Beneath a Dakota Cross (9 page)

Keeping back among the two-foot-thick trunks of the Ponderosa pines, Brazos saddled up and gazed down at Gordon's Stockade, the most permanent symbol of the white man's intrusion into the Black Hills.

With a Sharps rifle, I suppose I could put a little scare into them from up here. This carbine would be doing good just to hit the side of the wall. That's just what you need, Fortune . . . two dozen Sioux chasin' you through the mountains.

“OK, boys,” his voice just above a whisper as he addressed the horses. “Let's bid a fond farewell to French Creek.”

Staying back in the trees, Brazos circled the mountain to the west. As he reached a clearing he realized he could now look southwest down the mouth of Fourmile Canyon. The dust from several riders caused him to rein up.

Soldiers? Miners? More Indians?

The spyglass revealed only the dust and a vague outline of dark-colored horses.

Those aren't Indian ponies. And they can't see the Sioux at the stockade yet, nor can the Indians see them. But when they crest that draw, it will be too late!

If I ride off this mountain to warn them, the Indians will spot me and kill me and them both. Lord, I left Texas to avoid conflict.

And I've had conflict since the day I left.

I've got to do something . . . but what can I do? I can't just sit here and watch this. I've got to get out of here.

Brazos rode fifty feet through the trees to the north.

Then, he stopped to stare up at the fading August sky.

I can't do it, Sarah Ruth. I just can't make myself ride off and let someone get ambushed. I know you understand.

Brazos turned the horses and rode back to the southern point of the mountain. This time he rode right out onto the limestone rocky clearing near the peak of the mountain as the Indians began to torch the stockade. He lifted the carbine to his shoulder.

I hope I know what I'm doing. And I trust I'm not saving the lives of the likes of Doc Kabyo.

The report of the .50-caliber Sharps amplified off the rocks. The startled reaction of the Indians at the stockade signaled that he had, indeed, slammed the lead bullet into the vertical log wall. Before any could mount their horses, he had hurled two more bullets from the single-shot carbine. Without climbing down to retrieve the empty brass shells, he spurred the horse and rode north.

If I can't figure out how to outrun those Sioux, I surely won't need to reload that brass.

Glancing up as he circled slightly west, he could see four horses sprint for cover in the rocks at the mouth of Fourmile Canyon.

Well, they heard it, all right. Maybe they have a chance if they're in the rocks.

That's the best I can do, boys, whoever you are.

Brazos spurred the brown horse and tugged the lead rope of the buckskin.

“If we can make it to the Needles before dark,” he told the ­horses, “we can hide in there 'til daylight.”
I reckon if I'm still alive at sundown it will be an act of God.

Rather than drop down into Lightning Creek Gulch, Brazos kept riding in the trees on the ridge of the mountain. The cocked carbine was in his right hand, the reins and the lead rope to the packhorse in his left. He repeatedly looked back.

I'd make better time if I abandoned Hook's buckskin, but he's got what supplies I have. There's no way I'd make it out of the mountains without my outfit.

After several miles along the highline, he dropped down into a shady gulch and let the horses drink from clear, running water that was no more than two feet across.

He stared back at the trail he had just made through the trees.
Lord, this is a beautiful land. I can't hear a sound . . . an ideal setting. Yet back up that mountain there are people right now planning to kill me . . . and I'm tryin' to figure out how I can kill them first.

I guess that's the story of mankind.

With the horses refreshed, he pushed them at a canter back into the forest. The downed trees and deadwood of the untrailed woods slowed his progress, but he knew it would slow his pursuers as well.

Up ahead, somewhere to the northeast, were the eroded granite outcroppings of the Black Hills' crystalline core. Like monumental fingers pushing out of the batholith, they were labeled “the Needles.” Brazos had been there once, weeks before. At the time he figured a person could hide a hundred men among the crevices.

Today, he just wanted to hide one man.

And two horses.

Brazos considered it a major accomplishment to reach the Needles before any shots had been fired. The ancient nature of the Black Hills loomed among the granite spires that had been worn down by the weather so much that large aspen trees grew in the decomposed rock and dirt at their bases.

The combination of vertical rock and strong, healthy trees made it almost impossible to ride through the Needles. Both he and the horses, however, were greatly encouraged to press on when the sound of a distant rifle sent granite chips flying behind them.

Finding a shaded spot deep in the interior, Brazos stopped the horses and slid to the ground.

“Well, boys, we made it in. 'Course, they'll surround us, and there's no way out. But we'll take one disaster at a time.”

