Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  Bursting into the room moments after hearing the gunshot, Hattie and Maggie had been stunned to find Polly still sitting propped up against the wall. She stared at them with eyes wide open but unseeing as her life’s blood soaked through the back of her dress and smeared on the wall. They had been forced to wait a few minutes for Doc Plummer to finish with Lester before he was able to attend Polly. During that time, the two women carried Polly to Hattie’s bed, and tried to make her comfortable. The young girl was lost too deeply in shock to know one way or the other.

  “There ain’t much else I can do,” Doc told Hattie. “She’s hurt pretty damn bad. It’s hard to say, but it looks like the bullet mighta struck her heart. I know it went through one lung. You can tell that by the way she’s pushing up blood.” He sighed apologetically. “I reckon it’s up to her and the Good Lord now.”

  Life had not been kind to Polly Hatcher. It had been her misfortune to cross paths with Bill Pike. If this was God’s plan, it was a sorry one, according to Maggie Hogg. Polly could evidently see no reason to prolong a life so filled with misery, so she elected not to fight. Passing what appeared to be a peaceful night, she opened her eyes briefly the next morning when Hattie leaned over her, then slipped into eternal sleep.

  Later the same day, they buried Polly on a hillside overlooking a small stream that fed down to the creek. As soon as the service was over, Maggie approached J.D. Watts with a question. “Is anybody gonna go after that son of a bitch? I ain’t heard no talk about a posse.”

  J.D. stalled a moment before answering. “Well, you know we ain’t got no sheriff since Ben was killed.”

  It was obvious that J.D. was not enthusiastic over the prospects of joining a posse. Maggie looked around her at the handful of participants at the grave site. Other than she and Hattie, none were really mourners. They barely knew the unfortunate girl they had come to bury. J.D. Watts and Rufus Sparks were there to show a little support for Hattie. The other two men only came to help dig the grave. She turned back to J.D. “We just gonna let a man come in here, kill an innocent girl, knife Lester Pierce in the belly, and just let him get away with it?”

  J.D. was clearly uncomfortable with the issue. Finally he stammered, “It ain’t up to me, Maggie. I ain’t the damn sheriff.” Seeing the condemnation in her eyes, he wavered slightly. “I’ll talk to some of the others, and maybe we can round up a posse,” he said, hoping to appease her for the moment. Nothing came of it, which was no surprise to Maggie and Hattie. The town was content to just be rid of the likes of Bill Pike, and thankful that none of them had crossed his path. Life went on in Deadwood.

  Chapter 9

  “I knew it was here! I knew it!” Toby Blessings scrambled up the sides of the narrow crevice, oblivious to the scrapes on his knees from the rocky surface. “I just didn’t know where to look.” There had been far too much sign in the stream below him for it not to be there. And even though he had found little more than traces, he had been convinced that the real dust was hiding close by. His patience and determination had borne fruit, and his first thought was Polly will see me in a different light now.

  After his disappointing conversation with Polly by the creek behind The Trough, he had stayed away from Deadwood—in part because of embarrassment, but also because he was determined to unlock the mountain’s secret treasure. For the past three days, he had labored from dawn till dark, stopping only to eat a hurried meal of salt pork and occasionally some soup beans. The only time he was even close to having contact with another human being was when he heard a rider on the trail below his camp. It was late in the evening, and Toby paused to listen lest the rider might prove to be a claim robber. It was a suspicious time of night for anyone to be riding that seldom used trail.

  Deciding it best to have a look, he doused his lantern, picked up his rifle, and made his way down through the rocks to a point where he had a clear view of the trail. In the darkness, he could tell very little about the rider now coming into view. Squinting in an effort to see more clearly, he could only say that the man was a stranger to him. Dark and heavyset, the stranger rode slumped forward in the saddle. From the way he had continuously prodded his horse, Toby figured he must have been in a hurry. That was all right with Toby. He didn’t care to have folks discover his camp—especially strangers. Not many people travel this trail out of Deadwood, he thought. Most people take the main trail. He had continued to watch the rider until he disappeared from sight before returning to his camp.

