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

By B. A. Braxton

Book Two of the Thunderhead trilogy follows photograph artist Al Franklin to Laramie, Wyoming Territory, where he hopes to settle the score with Jack McCall. Almost two weeks prior to this, McCall had murdered a friend of Al’s in Deadwood, Wild Bill Hickok, and then had gotten away with it in an illegal miner’s court. Al will not rest until McCall pays for his transgressions, and that means seeing to it that his neck is stretched by a hangman’s noose.

Quick Maggie DeMarco and Bloody Ray the Knife do battle to see who will win the right to lead the gang. Bloody Ray has two favorite pastimes: mistreating his dun horse and coveting everything that Quick Maggie holds dear. Meanwhile, bounty hunter Harvey McCafferty continues his pursuit of the gang by consorting with Tim Brady, an elite member of Deadwood’s underworld. Apparently Brady has a surefire way of setting up an ambush for Quick Maggie and her cohorts, because he knows where to find the man she is looking for: the lowlife who raped and murdered her mother fourteen years ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. A. Braxton
• Release date: Aug 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301190263

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

Spittoon Nicky, sporting girl

I was what folks called a spoilt whore. I was used to clean, pearly white sheets, goose down pillows, and somebody hired on to fetch my meals and to clean up after me every blessed day. An open window by my bedstead was the closest I ever wanted to get to sleeping outside amongst nature. That’s why the situation I found myself in now seemed so downright funny.

Having taken to the tall timbers with Chad DeMarco and his gang of murderous thieves—his sister Maggie, friends Crazy Luke Matthews, Bloody Ray the Knife, Otto Neulann, and Maggie’s gal Dallas—was more excitement than I cared to experience in my short lifetime. Love had driven a tender prairie coneflower like me to commence sleeping outside on hippin’s of soft pine needles scattered way too thin on the hard ground, and in some leaky, broke-down army wall tent on top of that. It was a chore just keeping the graybacks, buffalo gnats, and gallnippers at bay. Even night noises were fearsome for a gal who was used to being surrounded by four walls, a floor, and a ceiling, and at least twice during the past evening I thought some wild critter with shiny eyes and a fierce disposition would slip under my Mormon blankets just to gobble me up. Thank the laws that the onlyest thing that did slip under my blankets last night was Chad.

My story up ’til now could be recalled in a short space, ’cause I hadn’t lived very long. When I was thirteen, my pappy lost me in a poker game to Hootie Johnson, a saloon keeper and Mac who managed a bevy of whores. Now Hootie wasn’t shy at all about divvying out the merchandise to whoever had the gold dust to pay. What Hootie hadn’t counted on was that one of his barkeepers, Ciarán Crogan, would take a shine to me and marry me, and then take me off his hands. That woulda been fine, but prior to us tying the knot, I’d already met the man I’d been hankering for, and he was the killer and sometime road agent Chad DeMarco. So Chad got the notion one day to steal me away from my lawful husband, and so that’s how I came to be out here on the run with him and the others he was riding with. And my life with Chad woulda been perfect if I coulda had clean sheets and a roof over my head while I was holed up with him.

Splitting the rildies with Chad did wonders to improve my spirits and it also inspired what little sand I had to grow, at least ’til it was time for me to get up the next morning. I shoulda been able to take such rough living, my being shy of my seventeenth birthday ’n all, but the sporting gal life had spoilt me something terrible to the point of not taking kindly to going without civilized comforts for long.

As I sat up slowly and with great difficulty, Chad rolled over and started laughing at me, riling me so that I didn’t wanna cut the bed with him nor speak to him for the rest of the day. But he always had a way of making me smile even when I didn’t feel like it. He had long toes that he used to latch onto some of my clothes and give ’em a tug ’til my daunsy disposition just had to brighten. Let go! I’d say, even though I didn’t mean it.

