Without pausing to look up, Clay went on with his butchering. “That one was a close shot, about twenty-five yards, I’d say.” He saw no necessity in admitting that he had first taken a shot at another pronghorn from a distance of about forty yards, and missed it clean. Then in a sense of honesty, he added, “It was an easy shot—he was standing dead still.”
“I reckon it saves a lot of money, what with the cost of rifle ammunition,” Lon said, still properly impressed.
“I reckon,” Clay said. “And if you plan to spend a lot of time in hostile territory, you’d do well to learn how to use one. These days, one rifle shot can turn up a whole band of Sioux in about a minute.”
Breakfast finished, they packed up and prepared to backtrack to the mouth of the canyon. Clay scattered the embers and smothered them with dirt. Lon, in an effort to do his part, took a branch from a willow and attempted to sweep some of their tracks away Clay didn’t bother to tell him that a freshly swept patch of dirt was as much sign as tracks. “We’ll just try to keep a passing war party from spottin’ this camp from a distance. Not much you can do to hide it if somebody decides to look close up.”
* * *
A major part of the morning was used up by the time the three riders again reached the mouth of the narrow valley. Turning his pony’s head due east, Clay led Lon and Rachael toward a towering mountain whose steep slopes were covered with dark green ponderosa pines. Cool and inviting on earlier occasions, the mountain now appeared dark and foreboding as Clay sought to return to the trail he had followed two days before when a Sioux war party searched for him. When they reached the spot where Lieutenant Fannin and his patrol had waited for him, he told Lon and Rachael to wait there while he crossed the ridge and scouted the other side. When he was satisfied there was no sign of Indians around the tiny clearing that served as the beginning of the game trail up the mountain, he rode back to the top of the ridge and signaled for the others to join him.
In single file, due to the narrow trail, they wound their way up through the deep pine forest, past the boulder where Clay had killed the Sioux warrior, climbing higher and higher until the trees gave way to a rocky slope of shale slides and tufts of bear grass. Clay proceeded to retrace his tracks of two days prior as he sidled across the loose shale, glancing back occasionally to make sure Lon and Rachael were following. Realizing the treacherous footing, Rachael kept her eyes on the broad shoulders of the scout, afraid to look down at the tops of the pines far below them. One misstep by her horse, and she and horse would rumble some three hundred feet to land in those treetops.
On solid footing once again, they followed the tiny trail around the mountain to the point where Clay began to make his way back down the other side, carefully picking his way through the rocks until once again reaching a trail that led to the valley below. This was the isolated valley where he had found the miners’ camp. At a point in the trail where the trees permitted an unobstructed view of the valley floor, Clay halted the procession and dismounted. Dropping his reins to the ground, he took a few steps to the edge of the trail, and took a long look at the valley below. After a moment, Lon and Rachael joined him.
“What is it?” Rachael asked, wondering why they had stopped.
Without looking around to face her, Clay replied, “Just taking a look around before we ride down there. I don’t wanna run into any surprises.” He continued to scan the valley from one end to the other. Satisfied that there were no Sioux war parties about, he said, “Appears to be quiet enough.” Pointing toward the northern end of the valley, he said, “That’s where the camp was, where the stream makes a turn around those rocks.”
They followed his directions with their eyes, seeing nothing unusual at first until Lon caught sight of a charred timber standing near the edge of the trees. “I see it!” he exclaimed and, in turn, pointed for Rachael’s benefit.
“That was a corner post for the stockade they built,” Clay said. “When we get a little closer, you can see some more of what’s left of the stockade. The Sioux tried to burn it down.” He paused a moment before turning to face Rachael. “Ma’am, that ain’t a pretty sight down there. Never is after a Sioux massacre, and those bodies have been lying around for the most part of a week now. Might be, you’d feel better lettin’ Lon and me go take a look. He can tell you if your man is one of ’em—that is, if there’s enough left to recognize. Hard to tell how much is left by now, what with the wolves and coyotes and buzzards.”
“No,” Rachael insisted, “I’ll be all right.” She turned abruptly and returned to her horse. “Let’s get started.”
