Yankton

Chapter 47

Chapter 47 Annie O'Donnell

"I think you're making a big mistake here bro," cautioned Mark, I frowned,

"You know me Mark I can't help it, I'm a sucker for every chick with a hard luck story to tell."

"Yeah I know, but what's Montana gonna say?"

"We'll figure something out," I replied, but there was no assurance in my voice.

"I walked up to the bar and dropped three twenty dollar gold pieces on the bar,

Annie says fifty dollars will pay her debt, here's another ten to sweeten the pot." The bartender looked at the gold coins and shook his head,

"It's now a hundred mister, pay up." In a flash, I had my arm around the guy's neck dragging him over the bar, slamming my fist into his face, I growled into his ear,

"Maybe dying is more to your liking, the lady told me fifty, quit while you're ahead!"

Mark covered me while I made the bartender see reason.

"Slavery ended a long time ago dickhead, just take the goddamned money and be glad you'll live to see another day!"

"All right, all right! Lemmie up, lemmie up!" I did as he asked; by now Annie was standing nearby holding a carpet bag. Glaring at her he shouted,

"Get the hell out of here b***h, don't ever come back!" Once out of the saloon, and a crisis averted, we walked down to the stable where our horses were.

"Thank you so much mister," said Annie, I've never had anyone fight for me like that before, even…" I turned to look her in the face,

"Look ma'am, I got you out of a bad situation, but it's going to be entirely up to you whether Montana hires you or not, like I said, we are growing, but she's said nothing about hiring another girl, you're going to have to sell yourself. She's fair, and will listen. One more thing, Leave my name out of things entirely, got that?" I sprung for a set of traveling clothes, and a simple dress, so far, my compassion was costing me a lot of money, on top of Mark being disgusted with me, but I just couldn't help myself. We took in a café for the evening meal, and as we chewed on antelope steaks, I made an explanation…Of sorts.

"Tell me more about this Montana?" asked Annie,

"She's a good business woman," I replied, "She's a good card player, and deals poker every evening. We get a mixed clientele, prospectors, miners, salesmen, teamsters. Lately we're getting people who feel Deadwood is a bit to wild and wooly for them. Montana deals an honest game of cards, and as a result, she is starting to get some serious poker players who appreciate that. Recently she hired a typical southern belle who has started running the new Keno table.

I've been noticing that you've got a bit of an accent, British?" Annie frowned,

"Manchester. My mother converted to Mormonism, came over here ten years ago." She then sighed, and added,

"My father simply refused to come, I remember them saying goodbye at the dock, I think it broke his heart. Anyway we joined a group heading for the Salt Lake,but me mum took sick near Ogallala, I stayed with her,but the others couldn't wait, and pushed on. Two weeks later, she died; I've been on my own ever since."

Mark then asked her,

"How did you live, what did you do?" Annie shrugged; a family took me in at first, got through the winter at least. Then the woman had a baby, and couldn't be bothered with me anymore, so out I went. One thing me mum did teach me and that was how to cook, so I got a job cooking for a little café in Ogallala, worked there almost five years, then the local boys started noticing me, which wasn't so bad, I could handle them,but the man who ran the café started noticing me as well, then one thing led to another, and I ended up with a baby, and fired by his wife." Annie then got the saddest expression I think I've ever seen on her face.

"You fella's have no idea how hard it was for me after that. I lost my little girl, she took sick and died, barely two weeks old, she's buried next to mum back in Ogallala. I swallowed my pride, and did the only thing a girl in my situation could do. I ain't proud of what I done, but it kept me alive. In the spring, I moved out of the shack I was livin' in and came here, been workin for Mike ever since, until today."

Mark and I just looked at her, and then I said,

"Montana lost a child as well, although she was married at the time. She's traveled down the same road you have, it might be the edge you need to win her over. Look Annie," I continued, "We have a good bunch of people working at Purgatory, you know about Montana, Kitty and Maggie, but we have a woman who finally got tired of whoring and tends the bar, she cooks as well, but if you're interested, maybe you can work that angle as well. Her name is Ingrid Saknussemm, but we all call her "Sockie." Then there's Colin Murphy my assistant, and part time sheriff. We even have a few children. There's Inge and Steinar, whose parents were killed by Indians, they're still in shock over the incident, but with Klara's help, they're starting to open up. Then there's young Caleb Miller, who recently lost his mother, but doesn't know it yet."

Annie seemed to become more enthusiastic about her prospects, as Mark added,

"I'm teaching an incredible young woman the medical profession; she's already helped save more than one life. The thing is Annie, there's room for people to grow there, it's an unusual concept I know, but I think you could begin to feel better about yourself again, life will be what you make of it." She finally agreed to go there and give it her best shot. The hotel where Mark, sheriff Bullock and I were staying apparently knew her, and wouldn't let her stay there, so Annie had to settle for a seedy place near the edge of town. I booked passage on the stagecoach to Deadwood, the same one Bullock was returning on. I asked him to keep an eye on her, and see that she got up to Purgatory all right.

