“I’m much obliged to you fellers for sharin’ your grub with me and my boys. It’s especially gratifyin’ to me to find Christian men in this land of the heathen, what with my youngest needing to rest his leg.” Preacher Rix sucked the last particles of meat from the prairie hen’s leg and tossed the cleaned bone into the fire. He had volunteered no explanation for the bullet wound in Quincy’s leg, leaving one to speculate on the circumstances that resulted in his son being shot. Leaning back against a rock, he wiped the grease from his hands on his bearskin coat and relaxed while he sucked the remnants of his repast from his teeth. With a broad smile of satisfaction, he studied the two miners who had generously shared their supper with him as well as providing a fairly clean cloth for Quincy’s leg. Glancing at his sons, who were oblivious to anything but the few remaining beans they were scraping from the iron pot, his grin became even wider.
“Been a spell since you folks et?” It seemed a logical question to ask, judging by the ravenous appetites exhibited by his surprise guests. The miner, a tall, lean man with a snow-white beard, exchanged a quick glance with his partner, who was equally astonished by the three strangers.
Ignoring the question, Preacher asked one of his own. “You boys strike it lucky?”
“Not a thing,” the white-bearded miner answered, shooting a warning glance at his partner, a younger man who, in turn, echoed the older man’s answer.
Preacher studied their faces for a few moments, doubting the honesty of their answers. “Then it don’t make a lot of sense to stay here in this hollow, does it? I mean, if you ain’t findin’ no gold.”
The miner was about to reply when they were distracted by the empty iron pot rolling on the ground, where it had been carelessly tossed aside after Zeb and Quincy had scraped the last bean from it. Like two hungry bears, Preacher’s sons sniffed around the campfire as if looking for anything else edible. Their actions brought a grin of amusement to their father’s face. The two miners looked at each other in disbelief. Looking back at Preacher again, White Beard answered his question. “We was about to pack up and leave this creek when you fellers rode in.”
“That a fact?” Rix replied. “Where you headed?”
White Beard looked at his partner, not sure he wanted to say. “Word is, a feller named Pearson struck color north of here in a place they call Deadwood Gulch. We thought maybe we might try our luck there.”
“We’re on our way there, ourselves. Ain’t we, boys?” Preacher shot a glance at his sons with a slight nod of his head. They understood and took a few casual steps to position themselves behind the two miners.
Fearing the three might be thinking about traveling with him and his partner, White Beard quickly responded, “We ain’t hardly packed up yet, since we ain’t in no particular hurry.”
His smile still firmly in place, Preacher said, “There ain’t no need to pack up your earthly possessions. The Lord has other use for them. You’re as ready as you’re gonna get for your journey.”
Confused by what seemed to be a nonsensical remark, White Beard turned to look over his shoulder at Zeb, who had moved directly behind him now. The dull-witted son returned the look with a foolish grin. White Beard turned back to face Preacher, looking for an explanation.
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” Preacher offered the doomed man. “You’re about to be took away.”
White Beard opened his mouth to speak, but his words were choked off by a sharp gasp as he recoiled from Zeb’s knife thrust deep into his side. Stunned by the sudden attack, he rolled over, almost landing in the fire while trying to reach his shotgun propped against a nearby rock. “Jim!” he cried out to warn his partner. “Look out!” His warning was followed almost instantly by the sound of a pistol as Quincy put a bullet in the back of Jim’s head.
Preacher casually kicked the shotgun out of White Beard’s reach and stood watching while the wounded man flailed about on the ground, trying to grasp the knife handle protruding from his side. The blade, while not deep enough to cause a mortal wound due to the thickness of the coat White Beard wore, was lodged in the muscle of the man’s side. “Finish him, son,” Preacher calmly instructed. “You shoulda used your gun like your brother did.”
“I wanted to do it with my knife,” Zeb complained.
“Well, you shoulda cut his throat then,” Preacher said.
Still intent upon killing the man with a knife, Zeb called out to his brother, “Quincy, throw me your knife.” While he waited for Quincy to draw his knife from his belt and toss it on the ground before him, his victim started crawling toward the horses.
With no concern for the man’s attempt to escape, Preacher called after him, “This would be a good time to ask the Lord for forgiveness of your sins.”
“Damn you, you’ve kilt me,” White Beard sobbed as he continued to crawl, the pain in his side searing him like fire.
“Ask for forgiveness,” Preacher said. “Don’t go to meet your Maker with blasphemy on your sinful lips.”
“Damn you,” White Beard repeated.