Brazos yanked the pack and saddles off the horses, tying their lead ropes to the trees. Then he climbed up into a pocket of rock about ten feet higher than the surrounding ground level. Three rock needles surrounded him. From there he could watch the horses and most of the path that he had taken. There was no view to the north, but a limited one east and west. The Needles were a giant maze. Indians could sneak up any of the rocky paths through them and remain unseen until they burst around the corner.

There's no tellin' when, where, or how many. But they don't know which one of these I'll be hidin' in either. I'll get a jump on the first one. But after that, my position will be exposed. If they're smart, they'll perch outside the Needles and wait for me to make a move.

A few hours after dark the moon comes out. I could leave the horses, pull off my boots, and try to slip out.

Which sounds absolutely stupid.

Without a horse, barefoot, running around the Black Hills.

They'll come in after me.

Brazos pushed his hat back and could feel the sweat rolling down his face.

I should have brought my canteen up here. What was I thinkin'?

I was thinkin' about being shot.

An hour later Brazos crouched with cramping legs and aching back among the granite rock formations, when he heard a rifle report and the ricochet of lead among the pinnacles.

He thought the sound was wonderful.

Those shots are coming from the hillside! That means they stopped and are just spraying in a few bullets to get me to reveal my position. They wouldn't random shoot if their own men were crawlin' in here. They aren't comin' in! At least, not right away.

Brazos squirmed down out of the pocket and scooted cautiously to the horses and supplies. He snatched up both leather-covered canteens and a small, cotton sack with jerky, then backtracked to the miniature rock fortress.

As he scrunched back down, he chewed a piece of jerky and glanced down at the crudely embroidered “Daddy” on the side of the cotton sack.

Not bad for a seven-year-old, Dacee June. Of course, you stitch much better now.

With his carbine in the crotch of the rocks, he stared across the granite maze to the south.

You're goin' to be twelve and I'm not going to be there. How I miss you, little darlin'.

Fortune's thoughts shifted to his oldest son.

Todd should be in Kansas by now, sellin' another man's beef and workin' for wages. He ought to be drivin' Circle-F beef. It ain't right, Lord. The oldest son should have a ranch to inherit.

He surveyed to the east and west, then pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. One more shot rang out, this one from the east.

They're circling around, but still not coming in.

He replaced his hat, took a swig of tepid water from the canteen, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

Maybe I ought to shave this beard off. It's mighty hot in the summer. Of course, if I'm goin' to get scalped, who cares about a shave?

He raised up to peer out of all three granite turrets. There was a slight breeze from the southwest, but absolutely no air movement when he crouched back down.

Don't worry, Sarah Ruth. Todd will make it. So will Robert. I've never seen a young man who likes discipline like him. Strikingly handsome. He's his mamma's boy when it comes to looks.

I know . . . you want to know about Samuel. Mamma, what can I say? He thinks his father's a Texas traitor. He's livin' in the Indian Territory with a bunch of cattle thieves and outlaws.

If he's still alive.

He hates his daddy. Yet in some ways, he's just like me. Bullheaded. Quick-tempered. Judgmental.

But I can tell you one thing, Sarah Ruth, he loves his mamma.

Darlin', they love you even stronger than the day you died.

You seem to be still in the center of ever' conversation.

When we have conversations.

Brazos thought he heard a noise to the south. He peered over the rocks. When he could see nothing, he squatted back down.

Darlin', if those Sioux come round these rocks bunched up, I'll be standin' alongside of you before nightfall. But that would mean leavin' the children to shift on their own.

Now I know you wouldn't want that. So I'll try to get out of this.

The explosion to the south brought him straight up to his feet. It was followed by two other explosions in rapid succession.

It sounds like a cannon.

There are no cannons in the Black Hills.

There aren't even any troops this side of the Cheyenne River, are there?

Did General Crook turn around?

This doesn't make sense at all. Did the Indians capture a cannon? But they wouldn't know what to do with it, would they?

He heard sporadic gunfire to the south and east. It grew more distant with each shot until there was no more.

They're shootin' at each other, and someone left.

Who?

What about the cannon?

Brazos climbed out of the granite perch. He left the canteens and jerky near the saddles. Vest pockets stuffed with heavy .50 caliber cartridges, he toted the carbine and sneaked among the Needles to the south, nearly crawling to keep out of sight. He peeked carefully around the last granite needle and caught sight of several horses at a distance in the trees.

The deep voice sounded familiar.

Extremely familiar.

“You jist go in there to relieve yourself, Brazos, or did you move in permanent?”