The next morning sheriff Wheeler tracked us down and offered us money.

"Them fella's you shot up at Abner's old place had rewards on their heads. Now, I can only give ya half on each one, as you kilt 'em, and the full rewards were for bringing them in alive, plus Texas Pete wasn't with 'em, but here ya go."

The money came to around one hundred and fifty dollars, split three ways, leaving each of us fifty dollars each, my share going to pay for Annie's coach ticket, easy come, easy go, I guess. The stage came through shortly before noon, and I put Annie on it, and telling her,

"The sheriff is a good man, he'll see to it you get to Purgatory, take care, and we'll see you there."

"Do you think Montana will hire her?" Wondered Mark, as the coach pulled away.

"I have faith in Montana; I'm pretty sure she will."

With time to kill, Mark and I went to see if Mr. Walsh needed any help at his freight office. We ended up making ten dollars each for building some sturdy shelves, as well as a hidden compartment for storing gold and other valuables in. It featured a small sliding panel that blended right in with the existing woodwork, then when a grain sack was placed over it, you couldn't see anything at all. He told us that he had already wired O'Rourke that we had delivered intact and on time. We also did a little riding around the area, and I took some pictures of the town, and a prairie sunset.

The next morning at ten o'clock, we loaded our horses on a stock car reserved for people traveling with their horses. As it turned out, there were two cowboys traveling to Cheyenne along with us, and another going on to Laramie. We then boarded the train for the hundred mile trip to Cheyenne, and I'm glad it wasn't any farther. The car stunk of unwashed bodies, cigar, and wood smoke. To get any air, you had to keep the window open, but if you did, smoke from the engine came in, it was either that or smell unwashed humanity. The ride was slow and bumpy, at first, we thought the train was derailing, but it was just the unevenness of the rails. I had read that after the initial track age was laid, the railroads had to go back and realign, and replace the sleepers, but to ride on this stretch, you wouldn't know it. Mark figured the fastest we ever went was around forty miles an hour. Well, we couldn't complain, this is what I had wanted to do.

Mark and I tried playing cards, but the train shook too much and kept upsetting things.

"When I was a kid," said Mark, we went on vacation and dad stopped at some place that had a train like this. I know we didn't go that far, but it was sure smoother than this." I then asked him about Melonie, Mark grinned,

"You know when we first met, she wasn't real keen on me, but just working with her, slowly teaching her medical practices, how to do things, we just bonded. You know, it's funny, when I accepted your invitation to come to Deadwood, meeting women was the last thing on my mind, now look at me, Mel and I want to get married, but I guess it will be back here in time. Mom and dad will want to be here of course, and then there's my sister, she wants to come back here as well. Yeah, Mel and I are tight."

I told him Montana and I had decided to get married as well, and that perhaps we should coordinate our weddings.

"You know," said Mark, "Sooner or later, we're going to have to marry all over again in our time, there's going to be problems with that, birth certificates, blood tests and all."

"Yeah I know, I guess we'll deal with that when we get to it, I suppose I could have Melinda do some research."

"You know," added Mark, "Speaking of Melinda, Mel really likes her, she told me once,

"When I see Brian's sister, I know there's a future for women, we will eventually stand strong."

"Yeah," I replied, "She told me something along those lines once, I never pegged her for a suffragette though."

"Well all I know is that she's got a load of common sense, and a good head on her shoulders." Eventually the train pulled into Cheyenne station, as Mark exclaimed;

"Rides over!" Drawing puzzled looks. The first order of business was to unload the horses, and look up the man O'Rourke told us about, Charles Dollinger. The guy strongly reminded me of Swearingen but with out the foul mouth. It was also quite obvious that Johnny Walker, Charles Dickle, and Jack Daniels, or their 1877 equivalents were his best buddies. Mark couldn't figure out how the guy had a liver left, but obviously he did, and strangely didn't seem to show the effects from all the booze that went down his gullet. O'Rourke had wired him that we were coming, so he had a questionable looking wagon with a raggedy-ass cover to protect the load, waiting for us. Since our packhorse was the only one really trained to pull a wagon, Dollinger coughed up a sorry looking animal that I really felt bad for, in fact so much that I asked O'Rourke on our return if I could let Caleb try and bring him back to health.

As far as Cheyenne went, it just seemed like a larger version of Deadwood, same smells, same rummy looking people, and everyone out to make a quick buck. I couldn't help humming a tune I liked to sing in the saloon.

"Don't travel west stay at home if you can. Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne. Where big Wallipe, or Comanche Bill will lift up your hair in the dreary black hills.

The roundhouse at Cheyenne is filled every night, with loafer and bummers of most every plight. On their backs are no clothes, in their pockets no bills. Each day they keep starting for the dreary black hills." Dollinger's bill of lading claimed we were carrying such exotic items as soap, nails, tobacco, assorted quantities of ammunition, and four cases of the relatively new dynamite.