In spite of her display of bravado, Rachael could not dispel the sense of apprehension that descended upon her. As she followed along the narrow trail behind Clay and Lon, she could almost feel the veil of death that shrouded the valley. Even the stillness of the forest seemed beyond the ordinary, so that the trees beside the path stood like silent sentinels, warning that this was a place of death. Rachael looked quickly from side to side, halfway expecting a sudden attack. She urged her horse onward to close up the gap behind Lon’s horse. It occurred to her then that she was the last in line. The thought generated an overpowering impulse to constantly peek over her shoulder.
The heavy quiet seemed to intensify the closer they came to the valley floor, until the worrisome grumble of the water struggling over the rocky streambed reached their ears. To Rachael, it was a welcome relief from the deathlike silence. As they approached the stream, she could now see other pieces of charred timbers that marked the outside corners of the stockade. Suddenly her horse reared, startled by the explosion of a dozen or more buzzards, flapping noisily to escape the arrival of the intruders. Interrupted in their feast, they lit on nearby tree limbs to squawk irate insults toward the uninvited guests.
Clay pulled back hard on the reins, holding his horse in check. “This is the first of ’em,” he said, looking down at the grisly remains of a body. “What’s left of him, anyway.” He nudged the paint forward toward a second lump in the trail ahead. “The Indians dragged all the bodies out of the stockade. I expect they’re scattered around some since the wolves and buzzards found ’em.”
Rachael clutched the saddle horn tightly as her horse stepped nervously around the mutilated body. She knew immediately that she had been mistaken in thinking she was prepared to view eleven dead men. Unable to look at the disemboweled corpse without retching, she quickly turned away, afraid she was about to be sick. Suspecting as much, Clay grabbed her horse’s bridle and led her over by the stream, away from the pungent odor of rotting flesh.
“It’s a hard thing to look at,” he said gently, “for a man or a woman.” He dismounted and helped her down. “You just sit here by the water. Lon can look over the bodies and see if one of ’em might be Billy Ray.” She felt ashamed to have exhibited her weakness, but she knew she could not look at the rest of the dead. He left her seated there on a rock while he rejoined Lon. One glance at Lon’s grim expression made him wonder if the deputy was going to make it.
It was late afternoon by the time all eleven miners had been accounted for. As Clay had anticipated, there was little left to identify anyone, but Lon decided that, if he had to guess, he would say that Billy Ray was not among the bodies. By the way he said it, Clay guessed that the deputy was sorely disappointed to have to make that conclusion. It was obvious that Lon wished to be done with the whole thing and on his way back to Dry Fork.
Clay stood silently while Lon and Rachael talked about what they should do at this point. Shaken by the discovery of the macabre scene at the mining camp, even Rachael was having second thoughts about her vow to find her husband’s murderer. She was reluctant to confess it, however. Lon, on the other hand, did not hesitate to voice his doubts that there was any chance of finding Billy Ray. After a few moments, Clay interrupted their discussion.
“We can’t stay here. It’s best to get mounted and get outta here.”
“We can’t go back,” Rachael protested
then.
“No, ma’am, we can’t,” Clay replied patiently, “at least not the way we came. We’re gonna go that way.” He pointed beyond the burned-out stockade toward the mountains ahead. “And we’d best get goin’ now.”
Confused by his sudden impatience to ride, Rachael asked, “Shouldn’t we at least bury these poor men?”
“No, ma’am,” Clay said. Reaching down, he took her elbow and helped her to her feet. “The wolves and the buzzards are doing a pretty good job of it, and we ain’t got the time.” He nodded toward the trail they had followed into the valley. Lon followed his glance. High up on the slope, at the same clearing where they had first stopped to view the valley, he saw two mounted warriors, their ponies standing quietly, watching the three white people below them.
