by John Shirley
Maybe an hour and a half after starting up the slope, he drove the team into a kind of natural cul-de-sac of boulders at the base of a higher hill, just off the trail. He wondered if he were just trapping himself in here. He couldn’t fight off a whole war party alone, and he was giving himself no easy line of retreat. But he needed a place out of the wind.
Wyatt’s fingers were stiffening with cold as he unyoked the horses, led them to a pool of water between two craggy outcrop-pings. It was nearly pitch dark by the time he’d fed them, rubbed them down, and staked them out.
He walked carefully back to the wagon, picking his way over the scree. He felt around for the lantern in the back of his wagon. There it was, cold metal and glass under his fingers. He dug wooden matches out of his vest pocket and lit the wick, keeping it mostly shuttered. He swung it around, letting the feeble ray of light fall into a sheltered place between two wedge-shaped rocks, where he might build a small fire. But it’d be safer to do without a fire, stretch out in the bed of the wagon, try to keep warm under a blanket.
As he tried to make up his mind, Wyatt heard the distinct click of a shod horse on stones. He froze, listening. There it was again. Whoever they were, they were coming slowly, cautiously up the trail. The metal-shod hooves probably meant it was not an Indian.
He set the lantern back down and opened its shutters wide, so it beamed out fairly bright. He pulled his Winchester from its scabbard alongside the seat, and moved off into the shadows to wait. The light burned steadily in the wagon, a lure for whoever was trying to get the drop on him.
The wind rose, whistling through the Black Hills, coming sharply out of the rough-edged stony canyons of the Badlands as if it had honed itself there. He was shivering, though he wore a greatcoat, and every so often he had to flex his fingers to get the feeling back into them. His feet were going numb when he finally heard the sound of someone approaching through the maze of boulders.
It sounded like the stranger was coming on foot, leading his horse: there was a clattering of small stones under boots, a man cursing under his breath, and then the uncertain click of a horse unable to see its way along.
Wyatt cocked his Winchester and held his breath.
Another half-minute and Wyatt made out the silhouette of a man’s head—a compact man, maybe an Indian after all—against the darker rock beyond him. Starlight picked out long black hair; the blue steel of a pistol shoved in his belt, and the eyes of the horse he led by the reins toward the light in the wagon.
Wyatt nestled the Winchester against his shoulder and took aim. “Not one step more, either way,” Wyatt said crisply. “I’ve got a bead on the side of your head and I can’t miss at this range.”
The man stopped moving except to raise his head a little, and waited for the next command.
Wyatt lowered the rifle butt to hip level but kept the muzzle pointed at the stranger. “Drop that pistol on the rocks. Then move toward the wagon. I want you in the light.”
The man obeyed, leading his horse, which Wyatt could now see was an Indian pony, a paint. And he could see something else: there was another man, someone small, on the horse, slumped over its mane, looking sick—or maybe asleep.
When they reached the pool of light around the wagon, Wyatt could see the lead man’s face clearly. He was no stranger. It was Tomas Sanchez, the half breed Wyatt had saved from Hoy. Awakened by the horse’s sudden halting, the rider on Sanchez’s horse sat up then, blinking, looking around.
“Where is we, Sanchez?” the rider asked.
“Hellfire,” Wyatt said. “Henry McCarty, you damn fool, what the devil are you and Sanchez doing up here?”
* * *
They had a fire built from snags and dead tree limbs that Sanchez had somehow scavenged from a nearly barren hillside, and Wyatt was sitting on a heap of fallen gravel in the sheltered spot, warming himself at the blue and yellow flame.
Henry McCarty, hunkered across from him, was finally coming out with the full story. “Well sir, after you left town, Bessie Earp started saying that the Marshal was a dirty damned fool or a dirty damned liar, holding that Montaigne kilt that girl. She had some thoughts about who it might’ve been, but she wasn’t saying.” He broke off for a moment, staring into the fire, his buck teeth and wide eyes catching the light.
Wyatt threw a crooked gray branch into the fire, making sparks spiral upward. “Get on with it, Henry.” The boy seemed to be coming at the story from every direction but the start.
“Well now, nobody told me that old Montaigne was arrested for killing that girl. I thought they took him in for bein’ a nuisance. And it could be that I thought it best to keep my mouth shut about that night, anyways. I’ve seen that man that rides with Pierce. And he warned me …”
“How’s Pierce come into it?” Wyatt demanded, startling the boy with the edge in his voice.
