Black Hills (9781101559116)

by Thompson, Rod

  Cormac watched as the Indian grew closer and began to slow and knew he had been seen. About a hundred yards out, the Indian came to a complete stop, considering the situation. A hundred yards was kid’s play to GERT, but Cormac stood unmoving. Each alone, they faced off, silent in the stillness; no birds in the sky, no movement of the tall prairie grasses, just standing with the heat of the sun reflecting from the boulders and a lone fly buzzing some feet away.

  Cormac held GERT high above his head before gently placing her on the stone tabletop, doing the same with each of his gun belts. Removing his pa’s knife from its sheath, Cormac demonstrated his intentions by using the shiny blade to reflect bursts of sunlight in the direction of the Indian. He was fully aware that when he laid down his guns, he had given up his strength in favor of the Indian’s.

  It was common knowledge that beginning as children, Indians were trained in hand-to-hand combat and the use of sharp instruments as weapons. Cormac was being a fool to give up the advantage of his guns and a perfect point of ambush, but his pa had once told him, “Right or wrong, son, what others would do or not do matters not in the least; a man has to stand for something or he is of little worth.”

  Cormac watched as the Indian dismounted and made a show of also placing his rifle on the ground, followed by his lance, his bow, and his quiver of arrows. Holding his knife at arm’s length above his head, he accepted Cormac’s challenge. He, too, would fight with only a knife. What was it John Ferguson had said? Curse myself for a fool? That’s probably the way it would end up. Calling himself a fool, Cormac took a deep breath and dropped to the ground to begin walking toward his warrior foe.

  Cormac stumbled once on a prairie dog hole concealed by the tall grass, caught his balance, and walked on. He could see the strong copper-skinned features of the Indian walking toward him. As tall as Cormac, the Indian was broad shouldered, strong, and well muscled, and moved with an easy smoothness and grace that bespoke confidence. Most assuredly the victor of many such battles as evidenced by large and small scars, he approached Cormac fearlessly. Created by the Wakan Tanka, their Indian name for the Great Spirit, he was a product of many generations of free-spirited fighting warriors: a warrior in every sense of the word—born, bred, and trained to kill from birth, unhampered by conscience, or social or private idealism. When in battle, he would have but one thought—to kill. His long black hair was tied back and a single feather pointed upward behind his head; a necklace of one large—probably eagle—claw hung around his neck. The war-painted red-and-white stripes under his eyes were bright.

  “I wonder if I could get him to add a blue stripe under them,” Cormac wondered. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud. This is no time for nonsense; pay attention. This guy is serious. Look at the size of that knife, for Christ’s sake . . . big as a Bowie knife. I picked a hell of a time to get noble . . .” He glanced upward. “God, if I’m not up to this, would you please let Lop Ear and Horse somehow find their way to Lainey?”

  Cormac was jarred out of his silly-side when, about twenty feet away and stabbing his knife high into the air with his right hand, the Indian suddenly screamed “Hoka Hey!” and charged wildly.

  “Oh, damn! . . . Uh . . . Chicago!” Cormac yelled, and charged forward.

  The gap between them closed. As they were about to come together, Cormac suddenly threw himself into a block at the Indian’s feet. With too short of a distance remaining to stop, the Indian warrior fell over him, hitting the ground and rolling again to his feet. He rushed back at Cormac, who was also rolling to his feet and spinning to meet the charge.

  With a wild lunge, the Indian sliced at Cormac’s face, and when Cormac parried with his knife, quickly grabbed the front of Cormac’s shirt and fell back, taking Cormac with him. With the knee of the Indian in his chest as the Indian fell backward, Cormac found himself flying through the air and over the Indian. Twisting like a cat in the air in a wrestling move taught him by the ex-wrestler, Wolfgang, Cormac landed on all fours, facing the Indian. He slammed the toes of his boots into the ground and catapulted himself forward into a headlong dive into the midriff of the still-rising Indian, who blocked his knife thrust with his own knife.

