Jordan took a few moments to assess the effects of his shot. Only Ben Thompson and the Indian were safely across the loose shale and in the cover of a ring of pines. The others had fallen back to seek cover in a shallow gully—all except Whitey Hickson. Whitey was on his way back down the slope, hurrying as much as possible without losing his footing and plunging headlong after his horse. Jordan felt confident that a good portion of the determination had drained from the three in the gully, and a little more encouragement on his part might send them home. He chambered another round, and sighted on a spot on the ground close to one of the horses. It had the proper effect. The bullet kicked up dirt and gravel on Lester Pierce’s leg. He yelled, thinking he had been hit. When he realized that he had not been shot, he deemed himself lucky, and determined not to test fate any further. “Jesus,” he exclaimed. “I’m gettin’ outta here, boys, before that son of a bitch’s aim gets any better.”
Without waiting to discuss it, Lester started down the mountain after Whitey, using his horse to shield him from the rifle above on the ledge. There was no more than a moment passed before the other two saw the wisdom in Lester’s decision, and followed suit.
“Hey!” Ben shouted after the retreating men. “Come back here! We’ve got him treed.”
J.D. Watts answered for the disenchanted members of his posse. “We didn’t sign on to commit suicide,” he yelled over his shoulder as he puffed and panted in his efforts to descend the slope as quickly as his stumpy legs would carry him. “You do what you want. I’m gettin’ outta here.”
“Hell, you’re the sheriff,” Lester said, but not loud enough for Ben to hear. “If you want him so bad, you go get him.”
Up above, Jordan watched the four posse members retire from the field of battle. His concern was now reduced to two, and they were concealed in a screen of pine trees. With hope that they, too, might be discouraged at this point, he decided to offer amnesty. “Thompson,” he called out. “I won’t shoot if you go on back with the others and leave me be.”
Ben responded immediately, “You might as well give up, Jordan. I’m gonna hunt you down no matter what.”
The man’s relentless attitude was frustrating to Jordan. “Dammit, Ben,” he yelled back. “You’ve got no call to hunt me. I’ve told you I didn’t murder those men up on Hard Luck.”
“Throw down that rifle and give up, and we’ll let a jury decide that,” Ben said.
Jordan recognized the lie. He knew that he would be shot down as soon as he exposed himself, or hanged when they got him back to town. He decided further talk was pointless, and edged back from the rim of the ledge to the rocks where Sweet Pea waited. Replacing his rifle in the saddle sling, he stepped up into the saddle and guided the mare toward a hogback where he could cross over and make his way down the other side of the mountain.
Below him, Jack Little Hawk listened. Hearing what he knew was the sound of Jordan’s horse, he crawled to the edge of the pines to take a look. He was just in time to see Jordan disappear over the ridge. Hurrying back to Ben, he reported. “He rode over the top, headin’ down the other side. We follow these trees around, we might cut him off on other side.” He made a circling motion with his hand.
“Let’s go, then,” Ben immediately replied, fearful that Jordan would escape once again.
Leaning back in the saddle, his back sometimes only inches from Sweet Pea’s rump, Jordan descended the eastern slope of the mountain. The reins held loosely in his hands, he made no attempt to guide the ornery mare, relying upon her natural ability to pick the best path down. “Easy, girl,” he cautioned when her front hooves slid a little in some loose gravel, but she calmly maintained her balance and continued down toward the ring of pines some fifty feet below them now. Forced to remain patient because of the steepness of the decline, he searched the pine belt constantly in case Thompson and the Indian made their way around to cut him off. He figured if he could reach the cover of the trees he had a good chance of losing them.
At the edge of the pines, Sweet Pea stopped suddenly, her hooves sliding on some loose soil. Not expecting it, Jordan lurched forward, thrown flat against the neck of the horse. At the same instant, he heard the snap of the bullet that passed directly over his head, followed by the report of a rifle. It would occur to him later that the ornery mare had once again saved his bacon, having evidently caught the scent of the other two horses. But at the moment, his mind was occupied with staying alive, and his natural reflexes took over. Instead of trying to regain his balance in the saddle, he kicked his feet out of the stirrups, slid from Sweet Pea’s neck, and dropped to the ground. He rolled over against the trunk of a tree and lay still, listening, not sure where his attackers were. He didn’t have to wait long.
