Ride to Deadwood
The Black Hills of Dakota
Dakota Territory, late 1800’s
“Do you mean to tell me that you’re really him? Truly?”
Before Boone Cantrell could answer the earnest question the stagecoach hit a rut in the uneven road, jostling the passengers. Cantrell winced as the half-dozen bullets lodged in his body from various gunshot wounds over the years strained against scar tissue.
“Damn, but I’m getting old,” he muttered under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?” The young woman sitting across from him queried, her luminous, hazel colored eyes wide with curiosity. Cantrell smiled reassuringly.
“Ah, it’s nothing you need concern yourself with, miss. Now, what was it you were asking about?”
“Well, it’s just that you introduced yourself before as Boone Cantrell, and I was wondering if you’re truly him. Are you the Boone Cantrell.”
“The one and only, ma’am. And who might you be?”
“How silly of me! I’m Evelyn Fairlane, of course.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Fairlane.” Cantrell inclined his head with a polite bow. “Why’s a pretty young thing like you interested in an old desperado like me?”
“Why, you’re a celebrity, of course, Mr. Cantrell! War hero, legendary gunfighter: A true icon of the American frontier!” She exclaimed in a lyrical voice that was flush with lilting excitement.
“That’s a lovely timbre you have there, young lady. You wouldn’t happen to be from Ireland, would you?”
A look of abject horror spread across Evelyn’s face even as she saw the twinkle in the man’s eyes.
“What a terrible thing to joke about, Mr. Cantrell! Accusing me of being from that horrid place!” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “And here I was just about to compliment you by saying you don’t look all that old to me. I would be surprised if you were fifty!”
“Forty-seven, in point of fact. And while I appreciate your sentiments, damn near twenty years of nonstop fighting takes its toll.”
“Twenty years?! You poor man! Still, you must enjoy being famous.”
“It has its uses, I suppose. I do like the attention I get from beautiful women.” Cantrell winked good-naturedly while she blushed.
“Incorrigible man! Don’t you know it’s not polite to embarrass a lady like that?” Evelyn studied the man sitting opposite her as the stagecoach continued to bounce and sway along the dusty track. He was quite handsome. His skin was well tanned from a life lived under the Sun, and his piercing blue eyes shone with warmth and intelligence. Flaxen hair hung loosely around his shoulders, giving him a roguish demeanor. He was dressed in fringed buffalo leather pants and jacket, with a Colt Army revolver holstered on his right hip and a large bladed knife sheathed on the other.
“Why are you heading to Deadwood anyway? What could there possibly be in that rathole for a fetching creature such as yourself?” Cantrell inquired, shaking Evelyn from her trance.
“I’m going to be an actress!”
“An actress? In Deadwood?”
“Why, sure! A man there named Al Swearengen has a fancy theater where he wants to put on high class shows: I believe it’s called the Gem? Anyhow, he wrote to me in Chicago and said that he wants me to come to Deadwood and be his main attraction!”
Boone Cantrell stared at the woman in disbelief. “You’re going to Deadwood to work for Al Swearengen?!”
“Yes, do you know him? What’s he like? He’s ever so kind in his letters.”
“Swearengen’s a pimp,” Cantrell grunted with remarkable bluntness. “The Gem is a brothel. You won’t be a famous actress if you work for him: You’ll be a common whore.”
All the color drained from Evelyn’s charming face. “What did you just say?”
“I’m afraid you’ve been fooled, honey. It’s what he does. He lures women out here with delusions of grandeur, then forces them to prostitute for him.”
“Well, I simply won’t do it!” Evelyn declared angrily. “I might be an actress, but I’m not a trollop!”
“You’re damn right you won’t do it,” Cantrell agreed. “I’ll make sure Swearengen leaves you alone.”
“Do you think he’ll listen to you?”
“I’ve had dealings with him before. He knows better than to trouble me.”
Evelyn pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner before asking somewhat hesitantly, “Do you like visiting prostitutes, Mr. Cantrell?”
Cantrell smirked knowingly. “You could say I’ve known my fair share.”
“Would you come visit me? If I were a prostitute, I mean.”
“You’re a woman of beauty and grace, Evelyn Fairlane. You would do well, but it’s a hard life, and the customers can be rough. Especially out here in Deadwood. I’ve only known you a short while, but I’d rather you stay away from that nasty business.”
