by Ron Schwab
Bing stood up. “We’ll go by the office and report to the sheriff. He’ll want to claim jurisdiction over the scene and get the coroner here before the city police butt in. Then we’ll pay a call on Claud Bullock.”
Chapter 39
KATE
Kate was surprised and relieved that the men had not summoned any of the girls for their pleasure this evening. It seemed unlikely they would do so now. It must be near midnight, and the camp had quieted. She assumed there was a guard posted someplace, but she doubted if more than one would be out. The captors did not appear unduly concerned about the security of their hideout.
She and Marta knelt not far from the gate, illuminated by moonglow she wished would succumb to cloud cover. Darkness would have been their ally this night. Olive slipped quietly between them.
“Raven will warn us with two owl hoots if anyone is coming this way from the rear,” she said softly.
“Anyone” meant Maybelle. She had been called out late afternoon when the Oglala, George, had returned with a pale and sickly-looking Bull, whose hand was heavily bandaged. The big man still whined about his pain, but none of the others appeared to pay any attention to his misery.
Maybelle had returned with a smug look on her face, and Kate did not take that as a positive sign. Something was going on. She assumed Maybelle had been promised privileges or reward for helpful information, perhaps even freedom, which would never happen. Two sharp hoots came from behind. Marta was off her feet and headed toward the back of the cave like a rocket. Kate turned to see Maybelle walking toward them.
“What are you up to?” the woman demanded before she tumbled forward with Raven’s arms anchored about her legs. No sooner did Maybelle land on the cave floor than Marta had the spy’s head locked between her hands and was pounding it repeatedly like a sledge against the rough granite floor. Kate winced at the crunching sound that came with each strike. Finally, the pounding stopped and Marta returned, with Raven following close behind.
“Is she dead?” Kate asked, shivering at the brutality of the attack.
“I do not know,” Marta said, “but she will be no more trouble this night.”
They continued their move toward the gate. When they reached it, Kate’s eyes followed the steel bars’ upward thrust. She shuddered at the thought of Olive impaled upon the sharp spears. She peered through the bars and was relieved to find there appeared to be no sentry on the ledge outside. She hoped he was dozing by the fire at the campsite downslope. It had been quiet for nearly an hour until coyotes had begun howling and barking from somewhere above the coop a short time ago. She welcomed the racket since it might help muffle any noise from Olive’s maneuvering on the gate.
“I am ready,” came the meek voice of girl beside her.
“You do not have to do this,” Kate whispered, “we will understand.”
Olive stood, tugged her blanket from her shoulders, and stuffed it between the steel bars. Kate and Marta rose, and Kate linked her fingers into a stirrup for Olive’s foot. Marta followed suit. Olive slipped her feet into the supports, and the two women boosted her from the ground. In a moment Kate felt the girl’s weight disappear from her hand and looked up to see a naked Olive scaling the gate like a monkey. She held her breath when the girl reached the wicked spikes, but the skinny girl glided through the opening like a bird and easily and silently slid down the other side. She paused just long enough to give them a satisfied smile to acknowledge her victory, and then she picked up her blanket and disappeared into the night.
They stepped back into the depths of the cave, waiting for the guard to sound an alarm, but all they could hear was the coyote jamboree.
“They will never catch her,” Raven said. “She can outrun the fastest jackrabbit.”
Kate turned around and stepped over to where Marta had left Maybelle. She knelt beside the young Sioux woman and rolled her over. Her head and face were blood-drenched and swollen, her nose nearly flattened against her face. But her chest rose and fell, and her breathing seemed normal except for a wheezing sound that came from her nose. Kate was relieved Maybelle was alive. She did not want to be part of the killing of a fellow captive, even though she was an obvious traitor.
“We cannot leave her here,” Kate said to the others. “They will see her. I do not know how we account for her when the guards check in the morning. Of course, we might have to explain Olive’s absence as well.”
