Thunderhead: Tales of Love, Honor, and Vengeance in the Historic American West, Book Three

By B. A. Braxton

“Rain don’t worry me.”

Those are the words that outlaw Quick Maggie DeMarco insists on whenever asked. But folks who’ve met her know that rain does worry her, and it worries her a lot.

Fourteen years ago when Maggie was only six, her mother, father, and older sister were brutally murdered in the family house while she hid under the floorboards. The night of the DeMarco massacre haunts Maggie not only because of the horror she’d witnessed and the fact that she hadn’t been physically able to stop it from happening, but also because of how nasty the weather had been. Best described as tornado weather with high winds and torrential rains, a massive thunderhead had even formed, blackening the early evening sky. And till this very day, rainy weather hurls her back to that fateful night, along with all of the disturbing images that come with it.

The year is 1876, and time hasn’t dampened Maggie’s obsession with finding and killing the man who’d raped and then murdered her mother. Maggie and her brother are told that the man they’re looking for is living close to Deadwood, so they travel to the Dakota Territory from Mexico to see if the rumors are true. So the question becomes this: if they find him, will they kill him, or has fourteen years softened their thirst for vengeance?

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. A. Braxton
• Release date: Aug 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301156566

B. A. Braxton

B. A. was born in Bridgeton, New Jersey and on a Friday the thirteenth for those who spook easily. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1981 with a bachelor’s degree in Natural Science, and with clusters in sociology, writing, and advanced writing courses. In 1987 she graduated from Fairleigh S. Dickinson Jr. College of Dental Medicine with a doctorate in general dentistry.Regardless of the paths that she has taken academically, B. A. has always continued to write. Her first books were written while she was in the seventh grade. Using classmates as characters seemed to put the books in high demand, and even as adults, those friends still ask to read them. By the ninth grade, she’d completed her first novel and although it was pretty bad, she was—and still is—extremely proud of that accomplishment. B. A. writes general fiction, mysteries, and historical fiction. Regardless of what else she has done in her life or how much the practice has been discouraged, writing has always been and always will be the center of her life.B.A. has been married since 1983 and has two children, a son and a daughter, and an aging cat named Salem. She first moved to Michigan in 1988. Her hobbies include hiking, kayaking, exercising on her beloved elliptical trainer, painting with oils, healthy cooking and baking, researching topics for stories, and being proud of her children’s many and varied accomplishments. She loves listening to any kind of music, especially if the lyrics are terrific, and learning as much as she can about people—their mannerisms, the way they speak, what they do, and why they do it. And she also loves watching western television series, especially those from the fifties and sixties. Her favorites are the early Gunsmoke episodes with Chester Goode in them, and that special father-son bond found in The Rifleman. Another favorite is the series The Virginian. The pilot for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman is one of the most credible depictions of the nineteenth century American west that she has ever seen on celluloid, and several grimly realistic episodes from the first and second seasons are favorites of hers. And lately, Hell on Wheels is more than enough to satisfy her taste for the wild west.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Al Franklin, photograph artist

The stone-faced crowd of gawkers grew silent as the soft pine steps started creaking under Jack McCall’s feet as he ascended the eight-by-ten-foot gallows. Hemp fever sure ’nough gonna give Jack a chance to look at the sky, one spectator whispered to another. Everyone who heard the rancher knew that to be a fact. Jack was soon to be dressed in a hemp four-in-hand during a drizzling rain on a cold and foggy March first morning in 1877. All the rest of us could do was watch.

McCall, his hands chained together in front of him, was being led up the stairs by Deputy Marshal Ash as Father Daxacher and his assistant Mr. Curry walked solemnly behind them. Father Daxacher was holding a black Bible in one hand and a cross in the other as he followed the condemned and prayed aloud for his soul. Jack was still clutching a four-inch crucifix the priest had given him earlier to hold as a comfort, and he seemed extraordinarily calm for a man about to die.

