Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  As soon as he dismounted, he wasted no time in starting his search. “Now where would I hide that little sack of dust?” he asked, delighting in what he considered a game between himself and the dead miner. Standing in the middle of the campsite, he looked all around him in a circle, carefully observing every potential rock that would be of a size that a man could lift or shift. Going from one likely looking prospect to the next, he strained against each one, moving those he could, examining the soil beneath it, searching for signs of disturbance. “You picked a damn good place, all right, but I know it’s here someplace. I can smell it.”

  He completed a circle around the tent with nothing to show for his efforts, still he was not discouraged. Standing again in the middle of the circle, he slowly took another look around the camp. His gaze passed over a huge boulder wedged up against a large tree. Too big for a man to move, he thought. Then he quickly came back to it, But just right for a man to stand on if he was of a mind to reach the lower limbs of that tree. The broad grin returned immediately to part his grizzled whiskers, and he scrambled up on the boulder in childish excitement to finish the game.

  It was a perfect hiding place, and he congratulated himself for discovering it. Possessing a mind purely as larcenous as that of the late miner, whose pouch he now searched for, Henry reached up to feel around the base of each limb. There was nothing to be found on the lowest of the limbs. “Come on, now,” he scolded, “don’t make me have to climb this damn tree.” Certain it was there, he reached as high up as he could, still grinning when he remembered that one of the dead miners was a tall, lanky man. “He weren’t hidin’ it from the Injuns or strangers,” he said gleefully. “He was hidin’ it from his partner.” He chuckled when he pictured the taller man picking a limb that was too high for his shorter partner to reach. “Me and him could have been partners.”

  Faced with the same physical limitations as the shorter man, Henry eyed a large limb just out of his reach, knowing his treasure lay waiting in the pocket formed at the trunk. Taking hold of the lower limbs, he strained to pull himself up. I’m too damn old for this, he thought as he struggled to lift his reluctant body mass. But the proper incentive awaited just a foot above his head now, so he pulled as hard as he could until his hand got a grip on the limb. Holding himself against the trunk with his feet, he reached up with the other hand and was rewarded with the feel of a hide pouch.

  As he slid back down the rough bark of the trunk, the few accidental scrapes on his knees went unnoticed as he anticipated the contents of the pouch. He already knew it was heavier than the one he had found in the other man’s waistband. He expected it to be. Otherwise, there would have been no incentive to hide it. With his feet back on the boulder again, Henry smiled as he considered the situation. If the miner had tried to hide his cheating under a rock, it would have been difficult to disguise the frequent deposits in his little bank. He glanced over at the corpse of the short prospector. “When you was squattin’ over in the bushes with your pants down around your ankles, your partner had plenty of time to git to his poke up in the tree.” Henry fully appreciated the larcenous nature of the man, especially since he was the final recipient of the gold.

  Hopping down from the boulder, Henry eagerly loosened the strings on the pouch, and peered inside. “Damn,” he uttered in awe, for the lanky miner had hidden away almost twice the weight of dust as his unsuspecting partner. Almost giddy with the discovery, Henry giggled like a schoolgirl. Unable to contain his glee, he did a little jig, dancing around the cold ashes of the campfire, totally unaware of the line of silent shadows standing watching him from the ridge.

  Red Bull sat on his pony, watching the strange antics of the gray-haired wasicun as he danced around the bodies of two other white men. On either side of him, his warriors sat silently waiting for Red Bull’s signal to ride down the ridge. The war chief sat patiently until he saw a signal from Little Deer on the far side of the camp, telling him that his warriors were in position, and the camp was now encircled by Lakota warriors. Raising his hand high above his head, Red Bull gave out one long battle cry, and the warriors began to descend upon the camp, moving deliberately, even slowly, closing the ring around the stunned white man.