Kate and Marta scooted Maybelle onto her blanket. Then, with Raven’s help, they half-carried and half-drug the Sioux stool-pigeon to the shaft in the rear and dropped her with the other four sleeping captives.
Chapter 40
TREY
Gramps had told me to keep staring at the fire, which is not easy to do casually when some guy might have a rifle trained on your back and a finger pressed tight against the trigger. My stomach won over fear, however, and I finally helped myself to a biscuit and a few slices of bacon. And then a second biscuit and a few more slices of bacon. There was still plenty for Gramps and, likely, another serving for me. Damned if he wasn’t a handy old fart to have along, but I wasn’t confident I hadn’t already slipped into the second-in-command slot. Gram Skye always warned me that Gramps couldn’t help himself when it came to taking charge of things, so she’d always found it easier to let him think he was most times.
He had slipped silently into the woods like a cat, and I understood why the Sioux had called him the Puma in his scouting days. It was creepy, sitting there by the fire in the dusky dawn, not knowing who was spying from up the creek and uncertain where Gramps had disappeared to. With my belly full, I was starting to get impatient and thinking of deserting my post when a melee broke out behind me. First, I heard a child’s voice cut-off mid scream and Gramps’s voice sounding like he was trying to calm somebody. I could not tell for certain, because he was speaking Lakota, a language which, fool that I was, I had spurned in my childhood days, learning only a useless phrase or two that Gram scrambled in with her English and French when it suited her. I got up to go help Gramps because from the racket in the brush and trees, I could not tell who was getting the best of the fracas.
By the time I stumbled my way up the rugged incline that ran along the creek, however, Gramps seemed to have the battle under control. He was on his way down, his hand locked on the forearm of a scrawny, half-naked Indian girl, who had a filthy blanket draped over her front in an unsuccessful effort to conceal her private parts. She was a dirty, gangly thing with a dark, oval face that would likely clean up to be quite pretty. I guessed she could be anywhere from thirteen to fifteen years old.
The girl shot me a look that said she would love to kill me if I came too near. I didn’t know how she’d do it, but I respected her wishes and kept my distance. Gramps took her up next to the fire and set her down. She inched closer to the flames, and I realized she had to be half-frozen. I tossed on a few more logs.
“Trey, why don’t you see if you can coax her to eat something? I’ll find something for her to wear.” Gramps headed for the gear stash.
I called after him. “Does she speak English?”
“Of course, she does. She was cussing me out in Lakota, so I gave her a dose of her own medicine.”
I picked up Gramps’s tin plate, since it was clean, and scooped some biscuits and bacon in it and passed it to the girl, whose anger seemed to have mellowed to mere suspicion. “Eat this while we talk.”
She snugged the blanket tighter over her shoulders before accepting the plate. She didn’t hesitate once she had the plate in her hands. She tore into the food like a starving hound. I waited and watched since it appeared she would finish her breakfast quickly. When she was down to a few remnants, I asked. “How do you happen to be here like this?”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then closed it. She seemed to be pondering her words.
I asked, “Do you know what the Bureau of Investigation is?”
She spoke slowly. “It is police, I think. From Wash
ington.”
“Close enough. My name is Trey Ramsey. The other man is my grandfather, Ethan Ramsey. I am a special agent for the Bureau of Investigation. We are looking for a young lady by the name of Kate Connolly, who was abducted by some bad men. We think other young women may be with her . . . probably Sioux women, like yourself. Would you know anything about this?”
“Yes. I know Kate. I am Olive. I saw her last night. She helped me escape.”
Kate was alive. The relief that raced through me at that news was like nothing I had ever felt before. “Where is she?”
“A place the evil men call the chick coop.”
Gramps returned with a denim shirt that appeared near the end of a long life. “If you will stand up, I’ll improve your wardrobe a mite.”