“You got him!” Jack Little Hawk exclaimed when he saw Jordan fall from the saddle.
Thompson lowered his rifle, and peered through the screen of pines before him. It had been a shot of approximately fifty yards, and he had been forced to take it quickly before his target disappeared in the forest. As soon as he pulled the trigger, Jordan had lurched forward and dropped to the ground. Still, he remained cautious. “I ain’t sure,” he said. “We’d best be careful.”
Jack had no doubts. “You got him,” he said. Anxious to take the scalp before the sheriff might decide to deny him the rite, he kicked his pony hard and hurried to the body. Jordan Gray’s scalp would be big medicine—big enough to elevate Jack’s status among his people.
His rifle ready, in case Jordan was still alive, Jack slid from the saddle. His eyes fixed upon the body lying still against a tree trunk. He stood where he was for a long moment, watching. But there was no movement, no sign of life. Reassured, he took one quick glance back to see Ben approaching. Concerned that the sheriff might want to display the corpse with his scalp intact, Jack slid his rifle back in the sling and drew his knife. Moving quickly, he rolled Jordan over on his side, and grabbed a handful of his hair. With scalping knife poised to strike, he was suddenly startled when Jordan’s eyes opened wide to stare right into his face. In almost the same instant, he was shocked by a searing pain in his stomach. Astonished, he looked down to discover Jordan’s knife sunk to the hilt in his gut. Stunned by this sudden turn of events, he tried to fight back. But Jordan moved quickly to lock the wrist of Jack’s knife hand, while withdrawing his own knife and plunging it deeply into the Indian’s gut again. Jack screamed with the pain, and clawed viciously at Jordan’s face with his free hand, fighting helplessly in his agony.
Equally startled by the sudden reversal of fortune, Ben froze, paralyzed for a few moments while the Indian’s death screams rang out through the trees. He was struck with the sobering thought that he was now alone against Jordan Gray, man-to-man, and the notion was not one he relished. With his courage rapidly draining, his thoughts stampeded toward saving his hide. In one last desperate attempt, he raised his rifle and took a hasty shot at his adversary before turning to flee. The bullet meant for Jordan struck Jack Little Hawk in the back, ending the Indian’s agony.
Jordan rolled the body off of him, and scrambled to his feet where he stood for a moment watching the sheriff galloping recklessly through the pines. Well, he thought, I guess that’s the end of that. Still, he was not satisfied with the final outcome. He hesitated for a long moment, trying to decide. Finally, he made up his mind. Collecting Sweet Pea and Jack Little Hawk’s horse, he started out after Ben. There were still some strings he wanted to tie before he was ready to move on.
It was no trouble to follow Ben Thompson’s trail back around to the point where he had started down the mountain. The fearful sheriff had left a wide track that a blind man could have followed. In his apparent haste to leave Jordan behind, Thompson had whipped his horse unmercifully, forcing the already tired animal to gallop when the slope permitted. Jordan followed at a more conservative pace, confident that he would overtake Ben in time while the sheriff had no choice but to rest his exhausted horse.
When he came to the edge
of the pine belt, where the rest of Ben’s posse had turned back when faced with the patch of loose shale, Jordan stopped to study the tracks more closely. The slope was scarred with the evidence of the posse’s earlier struggles to cross the treacherous area. It took him a few minutes of close examination to determine that the man he chased had not risked the shale a second time. All of the tracks led across the shale from the other side. None led back the other way. So Jordan backtracked a few dozen yards to a narrow gully that sliced vertically through the pines. He dismounted and searched the pine needles for sign. In a minute, he found what he was looking for. Thompson had taken the time to try to disguise his trail. He had assumed the gully was a quick way down the mountain to intercept the game trail he and his men had originally followed up the mountain. It was an easy mistake to make. Jordan remembered a time when he and Ned Booth had decided to follow the gully to see where it led, only to end up looking out over the valley from a cliff two hundred foot high. Thinking now that he may have Thompson trapped, he tied the horses to some pine boughs, and proceeded down the gully on foot.
