Blood Dance (2 page)

Halfway across the street he said, “Say, you gents looking for work?”

We stopped and turned. “I don’t think so,” I said, shifting the flour sack under my arm.

“Now wait a minute,” Bucklaw said. “What you got in mind?”

“If you ain’t interested,” the little man said, “then to hell with it.”

“All right,” I said, “to hell with it.”

“Now wait a minute,” Bucklaw said. “I want to hear what he’s got to say.”

“Okay,” the little man said, “you can hear it, but not him.”

“No,” Bucklaw said. “Both of us.”

“He ain’t interested.”

“He might get interested.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I get suspicious of folks who offer me jobs when I’m not looking for any.”

“Just a minute,” Bucklaw said. “Let me speak to my partner.” He turned to me, draped an arm around my shoulders and walked me about six paces. Hhatsix pace looked back at the little man and smiled, winked reassuringly. When he turned back to me, he said softly, “Is your kettle cracked?”

“What you want a job for? We’re mining.”

“Are we, now? Some folks might not think so. Like the real miners. They laugh and snicker every time we bring in our dust.”

“I grin and snicker every time I spend it.”

“That ought to be equal to about one grin and half a snicker. I don’t like looking like a jackass.”

“I don’t care what the miners think.”

“To hell with mining. I’m no good at shaking a lot of damned sand around in a pan, and I’m no mole, either. Come on, Jim, you’re as sick of poking around in the ground as I am.”

I was at that. “You think this fellow has a square deal?”

“Probably not. But maybe it’s square enough. What would it hurt to listen?”

“Am I being conned again, Bob?”

He smiled. “A little. Come on, would it hurt to listen?”

“I reckon not.”

“All right, quit acting like it’s going to get us killed just to listen. Let’s see what the old boy has to offer.”

“Okay, okay, get on with it.”

We walked back to the man and Bucklaw stuck out his hand, put a smile on his face. When he wanted to, he could charm a bear out of its teeth. “Bob Bucklaw.”

The little man put his sabre knife in its sheath, tossed down the wood he had been sharpening, stuck out his hand. “Bob, they call me Mix Miller, or just plain Mix.”

Mix turned to me. “Jim Melgrhue,” I said. “First or last name will do.” I didn’t offer to shake hands.

“You boys look to be Southerners, like myself,” Mix said.

“What’s the offer?” I said.

“Fought in the war, I guess?” Mix said.

“I asked what the offer was.”

“Keep your toenails on. Just trying to see if I’ve got my boys pegged right.”

“Yeah, we’re Southerners,” Bob said. “I was in the Texas Sharpshooters under Major Jim Burnet. Later I was in a Louisiana outfit. Jim here was in the Ninth Louisiana. What’s it matter?”

“It matters because we’re going to bleed the Yankees and we need good Southerners for the job.”

“In case you haven’t heard,” I said, “the war’s over. Been a few years. About ten.”

“In your book, maybe,” Mix said. “Not in mine.”

“Or mine,” Bucklaw said. nailg t said. I assume there’s more than us?”

“Lot more.”

“Think maybe you could answer my question sometime today?” I said. “I mean when you boys are through reminiscing about old war times and such. You do remember the question, don’t you, about the job and all?”

“Testy, ain’t he?” Mix said.

“He doesn’t get his full turn of sleep,” Bucklaw said, “he gets that way. Plumb nasty.”

“You boys ride out to meet the boss, he’ll explain the deal. I’m just an errand boy,” Mix said.

“Just explain right here,” I said.

“Can’t. Boss don’t work that way. I recruit. He does the final hiring and explaining. Interested or not?”

Bucklaw looked at me. “Well?”

“It’s against my better judgment,” I said, “but I guess so.”

“Well,” Mix said, “let’s get on with it.”

“We’ll need to get our stuff,” I said.

“What stuff we got up there in camp can go to the rocks, far as I’m concerned,” Bucklaw said. “We can sell the mule here, just take what we got on our horses.”

“Good enough,” I said. “Let’s get going, I’m tired of lugging this flour sack around.” I turned to Mix. “Mix, you try and pull something on us, and I’m going to feed you that fancy knife.”

Mix laughed at me.

We had followed Mix much longer than we expected, and had covered quite a distance. Each time we asked how much to go, Mix would say,

“Not much.” Then we would ride for another half hour.