“You didn’t answer my question!” She scolded him archly.
“You’re a beautiful woman, and I’m a man who greatly enjoys the company of beautiful women. Let’s just leave it at that.” Cantrell’s gruff tone left no room for further discussion. Evelyn smiled coyly. The man had given himself away.
The stagecoach shuddered to an abrupt stop and the shotgun messenger appeared in one of the windows, his coach gun pointed squarely at Boone Cantrell.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” the gunslinger stormed.
“We heard your little conversation back here about how you aim to deny Mr. Swearengen what’s his. He paid us good money to ensure she gets to Deadwood, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”
The driver materialized on the other side, his revolver also aimed at Cantrell.
“Do you have any idea who you’re trifling with?!” Evelyn demanded haughtily, trying to hide her fear and apprehension.
“We know damn well who he is! Don’t make no difference. Mr. Swearengen always gets what he wants.”
“Boys, I made a promise to this young woman here; one which I intend to keep. Now, you both can hop back up on the box and we’ll continue on our merry way, or thing’s are apt to get lively. And that won’t end well for either of you.”
“You ain’t in a position to threaten us, friend,” the driver sneered as he waved his pistol menacingly. “There’s two of us and one of you. And we’ve got the drop on you.”
“It surely does seem that way,” Cantrell nonchalantly agreed. “Regardless, I meant what I said.”
“Please don’t hurt him!” Evelyn Fairlane interjected. “If I go willingly, will you let Mr. Cantrell live?”
“Evelyn, you shut your mouth right now!”
“I won’t, dammit! I don’t want you getting killed on my account! I’m the one who fell for Mr. Swearengen’s lies, and I should be the one to pay the price.”
“You heard the woman, Cantrell. She wants to go,” the driver gloated. “No sense arguing about it anymore. Time for you to be off this gig.”
The man stepped back to allow Cantrell to exit the coach. He refused to budge.
“You heard him! Get the hell out!” The shotgun messenger howled, jabbing his firearm in the gunslinger’s face. Boone Cantrell lashed out with his left hand, grabbing the shotgun by its double barrels and thrusting upwards. A thunderous roar erupted in the confines of the stagecoach, and a hole was blown through the roof as the flummoxed guard discharged his weapon in alarm. Cantrell drew his Colt Army revolver and coolly shot the man in the face.
Momentarily stunned, the driver broke out of his stupefied trance and leapt back onto the side of the carriage. Before he could get his bearings, Evelyn Fairlane kicked the door with as much force as she could muster; propelling it open and knocking their assailant off balance. Cantrell stepped out of the stagecoach and leveled his pistol at the man.
“It’s like I told you, friend: Al Swearengen ain’t getting his greasy hands on the woman. Now, you hand over that Schofield of yours, get yourself back up in the box, take us on down the road to Deadwood, and I’ll forget this whole inconvenience ever happened. But if you wanna force the issue, well, make your peace right here and now.”
The driver spat disdainfully. “You might as well just shoot me and be done with it. Mr. Swearengen hates to be disappointed, and he’ll kill me himself if I don’t deliver.”
“Normally, I’d be more than happy to oblige, but he might make an exception when he finds out it was me you were tusslin’ with.”
“You blew Jeb’s head off! You can go to Hell!”
“You first.” Cantrell shrugged indifferently. A solitary gunshot rang out, and the driver pitched backwards; dead before his body hit the dirt.
“What a silly man!” Evelyn proclaimed as she stared with morbid fascination at the bloody corpse. “Why wouldn’t he accept your offer?”
“He was more afraid of Swearengen than he was of me. The man does tend to have that effect on people.”
“But you’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“I ain’t afraid of no man. Certainly not Al Swearengen. I told you before: he don’t trouble me none.”
“Why is that? What happened between you two?”
“I tell you what: You linger around me long enough, honey, and someday I’ll tell you that story. Right now, we’ve got a stage to catch.”
If you enjoyed reading my Thoughts, consider showing your appreciation by contributing to my retirement fund.
The only thing I found disappointing about this story is the fact it didn't continue when it was finished. I hope this isn't the last we'll see of these characters, but even if it is, it was a fun story with excellent banter.
I love westerns and this is a good story. I enjoyed it.