by Tim Champlin
The noise prevented any conversation, and we just looked at each other and shook our heads as the wind buffeted the branches over our heads and the continual flashes of lightning lit up the valley like a blue-white sun.
In an hour or so, the storm passed over, muttering and grumbling away. The two of us lay down on the almost-dry pine needles and slept until full daylight, secure in the notion that we were safe from any surprise attack from man or animal for the time being.
We were up the next morning at first light and went looking for our horse that had jerked out his picket pin when he was spooked by the thunder. We finally found both horse and mule grazing quietly near a rocky overhang at the head of the valley.
Then it was on to the all-important business of staking two adjacent claims along the most promising stretch of creek. While in the claims office in Deadwood, we had learned that most Black Hills claims ran three hundred feet in length and extended from rimrock to rimrock on either side. So we paced off six hundred feet—about two hundred steps for our two claims—and stacked up small piles of rocks to mark the boundaries. We found some birch bark and marked our names and the date with charcoal from our fire. Then we put these in two empty tin cans left from supper and embedded the can firmly in the rocks of our cairns.
We took a last look around to fix the place in our memories, so we would be sure to recognize this isolated valley the next time we saw it.
"What'll we name this place?" I asked as we rode up and out to return to our partners.
"Why name it?" Wiley wanted to know.
"We gotta call it something. And besides, this place may be as famous as Sutter's Mill some day."
"Okay. Let's see… How about Thunder Valley, since it stormed so hard on us last night?"
I couldn't think of any better name right off, so Thunder Valley it was.
When we got back to Curt and Cathy, we found that they had been drenched by the storm of the night before, and had spread all our gear out in the sun to dry. Their gold-hunting efforts had produced the same poor results as before. But they were elated by our good news when we showed them our dust.
"Looks like we're going to need some sort of shelter if we plan to stay awhile," Curt said. "Probably ought to ride back to town and see if we can get one of those big wall tents, and maybe a stove, too, since fall weather will be on us shortly."
The sky was clear, but the air was noticeably cooler since the storm.
"We need to file our claims, too," I put in.
"Why don't you and Wiley ride on back, then, since you know where the claims are. Let me give you a list of some supplies to pick up. Some of our flour and dried beans got soaked last night."
"Don't give those two prospectors up above us any indication that we'll be moving out to new diggins, or the direction," Wiley said.
"Okay. I don't know what they're getting, but they're sure hard at it. They've hardly looked our way."
"We'll wait for you here!" Curt yelled as we rode away.
"Be back some time tomorrow," I answered, pulling my horse's head around.
Since we were now riding instead of walking, the trip back to Deadwood seemed very short. We hit town about two in the afternoon, famished, since we hadn't taken time to eat anything all day. We turned our mounts into the livery with instructions for a rubdown and feed, and then headed straight for the Grand Central and a big meal.
Thus fortified, we stopped by the mining district claims office and recorded our claims for two dollars each, describing and locating on a wall map as best we could where they were located.
Then it was on to a dry goods store. We picked out a big white canvas tent, similar to those used by cavalry officers. It would be plenty big for the four of us, and, rolled up, it was also very heavy. We bought a small, bottomless, sheet-iron stove and three joints of stovepipe to go with it,' then made arrangements to pick them up the next day.
"Damn! Look at these prices!" Wiley complained as we made our next stop for groceries. "They've gone up just in the last few days. I know prices are usually high in these gold camps, but this is ridiculous!"
"It costs a lot to freight this stuff in," the storekeeper reminded him calmly.
"But look at this," Wiley said, picking up a small sack. "A dollar a pound for Arbuckle's coffee? Seventy-five cents a pound for bacon? Two dollars a dozen for eggs? Sixty dollars for a hundred pounds of flour?"
"My margin of profit isn't that much," the storekeeper defended himself. "And I need to make a living, too, just as much as the men out on the creeks. They need me, and I need them. Besides, if you think this is high, just you wait until this winter, when our supplies are cut off. I expect prices to double and triple."
