Showdown at Dead End Canyon

Chapter 22

AT ALMOST THE SAME TIME THE WATER STARTED flowing again, the cowboys who had left the range to try their hand at searching for gold began returning. At first they came back in ones and twos, then small groups, then in droves. Within two weeks South Pass City, which had for a short time been the third largest settlement in Wyoming, was all but deserted, the tents struck and its occupants moved out. Now all that remained was a half-built saloon and the magnificent structure that was once the Golden Cage.

The overnight businesses that had sprung up in Green River—the outfitters, the Gold Nugget Haulers, and others—closed their doors. Now, three passenger carriages and six freight wagons were lined up down at the depot, waiting for flat cars to transport them to someplace more productive.

A buckboard, driven by Hawke, came into town by way of White Mountain Road. Pamela was riding in it, and they followed the road to Railroad Avenue, stopping in front of Blum’s Mercantile.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” Pamela said as she climbed down.

“No hurry,” Hawke replied.

“Why, Mr. Hawke, we meet again,” a woman’s voice called from the boardwalk in front of the mercantile.

Looking toward the voice, Hawke saw Libby St. Cyr. He touched the brim of his hat. “Miss St. Cyr,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend?” Libby asked.

Hawke hesitated for a second, then decided that Pamela was the kind of person who probably would not take offense.

“Miss Dorchester, this is Miss St. Cyr,” Hawke said. Then, to Libby, he added, “Miss Dorchester is the daughter of the owner of Northumbria.”

“Oh, yes, I know all about the great ranch called Northumbria,” Libby said. “I must say, it is an honor to meet you, Miss Dorchester.”

“Are you just visiting?” Hawke asked. “I thought you, Jay, and the others, were up at South Pass.”

Libby chuckled. “There is no South Pass anymore. Not since word got around that there is no gold and there never was. Everyone left, so we had no choice but to leave as well.”

“I can see how that would be bad for your business.”

“Her business?” Pamela asked. “What is her business?”

“She, uh…that is…” Hawke started to say.

“I’m a whore, Miss Dorchester,” Libby said easily. “A very high-class whore, but a whore all the same.”

“Oh my,” Libby said. “You eschew the use of euphemisms, I see.”

“You mean like, soiled dove?” Libby replied. She chuckled. “Yes, that is the colorful and perhaps even genteel way of referring to the profession. But it is also dissembling. No, Miss Dorchester, I take full responsibility for what I am.”

“Well, I must say that I admire your candidness.”

“Listen, how would you two like to have lunch with us?” Libby asked. “Jay can get the private dining room at the hotel.”

“Oh, I—” Hawke started to say, but was interrupted by Pamela.

“Would love to,” Pamela said.

“Great!” Libby replied. “Say, one o’clock at the hotel?”

“We’ll be there.”

Excusing herself, Libby walked on down the sidewalk with all the flounces in her dress fluttering in the morning breeze.

“I hope you don’t mind my accepting the invitation,” Pamela said after Libby was out of hearing.

“No, I don’t mind,” Hawke said. “Although I’m a little surprised that you did.”

“Why are you surprised?”

“Well, because Libby…uh, that is I mean Miss St. Cyr, is…”

“Yes, I know, she is a whore. She was quite candid on that point, I believe.”

Hawke smiled and nodded. “Yes, she was that, all right.”

“Mr. Hawke, are you not aware of the fact that every woman has a burning curiosity about such things?”

“No, I guess I didn’t know that,” Hawke replied.

“I’m very much looking forward to our lunch.”

The private dining room of the hotel was well-appointed, and a large table was set for six with gleaming china, sparkling crystal, and shining silver. Jay Dupree was a gracious host, and he paid particular attention to Pamela, hurrying over to hold the chair for her before anyone else could.

The conversation during the meal was animated.

“You never did come up to South Pass to play the piano for us,” Libby said.

“That would have been hard for him to do, my dear,” Jay said. “Since we didn’t have a piano.”

Libby laughed. “Now that you mention it, we didn’t, did we?”

“I had plans to bring one up there, but we didn’t stay long enough. As soon as everyone found out there wasn’t any gold, they left.”

“That’s for sure,” Sue said. “Why, that place emptied like a theater after a play.”

“Here’s what I still don’t understand,” Libby said. “Why did they go to all that trouble to make people think there was gold up there? I mean, nobody was selling claims or anything like that. It doesn’t seem to make sense.”

“Oh, it makes sense all right,” Pamela said. “If you understand the real reason.”

“What is the real reason?”

“Yes, I’d be interested in that as well,” Jay added.

“It was all a means of getting land,” Pamela said. “Bailey McPherson convinced Addison Ford that she would be building a railroad from Green River to South Pass, and Ford, acting for the federal government, began taking land away from the valley ranchers and giving it to her.”

