Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  Taking but a moment to check the street in front of the jail to make sure all was still quiet, he then went about retrieving his possessions. His rifle and pistol were in a corner of the tiny office, the Winchester propped against the wall, the Colt lying on the floor. After loading the weapons, he glanced quickly around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten any other article that might have belonged to him. His gaze lit upon a box of .45 cartridges. “Might as well help myself to some ammunition,” he murmured. “Little enough pay for the inconvenience.”

  Before leaving, he took another look at the gaping hole in the back wall, and couldn’t help but grin. A helluva job, he thought. But I don’t reckon I’ll take a chance on spraining an ankle by jumping out the window. He turned and walked out the front door.

  There was no clock in the jail, so he could only guess the time. Judging by the hint of gray in the eastern sky, he figured it could be no more than an hour before daybreak. Turning to pull the front door shut, he was startled by a voice behind him.

  “Looks like it might be a warm one.”

  He turned to find a man walking along the rutted street, apparently heading toward the stables at the far end. Realizing that he was under no threat, Jordan returned the greeting. “Looks like,” he said, wondering even as he said it what possible sign the man could have seen that would tell him it was going to be a warm day. At that moment, Pete chose to yell, “Hey! Let me outta here!” He had apparently heard talking outside the jail.

  The stranger paused and looked at Jordan. Jordan grinned, and explained, “Drunk—he’ll need more time to sleep it off.”

  “I reckon,” the stranger replied and laughed. He continued on toward the stables. Jordan watched until he was sure the man showed no signs of suspicion; then he hurried to meet the women by the creek.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Maggie wanted to know when Jordan finally joined the three women waiting beside the creek. She had apparently expected him to jump out the window immediately.

  “I had to take care of a few things,” he explained. “And make sure Pete didn’t follow us.” Seeing an instant look of concern on their faces, he assured them, “He ain’t hurt. I just locked him in the other cell.” He then paused to take a look at his rescuers. “Where in the world did you get those clothes?”

  Hattie grinned. “They belonged to Ned. He wasn’t a whole lot bigger’n Maggie and me.” The last she added to explain the fit.

  Looking more like clowns from a circus than Sioux Indians, the two partners of The Trough stood draped in some of Ned Booth’s old buckskins. Jordan shook his head and laughed. In spite of the danger in which they had placed themselves, the whole incident was laughable. He feared, however, that they were blind to the seriousness of their actions. “When Ben Thompson finds his deputy locked up, this is the first place he’s gonna come,” Jordan said, no longer laughing.

  “Probably so,” Maggie allowed. “But we’ll just say we didn’t have nothing to do with it. He can suspicion all he wants. There ain’t no way he can prove nothing.” She looked at Hattie for support.

  “That’s a fact,” Polly replied for her aunt. “We were here the whole time.” She couldn’t help fretting about the trouble she had already caused Jordan. “You’d better get goin’ before it gets daylight.”

  He hesitated, still concerned for their welfare, until Hattie reassured him. “Don’t worry about us, Jordan. It’s our word against Ben’s, and the men in this town ain’t about to let anything shut our kitchen down. Half of ’em would starve to death if they had to do their own cookin’.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Jordan said. He stepped up in the saddle, and turned Sweet Pea’s head toward the west. He held the homely mare in check while he took one last look at the three women. “Much obliged for springin’ me. You girls take care of yourselves,” he said in parting, then gave Sweet Pea her head.

  “There’s bacon and coffee in your saddle bags,” Maggie called after him, just remembering. Then she said to Hattie, “We’d better get busy cookin’ breakfast, or we’re gonna have a lot of explainin’ to do come sunup.”

  Just as the women expected, Ben Thompson stormed into the dining hall before they turned the sign around from NOPE to YEP. “Why, good mornin’, Ben,” Maggie said, greeting him cheerfully. “You must be powerful hungry this mornin’, but we ain’t quite open yet—unless you come to fetch breakfast for your prisoner. If you’ll just set down a minute. . . .”

  “You know damn well I didn’t come for no damn breakfast,” he interrupted. “Where is he?”

  “Who?” Maggie asked innocently.