With Quincy’s knife in hand now, Zeb let out a triumphant yell and jumped astraddle White Beard’s back. Attacking again and again, he slashed the man’s throat repeatedly until White Beard collapsed to the ground dead.
“It coulda been a whole lot quicker,” Preacher remarked critically. “Let’s see what the Lord has provided,” he said, already rummaging through the miners’ packs.
“Can we scalp ’em, Pa?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Make it look like the heathen Injuns done ’em in.” He finished ransacking the miners’ belongings while his two sons gleefully went about their grisly business. Finding nothing of real value in the packs, he began a search of the rocks and dead logs around the camp, looking for evidence of a rock out of place or a patch of disturbed soil. Frustrated when the search yielded no evidence of a secret hiding place, he paused and lifted his deep voice toward the heavens. “Guide my hand, Lord. Show me where these two miserable sinners hid their gold.” He felt certain that there had to be some of the precious dust hidden thereabouts. The camp was apparently two or three weeks old, and he figured the two miners would not have remained there for that length of time had there been no show of color. “Throw them scalps in the fire, and help me find the treasure,” he ordered.
Zeb and Quincy watched for a few moments, fascinated by the sizzle of the two scalps as they curled up in the flames. Preacher had to scold them both for dawdling when he had given them a command. Preacher was patient with his boys, even considering the tardiness with which they seemed to approach maturity. Zeb, the eldest of the two, would soon be thirty-five, as near as Preacher could remember, and he still had to be told what to do. Quincy, a year younger than his brother, was not as smart as Zeb. An impartial bystander would have no doubt expressed it another way: Quincy was even dumber than his brother. It was too bad Quincy’s brain had not grown as rapidly as his hulking body. Preacher shook his head sadly when he thought about it. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. If he hadn’t lost his mother at such an early age, he might have turned out differently. It wasn’t the boy’s sin, but that of his mother. Zeb was the spitting image of his father, but Quincy favored his mother’s cousin more than Preacher, a disturbing fact that bothered Preacher from the day the child was born. Then, one night, he had received a vision of his wife’s cousin having carnal knowledge of the boy’s mother. Preacher awoke from the sinful dream, knowing the Lord had seen fit to enlighten him. It was soon after that night that the Lord had provided the occasion for Preacher to slay both sinners. It was then that he felt the hand of the Lord upon him, as well as the satisfaction he derived upon the taking of life. With his two young sons he left Missouri behind, seeking out sinners on the new frontier.
“Pa, there ain’t no gold here,” Zeb complained. “We done looked under ever’ rock and stick. There ain’t no gold.”
“It’s here. I can smell it.” Preacher was not ready to give up the search. He was convinced that the two miners would have broken camp long before this if they had not been successful. He looked around the campsite, his eyes darting from one corner of the clearing to the opposite. “Quincy!” he suddenly blurted. “Grab that shovel and drag that fire over.” The only place they had not looked was under the coals of the fire.
Preacher watched anxiously as Quincy scattered the coals and charred pieces of wood from the bed of ashes. “Brush them ashes outta the way and dig that dirt up under ’em,” Preacher ordered. Quincy dug a hole about a foot deep, extending the sides wider and wider until it became evident that there was nothing buried under the fire. “Dad blame it!” Preacher complained. “I woulda bet my soul them boys had struck it, but I reckon I was wrong.” He threw up his hands in surrender. “Let’s get on our way. There’s still plenty of daylight left. Take whatever you need, and remember the Lord has provided.”
“I want me them boots,” Zeb stated, gazing at the younger miner’s corpse. “They look about my size.”
Preacher glanced again at the boots. Almost knee-high, they were of a type common to miners of that day, with low heels and laces to the top. He had fancied them himself, but had quickly determined that they were too small for his feet. “Well, take ’em then, and let’s be on our way.”
Zeb wasted no time in unlacing the boots, and with a foot planted on the dead man’s crotch for leverage, he pulled the boots off. In his haste to liberate the boots, he failed to notice the two small pouches of gold dust that dropped out of the pants legs to rest on the ground.
“What about them mules?” Quincy asked.
Preacher paused to consider, then ordered, “Put a rope on one of ’em and bring him along. I don’t want to bother with no ornery mules. If we don’t see nothin’ better before dark, we’ll butcher him for supper.” Quincy did as he was told, and soon the three were on their way, their horses loping along the narrow valley floor. The encounter had not been bountiful, but they had something to show for their trouble: some extra utensils, a fine pair of boots for one of his boys, and something for supper. Preacher judged it to be worthwhile.
