by Tim Champlin
DAKOTA GOLD
By Tim Champlin
A Dimension W Western
Dimension W is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Copyright © 2013 by Tim Champlin
Cover Design by R. Kent Rasmussen
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Meet the Author
Tim Champlin was born John Michael Champlin in Fargo, North Dakota, the son of a large-animal veterinarian and a school teacher. (Tim is a Confirmation name he uses as a pen name).
He was reared in Nebraska, Missouri and Arizona, eventually graduating from St.Mary's High School, Phoenix, in 1955. His father was transferred to Tennessee and Tim moved there with his family where he later attended Middle Tennessee State College.
In 1964, he declined a job offer to become a Border Patrol agent in order to finish work on his MA degree in English at Peabody College, Nashville (now part of Vanderbilt University).
He and his wife, Ellen, have three grown children and ten grandchildren. He retired from the U.S.Civil Service in 1994.
Twenty-two of his short stories and twenty non-fiction articles have been published in a variety of periodicals, including a short story in The American Way--American Airlines' in-flight magazine.
Since 1981, 32 historical novels have been published by various publishers, including Ballantine Books, Berkley, Pill Hill Press and Thorndike Press. His agent is currently finding a home for his 33rd book.
In 2013, his novel, THE SECRET OF LODESTAR, was a finalist for a Spur Award from Western Writers of America in the category of Original Mass Market Paperback.
His hobbies include sailing, tennis, shooting, coin and typewriter collecting.
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DAKOTA GOLD
CHAPTER 1
It was fear of the Sioux as much as fear of pursuit by the cavalry that caused us to keep our stolen Indian ponies moving as fast as possible. In the blackness, the four of us had to trust our animals' instincts to pick out the way in the unfamiliar terrain. Fortunately, it was mostly undulating prairie, but it was cut up by occasional shallow gullies. In our haste to get away, none of us had thought to bring a compass, and the misty overcast prevented our guiding by the moon or stars.
The loping pony beside me suddenly stumbled in the dark and almost went down. I heard Cathy Jenkins give a startled cry as she was thrown forward and grabbed the pony's neck with both arms.
"Curt! Wiley!" I yelled at the murky forms ahead of me. "Hold up a minute."
I could hear, rather than see, the other two reining up.
"Cathy, are you okay?" Curt Wilder's voice was concerned as he brought his pony up close. The unshod ponies were blowing and, snorting, tossing their heads against the restraint of the makeshift hackamores.
"I … I'm all right. Just a little tired. My horse nearly fell," she answered, her voice sounding forced and shaky.
"Let's stop and rest here," Curt decided.
"I don't want to hold up the rest of you," she said, a little breathless. "Why don't you all go on. I'll catch up."
"No. We'll stick together. The ponies need rest, anyway," Curt stated, his voice as calm and authoritative, as if he were still commanding his cavalry company. If I hadn't been one of those who'd helped him escape confinement only a couple of hours before, I never would have guessed he had just deserted the Third Cavalry to avoid a court-martial for defying a direct order. "They may not even be chasing us," Curt continued.
"I wouldn't bet on it." The voice of Cathy's brother, Wiley Jenkins, came out of the darkness. "We almost left our hair in the Big Horns the last time we got cocky."
"How could I forget?" Curt said. "But I don't think the army will be pursuing tonight. Those soldiers are starving, their horses are broken down, and we took them by surprise when we stole these captured ponies. If I know General Buck, he won't let anyone out of that camp tonight, with the Sioux all around—not even for one deserted officer, one mule packer, his sister, and one reporter." I could almost see him grin at me in the dark.
As he spoke, he was helping Cathy to the ground. I groaned when I slid stiffly off the bare back of my Indian pony, still feeling the imprint of his backbone in my backside. "We got anything to hobble these ponies?" I asked. "Sure don't want to be set afoot tonight."
Wiley detached the reins from the bridles and started hobbling their forefeet as the animals dropped their heads to crop the thick prairie grass. "The way we been runnin' 'em, they're pretty winded. I don't think they'd wander far, but we can't take a chance."
By the time Wiley and I had secured the ponies, Cathy and Curt were stretched out on the grass. We flopped down beside them, fatigue beginning to drag at us. We had no food—not even coffee—and no wood for a fire even if we did.
"How far have we come from Slim Buttes?" Cathy asked.
Nobody answered for a moment. Then Curt dug in his pocket for a match to check his watch. He cupped the match to shield the light, even though we appeared to be down in a little swale in the prairie. The brief flare showed the lines that had appeared in Curt's face during the few weeks of the hard summer campaign. He suddenly looked older than his thirty-three years.
Then the match went out and he snapped the watch shut. "At the rate we've been traveling, I'd guess we're about twenty-five miles from camp. The question is, does anybody know how far the Black Hills are?"
"When I interviewed General Buck before we turned south, he told me we were about seven days' march from the Hills. Based on that, I'd say we've got … uh, probably a good sixty miles to go—almost due south," I offered.
Curt grunted. "I just hope we're still headed south. Even Grouard, as good a Scout as he is, would have trouble holding some kind of direction in this murk."
