Here is Chapter 101.
Sherman’s name has been changed to Willard Marlow — an obvious reference to both Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now.
Captain Devall’s name has also been changed. It is now Captain Kurt — a similar reference to Kurtz, whose name is used in both of the above.
Darrell’s name remains the same.
As well, I am continuing to play with accents in these first narrative drafts. I am becoming fond of the Appalachian accents for this story line. I think I will probably keep them.
They should merge nicely with the Deadwood accents in the Two Bears storyline once these two threads connect.
101 – STAINS
Kitchen smells from Copper Creek reached them long before the town came into view. Dense clouds hanging down below the tree line created an impenetrable barrier. Unable to escape, chimney smoke from the town’s many homes and businesses lingered, creating a haze that filled the valley. From his vantage point, Marlow could discern outlines, but he could not distinguish many details.
“Looks like they built a wall,” he said to Darrell, who was riding alongside.
“Never heard of a mining camp with a wall,” the young ranger responded.
“Me neither,” Marlow admitted, after searching his mind for other examples.
“Bandit problems?” Darrell asked.
“Could be,” Marlow replied. “Don’t seem likely though.”
Copper Creek had problems, Marlow recalled. The mine was dangerous and miners had a tendency to get sick, but neither of these problems could be solved with a wall. Timmins’ mine was a copper and malachite mine, not a gold mine. Robbing malachite mines was not a thing as far as he knew.
“Smells good,” said Darrell.
“That’ll be the stew.” Marlow smiled. “They spend half the day cooking it. By suppertime it melts in your mouth.”
Copper Creek was the nicest place Marlow had ever been. It started as a camp back when the mine started as a copper mine. But grew into a wealthy town after they found malachite.
The people who live in Copper Creek took pride in their town, he told Darrell. The mine’s owner described his business as a partnership. The miners weren’t just his employees. They were his partners.
In addition to owning the mine, Timmins owned the largest house in Copper Creek. But he went to the same church, bought goods from the same stores, and sent his kids to the same school as his miners. By paying his employees well, he guaranteed himself a nice town full of people who worshipped him as a hero.
“Mining camps I’ve seen were tents or shacks,” Darrell said.
“Those’ll be company mines,” Marlow replied.
None of the Company’s shareholders even live on this continent, Marlow explained. They don’t have a stake in the communities around the mines. So they don’t care. Whereas Copper Creek was a place a miner could live and raise a family, nobody dared bring a woman or a child to a mining camp owned by the Company
“Darrell,” Lieutenant Kurt said, barking an order from behind them. “Your turn.”
The young deputy slowed his horse obediently and allowed the column to pass while Kurt took Darrell’s place alongside Marlow.
“What do you think, Sergeant?” Kurt asked. “Stew first or bath?”
“Ooooooooo,” Marlow replied, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brow in exaggerated thought.
Squeaky Clean or Stew Pot? That’s what Kurt was really asking. Both businesses were next door to each other in Copper Creek and both were across the street from the Copper Kettle Public Rooms. Sitting in the hot springs after days on the road was heaven – unless you were hungry and it was suppertime at the Stew Pot. Then the smell of that famous food made the hot springs pure hell.
“Imma say stew,” Marlow decided.
“Me, too.” Kurt nodded. “Once I hit that water, all I’m gonna wanna to do is sleep.”
Kurt’s priority, he made clear, was getting clean. In the morning, they would ride out to Eastbranch. It would be his first time back there since being exiled to the Chateau. He was determined to make a good impression.
Marlow left Eastbranch a year ahead of Kurt, just as the new district boss – the lieutenant governor – was getting settled in. Speaking against his new boss’ plan to open a patrol station in Cooper Creek was the end of the line for Marlow. Kurt stayed a while longer because he supported his cousin’s plan. But eventually he made his own misstep and was transferred out as well.
“He said I was soft,” Kurt recounted to Marlow about his cousin as they approached Copper Creek.
“Were you?” Marlow asked. “Soft, I mean.”
“I s’pose we were.” Kurt nodded. “He wanted Timmins hung.”
“The mine owner?” Marlow reined his horse to a stop.
“Him and his foreman.” Kurt stopped, too.
“Why?” Marlow was shocked.
“Said Timmins was behind the riots.”
“Well how does that make any sense?”
Kurt shook his head. “We didn’t think so neither.”
“Huh,” Marlow said, biting the side of his bottom lip before squeezing his horse forward again.
“We shoulda done it, though,” Kurt continued, thinking aloud.
“Why?”
“Because Buford knows. He’s a damn genius!”
“Buford is?” Marlow had other ideas.
“He’s the one that come up with the healer idea.”
“Meaning it was his idea to make the men work sick.” Marlow gave Kurt a skeptical side-eye.
“They ain’t so sick they can’t work.”