* * *
Jordan and Ned Booth started out from Fort Laramie on a frosty April morning, with the last clear notes of the bugler sounding stable and watering call hanging on the crisp cold air. For the first hour, they accompanied a muleskinner, an acquaintance of Ned’s, who was driving a two-wagon load of supplies to Fort Fetterman. Jordan was beginning to wonder if Ned knew every soul west of the Missouri. They bid the teamster farewell at Goose Creek when he followed the trail to the northwest, and Jordan and Ned struck out to the north. Increasing the pace after leaving the slow moving mules, Ned planned to make the Niobrara River before dark. With no trail to follow, and none needed, the two partners held their horses on a true north course, making their way through scattered patches of sagebrush and prickly pear cactus. A chilling north breeze blew fresh on their faces, giving notice that Old Man Winter was reluctant to concede the stage to spring. Though riding easily in the saddle, both men were alert to the prairie around them, constantly scanning the endless expanse of rolling plain for any sign of Sioux hunting parties.
It was almost dark when they reached the banks of the Niobrara and their first night’s camp. The river ran clear and not deep enough to make the crossing difficult, so they made their camp on the other side. “One of the prettiest rivers you’ll ever see,” Ned declared. “She’s got some sassy spots downstream a-ways, but she’s pretty much a lady. I’ve been down her almost to the Missouri.”
Jordan nodded in reply, making no comment, but he wondered if there was anyplace west of the Missouri that Ned had not visited.
In three days’ time, they reached the Cheyenne River and the feet of the dark peaks that had loomed upon the horizon for many miles before. Even at this point, it was easy to see why Indians of various tribes had regarded the Black Hills as sacred land. For generations now, it had been Sioux territory, they and the Cheyenne having banished other tribes, and they regarded it as their spiritual home. The quiet mystique of the towering mountains, which looked so out of place in the heart of an endless prairie, seemed to silently warn a stranger that this was a special place. Jordan could not help but feel that he and Ned, and all white men, were trespassers.
They followed the river in a generally eastern direction for a short distance. Leaving the river then, Ned led them northward again into a valley that took them into the heart of the mountains. Steep slopes, covered with dark pines and rocky ledges rose up from the valley floor on each side of the riders as the mountains closed in to form a narrow passage that eventually led to another valley, this one with a busy stream that bisected it. They had progressed more than halfway up the valley when Jordan spotted a hoofprint near the edge of the stream.
“Damned if it ain’t,” Ned declared. “Shod, and it ain’t that old.” He unconsciously took a quick look around him. “Looks like somebody else is tryin’ their luck in this valley.”
They continued on along the streambank for about one hundred yards before Ned pulled up again and pointed toward the peak above them. High above the cliffs, a circle of buzzards formed their macabre wheel. “Pears like the boys has found somethin’ for dinner,” Ned commented dryly. “Hard to say whether it’s on this side of the mountain or t’other.”
They continued following the stream as it wound around the foot of the mountain until the narrow passage broadened to form a grassy clearing. Near the head of the clearing, a solitary mule stood watching them approach. Both men pulled up to take a closer look before proceeding. After a brief moment, Ned pointed to a cluster of rocks beyond the stream. “Yonder” was all he said. Jordan nodded, having seen the bodies at almost the same time.
After making sure the mule was the only living thing in the camp, Ned and Jordan rode in and dismounted. The bodies of the two white prospectors lay in grotesque poses in evidence of their violent deaths. Both had been scalped, one shot in the back of the head; the other appeared to have been hacked to death with a knife. While at first it appeared to be the work of Indians, there were some things that didn’t quite add up. Obviously, both men had been killed by someone who must have taken them by surprise. Otherwise they would not have been killed at such close range. The scattered remains of a campfire, and the freshly dug hole where the fire had been, didn’t look like something a party of Lakota Sioux would have done.
Ned knelt down among the charred limbs and ashes. After a few seconds, he asked, “How many Injuns you ever seen take a scalp and throw it in the fire?” He held up a scrap of singed hair, still attached to a charred piece of skin, for Jordan to see. “These boys was done in by white men, maybe their own partners, but I don’t think it was Injuns that done it.”
Something curious caught Jordan’s eye near the corpse of one of the miners. The man’s boots had been removed, and lying on the ground, partially hidden by the victim’s pants leg, was a small pouch. Jordan knelt down to examine it. “How many white men would kill somebody and leave their gold dust behind?” The word gold immediately got Ned’s attention, and he came to see what Jordan had found.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Ned uttered, as he peered into the small pouch. “It’s gold dust all right.” Then he pointed to the corpse’s other leg. “And there’s another’n.”
