Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  “If there’s a livin’ soul within five miles of here, they damn sure know where to find us,” Henry complained, his face reflecting the anger he felt. “Now we’re gonna have to git away from here before we have company from Red Bull or that son of a bitch on the gray horse.” The only thing that kept him from shooting Billy Ray for his brainless action was the young fool’s blatant act itself. Now he was afraid he needed Billy Ray’s gun a while longer, since the young hothead had broadcast their location to anybody in the immediate area.

  With a defiant grin plastered on his face, Billy Ray stepped down, and began rummaging through the pockets of one of his victims. The man groaned, and reached out in a weak attempt to fend him off. His feeble effort earned him a quick end to his suffering when Billy Ray put a bullet in his brain. Filled with the confidence always gained with his gun in hand, Billy Ray leered defiantly at Henry, silently daring him to protest. Henry just shook his head in consternation and, with little choice, slid off his horse and hastened the other prospector’s journey to the promised land with his knife.

  “Nuthin’!” Billy Ray exclaimed, disgusted. He got to his feet and aimed an angry kick at the back of the corpse. “Some prospectors,” he added, and glanced over at Henry, who appeared to have had the same result after searching the other body. “Maybe they hid it in the tent.” He holstered his pistol, and ran to the tent to make sure he got there before Henry.

  Already nervously scanning the slopes around them, Henry was still concerned with his own safety at that point, fearful that a band of angry Lakota warriors might suddenly appear on the ridge behind him. Although anxious to vacate the camp as quickly as possible, he lingered a few moments longer beside the bodies until Billy Ray was inside the tent. His experienced eye told him that the two men had been in this camp for a considerable length of time. It stood to reason that they would have pulled up stakes and moved on if the stream had not shown some color. He was dead certain there was gold hidden here somewhere. There was the possibility that they might have hidden it in the tent, or under a rock outside the tent. But in Henry’s mind, there was a better possibility that the dust was on their bodies, and in like instances to this one, that was where Henry had most often found it. For Billy Ray’s benefit, he had rifled the pockets of one of the bodies, making a show of finding nothing. Now that Billy Ray was out of sight inside the tent, Henry stuck his hand inside the trousers of the corpse, and slid it around the waistband until he felt the string he was confident he would find. A wide grin spread slowly across his grizzled features as he drew the small cotton sack from inside the body’s trousers. I knew there was another pouch in your pants besides the one God gave you, he thought, almost chuckling aloud at his own black humor. With another glance toward the tent, where he could hear Billy Ray’s grumbling complaints, he moved to the other corpse. A quick search of the second man yielded nothing. He’s hidden his somewhere else, he thought.

  Getting to his feet, Henry looked around the camp for likely spots to hide a pouch of gold dust. He never even considered the possibility that the first corpse had possession of the dust belonging to both partners. In his many years in this vocation, he had learned that men developed a certain amount of distrust when it came to gold and women. So he was confident that there was a similar pouch of gold hidden around there, under a rock or in a tree, somewhere. But there was no time to search for it. Billy Ray’s frustrated cursing was becoming louder and louder. Henry grabbed the reins and led his horse over to the tent. He was about to crowd in behind Billy Ray, who was on his hands and knees, scratching in the dirt like a dog searching for a bone, when out of the corner of his eye he detected a slight motion behind him.

  Forgotten in the excitement of the heartless murders, and the rush for possible loot, Rachael sat on her horse, indifferent to the actions of her captors. Mentally removed from the scene of blatant carnage, she had taken refuge in the deep sanctuary of her mind. When Billy Ray disappeared into the tent, something in her subconscious lit a spark. And without conscious thought, she slowly pulled back on her horse’s reins, and the animal responded with a few backward steps. When the pressure on the reins remained steady, her horse obediently withdrew another several yards. Henry, now realizing that Rachael was backing away, started to call out for her to stop, then changed his mind and held his tongue. He watched her for a moment longer while making up his mind.