Once, after I asked the question, and gotten that answer again, I said, “You say that again, Mix, and I’m going to kick you off that mule.”

Mix turned around and smiled. “Are you now?”

“That’s right, and feed you your teeth.”

“You got a tough streak in you, don’t you?” Mix said.

“I just don’t like being messed with. You said it wasn’t far when we first left town. You’ve told us that more than three times since. It’s almost dark.”

“Well, it ain’t far now,” Mix said, and he gave his mule some heel and picked up his pace.

I dropped back to Bucklaw and said, “I don’t like the looks of this. He could be leading us into a trap, leading us up here to be bushwhacked.”

“For a bag of flour and some tobacco?”

“Men have been bushwhacked for less.”

“He was watching us back there in town, us and some of the other miners,” Bucklaw said. “Some of them—all of them, had a lot more gold and got a lot more for it than we did. Why not one of them instead of our flour sack?”

“Don’t forget the tobacco,” I said. “I’m beginning to think you and I look like the stupid type, Buck.”

“Maybe you. Me, I look smart and handsome. Women are always telling me how they like my big brown eyes.”

“They look like cow eyes to me, and they slaughter cows.”

We rode on for another good clip, and I was just about ready to turn back when Mix said, “Here ’tis.”

The trail broke open and fanned out into a little path that led upward into a mass of yellow pines; the same trees that gave the Black Hills its name. From a distance they looked jet black.

“This is it?” I asked.

“This is the path to Carson,” Mix said. “He’s got headquarters up there a piece.”

I didn’t like it and said as much, but Bucklaw said, “What the hell. We’ve come this far.”

So we traveled another two hours and the sunlight bled out and a silver moon came up and peeked over the rocks and trees like a huge eye. I tell you, that late December moon was a beaut.

We came to another narrow trail and veered off to the right. Mix pointed down the path and said, “Last leg of it.”

I looked at Bucklaw. “I think maybe I’ll just whip hell out of you for getting me into this.”

Bucklaw laughed.

“I mean it this time,” Mix said. “Ain’t no more than a hundred yards down that trail.”

“Well,” I said, taking my Springfield from its boot and pointing it at Mix, “lead on. And remember this, Mix. If you’ve got some plans that I don’t like, I’ll end them.”

Mix looked nervous for the first time. He turned his face to the trail and urged his mule forward. “Just be careful with that thing,” he said softly.

“If it goes off,” Bucklaw said, “we’ll just tell God you died.”

We rode on. Mix hadn’t been lying. A hundred yards down the trail we came to a couple of little wooden shacks, and around it were a half-dozen miner tents.

Several men, all armed to the teeth, stood about in the light of a big fire. They leveled their rifles at us. They didn’t look shy about using them. Many of those rifles were shiny Winchester 73’s. Within moments those repeaters could make a sieve out of us, but I would have the satisfaction of seeing Mix lose the back of his head. I kept the carbine leveled on him.

As we drew nearer the shacks, I saw there were a half-dozen men in old, gray uniforms —or at least parts of uniforms. They were ex-Confederates like ourselves. It struck me odd that they clung to the memories of that foul war this long. I liked to think os dd to thf it as dead, ten years past and buried. But here were the worms of it wriggling up from the dirt.

There were also several Indians in the group. From their looks—handsome faces and combed-back hair—I took them to be Crows. One of them was nearly six-feet tall with a fistful of eagle quills in his hair. Someone had once told me that the eagle feather was the highest honor a Crow warrior could achieve, and here this buck had enough in his hair to plumage a bird. It meant he was brave and had lifted many scalps.

It struck me odd that the Crow would be here, but then again many of the Indians—especially the Crow who had always been friendly with the whites—were hiring out to white men. The army had as many Crows as scouts. They were perfect for hunting and tracking the Sioux, whom they hated.

We rode up to the largest shack and dismounted. I kept my carbine with me, and in as casual manner as he could manage, Bucklaw slipped his old Henry from its boot.

The men watched us. We watched them.

Mix led us up on the porch of the large shack and knocked at the door. A lantern was lit inside, and after a moment a tall man in a crisp white shirt stuffed into surprisingly well-conditioned Confederate trousers, answered the door. Lantern light crawled along the left side of his face, a hard face of about fifty. He had graying black hair and a mustache that had already made it to snow. His eyes were slitted.

