Beneath a Dakota Cross (6 page)

“Ask those Alabama boys.” Brazos Fortune's words silenced the crowd.

“We ought to vote,” Grass Edwards suggested.

“This ain't a votin' meetin'. Besides, we ain't going to win if we fight the U.S. Army,” Ernie Sidwell cautioned. “I was with General Custer's survey party when they came in here last year with a thousand men. They'll all be back with a thousand more if we put up a fight. So pan out as much as you can and mark your claims well. Maybe by next spring, ever'thing will be settled.”

“They can't just chase us out of our claims!” a deep voice shouted.

With his Sharps across his shoulders, and his arms looped over it, Brazos Fortune replied, “I reckon they can shoot us, if they want to.”

“Not without a fight!” Yapper Jim insisted.

“You aimin' to take on the entire United States Army?” Grass Edwards chided.

“It won't be the first time!”

“Yeah, but you lost that war, remember?”

A blast from Sidwell's '73 silenced the crowd. “We've only got two weeks before they root us out. I don't aim to waste my time standin' on this stump. It ain't rainin', and it ain't snowin', and I saw a patch of blue up in the sky. I've got a claim to work. I aim to pull out enough color to tide me over 'til spring.”

“You reckon they'll really let us back next spring?” Big River Frank pressed.

Sidwell jumped off the stump. “Yep. The government will get them Indians settled down by then. Them Sioux ain't goin' to attack the entire U.S. Cavalry, that's for certain!”

Brazos Fortune, Big River Frank, and Grass Edwards made the rounds of visits with the other prospectors before cinching their saddles and pulling out for camp. They rode single file most of the way, with Brazos in the lead. The clouds broke up enough to melt the light snow, and the trail remained muddy and slick. Just past #14 Above Discovery the path widened. Brazos dropped back to ride alongside the other two.

“Don't trample on the
ceanothus velutinus!
” Edwards called out.

Brazos Fortune stared down at the dense, upright clusters of white flowers on the green-leafed shrub. “Are you talking about this buckthorn?”

“It ain't buckthorn. It's mountain balm. Them leaves is evergreen, and it will make mighty good feed for the horses this winter when we run out of moldy cordgrass,” Edwards lectured.

Big River Frank cradled his rifle across his lap and searched the trail ahead of him as if expecting an ambush. “Brazos, did you ever wonder whether Grass is tellin' us the truth with all his stories about weeds and plants?”

“I reckon it don't matter.” Brazos reached up and combed his horse's mane with his glove-covered fingers. “It's more entertainin' than yakkin' about the weather.”

“And it ain't nearly as frustratin' as talkin' about women,” Big River added.

Grass Edwards yanked his hat low over his forehead. “Why did you bring up the subject of women?” he snapped.

“Boy, he's jumpier than a drover at the dance hall after all the girls is pledged,” Big River teased. “Except for Ol' Man Fortune, we could all use a trip to Cheyenne City.”

“Cheyenne City?” Edwards quizzed. “Why did you mention Cheyenne?”

“He's surely soundin' like the littlest dog when there's one bone short,” Big River laughed.

“I reckon he's pinin' for his girlfriend,” Brazos added.

“Girlfriend?” Big River leaned back, letting his left hand rest on the rump of his horse. “You mean that little señorita down at Mamma Gordita's in Castlerock?”

Fortune refused to look Edwards in the eyes. “I think this one's a little closer.”

“Brazos, I warned you!” Grass huffed.

Big River Frank raised his bushy, black eyebrows. “What are you two talkin' about? Is there a woman in the hills?”

“Grass is right,” Brazos grinned. “I promised not to say a word.”

Big River brushed his bearded mouth with the palm of his tattered leather glove. “If there's a woman in these hills, we all get to go take a look at her. That's the rule.”

“She ain't . . .”

A volley of three rifle reports echoed down from the direction of Texas Camp. Big River Frank stood in his stirrups and stared north. “Did that sound like hunters?”

Brazos pulled the heavy hammer back on his converted Sharps carbine. “Too close together to be huntin'.”

“It could've came from our camp,” Edwards added. “Maybe them Sioux snuck over the pass and crept on down the creek.” By the time he had finished the sentence, Brazos and Big River cantered up the trail, guns pointed, eyes peeled.