  With eyes glazed dully, she stared at him with no sign of emotion as he walked over and took the horse’s bridle. With no word spoken, he drew his long skinning knife from his belt. She made no effort to recoil from him as he reached up for her. Taking hold of her arm, he slid the blade between her wrists and cut the ropes binding them together. Then he took the bridle again and, turning the horse in the direction they had come, gave the animal a gentle slap on the rump. He stood watching, as the horse slowly walked back along the stream. Maybe, he thought, it was not the kindest thing to do, for there was no telling what fate might await her in the wild country of the Black Hills. But it would certainly be no worse than her future with Billy Ray. With a rare feeling of compassion, he shook his head sadly, turned and went back to the tent.

  “There ain’t nuthin’ in here but a few ol’ dirty clothes,” Billy Ray complained loudly. Still on his hands and knees, he threw a canvas sack against the side of the tent.

  Henry stuck his head inside. “What’s in them sacks by the back flap?” he asked, ignoring Billy Ray’s fit of anger.

  “Dried beans, soda, some salt pork—stuff like that,” Billy Ray replied.

  “Well, we can sure use that,” Henry said. “Hand it out here. We’d best be movin’ ourselves out of this val ley before company comes. These poor souls didn’t have no luck at all. Ain’t no gold here.”

  Billy Ray tossed the food provisions back at Henry’s feet. “You still worrying about that ghost?” The contempt in his tone was undisguised.

  “And Red Bull,” Henry answered.

  “Hell, if they was after us, they’da already been here by now. And that ghost, hell, you said yourself we shook him—if he was really followin’ us in the first place.”

  “I’m fixin’ to mount up and leave this valley,” Henry announced in tones unemotional. “I reckon you can decide if you’re goin’ or stayin’.”

  Detecting a note of finality in Henry’s statement, Billy Ray crawled out of the tent. He stood up, facing Henry, to look him in the eye, searching for any hint of treachery in the older man’s face. He was about to question his partner’s intent when it struck him. “Hey! Where the hell’s Rachael?” He shoved past Henry, looking right and left. She was nowhere to be found. Immediately overcome with anger, he stormed back to stand before the old man. “Where is she?” he demanded, his face turning scarlet with rage.

  “How the hell do I know?” Henry replied calmly. “I reckon she decided to leave. It ain’t up to me to keep an eye on your woman for you.”

  Billy Ray’s hand moved to rest on the butt of his pistol, but Henry was already holding his rifle ready before him. The two partners eyed each other intently, each man weighing the odds. The moment of decision passed when it was obvious it was a standoff, with both men probable losers. Billy Ray was the first to break the tension.

  “Hell, it ain’t no big problem,” he said, moving his hand away from his gun. “She just wandered off. She can’t have got far. We’ll just have to go find her.”

  “I got no time to go back lookin’ for some crazy woman—not since you signaled everybody in the valley. I say let ’er go. We’d best git ourselves outta here, and on the other side of this mountain.” He stood, carefully watching Billy Ray, his rifle still in a ready position. “’Course, you can go after her. That’s up to you. But I’m headin’ upstream.” Even though he was holding his rifle almost level with his chest, he hesitated to make a move. He had seen Billy Ray draw. With speed like a striking rattler, the young outlaw might well be able to put a bullet into Henry before the old man got a round off. At best, they
might shoot each other.

  Henry could see that the younger man was undecided. He suspected that Billy Ray was considering the fact that, if they had shaken the ghost, it was due entirely to Henry’s ability to disguise their trail. He talked pretty boldly about his lack of fear of any Indian superstition, but when it came right down to going it alone in these mountains, Billy Ray was not that confident. Still, the sins of the flesh tugged fairly hard on the lustful young man, and he still felt the flush of anger that first seized him when he found that Rachael had simply ridden away. Henry wasn’t willing to wait for him to make up his mind. He felt the longer he waited, the greater chance they would get cornered in this small valley.

  “Well, I’m goin’,” Henry announced as he stepped up in the saddle. “One of them horses looks pretty stout. The other’n looks a mite swayback. I reckon you can have ’em both if you want ’em. All I need is ol’ Buster here,” he said, referring to his mule. “Good luck to ya.” Like Rachael a short while before, he backed his horse away, his rifle cradled across his arms. “I reckon you’ll be goin’ after her.”