There was an assortment of men's clothing packed in a large bale, as well as a crate packed with cooking utensils, and several fry pans. Naturally the i***t had the explosives situated right on the end of the wagon, but once we were out of town, Mark and I moved the cases to the very center, and placed the clothing bale to the rear, and everything else tucked around the sides. We packed all our food and personal gear above the dynamite, making for a fairly level surface. Over all this, we placed a cheap buffalo robe, and one that I might add brought a lot of money when I sold it to the antique dealer in Lead.

Dollinger suggested we join up with an impromptu wagon train departing for the black hills, but we rejected that one out of hand. I didn't want anyone to get curious and find the dynamite, or our weapons. The wagon Dollinger provided us had certainly seen better days, but at least the wheels and spokes looked and felt sound. I always carried an interesting book with me, one I had picked up at a book store in Laramie before I came to Deadwood. It was a reprint of a guide originally written in 1859 by Randolph Marcy, who was a captain in the army at the time. Since being in Purgatory, as well as visits to various mercantiles, I've aquired four or five original copies of the book, one being in quite excellent shape. Anyway, it is a detailed "what to do, what not to do," handbook designed to get people across the prairie alive, and in one piece. It deals with everything from the care and feeding of stock, what to take, wagon and harness repairs, and most importantly, dealing with Indians.

As far as survival skills, my marine corps training puts me way ahead of anything that book can tell me, but in matters of wagon and leather maintenance, I look to it like a Bible. The guide gave us good tips on what to look for in wagon construction, and maintenance of the wheels. We carefully inspected the wagon as well as the harness, having to make small repairs here and there. Like I said, the wagon left a lot to be desired, but it was all we had, and one of the last things we did was to purchase pieces of wood and extra wheel spokes.

We didn't waste any time leaving town, other than Wire O'Rourke that we were on our way.

We headed north on the Cheyenne to Deadwood stagecoach trail, which I-25 follows as far as Wheatland, getting in a little over two hours travel time, before stopping at horse creek for a three hour break.

During this time, we rested the horses, let them drink and graze, while we re-checked the load, and ate our supper. During this time several riders passed us, including some rough types that gave us the eye then continued north, these guys I worried about. There was also a group of three wagons which was carrying would-be prospectors to the gold fields. They couldn't understand why we were leaving just as they started to make camp, but neither Mark or bothered to explain. About half an hour later, darkness fell, but we merely broke out out our night vision scopes and goggles, and continued on.

One thing I was mildly aware of before returning to the past, was that there were really no roads as we knew them in modern times, but what we experienced here defied all description. Both Mark and I agreed that even for a country as primitive as Afganistan,

Their roads were super highways compared to some of the roads we ran into back here in 1877, including this one. Basically just to ruts in the ground, the volume of traffic cutting through soft rock, and earth. Deep water filled swales often appeared if it had just rained, or water had seeped into them from nearby falls. Rocks and large exposed stones could also be found in these ruts, cut and scraped by hundred of iron rims passing over them. There was also no grading, cuts or filled areas either; you just followed the contour of the land, whatever that might be. We didn't press the animals, letting them travel at their own pace, which was slightly better than a fast walk for a man.

I gave Mark my M1A, so he could scrunch down near the back of the wagon and watch our rear. I took his AR as it was easier to handle and drive the wagon at the same time. Thoughts of Annie, and whether she was indeed going to Purgatory, and would Montana hire her were no replaced by thoughts of the men who passed us earlier on the trail. Both Mark and I agreed they would try and jump us (if that was their plan) just as we were coming up from a creek ford. Little Bear creek was the next one, so we were on full alert when we crossed, but it was not to be, no one jumped us. North Bear creek was the next one however it was on a flat stretch of road that we were attacked. They had formed a line across the road, thinking that we wouldn't see them until we were right on them, but once again modern technology trumped nineteenth century thinking.

Telling Mark to watch our rear, I stopped the wagon, set the brake and immediately opened fire. The poor bastards stood out like it was daytime their images making for easy targets. I simply worked my way from right to left hitting man and animal, it didn't matter which. I was afraid the team would bolt, and although they shifted around nervously, they stayed put, even with bullets cracking right over their heads. The first thirty round magazine had three men off their horses, and another three horses down. I could only imagine what these men thought, as they waited for "easy pickings." Then all hell breaks loose, and the night is filled with their buddies dying, and screaming horses dropping around them. Mark joined the fray, jumping down next to the wagon, and opening up with my Springfield. We dumped one more magazine each in their direction and at their retreating forms. This time we didn't stop to "loot" our victims, but instead picked up the pace, and moved right around the c*****e. At some point we would again read in one of the territorial newspapers that people dropped off In Purgatory of the awful catastrophe and calamity occurring on the Deadwood trail, much loss of life. On the other hand, if any of the men we shot were known badmen and wanted, the article would proclaim travelers along the stage route were safe once more.