“Oh! As to that, now, you remember I was in the next shed over, that night the girl was killed—with Agnes—that colored lady Bessie set to watch over me. I was on my cot, but I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t tell you quite all I heard that night, Wyatt …”
“Is that so?” Wyatt said.
Henry missed the irony ringing in Wyatt’s voice. “It is. I do confess it. I hear a commotion that night and I get up to look out what passes for a window and I see him come out of there, and with that Burke on his heels, and Mr. Pierce is saying ‘I can’t believe it was her’ and Burke is saying, ‘Hold on a minute, Mr. Pierce’ and he says some other things I can’t hear. But I hear him say ‘let me talk to her’ and he goes back in and Abel Pierce is marchin’ up and down and then a few minutes later he’s gassing something at that Burke about how they got to get out of there and Burke comes out … Well before he talks to Pierce, that yellow-haired man sees me pokin’ my head out the door of our shanty. Over he comes with his hand on his gun and he leans close to me and says, ‘This man here with me is Ace High around here, he’s a big man, and if you go mentioning him—or me!—coming around this cat-house, you will shame him and I will kill you for it! I’d do it now was I not in a hurry. But maybe it wouldn’t take so long, at that.’ Then he grabs my neck and looks me in the eyes and he gives a squeeze on my neck, like to just show me how he might start in killing me. I thought my heart was going to dig out of me like a scared gopher … And then he hears Pierce call him and he lets go and walks over to Mr. Pierce … and off they go.”
“He threatened your life!” Wyatt exclaimed, “And you never told me?”
“You never had him almost nose to nose, Wyatt, with his hand on your neck. All the way around, his fingers go! If I’d told you he’d-a kilt me for it. It fretted me some that I didn’t tell you. Especially when you asked me about it later that night. But there was someone else told me not to tell you too …”
“Who?”
Enjoying Wyatt listening to him so closely, Henry seemed in no hurry to answer. “Well, it all seemed fair bad to me, that gunny and Pierce being there right that night, considering what you found: that pretty little Dandi girl, dead. I tried not to think about it too much but finally I hear talk on what happened to that Montaigne—stabbed to keep his mouth shut—and I had to tell Miss Bessie about what that Burke said to me. Miss Bessie didn’t want me to tell you. Told me ‘On no account tell Wyatt Earp …’”
“Bessie. Why’d she say that?” But he knew.
“I speculate it’s because she thinks you and James are going to get into it with Pierce. And she don’t want James in no gun-fight. But she don’t like Marshal Smith—so after you leave town, headin’ for Deadwood, she said it was safe to tell someone, maybe the Judge—Well, I see the Judge on the street and I tell him about it. He didn’t seem interested, not at all. But while I’m telling him, there was some fellas near, and a cowboy working for Mr. Pierce, that Hoy—he heard me tell it. Right away I hear that Burke is looking for me. So I … well … I borrowed a horse from Miss Bessie—”
“You stole a horse?”
“She said I could borrow
it! I just didn’t tell her how far I was goin’. I come across Sanchez here on the edge of town and he says, ‘Boy what are you doing riding up alone into the big empty?’ and I says I was going to back your play in Deadwood and he says, ‘That young fella Wyatt Earp? I’ll come along too,’ and here we are.”
Wyatt grunted. Much to think about in that story. He glanced at Sanchez. “Tomas—you have some good reason to come out here?”
“Wanted to get out of town. The cowboys was talking about hanging me. I’m not sure why. Maybe they hear I’m Apache—half Apache, half Mexico-Spanish—and they don’t like the Apache. Some fights with them out in Texas, they say. So I got to go somewhere.” After a moment he added, “And I owe you something. My father taught me to owe no man, but find a way to pay.”
Wyatt shook his head. “You don’t owe somebody for doing their job.”
“Why have you leave your job, Wyatt?” Sanchez asked.
“I was fired.” He shrugged. “I punched Deputy Carmody. And I was looking into things they wanted left alone.”
Sanchez smiled and poured some whiskey into a tin cup. “What will you do in Deadwood?”
“I’ll cut wood for sale to the miners. Wagonloads. They’re short on it all the time—they need it for sluices and timbers for the mines and firewood. And I’ll try my luck at some panning.”