It had been more than a year. But if his memory served him, the gully ran no more than a hundred and fifty yards at the most before it emptied out at the edge of the cliff. It was time to be cautious. With his rifle cocked and ready to fire, he made his way carefully along the narrow defile, his eyes constantly searching the way before him. The sheriff could be hiding in hopes Jordan had not detected the tracks he had attempted to cover with pine straw. Or, he might be on his way back up the gully after discovering there was no way out. Jordan readied himself for either occurrence. As it turned out, however, he was not prepared for what he found.
Ben Thompson was almost paralyzed with terror. He looked down at the tops of the pines some two hundred feet below him. The only thing that prevented him from falling into that frightening space was the puny juniper limb he clutched with both hands. Only moments before, he had ridden his horse down the gully, pushing the tired animal for more speed even though the incline was obviously dangerous. The gully had taken a sharp turn and suddenly he was looking into space. It was too late for the horse. The exhausted animal tried to stop, stumbling as it went down on its side and sliding, throwing Ben from the saddle. Their momentum drove both man and horse over the edge of the cliff—the horse to its death, the man to snag the limbs of a juniper.
Ben was terrified. His bleeding hands went unnoticed as he held onto the branch in desperation. He tried to find purchase with his feet, but the overhang was too much to permit him to reach the cliff wall. He tried to summon the courage to pull himself up, but each time he tried to get a better handhold, the juniper gave way just a little, its roots gradually ripping away from the soil. His arms and shoulders rapidly tiring, he realized that he was helpless, and doomed to fall to his death without divine intervention. The miracle he frantically prayed for came, but in somewhat less than divine form. He almost let go of the branch when he looked up into the eyes of Jordan Gray.
Certain now that he was a dead man, Ben could do nothing but peer into those steel blue eyes, knowing that he was powerless to do anything but choose the way he would die. The thought of falling through the air, his body mangled and crushed in the treetops below, was so abhorrent to him that he pleaded for a quicker death. “Please,” he begged, “put a bullet in my brain. I’m afraid to fall.”
Jordan didn’t answer for a second. He had not come after Ben to kill him. Instead, he wished at that moment that he had led his horse down the gully. It was a long way back to the horses to get a rope from his saddle. He doubted that Thompson could hold on that long. With nothing available to use, he lay down on his belly and reached down with one arm. “Take hold,” he ordered.
Ben was confused by the unexpected move. Suspecting a trick, he only stared at the extended hand—afraid to try for it, only to have it snatched away. In the next moment, however, the roots of the juniper began to give way, and his natural instincts to grasp for anything to save himself took over. He grabbed for Jordan’s hand just as the roots tore from the ground, and now found himself dangling with only Jordan holding him.
The sheriff was not a small man. Jordan’s body slid a few inches toward the edge when he took the full weight of the suspended man. He quickly braced himself with his other arm hooked around the trunk of a pine tree, and steeled his body to take the strain. He felt Ben’s other hand clamp around his forearm as he gradually pulled himself away from the edge of the cliff. Inch by painful inch, he labored, Ben’s dead weight pulling against him as if to dislocate his shoulder from its socket. After what seemed an eternity, the sheriff’s head finally appeared above the rim of the cliff, and he managed to get his arms over the top. With Ben able to help now, Jordan pulled him up over the edge.
Exhausted, Jordan was almost as spent as Thompson. Both men sat gasping for air for a few seconds. Still in a state of confusion at having been saved from falling, Ben suddenly reverted back to the fear that had sent him and his horse plunging over the edge of the cliff. He reached for his pistol, only to find an empty holster. His pistol was two hundred feet below in the trees.