  They fell again, both quickly coming to their feet in the protective stance commonly used by knife fighters, slightly bent at the waist, both hands out in front with one hand holding the knife at the ready. Circling each other, reassessing each other, the first clash was over, and they were both still unharmed.

  “Indian zero, white man zero,” said Cormac aloud with a grin, remembering the description he had heard of a ball game. A puzzled look flashed over the Indian’s face, and Cormac leaped forward, slashing up and to the left. A red welt appeared above the waist of the Indian on his left side, traveling upward and across to his right chest.

  “White man one, Indian zero,” he said again.

  “Ahhh!” the Indian growled angrily, waving his free hand as if to say “stop it.”

  Much like sword fighters, they circled. Parry and thrust, circle and parry, slice and parry and thrust, feint, move in, move out, slash. A scratch here, a shallow cut there. Grunting at each other, evenly matched and each trying to intimidate the other. Both fighters cautious, but the force of their thrusts would be deadly if they connected. Engage and disengage, some hits, some kicks, some bites.

  “Damn Injun bites like a bear.”

  Cormac narrowly avoided being thrown through the air again, and did manage to throw the Indian over his hip, but the Indian recovered to his feet and before Cormac could take advantage of it, they came together, and the Indian tripped Cormac with a foot behind his leg. They went down with the Indian on the top and only Cormac’s quickness saved him as he deflected the big knife into the dirt.

  He tried, and failed, to get his own big knife into the neck of the Indian before the Indian broke off and rolled quickly to his feet. The warrior spun, hoping to find Cormac exposed, but was disappointed to find him also upright and prepared. This Wasichu was indeed quick.

  Evenly matched for strength and courage, they were both tiring. One of them would soon make a mistake, a fatal mistake.

  It’s going to be you if you keep this up, dummy, thought Cormac. You’re playing his game. You’re not a knife fighter; he is. You’re only alive by dumb luck; he’s trained in this. I wonder if he’d let me stop for a minute and go get my gun. Probably not.

  Cormac pretended to again trip on a prairie dog hole and stumbled backward. Eagerly, the Indian warrior rushed to take advantage and was met by a left hook and a hard right that smashed his nose into his face and started blood gushing down his chest. Surprised and not accustomed to fist fighting, the Indian fell back. Punching rapidly with left jabs and right hooks, Cormac pursued.

  Trying desperately to get away from the blows, the Indian continued to back away. Advancing and unable to get set while hitting at a target that was falling away, Cormac was unable to get any real power into his punches. The Indian came under another attempt at a left hook with a right-handed knife thrust that missed the mark but stuck deeply into Cormac’s side.

  Cormac clamped down forcefully with his elbow against the hand holding the knife to lock it against him. Yanking his own hand that was holding his knife back, away from the Indian’s grasp, he let it continue up, around, and down in a full back-circle only to complete the circle, come back up, and plunge deeply under the Indian’s ribcage and up into his heart. Cormac pulled his knife from the instantly dead Indian and let him collapse to the ground.

  Bleeding badly from his wound, Cormac staggered back and stood looking down at the body, exhaustedly gasping for air. Twisted in death, the once powerful arms and legs of a once prideful warrior were ungracefully pointing at odd angles.

  “It’s too bad. What a waste,” Cormac said out loud, shaking his head. “Why can’t human beings just get along with other human beings?”

  Holding his wound together to slow the bleeding with one hand, Cormac Lynch wiped the blood from his knife onto
the grass and then, with the other hand, rearranged the body into a more respectful position as he remembered all too well doing for his family so long ago, crossed the well-muscled arms across the warrior’s chest, and placed the Indian’s big knife into the lifeless hands. He followed that by kneeling on one knee and looking into the sky to say a brief prayer for the dead Indian’s family.

  Cormac wiped his knife on some grass again and put it back in its sheath, turning to return to Lop Ear. Not thirty feet away, sitting stiffly upright, stone-still and watching him closely, was a another Indian, with a rifle in one hand, a lance in the other, a bow and arrow-quiver over his shoulder, and a large silver amulet around his neck.

  “Damn,” said Cormac simply.