  “I reckon,” Billy Ray replied grudgingly. “I aim to show her she can’t just do as she pleases.”

  “Good for you, boy,” Henry said in parting, doing his best to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He suddenly wheeled his horse and galloped away upstream, leaving Billy Ray to wonder if he had made the right decision to part company with one who knew the mountains as well as Henry Izard.

  It would be a long shot with a pistol, Billy Ray thought as he watched the old man about to disappear into the pines that bordered the edge of the valley. There was no time to fetch his rifle from the sling on his saddle, so he had to content himself with the thought that it was probably better that they part friends—or at least under that guise. It’ll be a relief to have him gone, he told himself. He had been about fed up with Henry’s disapproving looks every time he slapped the woman. The thought brought his mind back to Rachael.

  “That little bitch,” he mumbled. “Thinks she can run off on me, does she? I’ve been too damn easy on her.” Determined he would find her and give her a lot to think about before she would try to run away again, he climbed in the saddle and sat staring at the horses Henry had so generously offered. “Hell,” he said, “I don’t wanna fool with no extra horses.” His mind was on the woman, so he turned back along the trail on which they had entered the little valley. He smirked when he thought about the beatings he had administered to the helpless woman, and smiled when he recalled the incident in front of the Lucky Spur when she spit in his face. “I reckon I rattled her brain pretty good for that,” he said, chuckling to himself. Confident that Rachael’s brain was so loose in her head that she would probably be riding around in circles, he took the easiest trail before him, one that led down the stream.

  Chapter 12

  Henry Izard had done his job well. Clay walked the gray Indian pony up and down the banks of another wide stream, searching for the point where the two outlaws had left the water. It had been increasingly difficult to follow the erratic trail through the mountains since they became aware of him behind them. Clay feared that he had lost the time he had initially gained on the two.

  “They picked a damn good spot this time,” he confided in the gray. Standing knee-deep in the clear rushing water, he gazed at a rock shelf, through which the stream had cut a channel. With solid rock on both sides of the water for a distance of forty yards or so, they could have left the stream at any point. It was going to mean more time lost while Clay carefully combed the rocky table for sign. Looking ahead, he saw two obvious choices in direction. They could have held to the eastern bank, and headed for what looked to be a narrow pass—or they could have ridden up toward a ridge on the west side that connected two towering mountains. If he didn’t find definite sign, he was going to have to guess. If he guessed wrong, he might lose them altogether. He was about to curse the luck when he thought he heard two gunshots. He turned immediately to face the ridge on the western side of the stream, his ear to the wind, listening. Maybe it had been his imagination, desperately searching for some clue that might help him decide which way to proceed. After a short interval, however, he heard another shot. It was not imagined. The last time he had heard those pistol shots, he had found Lon dead. He did not doubt that it was the same pistol.

  * * *

  She didn’t get far. Billy Ray was, by no stretch of the imagination, an expert tracker, but he found her easily enough. Staring vacantly into space, she sat dazed while her horse wandered leisurely along the bank of the stream, grazing upon the tender plants that lined the edge. The sight of her caused him to grin at her pathetic attempt to escape. Her period of freedom had lasted for little over an hour. “You’re gonna pay for that, darlin’,” he said as he guided his horse across to her side. “I’m gonna loosen up the rest of your brains for you.”

  Only remotely aware of the man approaching her on horseback, Rachael turned her head slowly toward him at the sound of hooves splashing the water behind her. There was the slightest flicker of fear in her eyes, but she made no attempt to run.

  “You better not,” he warned, detecting the shift in her eyes. He took hold of her horse’s bridle, and led the animal out of the water to a grassy clearing where he dismounted. “I bet you was afraid I wasn’t gonna come find you,” he chided sarcastically. Reaching up to grab her arm, he hauled her out of the saddle, dumping her unceremoniously on the ground. She cringed as he stalked toward her, and tried to back away from him, fearing what she knew to expect. Desperately wishing to avoid another savage beating, she fumbled with the buttons on her trousers. Laughing at her attempt to dissuade him, he said, “I ain’t in the mood right now. First we’re gonna see about you runnin’ off. Then maybe we’ll take them pants off.”

