Dakota Skies

by Paul Lederer

  ‘Yes,’ he said tightly, ‘I guess we are.’

  We waited. Minutes crept by. As the day warmed, bluebottle flies emerged from their night hiding places to hover, humming in the still air. I caught a sound, gestured to Brian for stillness, listened more intently. Then I was sure. Heavy boots on the plankwalk, and mingled with them the lighter sounds of a woman’s step. I unholstered my Colts. Brian drew his revolver. We were going to have to bring a little bit of hell into this peaceful Dakota morning.

  My hat was still pulled low as I stepped out of the alley onto the main street. I saw DeFord and his bearded cohort – Della between them, gripped roughly by her arms. I saw her eyes lift and flicker through stages of recognition, hope, fear. Then DeFord recognized me and he reached for his weapon.

  The other man was slow – he had never seen me before, didn’t expect any sudden thunder on this bright morning. I had already flicked up one of my Colt .44s, meaning to throw down on DeFord, but he stepped behind Della and fired wildly. The second man offered himself as a clumsy target and I took him instead. The spinning slug from my .44 sent him reeling back against the hitch-rail and he toppled backward into the muddy street.

  Far away someone shrieked. I threw myself to one side to avoid DeFord’s fire. The red-headed man fired twice, sending splinters from the side of the building outward in a spray of wood. Behind me Brian yelled, but I did not take my attention from DeFord. He was backing away now, his arm clenched tightly around Della’s waist.

  From inside the freight office a slender man with a handlebar mustache emerged with a determined expression and a shotgun in his hands. Maybe he believed a robbery was in progress. And now behind me there was more gunfire, and I had to roll away and come to one knee to face the two onrushing horsemen.

  Lazarus and Barry had Brian in their sights, and, as I watched, one of them gunned down the one-armed man. Barry’s bay horse was nearly on top of me. I heard him shout out, ‘Keep out of this. It’s not your fight.’

  I thought it was. I leaped to one side and fired off-handedly, tagging Barry through the shoulder. He flopped like a rag doll from his big horse’s back.

  Brian was down. Lazarus fired another wild shot and then fell from his own mount. Brian must have gotten him with a shot I didn’t see. A crowd of people was beginning to gather. From up the street a little blond girl with a big rifle in her hands was running toward the scene, screaming. I saw a hatless, potbellied man with a silver star emerge from a restaurant.

  I went to Brian, sprawled against the ground, reaching him just as Regina reached us.

  ‘I’ll make it,’ Brian said with weak determination. Regina threw her rifle aside and took her brother’s head on her skirted lap. The town lawman was striding toward us. He looked unwilling to join the trouble, uncertain and confused.

  Della and DeFord were gone.

  ‘You explain it to the law,’ I said, rising. Brian nodded grimly; Regina didn’t understand.

  ‘DeFord’s still got Della,’ I told her before I took to my heels.

  Dodger has always thought I was crazy. Now, I thought, he knew it, as I ran to the stable, caught up that white-eared pony of mine and rode him out of Steubenville without saddle or bridle. Gripping his mane I guided him with my knees, Indian-fashion. He didn’t understand why I was doing this, but Dodger had always been a well-trained and faithful creature, he carried me forward, at speed, without hesitation.

  I took the alley behind the stable and circled the town, reasoning that if DeFord was running, he would be trying to make his way back to the settlement where he had left his gang. Emerging from the town I began to work my way in an arc, hoping that I could find some sign of wagon-wheel ruts. The Conestoga would be an encumbrance, and Dodger could bring me up on their heels in no time.

  I did find the heavy wagon. It was abandoned in a gully where clotted live oak trees and manzanita brush nearly hid it from view. I slowed Dodger and approached the wagon with my right-hand gun drawn. A cursory search showed me that DeFord and Della were gone. DeFord was a lot of things, but no one had ever called him a fool. He knew now that I was on his trail. He must have cut a horse from the leather and taken that, or – more likely – he had had his own pony tied on behind the Conestoga, planning all along on a quick getaway once the robbery was done.

  The bottom of the gully was white sand and gravel. I could find no clear imprints of hoof-prints, try though I might. The day was suddenly warm in that breathless ravine. I was sweating with fear. Fear for Della.

  I had not forgotten the savagery of DeFord on that long ago day when he had assaulted that nameless Blackfoot Indian woman. DeFord was without compunctions, and now he was furious with me, the failure of his plan, with Della whom he must still believe knew where the gold could be had. He had seen one of his fellow bandits killed, must have known that if we had tracked him this far the other members of his gang had not fared well either.

  He knew I was coming.

  I could not cut his sign in the sand of the wash. I guided Dodger this way and that, searching almost desperately. Gnats swarmed about my head, the Dakota skies began to roof over with heavy clouds.

