As he had anticipated, the winter was long and bitterly cold, but as he also expected, he and both horses survived it, although the horses looked a little thin and ragged. He knew that would soon be improved, now that the valleys were becoming passable once again and the warmer weather brought new grass. He waited until spring showed definite signs that she was officially here. Then, eager to move again after being confined for months, he packed his belongings on Brownie and saddled the bay. It was time to see more of Paha Sapa, and well aware of Stonewall behind him, he was eager to put more distance between himself and that town of gold seekers. It was bound to become even more populated by prospectors hoping to strike it rich, so he set his horse’s nose on the mountains to the north.
On one knee, Wolf bent low to examine the tracks beside a wide stream that was swollen with melted snow from the cliffs above him. There was nothing to figure out. The tracks told a simple story—Indians—for the hoofprints were left by unshod ponies, and there were also moccasin prints in the sandy bank. A war party had crossed here not more than a few hours earlier. With no desire to tangle with what he figured to be at least a dozen or more warriors, probably intent upon attacking isolated mining claims, he crossed over the stream to look for their tracks on the other side. They appeared to be heading in the same general direction as he, so he decided it best to alter his course so as to be sure to avoid them. Veering off more to the west, he continued on his way.
He had ridden no more than an hour when he came upon another trail that cut across his, leading toward a wide stream. It was fed by a waterfall cascading from a rocky notch about halfway up an almost vertical mountainside. Out of habit, he dismounted to examine the tracks more closely. Another raiding party, he thought, about the same size as the one back yonder. Then it struck him that it was probably the same war party. They had changed their direction. The tracks, along with some droppings from the ponies, told him that he was still hours behind the Indians. “I reckon I can turn back more toward the north now,” he commented to Brownie, “and let these fellers go about their business, whatever mischief they’re into.” With one foot in the stirrup, he paused a moment before throwing his other leg over. Once again, his natural curiosity prompted him to change his mind. Maybe I’ll see what these boys are up to, he thought, and turned the bay’s head to the west before settling in the saddle.
With thoughts of avoiding riding into an ambush, he rode across the valley toward the stream, his eyes constantly searching the slopes that formed the far side of the valley. If they’re lying around up there, waiting to ambush me, he thought, they’re pretty well hidden. Reaching the bank of the stream, he started following it toward the waterfall. It was then that he saw the smoke, causing him to pull his horses up sharply while he thought it over. Too spread out to be from a campfire, the thin wisps of smoke wafted lazily up from what appeared to be two or three different sources, hidden from him behind a low hogback. He pulled the Winchester from his saddle sling and cranked a cartridge into the chamber.
With no intention of riding straight in to investigate, he wheeled the bay around and set out at a lope to circle around to the side of the rise. When he reached a point roughly opposite the origin of the smoke, he pulled back on the reins and dismounted, leaving the two horses there while he made his way on foot through the maze of trees that bordered the stream. At the top of the rise, he paused to take in the scene of the massacre. There was no sign of the raiders, only the blatant evidence of their evil passage. Smoldering slowly, a wagon sat, half-burned before the flames had died. Beyond it, two tents were still smoking, a result of the war party’s efforts to set them ablaze, but the canvas had seemed reluctant to burn. As his eyes scanned slowly across the destroyed campsite, his gaze finally lit upon one body and then, several yards away, another body. He rose to his feet and walked down the slope to the camp.
From all appearances, the two prospectors had been caught completely by surprise. A pan was lying on a flat rock at the edge of the stream, and the loose gravel and sand told him that the body had either dragged itself or been dragged away from the water to the spot where it now lay. An older man, he had been scalped, his body mutilated, probably with a hatchet or war axe. The second body was that of a younger man. It appeared he had been running toward one of the tents when he was shot several times. Like his partner, he had been chopped to pieces and scalped. Wolf was not without compassion for the innocent victims, but he was not shocked by what he saw. Since he was eleven, he had lived in the violent world of the warriors of the plains. In his many years living with the Crows, he had learned to count the Sioux as the enemy, but he understood their hatred for the white man. How could it not be a natural reaction when their hunting grounds, even their sacred hills, were rapidly being taken away by the white man? As for these unfortunate victims of a Sioux war party, he was sure there were grieving relatives who would never know what had happened to them. But they had no business here. Even so, he knew that, had he been here at the time of the attack, he would have helped the prospectors fight.