The good mood soon died that late morning when we were met with a commotion I ain’t soon to forget. Whilst we were laughing and talking and feeling like nothing could touch us except one another, we heard the sound of rapid rifle and pistol fire popping off all around us. The repeater rifle had left a line of window holes in the canvas right above my head, just a little too close for me or my heart to rest easy. Chad pushed me down against the blankets as he groped around for his revolver. What’s going on? I asked, but he paid my question no nevermind; he musta figured the answer to that was obvious since there was a bounty on everybody’s head here present ’cept mine and little Dallas’s. So Chad wasted no time snatching up his six-shooter and forty dead men as he scrambled outta the tent like our lives depended on his moving quick.

Stay down! was the only advice he gave me, and I couldn’t ever remember getting better. Didn’t take no Philadelphia law wrangler to tell me that we was dabbled in gore; last thing I ever wanted was to be caught in some other man’s crossfire.

Chad’s sister Maggie had rolled outta her shakedown awhile ago, and had been fiddling with and cleaning her pistols. And now, because of the commotion, she was wisely carrying her beautiful head low. She only glanced at me for a second, but her gaze so penetrated my soul, I thought that just them smoky gray eyes of hers alone could peel me and make me bleed. With one swipe of her hand, she snatched up her Winchester rifle, its shiny metal barrel and receiver glinting like diamonds in the strong daylight creeping in through the crack that Chad had made in the tent flap. Dallas’s eyes were wide and frightened, but she didn’t make a sound. I could tell she’d lived through excitement such as this before.

Most of what I’d been wearing had been pulled off by Chad tussling with me the night before, but I got up anyways as soon as I heard another round of shots. As Maggie slid under the tent from the rear she offered up the same advice Chad had given me, only her delivery weren’t nigh as delicate. "Cuidado! Git the hell down ’n stay down, fool! Wanna git your goddam head blowed off?" Hard to argue with straight talk like that, so I fell belly down onto the rocks I’d gotten acquainted with last night, and was glad that I was still alive enough to feel ’em digging in to me.

When I looked at Dallas again, the gal was crawling over to skedaddle outta the tent where Maggie had just passed. Where you going? I asked. Stay down now! Ain’t you ’fraida getting hit in the fracas?

Dallas only paused in her scrambling to enhance my knowledge of things that came to pass while living with folks on the scout. Lead plums cut through canvas like a knife cuts through trapper’s butter, Nicky, she said like I was a dummy. Just look at the holes there. She used her chin to point out the holes the rifle had made in the wall beside me. Ain’t no tent gonna save you, except maybe when it falls over and hides the fact that you’re still under it. That said, Dallas kept on crawling outta there ’til she was no longer in my line of sight.

The sound of scrambling feet, followed by more shots being fired was all I could make out for the longest time. Men’s voices shouting and airing the lungs at one another faster than the bullets had come was next, with Luke Matthews’ voice the loudest. All of the commotion made me curious as well as anxious. If I had to die this morning, I at least wanted to see the face of the man who was about to draw down on me. It was hard to slip on some clothes while I was lying flat on my back, but I did it. Then I flipped over onto my stomach and crawled to the tent flap. When I stuck my head out, I couldn’t see a blessed thing. So I got outta the tent fast and then ran to protect myself behind the trunk of a black walnut tree.

My eyes fixed on Chad looking concerned and none too pleased about me coming out into the open like that, as if a canvas tent could offer up the protection of a stone wall. Dallas had been right about that. Git down! Git down! he kept screaming at me, gesturing for me to get down with his hand, but I just had to lift my head up high enough to have a look at the feller who’d just taken a shot at him.

Chad was hunkered down next to Otto Neulann, and they were behind a boulder that had fallen some time ago from the cliff above them. After another volley of bullets were exchanged between both sides, I heard Crazy Luke’s frothy voice shouting out a new buncha profanities.

