Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  * * *

  Clay dismounted and studied the tracks leading into a wide stream that emanated from a waterfall high up on a cliff while he waited for the gray to drink. When the horse had his fill, the scout stepped up in the saddle again, and crossed over to the other side. There were no tracks on the other bank. He pulled the gray to a halt while he looked up and down the stream to find the spot where the three horses had exited. There were no tracks to be found. They know I’m following them, was his immediate thought. The trail he had followed for days now had been erratic, but this was the first indication that suggested a definite effort to disguise their trail. They had somehow spotted him. Probably when I came through the canyon, he thought, remembering the cliff high up the mountain their tracks had led him to. From there the entire length of the canyon could be seen. It was going to be a tougher trail to follow from now on, and he was going to have to be a lot more cautious.

  On foot, he walked upstream, paying close attention to every spot along the bank that he considered a likely place to exit without leaving tracks. He stopped to study a flat expanse of rocky shelf that forced the stream to curve sharply, looking for the telltale signs sometimes left by a shod horse. There was no sign that he could see. He studied the entire perimeter of the shelf where it disappeared into the earth, looking for evidence of displaced pebbles or disturbed pine straw at the edge of the rock. There was none. He resumed his search upstream until reaching the base of the waterfall, where he had to conclude they couldn’t have gone any farther unless their horses had wings. He paused for a moment to consider the sheer face of the cliff before retracing his steps to the point where he had first begun his search.

  Moving downstream now, he began the same careful search of the bank. This would mean the men he followed had completely reversed their trail. They had been riding in the same general northwest direction, in spite of their erratic trail. For that reason, he did not scout the downstream bank very far before crossing back over. He had a strong hunch that they had left the stream on the same side they had first entered it.

  He almost missed it, and would have passed it by had he not thought it odd that pine straw lay so close to the bank. Normally, it would have been washed away, falling so close to the rushing water of the stream. They know, all right, he thought as he brushed away the needles to reveal hoofprints. They didn’t leave much at that. Faint prints in the sand between the stream and a long strip of rocky ground were the only signs. If they had tried to brush the tracks away, that would have been all too obvious, so they tried to cover the trail with pine straw.

  He began a careful survey of the area. They had no doubt dismounted and led their horses slowly across the rocky patch—all except one, and that horse left one distinct print at the edge of the trees. He could not say for sure. He could only guess. But if he had to put money on it, he would say that the two men led their horses, leaving Rachael in the saddle. That might account for the deeper hoof impression.

  He stood up and looked off in the direction the hoofprint pointed. Up through the trees toward a rapidly steepening slope, he thought. It doesn’t figure they intended to ride straight up another mountain. He remained on foot, searching the ground for the point where they changed direction again. There had been a concentrated effort to avoid open areas with no pine straw, but his practiced eye followed the trail, never missing even the slightest impression. Finally, when it appeared continuation in that direction would mean an almost impossible climb for their horses, the trail swung back in the direction they had originally started in. It told Clay that they were abandoning their intended line of travel and circling back in an apparent effort to lose him.

  * * *

  “We came by this same damn water hole two days ago,” Billy Ray insisted. “How long are we gonna ride around in circles?”

  “Till I’m damn sure we’ve lost that son of a bitch,” Henry answered in no uncertain tone.

  “I still say we just ought to let him catch up, and I’ll shoot the bastard. I don’t see why you’re so all-fired set on running from one man.”

  “I got a feelin’ this man might be the one the Indians call the White Ghost. They say he rides the mountaintops, comes down now and again and somebody usually winds up dead. They say he’s big medicine.”

  “You believe that?” Billy Ray scoffed. “A ghost? You believe in ghosts?”

  “I don’t rightly believe in ’em,” Henry answered. “I don’t disbelieve in ’em, either. Just ’cause I ain’t never seen one, don’t mean they ain’t around.”

  Billy Ray laughed. “That’s just some ol’ Injun superstition. Let’s wait for the son of a bitch, and I’ll make him a real ghost.”

