Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (11 page)

Half an hour after Waltz finished working on Young’s leg, Chief Tenaya came out of the woods and took a stance at the top of the ravine. Raising his spear, the old chief raised his voice in a shout of defiance. As his battle cry filled the air, Waltz aimed his rifle at Tenaya’s chest and pulled the trigger.

The noble chief’s chest bloomed crimson as he fell, mortally wounded.

Stunned and confused by Tenaya’s death, his warriors retreated into the forest and disappeared.

Gradually, squirrels left their hiding places and scurried about in search of pine cones to nibble. Their scolding was a welcome relief from the hush that had prevailed after Tenaya’s death, and a sign the Indians had retreated.

In spite of Waltz’s efforts to save him, Young died. Shocked and sobered that their futile attempt to get easy gold had cost the lives of two men, Roberts covered Waltz with a round of gunfire as he worked his way over to the horses and brought back a spade. The remaining men dug shallow graves, covered the mounds with rocks, and Roberts said a short prayer for their fallen comrades.

As Waltz listened to Roberts’s prayer, he thought about ways to make Weiser pay for the grief he’d caused. Waltz looked at Weiser slumped miserably against a fallen tree, and thought, “What’s worse than death for a greedy bastard like him?”

Feeling Waltz’s eyes on him, Weiser’s hand went instinctively to his gold-filled pocket.

This gesture made Waltz realize that having his gold in another man’s keeping would make Weiser crazy. “That’s it,” he thought. “I’ll take charge of Weiser’s gold an’ keep it with mine.” The corner of his mouth twitched with pleasure as he pictured Weiser’s helpless indignation.

From under lowered eyelids, Weiser saw Waltz’s smile and knew he was in for trouble.

It was dusk before they began their retreat. While the other men filled their canteens from the river, Waltz ordered Weiser to straighten his saddle blanket and tighten up the girth on his saddle.

“Why should I?” Weiser said, his dark eyebrows nearly meeting in a frown.

“Because I said so,” Waltz replied, lowering his voice and moving closer to Weiser. “I saw you kill Webber. Why did you do it? He was your friend.”

Weiser decided to brazen it out. He met Waltz’s scowl and said, “Webber would of wanted the redskin’s gold. Just like you do, Waltz. Only I’m not giving it to you, either, and you can’t make me!”

The corners of Waltz’s eyes tightened as he said, “Yes I can. Because if you don’t give me your gold, I’ll tell the rest of the men you killed Webber.” An onlooker might have mistaken Waltz’s expression for a smile, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You just put your gold in my saddlebags an’ I’ll keep your dirty little secret, at least for now.”

Weiser frowned. He hadn’t seen this coming, but he recovered quickly and said, “That’ll be hard on your horse. He’s already sagging under the weight of your fat ass.”

Weiser’s jibe backfired when Waltz replied, “I didn’t know you was concerned about my horse, but I’m glad you spoke up. Go ahead an’ load the gold on your horse, an’ you can walk.”

“I can what?” Weiser said in astonishment.

“You can walk,” Weiser repeated.

Weiser was no fool. The other men would hang him from the nearest tree if they knew what he’d done. He had to accept Waltz’s temporary advantage, but inside he fumed. “Who the hell does Waltz think he is, treating me like a servant? I’m as smart as he is. Smarter, if it comes to that. There’s not much I can do now, but just wait until we get back to civilization. Waltz is dead wrong if he thinks he can keep my gold! One of these days, I’ll have his as well. I deserve it.”

Dark clouds sent down a mist of fine drops as Waltz and Weiser straggled down the only street in Whiskey Flat and stopped in front of the saloon. Weiser’s bitterness had grown with each mile Waltz forced him to walk. His only comforts were planning fatal accidents to the other men and imagining his soft life ahead in San Francisco. Smoke, laughter, and the promise of warmth drifted from its swinging doors. Waltz looped the reins of their bedraggled horses over the hitching rail and seized Weiser’s arm. “You mind your manners an’ stay where I can see you,” he commanded.

Weiser was footsore and weary. Fuming with resentment, the last thing he needed was Waltz reminding him of his plight. Weiser’s eyes were slits as he snarled, “I’m not your servant. Damn you, Waltz.”

“You better get used to it,” Waltz replied roughly, and shoved Weiser into the saloon. “Now get me some coffee, and make it snappy.”

Inside the saloon, grizzled men leaned on its scarred oak bar and drank whiskey. A mirror behind the bartender reflected shelves of bottles and half-a-dozen tables of card players intent on their game. A squat wood stove warmed the back of the room. Gideon Roberts stood at the end of the bar with Abraham Peeples. He saw Waltz and elbowed his way toward him. Ignoring Weiser, Roberts drew Waltz toward the glowing stove and said, “How do you like this new settlement? They call it Whiskey Flat, an’ you better like it ’cause I already bought this saloon an’ the hotel next door.”