  “Jordan Gray! I know he came here. His horse is gone, so quit playin’ games with me.”

  “It is?” Maggie went to the back door and looked out at the corral. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she exclaimed. “It is gone.” Hattie walked in from the kitchen at that moment. Maggie turned to her and said, “Jordan’s horse is gone.”

  “Gone?” Hattie responded, and made a show of going to the door to see for herself. “How’d it get out?”

  Ben was beside himself with anger, and it was getting worse by the second. When Polly walked in behind Hattie, and her aunt started to give her the startling news, Ben exploded. “Gawdammit, that’s enough! You women ain’t foolin’ nobody. I’ve a mind to throw the lot of you in jail.” He was about to threaten more when Pete Blankenship came in the door.

  “I think we picked up his trail,” Pete reported. “Jack found fresh tracks down by the crick. Looks like he crossed over and headed west, up over the ridge.”

  “All right,” Ben replied. “Let’s get in the saddle.” Turning back to the women, he said, “This time, when we catch him, we ain’t gonna bother with no trial.” He glared at them for a moment before promising, “I ain’t through with you ladies over this yet.”

  “Oh, get the hell outta here, Ben,” Maggie snapped. “We’ve got a breakfast to get on the table.” She stood, hands on hips, glaring after him until he was out the door. Then turning to Hattie, she confided, “I hope Jordan ain’t wastin’ no time, not with Jack Little Hawk trackin’ for ’em.” Her tone concerned Polly, and she asked who Jack Little Hawk was. Hattie explained that he was a full-blooded Arapaho who could track a water spider across a pond.

  Chapter 7

  “Nope, can’t say as I have,” Alton Broom replied, stroking his chin to encourage his memory. “What did you say her name was?”

  “Polly Pike,” the stranger repeated.

  Almost everybody who passed through Fort Laramie visited the post trader’s store, so Alton was the one person who would have seen the woman in question. Soldiers, settlers, Indians, prospectors—Alton saw them all. But he had no recollection of a woman named Polly Pike who, according to the man standing before him, had supposedly passed through little more than a month before. “There was a lady name of Polly here at about that time,” he said. “But her name weren’t Pike. It was Harris or Harrison—somethin’ like that.”

  “Hatcher?” the man suggested.

  “Hatcher,” Alton echoed. “That’s it, Polly Hatcher.” He beamed his satisfaction for remembering. “Yeah, she was here, all right. Nice lady, she was lookin’ for somebody to help her find her aunt. Last I heard, she hired Jim Eagle to take her to Deadwood in Dakota Territory.” Pleased that he could supply the information, he inquired, “Is she kin of your’n?”

  “She’s my wife,” Bill replied evenly, a thin smile slowly spreading on his unshaven face. “Hatcher’s her maiden name.”

  It was not a friendly smile, and Alton had a sudden sinking feeling that maybe he should not have been so free with his answers. Up until that moment, Alton had not bothered to study the stranger standing at his counter. Now, upon closer inspection of the gaunt face and cruel eyes, he decided Bill Pike was not a man one would seek out as a friend. Alton had never been accused of having an overabundance of brains, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Polly was obviously running from her husband. Someon
e running from something back east was not that unusual, but in most cases it was a man running from family obligations—or a criminal past. Without knowing the facts of the matter, he nonetheless wished that he had not supplied the man with information. His natural curiosity would not permit him to drop the issue, however, without asking, “How is it you ain’t travelin’ with your wife?”

  “She run off, and left me for dead—took my money, stole my horse, and run off. Left me layin’ in a muddy barnyard with two bullet holes in my chest and a knife wound in my belly. Is that a good enough reason why I ain’t travelin’ with my wife?”

  Alton hardly knew how to answer that. The image he recalled of Polly Hatcher didn’t match the deed. She just didn’t seem like a woman capable of such violence. “Why, I reckon so,” was all he could reply to the question. He stood gaping while Bill Pike continued his story.