Never satisfied with not knowing what the hell was going on, I took off running amongst bunches of fallen branches, twigs, and walnuts to find protection this time behind a white willow that was farther out in the open just so’s I could see better. The whole way I was hootin’ ’n hollerin’, calling attention to myself ’cause I was treading over sticks, thorns, nuts, and broken shells in my tender, bare feet. Falling into bog holes and tumbling down coulees was no way to get around, but there I was doin’ just that. I reckon I shoulda taken a couple of minutes to slip on my boots, but I hadn’t wanted to sit up to do it. Chad was still screaming at me, but this time I didn’t pay him no mind at all. You see, my ears were still ringin’ from the last rounda pistols discharging fairly close to my head, so that I couldn’t hear him even if I’d wanted to.

Just before I’d settled behind a third tree, some mudsill took a shot at me, ’cause I swear I felt the bullet tousle my hair. I was just a lamb set up for the slaughter out where I was, so it was small wonder why Chad was still yelling at me. But I was too far out to turn back now, so I hunkered down low, thinking about all the bad habits I’d give up if I was to get the hell outta there without gettin’ hit.

CHAPTER TWO

Spittoon Nicky

I was finally able to see what all the commotion was about. One of the fellers who’d been shooting at us had Dallas snatched up close in fronta him and was holding a pistol to her head. All the menfolk I could see—Chad, Luke, and Otto—were looking worried; I couldn’t see where Maggie had gotten off to, but I just knew she had to be afraid, seeing her woman friend in harm’s way like that. Wasn’t anything she could do about it, either. Wasn’t anything any of us could do.

Seemed like folks who acquired the upper hand tended to get cocky, though. And that cockiness usually made ’em feel like they were invincible, too, like their skin was too thick for a bullet or a knife blade to penetrate it. And so it was with the stone-faced man with the ruddy complexion holding Dallas. In his mind, she was a winning hand, a bargaining chip, something both sides could agree was worth more than a vein of gold ore. Using Dallas as a shield was better than being behind a fortress, that’s how much folks knew Maggie loved the gal. Maggie wouldn’t play a hand with her eyes shut and chance injuring Dallas, ’cause not even Quick Maggie DeMarco was that good of a pistol shot.

I’ll kill this ’un, and you best b’lieve that! the man who had ahold of Dallas said. Give me one good reason to pull this trigger, and I will! The way that bug-eyed man was handling that Colt Navy pistol of his, I was inclined to believe him; if he didn’t shoot Dallas on purpose, then he was bound to shoot her plumb by accident.

The man held his rounded shoulders and curly head as low as they would go behind Dallas. He kept peering over her shoulder, being mindful to stay behind her as he tried to watch each ’n every one of us. Once he figured his tactic was working as planned, he laid his head against Dallas’s and started laughing for no reason other than to brag on the deadlock he was able to force in this encounter. Hey now, Abby gal, I heard him say as she kept tryin’ to pull herself away from him, but his arm was too tight around her waist. That’s silence you’re hearin’, no shootin’ outta respect for a beautiful young lady sich as yourself. He chuckled again. I knew all’s we had ta do was snatch up Maggie’s favorite filly to strum and we’d have the deadwood on all of ’em!

This hatless fella with the curly, graying locks was still being careful to stand directly behind Dallas and hold her to him as close as second skin. Sure he was taller than she was, but not by much. And he stayed down to make up the difference. Four-Shot don’t want nothin’ to happen to what I’m a-holdin’ here, does she? He pressed his lips against Dallas’s face and hair as she struggled to pull away from him. Getting unnecessarily close and friendly with the gal wasn’t particularly wise, but who was I to tell this bounty man, who looked old enough to know better, how to ply his trade?

Let me go! Dallas kept shouting. Let me go, damn you!

Sure I’ll let you go, little missy, he said, holding the barrel of his Colt tighter against her ear and cocking it this time. The sound of the hammer clicking back made me wince with anticipation of the bullet about to come outta it. Just the slightest pressure on that trigger, and Dallas woulda been as dead as a body could ever get. I started praying that she’d hold still so that at least the pistol wouldn’t go off by mistake. One little bump, and I imagined it would be over for the both of ’em. Maggie and the boys would see to it that this old gentleman wouldn’t get any older.

