* * *
Some four miles distant from the slope Red Bull stood upon, the small cavalry patrol followed the tiny branch to the point where it intersected with a wider stream. Clay led the soldiers down the middle of that stream until they reached a suitable point from which to leave the water and set a course for Laramie. Fannin set the pace at a fast walk, having no desire to test his green troops against a Sioux war party that outnumbered him at least two to one.
The detachment continued at a smart pace until reaching the banks of the Cheyenne River, where Fannin ordered an hour’s rest. “You think they’re on our tail?” he asked when the tall scout slow-walked his Indian pony into the camp. When Clay confirmed that they had not been followed by the Sioux war party, the lieutenant allowed fires to be built in order to boil coffee.
“There’s liable to be more trouble than the army can handle if miners like that bunch back there keep pushin’ into this territory,” Clay commented as he reached into his saddlebag to retrieve his coffee cup before joining Fannin beside a small fire. “It was my understandin’ that the army was supposed to keep miners out of the Black Hills.”
“Well, that’s right,” Fannin agreed with a shrug of his shoulders, “but how the hell are you gonna keep people outta there when there’s gold just waiting to be picked up?”
“I don’t know,” Clay answered. “But those mountains are mighty damned important to the Lakota and the Cheyenne. I can’t see Crazy Horse and ol’ Sittin’ Bull givin’ up the Hills without one helluva fight. This territory is big medicine to them—the birthplace of about everything that’s important to them.”
Fannin didn’t dispute Clay’s remarks, but he was a career soldier, and as such, he wasn’t required to worry about the right and wrong of things. “Well, I’m not getting paid to set policy or even care about what’s just and proper. I just follow orders.” He tossed down the last gulp of his coffee and rose to his feet. “Sergeant DuBois,” he called out, “let’s get ’em mounted.”
Chapter 4
Rachael Andrews reached down and dislodged a small rock that seemed determined to make a permanent impression in her bottom. The rock removed, she settled herself again, stretching her stiff neck and back, the result of many hours on horseback. The narrow ravine that Lon had picked to camp in for the night was little more than a gully, but at least it offered a tiny stream of water. He had thought it might be some distance before they struck water again, so they had made camp even though there were a couple of hours of daylight left. Now she watched the deputy as he patiently waited for the trickle to fill the coffeepot. How long had they been riding? she wondered. Was this the fourth camp? Or the fifth? She found it hard to remember.
“Took a while,” Lon offered in way of conversation, “but I reckon we can have us a pot of coffee now.” After five days on the trail with the solemn young lady, he was still not completely at ease. Lon never had been much for making polite conversation in the first place. He found it doubly hard to talk to a lady, especially one like Rachael Andrews, who rode all day in almost silent determination. Rocking along in the peculiar posture she always assumed, with her head and shoulders thrust forward, he was amazed she could manage to stand each morning. If she would simply go with the horse, he thought, and stop fighting the animal’s natural motion, she would be a hell of a lot more comfortable.
When she responded to his attempt at conversation with nothing more than a halfhearted smile, he busied himself with the fire. He knew the journey was hard on her, but she never complained, and she never gave any indication that her resolve to find the murderer of her husband had weakened.
When they had first started out, his resolve to find Sam Ingram’s killer had been just as strong. Now he had to admit that he was primarily pushing on because of the woman. He hated the thought of letting her down. He also hated the thought that his resolve was no better than that of the posse that had turned back as soon as they reached the Platte. In his private moments, he had to admit to himself that he didn’t really know where he was, or where he was heading. He had never before ventured this far north of the Platte. As each day passed, and they rode on in a general direction that he figured would eventually lead them to the Black Hills, Lon realized that what Walt Collins had said was probably true. It was a mission of wishful thinking in a territory so vast that entire bands of Indians could disappear. The odds against finding one man in those mountains were staggering. Yet Lon didn’t know what else to do but to keep riding, and hope for a miracle.
