Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  “I reckon that’s pretty much my style, too,” Billy Ray said with a sly grin. “I wasn’t born to break my ass with no pick and shovel.” His hand dropped to his pistol and rested upon the handle, absorbing the reassurance it provided.

  “Well, young feller, you come along at just the right time. I been needin’ me a partner, especially one that’s handy with a gun—and ain’t shy ’bout usin’ it. You partner up with me, and I’ll show you ever’ part of these hills, even parts some of the dang Injuns don’t even know about. There’s enough game to satisfy a man’s needs, and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout deer and pronghorns. I swear, since the army sent that bunch of soldiers from Fort Laramie in here last year, every week there’s a new fool show’s up lookin’ for gold. And some of ’em find a little. Even if they don’t, they all got something of value, guns, knives, supplies, and what-not.”

  He paused to evaluate the effect his dissertation was having upon his young guest. Taking a long drink of the strong black coffee, now cold, he studied Billy Ray’s face with intense eyes peering steadily over the brim of the tin cup. He had pegged his man correctly. Billy Ray’s knotted brow told him that the young outlaw’s thoughts were riding tandem with his own. Henry put the finishing touches on his sales pitch. “It’s all part of God’s plan,” he said. “You believe in God, Billy Ray?”

  The question caught Billy Ray by surprise. “I don’t know. I reckon. I never thought much about it.”

  “Well, I’ve studied the Bible some in my time—enough to know that everythin’ that happens is accordin’ to God’s plan.” Henry’s statement was not entirely true. In fact, he had carried a Bible in his pack for several months one year. He had taken it from a man he and Ned bushwhacked near Slim Buttes. Indeed, he might have studied it, but Henry couldn’t read. He had carried it with him for a while on the possibility that it might bring him luck. It had been discarded after most of the pages had been used as kindling to start cookfires. “God made fools, same as he made ever’body else. If he hadn’t made folks like you and me, the whole dang world would be overrun with fools. It’s all God’s plan. The Injuns was put here for the same reason, to thin out some of the fool settlers. The difference is, the Injuns is heatherns. The dang pilgrims come out here lookin’ for gold, and the Injuns kill ’em. It’s better for somebody like us to thin ’em out than for a damn heathern to do it. Injun ain’t got no use for gold, anyway.”

  To Billy Ray’s simple mind, what Henry was preaching made a lot of sense. He had never thought of it that way. Henry might be right in saying that they were all part of God’s plan. He would not have hesitated to embark upon an occupation of robbing and killing before. But now, after listening to Henry’s interpretation of the Bible, he felt a more noble purpose in life. He had a place in God’s scheme, and that was probably the reason he had experienced such a rush of euphoria when he gunned down Will Andrews and Sam Ingram. Maybe he didn’t need a partner, though. He could bushwhack a man on his own. Then he remembered how lost he had been ever since entering these mountains, and how hungry he had been when he stumbled upon Henry’s camp. A man of Henry’s experience could be a helpful thing. It might not be a bad idea to join up for a while, just till he knew his way around the country.

  From the expression on Billy Ray’s face, Henry knew what the answer was before he asked the question. “Whaddaya say, son, wanna join up?”

  “I reckon,” Billy Ray replied immediately.

  “All right, then,” Henry said, extending his hand. After they shook on it, he got to his feet, took a moment to stretch, then said, “Reckon we can just sleep here tonight. Then we’d best move on south into the high mountains in the mornin’.”

  Billy Ray slept soundly that night, with a full belly and content in the knowledge that he had had a tremendous stroke of luck in encountering Henry Izard. Wandering aimlessly before that afternoon, he now felt secure in having a plan, and a partner who could teach him the secrets of the mountains. He felt a new confidence, knowing he was a part of God’s plan.

  * * *

  “Let’s go, boy. We’re burning daylight.”

  Startled awake, Billy Ray opened his eyes to see Henry standing over him. Embarrassed to be caught sleeping so soundly, he immediately sat up. “I’m awake,” he insisted, although his eyes were still heavy with sleep, the result of going to his blanket the night before with a full stomach—something that hadn’t happened for several nights before. “I’m ready to ride,” he said in an attempt to make a good impression upon his new partner.