What was puzzling at first, but became crystal clear to Jordan after a moment, was the scene that had taken place here. Looking around him at the camp, he saw that everything was turned upside down. Obviously, the killers had torn the place apart looking for the little pouches that were lying right under their eyes. “Pull the boots off of the other one, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you find a couple more of these,” he said.
Ned felt around the boot tops of the other body. Jordan was right, for he felt two pouches resting in the trousers where they were tucked into the boots. He removed the boots and examined the small hide sacks. “Looks like they trusted each other,” Ned commented. “They hid their gold in the same place.” The four pouches looked to be evenly split. He tossed two of them to Jordan. “Well, it didn’t take us long to strike it rich, did it? I didn’t figure on doin’ it this way, though—them poor devils.”
“I guess we can put ’em in the ground,” Jordan said. “That’s the least we can do for ’em.”
“Hell, that’s what them boys is for,” Ned replied, nodding his head toward the ring of buzzards circling overhead. “Buzzards gotta eat, too.”
“I reckon,” Jordan said, “but I feel like we oughta do somethin’ for these poor fellows, considerin’ they gave us the gold they worked for.” He picked up the shovel lying near the hole that had once been a campfire. “I’ll do the diggin’. The grave’s already half dug, anyway.”
“I’ll take a turn,” Ned relented with some reluctance. If he had any religion, part of it was a strong disdain for any form of manual labor. “I ain’t took on a preacher for a partner, have I?” he chided.
The word preacher struck a strong chord in Jordan’s mind, for at that moment he happened to be looking at a hoofprint left in the soft dirt that had been shoveled aside. He had seen a similar print before at the burned-out cabin where he had happened upon the self-proclaimed preacher and his two sons. The spur was not as evident as before, bearing testimony that it was gradually wearing down. But it was still distinguishable to Jordan’s eye. “I’ve got a fair idea who did this piece of work,” he finally commented, and then he went on to explain as he took up the shovel and began to dig.
“A preacher, huh?” Ned grunted. “Don’t surprise me none.”
By the time Jordan finished the grave, it was getting along late in the afternoon. The sun would soon be blocked out by the steep peaks that formed the tiny valley, so they decided to camp there for the night. Ned was curious to see if he could strike any color in the rocky stream since the two prospectors had evidently taken some dust there. While Jordan made camp, Ned took a pan and tried his luck. When darkness finally settled in the valley, he gave up. “They musta cleaned this stream out,” he declared. “I didn’t aim to stop here anyway. The real strikes have been up north of here.”
The next morning, they continued on their way, leaving the little valley behind. For the next two days, they made their way from one narrow valley to the next. Tall, rugged mountains stood silent, seemingly watching the two white men, as they pushed farther and farther into the sacred territory of the Sioux. Both men seemed to feel the spiritual presence that dwelled in the cliffs and rocks above them. Even the hawks that occasionally circled to watch their progress refrained from calling out. Winter had not left the mountains, even though it was well into April now. So it was with great relief that the two travelers finally came into a much gentler country of grassy meadows and dark ponderosa slopes. There was sign everywhere of pronghorn antelope and deer, even some elk sign. The two new partners decided it was too much to pass up, so they made camp by a stream that curved around the foot of a high hill and took some time to hunt for fresh meat.
“How much farther is this gulch we’re lookin’ for?” Jordan asked as he and Ned relaxed before the campfire after filling their bellies with fresh venison.
“Near as I recollect, about another day and a half or two days,” Ned answered. “I only been there myself once before.” He watched his young friend for a few moments as Jordan looked around him, seeming to absorb the spirit of the place. “It’s easy to see why the Injuns think this country is special, ain’t it?”
Jordan nodded. He was thinking he could easily spend a long time in this gentle land, where there was plenty of game to hunt and lush grass for his horses. Gold had never been a lure for him. In all likelihood, it was doubtful he would have teamed up with Ned if he had not simply been searching for any distraction to take his mind off Kathleen Beard. He turned and looked toward the north. The next day would find them entering more rugged country again. He was reluctant to leave this oasis among the mountains, but Ned was anxious to see if there was as much gold as the rumors had promised. So at morning light, he saddled Sweet Pea again, and they rode north.
