "You better not be wasting my time. Again."
"No sir, Mr. Van." Lip stepped down from his horse, hitching it beside the one he recognized as Speirs'. "The vendor gave us his word."
Nix dropped awkwardly from his horse, tossing the reins to Lip with barley a side glance as he straightened his jacket, giving every impression of the impatient boss. When Lip started for the tent entrance, he followed, taking in the random assortment of goods stashed on rickety tables. Speirs leaned against one, picking at his nails with his pocket knife while a bearded, salty man stood by another table, forehead wrinkled with displeasure.
"Clark." Lip's voice carried in the silence. "Mr. Van's here."
"Thank you, Cliff." Speirs drawled, raising his head with an equally slow movement to stare at the grizzled vendor. "Time to make good on that promise."
"Well, they – those goods ain't here. Like I told you fuckers! We gotta ride out a piece to get to 'em."
"Then why are we wasting daylight?" Speirs' voice held an eerily calm, detached note.
The vendor threw his arms up in a wild gesture. "Need to go to the livery. Ain't got a horse an' it's too far to walk."
"Cliff and I'll ride together." Speirs said, pushing off the table to stand up straight. "Let's go."
"Now, now hold on," the vendor protested, stepping out around his table, "I can't jist go off and leave my tent here. There's thieves!"
Nix sighed, impatient as he glanced around. "My men will ride together, and we will go – now. Waste makes me angry and Clark gets very creative with that knife when I get angry."
Speirs flashed a smile with too many teeth as he continued to idly pick at his nails.
Lip stepped forward, holding out a leading arm. "Come along, Mr. Simpson. Best do as he says."
Simpson looked with wide angry eyes between Speirs and Lip, his upper lip pulling back in a snarl. "You sons'a bitches. All of yous! If anything – anything! – happens to my stuff here, I'm taking it out on all of yous."
"No, you won't." Nix turned back towards the horses, hearing Lip continue to coax Simpson forward. He swung up onto his horse first, watching Lip all but shove Simpson up onto his horse. "You all better be right about this. It's been one hell of a disappointing trip so far."
"Yes'ir, Mr. Van." Speirs said curtly as he held out a hand for Lip to swing up behind him. "Simpson here knows what's best for him. He wouldn't dare waste your time like this."
"Goddamit." Simpson hissed, turning the horse as he shook his head. "Alright, now. Y'all stay close now. Not on my head if you city fuckers get lost in these here woods."
They took off, slogging through the street towards the north edge of town and started up through the woods. Nix guessed there was a trail. There was just the faintest impression of previous travels left in the ground and maybe a few less tree branches going up this windy, snaky way through the trees. He kept the unimpressed, petulant scowl plain on his face as he glanced around, trying to catalog as much detail of their journey for a future visit. Actually, he was glad that Speirs was along. He would probably be able to find this place in their sleep after this visit.
A structure emerged through the trees. It couldn't properly be called a shack, or even a lean-to. In fact, Nix had no idea how the hovel was even standing. Maybe at some point it had been a trapper's cabin, but clearly time had taken its toll and no one had bothered to tend to it. Perhaps that had been entirely intentional. How better to hide something than to make anyone who might stumble onto this place think it was an old pile of nothing? Somehow that thought made Nix's gut roil.
Simpson dismounted without a word, sneering over at Speirs and Lip snugged up together on the horse, Lip's hand gripping the other man's hip as there was little else to hold onto.
Offense flared in Nix at the contempt plain in Simpson's face. "They're only riding like that cause you did not fully disclose your ability to reach this place. I don't employ queers." The word stuck in his throat. A word that he'd heard his father throw around, usually when referring to a business rival. It sickened him to use it, but that was the role.
He swung down from his horse, following Simpson towards the hut without a backwards glance. His father bull-nosed his way through everything, never second guessing or caring what others around him were doing. Why should he?
"Sir," Lip called out behind him, "you might let Clark or I go first. Wouldn't want you wasting your time any further."
"Well, Cliff, seeing as you dragged me here – it's a little too late for that." Nix stopped on the porch, nothing friendly in his look or tone. "Let's see what's inside."
Simpson ambled up the steps, reaching a hand up above the door. With a thud and a creak, the door slid free of its lock and opened with a cloud of dust. Nix followed the vendor inside, squinting into the darkness until Simpson pulled away the first window covering and admitted a shocking beam of light. The room lit to reveal a gut wrenching array of brightly colored woven blankets, animal hide clothing, clay pots, crudely fashioned weapons. Another window opened and Nix just stared. Every object from the native camp they visited might well have been stored here.
Speirs whistled, low and slow, as he stepped inside. "Quite the collection." He walked up to a rack of arrows, inspecting the sharpened arrowheads. "You must'a been at native fighting and killing a long time to get this much."
"Shucks, naw." Simpson grumbled, gesturing vaguely. "I didn't kill all them injuns."
Lip looked over. "You mean…these are real, Clark? Not just a bunch of fake goods from back east. With so many things here, sure looks like it could be a sham."
