by John Shirley
They started up the hillside under the patchy cover of the spruces, angling left, away from the rider, as if unaware of him. They kept going that way about a hundred feet, but once under thicker cover Wyatt gestured to Sanchez and they angled back toward the ridge that shouldered over their temporary camp, trying to flank the gunman.
They climbed the steep slope, wending between outcroppings and trees; some of the spruce and pine-trunks had beards of pocked snow at their roots, where their shadows had kept the spring sunlight off. The going got steeper; rocks rattled down around their boots and more than once Wyatt skidded back a yard and more, banging his knees. They kept on climbing, in silence, angling to keep the thicker copses of trees and brush between them and that hill to the south where Burke might be.
With each step Wyatt was more caught up in the hunt: the scent of the spruce trees seemed piercing; the colors of the lichen, splashed orange and yellow and gray-blue on the hillside’s rocks, seemed bright as fireworks; the sky glimpsed between treetops was a more vivid blue than normal and his laboring breath was loud in his own ears.
There was something about going in search of an enemy that sharpened your senses, Wyatt thought. It made a man feel more alive. Until, maybe, all of a sudden he wasn’t.
“Wyatt …” Sanchez said, as they neared the top of the ridge—just exhaling the name. He pointed to their right, between the trees. There was a boulder-strewn hollow between the southern edge of the ridge and the hill where they’d seen the rider, and Wyatt caught the tail-end of a movement there—might be a man slipping into the shadows of a big, egg-shaped boulder, about three hundred yards off.
“You see him clear?” Wyatt whispered. “I couldn’t be sure.”
Sanchez nodded. “Saw a man. Not sure who.” He drew his pistol, and gestured with it, pointing down the ridge to the South. Wyatt nodded and Sanchez headed that way; Wyatt climbed farther up the slope. They hoped to catch whoever it was between them.
There was always the possibility it was just a curious Indian, or some lost miner. Wyatt had told Sanchez not to fire until he was sure. Hesitation might get him or Sanchez killed—but he’d hate to have to bury some innocent stranger out here in the middle of nowhere. A man would have to pretend it never happened … but he’d never forget that it had.
Wyatt continued up the steep hillside, moving hunched-over between an outcropping of granite on his left and a low sandstone boulder on his right, the Winchester heavy in his hands. He tried to quiet his mind down, focus on what he was doing. Don’t think, he told himself, just stay alert.
But then again, if you didn’t think about …
A bullet cracked the stone near his head, sending small chips of rock to score his left cheek.
“Son of a bitch,” he swore, and dropped flat between the outcropping and the boulder, as the report of the shot echoed from the hollow between the ridge and the hillside.
Burke must be swearing now too, he thought. Missed me by a few inches.
He had a mental picture of what it would’ve been like if that bullet had struck him in the head. He forced the image from his mind.
But his heart was drumming and his mouth was cottony dry as he began to worm forward, between the rocks, looking for a vantage, a place where he could make a run for better cover.
He figured they hadn’t fooled Burke after all; the gunman must’ve worked out where they were going and laid for them.
I should’ve abandoned the wagon and run for Deadwood, Wyatt thought, as he got to his knees. Should’ve headed for town on the stud; the boy could’ve ridden one of the team …
No. They’d still be slower than Johann Burke. He’d have ridden past, somewhere East, and ambushed them …
A crack as another bullet struck the boulder so close above Wyatt’s back he felt it burn the air.
Wyatt launched himself toward a fallen pine tree, vaulted over its trunk, putting it between him and the shooter—as a bullet spat splinters of wood at his wrist.
He threw himself flat on the other side, starting to feel more angry than scared. Burke was making him feel like a rabbit dodging a hunter.
Wyatt decided he’d had enough of it. He wasn’t going to be shot to pieces like a painted target.
He chambered a round, got to his knees and fired in the direction of the drifting gun-smoke in the hollow. The answering shot came almost instantly, hammering the log just a few inches below his right shoulder. Wyatt ducked low, slipped a few feet back down the hill where there was space to go under the log. He slipped through feet first, got up and ran behind a boulder, scrambling toward the place he thought Burke was, chambering another round as he went. Wyatt moved fast, ready to shoot in an instant—and then he fell headlong, flat on his face.