“Recruits?” the man said.

“Mr. Carson,” Mix said, removing his hat, “I think I got you some new boys. Southerners like us, sir.”

“Of course,” Carson said, as if that were understood. “Name’s Beau Carson, formerly major in the army of the Confederacy.” Then, flatly: “I pay good wages and I don’t take any bull.”

“Name’s Melgrhue,” I said. “This here is Bucklaw. Being a major in the Confederate army don’t mean a damn thing in 1875. War’s been over for years.”

“Not by my reckoning.”

“Nor mine either,” Bucklaw said.

Carson smiled at him.

Bucklaw said, “But I didn’t ride all the way out here to agree with you.”

“I don’t like smart mouths,” Carson said.

“Snaps my heart in two,” I said.

“You best hold your tongue,” Mix said. “This here is the Major Carson that rode with Quantrill.”

“We’re fresh out of medals,” Bucklaw said.

Carson frowned at Mix.

“They looked like good men,” Mix said. “You know I can pick good men just by looking at them.”

“That’s what you keep telling me,” Carson said sourly.

“You know I can, Mr. Carson, Major, sir.”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Bucklaw said.

“They wear those revolvers like they know how to use them,” Mix whined. “I can tell.”

“We know how to use them,” I said.

“I could have you two shot, you know?” Carson said suddenly, looking right at us.

“You could,” I admitted. “But I could have you shot as fast as you ordered us shot. Maybe faster.” I let my carbine float that way.

“You are very insolent,” Carson said.

“We keep hearing that,” Bucklaw said.

Carson licked his thin lips and mustache. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, gentlemen. Shall we step inside and discuss business matters in a civilized manner?”

“Why not?” Bucklaw said.

It was smoky inside, due to both a fireplace and a too highly wicked lantern. The place smelled of smoke, tobacco, sex and whisky.

On a bunk bed, in the dark side of the room, was a woman. She was Indian, Cheyenne, maybe. She sat upright in the bunk with a dingy sheet pulled up around her breasts. She was pretty, but very sheepish looking. There was a large scar on her right nostril. The slitting of a nostril was the punishment many Plains tribes reserved for adulterous women. Their lives were often miserable after being branded that way, and they sometimes sought sanctuary among the whites. I figured that was the story here.

“Get out,” Carson said to the woman.

She pulled the sheet around her, wrapped it, rolled off the bunk and went into the back room.

Carson sat down at the table, waved a hand at the remaining chairs. We all sat. Bucklaw and I kept our rifles in our laps.

“Hungry?” Carson said.

“Let’s get on with it,” I said. “We were told we could get a job.”

“So you can,” Carson said. “You boys know how to use those guns?”

“We’ve had right smart experience,” Bucklaw said. 

“The war?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That and Indians, few other things.”

“You look to be experienced men.”

“We are,” Bucklaw said, “and we’re broke.”

“We can fix that,” Carson said. “We can offer you men, say, four thousand dollars?”

“For the both of us?” Bucklaw said.

“Apiece,” Carson said. He stood up and picked a cigar off the fireplace mantel.

“What’s the hitch?” I asked.

Carson bent to the fireplace and plucked out ingpluckeda blazing brand, lit his cigar with it. “No hitch,” he said after puffing the cigar to life. “I just want you two to go to work for me, join the team.”

“What does your team do?” I asked.

Carson looked at Mix, and they traded smiles. He turned back to me, tossed the brand in the fireplace.

“Well, friends,” Carson said, “we take from the Yankees and give to the poor—meaning ourselves.”

A little later Carson had the Indian woman bring biscuits of a sort, dried meat and coffee.

“Gal isn’t much of a cook,” Carson said, after shooing her away, “But she has her purposes.” He winked at us. I decided right then and there that I did not like the man, or trust him.

We had given up our rifles, leaned them against the wall, but Bucklaw and I never let our hands stray far from our revolvers. That old converted 1860 Colt .44 had seen me through many a scrape, and if need be, I was prepared to test it again. It was sort of like my Springfield 73. It did not match the speed of a repeater, but it was accurate and had served me well. I liked having friends I could count on, and they, along with Bucklaw, had served time after time.