Death Rides the Black Hills: A Frontier G-Man Novel

by Franklin D. Lincoln

Latrell’s protesting curses faded into the distance as the three riders rode on down the trail. Little Elk finally had a mount of his own and Jack led Brave Bear’s mount by the reins keeping the Indian close to him while Brave Bear clung to the saddle horn.

  They continued northward awhile, the wagon tracks still ahead of them. After a quarter mile, Brave Bear indicated a change in direction toward the west. Whatever was the deal with the wagons, that would have to wait until they found White Fawn, the G-Man decided. And Brave Bear, old son, you’d better be taking us in the right direction.

  The noon time sun was straight above them when they stopped at a narrow stream to water their horses and refresh themselves. Little Elk had run down to the stream and fell prone, his face in the water, drinking greedily, while Jack offered Brave Bull a drink from his canteen, not allowing him to get down from his horse. “How much farther?” Jack demanded.

  “Three, four hours,” Brave Bear answered sullenly, stoppering the canteen and handing it back to Clayton. As Clayton reached for the canteen, Brave Bear lifted his foot and kicked at Jack’s face. Clayton fell back off balance as the Indian came off the saddle at him. But Jack had been wary and regained his composure quickly. His hands lashed out, receiving the lunging body, by grasping his shirt, pushing him erect, spinning him around and striking a solid blow to the Indian’s chin. Brave Bear fell backwards into the stream, kicking and splashing futilely as Jack waded into the water, grasping his shoulders and rolling him over face down under the surface and holding him down with a knee between his shoulder blades. He held him a long time. The Indian’s body went limp. Clayton pulled him up quickly. Brave Bear gasped with a raspy heave for air. Clayton shoved him back under, held a while longer, then pulled him up, spun him over and threw him down to land on his back in the stream.

  Brave Bear lay there gasping, the fight entirely gone out of him. The G-Man stood erect over him, breathing hard with the exertion and rage. “I hope you had enough water, my friend. It’s the last you get until we get White Fawn. Now get up!” Clayton ordered.

  The day wore on and the travelers continued on. By mid afternoon, they entered a basin just below Split Toe Creek. Jack began to recognize the area near where he had found Little Elk and had seen the Ghost Soldiers. So far it looked like Brave Bear was leading them in the right direction. They would soon be entering the sacred Black Hills. Hopefully, they would find White Dawn before dark.

  The trail, narrow enough for a single horse, wound through the rocks and trees. There was little visibility to their right and left. So far there was no sign of Indians, Ghost Soldiers, or spirits. The only sounds were that of the horses hoofs in the thick turf, the chink of metal horseshoes on rocks, the creak of leather trappings, and birds trilling in the trees.

  Jack would occasionally glance at Little Elk to keep him assured. Brave Bear sullenly rode on, speaking only when Jack demanded clarification of direction. Other than that, the riders rode silently, Clayton ever on the alert for the slightest hint of trouble. He knew it was only a matter of time before trouble would come their way. Hopefully they would find White Fawn before that trouble came.

  Then, like a bolt out of the blue, the stillness of the afternoon air was shattered by a rifle shot. Their horses startled and stamped their feet nervously.

  Jack slid his rifle from its boot and held it ready, barrel pointed skyward. “That came from over the next hill,” Jack stated flatly. “We’d better check it out.” He added, prodding Regret ahead and leading his companions off the trail and up the wooded slope.. “Little Elk, stay back behind us. If I say run, turn your pony and get out of here, understand.”

  He nodded yes, saying nervously, “I’m not scared.” He trembled.

  They rode cautiously up the hill. Another rifle shot rang out and then another.

  By the time they reached the top of the hill and broke out of the trees, they reined up to view the scene before them. Down below in a shallow wash, two riders were off their mounts. A man and a woman. The man had his rifle stock pressed against his shoulder and aimed at a ledge on the adjacent cliff. Smoke still steamed from the barrel.

  At the sound of the approaching riders, the man spun around leveling his rifle in their direction. He was about to cry out a warning when, as if recognizing the riders, he lowered his rifle and watched them ride in. It was at this moment that Jack Clayton recognized Rutherford B. Hayes’ associates; Bert Fleming and Francy Jones.

  “Mister Clayton,” Fleming shouted. “We were hoping to meet up with you.”

  “Oh. Have you been trailing me?” Jack thought, his face twisted in a threatening mask of wonder. “Just what is going on here? And why are you here?” He demanded.

  “When we got to Fort Lincoln, Lionel Thorpe wasn’t there.” Francy interjected as if she didn’t trust Bert to explain.

  Lionel..L , that was the signature on the note that was in the would be assassin’s pocket. The man he had shot on his trail in Missouri, Jack thought. Coincidence?

  “No,” Jack said, ”He’s at Fort Buford. At least he was yesterday.”

  “You’ve seen him, then?” Bert Asked. “Did you question him about that arms requisition?”

  “No. Things got a little complicated and I didn’t get chance to.”