  Finally alerted to the trap he was in, Henry frantically looked all around him, searching for an avenue of escape. There was none. While he had been absorbed in his treasure hunt, he had allowed his natural instincts for survival to be dulled. He cursed himself for his carelessness as he turned first one way, and then another, desperately seeking some salvation. The ring of silent warriors drew tighter and tighter. “Well, dammit, Ned, I reckon I’m gonna see you in Hell,” he muttered, and reached for his rifle. As if by signal, a volley of rifle fire immediately erupted, cutting the old man down before he had a chance to raise his rifle.

  Red Bull dismounted and walked over to stand before the body of the old man. He poked at the bullet-riddled corpse with his toe, but there was no flicker of remaining life. He bent down to pick up the deer hide pouch the white man had held while he performed his strange dance. He shook his head, puzzled. It contained nothing more than a handful of the yellow dirt the white man coveted. The hide sack might be useful, however. So he dumped the contents on the ground, and rucked the sack under his belt while some of his warriors stripped the body of everything of value.

  Little Deer paused to examine Henry’s fancy moccasins, now in the possession of a young warrior called Lame Wolf. “The designs look like Lakota,” he observed.

  Lame Wolf nodded in agreement. “They are old and worn-out,” he said. He held them a few moments longer as he studied the intricate decorations of quills and beads. Then he tossed them back to land upon the half-naked body of the old white man.

  Red Bull walked over to look at the other two bodies, gazing down at them without compassion, his only emotion one of relief that the hated Wanigi Ska was not one of the dead. He would have felt cheated if that had been the case, for he claimed the right to kill the white ghost with his own hand. He had opened his heart to Wakan’ tanka, communing with the great spirit often, making known his desire to kill this phantom who dared to ride these sacred hills. Hearing someone call out from the bank of the stream, he turned to see several of the warriors waving for him to come.

  There were many tracks around the camp, most of them old, but the warriors had found tracks leading downstream that appeared fresher than the others. “There were others here,” one of the men said. Red Bull nodded. Possibly Wanigi Ska, he thought. “Come,” he said, “we have lingered here long enough.”

  * * *

  Clay studied the face of the troubled woman as she sat staring blankly into the flames. He had hoped that making camp near the scene of the slain miners might somehow trigger some spark of memory in her mind, but she showed no emotion of any kind. Their progress since leaving Billy Ray’s body had been slow, much slower than Clay would have desired, but he was hampered by Rachael’s weakened condition. She tired quickly, and although she still did not protest, it was obvious to him that she was in desperate need of time to regain her strength—and nourishment to do so. Consequently, he had no choice but to stop and let her rest while he hunted for fresh meat. Somewhere in the mountains behind them, a sizable band of Sioux warriors combed the valleys in search of white trespassers. He hoped that they were making their way north, since they had already passed this way. It had not occurred to him that he might be the main object of their search.

  “Time to turn in,” Clay said as he spread the bedroll he had fashioned for her, using blankets he had found in the packs of her former captors. With no show of protest, she slowly got to her feet and came to him. He studied her expression carefully while he held the blanket open for her as if she were a child. She obediently crawled inside, and he covered her shoulders and tucked it snugly under her chin. With eyes wide-open, she gazed into his face for a few seconds before closing them tightly as if trying to shut out the world.

  Where is your mind wandering
tonight? he wondered, as he knelt by her side for a moment. Her lack of progress worried him. In the last two days, she had seemed to become more and more childlike, and he was concerned that she might be reverting back in her mind to a place where she felt safe—a place of innocence, in a world she knew before violence entered her life. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “You go on to your safe place. Maybe you’ll be better in the mornin’.”

  Though his words were hopeful, he was troubled in his thoughts. Rachael had yet to speak a word since he found her. The only sounds he had heard from her were the frequent sighs and moans she made in her sleep, as she fretted with some unseen entity. His hope was that she might recover her senses when he took her home to Dry Fork. Surely there were friends, maybe family, there to take care of her. In the meantime, he would do the best he could for her. One thing he was certain of—they had lingered too long in these mountains. He would break camp in the morning, and leave this place of death behind.