Marlow pressed his lips together and inhaled through his nose.
“Point is… it allows Buford to get back some of the money he pays them greedy miners.”
“Timmins, you mean.” Marlow corrected him.
“Timmins what?
“Taxing the healers allows Timmins to get back some of the money he pays the miners.”
Kurt shook his head. “Timmins don’t own the mine no more.”
Marlow stopped his horse a second time.
“Say that again,” he said, frowning.
“Timmins got hisself in a jam and Buford took over.”
“Got hisself in a jam.” Marlow echoed Kurt and leaned in.
“That’s what my brother said.”
Marlow assessed Kurt. He appeared to believe what he was saying. “Your brother still at Eastbranch?” he asked, starting his mount forward again.
“He’s a captain now.”
“Your brother say what kind of jam?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t say or won’t say?”
“Don’t know. All I know is Buford took over pretty much every business in Copper Creek,” Kurt declared, “including the mine.”
The walls at Copper Creek were made of lumber. Nothing about them appeared defensive in nature. The guards on the battlements faced into the town.The ground beyond the walls remained untouched. No trees had been removed. There was no ditch. Nor was there a moat.
A gap in the wall permitted passage; it was gateless. Here they were greeted by guards who made them wait while a superior was summoned. Upon his arrival, the visitors were instructed to report directly to Captain Kilgore and a deputy was dispatched to escort them to the patrol station.
Copper Creek had changed. In fact, it was nearly unrecognizable. What had been a quiet main street lined with tidy homes and orderly businesses was now a raging bacchanalia. Filthy canvas tents, fronted by barkers, lined both sides of the street. Every boardwalk was teaming with drunken miners. Second floor balconies were overflowing with colorful floozies.
“The mines are closed for the rains,” their guide explained. “It’s a good week for the stains.”
“A good week for the what now?” Marlow asked, struggling to hear him over the noise.
“A good week for the stains,” he repeated, waving in the direction of the second floor balconies.
Marlow nodded then turned to Kurt. “I thought they were smudges.”
“Smudges come and go,” their guide replied, thinking Marlow was talking to him. “Stains are here to stay.”
Marlow nodded again. “Why aren’t they going home?”
“Most of them are widows. Trying to earn their exit tax. Some are addicts. Every goddam one of them has a sob story of some kind. Ain’t but two or three that won’t be here next year.”
The streets were crowded with drunken men of different shades ranging from flax to dandelion. Ravers mumbled to themselves or shouted vulgarities. Some were beaten by barkers or men less yellow than themselves.
“If the mines are closed,” Marlow asked the guide, “why don’t the miners go home?”
“Some will,” he replied. “Some can’t afford the exit tax. They either lost their money gambling or spent it on jugs and stains.”
As they led their horses through the chaos of the main street, the Squeaky Clean came into sight. What had been a bathhouse was now a whorehouse. The Stew Pot next door was still in operation, but its porch was near to falling off the front of the building. And the Copper Kettle, across the street, had only a single unbroken plane of glass on the front of the building.
“But we could smell the stew,” Kurt objected to Marlow, who shrugged helplessly.
“What happened to Timmins?” Marlow asked their guide.
“Poisoned,” the man responded, leading them around a corner to a side street leading uphill toward a looming fortress. “Some crazy miner.”
The side road climbed and then dead-ended in front of the patrol station, which was perched on the slope overlooking the rooftops. The ground floor of the building appeared to be a barracks to Harlow. In front was a hitching post where they left their horses before climbing a staircase to the second floor.
As they ascended, Harlow noted the unusual width and sturdy construction of the stairway, which caused him to examine his surroundings more carefully. Generally speaking, the patrol station was constructed like a fortress. That it was built by the same people who built the wall surrounding Copper Creek appeared to be a given.
There were bars on the ground floor windows, which was not surprising. But there were bars on the floor above it, which was. And as they approached the door to the second floor, he noted that it was both heavy and heavily reinforced – not barracks-heavy, something-else-heavy.
Passing through it, he found himself in a room lined with steel-barred cells that extended back into the mountain slope behind the building. Some of the cell doors were closed and presumably locked, but many appeared to be open in spite of being occupied. The area was crowded with bodies, many more than would be expected in a cell block of this size.
Their guide took them past the cells to the far wall and signalled to a ladder. “He’s not in here,” he said, nodding to an empty desk. “His horse was out front, so he must be up there,” he deduced, looking up to an open trapdoor in the ceiling. “Follow me.”
Commander Kilgore was a tall, athletic man. Grey sideburns peeked out the side of his black cavalry hat, which was wrapped with a black and gold hat band tipped with two golden acorns that rested on the brim over his eyes. Patches on his shoulders and a crest on his hat announced his rank. Around his neck, he wore a yellow cavalry scarf, knotted at the throat. He was flanked by two junior officers and his steel grey eyes were locked on something in the town below.