Still grumbling, Wiley paid for our supplies with some of our remaining greenbacks, so as to take advantage of the five percent discount.
"C'mon, let's haul this stuff to the hotel and then go get a drink," Wiley said disgustedly. "Whiskey's only twenty-five cents a glass," he said over his shoulder for the benefit of the unperturbed storekeeper.
We lugged the food in burlap sacks down the street and rented our old room at the Merchants Hotel, and then made a beeline for the Golden Eagle Saloon.
Our old friend Burnett was at his usual position behind the bar. In place of his broken front window, be had a solid wooden shutter that was hinged at the top so it could be swung up open and hooked to the roof of the boardwalk to admit some light and air.
"Works pretty well," he told us when we inquired about it. "Those swinging doors let in the outside air, anyway, and we aren't bothered much with flies and mosquitoes here in the Hills. I just drop it and latch it when we close, which ain't too often."
Wiley ordered whiskey, and Burnett drew me off a foamy mug of draft—and we told him in low voices about our success at prospecting. I was a little hesitant at first about mentioning it to anybody, for fear of starting a rush in that direction—even though our claim was safely recorded. But the big bartender was a man I trusted instinctively. We didn't even reveal to him the exact location, although it was on public record in the claims office, had he wanted to check. He congratulated us and said, "I told you there was gold in that area if anyone had the guts to go after it. See any Indians?"
"Not a sign of one."
"I'll wager they saw you, although the army may have scared 'em off for the time."
"I imagine our gold will still be there when we get back."
"Oh, I'm sure the gold will be. The Sioux care little or nothing for that. But your partners may not be there; the Indians are more interested in white scalps."
Wiley and I exchanged glances. How much of this was exaggeration, and how much truth?
We refilled our drinks and had just sat down at a table to talk when the bat wing doors flew open and a little boy popped in. I couldn't have been more surprised if a leprechaun had suddenly appeared in our midst.
"Hi there, K.J. Haven't seen you around in the last few days," Burnett said, obviously greeting an old friend.
"Oh, I've been busy running errands and stuff," the boy replied.
"Gonna dance for us?" Burnett asked.
"If you want me to."
"What about it, boys?" Burnett called out to the two dozen or so men who were playing poker and faro. They voted their unanimous approval with a chorus of yells. Whereupon, three or four of the men got up and pushed back the tables and chairs to clear a space on the wooden floor. The boy sat down and rummaged in a canvas pack he was carrying, brought out a scuffed pair of shoes with metal taps on them, and quickly changed his high-top shoes for these. Then with no hesitation, he jumped up and threw himself into a dance that was fast and furious. The taps rattled expertly on the wooden floor as he pivoted and stomped, swinging his arms. There was no accompanying music, but as he got warmed up, the men began to clap in unison in time to the beat. Finally, after three or four minutes, the clapping dissolved into applause and yells of approval, and coins began to rain down around him and roll on the planks.
When he finished with a flourish, panting and sweating, the men broke into a wild cheer, and one of them grabbed him and lifted him up to sit on the bar while another gathered up his coins.
"You oughta see him when our piano player is here at night," Burnett said quietly to us as we crowded around the boy.
"Who is this kid, anyway?' I asked him.
"We all call him K.J. Don't know much' about him. He dances in a lot of the saloons around here and the customers love him; he's good for business."
"Where does he live?"
Burnett shrugged. "Here, there, and everywhere. Runs errands and holds horses for tips. Hits the back doors of the restaurants for meals. Don't know where he sleeps."
"His name's KayJay?"
"It's his initials. Never heard him called anything else." He reached over and cut the boy a slice of dark yellow cheese from a wedge at the end of the bar and handed it to him while the boy talked to some of the men.