  “I’ve still got two hunks of lead in me, ’cause the doctor said it was too damned risky to try to get ’em out. I can feel ’em in there like a toothache.” His face grew pinched and dark with the bitterness he felt inside as he talked. “The doctor said I’d be in bed for a month, but I was back on a horse in three weeks. The bitch took every penny I had. I had to sell off my hogs to pay the doctor, and buy me another horse.” He glared at Alton for a long moment, waiting for his comments, but Alton had none to offer. He didn’t know what to think, or whom to believe. He just wished he had not told this vengeful man where his wife had gone. “Well,” Bill concluded, “I reckon I’m on my way to Deadwood.”

  “It ain’t a good time to be travelin’ between here and Dakota Territory,” Alton offered weakly. “Lotta hostile activity.”

  “That don’t bother me none. I reckon I’m pretty hard to kill,” Bill replied. “Can you tell me the best way to get to Deadwood?”

  Alton had never actually been to the Black Hills, and he was quick to let Pike know. Already regretful that he had supplied as much information as he had, he was as vague as he could be, saying only that it was north and a little east of Fort Laramie. Bill turned and walked out of the store.

  Alton noticed for the first time that the man moved a little unsteadily, a fact he attributed to his wounds. I swear, he thought, that little lady didn’t seem the kind to do something like that. Even if she did, she probably had good reason. I hope that fellow doesn’t find her.

  Bill Pike was not without guile. He detected a sense of reluctance on Alton Broom’s part to be cooperative. North and a little east, he thought. He might as well have said it’s outside somewhere. Alton had evidently been taken in by Polly’s deceit. Bill had assumed that any man would sympathize with his quest for justice, but realizing now that there may be some spineless excuses for men in the world, he decided to keep his story to himself in the future. With this in mind, he stopped at the stables where he received much more detailed directions to Deadwood.

  Leaving the stables, he started out immediately. With a smug grin in place, he thought, I’m coming, honey. A few more days, and your loving husband will be with you again. The thought of the reunion caused the smile on his face to widen, and he almost chuckled in anticipation of the slow revenge he planned to extract.

  Approximately one hundred and fifty miles north, as the hawk flies, Polly Hatcher suddenly felt a chill. She attributed it to the recent turn of cooler weather in the mountains after it had appeared to be warming in earnest toward summer. She finished patting the dough she had just formed in the pan. Hattie’s hot stove would soon dispel any chill in a matter of seconds.

  “Do you think they’ll catch him?” Polly asked as she opened the oven and slid the pan of biscuits inside.

  Hattie smiled at her niece, and wiped the sweat from her brow with her apron. “No, child, I don’t think they’re likely to catch Jordan Gray. He’s as much at home in the mountains as a panther.” She paused while she thought about him. “And that ugly horse he rides will run most any other horse into the ground. No, they won’t catch Jordan.” Even though confident in her own words, she still formed a bit of a frown when she considered that Ben Thompson had been smart enough to take Jack Little Hawk with him.

  Polly was encouraged by Hattie’s remarks, for she felt personally responsible for his troubles. There was still some concern for her aunt and Maggie, however. “That man, Ben Thompson,” she said. “He said he was not through with us about Jordan’s escape.”

  Hattie quickly brushed her concerns aside. “He just thinks he ain’t,” she replied confidently. “Me and Maggie’s been in Deadwood as long as he has. It’s our word against his.” She paused and winked at her niece then. “And he ain’t doin’ the cookin’ for half the men in town.”

  “What is it, Jack?” Ben asked when he caught up to the stoic Arapaho waiting at a point where the narrow game trail took a sharp turn around a huge boulder. Jack Little Hawk did not answer, choosing to point instead. Ben followed the direction indicated with his eyes. “Up there?” Thinking that possibility unlikely, he dismounted to take a look at the tracks himself. The Indian was right. The tracks they had been following all morning left the trail and appeared to head straight up the steep face of the mountain. Ben stood gazing up toward the peak for a few moments while the posse behind him caught up.

  “You don’t think he went up there, do ya?” Whitey Hickson asked. Pulling up beside him, Rufus Sparks asked the question that had occurred to some of the others. “What the hell is he ridin’, a damn mountain goat?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that ugly-ass nag he rides is part goat,” Ben commented. He paused and looked around him as if searching for alternatives. “Looks like he went up there,” he said, finally deciding.