  Now, two days later, Toby rode his horse down from the mountain ridge to take the same trail into Deadwood. In his saddlebags, he had a four-ounce sack of gold dust. “Now we’ll see who’s a boy and who’s a man,” he uttered confidently.

  It was midafternoon when Toby tied his horse at the hitching rail in front of The Trough. Already he could feel his heart beating faster in anticipation of confronting Polly with his status as a man of means. There was no one in the dining hall, so he walked by the two long tables, already set for supper, and out the back door to the kitchen. Maggie was at the stove, stirring something in a huge iron pot. Hattie was busy rolling out dough for biscuits. Both women paused abruptly when the boy appeared at the open door.

  Toby quickly scanned the room, looking for Polly. He greeted the partners with a brief nod, then asked, “Where’s Polly?”

  Maggie and Hattie exchanged quick glances, but neither woman was anxious to give the love-stricken boy the awful news. Maggie, always the stronger of the two, took on the chore. “She’s gone, Toby.”

  “Gone?” He didn’t understand. “Gone where?”

  “Somethin’ awful’s happened,” she replied, then went on to tell him of Polly’s death.

  He was almost staggered by the impact of her words. His head reeling, he stepped back against the doorframe for support, feeling an icy cold stab in the pit of his stomach, his young dreams shattered. Hattie moved quickly to help him. Taking his arm, she led him to a chair by the table. “Sit down, son,” she said, “I’ll get you a cup of coffee—unless you want somethin’ a little stronger.”

  “I don’t want nuthin’,” he mumbled, still in shock, but he sat down heavily in the chair. Devastated, he shook his head, trying to clear it. His eyes were wide and staring, but he saw nothing beyond a blur. In that one paralyzing moment, his world had been destroyed. The hide pouch he held in his hand seemed no more than worthless sand without Polly to share it. He placed it on the table before him and stared at it. As he stared, a sudden recollection came to him: the stranger. The thought served to return him to his senses. “When was Polly killed?” Toby asked in a voice so softly that Hattie had to lean toward him to hear.

  “Day before yesterday,” she replied. “We buried her yesterday.”

  Two days ago, he thought. It was him. I saw him. He formed the picture in his mind of the dark, blocky man on the trail below his claim. He had been unable to get a clear view of the man’s face at the time, but he was certain he would recognize him if he saw him again. At that moment, there was nothing in his life that held any importance beyond tracking down the man who had destroyed his dreams and revenging Polly’s death. That the man was actually Polly’s husband was completely lost on him. In his mind, Polly was as pure and innocent as any virgin born.

  His mind made up, he looked up then to find both women staring at him. “I’ll be goin’ now,” he stated simply, and got up from the table. The look of shocked disbelief had been replaced by one of grim determination.

  “Where you goin’?” Maggie asked, concerned by the look on his face. “Why don’t you set here a while with Hattie and me? We’ll fix you somethin’ to eat.”

  “No, thank you, ma’am. I ain’t hungry. I’ve got things to do.”

  “You ain’t thinkin’ about goin’ after that man, are you?” Hattie wanted to know.

  “I reckon,” Toby replied softly.

  “Hell, boy,” Maggie insisted, “that trail’s two days old, and nobody really knows what direction the bastard heade
d when he left here.”

  “I know,” he replied emphatically, still in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Both women followed him to the door, attempting to convince him that what was done was done. He politely ignored their efforts. Maggie finally blurted out, “That man’s a born killer. We’ve already lost Polly. There ain’t no sense in you gettin’ killed, too. It ain’t gonna bring Polly back.” Two days before, she had berated the men of Deadwood for making no attempt to go after Bill Pike, but Toby was just a boy.

  Reading the thought in her eyes, he stated, “I’m more of a man than you think.” Those were his last words to them on the matter.

  Jordan Gray knelt by the small fire he had built in the crook of a shallow gully. He had selected this spot to make his camp because it was close by a strong mountain stream, but also because it afforded a long view of the valley. He turned the spit he had fashioned to roast the venison evenly. Then he shifted his gaze back toward the far end of the valley where he had been watching the approach of a lone rider.