“I like it fine,” Waltz grinned, looking around the crowded room filled with men swapping stories and drinking beer. Whiskey drinkers stood at the bar, resting a foot on the rail and tossing down shots like they were water. Women in low-cut dresses circulated through the crowd, whispering in men’s ears.

Turning to Weiser, Waltz snapped, “Where’s my coffee?”

“Get it yourself,” Weiser retorted.

“What did you say?” Waltz asked, raising a bushy brow and putting his fists on his hips.

“I said, ‘Get it yourself,’ ” Weiser repeated boldly. “I’m not your servant.”

Waltz put his hand on Weiser’s shoulder and said softly, “Yes you are, mister, if you want me to keep your dirty little secret.”

Weiser scowled, but did as he was bid and got the coffee.

Waltz took it without comment, turned his back on Weiser, and continued his conversation with Roberts and Peeples.

Weiser tried to strike up a conversation with Joe Green, who was standing nearby, but Green ignored him and started a conversation with Peeples in a low tone. Weiser couldn’t quite make out Green’s words, but saw him turn his head slightly, gesturing in Weiser’s direction, and both men laughed.

“You holier-than-thou bastard,” Weiser said to himself. “You think you can make fun of me and get away with it, but you’ll pay dearly for this.” Drawing himself up to his full height of five feet ten inches, Weiser pushed past Green and Peeples, and moved toward a table where he saw a vacant chair and a poker game in progress.

The dealer, who was shuffling a well-worn deck of cards, nodded for Weiser to join them. Waltz saw Weiser sit down and walked over to the dealer. “You better be careful when this man’s playing,” Waltz said, loud enough for everyone in a ten-foot radius to hear.

Weiser glanced at Waltz, then looked back at the dealer and said, “My partner here is just jealous. He don’t know how to play this game, an’ he’s a sore loser to boot.”

Waltz ignored the taunt and went back to where Roberts was standing, but managed to keep a close eye on Weiser in spite of the smoked-filled air. Roberts observed Weiser’s growing pile of poker chips and commented, “That’ll be a pretty pile of cash when he cashes in.”

“Yup,” Waltz said tersely, trying to figure out how to get hold of Weiser’s winnings.

As if he’d read Waltz’s mind, Roberts said, “I have a new Diebold Safe in my office, same as the ones that survived the Chicago Fire intact. Would you like to keep your and Weiser’s assets in it?”

Waltz grinned and said, “Damn straight I would, Roberts. You’re a real friend.”

For the rest of the evening Waltz had a little smile playing at the corners of his normally stern mouth as he watched Weiser pile up the chips. “Your cash is goin’ in Roberts’s safe,” he thought, “and there’s nothin’ you can do about it.”

Poker was one of the few pleasures Weiser had left in his current circumstances. He sometimes thought he’d go mad if he didn’t have his profitable evenings at a poker table. He twisted in his chair and stared at Joe Green, who had snubbed him earlier. In Weiser’s eyes, Green was a sorry example of a man, a person with no manners. “I’ll get back at you,” Weiser vowed. “You can’t insult me and get away with it.”

Just then, Green said something to Roberts. “Probably conspiring to take my winnings away,” Weiser thought. He leveled a look of loathing on Green that caught Waltz’s eye.

Weiser turned his attention back to his poker hand. There’d be plenty of time to deal with Green.

Three hours later, Weiser cashed in his chips and started to leave, but Waltz barred the way and said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the hotel,” Weiser replied. “I’m not sleeping in that goddamn tent anymore!”

“You’re sleepin’ in that goddamn tent and liking it,” Waltz responded firmly. “Now hand over the money you just won.”

“I’m not giving you my money,” Weiser snapped. “I earned it an’ I’m keeping it!”

Lowering his voice Waltz said, “You’re handing over your money unless you want me to spill the beans about Webber.” Raising his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, he continued, “I’m glad you had a good evening playing poker, partner, since you an’ me are sharing everything we get!”

Clenching his fists so hard his knuckles grew white, Weiser’s thin lips tightened and drew down at the corners, but he had no choice. The other men would string him up if they even suspected he was the one who killed Webber.

From that evening on, Waltz made sure Weiser understood he owned him, or at least thought he did. Every time Weiser thought he could slip a bit of poker winnings into his pocket, Waltz was there with his hand out to intercept it. It made Weiser crazy to see Waltz lurking in the background, ready to ruin his day. It got so bad, Weiser almost expected Waltz to wipe his backside when he went to the latrine. He would have liked to take Waltz out right then, but it was too soon.

Weiser turned his murderous thoughts to Joe Green. Green liked his privacy, and had pitched his tent far enough upriver for Weiser to kill him and make it look like an Indian raid. But first, Weiser had to put Waltz temporarily out of commission.

Spying some small plants that looked like parsley but were an American cousin to hemlock, Weiser gathered a few seeds, ground them finely with two rocks, and watched for an opportunity to season Waltz’s stew with them.