  “You wait for him,” Henry replied. “Maybe you can carve another notch in the handle of that Colt.” Without waiting for a reply, he kicked his horse and loped off across the tiny clearing. It would suit him just fine if Billy Ray did decide to wait in ambush for the man following them. And Henry was confident that it was a man, in spite of the ghost story he told Billy Ray. He didn’t make up the tale from whole cloth; he had simply passed on a story told to him by an old Lakota named Broken Wing.

  Remembering the old Indian brought a wry smile to Henry’s face. It was before Red Bull and some of the other young war chiefs decided to put a stop to white men trespassing on sacred Indian ground. Old Broken Wing was almost as larcenous as Henry himself. They rode together for a short time. By sheer coincidence, both men sneaked out of their blankets at the same time, on the same night, bent on doing the other one in—Broken Wing intent upon Henry’s repeating rifle, Henry with an eye toward the Lakota’s gold watch, taken from a settler’s body. That sneaking old dog, Henry thought, chuckling to himself. Well, I was a little quicker that night. The dad-blamed watch never worked, anyway. He still carried it in his saddlebag. Ol’ Broken Wing—I reckon I did the world a favor when I done him in—as many white folks as he had killed. Doing the Lord’s business, the thought occurred. “Ha,” he grunted involuntarily when he remembered the story he had concocted for Billy Ray upon their first meeting.

  Behind him, Billy Ray cocked his head when he heard Henry laugh. “What?” he questioned, but the old man didn’t respond. He just continued riding. After taking a quick glance at Rachael, Billy Ray kicked his horse, and took off after Henry. His talk about waiting for their tracker was not all bluster. But despite his sarcastic response to Henry’s ghost story, he was not at all comfortable with the thought of some Indian spirit riding through these mountains. It was going to be dark soon, and if he was going to shoot a ghost, he preferred it to be in daylight.

  They came across water just before dark. It was no more than a spring issuing forth from the side of a mountain, but it was enough to water the horses. While Billy Ray directed Rachael to build a fire, Henry unsaddled his horse, then climbed up toward a ledge above them to take a look around. Looking back at their camp, he shook his head, disgusted, to see Billy Ray leading the woman around by a rope tied around her neck. He was getting a belly full of his partner’s treatment of the woman. Either kill her or let her go, he thought. Henry would never deny the fact that he had killed a woman. But he had never seen fit to torture one, leading her around like a dog. The thought struck his mind that this might be a good night to dissolve their partnership.

  Upon reaching the ledge, he first turned to look over the trail behind them. Peering down into the rapidly growing darkness, his eyes strained to detect any hint of pursuit. Just maybe, he thought, I might have put the slip on that ol’ boy. Turning then to study the way before them, he gazed at the dark shapes of the mountains looming ahead. Hearing Billy Ray climbing up to join him, he was about to turn back when something caught his attention. He quickly jerked his head around again, trying to determine what he had detected, scanning the deepening darkness carefully. His eyes had not deceived him, for there it was—a soft glow in the valley ahead. It was no doubt a campfire. Henry studied the faint light intensely while he considered the pos
sibility that the man pursuing them had somehow gotten ahead to cut them off. It was only for a few moments, however, for there was no way that could have happened. By Henry’s reckoning, the buckskin-clad rider on the gray Indian pony was at least a half day behind, and probably more than that, if in fact he had not given up altogether. As far as the likelihood of him getting in front of them, there was no reasonable possibility because Henry, himself, hadn’t been sure which way he was going. Every change in direction had been on the spur of the moment, taken with no thought in mind beyond shaking their pursuer. No, he decided, it had to be a stranger’s camp—maybe Indian. It was hard to say, but from the size of the fire, he figured it to be a small party.

  “See any sign of him?” Billy Ray asked when he reached the lip of the ledge.

  “Nope,” Henry replied without turning to look at him. “’Course, it’s hard to see anythin’ when it’s this dark. But I think we mighta finally shook him.” When Billy Ray walked up to stand beside him, he pointed in the direction of the glow. “Looks like we mighta come up on somebody else, though.”