There was no thought of burying the bodies. Doing so would have told the Sioux war party that he had been there, if for some reason they happened to return. It mattered little, anyway, he believed, for the spirits of the two men had departed their bodies. A quick scout around the camp told him that the Sioux warriors had moved off toward a ravine near the pool at the bottom of the waterfall. Wolf had not noticed it upon first reaching the camp, but the Sioux must have known it was there, since their tracks led straight to it. It took only a moment’s thought before he decided to follow them. It was a natural impulse on his part, for he had grown up from childhood keeping a vigilant eye upon those who might threaten him. It was better, he thought, to track them so that he would know where they were, instead of the other way around.
As he had suspected, the ravine led him down to a broad lower valley and the beginnings of a rough wagon road that ran straight up the middle. It was not necessary to dismount to inspect the tracks he saw. They were left by heavily loaded wagons—freighters, he guessed, probably pulled by four-horse teams, judging by the many hoofprints. He remembered then what Reuben Little had told him: there were many wagon roads reaching into the valleys. The party of warriors had turned back to follow the road. He guessed their intention was to look for more victims to murder. With that possibility in mind, he felt he had no choice but to follow. Feeling a small sense of urgency now, he nudged the bay to pick up the pace.
It was fully a mile and a quarter to the south end of the valley, and he followed the road through a narrow notch that led to a winding trail around the base of two mountains. It was his guess that the party of warriors was returning to a village somewhere on the plains, possibly as far as the Belle Fourche, since by his estimate, the trail he was following would soon be out of the mountains. As he came to a point where the trail took a sharp turn, he heard the first of a great many shots ring out somewhere beyond the turn of the trail a quarter of a mile ahead. Soon the sound of answering fire echoed back from the narrow canyon, and he assumed the war party had found another prospector. He gave the bay a slight kick and headed for the bend in the trail at a gallop.
When he reached the point where the trail swung wide to go around a tree-covered knoll that jutted out from the base of the mountain, he rode straight up the side of it, using the pines for cover. Just before emerging from the trees on the other side of the knoll, he saw the conflict taking place. It was not a mining claim that was under attack but a single wagon, stalled in the middle of a wide stream. Evidently, the Sioux had been as surprised by the encounter as those in the wagon. They had not divided to surround the wagon, but were bunched on one side of the stream and shooting wildly at the occupants, who were returning fire from behind the wagon. Wolf counted twelve warriors in the war party and three extra horses that no doubt belonged to the two dead prospectors he had found earlier. He double-checked his Winchester, then drew his Henry from the pack Brownie was carrying. After
leading the horses a little farther up in the pines, he made his way down the slope with a rifle in each hand, working along the foot of the knoll until reaching a wash that ran about forty feet down to the valley floor.
“Keep shootin’ at the middle of that bunch,” Billie Jean shouted, “and give me some cover. I’m gonna try to unhitch the horses and get ’em behind the wagon with us. We’re gonna be in a helluva fix if they shoot the horses.” She stuck Lorena’s revolver in her waistband and prepared to run.
“I think we’re in a helluva fix already,” Rose replied fearfully. She waded carefully in the knee-deep water to move up beside Lorena to send a volley toward the Sioux warriors gathered some seventy-five yards behind them.
“What good is it gonna do to bring the horses back of the wagon if those devils decide to split up and surround us?” Lorena asked. “And it looks like that’s what they’re thinkin’ about doin’.” Her comment was enough to cause Billie Jean to hesitate.