  Jack Little Hawk continued to study the trail while the other men of the posse debated the sensibility of attempting so steep a climb. “Deer go up there,” he announced. “He see deer tracks. He think he go, too.”

  “Me think he crazy,” Lester Pierce said, mocking Jack’s broken English. “We’d probably come closer to finding him at the bottom of this damn mountain.” He grinned broadly when the others laughed at his remark.

  “We might all end up at the bottom if we try to climb up there,” J.D. Watts chimed in. “That’s a helluva steep climb. I ain’t sure Buster here can make it without we both take a somersault down this mountain.” He patted his horse’s neck.

  Ben didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. “Well, boys, we sure as hell ain’t gonna quit just because the trail got a little steep. Hell, if he rode up it, then we sure as hell can, too.” He wanted Jordan Gray, wanted him badly, and he had no intention of letting him get away this time. The last time he had gone after Jordan, he had come back with fewer men than he had started out with. A couple of those who didn’t come back, Barney Lipscomb and Tom Bowers, were close friends of his. Also, it wouldn’t hurt his reputation one bit if he were to bring in a killer of Jordan Gray’s status.

  “I don’t know, Ben,” Lester said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I don’t know what kinda horse that son of a bitch is ridin’, but I’m kinda like J.D. I ain’t sure my horse can tote me up that climb without takin’ a tumble.” He looked at Jack, directing his question to the Indian. “Can’t we just keep following this game trail on around the mountain?”

  “Sure we can,” Ben answered before Jack could respond. “But the fact of the matter is he’ll just pick up another hour on us.” He stared at his posse in an authoritative way. “We’ll dismount and lead the horses up. Jack, you lead off. Now, come on, we’re wastin’ time.”

  Just seventy-five or eighty feet below the peak, Jordan Gray knelt on a solid rock ledge, watching the group of men far below as they began the climb up to him. If he had to make the decision again, he wasn’t sure he would have attempted the climb. But Sweet Pea had attacked the slope confidently, so he figured she knew better than he. About halfway up, when they encountered an area of loose shale, he had seriously questioned the wisdom of letting the ornery mare have her head. But, as she
most often proved, she was up to the climb.

  Admittedly, he had expected to lose the posse long before this, but they had relentlessly dogged his every turn. That tracker is good, he thought, watching Jack Little Hawk start up the slope. His was a new face to Jordan. He didn’t know the man. He decided to linger a little longer to watch their progress, hoping they might decide it was not worth the risk. He had no desire to kill anyone of them, and earnestly hoped it wouldn’t be like the last time when he had been given no choice.

  They all dismounted and, leading their horses, started up the steep slope behind the Indian. Moving slowly out of necessity, the posse soon became focused upon the rocky earth beneath each footfall, the horses sliding and struggling behind them. Although painfully slow, it appeared that they were going to make it—much to Jordan’s disappointment. He decided that he was going to have to impede their progress, so he cocked his rifle, and sighted upon a scrubby pine beside the patch of loose shale he had crossed on his way up. Waiting patiently while Jack Little Hawk carefully made his way across the shale, Jordan held his fire until Ben moved out on the shifting gravel. When Whitey passed the stunted pine, Jordan squeezed the trigger.

  The Winchester’s sudden roar, and the chunks of splintered pine showered down on Whitey’s head, was sufficient to startle the horses. Whitey’s, a spirited stallion, kicked its back legs up high in the air and tried to bolt. The loose shale began to shift, denying the horse sound footing and, in a moment, it was flailing front and back hooves in an effort to find solid ground. Ben’s horse, frightened as well, began skating on the treacherous gravel, but Ben was able to hold the animal firmly until it scrambled to secure ground. Not so with Whitey’s stallion—the terrified horse lost its battle with the slope and tumbled. Down it went on its side. Then in a frantic struggle to right itself, it succeeded only in tumbling over on the other side, legs flailing in the air as it slid down the slope. Had Whitey not been quick to release the reins, he would have surely gone down the mountainside with his horse. In the confusion, every man in the posse was concerned only with trying to keep from following Whitey’s horse to the trail below. There was no time to worry about where the shot had come from.