He’d tripped on a root-snag projecting from the hillside, and now he skated on his belly into the hollow, cursing without words, sliding, desperately holding onto the rifle.
He fetched up about halfway down the hollow, scraped up and grimy, in a pile of gravel and a cloud of dust. He felt foolish as he pawed at the dirt that’d gotten in his eyes. Damn, this was embarrassing.
Where was Burke?
“Hey—Kid Constable …!” came a mocking, Eastern-inflected voice, from behind him.
Wyatt leaned on his rifle butt, used it for leverage as he got his feet under him in a crouch, turned to look over his shoulder. There was Burke, standing on a shelf of rock about thirty feet above him. Burke had a Sharps rifle held casually in his left hand, its butt resting against his hip. His six-shooter was in his right hand—and it was pointed in a very business-like way down at Wyatt.
Burke grinned and cocked the pistol, centered its aim on Wyatt. “Didn’t like you, from the moment I saw you …”
Wyatt knew he’d never be able to turn and fire in time—but he had to try.
“Wyatt!” came Sanchez’s shout. He was scrambling up into sight, around a boulder about a hundred feet below.
Seeing Sanchez had a clear shot, Burke chose to fire at the half-breed instead of Wyatt—his pistol discharging at almost the same moment as Sanchez’s.
Wyatt turned, aimed the Winchester at Burke, pulled the trig-ger—and nothing happened. Dirt from his tumble had jammed the rifle. He dropped it and grabbed for his pistol as Burke fired again at Sanchez.
Wyatt snapped a shot off—but Burke was moving, slipping behind a spur of stone. Wyatt’s bullet scored a white star on the granite where he’d been a moment before.
Wyatt saw no way to get up the slope directly to Burke—it was too steep here. He’d have to go down, across the slope below, and then up.
He picked up his rifle and jumped, leaping five feet down the hillside, to another pile of fallen rock, skidding from there to an anvil-shaped boulder that was the nearest cover. He threw himself behind it, just as a bullet skipped over its top. The shot rang off the hills. There was no answering fire from Sanchez.
Wyatt got his feet under him, but kept himself low as he turned to look downslope for Sanchez. Couldn’t see him.
He put the rifle aside, took a deep breath, trying to work out where Burke was firing from. He decided to try a shot at Burke—get a reaction. He popped up, firing the pistol up toward the drift of Burke’s gun smoke. The shot ricocheted from the empty shelf of rock where Burke had been.
Wyatt wasn’t sure which way to jump. Go down to Sanchez or up to take on Burke?
Burke had the high ground and the advantage …
But Wyatt had to know if he was going to have to worry about Burke. The gunfighter had been wounded—he might be dying, somewhere up there.
Wyatt cocked his six gun and, moving in a crouch, rounded the anvil-shaped rock and struggled up the steep hill, scanning the boulders for sight of Burke. He saw no one; heard nothing but the thudding of his own heart and the crunch of his boots in the loose rock, the clicking of dislodged pebbles rolling down the hill.
He reached the shelf of rock Burke had stood on—there was blood here, and a fair amount of it. Some f
allen brass. That was all.
“Burke!” Wyatt shouted. The name echoed back to him. There was no other response.
He could make out a couple of spots of blood—no, three, four, and more—speckling a mountain goat trail that threaded up the hill. Not a heavy blood flow there. If Burke’s wound wasn’t bad, he could easily lay in wait for Wyatt, somewhere up above. And he’d know Wyatt was coming—the loose rocks underfoot made a great deal of noise. Burke could be circling around to get at Henry too … And if Sanchez was wounded, no one was there to help him.
Wyatt shoved his pistol back in his holster, and went back for his rifle, staying under cover when he could. He made his way down, skidding toward the place he thought Sanchez had been. Loose rock tumbled down ahead of him; dust plumed around him to mix with the gun smoke still drifting up from Sanchez’s pistol.
He kept his head down, scanning the ridge from time to time, expecting Burke to try to nail him with the rifle, from somewhere above. But no shot came.