High above them, jagged peaks of Dakota Territory sandstone pushed their way heavenward past the tops of dark green Ponderosa pines. At that altitude, Lightning Creek was no more than ten feet wide, depending on the sluice boxes it had to run through. Banks were lined with boulders and river rock, almost devoid of vegetation, due to the aggression of the prospectors. The mountain grasses, what was left of them, still held a light summer green and were beat down by the constant rain.

The narrow trail was sloppy, and an occasional splatter of mud flew off Brazos's horse's hooves. When they reached the stand of whitewood trees just below their claim, Brazos reined up and waited for the other two to catch up.

Big River Frank had the deepest voice of any 120-pound man Brazos had ever met. The little man stood in the stirrups. “You hear any more shots?”

“No, but let's ride in slow.” Brazos held the saddle ring carbine in his right hand and waved the barrel to each side of the creek. “Big River, you take the east bank. Grass, you skirt the tree line up there on the west. I'll ride right up the trail. Fire a shot if you see danger and take cover.”

A small, white column of smoke drifted up from the campfire, fifteen feet from the two canvas tents. Brazos studied the campsite as he slowly walked his horse forward. There was no movement. Hook Reed's buckskin stallion was picketed and saddled like they left him—halfway between the fire and the diggings. The iron skillet was still propped on the rocks. Two wooden crates were pulled up to the fire circle, and deer meat still hung in the trees, covered by an India rubber sheet. The axe was still wedged in the pine round, next to the smoldering fire. The thicket of small whitewoods a hundred yards up the slope of the mountain revealed nothing more than a solid fence of light green, quaking leaves.

In the corners of his eyes, Brazos could see Big River Frank to the east and Grass Edwards moving along the tree line to the west.

Indians would have stolen the horse, pans, and grubstake. Maybe those shots came from on up the mountain. Maybe it's the newcomers. Didn't notice any at the miners' meetin'. I don't see Hook prowlin' around. No matter how sick a man is, there are some things you don't sleep through.

Then Brazos spotted the blackened tin coffeepot sitting on the rocks next to the campfire. He reined up and raised his carbine high above the head as a warning to the others.

Someone's been in camp! There is no way on earth that Hook Reed would let the coffeepot get cold on the rocks! It's hung on that iron rack day and night since the day we made camp three months ago. But I don't see any hoofprints. If they walked in, they must have been from the north.

Brazos slipped down out of the saddle and let the reins drop in front of Coco. He reached into his canvas coat pocket with his left hand and felt the cold brass and lead of a half-dozen .50-caliber cartridges. Then he grabbed the reins and led the horse towards the tents, keeping the dark sorrel gelding ahead of him as a shield from the grove of whitewood trees.

If anyone is still here, they're in our tents . . . or up in that aspen grove.

As he approached the campfire, he thought he heard a horse whinny up the mountain. He paused near the fire to peer over the top of his saddle horn.

Pointing the Sharps towards the trees, he glanced over at the closest tent. Three holes the size of his thumb punctuated the flap, two showed black powder burns on the outside. The other a clean puncture. Gunsmoke lingered inside.

The mechanical click of a gun hammer checked inside the tent. Brazos left the horse by the dying fire and squatted down next to the tent. He avoided the front flap and the bullet holes.

“Hook . . . it's me . . . Brazos,” he spoke softly. “Are you all right?”

He scanned the grove of trees while he waited for an answer. Brazos glanced over at Grass Edwards, who was off his horse and crouching behind several large boulders on the far side of the creek. Brazos pointed his carbine barrel towards the grove of whitewoods.

Finally there was a faint reply from inside the tent. “They done shot me, Brazos!”

On his hands and knees, Fortune scooted around to the tent flap in front. As he did he exposed himself to the grove of trees. The puff of smoke, the report of the rifle, and the tumbling of the newly punctured coffeepot caused the horse to bolt towards the creek. Brazos ducked inside the tent. Edwards and Big River blasted away at the grove of trees. Then the shooting stopped.

Hook Reed lay sprawled on top of his brown canvas bedroll, blood soaking up his dirty wool shirt near his right shoulder blade. His right hand clutched the bronze receiver of his '66 Winchester rifle.