  “Whaddaya make of it?” Billy Ray asked. “You think that’s him?”

  “Not much chance of that. It’s a small party, whoever it is. My guess is that we mighta come up on another prospector. Could be a damn Injun, though. But we might wanna take a look-see in the mornin’—might be somethin’ we’d be interested in.” He turned to give his young partner a smug look. “You’ve been bellyaching about not findin’ any prospects. Maybe we found one.” He grinned broadly at Billy Ray, but to himself he was thinking that the discovery of the campfire had granted the young fool a stay of execution. His gun might come in handy, so Henry would postpone his partner’s death until after he had a chance to check out the camp.

  * * *

  She stared down at a small trickle of blood that made its way slowly down her wrist, her mind dumbly recording the occurrence as if unaware of its origin. During the past few days of her captivity she had become almost oblivious to the various pains resulting from Billy Ray’s abuse. She had paid dearly for her one attempt to take revenge, having been reduced to a mental state approaching that of a domestic animal. Standing now, the rope on her neck looped a couple of turns around a tree, the free end tied around her wrists so rightly that it drew blood, she waited with the patience of one who had given up hope. Her head bowed, she made no effort to look up when the two men came back down the slope.

  “Time for you to git to work, darlin’,” Billy Ray said facetiously as he untied her wrists. “You been standin’ around here restin’ long enough.” He gave her a resounding slap on her backside. “See if you can draw enough water outta that spring to fill that coffeepot.”

  She didn’t flinch when he slapped her bottom, having long since stopped automatically recoiling from his lecherous pawing. Even during those agonizing moments when he sought to satisfy his lustful desires, she no longer fought him, lying passively, her mind drifting off somewhere above the mountaintops. In the early hours of her captivity, she had prayed for rescue, then death, then revenge, and finally she no longer prayed for anything.

  Henry sat by the fire, silently watching the wretched woman fill the coffeepot, a gloating Billy Ray standing a few steps behind her, holding the rope tied around her neck. Henry no longer commented on the treatment the woman suffered at the hands of the cocky young outlaw. It did little good. Every man Henry had ever ridden with had had a mean streak of some kind—otherwise, they would have been in some other line of business. But Billy Ray was a downright contemptible son of a bitch who exhibited no saving graces that Henry could determine. He was truly sorry he had ever happened upon him. One more day, he told himself. First, we’ll see about that campfire I spotted. Then we’ll clean up some of the Lord’s mess. And then maybe I’ll have some peace and quiet. He had given some thought as to what he would do with Rachael, once he had taken care of Billy Ray. Henry wasn’t so old that he didn’t get an occasional itch that could only be scratched by a woman, and he was sure that he would no doubt satisfy that itch after Billy Ray was out of the way. But much to Henry’s total disgust, the young fool had destroyed the woman’s mind, so much so that she had been reduced to little more than a brainless cow. In short, Rachael would be a burden to him, one he had no intention of taking on. He guessed the only option left to him, the only humane thing to do, would be to put her out of her misery. And being one who always considered himself humane, he decided to kill her, too, right after he satisfied his needs.

  “Reckon I’m gonna have to go huntin’ again,” Henry said in an effort to make conversation. He was afraid his prior thoughts had been so black that they might have shown on his face.

  Billy Ray simply grunted in reply. Then he said, “I hope whoever that is up ahead has got some beans and maybe a little flour.” He reached over and put his hand on Rachael’s leg. She made no attempt to recoil from his touch. “Reckon she’s got brains enough left to fry up some pan bread?” Rachael gave no indication that the comment even registered in her mind.

  * * *

  Morning found an impatient Henry Izard. He had a lot planned for that day, and he was anxious to get about it. “Come on,” he urged with a poke from his toe. “We’ve got things to do—roust yourself outta that blanket.”