  Henry grinned. “Reckon we can take time to eat some breakfast first. I’ll slice the rest of that bacon we found in the pack last night.”

  After they had eaten, the new partners saddled their horses, and Billy Ray helped Henry secure the packs on his two mules. One of the mules evidently had no enthusiasm for the exercise and demonstrated his feelings by kicking up his hind legs when Henry approached with the heavy pack. Stepping deftly aside to avoid the flying hooves, Henry snorted, “Ain’t he the cantankerous one, now?” Dropping the pack on the ground, he looked around and sported a sizable limb near the fire. “Maybe I ain’t introduced myself properly,” he said, picked up the limb, and promptly broke it across the mule’s face. “Momin’,” he snorted loudly, a wide grin parting his shaggy beard. “I’m Henry Izard—glad to make your acquaintance!” At that point, the mule decided to accept the pack without further debate.

  Billy Ray marveled at the antics of the man and the mule. He wondered if that was a daily ritual between the two. In contrast, the other mule was as docile as could be, accepting his burden without complaint. Knotting the rawhide straps, Henry stepped away from the mule, apparently satisfied with the pack. “What about that one?” Billy Ray asked, indicating one pack left on the ground. Still lying by the fire, it was the pack that had held the bacon and flour.

  Henry glanced in the direction indicated and appeared to study the pack. After a brief pause, he said, “I ain’t got no use for it. You want it?”

  Mildly stunned, Billy Ray found it hard to believe a man, any man, would decide to simply discard any usable item in a land as wild as the Black Hills.

  Reading his young partner’s face, Henry explained, “It was his’n.” He motioned toward the narrow end of the gully with a nod of his head. “I already got what I need out of it. Take it if you want it.” Dismissing the unimportant topic with a shrug of his shoulders, he prepared to step up in the saddle.

  Following the direction indicated with his eyes, Billy Ray detected a dark lump near the point where the stream had carved a notch that formed the narrow end of the gully. He took a few steps toward it and discovered the lump was a corpse. Unnoticed in the dark shadows cast by the mountains around them, the body had lain there no more than a dozen yards from Billy Ray’s bedroll. Astonished, he turned to gaze at his new partner.

  “He didn’t have much,” Henry offered in explanation. “Barely worth the effort—a few trinkets is all.” He fixed Billy Ray with a steady eye. “I figure we wasn’t partners when I did that job. Anyway, like I said, there wasn’t enough to bother about.”

  Unable to ignore his curiosity, Billy Ray walked over to take a closer look at the stiff body. The eyes were open wide in apparent shock, a result of the jagged gash across the man’s throat—from the same long skinning knife that sliced the bacon for their supper and breakfast, Billy Ray assumed.

  “Reckon not,” he finally uttered, and started back toward his horse. He had already decided that he was a cold-blooded gunman, but he swallowed hard a couple of times as he put a foot in the stirrup. He knew then that Henry Izard’s glib tongue was just another weapon in the old man’s arsenal. Billy Ray also knew that he was going to have to demonstrate his usefulness to the man. He had already seen what happened to unneeded items. I damn sure better watch my back, he thought, partner or not.

  Studying his new partner’s reaction to the dead man, Henry sat quietly in the saddle until Billy Ray was aboard the dun. Then he nodde
d toward the empty pack lying on the ground again. “Take it if you want it. He won’t mind,” he said with a grin.

  Chapter 7

  “Where?” Red Bull demanded as he pulled his pony up beside his forward scout, impatient to see if the report he had received was, in fact, Wanigi Ska, or if his scout had been deceived by a phantom image.

  “There,” Little Deer replied, pointing to the notch in the mountains that formed the mouth of the narrow valley. “It was the white scout, but he was with two others, one a woman. They were looking at the bodies of the white men.”

  “Are you sure it was Wanigi Ska? Maybe you saw more of the fools looking for the yellow dirt.”