Simpson's lip curled in offense. "Ain't no sham! These is real heathen things – taken right off their backs."
Nix rolled his eyes, taking the corner of a blanket between his fingers. "You shouldn't be claiming that if you weren't the one there taking the goods."
"All's I said was I didn't kill 'em. But when they was captured, they didn't have need of their things no more. No hurt in turning some money."
"Oh, so there's someplace else? Surely, when they were captured, they also weren't kept here." Nix said. "If Clark vouches for the authenticity of these goods, then perhaps I should go directly to the source."
Simpson shook his head slowly. "Can't do that. The place burned – took everything that was there up with it. You understand that makes this stuff here quite more valuable – I can't just get stuff any ol' time now."
Lip's brow furrowed. "The place burned, you say?"
The vendor's grin was anything but reassuring. "Oh, yes. In a brilliant blaze, it was, too. Burning through the night."
"How long ago?"
"Hell, I don't 'member. Weeks? Months ago?"
Nix hummed, bored. "Well, I want twenty arrows, and a bow. Four – erm, make it five – baskets. At least two blankets. And one of the beaded, feathered headbands over there."
Simpson's mouth gaped open, staring blankly back at Nix before he recovered to break into a wide, drooling smile. "Yeehaw, sir! Goddamn, you gots a good eye!" He hollered a whooping call, slapping the nearest pile of clothing and kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Well, come on." Nix looked between Speirs and Lip. "Get to it. Load it up, and then I want to go to this other place that burned. If that's where everything came from, then maybe there's still something left."
Simpson turned from where he was pulling down the headdress. "They ain't started nothing back up there – this here's the last of it all. Well, unless, you're into them rumors'n ghost stories."
Lip turned with a curious little smile. "Clark here may be good with a knife and Indian hunting, but rumors and ghost stories are what I do best. Let's hear it."
Simpson smiled, the dim light pronouncing the gap between his teeth. "The dead souls still roam the place at night – can hear 'em moaning and singing their "hiya-heya" heathen songs. No peace to be found, they say – since they's burned and not left to rot on the ground. Says they're protecting the last mysteries – a treasure in a chest." Simpson looked down to the headdress in his hand with a ragged laugh. "But that's all a load of bullshit. I been out there lots. There ain't no treasure. There ain't no ghosts. Just burned up shit, and some metal - the stove, the lockbox - but they ain't no treasure. No chest."
Nix turned for the door, deadpan. "I want to go there." The dust had started to irritate the back of his throat, and the pieces of the story that were starting to fit together rotted his stomach.
"Wait, sir!" Simpson's voice followed him out onto the porch. "Your stuff! Let's close the deal here."
Speirs voice was dead cold when it issued out of the hut. "There is no deal. In fact, you'll be lucky to leave with your life."
"Wha – you! Git yer hands off me!"
Lip's voice followed, tight and strained. "Come on. Nice and quiet."
"You can't do this to me! I ain't done nothing – I-I bought all of this, you know. No stealing here!"
"Didn't say you stole it." Lip's voice was much closer as he pushed Simpson out onto the porch, hands bound behind his back.
"What is he – no! No, goddamit!" Simpson screamed, twisting against Lip's hold as he squinted back inside. The faint odor of smoke started to fill the air as Nix turned back around to see Speirs step casually out of the dwelling, lit cigarette dangling from his lips.
A plume of orange flames licked into view from inside the hut as more articles caught fire. Smoke trickled out the door and Nix couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. They may not be able to help the souls who had already suffered but at least their last possessions would no longer be sold for nefarious purposes.
Simpson still screamed, struggling against his bonds as Nix stepped off the porch. Speirs followed, posture stiff and face stony, a clear sign of the anger that he was working to keep in check. He could hear Lip talking to Simpson in firm, soft tones and glanced over to see Lip push him down to a sit against a tree. With his arms tied behind his back, it would take Simpson a good while to figure out how to stand, to say nothing of folks who might come to help when they saw the rising plume of black smoke.
"Let's go." Lip said as he approached, stepping up onto his own horse with a sigh and a final glance back at the shack. Smoke issued out from the cracks in the roof and a curl of orange flame broke through. It was satisfying to know that nothing would be left standing once that fire went out.
Simpson hurtled continued curses but it was easy to ignore them as they turned their horses back down the trail.
Lip coughed softly. "It's good to see that place burn."
"Yes," Nix agreed, "though I don't envy what we have to do next. Simpson could only have been talking about that hospital Gene saw burn."
"For his sake, I was hoping they weren't connected."
Speirs didn't turn around as he spoke. "We can go without him, if need be."
Lip shook his head. "Gene didn't leave before, and we won't leave him now."
Nix sighed, turning to face forward as his horse faltered on a root. "But count on Dick to give him the choice. And - speaking of choice - Cliff & Clark? Where on earth did those come from? Sounds like some corny vaudeville act."
Lip shrugged, unconcerned. "Middle names."
"No shit?"