Greed in Golden Valley: Book 2 of the Western series

By Ron Lewis

A man with a knife can be as dangerous as any pistol-packing shootist. He can work in dark alleys, carving up his victims to steal their gold. In the Golden Valley, one man earns his fortune the old-fashioned way — killing for it. As the bodies pile up, Michelle, Wounded Hawk, and Meeker have their hands full. Meanwhile, Sarah Culbertson does what the young do. She falls in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Lewis
• Release date: Dec 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005283261

Ron Lewis

Ron Lewis has had a life long interest and love of both history and westerns. Blending fact and fiction together, mixing real characters and those created from whole cloth, his stories are his views of the old west of the 19th century.Mr. Lewis’s roots in Oklahoma reach back to the 19th century when is his great-grandfather John moved though the Indian territories, and eventually Oklahoma territory yearly. He operated a traveling musical group who sold a panacea concoction most often called “Snake Oil.”Eventually his grandfather, John Henry, settled in the Winding Stair Mountains of eastern Oklahoma, very near to Robbers Cave. John Henry worked for a mining company as an elevator operator. His grandfather was well known and all who knew him knew his credo in life. “I don’t want to be higher than picking corn or lower than digging potatoes.”Hearing stories from his father, uncles and grandfather about life in the late 19th and early 20th centuries kindled a love for those bygone days. Many of these stories are the basis for his writing.

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Greed in Golden Valley

#2 of the Michelle Tanner Series

By

Ron Lewis

Digital Edition

License Notes

This eBook license is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook is not authorized for resale and may not be for a given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your online provider and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

© Copyright 2019 by Ron Lewis

Published by Lewis & Young Publishing

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

Greed in Golden Valley

Prolog

Rocky Mountain News

Monday, March 14th, 1865

This reporter has just returned from a visit to our Territorial Capital, Golden City. While I never agreed with the decision to locate the Capital there, I must admit one thing. Golden City is, more than likely, the safest mining camp in the entire Colorado Territory.

Some will insist it’s the amalgamation of the US Marshal’s office, Indians as a deputy and jailer, the legend of Nathan Meeker himself, and the oddity of oddities of a woman deputy. I’ll go you a step further; I stake a bet that if you removed Meeker from the equation, the city would still be the safest place in Colorado. I’ll go further, remove all the law dogs save Deputy Tanner, that wonderment of a female deputy, and the place would retain the title.

My first writing about the woman stated that I believed she was in for a rough go of it in Golden City. I am a man who can admit when he is wrong. There may have been those in the early stages of this experiment, that doubted her abilities. There may have been hardened miners unwilling to give her a chance. A few merchants expressed doubts she would rise to the challenge. The bar, dancehall, and casino owners questioned if she could keep the peace. After all, she is a mere woman.

Well, if they doubted Deputy Marshal Tanner when she arrived, they have no such uncertainties now. In my brief stay, Miss Tanner broke up a bar fight, knocking one participant’s front left tooth out in the process, stopped an attempted robbery, and shot a firearm from the hands of a miscreant trying to blast an unarmed card shark for cheating.

This strange menagerie of peace officer gives the impression of a grand experiment. Most such endeavors fail miserably and are lost in forgotten and dusty volumes labeled Bad Ideas. This one, well, it defies the odds and with such aplomb that I find it totally entertaining.

****

With such a proclamation of safety set to print, how could fate resist making a mockery of the writer?

Greed in Golden Valley

Chapter One — What’s This?

****

Colorado Territory was a wide-open place, where one could make their fortune in the 1860s. Men of pluck migrated there in significant numbers; along with a few cowards fleeing the war. There were the former soldiers, those who mustered out from both sides, and then there were the deserters.

Do not suppose because a man deserted, he was a coward. One cannot argue that all deserters were cowards. Most of them were just weary of the war, sick of the killing, and the worry of being killed. So, to avoid the Provo Marshals, deserters made their way west. Other men and a few women came west for different reasons.

The lure of gold, a desire for a new life, free of whatever troubled them in the east. Some evaded arrest warrants. Some women fled bad marriages, only to end up in a worse quandary. Taking all that into consideration, all too often, men rushed westward to find their fortune. However they might make it.