“You boys’ll bunk with us tonight,” Kilgore proclaimed after Kurt announced his plan for taking a bath. “We’re about to kick a hornet’s nest. Ain’t gonna be safe out there tonight.”
“Problems?” Kurt asked.
“Trouble with some stains.”
“Stains are always trouble.”
“Elected themselves a boss stain. Angela. Plans to start a strike.”
“Men just got paid,” one of Kilgore’s aides added. “They wanna fuck. If the stains don’t put out, the men’ll take their gold home.”
“What do the stains want?” Kurt asked.
“Healers. Same as always,” Kilgore replied.
“They got the sickness?
“Naw. Just the drip. Won’t kill them. Just uncomfortable is all.”
“Won’t kill the men, neither,” added the aide.
“But it will make their peckers fall off eventually,” Marlow raised his eyebrows.
“Doesn’t have to end that way,” Kilgore shook his head, turning to take a sheet of paper handed to him by an aide. “Couple of visits to a healer’ll fix that.”
Kilgore read what was on the sheet as the group stood silently by.
“So what’s happening tonight?” Kurt asked eventually.
“See that house over there with the stone shingles?” Kurt replied, looking up from his reading. “They’re holed up in there. Surrounded. We’re about to go in and grab Angela. Bring her back here and lock her up. Take her to Eastbranch for trial tomorrow. Things’ll be tense for the next few days.”
“Seems awful crowded downstairs already,” Marlow commented.
“Brought in the healers for safekeeping until this is over. Plus we got a bunch of welchers we’re taking with us to Eastbranch. Be a bit crowded for a few days, but we’ll make due… Sergeant!” he snapped to an officer standing near the edge of the roof, turning to exit the discussion.
The building became a hive of activity. Kilgore barked orders, sending aides rushing down the ladder, disappearing into the building. A short while later, a column of fours marched away in heavy armour while Kilgore scowled after them from his rooftop perch.
Marlow turned his back to Kilgore and spoke to Kurt in a hushed voice. “This is the kind of thing that started the riot when I was here,” he said. “Going heavy begs a response.”
“Goin soft, begs reassignment,” Kurt reminded him.
“Whores ain’t generally armed,” Marlow countered. “And a strike over sore lady parts ain’t exactly sedition.”
“Commander Kilgore is on our side, Sergeant.” The lieutenant was annoyed. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“Yes, sir,” Marlow replied, pressing his lips together.
What happened next wasn’t entirely clear. There was shouting. It was followed by banging. Then more shouting. Then came a few moments of quiet… followed by smoke. Just whisps, at first. Until it thickened. Darkened.
Then flames appeared. Soon after, sparks and embers were rocketing up past the shingles and showering down on neighbouring buildings. Kilgore’s raid on the stubborn stains had taken a very troubling turn.
Bacchanalia turned to pandemonium. Drunks became fire fighters. Bucket brigades formed, but the fire was too fast and the mob was too disorganized. The building was engulfed. It was quickly apparent that there would be no survivors.
Kilgore was furious. “Get the men back here,” he ordered.
“But they’re helping with the fire,” an aide informed him.
“Get them back… now!” Marlow could see panic in Kilgore’s eyes.
The inferno blazed past sunset, sparking spot fires throughout the town and filling Copper Creek with the smell of roasted flesh. The panic engendered by fire closed every business, including the saloons. So by sunset, when the emergency was over, everyone was near sober.
At his orders, Kilgore’s deputies prepared for retribution. Marlow watched with a knot in his stomach as they emptied the armoury and geared themselves up. Seizing the opportunity to ingratiate himself, Kurt volunteered his troop. Marlow, Darrell, Cleetus, Harlan, and Eli were added to a unit under the command of Sergeant Walton. They were stationed at ground level in front of the patrol station when the crowd began to form.
The first to come were the stains, shouting, venting, crying in rage. Fourteen women, including Angela, died in the blaze, along with four children. Rumours spread that Kilgore’s men had blocked the doors to prevent anyone from escaping. Whether that accusation was true or not was irrelevant.
Marlow and the deputies held the line against the women’s furious taunts. The saloons reopened shortly after the sun went down. The mob dissipated thereafter and some of the deputies relaxed. But Marlow did not. He knew that liquor would soon bring the mob back with bolstered courage and diminished common sense.
The first rock struck a deputy’s metal helmet with a clang. It was followed a bit later by a second. Then a third. The patrol station was elevated, requiring stones to be thrown uphill, meaning the vast majority of stones landed harmlessly in the dirt far short of the line.
Kilgore observed it all from the station’s roof. Kurt and Captain Walton kept looking over their shoulders to monitor his mood. Drunken miners gathered on the sidelines to cheer the women on. When they started betting openly on individual stone throws, Marlow knew Kilgore would soon reach his limit.