“How can he do that?” Jay asked.

Pamela explained about the Railroad Land Grant Act of 1862.

“I’m sure that it was a good thing when they were building the transcontinental railroad,” she concluded. “But Bailey McPherson has used it to steal land. Now we know that she had no intention of ever building a railroad in the first place, but it’s too late to do anything about it.”

“Why don’t you go to Addison Ford and tell him what has happened?” Libby asked.

“Ha! A lot of good that would do,” Pamela said. “Ford is in it up to his bottom lip.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Yes, but now that there isn’t going to be a railroad, won’t the land be returned to the original owners?” Lulu asked.

Pamela shook her head. “I doubt it,” she said. “It would take an act of Congress for the government to admit it made a mistake. At least we’ve got the water back now, thanks to Hawke and a few of our cowboys. And without the excuse of the railroad, I don’t see how they can possibly rebuild the dam. So our cattle won’t die of thirst, but they will have a lot less range to roam around in.”

“Well, that’s something, at least,” Jay said, and paused as the waiter came in, carrying a tray with several small bowls.

“Ahh,” Jay said. “Dessert.”

“Desert?” Pamela said. “Oh, I’m so full, I don’t think I could eat another thing.”

“Oh, but you have to try their bread pudding,” Lulu said. “It is simply wonderful.”

“It does look good,” Pamela admitted as she examined the bowl put before her.

Abruptly, Libby stood. “Would you people excuse me? I just realized, there are some things I need to do before we leave.”

“Are you sure, my dear? Before dessert?” Jay asked.

“Yes, this is something that has to be done. Please excuse me.”

“Of course,” Jay said.

“Libby, I’ll bring your pudding to your room,” Lulu offered.

“Thanks,” Libby called back as she left the dining room.

“Hmm,” Jay said when she was gone. “That was strange. I wonder what she had to do that was so important?”

“Really, Pamela, your mother would be rolling over in her grave if she knew that you had lunch with doxies,” Dorchester said.

“They aren’t doxies, Father,” Pamela insisted.

“Oh? Then, pray tell, what are they?”

“They are whores.”

Dorchester laughed out loud. “Whores, you say? Well, is there any difference?”

“They seem to think so, don’t they, Hawke?”

Hawke, who was in the parlor with them, laughed and held up his hands. “Wait a minute, you aren’t going to get me into this.”

“What do you mean, don’t get you into this? You are the one who introduced me to them in the first place.”

Dorchester laughed again. “I do believe she has you there, Hawke.”

Wilson stuck his head in the room then and discreetly cleared his throat.

“Yes, Mr. Wilson.”

“This telegram has just been delivered to you, sir,” he said, holding out a piece of paper.

“My word, a telegram for me?”

“What is it, Father? Not bad news I hope,” Pamela said anxiously.

“Did you give the delivery boy a gratuity?” Dorchester asked as he opened the envelope.

“I did, sir.”

“Good, good.”

Pamela and Hawke studied Dorchester’s face as he read the telegram, trying to discern its contents.

“Good Lord, can this be true?”

“What is it, Father?” Pamela asked again.

Dorchester began to read aloud. “‘Effective this day all land unjustly seized by the government is hereby returned to the original owner stop. U. S. Marshals are being sent to Green River to place under arrest the perpetrators of this fraud stop. Signed Congressman Thomas Ashby of North Carolina stop.’”

“Oh, Father, that is wonderful!” Pamela said.

“Yes,” Dorchester said. “It is, isn’t it?” He looked at the telegram. “But to think our salvation would come from a congressman from North Carolina. How very odd.”

At about the time Dorchester was reading the telegram, Rob Dealey was stepping into the Royal Flush saloon. The livelihood of every patron in the saloon depended upon ranching in one way or the other, and though they did not yet know that the land was being returned, they did know about the water. And the return of a steady supply of water was very important to them. Because of that, Rob was greeted with a cheer.

“Jake,” one of the men said. “Rob’s first drink is on me.”

“No, sir,” Jake said. “His first drink is on the house. The second drink is on you.”

“And the third is on me,” another patron said.

“Hey, Rob, tell us all about it.”

“Tell you about what?”

“How you and some of the other fellas rode out to the dam and just…boom!” he said animatedly. “Just blew it up!”

“Well, Hawke is the one that took us out there,” Rob said.

“Hawke?”

“Yeah, he’s the foreman now.”

“I thought you was the foreman.”

“I was, but I’m not ’ny more,” Rob said sheepishly. “I’m just lucky that Mr. Dorchester took me back at all. I mean, bein’ as I took off on him to look for gold.”

“The gold that wasn’t there,” someone said, laughing.