By April 1865 in the east, the war wound down an inevitable path toward its end, while the Golden Valley was a hotbed of action. Golden City was the center of the mining universe, holding that title since the discovery of gold in Colorado Territory in ‘59.

The wild, wicked town sprang up overnight in the Colorado Gold Rush. It was a rough and rugged mining camp. Golden (as it would come to be known) was the territorial capital in those closing days of the Civil War. The growing community attempted to be somewhat civilized.

The harsh mountain winter begrudgingly yielded to spring. That notwithstanding, snow with a stubborn resistance to the warming air, lay thick on the rugged mountain slopes, while deep icy drifts, with the tenacity of a bulldog, refused to melt away in the alleys of Golden City.

While officially Golden City was the territorial capital, it was such in name only. The territorial legislature met in Denver City most of the time; even though local businessman, W.A.H. Loveland, had constructed a building for their meetings, the first building of brick and motar every constructed in the upstart town. The Governor lived in Denver City, as did the United States Marshal. The only official territorial functions held in Golden City was the territorial court and a US Marshal’s office.

Over the years, Golden City changed little. Wooden structures took the place of tents. A more diverse citizenry wandered the streets, and yet, a mining encampment it remained. The camp was a wild and raw place filled with violence and treachery. A wide-ranging mixture of humanity inhabited the rowdy municipality.

Vice abounded in the inhabitants. Some folks were consumed with greed, while others felt dark passions and lusty cravings. Then there were those driven by the better angels toward compassion and kindness. The godly coexisted with the godless and worse, each group exerting its influence on the other. Golden City was not that different than anywhere else. Perhaps rougher, certainly less refined than its eastern cousins. Yes, indeed, it was more violent. In short, Golden City was a bang-up place to find your fortune.

Miners themselves covered the gamut of humanity, from near-do-wells to out and out brigands, from thieves to killers. Even the holy righteous panned or dug for gold in the Golden Valley. Men who work hard, play hard. That is just the nature of such men. The merchants were happy to take their gold, coin, or folding money. Those who supplied the prospectors did well, and those who fed them prospered, but those who entertained these hard men flourished the most.

In a strange unification, brothels, saloons, and gambling houses lined the streets interspersed between less extreme businesses. It wasn’t at all unusual for a general store or haberdashery to be flanked by a saloon and a brothel while directly across the thoroughfare stood a gambling hall.

Some business comprised all three of the sourdoughs’ favorite entertainments. The biggest, most impressive, and most famous and infamous was the Painted Lady. There was no hour of the day or night that the Painted Lady closed its doors. It provided soiled doves, tables for every kind of gambling, and a bar par excellence, along with a theater. Singers, dancers, and comedians performed nightly. Often, there were plays and even readings of poetry or Shakespeare. The theater lent the establishment the illusion of respectability.

One could buck the tiger there from four o’clock in the morning until six that night. Follow this activity with a succulent steak. Retire to the theater at eight and watch singers, comedians, and actors for four hours. After all this, you could top the evening off in the arms of a strumpet upstairs in the comfort of a private room.

The Painted Lady occupied the better part of a city block, sharing the final 25 feet with a small church. The irony of the closeness of proximity for these competitors for the souls of men was lost on no one. The preacher felt outflanked at every turn but persevered, making and selling leather goods for his livelihood, preaching on Sundays and fighting the good fight every day.

The proprietor of the Painted Lady, Charlton Healey was a man of unknown origin. He possessed a quick wit, silver tongue, and dubious moral fiber. Having been elected to the town council, he set his sights on more lofty goals. His refined Boston accent, polished manners, and slick business dealings made him the envy of many a businessman in the Colorado mining community. Healey had prospered since his arrival during the first frenzied days of the strike.

Charlton Healey, often called Chuck, had a vision of his future. A concept of being the wealthiest man in all of Colorado Territory. The recently opened US Marshal’s Office hampered his plan. The Deputy in charge, Deputy US Marshal Joseph Nathan Meeker, wouldn’t be an easy obstacle to navigate. The two Deputies under him were an oddity, a half-breed Yale-educated Crow, and a gal-boy woman. The latter possessed quite the reputation, having already killed at least two men in a gun battle at a bank robbery in Colby, Kansas.