As Lorena had said, the warriors spread out in one straight line, talking excitedly among themselves as if deciding how to attack the wagon. While the three women paused to watch them, Rose continued to fire her weapon. A warrior at the end of the line braced suddenly before falling from his horse. “Good girl, Rose!” Billie Jean exclaimed. “You got one of ’em.” A moment later she had cause to cheer again, for the warrior next in line slid from his horse to crumple to the ground. “You got another one!”
Astonished, Rose looked hard at the carbine in her hands, as if it had a will of its own. “I didn’t shoot but once,” she said, unable to explain.
A third warrior fell from his pony before the others realized the deadly rifle fire was not from the wagon but had come from beside them at the foot of the knoll. They immediately scattered, whipping their ponies hard to get out of range. It was not soon enough, however, to prevent the death of another of their war party. Moving rapidly from one end of the wash to the other, Wolf fired as rapidly as he could, alternating between his two rifles, hoping that there would be a little difference in the sounds of the Henry and the Winchester. Hopefully, the Sioux warriors would think there was more than one man firing at them. Whether they did or not, his one-man volley was not only rapid but deadly accurate, and was effective in causing the war party to retreat, having already lost too many of their number.
When it was apparent that the Sioux had had all they wanted of the fight, Wolf watched them until they disappeared from the valley. Then he reloaded his rifles and walked back to his horses, where he returned the Henry to its scabbard on Brownie’s pack. His inclination was to climb in the saddle and head back north again. He felt no desire to see the folks in the wagon. From where he had stood in the deep wash, there appeared to be no reason for the wagon to be stuck. The water was not that deep. But the wagon looked somehow familiar, enough to trigger his ever-present curiosity, so he rode down out of the pines and headed toward the wagon in the creek, thinking it no harm to see if they were all right.
Three totally astonished women stood knee-deep in the chilly water of the creek, watching their departing attackers until they were well out of sight. Expecting to see an army patrol come charging out of the low hills to their west, they were astounded to discover one lone rider emerge to come toward them at a comfortable lope. “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” Lorena uttered profoundly. “I ain’t believin’ my eyes.” It was too great a coincidence to really be happening.
“It’s him!” Rose squealed delightedly. “He always comes when we need him!”
“It’s him, all right,” Billie Jean said. “I don’t know how in hell he knows to show up when he does, and I ain’t about to ask any questions. I’m just damn glad to see him.” She slapped the horses hard on their rumps, and the wagon lurched reluctantly toward the low bank.
He realized why the wagon looked familiar as soon as he saw Billie Jean climb up in the seat. At first, he thought he had to be mistaken, for at a distance Billie Jean could pass for a man. But then he saw Lorena climb over the seat to join her. He felt an impulse to turn around and ride away, because it seemed that every time he met up with them, he got into some kind of trouble. But he also had to admit that he wished them well, and felt a little ashamed for thinking to avoid them.
“You just can’t seem to get the knack of crossin’ a stream in a wagon, can you?” he joked in greeting when he reined his horses to a stop in front of them.
“You just can’t seem to mind your own business, can you?” Billie Jean fired back. They both had a laugh over it. “Besides, we weren’t stuck this time. We just had a surprise visit that caught us in the middle of crossing.”
“Why didn’t you keep goin’,” Wolf asked, “at least till you got out of the water?”
Billie Jean glanced at Lorena as if stuck for an answer. “Hell, I don’t know. They started shooting at us, so we just went for our guns.”
“Hello, Wolf,” Rose called out cheerfully when she stuck her head out between Lorena and Billie Jean. “How did you know we were here?”
“I didn’t,” Wolf replied.
“I reckon it was just luck,” Lorena said.
“Yeah, just luck,” Wolf muttered under his breath. “There’s just one thing I’m wonderin’: What in the hell are you three doin’ up here in the Black Hills by yourself? Didn’t anybody tell you this is hostile Indian country? That wasn’t no welcomin’ party that just rode off down the valley.” He was frankly amazed that they had managed to get this far.
“Well, we wasn’t supposed to be all by ourselves,” Lorena said. “I made arrangements to meet up with a string of freighters headin’ for Deadwood Gulch. We were supposed to meet them at Hat Creek last Sunday noon. Well, we got there, but they never showed up—”
“So you just came on by yourself,” Wolf finished for her, “three women right up through territory swarmin’ with Sioux war parties.”
