But this day, the men were gone.
The animals gone.
The tents and equipment cached or packed off.
Just markers, notices, and a half-worked little stream remained.
“They’re all gone, Coco. It used to feel so crowded. Now it’s empty. They aren’t ‘dreary Black Hills’ today. They’re empty hills.”
Brazos reined up the horse and surveyed up and down the trail. ’Course, I don’t know if they’re completely empty.
A deserted Lightning Creek gulch had made Brazos feel lonely. But the totally vacant French Creek mining district brought a feeling of depression and doom.
With the lead rope of the buckskin in his left hand and the carbine and the reins in his right, he plodded along the deserted creek towards the abandoned Gordon Stockade.
The stockade sat like a tiny ghost town. Ten-foot-tall walls were deserted bastions in the corners of the eighty-foot square fort. Peering past the twelve-foot opened doors, Brazos Fortune gazed at the six small, empty log cabins.
Captain Mix drove out Gordon and the others in April.
Now, General Crook swept though cleaning out all the rest.
Who will come in next, and how long before they’re driven out?
He stared off to the west.
I got two more hours of daylight. Trailing that mob will be easier than following railroad tracks. But I’d surely like to know how far ahead they are.
Fortune gazed off to the north.
Maybe I should ride up the slope of Buckhorn Mountain. Some say you can see the mouth of Fourmile Canyon from there. At least they ought to be sendin’ up a dust cloud. ’Course, if they’re already out on the plains …
The two saddled horses grazed on clumps of silver-green Junegrass as Brazos Fortune leaned against the trunk of a one-foot-thick Ponderosa pine. He chewed on a grisly piece of deer jerky, the carbine flung across his lap.
He gazed over at the horses. “You two reckon we should just unpack and spend the night up here on Buckhorn? Can’t see anything, or anyone, in any direction. That was a steep, rocky trail, and we covered our tracks. Good chance no one will find us up here. ’Course, there’s no one around to follow us, anyway.”
Lord, here I am talkin’ to the horses again. Other than those words from Hook, I haven’t talked to anyone in days. I wonder if this was what it was like for Adam. This is a beautiful land. It’s not a Garden of Eden. But it’s Eden to me … not Canaan land, but a promised land. It’s someplace new, fresh, different, unsettled—a break from the past. It has the potential for peacefulness … and violence.
Adam must have known how to talk if he named the animals. But without someone to respond … without Eve … it must have been like drowning in wonder.
Eve.
He gazed to the western sky and the dying sun.
Sarah Ruth, what am I doin’ here?
Sometimes I don’t know if I’m following the Lord’s leading or just running away.
He spied a slight dust devil to the southeast.
But there was no breeze.
Maybe someone else is late. If there’s several of them, we might have a chance out on the plains. Providin’ it’s not Doc Kabyo and them.
Fortune stepped over to his saddlebags and pulled out a small, brass spyglass. He returned to his perch, then shoved his spectacles into his vest pocket and positioned the spyglass.
He could see nothing but dust.
Sitting back down, he dropped the block on the Sharps single shot, pulled out the .50-caliber bullet, inspected it, then shoved it back into the chamber. Right at the moment I’m mighty glad the army converted these over to cartridge guns.
The dust column seemed to be approaching, and yet was still at least three miles away. He didn’t bother cocking the hammer. The dust cloud dissipated at the eastern edge of the meadow. He fought back the urge to stand up and stare.
I’m not givin’ them a silhouette or a shadow. Not until they show themselves. They’re stopping near the Dutchman’s cabin … maybe some pilgrim just comin’ in that hasn’t heard of Crook’s edict.
He again peered across the valley with the spyglass. The first thing he spotted were flames lapping up the shake roof of the cabin, then billowing smoke, then several dozen mounted warriors. He jumped to his feet and threw the carbine to his shoulder.
The cabin on fire? No one would burn it down … except for Sioux! They must have just been waiting to take this land back.
He lowered the Sharps.
I reckon it’s their move. The miners are gone. They’ll torch Gordon’s Stockade, too. I can’t contest that. Must be two dozen of ’em … and I’m over a mile away from the stockade. I ought to be further away.
He marched over to the horses and began to tighten the girths. “Well, boys … I do believe we’ll ride north. The Sioux have just reclaimed their precious Pahá Sápa, their Black Hills. And I’m very glad we came up this mountain. Maybe they’ll be so occupied with burning the stockade, they won’t see us slip over Buckhorn.”
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 s
undown 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.
Beneath a Dakota Cross Page 7