Often, the simplest solution is the best. Money, if they would take it, could ease the burden of the law being present. Healey didn’t like Redskins, and the thought of a tomboy law officer repulsed him. He believed women to be a commodity, nothing more. A woman parading around in men’s clothing, thinking, and acting like she was the law as if she was equal to any man? Well, that just wouldn’t do.

****

At 69, Henry Buffalo Head felt ancient. Knowing his days neared their end kept him mindful of making the most of each day. The old Indian busied himself, building a fire in the stove, preparing the breakfast and coffee. Perhaps, to both the workers and guest of the jail, the coffee was most important to a happy day, first thing in the morning.

It was a special day, as the day before had been. April 6th and 7th could be considered red-letter days. They were the birthdays of Sarah Culbertson and Michelle Tanner. The former had turned 15 the day before on the sixth, while the latter turned 21 that day.

Henry wanted nothing more from life. He had found his place in the sunset of his days. In truth, though, he did have one more desire. He wanted to see Sarah into adulthood. The old man believed he owed the orphan that much. The 15-year-old studied to be a teacher, and soon she would have students of her own. The old man thought of all the changes in his life. For a moment, an ever so brief instant, he contemplated the Trail of Tears and those hardships.

Let the past live in the past, he thought, the future is not yet upon us, and the present has trouble enough.

He was the Jailer. How strange that Henry ended up a jailer for the same government that dispossessed him of his land and moved him and his family all those miles. Working for the government that had cost him everything and everyone he had held dear. Ironic, in a certain way, that Buffalo Head served at that institution’s pleasure. In truth, he served Joseph Nathan Meeker, not the government, but that distinction was lost on most.

The Harvard-educated veterinarian had come a long way from his Georgia roots. All the way to Indian Territory. Then a Colorado Ranch and now in the Golden Valley. Here in Golden City, Henry Buffalo Head worked for Joseph Nathan Meeker minding the jail and its inhabitants. Both those at the hoosegow by choice and those there against their will.

What a fast ride life is, the old Indian sighed. He chuckled, opened the door, and walked out into the muddy street. Beholding the eastern sky, he turned his lined face toward the yellow haze above the craggy horizon. The temperature dropped as dawn neared, and again Henry pondered why the impending break of day caused a cooling. There was a reason, and he had always intended to find out what it was.

Never is there enough time for everything. Buffalo Head’s thoughts turned back to the here and now.

The city streets were a slushy mess, while the slopes surrounding the town hung heavy with thick blankets of snow. After cleaning the muck from his boots, Henry moved back inside the Jailhouse to tend his cooking.

The smell of the bacon, eggs, and coffee wafted through the jailhouse. There came a grumbling from behind the big sturdy locked door leading to the cells. Two of the three prisoners began to give complaint. One of the prospector detainees took to running his steel coffee cup over his bars.

Buffalo Head moved to the door, unlocked it, sticking his head into the back room.

Keep it up, and I won’t bring you hombres any breakfast a’tall today, Henry smiled at the three men. It’ll be a few minutes yet fellers.

Buffalo Head’s bark always exceeded his bite; a congenial soul trapped in Indian flesh. If not for his reddish-brown flesh, and long gray hair you might think Henry to be a banker or doctor. He always wore a three-piece pinstriped navy-blue suit and black derby hat. The old Cherokee returned to the stove and finished the prisoner’s breakfast.

After a short wait, the Indian returned with meals for the men. Henry slid each inmate his food tray underneath the bars of their cell door. He came back with coffee and filled their metal cups. Soon the three men ate their fair portion of bacon, eggs, and southern biscuits while drinking their coffee. Buffalo Head was always generous with the coffee.

You’re a good cook, one of the prisoners said.

Right good cook, another younger fellow told him. Old man, you should open a restaurant.

What do you call this? Buffalo Head laughed, the Hoosegow Café, right? See, boys, already have me a restaurant. The two prospectors laughed. If you miners will promise me to behave yourselves from now on, he shook his index finger at the pair, I’ll let you go. I think you two have sobered up, haven’t ya?

