Now, after four years as Sam’s deputy, Lon knew that he still lacked the respect he had hoped for, and he was accepted by the founders of the little settlement as adequate at best. With Sam’s death, he held no illusions that he would be offered the position of sheriff. The best he could hope for was to remain as deputy. It occurred to him that the town council’s willingness to send him off to search for Sam’s killer reflected their opinion that the town could do without him. It might have been smarter for him to stay close in an effort to hang on to his job, but bringing Billy Ray to justice was foremost in his mind. To do otherwise would have been an insult to Sam’s memory. Deep in these thoughts, he did not hear Rachael Andrews’s footsteps on the board walkway until her hand was on the doorknob.
He looked up from the rifle he was cleaning on the desk. Her face still wearing the same grim determination she had exhibited since meeting the posse at Horse Creek, she offered a clipped greeting. “Morning,” she said. “I’m ready to get started.”
He had hoped she would have a change of heart after thinking for a day about going with him. There was no evidence of such a development. Standing defiantly in the doorway, dressed in what appeared to be a pair of her husband’s trousers, which were tucked inside a pair of boots that came almost to her knees, and a heavy coat, she fixed an unblinking gaze upon him, solidly prepared to meet his objections. Before he even spoke, her gaze informed him that it would be a waste of time to try to persuade her to remain there while he searched.
He made one last attempt anyway. “Morning, Mrs. Andrews,” he said politely. “I see you got yourself outfitted for the trip.” He paused, trying to think of the best way to say it.
Reading his face, she cut him off before he could form the words. “You might as well save your breath. I’m going to Dakota territory with or without you, so let’s get started.” There was no thought in her mind of remaining in the grieving little settlement, bathing in self-pity, seeking the sympathy of her neighbors. How long could she survive living on the charity of people she had known for such a brief time? John Castleberry would waste little time in looking for someone to replace Will, and she would have to move out of the house provided for the schoolmaster. She had given no thought at all toward returning to Kansas City. She had no family there. Will had been her future, and all the family she had left. An only child, she had been orphaned at the age of twelve when her father and mother were killed when their buggy was overturned on the Canonsburg Pike. No, she had no desire to return to Kansas City, where she had been passed from family to family, little more than a servant, until she caught young Will Andrews’s eye. With his wavy black hair and shy smile, Will had come into her dreary existence like a brilliant sunrise, bringing the promise of a happy future. How exciting it had been, like a fairy tale. They had journeyed west with the promise of the whole world ahead of them. Now all that had been taken away by one despicable saloon loafer. She would not hesitate to kill Billy Ray Blevins if given the opportunity.
Lon flushed momentarily, realizing that she was going to have it her way, no matter what argument he might make. “All right, then,” he acquiesced, “let’s get goin’.” He finished loading the rifle, picked up a sack of cartridges and followed her out the door.
She paused to watch him lock the door to the sheriff’s office. “You might as well start calling me Rachael,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, then turned away from the door, pausing to look up and down the street. Now dusty again, the wide wagon track showed no evidence of the recent rain. He had a feeling it might be the last time he saw the town as a deputy sheriff. “We’ll drop these keys off at the stables on our way out.”
Walt Collins stood watching the two as they rode away, the bumbling deputy and the schoolmaster’s widow. A more compassionate man might have felt at least a twinge of guilt as he watched Rachael’s efforts to press her horse into a faster gait. He had sold the gangly-legged blue roan to Will Andrews, knowing the horse had little stamina. But Walt was never troubled by fits of conscience. Young Will Andrews might have proven to be a good schoolteacher—he wasn’t around long enough for anybody to know—but he sure as hell didn’t know much about horses. God knows that’s a fool’s mission, Walt thought. They’ll come dragging their tails back here after a week or two, if they don’t lose their scalps nosing around in Sioux country.