Even though the process had lasted for several months, the Yankton trial and sentencing seemed to come and go like a whirlwind. A preliminary hearing held in Laramie, Wyoming last August had Jack McCall confessing to the judge that he was guilty of murdering Wild Bill Hickok. McCall had then been extradited to the Dakota Territorial Capitol of Yankton to be tried for the murder. Not long after that Colonel George May, the man instrumental in seeing to it that McCall be retried for killing Hickok, contracted typhoid pneumonia and died from its effects on November 21st, just a week before the start of McCall’s Federal trial, which lasted only three days. The jury deliberated three hours before deciding on a verdict of guilty. It was too bad that Colonel May had never gotten the chance to see the justice he’d worked so hard for come to pass.

January the third marked the day McCall was sentenced to death by hanging and despite his composure, he hadn’t accepted the pronouncement quietly. He appealed the decision, taking it all the way to the Dakota Territory Supreme Court. They denied the appeal, so McCall’s lawyers decided to pester President Ulysses S. Grant about it. Grant refused to pardon McCall or to commute his sentence, so at that point his fate was set.

And now we all watched as McCall, who was neatly dressed in a pair of black pants and a black shirt and with his face boyishly clean-shaven, reached the top of the gallows. His hair and complexion looked far lighter than usual, probably because for the first time in months it was obvious that he’d taken a bath. Walking over and standing in the center of the platform as he faced east, McCall looked out over the crowd of nearly one thousand people with a firm indifference in his eyes. I’d almost say he looked bored. Only McCall, Marshal Burdick, Deputy Ash, Reverend Father Daxacher, and Mr. Curry were allowed on the platform. The two law officers wasted no time binding McCall’s legs in irons to prepare him for execution. Afterward, he was allowed to kneel with Father Daxacher and pray, his mouth moving as he made his peace with God.

Because his legs were now bound, McCall had to be helped up and the moment he was on his feet again, he did not hesitate to walk over and step right onto the trap door as he kissed the crucifix in his hand. McCall wasn’t sweating at all, and he actually looked quite serene as he drew in a deep breath. He elected not to address the crowd, content only to speak to God. A black cap was placed over his head, but not before his eyes settled right on me. My face was the last one he’d ever see, and I found that disturbing, especially since I was the one who’d helped Colonel May to convict him.

Hearing explosive and unrestrained chattering coming from the sky above startled me. The noise drew everyone’s attention away from Jack McCall’s fate and up into the dark clouds looming just over the tree line. There the morning haze remained blackened not only by the rainy weather, but also by the shadows casted by thousands of passenger pigeons as they passed overhead. It was unusual to see passenger pigeons this far west, but there they were flying with grace, fortitude, and tremendous speed. The sky was literally filled with their bluish and brownish-gray heads bobbing as their black bills pointed northward for this spring migration, and their long, wedge-shaped tails trailing behind them. How their pointed wings were able to carry them so far was always a wonder to me. More than a foot long, their bodies kept up the strong and steady pace, with rosy-breasted males so generously interspersed among cinnamon-rose colored females.

Wait one moment, marshal, ’til I pray, I heard McCall say from under the cap, and so his wish was granted before the hangman’s noose was fixed around his neck. His voice sounded relaxed and calm; perhaps it hadn’t yet occurred to him that he was only seconds away from drawing his last breath. In time the passenger pigeons’ chattering passed on overhead, and the sky cleared to underscore the dismal proceedings of the execution again. When United States Marshal Burdick put the noose around McCall’s neck, Jack insisted, Draw it tighter, marshal, so Burdick obliged Jack by tightening the noose a bit more.