  Even at a distance of perhaps a quarter mile, Jordan was able to identify the rider. Very few white men traveled this part of the Black Hills alone—especially in recent months with Sioux activity what it was. This particular rider was easy to recognize because he rode a mule, and led a packhorse behind him. Most men did it the other way around. Jonah Parsons, he thought. Jordan had met up with Jonah on more than one occasion, even shared a camp with him for a week in the Wind River Mountains just that past winter. He couldn’t suppress a smile when he recognized the crusty old trapper. Jonah had lived with Crazy Horse’s band for many years until his Sioux wife died. After she succumbed to a fever one spring, he had taken to wandering the mountains, trapping beaver and fox, and trading the pelts for the little he could get for them at the trading post. Because he had lived among them for so long, the Lakota knew him well, and he was free to travel their hunting grounds without fear of harm.

  “Hey, old man,” Jordan called out when Jonah had approached to within fifty yards. “You still got your topknot?”

  Jonah pulled up briefly, surprised, but not startled. “Jordan, is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Come on in, Jonah,” Jordan replied.

  The old man nudged his mule with his heels and proceeded toward the low ridge that concealed Jordan’s camp. “I thought it might be you,” he said. “Solomon smelled that ugly horse of your’n a’ways back.” The mule flicked its ears slightly at the sound of its name. “And I smelled that piece of deer meat cookin’ a long ways before that,” he added, grinning.

  Jonah was prone to exaggerate on occasion. Jordan chuckled and waved him on in. The old trapper dismounted and led his mule over to the stream near Jordan’s horse. He dropped the reins on the ground, knowing the mule wouldn’t wander. Solomon nudged up beside Sweet Pea and stuck its muzzle in the water. It amazed Jordan that Sweet Pea tolerated the mule. It was a different story for the packhorse, however. It made the mistake of pushing in beside Sweet Pea, and received a sharp nip on its withers for the effort.

  “I shoulda known you’d show up just when the meat was done,” Jordan joked.

  “Why, of course,” Jonah replied smugly. “But I figured you’d be glad to share when you found out I’ve got a sack of coffee.” He opened a pack and pulled out a sack of green coffee beans. “I traded some fox plews in Deadwood for this. A sack of coffee, and a few other little trinkets is about all I got for prime plews. A man can’t hardly make a livin’ no more.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Jordan replied. “But you look like you’re makin’ it all right since I last saw you.”

  Jonah shook his head and stroked his gray chin whiskers thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Jordan. I swear I don’t know how many more winters I can stand. The cold goes right to my bones anymore, and it aggravates my rheumatiz somethin’ awful.” He thought about that for a moment before continuing. “But damned if I wanna spend the rest of my days in a settlement. I couldn’t wait to trade my plews and git outta Deadwood.”

  Jordan smiled. “I was there myself a few days ago. I musta just missed you. How long were you in Deadwood?”

  “Just long enough to trade my plews,” Jonah replied. “And long enough to hear about your little tussle with the vigilantes,” he added. “I don’t stay around places like that very long. There’s too much trouble in that town. Why, some low-down varmint come into town and killed a woman in that eatin’ place while I was there.”

  This captured Jordan’s attention immediately. “The Trough?” he blurted. “One of the women at The Trough?”

  “Yeah, I reckon. I don’t know the name of the place. It were that place run by them women. Some feller just rode into town and shot one of ’em, pretty as you please, and rode on out. Hell, they said he knifed another feller before he kilt the woman. No, sir, I don’t need to hang around a town like that.”

  Jordan was stunned for a moment before asking, “Do you know which woman it was that was killed?”

  “No,” Jonah answered as he went about smashing the coffee beans between two rocks. “They mighta said, but I don’t know any of ’em, anyway—just one of the women is all I know.” He looked up to discover the deep concern in Jordan’s face then. “Why? Do you know them women?”