  “That’s all right,” Francy said. “The Governor sent us here to question him. Fort Lincoln was practically empty when we got there. Custer and the entire seventh cavalry has been sent to Wyoming to clean out the Sioux. Hayes is a presidential candidate. He couldn’t come down here with us and take a chance at getting caught in an Indian War. We are on our way to Fort Buford now.”

  “I see,” Jack said. Then “What was all that shooting about, just now?”

  “Oh, that.” Fleming glanced at his rifle. “We were coming down this wash when the horses became skittish and then we saw a big cat, up there on that ledge. I took a few shots at him and now he’s gone.”

  “You didn’t hit him?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I may have grazed him, but just a sting.”

  “If there’s a wounded cat up there, we’d better not hang around here.” Jack said, urgently, looking furtively along the cliff ridges. “Saddle up and come with us. We can talk some more after we put some distance behind us.”

  Jack and his party led them over the hill and back to the trail they had been traveling. Fort Buford was to their back trail and Jack knew they would be wasting valuable daylight time in backtracking, but he remembered an open area by a small stream where they could rest their horses and further discuss the situation. Jack was wary of this chance meeting, if it was by chance. He was not a man who believed in coincidences, but he would play along.

  A few minutes later, on the back trail, Jack brought his party to a halt at the stream bed. On their way, Jack had relayed what had happened at the Fort and his search for the Ghost Soldiers and Little Elk’s sister. He told of his suspicions of Major Pearson and how he had been pursued by Latrell and Brave Bear .

  They rested for a while at the stream bed. Jack supplied some Jerky and opened a can of peaches. Fleming relaxed on a large rock smoking a cigar while they filled each other in on their respective missions.

  “The governor has suspected Thorpe of underhanded dealings and it looks for sure that he was right, but I don’t think he ever suspected Pearson of anything strange going on at Fort Buford. I don’t think we’ve ever heard of Major Pearson. Have we Bert?” Francy said.

  “No. I never have,” Bert answered. “But, it sounds like we’ve got two birds to round up instead of one.”

  “Well, I guess you ought to get to it. And I need to get back on the trail.” Jack said rising and striding to his horse. Little Elk followed suit and climbed into his saddle. “You can follow this trail back out the hills, then head south and you’ll find the fort.” Jack swung into the saddle and settled himself.

  Fleming motioned toward Brave Bear. “You going to be able to handle him all by your self?” he queried. He scratched his
ear and said.“I was just thinking. We can pick up Thorpe and Pearson anytime. Maybe we should trail along with you. Help you keep an eye on this savage, get the girl back and maybe solve this mystery of the Ghost Soldiers.”

  “Bert, you know those aren’t our orders. We can’t do that,” Francy interjected.

  “Look, Francy, this is our chance to come through for Hayes. The old man will be thrilled. Besides, with Custer on the move, if we can get rid of these Ghost Soldiers and get the Indians back onto the reservation before Custer gets here, we’ve got a chance to stop a full scale war before it starts.”

  “I…I suppose you’re right.” Then to Jack. ”What do think, Jack?”

  I think I’ll play along, Jack thought but said. “I think we’d better get going. We’re burning daylight.”

  Darkness came early in the Black Hills. The large mountains covered with trees shading the valleys and the buttes of the deep canyons spreading their darkness into the blackness of night as the sun disappeared below the horizons of the high bluffs. Brave Bear led them into a narrow canyon that narrowed to a cleft in the rock wall with only enough room for a horse to squeeze through. The riders would have to lift their feet out of the stirrups, bending their knees sharply and propping their heels against the top of the saddle.

  Wary of the precariousness of this situation, Jack drew his six shooter and put it to Brave Bear’s chin. “Are you sure this is the way? If you think you can try something in there, forget it.”

  “This is the way. I swear,” Brave Bear pleaded, his eyes rolling downward at the cocked hammer of the pistol in Clayton’s hand. “It opens out into a basin. It won’t be much farther when we reach where the soldiers are holding White Dawn. I Swear, I do not want to die.”

  “And you are sure we can make it through? The trail is wide enough. I don’t want to get stuck in there.”

  “I have gone through many times,” Brave Bear replied. “Even at night.”

  “You’d better be right.” Clayton eased the hammer down and holstered his weapon.

  “Fleming,” Clayton called. Bert angled his horse and rode up beside Jack. “It’s going to be really dark in there. We may not even be able to see each other at times, if at all. I don’t want any problems from this Indian, understand. When we ride through, I am going in first. I want you to ride directly behind Brave Bear so we can wedge him between us. If he tries anything in there, shoot him.”

  “Glad to.” Bert smiled. “Dirty redskin savage.”

  “Never mind the remarks, Fleming and by the way, don’t kill him unless it is really necessary.” Jack could now see the worry in Brave Bear’s eyes.

  “Little Elk,” Jack raised his voice so the lad could hear. “You ride behind Fleming, but not too close, in case something happens. I don’t want you to get caught in the middle of something. Francy, you take the rear behind Little Elk Again, not too close, but close enough to look out for him. Now everyone set? Everyone know what they are supposed to do?” He glared at Brave Bear. “Especially you, my friend. Make sure you know what you are supposed to do.”