Morning brought a light frost that dusted the rocks on the rim of the ravine and caught the first rays of the sun, turning the lonely prairie into a shimmering sea before them. Lon fed the fire with the few sticks and branches he was able to find, berating himself for his poor choice of campsite. Glancing over at Rachael, still rolled tightly in her blanket and sleeping fitfully in the late spring chill, he decided not to wake her. She needed the rest. It wouldn’t hurt to start out a little later than usual. While she slept, he led the horses a little farther toward the head of the ravine to let them graze in a new patch of grass. They had almost cleaned the ground of the sparse grass where they had been hobbled for the night. He still had a decent supply of grain, but he sought to conserve it for as long as possible.
The horses hobbled, he decided to climb up to the rim of the ravine to take a look around. Before he took another step, however, something made him hesitate. There had been no sound other than a low nicker from the horses. Instead, it was something he sensed, and he had a tense feeling that suddenly he was not alone. His hand dropped automatically to his side, and he realized his pistol was still lying beside his bedroll. With a sudden sense of urgency, he turned to retrace his steps, only then to discover the long shadow that lay across his path. He looked up toward the rim of the ravine at a solitary figure on horseback, motionless, casually watching him. Lon was not sure what to do. With the sun behind the stranger’s back, Lon could not tell at once if he was being watched by an Indian or a white man. No matter which, he knew that he was at the man’s mercy, so he made no further attempt to run for his weapon.
“You picked a peculiar campsite,” Clay Culver offered casually, as he nudged his horse with his heels, and started down the side of the ravine.
Instantly relieved to find his visitor was a white man, Lon felt his muscles relax. Still, he could not be sure he was out of danger as yet. It was a wild country. What kind of man could be riding alone over this prairie—especially one who appeared soundlessly out of nowhere? A man meaning no harm would surely have announced his presence before riding into a strange camp. “It looked like the best choice at the time,” Lon offered in defense as the stranger pulled his horse up beside him.
Better able to see the man now that the sun was not glaring behind him, Lon looked up at the buckskin-clad scout sitting tall in the saddle, astride a paint Indian pony, a Winchester rifle cradled across his arms, an Indian-style bow and quiver strapped behind his saddle. The two men looked each other over carefully, each trying to evaluate the unexpected meeting.
Glancing at the sleeping figure back by the fire, Clay asked the question that naturally occurred to him. “You and the missus lost?”
With a spark of masculine irritation, Lon replied. “Hell, no. We ain’t lost.” From the stranger’s intense gaze, he realized then that the question was not meant to insult him—merely seeking information. “We’re headin’ for the Black Hills, lookin’ for a feller. Anyway, she ain’t my missus. I’m just tryin’ to help her find the man that shot her husband.”
“Is that a fact?” Clay responded, finding the situation even more curious. “Where’d you folks start out from?”
“Dry Fork,” Lon answered, “near Cheyenne. I’m the deputy sheriff there.”
Clay considered that for a moment before commenting. “That’s a far piece. I reckon you know you’re in Sioux country.”
“I reckon,” Lon replied. When Clay merely nodded thoughtfully in response, Lon said,
“I was wonderin’ what you’re doin’ out here by yourself.”
“I’m scouting for a cavalry patrol about two miles back yonder. I expect they oughta be about ready to mount up and head out right about now.” Clay continued to study the young deputy sheriff for a few moments longer before offering his advice. It was not Clay’s habit to tell a man what he should or should not do. If a man was dumb enough to ride into hostile territory—with a woman no less—then Clay figured it wasn’t his place to comment. It no longer surprised him when he was confronted with the foolhardy plans of white people. The mutilated corpses of the company of miners behind him were a testimony to such ill-advised dreams. One glance at the packs that had come off their mule told him the couple’s supplies were mostly food and cooking utensils, with no evidence of mining gear. Clay decided the stranger was probably telling the truth.