* * *
Wyatt found Sanchez leaning back against the hillside, staring at the sky. He was sitting on the half-fallen trunk of a spruce tree projecting from the steep hillside like a cannon aimed at the opposite side of the valley. Sanchez had his gun in his right hand, lying across on his lap, and his left hand was over the center of his chest.
“Sanchez? Hey Tomas!” Wyatt said, coming closer. He reached out and pulled Sanchez’s hand away from his chest. Blood from a bullet hole welled out, thick and slow. He checked Sanchez’s pulse, knowing what he’d find. The emptiness in the man’s eyes told the story.
Wyatt shook his head, his eyes stinging. Must be the dust.
He pulled Sanchez’s body from its perch, and dragged it down to a shelf of clay under a ledge. He stretched him out there, crossing the corpse’s hands over the pistol laid across his chest. He searched Sanchez’s pockets, looking for some hint of relatives he might inform, and found a letter, written in Spanish, from a Maria Sanchez. Her name and the town of Laredo was the only return address.
Stepping back from the improvised bier, Wyatt looked around for Burke. No sight of him. No movement. Could be he was nursing his wound.
Returning to the body, Wyatt took off his hat, and said what funereal words he could remember. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust … the Lord gives and, ah, He takes away …” He became aware that his mouth was gummy with dust, it was hard to talk. He spat it out, to the side. “Sorry, Tomas, no disrespect.” Then he went on, “Uh, Lord, he was a good man, I will testify to that. Please take him in.” He clapped his hat back on, used the butt of his Winchester to start loose rock from the hillside over the ledge, to bury him. It came down heavily, a small avalanche. Now and then checking the prospect for Burke, Wyatt carried more dirt and gravel over with his hands, and finished off with the heaviest rocks he could lift, to keep the coyotes off. The job was done pretty quickly. He turned away—then turned back long enough to say, “Wish I could do better for you. I hope your ancestors can find you out here, Tomas.”
There was no time to rig up a cross. He had to see if Burke had gotten to Henry.
* * *
When Wyatt got there, walking along the creek, Henry was starting across the stream toward the ridge, the way he’d seen Wyatt and Sanchez go. He had the shotgun in his hands.
“Hey boy, where you going?” Wyatt called.
Henry turned, shaded his eyes, and grinned. “Wyatt!”
Wyatt waved, aching in his scraped-up limbs, and aching inside too. He kept under the trees along the creek as he came to the camp, peering up at the hillside for Burke. Was Burke dead? Or was he stretched out on a flat rock with his rifle, aiming it at Henry right now?
“Hey!” Grinning, Henry was running toward him, close beside the stump of a wind-smashed tree.
Then the boy tripped, fell face down, and the shotgun discharged. A chunk of the tree-stump vanished, shot away by the 12-gauge, and Henry yelped in fear.
Coughing with gun smoke, the boy got to his knees, patting himself to see if he was all there, as Wyatt ran up to him. “Wyatt? Am I shot?”
“Seems you aren’t,” Wyatt said. “Maybe you deserve to be, running with that damned …”
He broke off, thinking about what he’d done, himself, up on the ridge. Exposing himself; falling down a hillside. He’d done no better than this boy. It had been foolishness, running like that after Burke, throwing away all caution. If he’d been patient, controlled his anger, kept his head down, Sanchez would’ve probably flanked Burke, and got him.
Instead of the other way around. It was his fault, almost as much as Burke’s, that Sanchez had died …
Wyatt took a long slow breath, as the sheepish boy came to him carrying the shotgun like a new infant.
“Was it Burke, Wyatt? Where’s ol’ Sanchez?”
“It was Burke,” Wyatt said, taking the shotgun. “He’s done for Sanchez. I don’t think Burke’s going to come after us, any more today, or he’d have done it by now. Sanchez winged him.”
“Tomas is dead?”
“He is.”
Henry looked over at Tomas’s empty mount. “Well, shit. He was a good old boy.”
“Yes. Yes he was.”
Wyatt remembered that his father had told him: When you make a mistake, own up to it like a man, but don’t whip yourself for it. Even if you’ve hurt someone else by it. Just learn from it, boy.
It was funny how things that his father had said—things that had seemed too obvious to say—seemed worth remembering, just a little later on.
