“You can have the title and welcome to it, old-timer,” Scratch said with a laugh.
While Chloride was blustering again about being called an old-timer, the captain of the fire company said, “Let’s get some water on that debris, men. We don’t want the fire spreading.”
The volunteers went about the task with practiced efficiency, working the hand pump to send a spray of water from the tank on the wagon through the hose and onto what was left of the cabin. Smoldering wood sizzled and popped as the water hit it.
While they were doing that, Bo asked the captain, “Reckon we could get a ride back into town with you fellas? Our saddles burned up in the shed.”
The man nodded. “Sure. Where are your horses?”
“Around here somewhere,” Scratch said. He put a couple of fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. The Texans weren’t surprised when their mounts came trotting up a minute later. The horses were well trained and had a knack for avoiding trouble when they could.
Once the fire was completely out, Bo, Scratch, and Chloride climbed onto the wagon with the rest of the men and rode back into town. The horses trotted along behind the wagon.
A crowd of curious bystanders was waiting in Deadwood. The news of what had happened spread rapidly, and one excitable gent called out, “Three cheers for the gallant Texans and their defeat of the Devils! Hip, hip, hooray!”
The rest of the crowd took up the cheer, which caused Bo and Scratch to exchange an uncomfortable glance. Scratch leaned closer to his friend and said quietly, “Some of those varmints may have took off their masks and snuck back into town already. They could be in this bunch right now.”
“I know,” Bo said. “And after spending months terrorizing the people around here, I don’t imagine they’re very happy about what’s going on.”
“That’s liable to make ’em try even harder to kill us.”
Bo nodded as he looked at the excited crowd and said, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
While Bo and Scratch were putting up their horses for the night at Hanson’s Livery after all, Martha Sutton arrived with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a worried look on her face.
“Are the three of you all right?” she asked. “I heard that your cabin burned down, Mr. Coleman.”
“Got burned down, you mean,” Chloride said. “It was them durned Devils again.”
“They seem to have declared war on the three of you.”
“We’ve been in wars before,” Bo said.
“Always came through all right,” Scratch added.
“Then you’re not hurt?” Martha asked.
Bo shook his head. “We’re fine. We lost our saddles, tack, and bedrolls in the fire, but that’s all.”
“I’ll replace those,” Martha said with an emphatic nod. “It’s my responsibility. The Devils wouldn’t be after you if you weren’t working for me. And you’ll stay in those hotel rooms after all.”
“We won’t argue about that with you, ma’ am,” Bo told her. “I’m a little curious, though, about one thing . . . How did you know what happened to Chloride’s cabin? It’s late enough that you had probably turned in for the night, hadn’t you?”
Martha looked a little uncomfortable and embarrassed, and for a second Bo wondered if he had gone and poked his nose into something that was none of his business. But then she said, “Phillip Ramsey came to my house and told me.”
“Ramsey?” Scratch repeated in surprise. “That bookkeeper fella who works for Nicholson?”
Martha nodded. “He’d heard about it—I don’t know where—but he didn’t know if the three of you were all right. He thought I might want to know, since you work for me.”
Scratch grunted and said, “I didn’t much cotton to that young fella. Seemed a mite weasel-like to me.”
“Phillip’s not totally a bad sort. It’s just that he works for the Argosy, and, well, Lawrence Nicholson and my father were rivals for a long time. Naturally, there’s some hostility on both sides . . .”
But there was a part of Martha that wished the hostility didn’t exist, Bo sensed. That didn’t come as a complete surprise to him. Martha and Ramsey were about the same age, after all, and even though a gal and a young fella might be business rivals, that didn’t always extend to the other parts of their lives.
To spare Martha any further embarrassment, Bo changed the subject by saying, “We’ll head down to the hotel now and get some rest. Morning will come awful early, I expect.”
Martha nodded. “Of course.” She put a hand on Chloride’s arm. “I’m very sorry about your cabin, Mr. Coleman. I’ll do anything I can to help make it up to you.”
That much attention from a pretty young woman did wonders for the old-timer’s hurt feelings. Chloride shuffled his feet and said, “Aw, shucks, Miss Sutton, don’t worry about it too much. It was just a ramshackle ol’ cabin that didn’t even belong to me, not really. I was just sorta squattin’ in it.”
“You lost some personal belongings, though. Just let me know what you need replaced, and I’ll take care of it if I can.”
Chloride nodded. “Yes’m, I’ll do that. Right now, though, I’m fine.”
She smiled at him and squeezed his arm, and Bo would have sworn that the old pelican was blushing furiously under all those whiskers.
Martha insisted on going with them to the hotel and making the arrangements for their rooms. Then the three men insisted on walking her back to her house, a neat frame structure in one of Deadwood’s residential neighborhoods on the slope above downtown. It was the wee hours of the morning before they were all settled down and asleep in their hotel rooms, and as Bo had predicted, he seemed to have barely closed his eyes when the