“My name’s Lon Fortson,” Lon finally broke into Clay’s contemplation.
“Clay Culver,” Clay responded. He returned his rifle to its sling and dismounted. Offering his hand, he said, “I ain’t tryin’ to tell you your business, but the way you’re headin’ ain’t exactly the safest place in the world.” Seeing Lon’s apparent hesitation to justify continuing on to the Black Hills, Clay suggested, “Maybe you and the lady might wanna tag along with the patrol. We’re headin’ back to Fort Laramie.”
Lon took a long look back at the sleeping figure still bundled in her blanket by the fire. What the tall scout advised sure seemed like the sensible thing to do. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “That lady is dead-set on goin’ it alone if I don’t go with her.” He then related the whole story as to why he and Rachael Andrews were riding straight into Indian country.
“And this Billy Ray fellow, you think he might have been set on panning for gold?” Clay asked, thinking of the mutilated bodies he had left in the crude stockade.
“Billy Ray didn’t know no more about panning for gold than a hog knows about the Bible. But he talked a lot about all the gold folks were pickin’ up in the Black Hills. I just figured he was probably headed this way. At least he headed outta Dry Fork in this direction.” Lon shrugged self-consciously, realizing how foolhardy his story must sound to the broad-shouldered army scout. “I know it don’t sound like much of a trail to follow, but Rachael was gonna go by herself, so I figured I’d best go with her.”
“What was she aiming to do if she found this fellow?”
Lon shrugged again. “Shoot him, I reckon. He shot her husband down.”
Clay didn’t comment further, but the steady gaze he leveled upon the deputy was enough to tell Lon what he was thinking. Lon was about to make another attempt to justify his reasons for heading into certain peril when both men were distracted by the emergence of Rachael from her blanket.
Immediately alarmed by the appearance of a strange figure dressed almost entirely in animal skins, she reached for her pistol, ready to defend herself. When she was able to blink the sleep from her eyes, she realized the stranger was in fact a white man who seemed to offer no threat to Lon or herself. Then realizing that the sun was already reaching out over the low hills to the east, she became embarrassed to be found so late in her blanket. She cast an accusing eye in Lon’s direction for allowing her to sleep far past sunup.
“This here’s a scout with a cavalry patrol,” Lon offered in way of explanation. “He says we’re headin’ into a passel of hostile Injuns if we keep goin’.”
“Clay Culver, ma’am,” Clay said, touching his finger to the brim of his hat. “What Lon here says is true. This ain’t the healthiest place to be right now. There’s a sizable band of Sioux scoutin’ the hills ahead of you, lookin’ for white folks in their sacred territory. I’ve just come from a camp where eleven white miners were massacred by the Sioux. They’ve got blood in their eyes for more folks that’s trespassin’ on their territory right now. I’m ridin’ with a fifteen-man patrol, and we ain’t enough to fight that band of Injuns.” His comment reminded him of his obligation. “I reckon Lieutenant Fannin might be wonderin’ where I’ve got off to. I’d best get back to business.” He led his horse over closer to the campfire to get a better look at the young lady. “The best advice I can give you, miss, is to get your possibles together and come along with us.”
A spark of defiance flashed in Rachael’s eye. Another self-assured male was telling her to give up her mission to avenge her late husband. Her reaction was only for a second, however. The steady, honest gaze of the man told her that his comments were not meant to be condescending. “I thank you for your concern,” she said, “but I can’t turn back now.”
Clay glanced at Lon. From the deputy’s blank expression, Clay couldn’t tell if Lon’s thoughts were in accordance with the lady’s or not. “I respect the fact that you feel the need to avenge your husband. But I doubt if he would want you to get yourself killed doin’ it.” Seeing the look of defiance return to Rachael’s face, he made another suggestion. “There’s a couple of bands of Lakota Sioux combing that part of the Hills you’re headin’ for. Why don’t you wait a few days? They’ll most likely be moving on, and you can go in and see if one of the bodies in that miners’ camp is the fellow you’re lookin’ for. Maybe the Sioux have already settled your score with the fellow that killed your husband.”