She stood, clutching her blanket tightly to her body. Gramps held the shirt up to her. “Stick out your arm.” She obeyed, and, after he stretched a shirt sleeve along her arm, he pulled a folding knife out of his pocket, opened it and began slicing off the sleeves well above the shirt cuffs. When he had completed the alterations, he handed her the shirt. “Try this on. You can tie the rawhide around your waist for a belt if you like. We’ll turn around and keep our backs to you until you tell us you have your new dress on.”
“I can do that. You are a kind man.”
Gramps had charmed the young lady quicker than you could blink. He was one smooth old weasel.
“I am dressed,” Olive said.
We turned around and found the girl standing there with the hint of a shy smile on her face. She swam in the shirt, and it dropped almost to her knees, the rawhide belt cinching it snuggly to her slim waist. She had a winsome, elfin quality about her that made it difficult to imagine how anyone would wish to bring harm to her.
I turned to Gramps and said, “Her name is Olive, and she escaped from the chick coop last night. Kate is alive.”
Olive interjected, her voice soft and calm, “I think they are in terrible danger. There were six men in the camp when I escaped. They are worried about something, and Kate believes they may be changing plans.”
“How long did it take you to get this far?” I asked.
“I do not know exactly, but I did not leave until most of the men were sleeping. I would guess it took me five hours. But it was all downhill through this canyon.”
“We’re not making any time with the horses,” Gramps said. “Best to leave them behind.”
“Olive,” I asked. “Do you know where the State Game Lodge is?”
“When I find a road. Kate told me where I should go when I find Steeple Rock.”
“Gramps, what would you think about having Olive continue on to the game lodge? She can ride one of the horses most of the trek and lead the others. We can go ahead on foot. Do you think you can handle a six or seven hour walk up this mountain?” He did not reply, but the look he shot me would have melted iron.
I asked Olive about landmarks on the trail that would help us find where Kate and the young Sioux women were held, and she rattled off information like a travel guide. Her observations were remarkable given she had made her trek down in the dark. Several times on this assignment I had encountered bright, intelligent Indian girls whose spirits had not yet been broken, and I suddenly appreciated the importance of Gram’s life work of building educational and financial opportunities outside the reservation world for her Sioux cousins. I vowed to see if Gram could make a place for this shy girl at the Lame Buffalo School.
I asked her, “Can you take the horses and the gear and supplies we don’t need with you and continue your journey to the game lodge?”
“Yes, of course. That was my plan before I met you.”
“When you arrive, you will be stopped by men who are Secret Service agents protecting the president. Tell them that Trey sent you and that you must speak with Mr. Starling. Tell him about the chick coop and where you met up with us and that he should talk to Bing, the deputy sheriff, about locating the coop. I know you were hooded during the drive to the chick coop but tell them anything you remember that might help locate the place. Also . . . and this is important . . . when we release the young women, we will build a fire that sends up smoke that can be seen for miles. They should head for the smoke.”
“I can do this.”
“Good. Then let’s get you saddled up.”
Chapter 41
TREY
To say that the climb was rugged was an understatement. The creek twisted like a slithering snake, and the slabs of granite and loose rock footings worsened as we moved upward. The oak, aspen and birch started to give way to towering ponderosa pine and dense undergrowth of smaller progeny and low-lying shrubs. We could see places where Olive had passed or, I should say, Gramps did. He often pointed out places where the Oglala girl had stepped or where she had ridden a loose-rock slide on her butt. I nodded my head in agreement or grunted appropriately, but I rarely saw.
Worse, he made me eat my condescending words with castor oil. He clambered up the rocks like a damned mountain goat, leaving me huffing on the trail behind him. My own ego warred with his stamina, and I only called for rest breaks when I felt I was on the edge of death. We finally took time for lunch, which consisted of water and candy bars. I had carried a leather bag stuffed with assorted bars on my belt, and I snatched the sole Butterfinger before offering the bars to Gramps. He took two Hershey bars, and I had no doubt they had a purpose beyond mere taste.