Deadwood Gulch was not hard to find. Miles before reaching the narrow canyon, named for the multitude of dead trees on the slopes, Ned and Jordan struck trails from every direction, all converging on Deadwood. Late arrivals, as they were, found a town of tents and shanties already crowding together on both sides of a stream with larger, more permanent structures already in the early building stages. All were prospecting for gold, although all were not actively digging it out of the ground. For there were already saloons set up in large tents, gambling houses, even prostitution establishments. As Ned put it, “Some dig it outta the ground. Some dig it out of the prospectors.” Jordan readily agreed. There were some so anxious to get their share of the prospectors’ earnings they were operating their businesses from the backs of wagons, too eager to wait for a structure to be erected. It was a lawless community, and Jordan could easily understand why Ned had been happy to find a partner to watch his back. Every man carried a gun, either wearing a pistol or cradling a rifle or shotgun. The town reminded Jordan of a great carnival, something to marvel over for a short time, but no place for a man who craved the solitude of the high mountains.
Jordan and Ned guided their horses to a half-finished building near the middle of the muddy thoroughfare and dismounted. “Ain’t this somethin’?” Ned blurted, the first comment either of the partners had offered since riding into the bustling town. “I don’t know ’bout you, but I could use somethin’ to eat. I’m gittin’ a little tired of deer meat.”
“You can get some good home cookin’ down the street at the Trough.” The voice came from behind them, and they turned to see a man coming from behind the building. He had obviously overheard Ned’s remarks. “My name’s Sweeney,” he said. “This here’s my place. It’s gonna be the best saloon in Deadwood, and I hope you boys will come have a drink when I get her built.”
“Why, shore,” Ned replied. “I expect we might. Where’d you say we could get a home-cooked meal?”
“The Trough,” Sweeney replied. “Two women run the place. It’s next to the blacksmith.” He pointed toward the end of the muddy street. “I ain’t seen you fellers around. You just get here?”
“Rode in this minute,” Ned answered. “Figured we’d see what all the fuss was about.” He nodded toward Jordan. “This here’s my partner, Jordan Gray. My name’s Ned Booth.”
Sweeney shook hands with both men. “I reckon you boys will be lookin’ to stake a claim. There ain’t nothin’ left around the spot where John Pearson first struck color, but most of the newcomers have been workin’ the streams farther up the gulch. You might try your luck there.”
“Much obliged,” Ned replied. Turning to Jordan, he said, “Come on, partner, let’s go git us some of that home cookin’.”
Sweeney stood watching while the two men climbed into their saddles and, leading their packhorses, started down the street. His gaze settled upon the broad shoulders of the younger man. Jordan Gray—he’d remember the name. Gray had not spoken a word, content to let his older partner do the talking, but Sweeney had detected the keen look of awareness in the young man’s eyes. A random thought struck Sweeney then: Jordan Gray rode the ugliest horse he’d ever seen.
* * *
Hattie Moon stepped outside the small shack that served as a kitchen for the Trough, a cup of coffee in her hand. Wearing nothing more than a cotton petticoat under her apron, her underarms were wet with perspiration, a result of working over a hot stove for most of the afternoon. Faint wisps of steam wafted up from her bare arms when she emerged into the chill spring air that lay heavy in the narrow canyon. Her pudgy cheeks glowing scarlet from exposure to the heat from the stove, she took a few deep breaths, filling her lungs with the cold air.
The iron stove was Hattie’s living. She and her late husband, Horace, had hauled the stove all the way from Omaha in a four-by-eight covered wagon. With no money to pay for their fare, much less freight on a two-hundred-pound iron stove plus their other household possessions, they could not afford the luxury of train travel. She thought about that now as she sipped the bitter black coffee.
Poor Horace, she thought. He just didn’t have the backbone to make it in this new land. It was now two years since Horace had died. Consumption, the doctor had said. But Horace had never really been right ever since being kicked in the head by a mule. It had been rumored around Deadwood that Hattie had done Horace in herself. Hattie had never made any attempt to set the record straight, her reasoning being that a little reputation couldn’t hurt in a wild place like Deadwood Gulch. It might possibly give someone pause to think before trying to take advantage of a woman.
She glanced up when her partner, Maggie Hogg, came out of the huge tent that filled the role of dining room for their eating establishment. As skinny as her partner was round, she walked with the swagger of an army sergeant. “I could use a cup of that, myself,” Maggie said, eyeing Hattie’s coffee. There was still over a quarter of an hour before she would flip the sign over on the front of the tent from NOPE to YEP.
“It’s gettin’ a little rank,” Hattie replied. “I haven’t started a fresh pot yet. I’m fixin’ to put it on in a minute, soon as I get my breath.”
“Hell, the ranker, the better,” Maggie said. “I’ve been kinda draggin’ my feet all day for some reason.”