Lorena shrugged. “Well, hell, we were already a good part of the way, and we hadn’t seen any sign of Injuns, so we figured we’d just come on by ourselves. There’s already a little bit of a road we were able to follow, and we’ve got our carbines and my pistol. Besides, I thought we’d catch up with those freight wagons, and they would lead us on into Deadwood Gulch.” She favored him with a crooked little smile then and added, “I’m missin’ one of my Sharpses.”
“Well, I’ll give it back, and thank you for the loan,” he said without telling them that the carbine had temporarily been in Ned Bull’s possession until he had been killed. Ned had intended to use it as proof that he had caught Wolf and killed him. Wolf shook his head then, still perplexed about finding the three of them without escort. “You sure as hell must have somebody watchin’ over you, ’cause anybody else pullin’ a fool stunt like that would have their hair hangin’ on some Lakota warrior’s lance right now.”
“We’ve got you watching over us,” Rose offered with a contented smile.
“I ain’t gonna happen along every time you three do somethin’ dumb like this,” he retorted in exasperation with the naive young girl. “What are you goin’ to Deadwood Gulch for, anyway? I thought you were settled at Fort Laramie.”
Rose and Lorena both looked quickly at Billie Jean in response to the question. Billie Jean shrugged sheepishly. Then Lorena answered, “It’s a long story, but to give you the short version of it, you remember that tall, lanky bitch named Mae? Well, Billie Jean was talkin’ to a customer and Mae told her he was one of her regulars and to keep her hands off. Then Billie Jean told her…” She paused then and looked at her. “What was it you said?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “Anyway, it was somethin’ that Mae didn’t particularly appreciate, and she called Billie Jean a bowlegged buffalo cow.” She laughed. “I remember that one. So Billie Jean flattened her. Laid her out cold right in the middle of the saloon floor.”
Wolf wasn’t surprised. He knew that Billie Jean liked a scrap as well as anyone, but it didn’t seem like reason enough to leave. Seeing that it was puzz
ling to him, Billie Jean went on to explain, “Smiley kicked us out. He said the colonel at the fort was already looking to put him out of business on account of too much trouble at the saloon, especially since that little run-in you had with that sergeant. We told him that the army didn’t have anything to do with his saloon, long as it wasn’t on the post. But he said they could sure as hell keep the soldiers from coming. And he said there wasn’t no trouble until the three of us showed up—”
“That ain’t the real reason,” Lorena interrupted. “Mae and her pals wanted us outta there, and that skinny bitch has been takin’ care of ol’ Smiley’s needs with no charge. She musta threatened to shut off the pump if he didn’t get rid of us. I’m bettin’ that’s the real reason.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Billie Jean resumed, “’cause we heard about the big gold strike in Deadwood Gulch, and it’ll be better for us to set ourselves up for business right from the start. Up there, with all those rutty miners striking it rich, it’ll be a helluva lot better than working our asses off for soldiers’ pay.”
“I expect you’d best move your asses away from this place before those warriors come back,” Wolf said. “They might wait till dark before comin’ back to get their dead, and they might not. If they find out there ain’t but one of me, they might decide to try us again. Only, this time they’ll hit us from both sides.” He was of the opinion that the war party might have been low on ammunition after their raids on the mining camps in the mountains. This could account for the conservative attack upon the wagon instead of an all-out assault while it was vulnerable.
“Now that you’re here,” Rose suggested hopefully, “maybe you can lead us to Deadwood.”
“I don’t know where Deadwood is,” Wolf replied.
His response seemed to surprise them all. They had come to believe that he knew everything there was to know about the territory. Disappointed, Lorena told him that it was a gulch in the northern end of the Black Hills, and that the freighter she had talked to said that he had made two trips up there with all manner of supplies. “I know there’s a heap of people already up there, and we might as well be the first in our line of work to join them.”
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