The risks involved in riding through Indian territory had entered Lon’s mind. In fact, he had given it a great deal of thought. He was confident in his ability to avoid trouble with the Lakota Sioux if he was alone. He was not so sure of himself now that he had a woman to be concerned with. But as John Castleberry had said before, it would be a lot safer for Rachael Andrews to travel with Lon than by herself. Lon didn’t care to have the young widow along, but he didn’t like to think about her riding into the Black Hills alone. And he did not doubt her determination to do just that, even though he wondered what in hell she was going to do if she found Billy Ray. Leading his pack mule, he kicked his horse up a notch to a faster walk. Behind him, Rachael Andrews urged her horse to follow. Lon glanced back to make sure the lady kept up. Satisfied that she was able to control the large blue roan she rode, he looked back again toward the trail they would follow. The thought occurred to him then that he would be just as lost as she was once they rode beyond the Platte. I wish to hell I knew a little bit about the Black Hills country. Approximately two hundred miles to the northeast of the man and woman, there was a man who knew a great deal about the Black Hills.
Chapter 3
Moving with catlike grace uncommon for a man of his size, the buckskin-clad scout darted like a shadow from boulder to boulder along the rocky cliff, following the progress of the Sioux war party below him. They were searching for him, Wanigi Ska, White Ghost, just as the other war parties combing the mountains had searched that morning.
Unaware of the name the Lakota had given him. Clay Culver watched with detached patience as the Indians spread out among the tall pines on the slope below, searching for his trail. After more than a quarter of an hour with no sign of the white scout, the warriors gathered at the base of a rocky outcropping where the tracks had ended.
The discussion went on too far below for him to hear their words, so Clay could only guess what they were saving. It was obvious that he had ridden up into the rocks. And from the animated conversation and the intense scanning of the mountain above them, he could surmise that they were arguing about the most likely route he had taken. Most of the warriors seemed to look toward a short, powerfully built man for his opinion. Clay figured him to be the leader of the war party, for the others listened when he spoke, and paid close attention when he indicated with long sweeping gestures where the obvious passage would be. Yep, that’s the most likely trail, Clay said to himself as he followed the direction indicated by the war chief. That would be the quickest way down the mountain all right. Clay counted on the war party to make the assumption that he had made his way down to the narrow valley below in order to escape. But the war chief hesitated, still considering the higher elevations of the rocky-peaked mountain. After a few moments, he turned to talk to his warriors. After a few moments’ more discussion, the war party split up with half of the warriors starting down the slope. The rest, led by the stocky war chief, immediately started climbing up the steep rock-strewn face on foot, leading their horses, just as Clay had done.
“Damn,” Clay muttered with no show of alarm, “that fellow’s pretty good.” Pausing for just a moment, he took the time to take a longer look at the war chief. Even at this distance, Clay could see a marked difference in this man and the average Sioux warrior. Unlike most Lakota men, who were smooth-muscled and lithe, the war chief was broad shouldered with knotty muscles that spoke of latent power. It was little wonder the others seemed to treat him with respect.
Knowing he was bound to be discovered if he stayed where he was, Clay backed away from the edge of the boulder and stood up. Retracing his path, he doubled
back to a brace of stunted pines, where he had tied his horse. Taking the paint’s reins, he climbed farther up toward the peak, avoiding the patches of snow scattered about at that altitude. When he reached a spot that looked safe enough to sidle across the mountain’s face, he continued to traverse the slope, but this time in the opposite direction from his original trail. It was his hope that the war party would assume that he had continued in the direction first taken. I just hope to hell this doesn’t lead me to a cliff, he thought as he passed above the point where he had earlier quit climbing and watched the war party’s progress below him. He would have to hustle to make it across an open stretch of loose shale and snow before the war party reached that point below him.
He was positive that if he had continued on down the mountain following the old game trail that led through the dense pine forest now several hundred feet below him, he could have reached the narrow valley. But that would have led the Sioux war party right to Lieutenant Fannin’s patrol, and no doubt a confrontation that might have turned out badly for the fifteen-man patrol. From his perch a while back, Clay had counted more than thirty warriors, most armed with a variety of repeating rifles as well as single-shot Springfields. So he figured it best to lead them in another direction. Fannin’s troopers were for the most part untested and, in Clay’s opinion, ill-suited to take on a well-armed war party of blooded Sioux warriors.