After the priest said a few more words, the trap door was readied for springing. The crowd looked on as McCall’s body shuddered and then stiffened as he bent at the knees. He started swaying as if he felt faint, and then he muttered Oh God! just before his feet fell out from under him and his body dropped down about four feet. I could hear his body thumping against the sides of the gallows as he thrashed about, grappling for breath, and his movement was surprisingly grand, especially after having been bound so tightly. The entire gallows, from about two feet above the platform all the way down to the ground, had been closely boarded up, so that no one was able to see McCall’s body as it struggled so; the jerking rope and the noise provided our only window into his torment. I felt sorry for Jack; I pitied any man who had to die like that. Then again, I also pitied any man who had to die the way Wild Bill Hickok had, being shot in the back of the head while completely unaware and totally defenseless.

And that was exactly what Jack McCall had done on August the second of the previous year: He walked up behind Wild Bill, put a pistol close to the back of his head, and then pulled the trigger. At least Jack had been allowed to see his end coming, and therefore had been able to make amends. Poor Bill Hickok had been afforded no such opportunity.

I snapped open my pocket watch and checked the time: It was 10:15 on a Thursday morning. My job of seeing McCall pay for killing Bill had finally come to an end, and I was anxious to get on with my life back in Deadwood. Marshal Burdick, Deputies Edmunds, Ash, Stanley, and special guard Mathieson had performed the unpleasant task of carrying out McCall’s sentence quite admirably. Now moving on was all that any of us could think about.

Several of Bill’s friends had come to witness McCall’s execution, but one of them was obviously missing. And that was his good friend Moses California Joe Milner. On October 29th of last year, after quarreling with a man named Tom Newcomb while visiting Fort Robinson in Nebraska, Moses was shot in the back by Newcomb and died shortly after. Ironically, his fate had occurred much like Bill’s had; neither man had been given the chance to defend himself, and neither had realized that his death would be imminent.

The press was very much represented in Yankton today, as people from the New York Herald, the Dakota Herald, and the Press and Dakotan were all accounted for. A reporter from a New England journal was also among us, as were other newspaper representatives I certainly didn’t recognize. But from the moment the events of the day started to take place, each and every one of those agents of the press had stood by eagerly licking their pencil points and scratching out words on paper to retell McCall’s hanging for their readers to peruse in the weeklies to come.

I looked over to find Lorenzo Hickok, Wild Bill’s brother, still watching Jack McCall’s rope dangle with a face as stone cold and expressionless as any I had ever seen. In many ways Lorenzo was just as tough and as steely as his brother had been. And he could be hard and unforgiving at times, as he had been with me over the business I’d had with McCall. And that business had been that I’d taken a photograph of Jack with the sole purpose of making money from it. As a result, you could say that Lorenzo and I had ourselves an understanding; he understood that I was planning to make a profit from Jack McCall’s infamy and consequent notoriety, and he made it clear that he was dead set against my adding to McCall’s legend by, in his opinion, making him a famous man. Meetings between the two of us were very awkward, and left me with yet another reason why I couldn’t wait to get away from Yankton.

About ten to twelve minutes after Jack’s body had stopped its death struggle and had finally come to rest, Doctors Etter and Miller entered the basement of the scaffold to check him, and they pronounced him dead soon after. I and a few others had stepped around the enclosure to see. McCall’s head was drooping toward his breast and his face and hands had already turned blue, with the right hand still clutching Father Daxacher’s crucifix. We all heaved a sigh of relief as they proceeded to cut him down, leaving a good portion of the reata still tied fast around his neck as they laid his body inside a walnut coffin and then hammered it shut. His body was then carted the two miles south to Yankton to be interred in the southwest corner of a Catholic cemetery.

My gear was already packed and ready to go, and I was planning to light out within the hour. The rest of the Deadwood crowd here present was also prepared to do the same. Traveling together would make the trip much safer for all of us since the Lakota were understandably riled over having been forced by our government to cede most of the Black Hills, virtually nullifying the Fort Laramie Treaty. And if I and the rest of the men I was planning to travel with were lucky, we’d all make it back to Deadwood safely. If we were lucky, and I sure wasn’t feeling very lucky right now.