  For a long moment, they stared at each other, unmoving, giving Cormac the impression somehow, that the Indian had been there watching for some time. Watching him kill. Watching him arrange the body. Watching him pray. Still holding his wound closed as best he could with one hand, Cormac collected Kahatama’s weapons and took them to the mounted Indian. Motioning that he should also take Kahatama’s ponies, Cormac backed a few steps away.

  Stone-faced, the Indian accepted the weapons. With no out-ward signs of a signal, as if on its own, the Indian pony took him to collect the dead warrior’s horses.

  The Indian wrestled the dead body onto the closest horse and remounted with an easy grace. After allowing another long moment during which the Indian and Cormac once more stared intently into each other’s eyes, the Indian rode back to Cormac and handed him the dead Indian’s feather, and spoke.

  “Kahatama.”

  Cormac didn’t understand. The Indian repeated it. “Kahatama.”

  Cormac could only shrug his shoulders and shake his head. “Kahatama!” the Indian repeated more firmly, pointing to the lifeless body.

  “Oh, his name. Okay, Kahatama,” Cormac responded, nodding. “Thank you.”

  With Cormac watching regretfully, the Indian rode away leading Kahatama’s horses. A strange people, he thought, with their own customs and beliefs. And honor, he added, nodding to no one, definitely some kind of honor system that probably went back many generations, if not centuries. Cormac felt it would be interesting to understand, and surprisingly, the not understanding of it he felt to be his own loss. The Indian never looked back.

  Cormac walked slowly back to the horses. He had a wound to repair. Like most westerners not living in town with ready medical treatment available, he would have to fix himself and hope for the best. Be stoic, just like in the Buntline book.

  Yup, that’s me, he thought as he gritted his teeth. Stoic.

  First he had to get his guns. Without them, he felt naked.

  Cormac built a small fire for coffee and hot water to clean his knife wound and sewed it together with a needle and thread from his saddlebag. He finished his repair by dousing the wound with whiskey. Not a fun time, but it could have been worse. He could have lost the fight. The wound didn’t yet appear inflamed, so maybe he was going to be lucky and not get infected. After reclaiming his weapons, he made his way to the trees he could see sticking up in the distance and found a secluded water pond in the center of the boulder patch.

  Plenty of deadfall firewood was strewn about, but to avoid the bending, carrying, and gathering process, Cormac opted to draw from a supply of wood left by previous campers tucked into a small cave that appeared created for the purpose. After some strong coffee and a cup of boiled beef-jerky soup, he felt better. He could rest up here for a day, maybe two. He rolled out his bedroll and made camp back away from the water to leave open access for the animals that relied on it as their water supply. When rain came during the night, he found the cave was large enough for the wood, his gear, and one sleeping body, if that body were curled up.

  Cormac awoke to a cloudy day, but the rain had passed. After a coffee and bacon breakfast, he packed up and headed out . . . to go where? They were pointed in the general direction of Denver, and that was as good as any. There was no urgency; he had supplies, eighty-five dollars in his poke, and more money in the bank in Denver. Mr. Haplander had been depositing part of his wages for the last several months and had said he would put a bonus in Cormac’s account for his help in saving the mine. Maybe he should wander down there and see how much he had accumulated. He had to go someplace.

  The trip was uneventful, and he walked into the Denver Bank three weeks later just before closing on a Friday afternoon. “Yes, sir, Mr. Lynch. I took that deposit myself. It was five thousand dollars, giving you a total of five thousand, seven hundred and twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents. He had started to deposit twenty-five hundred, but his daughter told him it wasn’t enough and suggested he double it. Mr. Haplander resisted until the daughter threatened to go get his wife. I guess he knew he was outnumbered. He just laughed and went along with it. I think he was okay with the five thousand all along though and was just having fun with the daughter. Mr. Haplander said you had earned it. May I ask you please, sir, if I’m not being to bold, what you did that was worth five thousand dollars?”

  “Yes, you may, and thank you for the information,” Cormac answered, and started for the door.

  “But you didn’t answer my question, sir.”

  “I didn’t say I would answer it. I just said you could ask it.”