The boy could not have been over eight or nine years old and was scarcely four and a half feet tall, with a stocky, solid build. He had a mop of dark brown hair that nearly covered his ears and reached the collar of his faded plaid shirt. He had a short nose und a rather round face with alert, animated dark eyes and flashing white teeth. The pants he wore were obviously homemade and a little too long for him, since he had to roll them up a couple of turns. They were held up by suspenders.
His whole appearance was clean, threadbare, and merry. The men were drifting back to their card games, and K.J. hopped down from the bar, wiping his hands on his pants and chewing the last of the cheese. The silver coins jingled in his pocket.
"Thanks, Burnett," he said cheerfully with a familiarity that seemed out of place for one of his years. "I may be back tonight."
"Where do you live, boy?" Wiley asked him as he started out.
He looked up at us pleasantly. "Oh, around," he replied noncommittally.
"Don't you have any parents?"
He shrugged. "Naw." His nonchalance seemed rather affected. "I gotta go."
But Wiley's curiosity was not satisfied. He lounged out beside the boy, and I went too. "You must live someplace," Wiley said as we moved along.
"I stay with Missus Hayes most of the time," K.J. finally admitted. I could see that it was inconceivable to Wiley that a child like this could be completely on his own.
"Who's Missus Hayes?"
"She's an old lady who lives back up on the hill above town. She sells fruits and vegetables and stuff. Everybody knows her. She's nice."
"How old are you?"
"Ten," he replied promptly and with pride.
"Oh, c'mon, now. You don't look like you're over eight or nine."
"I'm ten," he insisted.
"You're a good tap dancer. Where'd you learn to do that?"
"Look, mister, I gotta go," he repeated, eyeing us suspiciously and sidling away. He reminded me of a wild animal shying away from human contact. Then he turned and broke into a run, darting across the street just ahead of a team and wagon.
"Amazing," Wiley muttered under his breath. He shook his head. "I can't imagine a kid like that living by his wits without any parents or guardian in a remote place like this. Wonder how he came to be here?"
"Beats me," I replied.
We went back to our hotel and rested an hour or so before going to supper. When we came back out, about six-thirty, we saw a crowd spilling off the boardwalk, and into the street around the Wells Fargo office.
"What now?"
"Maybe they're still riled up about that robbery a few days ago."
I didn't reply, but I knew instinctively there was more trouble coming.
CHAPTER 7
The giant Wells Fargo Company had moved into Deadwood early and was competing with a line called the Northwestern Express, Stage, and Transportation Company, which optimistically advertised on its oversized sign that it sold through tickets to Bismarck and all large eastern and Canadian cities, in addition to such unlikely places as Hamburg, Glasgow, Liverpool, "and all points in Europe." But it was the Wells Fargo Company that had the size and the reputation for dependability—a reputation that was beginning to suffer, we found when we crossed the street to its offices and stage depot. Adjacent to its stables, the unimposing glass-fronted office supported a wooden false front above it. This white false front was emblazoned by dark green block letters one-and two-feet high, reading:
WELLS FARGO & CO.
OVERLAND MAIL
AND
EXPRESS OFFICE
A smaller sign, about one foot by two, hanging near the front door, announced that the same building housed the Western Union Telegraph Office.
It took us a few minutes to wiggle our way through the tightly packed crowd and get inside the office next to the counter.
"All right, all right. Calm down! I know all of you have sustained losses," the harried express agent behind the counter was shouting above the noise. He was a blond young man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a neat, reddish-brown mustache. He was wearing a natty dark suit with a goldstone watch fob hanging from the pocket of his tattersall vest. He was perspiring freely and mopping his face with a handkerchief. The close air in the room was made even worse by the crush of humanity in the confined space.
"Wells Fargo has always reimbursed any losses on its line. You know the company's good for it!" he was yelling, barely making himself heard as far as the front door. "If you'll just bring me your receipts one at a time…line up, line up. I can't talk to everyone at once."
"Hell, winter's coming on, Chuck!" a man behind me yelled. "I can't afford to wait several weeks or months for the company to refund my money from the home office in San Francisco. I'll have to go outside and come back in the spring."