Seeing Jack McCall die was about all the death I could stand for one lifetime. I should’ve been glad about it, but the only emotion that came upon me was a bitter sadness. After all, despite all of the pomp and circumstance, the carefully planned execution, and good citizens seeing to it that justice had finally been served, Wild Bill Hickok was still dead and was never coming back to us again. Jack McCall’s dying didn’t make up for anything; it only left me wondering what was the point.

CHAPTER TWO

Harvey M. McCafferty, bounty hunter

Best sight I’d seen in quite awhile was when they let that trap door drop and Jack McCall started ridin’ unner a cottonwood limb with the comin’ grass. Dead men couldn’t talk no more, and that’s just what I needed: to shut that man up oncet ’n for all. Now I could git on outta Yankton and go on to bigger ’n better things again. The money I made from keepin’ McCall’s mouth shut weren’t nothin’ compared to the money I was fixin’ to make off a Quick Maggie DeMarco and them what rides with her. So I figgered time was a-wastin’ and I’d better git on back to collectin’ bounties again.

After the battle I fought ag’in’ the DeMarco gang three months ago just outside Custer, when the posse of seventeen men I’d rounded up got cut down to just six after them DeMarcos stopped shootin’ at us, I was finally ready to go after ’em again. I’d gotten myself shot up during the skirmish, and it took some time for my aged body, which was close to fifty-eight as best as I could recollect, to heal. Gut wounds were always bad and the leg wound hobbled me, so I weren’t gonna recommend fer anybody pushin’ sixty to git shot. Them holes still pained me on rainy days like this ’un, and tended to sour my already unfavorable disposition.

As usual, that Seminole negra scout a mine, Chester Longblade, didn’t receive a single scratch whilst all them bullets was a-flyin’ ’round him. You see, Chet ne’er had no trouble findin’ them badmen for me, but oncet he did, he always refused to fight. That weren’t no surprise, since he told me that was how it was gonna be from the start. So I figgered he weren’t gonna git nary a short bit from the re-ward I was plannin’ on gittin’ from the dodgers on ’em DeMarcos. The bastard.

Anyways, while the DeMarco gang had settled in Custer after shootin’ me ’n the rest down, they asked around, tryin’ to find the answers that nobody had, ’cause the man they was a-lookin’ fer, Monroe Maguire, weren’t even there. Almost laughed ’til I soiled myself when I found out that ol’ Tim Brady never did git ’round to tellin’ Maggie that Maguire had changed his surname. I swear that Maggie DeMarco hung around the city a Custer for weeks tryin’ to find a man who didn’t even exist no more! Even I knew that the bastard was closer to that spot in the road Hay Camp than any place else. Meanwhile Tim Brady had skipped on outta Deadwood ne’er to be seen nor heerd from since, ’specially after he got word ’bout me gittin’ shot up. I betcha that ol’ fat man Brady was just a-layin’ back in a tub somewheres here in Dakota Territory, chawin’ on an ol’ cheroot and chucklin’ to his friends ’bout puttin’ a spoke in Maggie’s wheel the way that he had.

No one was sorrier than I was when the DeMarco gang up ’n left Custer around mid-December, and oncet again I lost track of ’em. I weren’t able to follow ’em ’cause I was still laid up a might from my wounds. Besides, I had to git on back here to Yankton as soon as I’s able to see what ’n all McCall was up to. The postponement into my bounty collectin’ didn’t fret me none ’cause I still had Chet Longblade wit me to help hunt ’em down again when the time came. And now it was heel-fly time in March, and Longblade was here to pick up them DeMarcos’ tracks oncet again. Love him or leave him, there weren’t nobody Longblade couldn’t find. He could sniff ’em out like a hound dawg, and that was the God’s honest truth. And even I had the notion that if the two of us ever laid eyes on Tim Brady again, then we’d find Maggie DeMarco stalkin’ him. That womin weren’t gonna rest ’til either Maguire’s or Brady’s head was standin’ up straight as an exclamation point on a pike while she paraded it down the center of a public square somewheres.