He had other reasons for going to Deadwood—or more accurately, for simply leaving Wichita for a while. He was afraid he’d make things worse for his brothers, for James and Virgil—who was in Wichita fairly often—if he ran into Marshal Smith and lost his temper with him. And then there was Mattie—Wyatt felt crowded. He needed some time to think. He hoped Bat and Virgil were looking after her, as they promised to do. And he hoped Bessie didn’t tempt Mattie back into the trade. She had hinted …
He frowned at Henry. “Say, you tell anyone where you’re going? Bessie’ll be worried.”
“I did tell her. I wrote her out a note.”
“A note?” So he could read and write. Wyatt had forgotten to ask about the boy’s reading. That was good anyhow. “I expect you’re hungry?”
“Right enough we are!”
“Well then, Henry McCarty, you’ll find some jerky and dried apples in a box under the wagon seat.”
Henry fairly leapt to his feet.
“But,” Wyatt said, staying Henry with a pointed finger, “before you get any food you fetch us some water from that pool—you got to earn your way in the world, boy. The canteens are in the back of the wagon. Sanchez, you have any supplies?”
“Some oats, that is all. And—” He shrugged apologetically. “Some whiskey.”
“You can keep the whiskey,” Wyatt said, remembering the shattered bottle on the bar.
“I’ll have some!” Henry declared.
“No, you will not,” Wyatt said firmly. “You will get us our water, then the food, and you’ll forget the whiskey. And bring those extra blankets from the wagon …”
Henry hesitated a moment, looking at Wyatt, who watched him, expecting resentment. But all he saw in the boy’s eyes was a kind of amazed fondness.
Then Henry set off, picking his way over the rubble.
“Tomas,” Wyatt said, “what’s an Apache doing so far North?”
Sanchez shrugged. “I am but only half Apache. My mother. My father, he worked up here for the railroad. He come back and die there, in Texas. They treated him like el perro there. Up here, he had work and respect. I come to find it.” He toyed with the fire with the end of a stick. “Not much respect in Kansas either. I will watch for you, Mr. Earp—and I will see if there is work in Deadwood. Maybe no work—or maybe I’ll find gold! There is someone waiting for me in Texas …” He broke off, staring into the flames.
Wyatt nodded noncommittally, moving his cold feet a little closer to the fire, pondering. He was past halfway to Deadwood. It wasn’t sensible to send Henry back from here. Especially if Pierce and Burke were looking to shut the boy up. And if he’d told Bessie where he was going, she’d have told others. Pierce could find out …
But was Johann Burke really looking for Henry? Or was that an adolescent’s drama, exaggerating his own importance? If “Joe Hand” was after the boy, would he follow him to the Badlands—and Deadwood?
Wyatt thought about the man who’d sat so motionlessly on his horse, out on the prairie. That man, Wyatt guessed, might be dogged enough to pursue anyone any distance if he thought they might be a threat. And if Pierce were paying him, that made it even more likely. A man like that lived for making other men into cowards or corpses.
There was threat of Indians too, out here. “Tomas—you talk to the Sioux much, since you been up this way? I mean—lately?”
“Some. I went hunting, come across some Lakota. I know one of them.”
“They going to war on us?”
“Some want war, some don’t. There was a treaty, to say the white man can’t come here to the sacred Black Hills. Then comes Custer, finding gold—no treaty anymore. So some want to fight.”
Wyatt nodded. “The President did try to negotiate with them. Tried to buy the land. They wouldn’t sell.”
“Belongs to the ancestors. The spirits. Not theirs to sell. They say Deadwood is stealing their land.”
“That how you feel about it? The Sioux were cheated?”
“I feel about it … that maybe some other tribe had this land, long ago, and the Sioux took it. People push people. Some people are better than others but everybody has to move and push, sometime.” He fell silent, drank liquor and stared into the fire, its flames doubled in his eyes. “But I tell you something—I don’t like a … a mentiroso. A man who tells no truth.”
“I do agree with you there, Tomas. Governments sometimes lie. There’s so many people under them, why, if they tell the truth they’re bound to make someone mad. Easier to lie.”