Like Hattie, Maggie was widowed after she and her late husband had homesteaded a few acres close by Horace and Hattie’s farm. Her husband was shot to death in an argument over a card game. Maggie grieved for a day or two until she really thought about it. Then she decided it was not such a great loss after all. About all he had been good for was drinking and gambling. She and Hattie, finding themselves in like situations, decided they were better off without their husbands and determined to team up and make the best of it. They packed everything they could in their wagons and headed for the gold fields. Together they had proven to be a tough team. They had found that a business that served good cooking was well received in a town made up predominantly of men. The cooking was no-frills, straight-up meat and potatoes, such vegetables as were attainable, depending upon the season, and lots of cornbread and coffee. It was served by Maggie Hogg, wearing men’s pants tucked into a pair of miner’s boots amid a noisy chorus of good-natured ribbing and flirting from the customers. Most of the clientele were regulars, paying in gold dust by the week, the payments weighed on Maggie’s balance scale. There was some general speculation that the scale was weighted a shade heavier in Maggie’s favor, but the men didn’t begrudge a touch of larceny by the two widows.
“Well, I expect we’d better feed ’em before they tear the tent down,” Hattie finally uttered. She dumped the last bit of coffee from her cup and went back into the kitchen to start a fresh pot.
As usual, there was a line waiting outside the tent. Near the front were two newcomers Maggie could not remember having seen before. “Evening, boys,” she greeted her customers. To the two strangers, she directed her next remark. “You can park them guns on the table inside the tent flap. I don’t feed nobody wearin’ guns at my table.”
“Fair enough,” Ned replied with a wide smile for the lady and immediately unbuckled his gun belt. “I hope the grub ain’t so bad that you have to use that to make sure the customers eat it,” he teased, nodding toward the forty-four she wore on her hip.
“You just make sure you behave yourself, old man, so’s I don’t have to use it on you,” Maggie replied, matching Ned’s grin with one of her own.
“She wears that to make sure nobody skips out without paying up,” a man behind Jordan said and laughed at his own joke.
“You’re the only one I need it for, Homer,” she returned with a laugh.
Jordan dutifully propped his Winchester next to the other weapons and seated himself at the table. Ned paused before sitting down beside him, changed his mind, and moved to the stool at the head of the table, a better position to keep his eye on his and Jordan’s guns. The man Maggie had called Homer leaned toward Ned and said, “That there is where Bull Brady always sets.”
Ned raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?” He glanced around him and, seeing no one who appeared to be claiming the chair, asked, “Is he here?”
“Don’t see him,” Homer replied. “I was just givin’ you a little advice. Bull’s kinda set in his ways.”
Ned glanced at Maggie, who had paused to hear the exchange. When her eyes met Ned’s, she shrugged and said, “You pays your money, you sit wherever you can find a seat. All seats are the same. The food ain’t no different.” She turned and left the tent to help Hattie bring the food in.
“I reckon Mr. Brady ain’t here to claim his favorite place,” Ned remarked and seated himself at the head of the table. He winked at Jordan and grinned.
Jordan was far more interested in enjoying a good supper cooked by a woman to care who sat where. He raked his memory, but could not remember when he had last sat down at a table to eat food prepared by someone other than himself. He turned his plate right side up, pausing a moment to study the knife and fork beside it before sitting back to await the banquet. He didn’t have to wait long. A few moments later, Maggie entered the tent again, carrying a pot in one hand and a platter in the other. She was followed by Hattie, who began filling coffee cups from a large pot. At almost the same time, the front tent flap parted, and a huge man with oxlike shoulders thrust his massive body into the dining room. It wasn’t necessary to inform strangers that this was Bull Brady. Jordan wasn’t particularly interested in the late arrival, his attention was captured by the large pot of stew in Maggie’s hand.
There were a few nods of fearful acknowledgment from some at the table, which Bull ignored as he swept the room with what could only be described as a defiant grin. Then his gaze lit upon Ned Booth and settled there. His eyes narrowed, forming a dark frown, and he stomped purposely to the head of the table. “Git up. You’re settin’ in my place.”
Ned Booth was not a big man. In fact, Bull made about two men Ned’s size. But Ned was not one to suffer bullies in any form. He looked up at Bull and grinned. “I reckon you have to get here early if you want a special seat, friend. Yonder’s an empty place.” He pointed toward the other end of the table. “Now, if you don’t mind, you’re standin’ in the lady’s way.”
Maggie wisely stepped back out of the way as Bull’s face clouded up like an approaching thunderstorm. “I ain’t your friend, old man,” Bull blurted. “Git your scrawny ass outta my place before I break your back.”
“No call for that, boys,” Maggie said. “If you’re gonna act like dogs, take it outside.”