“Yapper Jim, is that you?”

“Me, Grass, Big River, and Quiet Jim.”

Brazos stepped out from his hiding place and strolled to the trees. A wide smile framed his white teeth. “What are you renegades doing back here? You're suppose to be on your way to Fort Laramie and Cheyenne City.”

Big River Frank lumbered out to greet him. “When you didn't show at Cheyenne Crossing, we decided to come back and look for you and Hook.”

“I buried Hook this mornin'.”

“We never figured he would hang on this long,” Quiet Jim said.

“Did the boys in blue miss you when you left?” Brazos said.

“We had a bunch of miners meet us at the river, and it got confusin' as we crossed. We jist dropped back in the reeds and waited for them to disappear,” Yapper Jim reported.

Grass Edwards remained on his horse, staring off to the southeast. “It was a good thing you fired that Sharps when you did, or we would have run straight into those Sioux.”

“How did you know it was me?” Brazos said.

“Who else has a Sharps and is a complete fool?” Big River Frank whooped. “Now how did you know it was us down there at the mouth of Fourmile Canyon?”

“I didn't know it was you, but I figured someone needed a warning.”

Quiet Jim stared down at his boots and mumbled, “You took a mighty big chance revealing your position.”

“As did you, coming after them. What did you fire from the mountain?” Brazos quizzed.

Yapper Jim threw his arm around Brazos's shoulder. “Big River rigged up several sticks of dynamite in tandem. Took a chance it would scare them off.”

“And it worked,” Grass boasted.

Quiet Jim's voice was soft. “At least for now.”

“I figure there's trouble in the east, west, or south,” Brazos reported. “So it looks like we'll ride straight north through the Black Hills.”

Yapper Jim remounted his pinto. “What if we run into some more of those army boys?”

“We'll tell them we're on our way out, just tryin' to avoid the Indians.”

Quiet Jim swung up into his saddle, his '73 Winchester perched across his lap. “What if we run across some Sioux?”

“We'll just have to hope our dynamite holds up,” Brazos hooted.

Grass Edwards turned his horse to the north. “And what if we run across a stream with gold jist waitin' to be plucked?”

Yapper Jim let out a big laugh. “Why, shoot, boys, then we'll jist pitch a tent and camp for the winter!”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Of all the memories of the past that come like a summer breeze . . .” Quiet Jim's soft tenor voice and perfect pitch seemed to float on the chill September air as he continued the familiar refrain, concluding with the words, “the good-bye at the door.”

“Dadgum it, Quiet Jim, you keep singing that song and you'll turn us all melancholy,” Yapper Jim hollered. He rode second in line, behind Big River Frank.

“We are all melancholy already,” Grass Edwards insisted. He was just ahead of Brazos, who rode at the rear of the procession. “It's been over a month since the army rounded up the miners, and we are still in these hills. We haven't found any more gold, nor Hook Reed's Dakota cross. Shoot, we cain't even find a safe trail out of here.”

Big River Frank leaned back on his horse but continued to lead the plodding procession. “Make you feel like the last rats on a sinkin' ship, don't it? What do you think, Brazos? Is it time for us to make a run and try to save our scalps?”

“It's dangerous to stay, dangerous to leave.” Brazos said. “The Sioux know we're up here. They're not waitin' for us to give 'em an easier target.”

“Maybe we ought to all go get some jobs in town,” Grass suggested.

“What town?” Yapper Jim challenged.

“I was thinkin' of Cheyenne, myself,” Grass replied.

“Ain't no jobs in Cheyenne,” Yapper insisted. “Why there's ten bummers hangin' around ever' street corner for one honest job as it is.”

“Well, maybe we could pass through Cheyenne on our way somewheres. I surely would like to meet my sweet Jamie Sue,” Grass pined.

“No offense, but I'm gettin' a little tired of starin' at the same four dirty faces ever'day, myself,” Quiet Jim added.

“Well, boys,” Brazos laughed, “the situation is desperate when Quiet Jim is willin' to admit he misses the ladies.”

“Not just ladies in general,” Quiet Jim added. “One special lady.”

“Whoa!” Yapper hollered so loud every horse instantly pulled up. “Do you mean to tell me Quiet Jim has a special lady on the side that none of us knows about? This is a momentous day!”

Quiet Jim tugged off his dirty felt hat and ran his hands through his light brown hair, thin enough on top to foreshadow a bald spot. “I didn't say I had a special one lined up,” he mumbled.

“You most certainly did,” Yapper boomed.