"Wish he were here right now," Wiley Jenkins added wistfully. "I believe he could track a bullet in a blizzard."
"You think we're clear of Crazy Horse's band, Curt?" I asked after a little pause.
"Not by a damn sight," Curt snapped. "This country's crawling with Sioux. After they hit us at Slim Buttes a few hours back, they just retired for the night. They haven't gone far. They'll be back to harass the troops with a running battle all the way to the Hills. I just hope we don't blunder into one of their camps out here. They're mad clear through."
"This foggy, misty weather will help us if we can slip through 'em," I said.
"We won't make the Hills by daylight, that's sure," Curt replied. "But we need to put as much distance as we can behind us before dawn. It's already one-twenty."
My clothes were still damp and heavy. But they had been wet for so many days, I hardly noticed anymore. As I stretched out on the grass beside Cathy and Curt and closed my eyes, I could feel myself sliding toward an exhausted sleep almost immediately. The murmured conversations began to fade in my ears.
"Let's go, Matt." I was startled awake by a gentle boot toe in the ribs. As I sat up, rubbing my face, I wasn't even conscious of having been asleep.
"What time is it?"
"About two."
My eyeballs were gritty
, I was sore all over from riding bareback, and I felt absolutely rotten. "I could sleep for a week."
"Couldn't we all," Curt said. "I think the horses are rested enough now if we take it a little easy on them. These Indian ponies are tough, though."
We were soon back aboard and at first pushed the ponies to an easy lope for two or three miles, then walked them for about the same distance.
The night seemed to grow darker—if that were possible. I even lost sight of my pony's head, and there was now no question of doing anything but walk. The blackness was so thick I felt I could put out my hand and touch it. We let the ponies pick their own way as best they could in the sooty, predawn blackness, and kept somewhat together by speaking softly to each other every few minutes.
The footing seemed to be getting treacherous; I could feel my pony slipping and catching himself every few steps. He was picking his way as carefully as a mule. I could also hear the hooves squishing and sucking in and out of the mud. I tried to ease my 160 pounds on his back and remain as balanced as possible, but it was difficult without a saddle.
Time passed. I fell into a numb rhythm, rocked by my plodding mount. I gradually forgot everything else. It seemed I had been rocking around on this picket fence of a backbone for an eternity. I dozed, only to be jarred awake when my pony stumbled and I was thrown forward, the stock of the Winchester I had stuck through my belt striking me in the chest.
When I opened my eyes for about the hundredth time, expecting to see only the usual blackness before me, I was surprised to be able to barely make out the outlines of my pony and of those nearby. Very gradually, but steadily, the light increased to finally reveal a soggy, gray dawn and a heavy overcast.
We continued slopping along toward a jagged formation of rugged buttes and rocky spires that jutted up from the rolling grassland several miles ahead of us. It was a landmark to shoot for, but I was glad we hadn't encountered this obstacle in the dead of night.
As if to herald the coming of daylight, it began to rain again, a steady downpour that soaked and chilled to the bone. I glanced around at my companions, who were riding hunched forward, lost in their individual thoughts, looking as miserable as I felt, their hat brims bent down and dripping.
We finally reached the buttes and wound around the bases of these rocky spires in the sticky clay. After twisting and turning among these silent sentinels, we at last emerged on the other side, now sure of our southward direction by the position of the brighter grayness that indicated the long-absent sun.
I could tell by the way I felt and the way my companions looked that we would have to reach food and shelter and rest soon—before we collapsed. Our dash for the Black Hills had turned into a slogging endurance test. For hours we rode, mile after slow mile, in the intermittent rain. Sometimes we dismounted to lead our tired ponies and to give our sore muscles a change. But our boots grew heavy with mud after a few steps, making walking even harder. Every mile or two the grass cover and mud alternated with scrubby patches of cactus.
Late in the afternoon the rain stopped and the day brightened up somewhat. We could see the dark bulk of the Hills looming up many miles ahead, and what we took to be the massive rock of Bear Butte somewhat closer. About an hour before sunset the sun actually popped out of the overcast as the clouds began to break up. The sudden glare almost blinded us. A dark green line of trees that marked a creek ran diagonally across our path about a mile distant.
"Reckon that's another creek or the Belle Fourche?" I wondered aloud.
"Wish I had my map," Wilder said. "Could be Owl Creek. I thought the Belle Fourche ran closer to the Black Hills."
We angled toward the westering sun, our hats tipped over our eyes, and squinted at the line of trees.
"It sure is good to feel the sun again," Cathy remarked, shifting to a more comfortable position on her pony's back. I knew how she felt; my own wet clothes were beginning to itch. But the sun did make things look more cheerful. In spite of my lack of sleep, I began to brighten up and come out of my lethargy.
I think it was Wilder's trained eyes and quick instincts that saved us. His pony was plodding along a little in front and to one side of me. I saw his head jerk up and he started to rein in, but he almost instantly checked himself and kept the pony walking. "There's an Indian on horseback in those trees," he said quietly to us, turning his head slightly. "Don't let on there's anything wrong. Could be a party of Sioux or Cheyenne." A few seconds of tense silence followed.