As I turned away from ’em cuttin’ McCall’s corpse down, (I know they was doin’ that ’cause I heerd his body drop like a potato sack and then thump up ag’in’ the inside wall of the basement unner the gallows), I snatched up my bay hoss’s reins to git on outta there ’cause my job here was done. Someone took the bright notion that a couple doctors were necessary to pronounce McCall dead at that time when all of the rest of us standin’ there coulda done the same. It’s hard to mistake a man shakin’ hands with St. Peter for one who’s still breathin’.

I swung myself on up into the saddle to ride on out with my left leg still painin’ me, but I stopped when I gotta gander a that fella Al Franklin watchin’ me through them spectacles a his like he was still upset with me o’er McCall’s bein’ silent ’bout co-conspirators and sich when speakin’ of Hickok’s murder. Well, Al Franklin could jump into the deepest end of the Missouri River as far as I’s concerned. And it surely weren’t any a his business where I was goin’ from here or what I was plannin’ on doin’. He looked like he wanted to have some partin’ words wit me, but that Lorenzo Hickok wanted to jaw with Al, too, so I let ’em have at it. Nothin’ I’d wanna say to that no-account picher pusher anyways. Besides, Lorenzo looked like he was ’bout ready to come to blows with Al, and I was only happy to give ’em both the opp’tunity to do just that if they’d a mind to.

I turned my hoss Sourdough around and started a slow walk outta there. Longblade joined up with me from where he was waitin’ down the road a piece, his dark bay horse with the white star on its forehead prancin’ ’round like he couldn’t wait to git on outta there. He weren’t the only one. I spat ’baccer juice out onto the frozen ground to let those int’rested know just how I felt about Yankton and them what’s been takin’ up residence in it.

CHAPTER THREE

Spittoon Nicky, sporting girl

Deceit and trickery were awful things to experience at any time. But when a man went outta his way to cloud the trail of somebody who ain’t quite right in the head, you could expect that the result was gonna be deadly for whichever feller did the trickin’. I was beginnin’ to feel sorry for the man who went by the name of Tim Brady, ’cause he’d set a fire under Quick Maggie DeMarco something awful. What Tim had done was to eucher Maggie into thinking that Monroe Maguire, the man responsible for her mama and daddy’s death more ’n ten years ago, was holed up just outside a Custer, only to find out that there was no man ever been there by that name. So Maggie figured that Tim Brady had either lead her on a futile search, or that murderous Maguire man had done changed his name, or both. And that was a Simon pure that ol’ Brady had forgot to mention.

We heard tell through the grapevine telegraph that this Tim Brady liked to set up his operations in the Dakota mining towns of Deadwood, Gayville, Perry, Crook City, Galena, and Lead, and especially in the bigger cities of Deadwood and Lead. Whenever he got tired of Deadwood’s restless unified ethnicity and social diversity, he’d head south through Pluma to the industrial diversity and wealth of Lead. Well, we was patient and it took us along nigh three bone-chilling months to catch up with the bastard. There were no blizzards to speak of last winter, but temperatures hovered around sixty below zero for a stretch, so cold that even breathing had been painful. We’d heard that Brady was a large man who liked to keep himself clean, real clean, so we just settled back about a mile outside a Lead and waited on him to come along to clean himself up one fine day. And after laying low for several weeks, he finally did just that.

Me and the rest of the folks I was riding with—Chad, Luke, Otto, and Dallas— watched as Maggie let herself into the man’s bathhouse like she belonged there and walked right on up to Brady whilst he was sittin’ back, eyes closed, and soaking himself in one of them fine, white porcelain bathtubs. He had a fancy cigar clenched between his teeth and a smile of contentment etched on his chubby face. An old John with a black braided pigtail called a queue was about to pour some hot water into the tub when Maggie came up behind him and lifted the pail outta his hands. Insteada pouring the water around Brady’s knees like the sandal-clad Chinaman was gonna do, she poured the boiling hot water right on his head, dousing his cigar. Brady sputtered and stammered as he snatched the cigar from his mouth and blew water outta his nostrils like a dolphin would after surfacing. His hairy back was soaked through, and even the tufts of wiry hair on each of his shoulder blades were wet. What in hell you tryin’ to do, drown me? he sputtered through all the steam as he pawed at the water in his eyes. The gang just hung back and sniggered amongst themselves.