“Now,” Wyatt said, “I’m going to get the team hitched up. You perch over there, keep under cover, watch up that hillside for Burke. But give me that damned shotgun.”
Henry handed him the shotgun and ran to do as he was bid. Wyatt took another look at the hillside. He had a strong feeling Burke had gone. But he had another feeling too. That Burke would be back.
He’d come on this trip to forget all about Pierce and Burke and that dead girl in Wichita. But there was no forgetting. Not after this.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wyatt and Henry rode the wagon into town just after sunset, the horses’ hooves slipping jarringly on frozen ruts. Dirty scallops of snow edged the road through the mining camp. Sluices lay abandoned along the creek, right on the edge of town. Everything was striped by long shadows.
Straggled along Whitewood Creek and forking around a hill, the outskirts of Deadwood was mostly an assemblage of tents. Quick and dirty shelters for merchants and miners, some of the tents glowed eerily from potbellied stoves, stovepipes jutting through the canvas roofs spewing black wood-smoke. The silhouettes of men moved about in the illuminated tents like figures from a magic-lantern show.
“Some of those tents’ll catch fire, with the stoves in ’em, if they don’t watch sharp,” Wyatt remarked. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Wyatt’s own sharp watch was for Burke. The gunman had probably come here, the nearest place that might have a doctor. Wyatt saw only miners, bullwhackers and merchants and Chinese laborers, and a few men who might be professional gamblers, and a couple of whores on their way to work.
But it was miners who thronged Deadwood, bearded men turned the color of dirt; street merchants hawked wares to the miners from carts and wagons. The crowd was almost entirely male; the occasional lady, gripping her husband’s arm, picked her way over dirty boards between buildings, her lips compressed, eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her. The only women walking alone had the unmistakable brassiness of whores.
Gunshots were fired into the air, just a hundred feet up the road, so that Wyatt had to steady his horses. Gambling halls enforced their own laws, in Deadwood, and they were mostly rules about paying in advance and discharging firearms only out of doors; drunks in the street fired their guns at nothing much, whenever they felt like it, and a couple more felt like it as Wyatt’s wagon lurched past the No. 10 Saloon. Tomas’s mount, tied back of the wagon beside Wyatt’s, whinnied and tried to pull free. Wyatt�
��s horse shied and snorted. Henry climbed in back to calm the horses down.
Eyeing a wild-eyed drunk with matted hair waving a leather bag of gold dust and firing his gun at the rising moon, Wyatt reminded himself, again, that he was no longer a deputy. He must accept that Deadwood was only passingly acquainted with civilization. Indeed, Deadwood was an illegal town altogether, flagrantly in violation of the treaty of 1865.
“Once it warms up some, this here street’s going to be stinking mud,” Henry observed, returning to Wyatt’s side. “Looks to be froze mud and manure now.”
“I had warning of that. It’s why I brought a pair of rubber boots,” Wyatt said. “We’ll get you a pair.”
As the afterglow faded, lanterns hanging from the porches of the more complete buildings seemed to shine out all the brighter in the smoky air. Light spilled from open-air whiskey bars; the drinking sheds were not much more than lean-to’s sheltering disheveled men passing jugs of “lightning”.
They passed a group of miners, bearded men in worn, soiled clothes, in heated discussion of their disappointments and prospects. Some of the miners grinned in triumph, others looked stunned by their own bad luck.
Unless the U.S. Army was around, there would probably be no one to report Burke to. Anyway, Henry hadn’t seen the shooting: it’d be Wyatt’s word against Burke’s. And Johann Burke worked for Abel Pierce, an influential man who numbered Congressmen as his friends. There was something else: Burke was a white man. Wyatt doubted he’d get justice for Sanchez.
Wyatt had to stop the wagon to let a buggy jump and shudder by; a small crowd of miners chose that moment to cross the road together, right behind the buggy. One of them slipped on an icy patch and went down, taking two others with him. They chose to laugh it off, but it was several minutes before the freight wagon had enough room to move on.
“More folks here than I thought,” Henry observed. “It’s a hustling larrup of a place, sure.”
Wyatt nodded. “Homestake Mine’s here, and it’s turning out more gold than any other dig in the country. Word gets around.”