The express agent called Chuck tried again, but his voice was getting hoarse. Finally, he shrugged impotently and let his hands fall to his sides, for his entreaties seemed to be having no effect on the agitated crowd. He looked over at Wiley and me, and since we were close at hand and were two of the few who weren't berating him, he said, just loud enough for our ears, "Most of these people didn't have over an ounce or two of gold apiece on that shipment. About a dozen shippers account for the rest."
"Another holdup?" I asked.
He nodded glumly. "Yeah."
"How much this time?" -
"About twenty-five thousand dollars."
"Whew!"
"It wasn't any fortune, but it adds up in a hurry."
"I need my money! I was sending that gold to my family back East. My wife and kids will be evicted from the house!" shouted another man who had just gotten his head inside the door.
"Hell, Frank, if you were concerned about your family's income, you wouldn't be out here prospecting for gold!" the Wells Fargo agent shot back, turning slightly red in the face.
His retort didn't slow up the ranting of the crowd, which was composed mainly of roughly dressed miners, with a sprinkling of white-shirted, dark-tied men who could have been merchants or bankers or even gamblers.
"Anyone killed this time?" Wiley asked.
"No, thank God," the agent replied.
Suddenly the roar of a shotgun just outside on the unroofed boardwalk split the noise of the crowd. The shouting died quickly to a mumble and then quieted altogether as the sheriff elbowed his way into the room, double-barreled shotgun braced on his hip and held high.
He was a short, stocky man in his mid-forties, wearing a high-crowned white hat and a cowhide vest over a pale blue shirt. He was sandy-haired and blue-eyed, with shaggy brows and a heavy, drooping mustache that was streaked with silver and stained on its lower edges with tobacco juice. The strong nose showed a fine tracery of red veins. I sized him up as a strong-willed, hard-drinking man who, at the moment, was all business.
"Okay, now!" he bellowed, glaring around him. "If any of you men have any legitimate business with Mister Bundy here, you just line up single file and he'll accommodate you."
He turned and glanced a
t Chuck Bundy, who was sagging against the counter, and he also looked up at the wall clock behind him. It read 6:47.
"On second thought," the sheriff resumed, "it's past suppertime. This office is closed for business as of now. It'll open on schedule at. . ." He turned and looked his question at the agent.
"Eight o'clock," Bundy replied tiredly.
"Eight A.M." shouted the sheriff. "Everybody clear out of here now. Go on. There's nothing can be done about it tonight, anyway. A posse's already out trying to pick up their trail."
"That posse'lI be lucky if they can find their way back to town," somebody grumbled. The crowd mumbled and muttered and seemed reluctant to leave, but none of them was willing to argue with the sheriff's logic or his shotgun. They began to disperse, and drifted away in twos and threes.
"Thanks, Ben," Bundy said with relief. "Now for some food. It's been a long day."
"I'll bet," the sheriff replied. "C'mon. I haven't eaten either. If you're eating out, I'll join you." As they turned toward the door, they noticed Wiley and me still standing there. "Whata you two want?" the sheriff demanded.
"Just a little information, sheriff," I spoke up before Wiley had a chance to say anything. "We're not here to file any claims against the company or anything. But we might be bringing some dust here for smelting and shipping soon, and we just want to find out what's been going on." I held the door open for the two of them and Wiley to pass outside. "We've been out on the creeks and just came in town today," I explained.
Bundy took a ring of keys from his pocket and locked the door, and the four of us started down the boardwalk.
The sheriff eyed us up and down, but apparently had no reason to think we were other than what we claimed, so he unbent a little. "You haven't even seen a newspaper?" he asked.
"No. We just got in this afternoon, and haven't had time to do anything but tend to business."
"Well, if you plan to ship some gold, this will shortly become your business," the sheriff said, shifting the short shotgun into the crook of his arm and pushing his hat back from his forehead. "Believe it or not, this morning makes the eighth stage to be robbed in about six weeks.