  * * *

  Morning brought a drop in temperature that draped the narrow valley in a cool shroud, and created a mist on the stream that obscured the charred remains of the miners’ camp on the far side. Alert, he lay still and listened, as was his habit when awakening. After a moment, he left his blanket to resurrect the fire. There was no sign of movement from Rachael; she appeared to be resting peacefully. After checking on the horses, he returned to the fire to prepare breakfast. Rachael had still not stirred. He paused to look at her. She lay, unmoving, the blanket still tucked under her chin as if she had not moved since he covered her the night before. It suddenly occurred to him that she was as still as death, and he immediately became concerned.

  Dropping to one knee, he bent close over her. He was relieved to discover that she was breathing after all, although each breath was so short and gentle that it was not detectable until his ear was almost touching her lips. Pulling back at once, lest she awaken and find him so close, he stood up, not sure if he was relieved or not. In her deteriorating mental state, it might have been more merciful if she had passed away peacefully in her sleep. Resigned to his commitment to return her to Dry Fork, he emitted a short sigh and turned his attention to cooking breakfast.

  He finished his breakfast of roasted deer meat and coffee, and still Rachael was sleeping. This was unusual, and caused him renewed concern, because she normally would have awakened as soon as she heard him stirring about. It was getting late. The sun would soon be peeking through the deep narrow valleys, and he had planned to be on his way long before this. Knowing she desperately needed rest, he decided he would have to wake her. It was not wise to remain in one place too long, because a war party of Sioux was somewhere behind them. He had also not dismissed some concern for Billy Ray’s partner. Maybe the two outlaws had not permanently parted company. And Clay had a feeling that it had probably been this man, and not Billy Ray, who had demonstrated the ability to cover his trail—leading Clay to assume that the other man was as competent when it came to tracking as he was at trying to lose someone.

  “Rachael,” he said softly, gently shaking her shoulder. He repeated her name several times before her eyelids finally flickered, and she opened them to meet his gaze. “You’d best get up now, ma’am. We have to get movin’ as soon as you’ve had somethin’ to eat.” Satisfied that she was awake, even though her expression conveyed a deep confusion, he moved back to the fire to pour some coffee for her.

  His back to her now, the perplexed young woman stared at him moving around the fire. “You’re that army scout,” she suddenly said, startling him. “Clay something . . . I can’t recall. . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he was quick to reply, surprised to hear the first words spoken by her in days. “Culver, Clay Culver.”

  She sat up then and looked around her, seemingly amazed to find herself in his company. “He killed Lon,” she said then, remembering, her face taking on a mask of concern.

  “Yes, ma’am, I know he did, but you don’t have to fear him no more. He’s done for.”

  This seemed to puzzle her, and she tried to search her memory to recall. Unable to remember any details, she asked, “Billy Ray’s dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s dead.” He studied her eyes carefully, wondering just how much she really remembered. She had apparently blocked out all memory of Billy Ray’s violent death, the final shot delivered by her own hand. At least she had come partially back, and was talking again. “Now you’d best eat a little somethin’,” he said, “and we’ll get on the trail. There are still some mighty unfriendly folks roaming around these hills.”

  “We got Billy Ray, then?” She sought confirmation, still lacking memory of the details.

  “Yes, we got him, all right. You’ve done what you came out here to do,” he answered, amazed by her lucidity after having been almost in a trance for days. “Now I’m gonna take you back to Dry Fork, back to your folks.”

  She paused to consider that for a few moments. “Will must be worried sick,” she said, but then her face took on a deep frown when she remembered. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “My mind seems a bit confused this morning. Of course my husband is dead.” She said nothing for a long moment, then added, “I don’t have any folks in Dry Fork.”

  “No family? You must have some friends—somebody.”