  “It was Wanigi Ska,” Little Deer replied confidently. “It was the same man we saw at the miners’ camp before.”

  Red Bull did not say anything for a long moment, but simply sat on his pony, staring at the spot that had been pointed out, halfway expecting the hated army scout to suddenly materialize before his eyes to mock him, then disappear once more. The white ghost had eluded him before on the mountain, but Red Bull was determined Wanigi Ska would not escape his vengeance forever. He had gone to the boulder where Lame Pony had been slain. He had made medicine there, communing with the Great Spirit until the morning sun had found him still meditating. His medicine was strong. He had come away from the boulder refreshed and confident. “Come,” he said, and turned to lead the war party down into the valley. “There is not much daylight left.”

  * * *

  Barely a mile separated the three riders from the Lakota war party that had already picked up their trail. Clay urged Lon and Rachael to make haste, since the steep walls of the rocky notch they rode through offered no opportunity for concealment, even though already bathed in shadow. With no place to hide, they could only ride, and ride hard, in hopes of clearing the narrow gorge well ahead of their pursuers. If Clay’s memory served him, the mouth of the gorge was approximately a quarter of a mile ahead, after a sharp turn of the narrow passage. Beyond that, at the base of another mountain, and across a small meadow, a dense forest of ponderosa pines covered the slopes. Clay figured, if they could reach the pines without killing the horses, they might be able to lose the war party. He looked back over his shoulder, but there was no need to speak. Both Lon and Rachael were whipping their horses frantically in an effort to keep pace with Clay’s paint—the woman leaning forward in her typically awkward posture, holding on to the saddle horn for dear life.

  They reached the end of the gorge at full gallop, the horses blowing and grunting with the effort demanded of them. Clay didn’t let up until they had crossed the meadow and entered the trees. Once inside the protection of the tall pines, he quickly dismounted and motioned for the others to do the same. Leading his horse, he started up the slope on foot, weaving his way through the trees. Behind him, Lon and Rachael followed blindly with no thought beyond putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the savages who pursued them.

  Although the sun was perhaps an hour from setting, it was already fairly dark in the thick pine forest, a fact that Clay was truly thankful for. It would make it considerably more difficult for the war party to trail them on a forest floor thick with pine needles. Soon it would be so dark that even the best tracker would be unable to find their trail. Even Clay himself could not follow a trail he could not see.

  After climbing for about a quarter of an hour, they came to a clearing where the forest was interrupted by a broad tower of stone that stood out from the mountain side and reached up several hundred feet toward the sky. This being the first opportunity to possibly check on the progress of their pursuers, Clay told Lon and Rachael to rest a moment while he climbed part way up the rock wall to look back over the way they had just come.

  Grateful for the chance to catch her breath, Rachael immediately sat down with a weary glance in Lon’s direction. If it were not for me, she thought, you would not be in this danger. It was a little late to reflect upon her stubborn determination to avenge her dead husband, but she was beginning to realize that she had no right to coerce Lon into putting his life in peril. Oh, well, there’s little I can do about it now. She could feel his gaze upon her, but in the growing darkness, she could not read his expression. She hoped for his sake that they could escape the war party. If the tall army scout could manage to get them out of this while they still had their hair, she would not press the issue to search for Billy Ray. As she looked around her now, in the heart of the silent pine forest, the idea of searching for one man in this wilderness seemed absurd.

  Clay climbed up the steep rock wall until he was high enough to see over the treetops below him. The war party had already reached the meadow at the base of the slope, and they were evidently deciding what to do. Clay counted twenty-seven warriors—ghostlike figures in the near darkness—riding back and forth along the edge of the trees. He could not determine if there were others already in the trees. As he watched, the warriors spread out, then disappeared into the pines. At this point, he was not concerned with the warriors finding them. It was already too dark to pick up a trail in the thick pine straw, so the three of them were safe for the time being. He remained at his position, watching. He knew the Indians were just searching blindly, hoping to get lucky. It would only be a matter of minutes before they had to give up the search. Clay’s real interest was to see if they gave up entirely and returned to their camp.