All eyes were upon Ned as he casually reached over and took a biscuit from the tray Maggie was still holding, his gaze never leaving that of the huge man hovering over him. Jordan watched, curious to see how far Ned was going to take it.
After a long moment, Ned spoke. “Why don’t you be a good boy, sonny, and set down over there so we can all enjoy our supper?” Without pausing, he directed his next remark at Maggie. “That stew looks plum edible, ma’am. What kinda critter did you cook up in that pot?” Maggie didn’t get a chance to respond.
“Damn you, you old fool, I gave you fair warnin’,” Bull roared and reached for a handful of Ned’s buckskin shirt. Ned’s reaction was to douse the big man’s face with the steaming hot coffee just poured by Hattie.
Shocked by the burning liquid, Bull jerked back, almost releasing Ned’s shirt. Recovering immediately, he was now enraged. Roaring like a wounded grizzly, he clamped down on the shirt again and dragged Ned off the stool, knocking it over in the process. The men on either side of Ned scrambled off the bench to avoid being swept up in the huge bully’s rage. With no intent of giving in, Ned took a couple of swings at his adversary, the blows landing harmlessly on Bull’s massive shoulders. In the general confusion that followed, amid the shuffling of benches, stools, and chairs, and the fruitless haranguing by both women to take it outside, Jordan sat unmoved for a long moment, calmly studying his partner’s predicament.
“Now, you old fart,” Bull threatened, “let’s see how sassy you’ll be with your head caved in.” He drew back a massive fist, but he never threw the punch, for his wrist was caught and held motionless in the air. Stunned by the sudden vise that had captured his wrist, Bull jerked his head around to confront the person who had dared to interfere.
With a little half smile on his face, Jordan spoke in low, even tones. “The man wants to sit in that place. It’s best to just leave him be and go sit somewhere else.”
Bull couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He tried to pull his wrist free, but Jordan’s grip was unyielding. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
His words still without emotion, Jordan answered, “I’m the man whose tryin’ to keep you from makin’ a big mistake. Now leave him alone, and sit down and eat your supper.”
Bull’s face flushed with rage that was now building to a fast boil. Releasing Ned’s shirt, he spun around to confront Jordan, at the same time taking a wild swing with his free hand. It was intended for Jordan’s nose, but Jordan anticipated it and easily ducked under. Before Bull could recover from his wide miss, Jordan hammered away at the bigger man’s gut with a series of lefts and rights, doubling him over in an effort to protect his midsection. Striking with the speed of a rattlesnake, Jordan delivered to Bull’s face a half dozen telling blows, which flattened his nose and left him staggering blindly backward, swinging his fists awkwardly, but finding nothing but air.
His rage tempered only slightly by the utter feeling of frustration, Bull hesitated for a moment, his eyes glazed in disbelief as he peered out from under bloody brows. The eyes that returned his gaze were steady and cold, evaluating the damage done, waiting for the stricken animal’s next charge. Those who witnessed the fight would later tell of being reminded of a wolf taking down a wounded buffalo. There was not a sound in the huge tent except the heavy breathing of the massive bully, as the regulars at the Trough were held in stunned silence, in awe of a spectacle they never thought they would see.
Aware then of the eyes watching his humiliation at the hands of the somber stranger, Bull determined to mount another charge into this buzz saw of flailing fists. Though his mind was reeling, he knew if he could lock Jordan inside his massive arms, it would be a different story. He would break his back. Jordan knew the same thing. Consequently, when Bull launched his unsteady charge, Jordan stepped aside and, with one foot extended, tripped the desperate man. Bull crashed to the plank floor of the tent, causing those spectators on that side of the long table to scramble out of harm’s way.
“All right,” Maggie Hogg pleaded loudly in an attempt to assert her authority, “that’s enough!” She reached for her forty-four only to discover an empty holster. In the confusion of the fight, Ned had deftly slipped the weapon from her belt. He now stood just behind the fallen bully, watching as Bull struggled to get to his hands and knees. The big man’s motions were slowed considerably by the many blows he had taken to the head, but he was still determined to fight. He remained in that position for a few long moments while the customers stood back watching, mesmerized by the sight of the belligerent bully on his knees.
Gradually, Bull’s spinning brain began to settle, and he pushed himself up on his feet again to face Jordan. Like a wounded grizzly, he uttered a low warning growl and braced to mount another charge, but was halted abruptly by the sudden explosion of the forty-four right behind his head. He jerked his head around to see Ned Booth holding Maggie’s pistol in the air.