Let us finish the meal first, the older one said shoveling in another mouthful. The man talked while he ate. The food sprayed from his mouth landing on the uneaten food still residing on his plate.

Oblivious to his own spittle, the man shoved in a fresh gulp, tore off a large chunk from his southern biscuit, and filled his mouth to overflowing. That notwithstanding, he accompanied it all with a fork full of eggs.

I like sourdough bread, the old miner told Buffalo Head.

I reckon that’s why you guys are called sourdoughs, Henry said. Well, I don’t have any sourdough, Henry huffed at the man. Bring the starter to me, next time Wounded Hawk, Meeker, or Shell locks you up, and I’ll have it for you.

Buffalo Head stood watching the prisoners consume their breakfast. He had given the drunks some doxology the night before; Henry wondered if it would do them any good. Then there was the other one, Daniel ‘Two Tongues’ Hannover, who would swing in a few weeks.

The rascal had been quiet in the months since his trial. Few words came from his mouth. He had been polite to everyone. The change worried Henry. He didn’t trust the sly brigand, not one whit. Hannover looked at Henry and smiled.

You going to be preaching to me today?

You thinking of repenting further?

Would do no good. Made my afterlife first time I ate human flesh, Daniel said.

Well, God bless you, in spite of yourself, Buffalo Head said.

Not likely, more as damned by God, Hannover said, laughing.

Don’t mock the Lord, Henry cautioned.

I ain’t, brother Henry, he said, his refined accent in sharp contrast to the Americanized words he often used. It’s just, well, I don’t think God should waste his time on the likes of me. He has freed me of my passengers. Not a peep out of them since you prayed over me back in Benham, remember that night?

The lie had rolled from his tongue more natural with each repetition. Dark, evil voices still tried to influence Daniel Hannover. The difference came down to just not listening. Especially to the one who had his voice. He was the biggest devil of all.

I remember, you told me you believed, Henry said.

I do, but repenting ain’t the same as being saved. No time remains to make up for the wrongs, Hannover insisted, positive his sins were too dark for forgiveness. I’m heading for hell, sure as, he paused and changed his intended word, shooting.

Daniel, God can save anyone. If you truly repented, you’re saved. Henry Buffalo Head couldn’t help himself; he took his calling seriously.

I can’t go to heaven… Hannover’s voice trembled slightly. Wouldn’t be right … I might run into someone I killed … or did worse too. Besides my heaven has been in this cell with the peace and quiet in my head, he said sliding the plate with the remnants of his food through the small slot at the bottom of the door. Henry, as always, a feast fit for a king, he belched, then thought a moment.

But if you want to pray for me, I wouldn’t object. In truth Hannover coveted the prayers. He felt they gave him the strength to resist the demons inside his head.

I do every day and night, Henry replied.

Ya think the young buck, Deputy Hawk, will be there when I get my necktie? Hannover took a big swig of his coffee, then set it down empty. He went back to his little cot and lay down, gazing at the ceiling.

Yes, Henry replied. I don’t think he’ll pray for you though.

Don’t blame him. My killing his sister and her husband didn’t endear me to him, not to mention murdering his partner. Hannover’s eyes glassed over, Wish it were May. This waiting is killing me, he said, then laughed at his own joke.

Buffalo Head sighed, shaking his head. Despite not knowing if Hannover told him the truth or not, he felt for him. To know the day and hour of your death had to be a hard thing.

Tell my angel, Miss Sarah, I’d like to have a word with her. If you don’t mind, Henry.

****

The smell invaded her sleep. The succulent aroma rolled up the stair and wafted into the room. Her eyes fluttered open, and Michelle Tanner observed as the room grew lighter. Dawn, she thought. She rolled out of bed, yawned then dressed, preparing herself for the day. Her 21st birthday.

Pulling the curtain to one side, Michelle gazed out at the mountain sky. Soon, the sun would cast its warming rays over Golden City. Sunrise, not always an easy moment to capture in the mountains, depending on where you were. Already some people mulled around in the streets. Miners headed to their digs or their claim on Clear Creek. Less of them looked hungover than usual.