  I saw then – or thought I did – a stone nicked by a steel-shod hoof, turned slightly aside by the striking blow. I walked Dodger onward, looking to all sides of the brushy ravine. I saw a shallow sandy ramp to my right and started that way, toward the long flats, convinced viscerally that this was the way DeFord would have gone.

  If I was wrong, Della and the badman would be far away in another direction before I could catch up to them. Dodger made his way heavily up the incline, the sand hock-deep, and broke onto the open prairie.

  I glanced behind me once to assure myself that no officer of the law or interfering townspeople who could not have understood the situation were following me. There was only the quiet land and one high-sailing golden eagle against the long sky.

  I sat the big black pony, turning him one way and then the other uncertainly then lined out eastward, following instinct once again. DeFord would be heading back to his hideout, had to be. I had to slow Dodger more than I would have liked, searching the ground constantly for hoof-prints. I could find nothing at all against the gramma-grass strewn earth.

  And then I did!

  Between two brown clumps of long grass I saw clearly one single imprint made by a horseshoe. I read it for fresh sign, certainly cut this morning. And who else was on the prairie to have marked it there but DeFord? I lifted Dodger into a canter. He was comfortable with this long, easy-loping, ground-devouring stride, and even without a saddle he was easy to sit as he settled in to the gait.

  I trusted the horse to watch for obstacles in our way, clumps of rocks, fallen timber, snags, because my eyes remained riveted on the long horizon, my eyes searching for the vaguest of shadows, a hint of color. The wind was beginning to rise once more and the cloud-shadows moved swiftly across the land, staining it darkly. I silently cursed. Matters were bad enough. If it began to thunder and storm, my search might prove futile.

  Or prove to be too late for Della.

  With an eye to the skies, I hurried on. Dodger had not had proper rest in days, and again I could feel him faltering between my knees, but he was a heavily muscled, noble animal of aristocratic breeding and he ran on. I, knowing that the horse would run itself to death for its master, felt pained and cruel. But, weighing the animal’s welfare against Della’s life left me no choice.

  We rode on.

  It was a long minute before I realized that what I had feared was beginning. A spatter of rain against my cheek and a rising howling sound accompanying the gusts of wind. If the storm came in heavily I could no longer hope to find any tracks. If it snowed I would be lost in the swirling drive of the snowfall. I began to believe that I could not go on for much longer. Dodger seemed to be at the edge of his resources.

  And then I saw them.

  I stung the big stallion with my spurs. I used them only on rare, desperate occasions, but I touc
hed Dodger’s flanks with them now and he understood, dredging up some last burst of speed from out of his flagging resources, and I closed ground on Tom DeFord even as he heard our thudding approach, turned his head, recognized my intent and drew his handgun.

  TEN

  DeFord’s first shot went so wild that he might have been aiming at the sky. There is nothing more difficult than firing with accuracy from a running horse. His second was much nearer. DeFord had been a fighting man all his life and had honed his skills well.

  I leaned low over Dodger’s withers, unable to fire back because Della was with the man, seated behind him on the back of the big gray horse DeFord was mounted on. Not only could I not fire back, but the gray appeared – unsurprisingly – to be much fresher than Dodger. Not only could I not fight back, but it was obvious that I was not gaining ground on the outlaw.

  I saw – once – Della’s dark eyes, hopeful, fearful, pleading, but I could not close the gap between myself and the fleeing gunman. Never have I felt more frustrated. DeFord slowed his pony just a little and fired back across his shoulder. This shot sang past me far too close for comfort. I tried desperately to conjure some strategy, but I had none. I had entered this mad race toward death without clear strategy and with uneven odds. Now I and maybe Della would have to pay the price.

  And then she jumped!

  I watched through the fine rain as she kicked herself free of the horse. With one hand on the reins and the other clenching his six-gun, DeFord could do nothing to prevent it. Della tumbled to the ground, landing on elbows, knees, shoulder and skull, skirts flying.

  I shot DeFord’s gray horse out from under him.

  I had wanted the man and not his brave animal, but as I have said when firing from a running horse your aim is not precise. I didn’t have the time to feel sorry for the animal. I was driving down on DeFord, wanting to finish the job, but Dodger could do no more. I knew it; he knew it. His knees just sort of buckled and then locked up, and he glanced wildly back at me, his eyes flashing a sorrowful look as if he felt shame and remorse.

  I kicked off his back before he could founder and roll on me which seemed a real possibility.

  I stumbled as I hit the ground, put out my left hand to brace myself and rose from the damp grass of the plains. DeFord was on his knees, stunned it seemed, from his own topple. I walked to him, and he pulled the trigger of his Colt twice more, kicking up damp earth beside my boots. I was looking into his eyes when the outlaw cursed me and said, ‘Miles Donovan, you interfering son of bitch.’ He lifted his revolver again, clenching it in both hands in the silver mesh of the falling of the rain, and I shot him dead.