Clay had accomplished the mission he had agreed to undertake. He had found the camp of twelve miners who had sent a rider back to Fort Laramie for help. The rider, having been seriously wounded in his escape, had driven his horse night and day to reach the post, bringing the news that the mining camp had been under siege by a band of Sioux for three days. He pleaded with Colonel Bradley to send soldiers to relieve his embattled partners. They were running low on food and ammunition. It would be a matter of days, he had said.
It was supposed to be the army’s job to keep miners out of the sacred Indian territory, but Bradley begrudgingly sent Fannin with a fifteen-man detail, all the troops he could spare, knowing that it might be too little too late. In no shape to take the return trip, the wounded rider was forced to remain at Laramie. It would be up to Clay Culver to find the camp.
Knowing it would take at least four days to reach the general area where the miners were under siege, Fannin had made the best time he could. But after riding hard for four days, the soldiers were still at least a half a day away from the camp. At Clay’s suggestion, Fannin sent the scout out ahead to find the camp and appraise the situation for him. Clay had found the miners, all right, but it was too late to do anything but pray over their mutilated bodies. It had been Clay’s misfortune to linger at the scene of the massacre a few moments too long. He had been spotted by a Sioux scout who had come back to the camp, which resulted in Clay having thirty angry warriors chasing him across the mountain.
Looking behind him now, Clay was gratified to see that the lead scouts had not emerged from the rocks as yet. A few more yards, and he disappeared from their sight as he worked his way around a sharp curve in the ledge. Looks like I’m gonna have to take the long way home, he thought, since he would now have to traverse the mountain to make his way back to the cavalry patrol.
Luck seemed to be with him, for halfway around the rugged mountain he came to a little-used game trail that would lead him down between the rocks to a gentler slope where the lodgepole pines began. The trail must have been used by mountain goats and sheep, because from that point upward, nothing but a goat could have climbed any farther. He smiled when he realized that just beyond the trail was a cliff that would have presented the dead end he hoped he would not encounter.
Leading his horse along the trail, carefully watching his step to avoid suddenly skating on the loose gravel, he worked his way down to the trees. Once there, he found the trail level enough to climb back in the saddle. Might as well follow the trail down, he decided, and see where it leads me. Then he could determine the best way to return to Lieutenant Fannin and the patrol.
If the stocky war chief failed to realize that Clay had reversed his direction once the warriors split up, then hopefully both groups of warriors were now on the other side of the mountain, opposite the trail he followed. If his luck held out, he could reach the valley floor, and follow the stream to the south end. From there, he would only have to cross a low ridge to reach the tiny branch where the soldiers waited. He knew already that, based on the number of warriors he had seen, he would not encourage the lieutenant to proceed to the small stockade the miners had erected.
He had the distinct impression that Fannin wasn’t overenthusiastic about taking the patrol into the Black Hills in the first place. Fannin never expressed it. That was the kind of officer Fannin was. A product of West Point, he never questioned the orders given him. But in a tight spot, he wouldn’t hesitate to use the brains God gave him to do what was best for his men. If he thought about it at all, Clay probably would have admitted that he liked the young officer.
* * *
Lame Pony climbed up on a boulder that jutted out over the game trail. Lying flat against the cool rock, he watched the trail that wound through the trees and ascended the mountain slope. Something had caught his eye, and he waited to see if the motion had been made by man or beast. Patiently he waited, his eyes gazing steadily at the turn in the trail some forty yards from him, his rifle ready. In a few moments, it was revealed to him—a man on horseback, a white man. “Wanigi Ska,” he murmured softly. It could be no other than the man he and his friends hunted, the ghostlike rider who had been spotted on several occasions in the sacred hills. Red Bull had been convinced that the white man seen at the burned-out mining camp that morning was the same phantom rider who appeared, always at a distance, only to disappear moments later.