A few days later, when Weiser was sure Waltz was disabled with diarrhea, he concealed a hunting knife in his boot, helped himself to a few flakes of gold from Waltz’s pouch, and made his way up to Green’s tent.

As soon as he was within earshot, Weiser made a show of sneaking past Green’s tent. To make sure Green noticed him, Weiser stepped on a cluster of dry twigs that crackled in the otherwise quiet afternoon.

Green put aside his gold, picked up his gun, slid the bolt, and waited.

He heard more crackling. Rising from his camp chair, he went to the opening of his tent and saw Weiser. Dismissing Weiser as no danger, Green laid his rifle aside. “What’re you doing up here, Weiser?” Green sneered. “You’re a long ways from your poker table.”

“I’m not doing nothin’,” Weiser said quickly, sticking his hands in his pouch as if it concealed something.

“Gimme that,” Green demanded, snatching the pouch from Weiser’s hands and rifling through it.

When Green saw the gold glistening in the late afternoon sun, he was momentarily mesmerized. Weiser took advantage of his state to slowly and cautiously reach toward his boot, remove his knife, and inch his way around until he was in a position to strike.

Green never knew what hit him as Weiser drove the knife deep into his back.

Moving quickly now, Weiser took off his jacket and laid it aside while he separated Green’s scalp from his skull and buried it under a rock at the edge of the forest. Then he went to the stream and washed the blood from his hands. Finally, doing his best to think like an Indian, Weiser didn’t disturb Green’s personal possessions, except for a few small nuggets that would never be missed.

Half an hour later, Weiser was in the saloon, taking his usual place at a table in the rear. He preferred having a solid wall behind him to discourage spectators from giving away his hand. A man can’t be too careful.

The evening was well along before Green was missed. It was Joe the bartender who first sounded the alarm. When the grandfather clock in the corner sounded nine o’clock and Green hadn’t shown up for his usual bottle of Old Tub Kentucky Whiskey, Joe turned to Hutton and asked, “Where’s your buddy Green?”

Hutton’s forehead puckered as he tried to remember the last time he’d seen him.

“He’s probably upstairs with Rosie,” Adam Peeples said, grinning.

“Naw,” Hutton said, “he wouldn’t be doing that before getting his whiskey.”

They all laughed.

A few minutes later, Weiser said, “I saw some redskins near Green’s tent yesterday. I told him he ought to move his tent closer to town, just to be on the safe side.”

“What did he say to that?” Peeples said.

Weiser looked sideways at Peeples and said, “He told me where I could stick my advice!”

Everyone laughed.

An hour later, the clock struck ten and Green still hadn’t showed up. Fearful, now, for his safety, the men took their guns and went cautiously out to his tent, where they found his scalpless body and Weiser’s carefully constructed scene.

An Indian raid was determined to be the obvious cause of Green’s death.

Waltz, however, was not so quick to jump to that conclusion. He remembered Weiser killing Webber and passing it off as having been done by an Indian. He had let Weiser get away with it at the time, thinking he wouldn’t dare kill again, but apparently he was wrong.

“I thought I could manage Weiser,” Waltz thought, “but he’s obviously out of control. Green may have provoked him, but only a crazy man would kill because he was being taunted.”

Two days later, Waltz picked up his panning pan and a small shovel and went for a walk beside the river. Weiser saw him go and followed, unaware Waltz was using his placer pan as a mirror.

Waltz was so calm and relaxed as he ambled down to the riverbank, one could never suspect the dastardly deed he was planning. He watched as Weiser followed him, ducking from tree to tree.

When he reached a place where the river narrowed, Waltz squatted down on the bank. Whitewater foamed a few feet away, where the current quickened.

Before dipping his pan in the water, Waltz made sure he could see Weiser lurking in the trees. Then he scooped out a little gravel, sloshed it around, examined the resulting sediment, and nodded his head in approval as if he saw something he liked. He repeated this several times, moving a little closer to the rushing current and showing more enthusiasm for what he found.

At first, Weiser stayed at the edge of the trees, but Waltz’s pantomime soon succeeded in enticing him to tiptoe closer.

The river hissed and churned as it swept past them, drowning out all other sounds.

Waltz continued to watch Weiser’s progress in his improvised mirror. And the instant Weiser was close enough, in a flash Waltz dropped his pan, spun around, and hurled Weiser into the river.

Weiser’s scream was smothered by the rampaging water.

Waltz grabbed a log and used it to keep Weiser’s bobbing head underwater, unaware that Adam Peeples had come along. To Waltz’s chagrin, Peeples, seeing what he assumed was an attempt at rescue, waded into the rapids and helped drag Weiser to shore.

Furious at Peeples’s interference, Waltz felt like using his log to bash both Weiser and Peeples, but came to his senses and dismissed the idea. There would be other opportunities to kill Weiser.