  She thought about that for another moment before replying. “Well, Doris Castleberry, I guess—the mayor’s wife. She and John were very helpful to Will and me—and Peggy Greenwell.” She thought back to the days when the mayor was recruiting Will for the post of schoolmaster. He had been most gracious, and Doris had spent more than a few hours helping her set up house in the modest cabin behind the schoolhouse. Thoughts of the cabin brought to mind the meager possessions left to her with Will’s death. There had not been enough years for them to acquire more than a few pieces of furniture and some pots and pans. But at this stage in her life, Dry Fork was the only place she could call home.

  * * *

  They started out, following the winding course of the stream they had camped beside, making their way toward a canyon that would lead them between two towering mountains to the south. Clay had come into this part of the Black Hills several times. The foothills began just beyond the two mountains before them. He was constantly alert, as was his habit in this part of the country; his eyes scanned the slopes on either side leading into the canyon. There was no sign of any living thing except a hawk, circling high overhead, in its constant search for prey in the dark green forests that covered the lower slopes.

  Still unclear about the circumstances of Billy Ray’s demise, Rachael had asked a lot of questions, and had expressed a desire to see Billy Ray’s body. Clay could understand her morbid curiosity, knowing that her sole purpose since her husband’s murder had been to bring justice to the young outlaw. It was understandable that she needed to actually see for herself that the person she hated so intensely was really gone. In view of her selective memory, he wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to re-create the scene in vivid detail for her, judging it best to let her recall it in her own good time. Maybe, he thought, she will never recall it. If that were the case, then the lie he had told her—that Billy Ray’s body was buried, and he wasn’t sure he could find the grave again—would do no harm. In fact, he could have taken her directly back to where Billy Ray’s carcass was no doubt the main course for a flock of buzzards, or a pack of hungry wolves.

  Time, now, was the enemy. They had been forced to lose a great deal of time while he waited for Rachael to gain enough strength to travel. It was uncertain who—Sioux or Billy Ray’s partner—might be overtaking them. Now that Rachael seemed to be strong enough to maintain a faster pace, Clay pushed the horses harder in an effort to clear the canyon as quickly as possible.

  The afternoon was wearing thin by the time they reached the southern end of the canyon, but there were still a couple of hours of daylight left. Clay would have preferred to continue on until well past the ravine where Lieutenant Fan
nin’s patrol had awaited him on the day he first located the camp of the twelve miners. Looking back frequently at Rachael, he realized, however, that she was near exhaustion. He knew he had to let her rest. Her body, though stronger, was not yet recovered from the ordeal she had suffered while in captivity. It would take a few more days of rest and nourishment.

  “There’s a good spring on the other side of that ridge,” he said as he pulled up and waited for her to come up beside him. “Lieutenant Fannin and his soldiers camped there. You remember Lieutenant Fannin, don’t you?” He waited for her response, curious to see how much of her memory she had regained. She frowned as she tried to remember, but it was obvious that she was having trouble recalling. “He tried to talk you and Lon into goin’ to Fort Laramie with his patrol.” Still frowning, she slowly shook her head. “Don’t matter,” he said gently. “It’ll come back when you’re ready.” He gave her a smile and said, “One more little ridge, and we’ll rest for the night.”

  “Long blond mustache,” she suddenly blurted, just as he started to ride.

  “Ma’am?” he asked, not sure he had heard her correctly.

  “Lieutenant Fannin,” she said, smiling. “He has a long blond mustache.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, grinning broadly. “That he does.” He nudged the gray Indian pony with his heels and led off toward the low ridge, pleased to know that her memory seemed to be returning. He only hoped that, if it returned completely, it wouldn’t stagger her already bruised mind. Glancing back at her, he couldn’t help but notice the difference between the woman riding behind him now, and the young lady he first encountered on the trail with Lon Fortson. Confident and independent, almost to the point of arrogance, she had balked defiantly when Fannin had advised her that she should stay clear of the Black Hills. There was a marked difference between that iron-willed young woman and the fragile, fearful girl behind him now, her face still bruised and swollen in places, evidence of the brutal treatment she had endured. She’ll be all right, he decided. She’s made of pretty strong stuff.