Everyone seemed to hold the same feeling, as one and all supposed the end of the war back East drew close. The miners slowed their revelries in anticipatory conservation of their strength, to throw all their efforts into celebration when the word broke. Nonetheless, a fair amount of them managed to beat one another, shoot, or even kill each other.

Shell looked at the other bed, saw Sarah’s eyes roving around under her lids, and knew the girl dreamed. Shell wondered if some pleasant vision danced in Sarah’s head or if terrors gripped her. Perhaps, a nightmare about her parents’ murders.

From the gentleness of her breathing, she assumed that the images pleased the girl. With gentle insistence, Michelle shook Sarah’s shoulder, waking her. Fluttering her eyes open, Sarah smiled at the older woman.

Morning, Michelle said. Sleep well, Little Dove?

Morning, Sarah Culbertson replied. I dreamed of something. I think it was pleasant. Yeah, I slept well. Remembering the day, Sarah lurched up, smiled, and blurted out, Happy birthday!

Well thank you, Michelle grinned at the girl. Now let’s drop that, shall we?

Aren’t we going to have a big tadoo for you?

No, don’t like that sort of thing for me, Shell said. Better get ready. Wouldn’t do to be late, Michelle reminded her. Not for your second day of preparation. School starts in less than a month remember. The schoolmarm tells me you’re coming along well, says you’ll be a good assistant.

Sarah beamed at the compliment. The fifteen-year-old had adapted to her new life well. Orphaned the year before, she had been taken in by this unorthodox band of people. The women hurried down the stairs together, each the complete opposite to the other.

Sarah dressed in a plain gray cotton dress. Michelle’s garb consisted of a black frock coat, a fancy striped vest, a man’s white silk shirt, black and tan riding pants, and her gun belts with their big .44 Colt Army’s tucked in the Slim Jim holsters. The Crescent Star badge hung on the left side of her vest, under the frock coat.

Good Morning, Buffalo Head said, smiling at them. He poured coffee into everyone’s cups, adding a touch of milk to Sarah’s coffee. Happy Birthday, Hair of Flame.

I told you about that, Shell reminded him.

What? Henry said, I gave you that name. Now I can’t use it?

Not the name, the birthday thing, Michelle said, sipping her coffee.

Oh, that. Well, think nothing of it, I won’t say another word. The old man’s eyes sparkled as he glanced at Sarah. What kind of cake do you like best?

Henry! Michelle snapped.

Buffalo Head laughed loud and long, and despite herself, Michelle grinned at the old Indian.

Nate and Hawk left already? she asked, looking around the office.

Yeah, headed out a little bit ago. Some feller got a little too much of a good time last night.

Michelle’s eyebrows raised at that. Well, we got room in the back for another one to dry out.

Henry nodded, then turned to the young girl and motioned to the cells. Speaking of which, Sarah, he wants to see you.

Jumping from her chair, Sarah ran into the back of the jailhouse, heading straight to the bars at Hannover’s cell.

Daniel Hannover sensed her approach, then heard her come in the room. Opening his eyes, he scrutinized her for a moment as his crooked, sly grin broadened to a smile.

Ere’s my angel, he said. When I’m gone, my lawyer will visit you and give you something from me. ‘Tisn’t much but I want you to have it.

What?

That’s for after May 15, he stood up and turned his back. Thank you, my little Angel, for the kindness you showed me when I didn’t deserve it. Don’t watch me swing, please. I couldn’t take it if you saw me do the jig. In the future, if you ever have an occasion to talk about this unrepentant sinner, if you use one of my nicknames when you speak of me … use Two Tongues … not that other one. The Indians called him Bone Picker, and he hated what it represented about him.

I wouldn’t use either of them, Sarah told him. Those voices pestering you today?

Promise ya won’t tell Henry, Hannover asked her, turning back to face the girl. Sarah nodded.

Yes, they’re there, but not too loud anymore. I don’t want Buffalo Head to know his… he paused, searching for the right word. His exorcism didn’t work.

Sarah, Henry