We sat with our backs leaning against boulders that were scattered in a little clearing off the side of the trail. The sound of the creek’s rush nearby made me drowsy, coaxing my focus from our mission. “How far do you think we’ve come, Gramps?” I asked.
“I think we’re less than an hour from the so-called chick coop.”
“Really?”
“We’ve made good time. I’m sorry. I doubted you could move this fast.”
I pondered whether his words were compliment or insult. Either way, I guessed he was entitled to a dig.
We each carried our pistols and Winchesters. In addition, Gramps had a nasty-looking sheath knife on his hip and a double-barreled shotgun slung over his back—not much of a long-range weapon, but it would carve out space close-in.
“Is that wicked tool on your belt a Bowie knife?” I asked.
“Yep. I’ve had it since before I met your Grandma.”
“Ever killed anything with it?”
“Three men. Cut up a few others.”
I had been joking. I really didn’t know this man.
Then he tried to reassure me. “Never killed anybody that didn’t deserve it. And it’s been a good while. I haven’t killed anybody in this century with anything, gun or knife.”
“I hope you don’t break that record today, but we could have six men to deal with up there.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. It will take a little longer, but I wonder if we should circle around and try to get the high ground on them. If they don’t throw their guns down, we could pick off a few of them.”
“I’m worried about them holding Kate or some of the others hostage. What if they threaten to kill some of the captives if we don’t back off?”
Gramps was silent about that one for a bit. “If I could get in front of the gate with my shotgun, I could separate them from the young women. I could probably blast the lock so they could make a run for it if they needed.”
“That’s high risk. I’m the BI agent. I claim that job if it comes down to that.”
“We’ve got to see the layout for ourselves before we decide how to approach the attack.”
Two gun blasts from upstream echoed through the canyon. “I think our strategies have just been shot to hell,” I said. “I just hope they haven’t started executions.”
Chapter 42
THE RAPID CITY OUTFIT
After speaking with George Many Knives that afternoon, Claud Bullock decided he had made a misjudgment. Taking the Connolly girl had been a huge mistake. George said the word f
rom a connection he had in the sheriff’s office was that the Bureau of Investigation was taking over the case. The unsuccessful attempt to kill the colored agent should have been taken as a warning the end of his enterprises was near. He had just had a sense of invincibility that made him figure he could weather any storm.
Bull’s getting chewed up by that cur had started the landslide. His brother was a walking piece of evidence, and Doc Kerrigan had been a weak link that could tie everything to himself. Boss had resolved that problem as soon as George left to deliver instructions to the chick coop. Boss had gone immediately to Kerrigan’s residence. It had been risky because it was still daylight at the time, but he had parked several blocks away and walked to Kerrigan’s pitiful excuse for a house. Thankfully, the house had been unlocked—folks in places like South Dakota rarely locked their homes—and he had just walked in.
He was prepared to put a bullet in the old coot’s head, but he preferred to avoid the noise. Boss had taken as a positive omen that the outlaw doctor was at his kitchen table, a whiskey bottle within his reach and his head plopped on the surface. Boss had just slipped the garrote out of his jacket pocket, placed the wire gently around the man’s neck, and started twisting. Doc woke for just an instant, his eyes bulging and his mouth sucking for air that was cut off. He died quickly without much fuss. Boss was an expert with the instrument, one trick he had brought back from Chicago. He didn’t like blood much and usually preferred others do his killing, but this had been fun and a nice opportunity to hone his skills.
Boss had long been prepared for a quick disappearing act, and he was packing his bags now with just that in mind. He maintained bank accounts in Nebraska, Wyoming and Montana under aliases. Banks required no identification to set up accounts. All they were interested in were large deposits. He was not as wealthy as an Arabian king, but he could live without working the rest of his life. He was taking his account information with him so the bank accounts could not be tracked. He planned to take a train to Denver and obtain a hotel room there until he made more definite plans.