"What now?" Wiley Jenkins asked, his voice apprehensive.
Wilder didn't answer right away. I'm sure he was weighing our options. They seemed few. There was virtually no place to hide, and to turn and run would have alerted them that they'd been spotted. Our tired ponies would be no match for their mounts. But to keep riding might very shortly put us right into an ambush.
Under the brim of my hat, my eyes swept the line of trees, alert to any movement or sign of life. But I could pick out nothing.
"Don't see him now," Wilder said quietly. "But I'm sure I saw him. And if there's one, they're bound to be more. They seldom travel solo in hostile territory."
The ponies clopped along in the heavy, oppressive silence, each step bringing us closer to the vengeance of the Sioux in the form of arrow, lance, or bullet. Prickly fingers of fear began to crawl up my back. My worst fears were realized. Caught in the open in daylight! Had we tempted fate in the form of hostile Sioux or Cheyenne too long? Were we to survive battles and scouting parties and skirmishes all summer, only to be cut down, defenseless, by a roaming war party?
In spite of my anxiety, I smiled ruefully at the thought of how puzzled the Indians must be to see four whites riding toward them, bareback, on Indian ponies—and especially to see one of the hated bluecoats riding one of their own mounts.
"Anybody has any ideas, now's the time to spit 'em out," Curt Wilder said.
Nobody spoke.
"Okay, then, here's my plan." He spoke tersely. "The sun lacks about a half hour of setting. If we can somehow stall that long without rousing their suspicions, we may have a chance in the dark. Now, very gradually, turn your ponies to the right, like we're going to parallel the stream for a ways, looking for a camping site. That will keep us somewhat out of range for now and, the way the creek is coming toward us, it'll take us at a widening angle from that line of trees. And spread out abreast so we'll make a smaller target from where they're looking."
We nudged our ponies and did as we were told, making a wide turn. When we were finally riding parallel and slightly away from the creek, I had trouble keeping my eyes away from the silent green line of foliage that held the unseen watchers. I had the feeling that if I looked away, I would suddenly feel a bullet slam into my unprotected flesh. I hadn't felt this helpless since two months before, when we had been trapped in the Big Horns.
Trying to appear casual, I took off my hat and swung it vigorously to shake out some of the wet, meantime taking a look at the September sun that was showing as a red disk through the haze in the western sky. It moved with agonizing slowness.
Suddenly, Curt pulled up his pony and slid off its back. Handing me the reins, he bent and picked up his pony's left forefoot and made as if to examine it. "Just killing time," he said quietly. We all dismounted and crowded around and pretended to discuss the problem.
"How many shells have you got for that Winchester, Matt?"
"Seven in the magazine and—" I slipped my -fingers unobtrusively along the cartridge loops in my belt. "–ten more. And four in my Colt, I think. About twenty-one, all told."
"Anybody else have a gun?" Curt inquired, still rubbing dirt from the pony's hoof.
The other two shook their heads. Wiley Jenkins, who hated violence, had not even owned a gun, and Cathy's heavy Colt had been left behind in the excitement of the escape.
"Two guns and twenty-one shots among the four of us," Curt said. "It'll have to do." Luckily, the shells for my octagon-barreled Winchester '73 and my Colt were interchangea
ble.
I took off my hat and wiped a damp sleeve across my forehead, glancing toward the west as I did so. The sun had dropped behind the trees, and long shadows were streaking the plains.
We managed to kill a few more minutes as Curt dropped his pony's forefoot and picked up the other, studying the tree line from under the animal's belly. "This won't work much longer," Curt said. "If they want us, they'll be out to get us before dark. They'd much rather take us by surprise, but if we don't walk into their trap, they'll probably try something else. Matt, slip me your Colt and a few shells. Keep the rifle; you're a better shot than any of us with that. If we have to make a break for it, keep together and ride like hell toward the trees." Squatting on his haunches, he glanced up at us and smiled grimly. "Any of you too tired to make it?"
We all shook our heads silently. Wiley and I were gaunt, red-eyed, and unshaven. Cathy's healthy beauty had deteriorated. Her uncombed brown hair clung damply to her pale forehead. Dark circles held her brownish-green eyes. We had lived and slept in our wet clothes for many days, and were all short on food and sleep. We had had nothing to eat or drink in the past twenty-four hours except some dirty rainwater. But, wan and forlorn as we looked in our mud-spattered fatigue, I knew the tension was giving us an energy we didn't really possess. Our lives were on the line, and we weren't about to give them up without a fight, especially after what we had already been through.
I, for one, was almost eager for some kind of confrontation or flight—any kind of action to relieve the unbearable tension. I didn't have long to wait.
Two of our ponies, standing docile and tired, suddenly jerked up their heads as a slight evening breeze brought the scent of the Indians or their horses. One of our mounts whinnied. Sensing their element of surprise was gone, the war party instantly burst from the cover of the trees and, yelling wildly, rode straight for us.