“What I meant was, I know the Lord has a special one for me. I guess what I mean is, I'm not interested in just any dance hall girl.”

“Good,” Yapper shouted, “that'll leave two for me!”

“Three, I reckon,” Grass mused. “The ol' man here is still a grievin' widower.”

“You ever think about gettin' remarried, Brazos?” Yapper Jim asked.

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“You reckon you ever will start to think about gettin' remarried?”

“Nope.”

Yapper Jim's unshaven beard now covered up his previously neatly trimmed sideburns and goatee. “How about you, Big River?” he called. “Are you the marryin' type?”

“Well, I do have a fondness for Mexican señoritas . . . but I don't reckon I'd make much of a husband. Don't seem fair to stick some lady with the likes of me.”

“Why, I don't know, Big River,” Grass Edwards chuckled. “You seem like a mighty fine catch to me. Providin' the woman was short. What do you think, Brazos, does Big River have marryin' qualities?”

“Yep. Hardworkin', loyal, truthful . . .”

“'Course, if that's all she wanted she could jist get herself a dog!” Yapper hooted.

Quiet Jim began to sing, and Brazos leaned forward to hear his soft voice.

Grass Edwards's voice cut through the melody. “I hear down in Colorado they have this hundred-foot cross up in the mountains that forms ever' spring melt. The snow just stays in them rock crevices in the shape of a gigantic cross. I wonder if this here Dakota cross is somethin' like that?”

Quiet Jim continued to sing.

“Trees cover most ever'one of these hills. Them that is bare is worn smooth. If you want a marker in these mountains you'd have to carve 'em, yourself,” Big River Frank called out.

“The whole thing about a cross could have been made up by some down-and-out gambler in Tucson who wanted a stake for a game,” Brazos added.

Quiet Jim stopped singing. “Maybe we ought to rest the horses in this little meadow. It's more grass than we've seen in two days.”

“It ain't no ordinary grass,” Edwards insisted. “This here red one is
Agrostis stolonifera,
and that one that looks like wild wheat is
Agropyron smithii
.”

Yapper Jim turned his horse around and rode back to Brazos, but he talked loud enough for all of them to hear. “You know, if Edwards would have got snowed in that winter with a mining engineer instead of some fool botanist, we'd all be rich by now.”

Quiet Jim glanced up with his normal, expressionless face. “If that had happened, we'd probably have to call him Mother Lode Edwards.”

Brazos watched the others dismount.

“You ain't gettin' down?” Big River inquired.

“I'm going to ride on up over that next ridge, just to see what's on the other side.”

“You thinkin' about mamma . . . or daughter?”

“Both, I suppose,” Brazos said.

“Let's get out of these mountains and go back to Texas.”

“I've thought about it.” Brazos nodded toward the ridge. “If I'm not back after you take a rest, follow my tracks up the hill.”

The loose limestone shale on the steep hillside made every step a gamble. Brazos continually spurred Coco to convince him to keep climbing. The downed trees, caught in the fairly thick stand of pine, acted as a random corral wall and prevented any semblance of a straight trail. As Brazos picked his way up the steep incline, he gave up his seat on the saddle and hiked, tugging his reluctant dark sorrel gelding.

Well, Lord, the only good thing about this country is that no one in their right mind would work this hard to follow us.

Brazos struggled to make it ten steps up the steep hillside, then stopped to rest.

Lord, I can't bring a family into these gulches. I can't even bring a horse in here. Wherever it is you're leadin', I think I made a wrong turn someplace. Hook's Dakota cross got me sidetracked.

Brazos hiked up ten more steps. His calf muscles cramped up, and he stopped to rest.

I don't reckon many men ever hiked this hill. Maybe I'm the first, ever.

I suppose the old-time trappers worked this land. But not this mountaintop. They would've stayed to the creeks and basins.

He glanced back down the steep hillside at his tracks, still evident in the loose rock and dirt below him.

Maybe I'm the first one to ever set foot here. From the time you created it, Lord, until this moment, it's just been sittin' here . . . growin', livin', dyin', snowin', and growin' some more. Maybe you made this whole mountainside just for me to see!

Brazos tugged the horse another dozen steps up the loose shale, then leaned over and rested his hands on his knees. “Coco, I'm too old for this.” He could feel a cramp coming on his right side. His long-john shirt was holding cold sweat against his chest under his heavy canvas coat.

It's like Adam and Eve in the garden lookin' at things for the very first time.

Well, it's like Adam lookin' at things . . .

In my case, there is no Eve.