While the water was still dripping from what little hair there was on either side of his head, Maggie drew her Smithy and held it tight against Brady’s right ear. That shut him up real quick and set his eyes to opening even though the scalding water was still running in ’em. Your say-so sent me off lookin’ for a man named Maguire, she said calmly as the bathhouse cleared of all others, including the old Chinaman who worked there. Them other patrons couldn’t run outta there fast enough; I couldn’t remember the last time I saw so many butt cracks a-flashing all white ’n soapy as water splashed all around big ol’ bare feet as they scampered along on slick, pinewood puncheon floors. Musta thought that was mighty funny, havin’ me traipsin’ all o’er Custer lookin’ for a man who don’t even exist no more.

No, no! Brady insisted, smelling so much like lilac water and the freshness of springtime that I was getting jealous. "His name is Maguire! I told you true!"

"Was Maguire, she corrected him. Your words have been nailed to the counter, fat man, and you know it. I’ve been ridin’ my ass off since November on some wild goose chase. Now it’s March and I’ve ended up back here in Lead to ask you to tell me what that feller Maguire has up ’n changed his name to."

I didn’t know he changed his name! When did he do that? Brady asked, trying his best to play dumb. He stopped short as his eyes squinted in anticipation of the worst as Maggie cocked her Smith & Wesson while the barrel was still pressed against his head.

Where is Maguire now, and what did he change his name to? she asked calmly. I ain’t gonna ask again.

If you’d be willing to pay me for the information, I…. Brady started to suggest, so Maggie angled the barrel of her persuader off to one side and then pulled the trigger, ripping the skin covering Brady’s right temple and what little hair was there clean off. He yelped out in pain and then grabbed the side of his head. Blood dripped from between his fat, stubby fingers as he held the wound fast. Are you crazy? he asked her, although I’m sure he already knew the answer to that.

"You’ve got a lotta nerve askin’ for dinero after sendin’ me out for months lookin’ for a man who don’t even exist no more," she said.

He does exist, I tell you! He does! You see, I only gave you the wrong information ’cause of that man Ray you got working with you, he explained. I misled Ray the Knife ’cause he has a vile attitude. Is he here with you? He can verify the dealings he’s had with me. I just didn’t like his attitude, is all. And that ain’t the same as being dishonest with you!

"Oh sí, it is, ‘cause I looked you up personal and you told me the lie right to my face," she said, cocking the revolver in her hand again, this time slowly and deliberately, and then aiming it true.

Wait, wait! that ol’ flannel mouth Brady said, trying to duck down low and then holding up his hands. Don’t shoot! The man you want calls himself Wakefield now, and he lives just outside Hay Camp! It’s not far from here, I swear to God!

Maggie sighed and shook her head, the ends of her long, dark brown hair resting on the surface of Brady’s tub water. Now why didn’t you tell me that the first time?

I dunno, he said. I was foolish! Playing games! It won’t happen again!

You’re right about that, she said. "It won’t happen again." Maggie dropped her pistol back inside its slim jim holster and then tried to force Brady’s already bloody head down under the water. He offered up a pretty strong resistance, his nails digging into the flesh of her arms and then managing to yank himself away from her, so Maggie called for help. Gladly Chad and Otto rushed over to oblige, and although Brady was all wet and slippery, they didn’t let him up again ’til he stopped squirming. Otto had to sit on him to get the job done, and afterwards the seat of his brown pants were completely saturated. And, I might add, while Brady was still alive, he fought like a kilkenny cat, making some mighty big splashes. I was standing about twenty feet away, and even I got wet. By the time he finally died, Maggie’s