  “Please don’t,” she murmured pitifully, the first words he had heard from her in days. They didn’t influence his resolve. He grabbed for her arm, and dragged her back into the grass, her frail body bumping over roots and stones before being dumped before his feet. As she lay helpless before him, he drew back his boot and aimed it at the small of her back. She cringed, waiting for the blow, but it didn’t come. Hearing him grunt as if the breath had been knocked out of him, she looked up to see him suddenly stagger backward a few steps, grimacing in pain as he stared at the plain wooden shaft protruding from his side. In a rush of panic, he pulled at the arrow, trying to dislodge it, each time crying out in pain as the arrowhead cut into the muscle. With no idea from what direction the arrow had come, he drew his pistol and dropped to one knee beside Rachael, his head pivoting back and forth in a frantic effort to spot his assailants. Knowing in his mind that he was under attack by a band of Sioux, he tried to decide in which direction to run. Looking down at the cruel shaft embedded in his side, he was horrified to see his lifeblood soaking his shirt. In a moment of panic, he got to his feet, and lunged toward his horse. Startled, the animal shied away, causing him to reach out for the saddle horn in desperation. The horse continued to shy, dragging Billy Ray a few feet before settling down.

  “Damn you!” Billy Ray cursed, and cried out in pain when he lifted his leg to step into the saddle, the morion having caused the arrow to shift. A moment later he screamed as a second arrow struck him solidly between his shoulder blades, causing him to stagger backward and stumble over the woman still lying prone on the ground. With eyes wild with fear, he crawled up close behind her in an attempt to shield himself from further attack. Certain that he was dying, he began to whimper as he tried to look around him in all directions at the same time, terrified as he anticipated the inevitable. Every horror story he had ever heard about the savage treatment of white men at the hands of the Sioux came rushing back to his brain. In a final desperate plea for mercy, he dropped his pistol and raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot no more,” he begged. As he searched desperately for any means to save himself, his eyes fell on the woman lying stunned beside him. Struggling to his knees, his
hands still raised in the air, he called out, “Let me go, and I’ll give you the woman. She’s a white woman. You can have her. Just let me go!”

  One moment, there was no one; the next, he was there. Seeming to suddenly materialize near a brace of willows, he appeared ghostlike to the terrified young outlaw. The rays of the afternoon sun filtered through the willow leaves behind him, creating an aura around his broad shoulders that convinced the horrified Billy Ray that he was surely gazing at the angel of death.

  “Move away from the woman,” Clay commanded as he stepped out into the clearing. His bow now strung over his shoulder, he carried his Winchester before him, ready to finish the job the bow had started. Thinking Rachael dead at first, he was relieved to see her stirring. Walking slowly, he approached the quivering outlaw.

  Immobilized with fear, Billy Ray had not moved when ordered to, helpless to do anything but stare pathetically at the tall mountain man advancing toward him. As Clay approached, Billy Ray, in a lucid moment, realized that he was not looking at a ghost. There was still one desperate chance! He dropped his hands, and reached for the pistol he had dropped on the ground. It was no longer there. Jerking his head back to look at Rachael, he found himself staring into the muzzle of his Colt .45. There was a brief second, just time enough for one final moment for the reality of it to strike him, and he cried out in horror just before the gun exploded in his face.

  Dazed, Rachael stared at the hated man who had brought such unbearable grief into her life. Already dead, although still kneeling before her, he stared stupidly in his death mask, his face blistered from the closeness of the muzzle, his brains blown out the back of his head. He remained in that position for several seconds more before finally collapsing slowly to the ground.

  Clay had stood watching the violent final moments of the piece of dung called Billy Ray. His rifle ready, he had been prepared to end it when the young outlaw reached for his pistol. But he had seen Rachael grasp the weapon moments before, and he felt the final judgment was rightfully hers. Now as he carefully watched the reaction of the tortured woman, he was not sure what her mental state might be. He advanced cautiously while she still held the gun in her hand, cognizant of the fact that she might rum the weapon on him. There was not a lot of time to linger there, he felt. The pistol shot would have been heard. It was the very reason he had chosen to use his bow. The dead man’s partner might be close at hand, and there was always the Sioux war party to consider.