  As he figured, in a short time the warriors began to appear at the edge of the forest again, barely discernible in the failing light. Soon the entire war party had reassembled, gathered around their leader. This was the point Clay had waited for, because it would determine his next move. “Damn,” he swore softly when the warriors began preparations to make camp. They weren’t giving up the search.

  “Could you see anything?” Lon asked when Clay rejoined them.

  “They’ll be comin’ after us in the mornin’,” he answered. “If we can keep from breakin’ a leg in the dark, we ought to move on around to the other side of this rock, so we can make a small fire.”

  “Shouldn’t we keep going?” Rachael asked. “If the Indians are making camp, we could get farther away.”

  Clay was patient in his reply. “That would be a good idea if we were on the prairie, or even down in the valley. But we can’t travel for the same reason they can’t come after us. We’d all wind up at the foot of the mountain before we got started good.” With that said, he took his horse’s reins and led the animal along the base of the rock formation. Lon and Rachael followed, carefully tracing his steps.

  About three-quarters of the way around the rock, they came to a hollowed-out depression wide enough to accommodate the horses. “Made to order,” Clay observed. “We can stop here for the night.” There was no water, or grass for the horses, but it would have to do.

  In spite of Clay’s assurance that there would be no visitors during the night, Rachael found sleep difficult. She merely drifted off occasionally, only to be jolted awake at every sound from the horses. At first light, she opened her eyes after a short lapse into weary slumber to find both Lon and Clay out of their blankets and discussing the path before them. Seeing her stirring, Clay said, “We’d best get movin’, ma’am.” As he said it, he reached down to take her saddle.

  Rising quickly, she unconsciously brushed the wrinkles in her trousers. “I have to be excused,” she said, looking embarrassed.

  “Excused?” Clay questioned, confused. “Oh,” he said, realizing then what she meant. “Well, Lon and I can turn around while you take care of yourself.”

  “I can’t pee with you two standing there.”

  Impatient with the lady’s modesty, he glanced at Lon, who answered his glance with a faint smile. “Well, go around the bend there and get your business done,” he said, motioning toward a turn in the stone wall behind them. “I’ll throw your saddle on your horse while you’re doing it.”

  As soon as the lady rejoined them, Clay started out along the narro
w ledge, watching his footing carefully in the gray light of dawn. A sharp spring wind began to dance through the valleys, dusting them with swirls of snow from the peaks above them, creating a hazy mist around the horses. Rachael kept her eyes focused on the path at her feet, only sneaking occasional peeks at Lon behind her, who had tied the mule’s lead rope to his horse’s saddle. Each time she looked, she half expected to see the angry Sioux warriors appear on the narrow trail behind them. The thought dulled any sensations of hunger she might normally have had. The fact that there was no mention of breakfast did not occur to her, and she would have been hard pressed to eat had there been. She did not have to be told that they were in no position to defend themselves as long as they were strung out in single file along this narrow ledge.

  As soon as Clay found a place to descend from the steep mountainside, he led them down into the trees again. Finding the slope more hospitable to riding now, he stopped to climb into the saddle. Pausing to look back over the way they had just come, he said, “Well, looks like our friends didn’t get up any earlier than we did.” He nudged his pony with his heels. “If we’re lucky, they won’t find our trail for a while—maybe give us enough time to get down to the valley.” He didn’t express it, but he felt pretty sure that they had given the war party the slip. They could kill a lot of time searching around in that thick pine forest before finding the trail taken by the three white riders. With luck, the Sioux wouldn’t find it at all.

  By the time the sun’s first rays found them, they had reached the valley floor. There were a strong stream and plenty of good grass, so Clay decided to take advantage of it. The horses had not been fed or watered since the day before, and they had been ridden pretty hard. “We’d best take care of the horses,” he said. “Maybe we can take time to have ourselves some coffee.” He smiled at Rachael to reassure her. “I believe our Sioux friends are probably wanderin’ around in the pines on the other side of that mountain.” He had not counted upon the cunning of the Lakota war chief, Red Bull.