Only fifty feet from the tree-covered crest, Brazos split the difference and pushed himself to the halfway point. Sliding downhill, he jammed his boot against a pine tree with a six-inch trunk.

Sarah Ruth, what would you say about this land?

No place to raise children?

Well, the boys are raised.

And Dacee June? That girl would follow her daddy anywhere. But I can't bring her in here. Can I?

Brazos glanced down the steep hillside.

His words interrupted the rustle of a slight breeze about the pine top. “Dacee June, can you hike up this hill?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the crisp, clear voice of a twelve-year-old.
Yes, Daddy, I can make it! Just watch me!

“Well, come on, girl,” he mumbled to the wind. “Let's see what's up there.”

When he reached the top, he found it to be a razorback ridge no more than six feet across. Lightning-burned pines were scattered along the northern slope, so thick they prevented any view of the next gulch. After a small swell to the east, the ridge seemed to ascend to an outcropping of white limestone rock about a half-mile away.

“Time for a little break, Coco,” he explained as he tied the horse to a pine. “I'll hike this on my own.” He pulled the Sharps carbine out of the scabbard.

When he finally reached the rock outcropping, it was forty to fifty feet still higher than the ridge. He searched for a path to the top, but realized it would be a hand-over-fist ascent.

Brazos carefully shoved the carbine down his back, between his shirt and his coat, hooking the barrel on his belt. He yanked off his spurs and dangled them from his suspenders. His calloused fingers clutched the cold, rough rock as he pulled himself up, one step at a time.

Brazos, you're a fool for doin' this. An old fool. It'll be four times tougher climbin' back down. I surely hope there's somethin' worth seein' up here.

The top of the huge rock he was climbing was not the crest of the mountain, but merely a platform on which to catch his breath. He continued the ascent on another rock that jutted up and out to the north.

He took a swig from his canteen, adjusted the carbine at his back, and continued the climb. Cresting the final limestone boulder, he found a swell in the rock the size of a small bench. From the highest point he could look out over the Black Hills to the badlands to the east. There was one more tall ridge to the north, then it, too, looked as if it sloped down to the plains.

Brazos pulled off his sweat-drenched spectacles and gazed to the south and west. In both directions, there was nothing but wave after wave of steep, pine-covered ridges. The wind whipped across from west to east, turning the sweat into ice water. He yanked his carbine from his coat, then hunkered down on the limestone bench. The boulders blocked some of the breeze.

Brazos hunted for a dry spot on his shirttail to try to wipe his spectacle lens clean. Carefully placing the gold wire frames back on his broad, bent nose, he folded his arms across his chest and began to survey the gulch in front of him.

Movement in the creekbed far below him to the north caused him to leap to his feet, barely able to catch the carbine before it tumbled off the rocks.

“Men? Tents? Miners?” The words knifed through the breeze like a woodpecker on a dead tree.
There are prospectors down there workin' that stream! Who are they? Where did they come from? Why didn't they leave with the others? Are they havin' any luck? Are there any more claims left?

For half an hour Brazos perched on the limestone peak and studied the proceedings below. He was too far away to count men, or even distinguish claims. But he could trail the creek from the east up to a fork where the gulch split into two smaller ones. There was hardly any room on the south side of the creek. The mountain seemed to drop straight down into the brush and deadwood along the creekbank. The north side was wide enough for a cabin or two, then swooped up a pine-scattered ridge almost as tall as the one he was on. To the west, he spotted scattered, dark clouds that seemed to be tethered to the horizon.

Goose bumps formed on his chest and arms as the cool breeze continued to swirl around the peak. He took one more studied 360-degree survey, then started down. The descent proved as treacherous as he had thought, but the excitement that raced through his heart and mind kept him moving down the rocks at a steady pace. Twice he slipped and crashed into some boulders, scraping and leaving a welt on his temple.

He was trotting down the razorback when he realized the other four were standing next to their horses at the pine where Coco was tethered.

Big River Frank hiked towards him, his '73 Winchester in his hand. “Brazos, you get hurt?”

“No, no . . . just a scratch.”

“There's blood all over your—”

“There's a couple dozen men a few miles north of here, workin' the next gulch!” Brazos interrupted.

“Which gulch?” Yapper Jim hollered.

“Follow this razorback around to the east, then you drop down into a little creek,” Brazos reported as he tightened the girth and climbed into the saddle. “I tell you, boys, they're workin' it like they found gold!”

“Don't that beat all! For over a month we've figured we're the only ones in the entire Black Hills, and they've been up here beatin' us to pay dirt,” Grass Edwards complained. “How come the army didn't round them up?”