“Yeah, well, it ain’t that funny when you spend more’n a month lookin’ for somethin’ that wasn’t never there in the first place,” Rob said.

“So, you was tellin’ us about blowing up the dam,” someone said.

“Yes, tell us how you blew up the dam.”

Rob turned with a big smile on his face, but the smile evaporated when he saw who had asked. Ethan Dancer was standing by the front door, having just come in.

“It, uh…was nothing,” Rob said. He turned back to the bar.

“Oh, I don’t think it was nothing,” Dancer said, taunting him. “I’ve been hearing all over town about how a bunch of…brave men…blew up Miss McPherson’s dam and got the water back. You were one of those brave men, weren’t you?”

“I, uh…was one of the men who did it,” Rob said. He was very nervous now; he didn’t like the way this was going. “I wouldn’t say that it was all that brave.”

“You do know, don’t you, that I work for Miss McPherson?”

“I, uh, heard that, yes,” Rob said.

“So, you can understand why I’m not taking it all that kindly that a brave man like you would blow up her dam.”

“I told you, I’m not a brave man,” Rob said, swallowing his humiliation in order not to push the situation any further.

“Oh, but surely you are a brave man,” Dancer said. “You are either brave, or you are a coward. Which is it?”

By now everyone in the saloon realized what was going on, and they began drifting away from Rob, even those who a moment earlier had wanted to stand next to him and buy him drinks.

Rob looked into the mirror behind the bar and saw the people drifting to the left and the right, like the parting of the sea. His hand shaking in fear now, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a drink.

“You haven’t answered my question, cowboy,” Dancer said. “Are you brave? Or are you a coward?”

“I don’t know,” Rob mumbled. He felt his stomach in his throat, and his knees were so weak that he had to put his hands on the bar to keep from collapsing. He was getting in deeper, and he didn’t know how to get out.

“You know what I think?” Dancer said. “I think you are a brave man. Yes, sir, it takes a brave man to do what you done. Bartender, give this brave man another drink, on me.”

“Thank you, no, I’ve had enough to drink,” Rob said. “I don’t want to go back out to the ranch drunk.”

“Are you turning down my generous offer?” Dancer asked.

“Mr. Dancer, I don’t think it’s that,” Jake said. “He never has been much of a drinker.”

Dancer didn’t say anything to Jake, but he held up his hand in a way that told Jake to stay out of it.

“Turn around, brave man,” Dancer said to Rob. “Turn around and tell me to my face that you don’t want to accept a drink from me.”

“I reckon I’ll have another drink at that,” Rob said.

Jake’s hand was shaking nearly as badly as Rob’s now, but he managed to get the drink poured, then set it in front of Rob.

“Thanks,” Rob said. He tossed the drink down.

“Why did you thank the bartender?” Dancer asked. “I’m the one that bought you the drink. Turn around and tell me thanks.”

“No, don’t do it, Rob. Don’t turn around,” Jake whispered.

“I’ve got to, Jake,” Rob answered. “If I don’t, I’ll never be able to hold my head up in this town again.”

Slowly, carefully, Rob turned around to face Dancer, who was about twenty feet from him. His jacket was pushed back to expose his pistol.

“You know where this is going now, don’t you, cowboy? I mean, you aren’t really all that dumb, are you?”

Rob took a deep breath. “It’s not going anywhere,” he said.

“Oh, but I think it is. You are a brave man, after all. I mean, we did decide that, didn’t we?”

“Look, let me buy you a drink and let’s call it even.”

“Uh-uh,” Dancer said, shaking his head. “I don’t think we can do that now. I think it’s time for you to dance with the demon.”

“No,” Rob said, holding up his left hand, palm out, as a signal to stop. “No, I’ve heard about you, how ever’ time you invite someone to dance with the demon, they die. Well, I ain’t goin’ to dance with the demon.”

“I think you will,” Dancer said.

“No, I ain’t, I tell you.”

Dancer drew and fired, doing it so quickly that it caught everyone in the saloon by surprise. By the time they realized what had happened, Dancer’s gun was already back in his holster.

His bullet had had hit Rob’s left earlobe. With a shout of pain, Rob slapped his left hand over his ear. When he pulled it back, he saw little pieces of his earlobe in the palm of his hand.

“You son of a bitch!” he shouted angrily. “You shot my ear!”

“Are you ready to dance with the demon?” Dancer asked.

“No!”

Dancer shot again, this time taking off the lobe of his right ear.

“I’m just going to keep carving off pieces of your ears until you draw,” Dancer said.

With a scream of fury, fear, and pain, Rob made a frantic grab for his pistol.

Dancer drew and shot him in the heart. By the time Rob hit the floor, dead, Dancer had already reholstered his pistol.