“That’s enough, like the lady said,” Ned commanded, bringing the pistol down to aim directly at Bull’s face. “Now, if you think this little tussle is worth gittin’ your head blowed off, you just go right ahead and make another move, ’cause shore as I’m standin’ here, I’ll send you straight to Hell. I ain’t et a honest-to–God home–cooked meal in I don’t know how long, and because of your little fit, my supper’s gettin’ stone cold.”
Bull stood motionless, held by the cold lifeless muzzle of the pistol staring him straight in the eye. In truth, he had had enough of his tangle with the broad-shouldered young stranger, but his shame at having been beaten caused him to consider risking an attempt to charge the old man.
“Go ahead, try it,” Ned said, reading Bull’s thoughts.
The old man’s tone was enough to make Bull reconsider. After all, he reasoned, it wasn’t worth the chance of getting shot. And, he promised himself, there would be another time. “You won this round,” he finally conceded, “but we ain’t dealt the next hand yet.” Then he looked at Jordan, standing calm and poised. “You were lucky this time, but we’ll run into each other again.”
“Always a pleasure,” Jordan replied.
Hattie, having positioned herself by the firearms table, stood waiting to hand Bull his gun belt as he walked out. Wiping his bloody nose with the sleeve of his shirt, he paused to accept the weapon, a moment’s indecision flashing through his brain. Anticipating such a moment, Hattie opened her hand to reveal five cartridges she had removed from the weapon. She held her hand out to him, and he merely grunted an angry response as he accepted his bullets.
Jordan and Ned walked to the entrance and stood watching until Bull got on his horse and rode away. “I reckon we taught him a lesson,” Ned commented. “I was fixin’ to give him a good ass kickin’ when you jumped in.”
“I could see that,” Jordan replied.
The threat over for the time being, they returned to the table, where they were confronted by Maggie Hogg. Hands on hips, she awaited them. “I’ll take my pistol now,” she said to Ned. After he dutifully turned it over, she continued. “Now I reckon you’ll wanna finish your supper before you mend the hole you put in my tent.”
Ned shot a quick glance up toward the top of the tent. His grizzled face took on a sheepish grin as he spotted the small black hole in the canvas. “It’s just a little bitty hole,” he said in defense of his actions.
“It weren’t there before,” Maggie insisted.
“I can mend it for you, ma’am,” Jordan interjected. “Let’s eat now before that stew gets any colder.”
Order restored, the customers who had been on that side of the table when the fight started picked up the bench that had been overturned, and pulled up to the table again. Those on the other side, having never vacated their seats, were well ahead in the consumption of the victuals.
True to his promise, when supper was finished, Jordan stayed to repair the damage done by Ned’s warning shot. “How the hell are you plannin’ to fix it?” Ned asked.
“I ain’t sure,” Jordan replied as he studied the little bullet hole near the ridge pole, some fifteen feet high at the peak. “It woulda been a helluva lot easier if you’d shot a hole in the side of the tent.”
“Well, I didn’t wanna hit somebody,” Ned said in defense of his actions.
“You didn’t have no business grabbin’ my pistol in the first place.” They turned to discover Maggie Hogg standing behind them. “Here’s a piece of canvas to patch it with.” She stood with them, staring up at the hole while Jordan contemplated the best way to fix it. After a few moments, she said, “Hell, you’re too big to go crawlin’ around on top of my tent. You’re liable to make a bigger hole than the one we’ve already got.” With an air of one accustomed to running things, she turned to Hattie Moon. “Hattie, what’s Lem Edwards’ youngest boy’s name?”
“Jimmy?” Hattie replied.
“Yeah, Jimmy. He ain’t no bigger’n a possum, but he’s a smart little fellow. He’ll scramble up on that tent and fix it. We’ll send somebody to fetch him.”
While young Jimmy Edwards scampered up on the tent with a large needle and twine from his daddy’s saddle shop, Ned took the opportunity to become better acquainted with Maggie and Hattie. He apologized for putting the hole in their tent, but the women conceded it was worth it to see somebody take Bull Brady down a couple of notches. Jordan, mainly a silent spectator, couldn’t help but be amused by Ned’s obvious attempt to charm the ladies. Although Hattie was more generously endowed with feminine padding, it was the bony Maggie who had evidently stirred a romantic interest in the old mountain man.
Ned, aside from finding someone to practice his charm upon, had witnessed confirmation of a feeling he had felt upon first enlisting Jordan as a partner. He remembered Alton Broom’s remark that Jordan would be a good man to have at your back. The young man was not only one a partner could count on—he was a force to be reckoned with when called to action. Ned shook his head in awe as he reflected upon the cool, workmanlike manner in which Jordan had handled Bull. Yes, sir, he thought, I got me a real mountain cat for a partner.