Henry returned, and they passed around the jerky. Thinking to stimulate the boy’s mentation, Wyatt waxed more eloquent than usual. “Couple-three years ago, 1873, we fell into a hell of a depression in this country. People losing their money, prices going haywire. It was bad. Some of the politicians said that finding gold would save the country. People were desperate … And I calculate that’s when the Sioux really lost their land. The nation’s bad luck got to be the Sioux’s bad luck.” He shrugged. Tomas grunted, in a way that told Wyatt he understood.
The two men and the boy sat companionably, chewing jerky, resting, sharing the firelight—a single small breach in the fortress of night. Wyatt felt a kind of unspoken connection with Tomas Sanchez, then; two quiet men with a mutual understanding: the world was hard, no one was to blame for that, and all you could hope for was someone near you to trust. Someone who wasn’t a mentiroso.
When the boy had curled up under a blanket, and was snoring steadily, Wyatt asked, “Tomas did you follow me here on the road, or did you go up on the ridge anytime, back there?”
Sanchez rubbed his eyes. “The ridge? No, not me. I stay down low, where it’s easier. You see someone up there?”
“Thought maybe I did …”
It was just as well, Wyatt decided, to watch the horizon, on this trip. To watch the shadows—and watch close.
* * *
As the wagon rattled along through morning mist, wending its way along the trail toward Deadwood—Wyatt and Henry riding up front, Sanchez on his pony to one side—Wyatt found himself wondering if he could in fact trust Tomas Sanchez. He didn’t know much about the man. Wyatt had probably saved Sanchez’s life, and the half-breed had sworn to return the favor—but some men could change allegiances; some men could be lured by clinking of a few gold coins. And Sanchez was wearing an old Army pistol and cartridge belt. Even a rusty gun would serve if you wanted to shoot a man in the back.
As he had done more than once that morning, Sanchez drew his gun and trotted his horse to the bend up ahead, to see if anyone waited around the turn. He signaled that it was all clear and they went on. The miles crept by, the
trail unoccupied except for Wyatt and his companions; a couple of mountain goats with great curled horns, and the shadows of buzzards, flying over. In a few days, the trail would be more lively. With the change in the weather, more miners would swarm into the Black Hills—Wyatt figured he was just ahead of them.
Sanchez holstered his gun and returned to pace his Indian pony alongside the freight wagon. He returned Wyatt’s glance, now, as if wondering what was on his mind. And looking into the man’s dark eyes, Wyatt felt a kind of loyalty in Sanchez that seemed as fundamental as the stony soil under the wagon wheels. Wyatt had always been a good judge of men—when he was sober. And cold sober now, he made up his mind that Sanchez was a man he could trust on the trail.
About mid-morning, they reached a pass between two stony hills. The occasional scrub oak grew on the hillside, along with small pine trees, larger spruce, ice in their shadowed lees. Between the sparse trees were tumbles of dark, angular volcanic rock. Sometimes they passed an acre of blackened ground, where wildfires had burned in the summer. Some said it was the many patches of ashen ground that gave the Black Hills its name. Others said it was the deep valleys of dark rock.
They’d gone only twenty yards into the pass when Wyatt tugged the reins and pulled the brake lever to stop the wagon. He’d smelled bear-grease and Indian leather—they tanned it differently than white men did. He had first caught those scents on the wagon train to California, as a boy.
Sanchez reined his pony in, backed it up to stand beside the wagon; he was looking the same way Wyatt was—up the trail ahead. He knew they were there too.
“What you two looking fer?” Henry asked nervously, shading his eyes to squint up the road.
“Sioux, maybe,” Sanchez said.
They saw them, then—seven warriors, riding toward them, the group of riders dividing to go round a patch of snow frozen hard in shadow of the cliff; they came together again to spread across the trail, on roans and ponies, the beasts as painted as the Indians. Seven Indians that Wyatt could see—others could be posted on the hills. The Sioux wore a combination of scavenged white men’s clothing and traditional garb, buckskin on their legs against the chill and tight rows of quills on their chests like a kind of breastplate. Four of them had guns, as far as Wyatt could make out—he saw a pistol, a Sharps rifle and, held in the arms of an older man in the center, a Springfield. Riding saddleless, the Indian with the Springfield had long braided silver-streaked black hair, a broad, seamed face, and two eagle feathers drooping back from the top of his head. The others carried knives and war lances festooned with feathers. They seemed a poor band of Indians; only some of the braves had guns.