  Cormac could feel the clerk’s eyes on the back of his head as he walked out the door. Let him figure it out.

  A five-thousand-dollar bonus. Wow! And a total of five thousand, seven hundred, and twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents. More wow! That was enough money to buy a small ranch. Now, that was worth thinkin’ about. Patch seemed to have good connections, maybe he would know of one for sale. Cormac changed his mind about going into the Trailhead Saloon before he got there. He had ridden all day and just wanted to relax. That saloon seemed to be a bit livelier than he really needed at the time, and after thinking it through, he had no business buying a ranch anyway. He had been getting restless at the Flying H and had only been there a few months. There was a lot of country he had yet to see. He might as well stick around for a couple days, maybe say hello to Cactus and Patch and have a look at how city folks lived before heading out.

  After that, Cormac wandered, not staying nailed down anywhere and took to wearing both guns all the time instead of just the one. His life was turning out to be more dangerous than he had intended. He wasn’t looking for trouble. He just wanted to be left alone, but God seemed to be telling him to “Go ahead. Live a peaceful life, but keep the thong unhooked.”

  Staying on the move, Cormac worked some ranches and stayed away from mines; he had no liking to be underground so much of the time. He outran a couple of Indian war parties, one of which nearly had him surrounded until Lop Ear pulled a burst of speed from somewhere deep inside and led them out of the trap.

  Cowhands being nomadic by nature, and Lop Ear, Horse, and himself liking to see the greener grass on the other side of the next hill made working ranches an easy way to see some country. Riding the grub line, they stopped at whatever ranch or campfire they found handy, most always welcomed and rewarded with free food for the conversation and news.

  Some of the ranchers were skilled cattlemen; others were just getting along. Some knew cattle but didn’t know business; some were just the opposite. Cormac learned about grazing and grasses and the importance of not overgrazing an area, and he learned about locoweed, poisonous gymson weed, and a thousand other trivial facts necessary to cattlemen, like handling stampedes, going without sleep, long night watches, riding point, the taste of eating dust while riding drag position, saddle sores on his hind-end from a sweat-covered saddle, branding, and always carried with him the memory of a cantankerous old steer named Old Mossy. And he also learned how the unexpected sound of a rattlesnake behind him in the bushes in which he was in the process of squatting to do some morning business can quickly solve the problem of constipation.

  The B-B in western Kansas was a nice spread on some good land w
ith natural irrigation, a clean bunkhouse, and a cook that knew how to make bear-sign. Another wandering puncher working for the Flying H had said they were the best doughnuts in three states, and Cormac couldn’t disagree. He was hired on as ramrod, but they called it Segundo, and as such, he was drawing forty dollars a month. He got along well with the men, and they were good workers. They knew what needed doing and got it done with very little guidance. Then why was he getting restless after only eight months? More and more, he found himself looking at the hills and wondering what lay over that way and getting up in the night to go outside for a smoke and look at the stars. Sometimes he wondered if Lainey was looking at the same stars at the same time.

  A young wrangler not yet eighteen years old going by the name of Jingles for the jingling Mexican spurs he wore coming back from town one Saturday night a lot faster than he went in, kicked up a lot of dust coming into the ranch yard and woke everybody up by firing his gun into the air as he got near the gate. Having been rousted out of bed early that morning, Cormac wasn’t too interested in getting up again after just having gotten to sleep. He put on his hat and guns before going out to investigate.

  “All we did was kiss one time,” Jingles was telling a group of riders in front of the main house with their guns out. He was surrounded by the other hands and their boss, Con Wellington.

  “That was one kiss too many. The rules in this town have been set long ago,” answered a suited man in a bowler hat appearing to be the leader, as Cormac walked across the yard toward them. “Cattle people are not allowed east of the tracks. Everyone in town knows that, and you should have. You boys are welcome to come into town to buy supplies, or have a drink, or raise a little hell, but you do it west of the tracks. East of the tracks is the nicer side of town. If you don’t know it by now, you sure as hell will by the time we get done with you. I’ll not have my daughters associating with the likes of you. Take him, boys,” he said to the others.