  “I do” was Jordan’s terse reply, the only response he could utter for a few moments as the shock of Jonah’s news left him speechless. Maggie? Hattie? Or was it the young girl he had just recently guided there—Polly? “You don’t remember hearin’ a name?” Jordan insisted. “Maggie? Hattie? Polly?”

  “I don’t rightly recall,” Jonah replied. It was obvious now that it was of more than casual interest to Jordan. “The feller that told me just said one of the women.”

  “Did he say who the killer was?”

  “All I know is that it was some stranger, just come into town,” Jonah answered. “I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I know.”

  Jordan leaned back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes while he tried to decide what to do. Maggie and Hattie were like family to him. They had stood by him when the whole town of Deadwood was out to lynch him. He had to go back to find out for himself which of the women had been killed. And then he had to find the man who murdered her. There was really no decision to be made. He owed it to Hattie and Maggie. The more the picture formed in his mind of one of them brutally cut down, the more tense he became until he finally stated, “I’m headin’ for Deadwood at sunup.”

  “I figured as much,” Jonah said. He had been reading the deep concern in Jordan’s face.

  It was a deep, moonless night that cloaked the sleeping town under a shroud of darkness, serving to soften the raw edges of the lawless mining settlement. In the lateness of the hour, even Sweeney’s Silver Dollar Saloon was dark, the last drunken miner having gotten no farther than the corner of the building before slumping unconscious against the wall. A stray dog, searching for scraps, paused to sniff the sleeping man’s trousers. Seeing the lone rider walking his horse slowly down the center of the dusty street, the cur dropped its head and slunk around the corner of the building, expecting some form of abuse. Deadwood, the town that never slept, finally lay in peaceful slumber.

  With a cautious eye, Jordan rode past the darkened saloon, making his way unhurriedly toward the end of the street, past the jail and the blacksmith’s forge, until he came to the alley that ran between The Trough and the hotel. There he paused for a few moments to look around before entering the dark passage.

  “What tha . . . What is it?” Maggie Hogg stammered, having just been dragged reluctantly from a sound sleep.

  “Somebody’s knockin’ on the door,” Hattie responded, sitting up on the edge of her bed.

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Hattie replied, her voice heavy with sleep. “I can’t see the clock, but it’s damn sure too early to get up.” They heard the light tapping on the door again.

  “Some damn drunk that can’t find
his way home, probably,” Maggie growled. “Might as well see who it is, ’cause it don’t sound like he’s gonna go away.” She reached under the bed and drew her pistol from the holster.

  Hattie, standing by the door, paused to make sure Maggie was ready before demanding, “Who is it?”

  “Jordan Gray,” came the muffled reply.

  Hattie quickly threw the bolt and opened the door. “Jordan—my God!” she exclaimed. “Come on in here!”

  Upon hearing who their late-night visitor was, Maggie immediately got up from her bed. Jordan slipped inside the door as Maggie was lighting a lamp. Seeing the two partners, standing unabashed in their nightgowns, he realized the murder victim had been Polly Hatcher. While there was an immediate feeling of relief to find his two old friends safe, he could not rejoice. He did not know Polly well. The time spent with her was brief, but he was with her long enough to know that she was a decent girl, and undeserving of the end she had met.

  “I apologize for wakin’ you up,” Jordan said. “But if I waited till sunup, somebody mighta took a shot at me.”

  “Boy, that’s the God’s honest truth,” Hattie remarked. “What in the world are you doin’ here?”

  “Well, I ran into Jonah Parsons back in the hills. He said a woman had been killed, and I came to see if you two were all right.”

  “It was Polly,” Hattie replied softly, the mere mentioning of the name bringing a look of sad regret to her face. “My sister’s baby, and I sent her back here alone like a lamb to the slaughter.”

  Maggie interrupted. “It weren’t your fault, Hattie. None of us figured the bastard would do something like that.” She then proceeded to relate the entire incident to Jordan. When she finished, he was left with a deep feeling of anger. He could think of nothing appropriate to say that might ease Hattie’s feeling of guilt, except to echo Maggie’s words.