Watching the frantic man’s actions, Jordan commented dryly, “You’re a grateful son of a bitch, aren’t you?” He reached behind him and picked up his rifle.
Finding himself once again at Jordan’s mercy, Thompson fidgeted nervously with his empty holster. “I was just trying to do my job as sheriff. I was just gonna take you in to stand trial.”
“Is that a fact?” Jordan replied sarcastically. “I suppose you took a shot at me back there just to warn me.” When Ben couldn’t come up with a reply, Jordan growled, “I should have let you drop, but I reckon I’m too softhearted for my own good.” He took a step back and motioned with his rifle. “Get on your feet.”
“What are you gonna do?” Ben whined, fearing that he might be about to receive the bullet he had so earnestly begged for moments earlier when he dangled helplessly over the edge of the cliff.
“I’m gonna put a bullet in your head if you don’t do like I tell you,” Jordan replied. “Now start walkin’ back up that gully.”
The sheriff did as he was told, stumbling occasionally as he tried to walk while constantly stealing nervous glances over his shoulder. “Just doing my job,” he mumbled weakly.
“Just keep walkin’,” Jordan said.
In a few minutes, they reached the mouth of the gully and the two horses tied there. “Sit down,” Jordan instructed, gesturing with his rifle toward a pine tree. When Thompson did as instructed, Jordan stepped over to check Jack Little Hawk’s horse. Then he turned to directly face his captive. “You and that rabble you call a posse have been dogging my heels for over a year, and I’m gettin’ damn sick and tired of it. I’ve never murdered anyone in cold blood in my life. I tried to tell you that, but you were so hot to string somebody up you wouldn’t listen. When you couldn’t get your hands on me, you strung up an innocent old man. I oughta shoot you for that, but I reckon you and your posse will have to answer to the devil for that one. True enough, I killed some of your righteous citizens, but only because they were tryin’ to kill me. I didn’t have much choice. Any man would have done the same. I coulda let you die just now, but I reckon I wanted you to know that I didn’t kill those miners on Hard Luck Creek.” He paused to judge the effect of his words on the frightened sheriff. “I’ve got no reason to lie about it,” he continued. “If I was the murderer you think I am, I would have just let you drop. But I guess enough men have died to make up for Ned Booth’s hangin’.”
Ben’s mind was still spinning. He was hearing Jordan’s words, but he wasn’t sure what was up and what was down. Brief moments before, he was certain this was his final day on Earth. Now he was seated upon solid ground, listening to Jordan proclaim his innocence. Could he possibly believe him? If he accepted Jordan’s word, it would mean that he had hanged an innocent man—a possibility he was reluctant to admit. On the other hand, maybe this act of mercy was no more th
an a ploy on Jordan’s part to put a stop to being hounded by a posse from Deadwood. Jordan had spared his life. More than that, he had saved his life, but Ben didn’t want to be taken for a fool. “I reckon I owe you thanks for pullin’ me off of that cliff,” Ben finally muttered begrudgingly.
Jordan studied the man’s face. He could guess what was going through Ben’s mind. “I’ve got no reason to lie. I don’t plan to ever go anywhere near that hellhole you call a town back there. But I never murdered anyone, and I wanted you to hear it from me. Now that you have, I’ll be on my way.” He walked over and untied his horse, keeping one eye on Ben all the while. “I’ll leave you the Indian’s horse. I expect you can find most of your plunder at the bottom of that cliff back there.” He paused then before adding a solemn warning. “Make no mistake about it, if you or anybody else from Deadwood comes after me again, I won’t waste time talkin’.”
Certain at last that he was not going to die, Ben got to his feet and walked over to stand beside Jordan’s stirrup. “I reckon I can admit I was wrong about you and Ned,” he said. “Thanks again for savin’ my bacon. I reckon I couldn’t have blamed you if you had just let me drop. I’ll set things right about you in Deadwood.” He stepped back then and turned to untie Jack Little Hawk’s horse. The Indian pony sidestepped nervously, uncertain about the strange rider approaching it.
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