  Billy Ray sat up, startled and at once wide-awake, his pistol in hand. Looking around him quickly, he relaxed then. “You’d best watch how you poke me awake, old man.”

  “Time to get movin’,” Henry replied. He took a couple of steps back while Billy Ray got to his feet. “I notice you’re sleepin’ a lot with that pistol in your hand. Makes me feel like you don’t trust me.”

  “I don’t trust nobody,” Billy Ray grumbled, and took a few steps away from his bedroll to relieve him self, oblivious to the woman lying nearby. Finished, he knelt down to untie Rachael’s hands and feet. “Time to git up, darlin’.” She watched him with mindless eyes, staring unblinking as he removed her bonds, and made no effort to resist when he pulled her to her feet. Without hesitation, she squatted again and proceeded to perform her toilet, unmindful of the two men standing there.

  “Damn,” Henry uttered softly, and turned to tend to his horse.

  Amused by Henry’s apparent sensitivity, Billy Ray patted Rachael on her head, and cooed, “That’s a good girl. Now git your ass over there and fill that coffeepot.”

  “Looks like there ain’t but two of ’em,” Henry whispered, as he lay on his belly, peering down on the camp at the foot of the ridge. “Prospectors—from the look of it, they’ve been camped here for a while. Maybe they’ve struck some color in that stream.” He looked over at Billy Ray, lying beside him, and grinned. “That’d be all right, wouldn’t it?”

  Billy Ray returned the grin. “I reckon,” he replied, his mind’s eye already envisioning a sack of gold nuggets, and him on his way alone to Bismarck or some other town.

  With thoughts of his own, Henry watched the two men for a while longer as they worked the rapid stream, panning for the precious metal. The camp was well established, with a tent set up in the trees. Horses and mules were hobbled nearby. He couldn’t help but wonder how they had escaped Red Bull’s notice for this length of time. The thought gave him some measure of assurance that the Sioux war chief was still south of there. “We’d best go about this as quiet as possible. That damn ghost that’s been trailin’ us might be around. We’ll go down there real friendly-like, and see what’s what.”

  “Right,” Billy Ray replied, grinning, “real friendly-like.”

  * * *

  “Hallo the camp,” Henry called out when they were within fifty yards of the stream. His greeting sent the two miners immediately scrambling for their rifles. “Hold on,” Henry called out again. “We’re friends, white folks like yourselves.” He led Billy Ray and Rachael out in the open so that the men could see them. “We’ve been workin’ a claim a couple valleys over, but the Injuns run us off. Didn’t know you folks was here.” He continued to appr
oach the camp.

  The two prospectors looked at each other, questioning. One, the older of the two, a tall, lanky man, lowered his rifle upon discovering the unexpected guests were not Indians, and studied the three riders. Two men and a woman, they appeared to be considerably short of supplies, with one pack mule carrying the load. He supposed they were a family. Maybe they had lost most of their possessions when the Indians drove them out. He looked back at his partner, a short, stocky man of perhaps twenty years of age, and nodded. Both men lowered their weapons to the ground then. “Come on in, then, and welcome.”

  Wearing his friendliest smile, Henry led his family into the camp after instructing Billy Ray to keep Rachael well back until he had a chance to explain away her mental state. The fact that she rode with her hands tied together would no doubt provoke suspicion.

  Walking his horse slowly up to the two prospectors, who were now standing side by side on the bank, Henry opened his mouth to speak. Before he could form a syllable, two pistol shots rang out right behind him, causing his horse to rear back, startled, almost ejecting Henry from the saddle. Fighting to keep his seat, Henry looked down to see both miners clutching their stomachs as they sank to the ground. “What the hell!” he blurted. Looking behind him then, he looked into the smiling face of Billy Ray, his pistol still leveled at the unfortunate victims. “For the love of God . . .” Henry started, his words trailing off, then: “We don’t even know if they’ve got anythin’ worth killin’ for.”

  “Well, now we don’t have to waste time waitin’ to find out,” Billy Ray replied smugly. “I never was one for a lot of talk.”