  Della was sobbing when I found her and scooped her up in my arms. ‘Now, Miles,’ she asked, ‘can I please go home?’

  The days fell into a quiet, comfortable pattern.

  The law in Steubenville, knowing full well who Tom DeFord was, had no charges brought up against any of us. Brian Adair recovered from his wound without serious complications. Della began to build her little house up on the piney hills with a lot of help from the townsmen. I wasn’t much more help than Brian was with that work.

  I had purchased a neat little high-stepping three-year-old palomino gelding to ride. Dodger had pretty much broken down, lost his wind on the day of the chase. Now and then the black pony would follow along in unhappy eagerness from behind the corral fences if he saw me on the young palomino.

  It was Della that gave me the idea: now and then I would catch up Dodger and saddle him, slip him his bit and just walk him around the yard, though I didn’t mount him, and that somehow seemed to make him feel useful again.

  From time to time Brian and I would sit near the fireplace in the new house and talk. He would light his pipe, and though I had never smoked, watching the blue layers of tobacco smoke rise gave me a kind of restful feeling.

  It was weeks before he finally got around to asking me. He leaned forward after glancing around to see that the women were not listening and asked me, ‘Miles, did you ever tell the two of them – Della and Regina – the truth about my Andersonville Prison years?’

  ‘Brian,’ I said, ‘what would that profit anyone?’

  The days grew colder but the weather held clear. When Della approached me from the house she was wearing a striped shawl around her shoulders. Her dark hair was free in the morning sunlight. She stood beside me as I meditatively watched the palomino frisking in the meadow. She must have known what I was thinking.

  ‘You don’t need to travel on, Miles.’

  I turned, resting my elbows on the top rail of the corral. ‘A man’s got to be doing something, Della. I can’t just be sitting around like this.’

  ‘You know I can offer you four walls and a roof.’

  ‘You don’t understand me,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m not old Henry Coughlin. He needed a place to pass his days. Me, I still need to prove up somewhere.’

  ‘You’ve already done more than that,’ Della said, clutching her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She placed a hand on mine. ‘Would you stay on as ranch manager?’

  I smiled only inwardly. I knew she was sincere. I also knew that Della owned forty acres, mostly forest land. What was there to manage? Even if she did need someone, Brian Adair was more suited for a job like that than a rambling man like me.

  ‘I’ll be leaving Dodger with you if it’s all right,’ I said. ‘The old boy can’t travel any more. I’ll be sending back what I can for his feed bill and such.’ Della lowered her head nodding, knowing that my mind was made up.

  Around us the tall dark pines swayed in the rising wind, their scent heavy and sweet. Della patted my hand and said, ‘All right, Miles. Do what you must, but I think you should talk to the others first.’

  ‘Brian and I have had our talk,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Della replied. She shifted her eyes and I saw that she was looking at the small blond girl standing in a tiny shadow near the new stable.

  ‘Your sister and I never got along that well anyway,’ I said, my voice coming out strangely muffled.

  Della’s hand went to my shoulder. She smiled up at me. ‘At least do her the courtesy.’

  ‘I guess I had better,’ I answered.

  Della kissed her finger and touched it to my cheek. Turning, she started back up the path toward her new house. Regina remained standing before the new barn, her hands folded together. The rising wind rattled a few pinecones down around me. I was reluctant to move toward Regina. Why? It seemed that my legs were incapable of motion. Angrily, I reminded myself that I was a man, afraid of neither beast nor man and started that way, my stride longer than natural.

  She did not move as I approached her, nor even glance up until I spoke.

  ‘Della thinks I ought to talk to you before I go,’ I managed to say.

  ‘Don’t you think so too?’ she asked and her blue eyes lifted to meet mine.

  ‘Yes, I suppose. You see – the snows are going to be falling again soon, and heavy. I have to be on my way south, Gina … I mean “Regina” … I apologize, I know you don’t like me to call you that.’

  ‘I told you that only my friends and family were allowed to call me “Gina”,’ she said. Quite decisively she added, ‘Now that we are going to be married I certainly have no objection.’

  I fumbled her into my arms and held her tightly, looking past her soft pale hair and gently seeking eyes into the unexpected promise of the wide Dakota skies.

  About the Author

  Paul Lederer spent much of his childhood and young adult life in Texas. He worked for years in Asia and the Middle East for a military intelligence arm. Under his own name, he is best known forTecumseh and the Indian Heritage Series, which focuses on American Indian life. He believes that the finest Westerns reflect ordinary people caught in unusual and dangerous circumstances, trying their best to act with honor.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or a
ny portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Logan Winters

  Cover design by Michel Vrana

  ISBN: 978-1-4804-8847-2

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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