The order to march forward came from Walton. By then, the deputies were itching for a fight. None of the small stones had done any physical damage, but a few egos were severely bruised – making the deputies’ march forward all about revenge.
Marlow watched the miners warily as their line moved down the slope toward the protesting women. They were cheering now, because they expected the women to run. But if the women stayed, if they didn’t run, Marlow wondered how the miners would react to the wet spray from the deputies’ bloody swords.
Many of the women fell back as the deputies approached in the lamplight. A few stood their ground, trading fearful glances as the armed men pressed forward. Run, Marlow screamed silently. But they didn’t run. In fact, the bravery of the few inspired some who had stepped back to step forward once again.
As the gap closed, cheers fell silent. Mouths gaped. One of the miners, realizing things were going too far, rushed into the gap holding his palms up to the deputies, urging them to stop. Captain Walton ran him through and the deputies around him charged the last few steps toward the unarmed women.
Marlow was on the outside edge of the left flank. He and Kurt were the most experienced swordsmen in their troop. Their job was to prevent encirclement if things got hairy – which, of course, happened immediately.
The sight of armed men attacking unarmed women stirred defiance in the stains and chivalry in the miners. It might have been the alcohol. It might have been the pent up frustrations of a nearly disastrous day, but melee quickly turned to riot and riot quickly turned to massacre.
The first person to move in from the left was a furious young woman still holding a stone. Marlow swept her legs out from under her. Then he squatted over her, pressing her to the ground with his forearm. “Stay down,” he hissed in her face. “I don’t want to kill you.” Eyes wide and brimming with tears, she nodded her understanding.
Next was a miner, who rushed in to defend the young lady pinned under Marlow – his only weapon, a bottle of whiskey which he wielded like a club. Marlow sidestepped his attack, wheeled, and smacked him in the back of his head with the flat of his blade. The man fell instantly into an unconscious heap.
An aggressive posture and an intimidating sneer prevented other onlookers on his flank from joining the fight. But when he scanned right, he found Kurt glaring at him. Marlow knew that he’d been caught. He understood immediately that there would be consequences.
As Kurt’s mouth opened to speak, a sound caused both men to turn. A giant miner, outweighing either of them by at least ten stones, was barreling up the slope with a wooden bench across his chest. Marlow was able to jump clear, but all Kurt had time to do was thrust his sword forward so that its point stuck in the wooden seat. The giant’s forward momentum collided with Kurt and sent him tumbling backward as the big man fell on top.
For the briefest of moments, Marlow considered allowing nature to take its course. In a few dozen heartbeats the giant would either choke the life out of Kurt or pound his skull into the ground. And had the onlookers around Marlow decided to engage, he may have done exactly that.
When they did not, Marlow stepped toward the big man, planted one foot in the center of his back, reached down to grab a handful of greasy brown hair, pulled back and then slit the man’s throat. He then stepped away and turned back to the fight, leaving Kurt to fend for himself.
The riot in front of the patrol station was brief. The mob was angry but outmatched. Wisdom got the better of them and they soon fled to get better weapons. No deputies were lost in the melee but nine women and four miners lay dead in the street with several more bleeding heavily as they beat a hasty retreat.
The rest of the night was a series of skirmishes as Kilgore tried to enforce order in the streets. As the sky lightened in the east, Marlow felt a glimmer of hope that they might actually reach dawn without further loss of life. Unfortunately, the protestors were not done making their point and, unable to exact retribution on the patrol station, they decided to burn down the church.
Captain Kilgore lost his mind when flames were spotted at the bottom of the slope at the intersection leading up to the station. Ordering everyone forward, the deputies charged down the hill. Several deputies lost their balance and fell in the rush. Darrell nearly took Marlow’s feet out as he rolled down the hill, taking Kurt with him.
Protestors scattered in every direction as the deputies arrived on the scene and the fire was quickly extinguished. “Hopefully, that’s the end of it,” Marlow said to Harlan and Eli as they left the church heading back toward the patrol station.
A few dozen yards up the hill, they came upon a group of deputies standing in a circle. They were about to side-step them and go around when the sound of Kurt’s voice caught Marlow’s ear. Pushing his way into the circle, Marlow spotted Darrell laying on his back with a healer squatting over him. An axehead was planted in Darrell’s chest and blood was streaming from his mouth and nose. He did not appear to be breathing. The ground around his head and neck was dark with blood.
“He stepped in a hole,” Kurt’s voice said. Marlow looked around the circle and located the source. “He fell on his axe,” Kurt explained.
“Well… can they fix him?” Marlow asked, as much to the healer as to Kurt.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” the healer said kindly. “The most powerful healer on the continent cannot bring people back from the dead.”