Chapter 6
Henry Izard paused just as he was reaching for the gray coffeepot simmering on the coals. Drawing his hand back slowly, he cocked his head to one side, listening. It wasn’t like he had actually heard something—more like he sensed it. When a man had lived by his wits in Indian country for over half his life, he developed a sense for the unusual, like when the birds stopped singing, or his horse’s ears started flicking around for no apparent reason. Certain now that there was something or someone approaching the willows on the other side of the creek, he kept his eyes on the stand of trees. It was possibly a bear. Henry had run up on a large black bear the day before. Or it could be one of Red Bull’s Lakota warriors looking to flush out another miner. Whichever, Henry would be ready to give him a warm reception. His eyes narrowed like those of a wary fox as he slowly eased himself away from the fire until he felt his back against the steep bank of the gully behind him. Back in the deep shadow of the bank, his eyes constantly searching the stand of trees, he reached beside him for his rifle, each movement slow and careful. No more than a few moments passed before the willow branches started to tremble. A few moments more and they parted to reveal a single rider, a white man astride a dun horse.
Upon spotting the camp, the stranger pulled up and hesitated. It was apparent to Henry that his visitor did not see him sitting against the bank of the gully, for he looked back and forth, up and down the creek, as if searching for someone. Henry remained still, watching with interest as the rider looked as if about to call out, then decided against doing so. His mind apparently made up, the stranger kicked his horse’s sides, and started across the creek. Still unaware of Henry’s presence, he pulled his horse up and sat for a moment, looking at the packs and saddle lying on the ground. Then he dismounted.
“Evening, friend.” Henry broke the silence.
Quicker than the strike of a rattlesnake, Billy Ray whirled around, his pistol aimed at the dark bank of the gully whence the greeting had come. It had happened so fast that Henry would not have had time to get off a shot, had he been so inclined. As it was, he could only marvel at the young man’s reaction. “Hold on!” he yelled, dropping his rifle beside him and raising his hands. When the bullet he feared did not come, Henry relaxed and commented, “Danged if you ain’t a mite touchy. You got no call to pull a gun on me.” He crawled back up close to the fire. “Unless you’re aimin’ to rob me,” he added, looking the stranger over carefully.
“I was lookin’ for somethin’ to eat,” was Billy Ray’s honest reply. He holstered his gun. “Anyway, you ought’n to surprise a man like that. I never saw you settin’ against that bank back there.”
Already sizing up his guest, Henry said, “Most folks, if they ain’t up to no mischief, sing out before riding into a feller’s camp.”
Billy Ray shrugged. “Well, I ain’t like most folks.”
“No, I can see you ain’t. If I’da been of a mind to, I coulda shot you when you first rode outta them willows. You look half starved. When’s the last time you ate?”
“Day before yesterday. That was the last of my supplies. I was plannin’ to shoot somethin’ but I ain’t seen nuthin’ to shoot at.”
“Is that a fact?” Henry replied. A damn greenhorn if God ever made one, he thought, knowing there was enough game all around them to feed an army. “Well, son, I reckon I can feed you. I was just fixin’ to have me some of this coffee when you rode up.” He pointed to the pack lying on the other side of the fire. “Look in that pack and see if there ain’t somethin’ to eat. Maybe there’s a fryin’ pan in there, too.”
Billy Ray did as he was told, and soon they had some slices of bacon sizzling in the pan. “Throw me that pack,” Henry said. He rummaged around in it, pulling out articles of clothing and various utensils and containers. Near the bottom of the pack, he found what he was looking for, a mason jar filled with flour. He sat back and grinned. “Might as well have us some pan bread with our bacon.”
Grateful for the opportunity to fill his belly, Billy Ray settled back and chewed on a strip of bacon rind while he finished the last of his coffee. His host, who had identified himself as Henry Izard, was a strange man. Billy Ray studied him now as he signaled the conclusion of his dinner with a belch, which rumbled up from the depths of his stomach. He supposed Henry was one of the mountain men of bygone years, at least he looked the part—dressed entirely in animal skins, even to the extent of the raccoon cap, the head intact. It was difficult to tell how old a man Henry was. He showed the scars and marks of a man who had fared many a hard winter, but there was no evidence of deterioration in his movements. Moving easily about the camp, tending his frying pan, poking up the coals, his eyes were always darting back and forth as if constantly searching. He reminded Billy Ray of a fox about to raid a hen house. He wondered what the old fox was doing, wandering around in hostile country by himself. Henry beat him to the question.