Dutch! the man called out. Dutch, come on up here ’n cover me whilst I strike up a deal with Quick Maggie. Twenty-five hundred dollars on her head, and it’s all gonna be ours!

The man called Dutch came sprinting up, two Colts in his cartridge belt and an Evans repeating rifle filling his hands. The thirty-four rounds the Evans carried easily explained how just two men coulda caused the whole lot of us so much grief. I’m comin’, Frank! I’m comin’! Dutch said. Keep ahold a her tight! For lord’s sake, don’t let her go! Apparently Dutch thought that the shelter his friend had found behind Dallas was more of a sure thing than the boulders, trees, and bushes he was passing up, ’cause he didn’t stop running ’til he was close enough to her to be satisfied about his own safety as well.

I know what I’m doin’! Frank said as Dutch finally reached his side and then fell behind a fallen log. I ain’t lettin’ this li’l gal go ’til Maggie’s here in her stead, and you best b’lieve that!

Dallas never did stop her squirming and it musta started irritating Frank because he was inclined to bury the barrel of his Colt so deep into her temple, that she yelled out and stopped moving around so much ’cause moving at all musta been too painful. Frank’s tight hold of the jerk-line made him a feared man, and that pleased him; if Dallas was the key to bringing in the wanted man-killer Margaret DeMarco, ol’ Frank was holding the trump card right there in his hands. I’m sure he was aware that Quick Maggie cared a lot for Dallas, more than she even cared for herself seemed like, and his suspicions were now being confirmed by the gang’s refusing to chance hurting her. Frank smiled as he held Dallas even closer; he was careful to stay well-shielded behind the girl, but it was obvious he couldn’t resist having Maggie and the others witness his gloating and the victorious smile beginning to sprout on his age-weary face.

Maggie! Frank called out again. Maggie, you see what ’n all I got here, don’t cha?

I followed everyone else’s gaze up toward the rocks on the cliff above to see if I could get a glimpse of her, but apparently Maggie, by force of habit, had herself well hid.

Maggie! Ain’t this your stuff what I got ahold of here?

Still no answer. Frank seemed awfully proud of himself because he of all men had finally stopped the notorious quick-draw artist Maggie DeMarco. And all that she and the fellers with her could do was watch, wait, and pray on what to do next. Not one of ’em even dared to make a move on Frank or Dutch; if the others in Maggie’s party woulda drawn fire and Dallas woulda gotten hit, they’d be in as much trouble as Frank and Dutch were in at present.

Looky here, Maggie! Don’t this belong to you? Frank grew bold with the upper hand he was enjoying. As he continued to stand behind Dallas, his thick, well-traveled fingers started stroking her breasts in familiar fashion. Why he was so bent on antagonizing Maggie, I just couldn’t understand. Out here in the west, men had gotten themselves skinned alive for doing much less. Ain’t this yours what I got ahold of here? He actually waited for an answer, but still Quick Maggie offered none. She was a good poker player, and Frank was beginning to find that out. That didn’t seem to bother him, though; he knew that he was holding the high card, and Dallas would always be the winning hand. Ol’ Frank started stroking Dallas’s breasts with even more vigor than before. This is your stuff, ain’t it? he called, and then just cackled.

I couldn’t speak for the others, but it didn’t surprise me at all when Frank finally made a mistake, and we all bore witness not only to his reprehensible behavior, but also to his busted flush. He was so pleased with himself and so full of joy, he allowed his head to stick out a little too far away from Dallas’s. The moment his care lapsed, two blue whistlers cracked from Maggie’s Winchester rifle and caught him right in the forehead, the holes barely an inch apart. And let me tell ya, Frank’s already bugged eyes was just about popping outta his head right now from the surprise of it all. Neither bullet had difficulty drilling through that hard head of his, and parts of his bones and brains exploded outta the back of it fast as a lightning flash. Blood splattered like a misting rain all around him, dousing Dallas and the western wheatgrass around her with a right generous portion. Because Frank had been holding Dallas so tight when he got shot, she toppled over with him as his body fell to the ground. His cocked plow-handle fired when it hit the dirt, the bullet flying high into the sky.