  “I know,” the Indian grunted.

  “Ok.” Jack said, “Get ready to get your feet up.” He led off into the darkness of the cleft. The trail was winding and at first they could ride with their legs in the stirrups, but as they progressed into darker and darker shadows, their legs began to brush against the rocky walls until finally they had to raise them, practically perching on their saddles, and now completely enveloped in darkness, with only the sound of horses hooves on rock to assure them that the others were there.

  Time dragged on in the darkness. It seemed like an eternity, but the trek was relatively short and only a few minutes had actually ticked by, when Clayton saw a faint lightening of the blackness ahead. They should be emerging soon and even the outside darkness would be welcome after the total blackness of the trail.

  The blackness lightened more and more and then Jack realized they were at the mouth of the cleft. In a moment they would emerge. It was time.

  The cleft emptied into a large basin covered with aspen trees and scrub brush. Rock walls lined the basin on three sides with the only access out being straight ahead. Had the G-Man seen this area before, he would have known it was the perfect place for a trap or ambush.

  And that was exactly what was to happen. Behind tree trunks and boulders, ambushers lay in wait. Their skull like faces glowed in the darkness as they peered out from their perches, waiting; rifles ready. There were eight shooters in all. They were The Ghost Soldiers.

  Patiently they waited, listening to the sounds of horses’ hooves, creaking leather and jingle of trappings waiting for their target to emerge from the darkness into the moonlit basin. Louder and louder the sounds broke the stillness of the air. Then, the big black stallion emerged out of the blackness, lunging into a run as it escaped the confines of the cleft.

  Rifles boomed, flaming muzzles lit the night with flashing light. A hail of bullets plowed into the chest of the first man emerging from the cleft. His horse reared in terror, dumping his bullet ridden rider into the dirt.

  “No! Hold your fire!” A voice from the next man emerging screamed.

  The firing ceased abruptly as the ambushers realized what had happened.

  The big black stallion had emerged riderless from the cleft. Just before reaching the mouth of the cleft, suspecting an ambush or trap just ahead, Jack Clayton released the rope leading Brave Bear’s horse. With knees doubled and feet perched on his saddle and unseen by his companions behind him, pushed himself erect, standing on the saddle and reaching upward above his head, placed each hand on each side wall. Then he kicked his legs outward and propped his feet against the walls and hung there wedged in the cleft, spread eagled and letting the other riders pass beneath him.

  The Ghost Soldiers, in their haste opened fire at the first sign of movement coming out of the dark chasm. Without Clayton in the saddle, the bullets had passed on into Brave Bear.

  Fleming, realizing a mistake and fearing for his life, screamed for a cease fire as he rode into the open area, angling his horse to the side, looking for shelter, if the fusillade continued.

  Meanwhile, Jack, clinging to the rock walls, counted the passing horses beneath him. The third horse would be Little Elk’s. He loosed his grips and dropped behind the saddle. The boy startled, loosened his grasp on the reins as Jack wrapped his arms around him, taking control of the reins and leaning over the boys back, holding him low. Little Elk screamed with fear, not knowing what was happening. Clayton drummed his heels against the steed’s ribs and sent him speeding out of the cleft, driving through the assailants outside.

  Confused by the shooting of Brave bear and the emergence of Fleming causing a cease fire, they were caught off guard momentarily as horse and riders charged by.

  Jack and Little Elk had just ridden past the circle of Ghost Soldiers when they regained their composure. Wild, frenzied yells echoed and then rifles fired. A hail of bullets flew over the riders’ heads and dug holes in the ground around the horse’s running hooves, but for some unexplainable reason they missed the fleeing quarry. And then, suddenly they seemed to be out of range. The firing ceased as the assailants hurried to their horses to mount up and take flight.

  By now, Jack could see Regret lingering just a little further down the trail. He sat up straight in the saddle, pulling Little Elk with him so the boy could see he was with him. He pulled alongside Regret, handed the reins to the boy, and without a word of instruction, he leaned out from the saddle and leaped onto the big black stallion’s saddle.

  Regret sprang forward and took the lead ahead of the Indian boy. The black was a much faster horse, but Jack could not let Little Elk fall too far behind so he restrained Regret from his full speed.

  Without looking back, he knew the Ghost Soldiers must now be in pursuit. A moment later he knew he was right as the firing started again, but from running horses accurate shots were almost impossible, besides it appeared that
the pursuers were still back out of range.

  Little Elk drummed his horses ribs, trying to push it faster, and surprisingly succeeded. Good boy, Jack thought and allowed Regret to stretch out a little more.

  They rode to the end of the basin and urged their mounts up a rocky slope into a thick growth of aspen trees. The torturous climbing up the shale covered slope had slowed them down and tired the horses. This would allow their pursuers to close the distance between them and once again ride into firing range.

  ****

  Chapter Fourteen

  River of Death