“What brings you to these parts?” Henry asked. He had already surmised that Billy Ray was hardly the typical adventurer searching for gold in the many streams of the Black Hills. Unless he had left a packhorse tied back behind the berry bushes, there was no evidence of the usual mining tools.
Billy Ray cocked a wary eye at the grizzled old man. “I reckon I just thought I’d have me a look around,” he offered, “never been in this country before.”
“Have you a look around, huh?” Henry repeated, still sizing up his visitor. More’n likely running from something, the law probably. He studied him for a few minutes more before making up his mind that he had the young man pegged. “These mountains is a good place for a man to lose hisself—leastways they used to be. Nowadays, it seems a feller can’t ride twenty miles without bumping into a miner, or an Injun looking for a miner. I been thinkin’ on movin’ on to the Bighorns, myself. Why, a couple of days ago, I seen a cavalry patrol nosin’ around south of here where the mountains is higher.” He watched Billy Ray’s reaction to his remarks, and took notice of the young man’s tendency to glance over his shoulder at the mention of soldiers. “You were pretty fast drawing that forty-five. You ever killed anybody with that thing?”
Billy Ray looked up quickly to meet Henry’s gaze. He wasn’t sure how he should answer the question. His natural tendency was to brag about his skill with his pistol. After all, he had gunned down three men—one of them a lawman. It was something few men could claim. “Maybe,” he finally answered.
Smug in his assessment of the man, Henry led him on. “It ain’t no easy thing, killin’ a man. I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget the feelin’ I had when I killed the first time.” In solid fact, Henry had dispatched more than a few souls to their final glory, red and white, so many that he would have to give it serious thought in order to make an accurate tally. His evaluation of Billy Ray was right on the mark, however, for in no time at all, the young outlaw was relating his gunfight in vivid detail.
Henry found it hard to keep a smile off his face. It was a lucky day, indeed. He had just recently been thinking that he needed a partner again. He had been working his trade alone since Ned got himself killed by a lucky shot from a miner’s wife. Henry, in turn, shot the woman, but Ned didn’t make it. Henry paused in his thoughts for a mom
ent, remembering the occasion. It was a sad thing, seeing Ned go. He had been a good partner. Henry would never forget the forlorn look in Ned’s eyes as he lay dying while Henry rolled him over on his side and cut the thong that held his gold pouch. Ned hadn’t left much else of value—his rifle, his knife, his fancy Injun moccasins. Henry couldn’t help but grin when he thought of the moccasins. Ned had always been proud of those moccasins, knee-high, decorated with beads and porcupine quills by a Lakota woman. His eyes sad and helpless, Ned had finally passed away while Henry was still pulling the moccasins off his feet. For most of his life, Henry had worked alone before he and Ned had teamed up. He found in his later years that it was easier with a partner. And now, just when he needed one, this young greenhorn stumbled into camp. Handy with a gun and dumb as a stump, Billy Ray was made to order for Henry’s needs.
“So you’re on the run,” Henry said. “Who’s on your tail? A marshal?”
“I ain’t said I was runnin’ from nobody,” Billy Ray retorted defiantly. When his response was met with a grin from Henry, he shrugged and said, “I just decided to see what folks was talkin’ about in this part of the country.”
“Gold?” Henry replied. “Is that what you’re wantin’ to find out about?” Not waiting for Billy Ray’s answer, he went on. He was pretty confident that he had nailed the young gunman’s character. It was time to make sure. “There’s gold up here, all right. Ever since that bunch of soldiers from Fort Laramie found gold on French Crick, there’s been prospectors by the dozen wanderin’ around in these mountains. I’ve seen plenty of it myself. But there’s two ways to mine for gold. Some folks labor over a sluice box, breakin’ their backs, diggin’ in the banks with a pick, or splashing around in the streams with a pan. That’s one way to go about it. A better way is to just up and take it from them folks. That’s more my style.” He sat back on his heels to watch Billy Ray’s reaction. The faint smile on Billy Ray’s face told Henry all he wanted to know.
Bloody Hills Page 7