Meanwhile, Dutch sprang to his feet and snatched Dallas up before she had the chance to run away. He forced her to stand in fronta him and then took his turn holding a pistol against her head. After cocking the hammer of one of his Colts back with a thumb best described as jittery by those of us who were faint of heart, Dutch’s face flushed as he started sweating something awful. His left arm was wrapped tight around Dallas’s neck to hold her still. Come on outta them rocks now, Maggie, or I’ll bed this gal down right now! He tried to sound tough, but his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. After running his cottony dry tongue over his salty, wet lips, he added, C’mon now, Maggie! I mean it!

Maggie didn’t answer; perhaps she had a mind to let her Worchestershire do all of the talking for a second time today.

C’mon, Maggie. Dutch’s voice sounded like he was pleading now, and oh, so desperate. He paused for a time, loosening his grip around Dallas’s neck when he realized that she was starting to choke.

Seemingly from nowhere, Maggie’s voice floated down, unnerved, and it said as if she’d just been asked the time of day, If you hurt her, you’re gonna be one sorry son of a bitch. That statement encouraged Dutch to loosen his grip a little more from around Dallas’s neck. After all, a declaration like that from someone as maniacal as Quick Maggie DeMarco had to have been unsettling for all concerned. She’s the only thing keepin’ you alive, Maggie advised him, as if he wasn’t sorely aware of that already.

Dutch cleared his throat, trying hard to keep his voice calm and steady as he said, Won’t be no need to hurt her if you come on down here, Maggie, and give yourself up.

"And there won’t be no need to hurt you if you let her go!"

Dutch looked down at Frank, the feller he’d thrown in with and who now only had half a head, and whispered, Oh, lordy! What have I done got myself in to now? He started biting his lip as he shook his head. Maggie! he called. Maggie, if I let this gal go, will you hold your fire? Will you let me walk away and not have to fret ’bout takin’ a bullet in the back?

If you let her go, Maggie’s voice drifted down from the rocky ledge, "I’ll let you ride outta here with no frets ’t all."

Dutch thought seriously about that proposition for a moment, glancing down at Frank’s bloody face again. Taking a chance, Dutch let Dallas go and she took off running to where I was still kneeling behind the white willow trees. Poor Dutch soon found himself standing all alone and in front of what seemed to be Maggie DeMarco’s word and nothing else.

Dutch stood still for a moment, knees best described as either bent to run or buckled from the gravity of the situation, as if accepting that his horns had been clipped and he was at Maggie’s mercy. At least two dozen men had fallen at the hands of Quick Maggie DeMarco over the years, and Frank had been yet another who’d just been added to the tally. Dutch had to be praying that he wouldn’t be the next. Maggie obviously had the bulge on him good from her vantage point, and it was up to her to take advantage of it or not. She didn’t. So Dutch took off at a sprint to where his horse was munching on some prairie wool and bypassed the stirrups with a pony express mount, throwing himself up on the ol’ skewbald paint as quick ’n easy as a renegade. Then he galloped his horse outta camp as promised without once being fired on.

CHAPTER THREE

Al Franklin, photograph artist

On the second of August in this year eighteen hundred and seventy-six, John Jack McCall walked up behind Wild Bill Hickok as he played a spirited game of draw poker at the Number Ten saloon in Deadwood, Dakota Territory, and shot him in the back of the head, killing him instantly. The very next day, a rushed and apparently tampered with miner’s court acquitted McCall of the murder.

The blood of Wild Bill Hickok still stained the hands of Jack McCall, but he didn’t seem to care. He showed absolutely no remorse; hell, he didn’t even seem sorry that he’d done the terrible deed. So after Wild Bill’s friends ran Jack out of Deadwood, I followed the bastard to make him sorry, and I was determined to make him pay for what he did with his own life.

Dakota’s Black Hills highlands in August were difficult to cross, especially when a