Sweat rolled down the creases of his unshaven face. Blood trickled down his chin where he had bitten his lower lip.

Tired brown eyes stared through the lingering gunsmoke at Brazos. “I knew you would come. I ain't goin' to die alone. No, sir . . . that wouldn't be right,” Hook insisted.

“You're not goin' to die at all,” Brazos said. “I'll fix you up. You hang on, partner. How many men are out there?”

“I only saw three, but there could have been more.”

“Who were they?”

“Doc Kabyo and some others.”

“What's Kabyo doin' in the hills? I thought he spent his time robbin' stages.” Brazos dropped flat on his stomach beside Hook Reed as several more shots crashed through camp from the whitewood trees.

“Hook, we're goin' to chase down these boys that shot you, then I'll be back to doctor that wound.” Brazos pulled a wool blanket out of his own bedroll and stretched it over Reed. Then he jerked a folded cotton shirt out from under the rubber sheet. “This shirt's fairly clean. Press this up against that wound and lay still.”

Hook tossed his rifle down and reached up and grabbed Fortune's wrist. “Say a prayer over me, Brazos.”

“You're goin' to pull through, Hook. We'll nurse you back.”

“No, I mean right now. Say a prayer over me right now.” His thin, bony fingers felt ice cold on Brazos's hand.

Fortune raised up on his knees and laid his left hand on Hook's forehead. But he didn't take his eyes off the tent flap while he prayed.

When he finished, Hook Reed dropped his arm back down on the gray wool blanket. “You goin' to kill 'em, Brazos?”

“I don't reckon Kabyo's the type to surrender.”

“I didn't tell Kabyo nothin'.”

“What did they want to know?”

Hook's voice was faint. “About the big claim beneath the Dakota cross. He was there in Tucson when I won it in a poker game.”

“That's what I heard.”

“Said he's been on my trail since Arizona.”

“Did you give him the map?”

“I cain't feel nothin', Brazos. Do I still have on my boots?”

Brazos glanced down at the foot of the tent. “Yep.”

“Then he didn't get the map. It's in my left boot.”

“You hang on, Hook. We've got to take care of the bushwhackers in the whitewoods.”

“You and the others will have to find that Dakota cross without me.”

“Oh, no . . . you're goin' to lead the way, partner. Right now, we have a little justice to serve up.”

A wide, pained smile broke across the wounded man's face, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. He nodded his head and closed his eyes. Brazos heard noise outside the tent.

“Is Hook dead?” Grass Edwards called.

Brazos crawled to the tent flap on hands and knees and poked his head out. “No, but they shot him.”

“Who are they?” Big River Frank called. He was now perched just behind the second tent.

“Doc Kabyo and them.”

“Kabyo? What are they doin' in the hills?” Edwards grumbled. “They ain't prospectors. They're murderers and horse thieves.”

Brazos kept his eyes and his gun focused on the grove of whitewood trees. “They wanted Hook's treasure map, he said.”

“Did he give it to them?”

“Nope.”

“You boys need some help?” someone hollered from the rocks below camp.

“Is that you, Yapper Jim?”

“I've got Alamo McCoy and Quiet Jim with me.”

“We've got bushwhackers in the whitewoods. It might be Doc Kabyo, so don't get yourself shot.”

“We'll flank them east of the creek,” Yapper Jim hollered back.

Brazos, still on hands and knees, crawled through the mud behind the tent and motioned to Big River and Grass. “You flank them on the west. I'll drive them out of the woods.”

“How you goin' to do that?” Big River challenged.

“I'll ride straight at them,” Brazos said.

Grass Edwards continued to point his gun at the aspen grove. “By yourself?”

“Me and Mr. Sharps.”

Big River Frank shoved his hat back. “You're crazy, Brazos!”

“Ever'body in these Black Hills is crazy, Big River . . .”

The first shot from the Sharps carbine hit the aspen tree about six feet above its base. The bark exploded, and twenty-five feet of treetop toppled over as if felled by an axe. Two more rapid explosions from the single shot brought down two more aspens.

Suddenly, four horseback riders bolted out of the back of the grove and galloped towards the pass, east of Thunderhead Mountain.