His eyes unblinking, for fear the rider might suddenly fade from sight, Lame Pony stared at the figure guiding the paint pony along the narrow trail. No one of his tribe had ever been this close to the white ghost before. He could feel his muscles tense as he began to realize that this was no phantom. A smile spread slowly across his face, and he said a silent prayer of thanks to Wakan’ tanka, the great spirit that made all things happen, for granting him, Lame Pony, this opportunity. For the man who killed Wanigi Ska would be a great man among his people, respected by even the old ones.
Moving deliberately, he raised his rifle and took careful aim. It would be an easy shot. His finger slowly tightened on the trigger, but then he hesitated. The honor he sought would be greatly diminished by killing Wanigi Ska with a rifle at this distance. He must fight this white ghost face-to-face. Laying his rifle aside, he prepared himself for the attack, poised to spring while watching the white warrior approach. Close now, almost even with the boulder where Lame Pony waited, the white scout rode easily in the saddle, his eyes focused upon the trail below him. Lame Pony drew his knife in preparation for the ultimate act of valor, to kill a foe in hand-to-hand combat.
Clay had no hint of the danger lurking on the huge boulder that jutted out into the trail until he found himself in midair, the result of the solid blow from the Sioux warrior’s hurling body. Acting on instinct, for there was no time to think, he braced his body to roll when he hit the ground, at the same time straining against the arms that struggled to restrain him. In the instant before impact with the hard dirt of the trail, he saw the flash of the knife blade as it sought to strike. A moment later, the two combatants struck the ground and rolled together, struggling and straining against each other to control the knife.
After rolling several times, the two separated and raced to gain position to continue the fight. Lame Pony was quicker by an instant, gaining his feet while Clay was still on one knee. With a triumphant war cry, the Lakota warrior attacked, his knife hand raised to deliver the fatal thrust. Clay remained upon one knee, awaiting the attack, making no move to avoid the charging warrior. At the moment Lame Pony launched his body, Clay dropped to his back. Catching Lame Pony by surprise, he jammed both f
eet into the Indian’s belly, and flipped him over his head. Lame Pony landed heavily upon his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. He rolled over to defend himself, but not in time to avoid Clay’s long skinning knife as it sank deep into his gut. Still the warrior attempted to fight, striking weakly with his knife. Clay caught his wrist and imprisoned it while he watched the life drain slowly from Lame Pony’s body.
* * *
Unconsciously stroking a long blond mustache that drooped almost below his jawline, Lieutenant Fannin nodded gravely as he listened to Clay’s report. Just as he had suspected, the patrol had been too late to offer any hope to the beleaguered mining camp. And after hearing Clay’s estimate of the number of hostiles in the vicinity, he agreed with the tall scout that it would be most prudent to withdraw. Without further delay, he gave the order to return to Fort Laramie. With Clay leading, the modest detachment moved quietly along the bank of the tiny stream that had been their campsite, following it toward a gap in the mountains to the south. Behind them, two factions of a large Sioux war party met on the steep side of the mountain, where they discovered the body of Lame Pony.
“Wanigi Ska,” the short solidly formed warrior chief muttered as he gazed down at the body of his wife’s brother. This was the work of the white scout who had disappeared like a ghost on the other side of the mountain. Red Bull held no special affection for Lame Pony. But he was his wife’s brother. She would have to be avenged. This was not their first sighting with the tall, buckskin-clad scout in the Black Hills. During the past year, Wanigi Ska had been spotted on rare occasions in the Lakota’s sacred territory, but only at a distance. True, he had never left any evidence of his presence, unlike the white trespassers who searched the streams for the yellow dirt, digging and scratching in the earth. Like the Lakota, this white man passed over the land, leaving it as he had found it. But now he had killed. Red Bull vowed to the great spirit that he would avenge his brother-in-law. He knew that it would have to be in some future meeting, because the white ghost had disappeared once again. But Red Bull was confident that eventually the two would meet, and then they would see whose medicine was stronger.
Bloody Hills Page 4