The look on Lon’s face told Clay that the young deputy was in agreement with his suggestion. Rachael read it as well, but was still reluctant to delay her search for Billy Ray. What the tall cavalry scout had told them—that the mountains before them were swarming with hostile Indians—had to be given serious thought. She realized, too, that she could not ask Lon to sacrifice his life in the face of such great danger—no matter how severe the pain in her heart. “All right,” she finally conceded. “I’ll wait for a few days. But I’m still going to search for my husband’s murderer when the Indians leave.” She turned a determined gaze in Lon’s direction.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lon immediately replied. “We’re still gonna look for Billy Ray.” He tried to match her gaze, but his seemed a bit bewildered.
Clay glanced up at the sun, now rising above the nearest of the foothills. “We’d best get movin’ then, if we’re gonna meet up with the column.”
* * *
Lieutenant Fannin was accustomed to his scout’s lengthy absences away from the column, as well as Clay’s sudden reappearances, seemingly from out of nowhere. On this morning, however, he was not prepared for the surprise awaiting him when the trooper riding point galloped back to tell him that three riders were waiting up ahead.
“This here’s Mrs. Andrews and Lon Fortson,” Clay said when Fannin reined up before them. “They’ll be ridin’ along with us, if it’s all right with you.”
“Ma’am,” Fannin greeted Rachael politely, having just then realized the rider he had taken to be a boy was, in fact, a young lady. In a woolen coat over trousers and boots, and with her hair stuffed up under a Dakota-style Stetson, she resembled a boy from a distance. “My name’s Cory Fannin,” he said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what in the world are you and your companion doing out here?”
Clay let Rachael and Lon tell Fannin their story while he watched the lieutenant’s face undergo a range of expressions—from curiosity, to amazement, to downright disbelief. Fannin listened without interruption until he’d heard it all. Then he said, “I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s death, ma’am.” He turned to Lon. “Where were you going to look for this man? The Black Hills cover a lot of territory. Where in the Black Hills were you going to search?”
“Well,” Lon fumbled for plausible explanation, “we was just gonna check out the mining claims for sign of him.”
Fannin glanced at Clay for confirmation that the story he was hearing was, in fact, the couple’s sole reason for riding into such a vast wilderness. Avoiding comment on the lunacy of such a plan, he sought to explain the staggering odds against finding one man in the dark mountains and narrow valleys of the general area designated as the Black Hills.
“You know, don’t you, that the mining claims you say you’re going to search out aren’t like the gold fields of Montana or California? This is Sioux territory. The claims aren’t staked out back to back along some gulch, like walking down a city street.” Realizing that he was bordering on ridicule, he softened his tone for benefit of the lady. “The miners in this territory are trying to stay out of sight, sneaking around to try to hold on to their scalps. The army’s orders are to prevent miners from even entering the Black Hills. It’s Sioux territory and there are already bands of hostiles bent on driving the trespassers out. There have even been rumors that Sitting Bull is planning to bring his band into the Hills to drive the white man out forever. I just can’t stress enough the odds of failure for your plans. In fact, it is my duty to forbid you from even trying.”
Clay glanced from Lon’s sheepish expression to that of the lady, whose face showed her alarm upon hearing Fannin’s words. “I think they’ve narrowed their search down a bit, Lieutenant,” he offered. “I told them about the company of miners back there in the valley, and I think they just wanna see if their man was one of them.”
Lon nodded in confirmation. He realized how foolhardy his position appeared, and he was a little uncomfortable with the stares from the troopers listening to the discussion. “Yes, sir, we just wanna see if Billy Ray was there.” He avoided looking in Rachael’s direction, knowing that she had probably raised an eyebrow in reaction. He knew her intentions were to keep looking for Billy Ray, no matter what.
Bloody Hills Page 5