At Hattie’s suggestion, Ned and Jordan rode toward the upper end of the valley, and followed a busy stream called Hard Luck up into the hills, almost to the point where the water was first flushed out of the rocky hillside. “That’s where I’d set up camp if it was me,” she had advised. “A couple of fellers set up there last fall, but the Injuns run ’em off. Ain’t nobody tried their luck there since.” She had cast a warning eye in Ned’s direction. “’Course, it’s a little bit risky being that far from everybody else. The same thing might happen that run them first two fellers off.”
The thought of being away from the already thriving town of Deadwood appealed to Jordan. He’d take his chances with the Indians. Having spent the winter just past in the midst of Lakota territory, he was accustomed to living on the edge of danger. He deemed it far more satisfactory than living in a noisy mining camp. Following the meandering course of Hard Luck Creek, they had passed a dozen or more claims with owners busily working the stream. The voices of the prospectors carried up and down the stream as they shouted out instructions to each other or laughed at some comment from a partner. Accompanying this was the ringing of picks and shovels in the gravel and the hammering of sluice boxes being built or repaired, even this late into the evening. It was a din that soon offended Jordan’s ears. It was the sound of greed with no respect for the sanctity of the land. No wonder the Sioux are so upset, he thought, and he admitted to himself that he had no real desire to search for the gold that was supposed to be abundant here. The reason he had agreed to accompany Ned was really because he had not seen the Black Hills—that and the desire to rid his mind of Kathleen Beard. That last thought caused him to reconsider. Maybe a noisy mining town was what he needed to drown out thoughts of Kathleen with that arrogant lieutenant. Rather than follow his impulses to ride as fast as Sweet Pea could carry him to the solitude of the mountains, he determined to stick it out for a while, at least until he had helped set Ned up.
Once their camp was established, and the horses taken care of, Jordan set out on foot for a look around. It didn’t take long to see how easily a Sioux war party had slipped in and caught the previous occupants of the site by surprise. The hillside was covered with heavy stands of ponderosa pine that cloaked the numerous outcropping of rock formations. “We’d better sleep with one eye open,” he murmured to himself. When he returned to the camp, Ned was already sifting through the fine gravel in a small pool formed by the water as it emerged from the rocks.
“Are we rich yet?” Jordan asked.
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Ned replied, never taking his eyes off the pan.
During the next few days, the results were much the same, with no real show of color. But Ned stayed at it, working the little stream from dawn to dusk, an occasional hint of gold incentive enough to hold his interest. On an average of every other night, he would ride into Deadwood to keep company with the two ladies running the Trough. After the first two nights, Jordan stayed in camp, preferring the solitude of the mountain. In a matter of days, however, Jordan grew restless. Mining was not in his blood. Ned, understanding the young man’s inability to ignore the irresistible call of the mountains, suggested that Jordan should take it upon himself to provide food for the camp. It was Jordan’s salvation. For at least half a day, every day, Jordan would saddle Sweet Pea and head up into the mountains to hunt. The camp soon became overstocked with venison, to the point where Jordan would occasionally ride downstream to share the meat with other claim holders. The bounty was graciously accepted, for like Ned, these men begrudged time away from their search for wealth.
Ned had the fever, and when he finally sifted out a few sizable grains of pure gold, he was helplessly snared, even though the yield was insignificant. The only calling that was strong enough to overpower his lust for the elusive dust was the urge to visit Maggie Hogg. Jordan couldn’t help but notice the way Ned’s eyes seemed to sparkle whenever Maggie came over to the table to make conversation. Judging by Maggie’s coquettish smile for Ned, Jordan was convinced that there was a definite spark between the two that might lead to something. An occasional amused side glance from Hattie told Jordan that she detected a little something developing between their two partners as well.
Bull Brady was never there on the few occasions the two partners showed up together at the Trough, which was just as well as far as Hattie and Maggie were concerned. They had no wish to chance a reoccurrence of the clash between Jordan and Bull. According to Maggie, the belligerent bully had been back only a few times, seating himself at the head of the table, speaking to no one, silently brooding as he ate his supper. It was her guess that he was still feeling the shame of his defeat. No one of the other customers dared to glance his way, and the conversation at the table was reduced to a few whispered requests to pass the salt. Bull had been a disturbing force before his encounter with Jordan Gray. Now, with his nose still crooked, and scars over his eyes not yet healed, he was more threatening than before, keeping the ladies’ customers cowed and uneasy. Maggie was afraid he was going to scare away most of her regulars. The satisfaction she and Hattie had enjoyed over seeing the bully properly put in his place was rapidly being replaced by a feeling of regret that the incident had occurred. Still, it was hard to fault Jordan for what had happened. “You’d better watch your back,” she advised Ned one evening at supper. “That man ain’t likely to forget the whuppin’ your friend gave him.”
“I reckon I can handle anything that jasper starts,” Ned replied with an obvious show of bravado.
“You ain’t as young as you used to be,” Maggie reminded him. “You’d just better watch your back.”
Ned reared back as if insulted, then favored Maggie with an impudent grin. “I might not be as old as you think,” he said, “for fightin’ and most other things, if you know what I mean.”
“Your mouth’s about to get you in trouble,” Maggie replied with a girlish giggle.
“I don’t brag about nothin’ I can’t back up,” Ned stated with a definite air of confidence. “I just might be carryin’ your ticket to paradise between my legs.”
“Is that so?” Maggie replied. “You better watch out, old man. I might call your bluff.”
* * *
It was destined to happen. Maggie and Ned had been sniffing around each other for some time now, and one evening when Ned and Jordan came in town for supper, the opportunity presented itself. As had become her custom, Maggie sat down on the bench across from Ned and Jordan to indulge in idle conversation. On this night, she mentioned the scarcity of vegetables, and the problem it caused in preparing meals. “There ain’t much homecooked about the grub if it ain’t much more’n meat and beans,” she complained.
“I know where there’s some wild turnips,” Ned volunteered. “I seen ’em on the other side of Hard Luck.”
His comment surprised Jordan. As far as he remembered, Ned had never been on the far side of the creek for any purpose beyond emptying his bowels. He wondered if Ned would even know a wild turnip if he saw one. Maggie, on the other hand, found the comment interesting.
“Is that a fact?” she said. “I reckon I could take the wagon up there in the mornin’ and dig up some, if you could tell me how to find ’em.”
“Why, I reckon I could do better’n that,” Ned replied. “I’d be glad to show you where they are.” Then, for fear she might decline the offer, he added, “It’d be a little too hard to try to tell you where they are.”
Playing the game out, Maggie smiled graciously, and said, “That’s mighty nice of you, Ned, but I wouldn’t wanna put you to no bother.”
“No bother at all,” Ned was quick to respond. “We’ll go after them turnips tomorrow.”
“Well,” Maggie said, pretending to appear undecided, “I guess we do need some kind of vegetable.” She looked at Hattie, who had paused to listen in. “I could hitch up the wagon after breakfast—wouldn’t hurt to try to spice up the meals a bit.”
Hattie said, “I guess it couldn’t.” Well aware of what was actually going on, she rolled her eyes and, shaking her head, returned to the kitchen. Jordan turned away from the romantic sparring of the couple, well advanced into their middle years. He was unable to hide the grin plastered on his face. Neither he nor Hattie had been inconsiderate enough to point out that it was hardly the time of year to dig wild turnips. But then again, he was sure Ned and Maggie were aware of that.
So it was that, on the following morning, Ned Booth sat on his horse, patiently waiting by the fork where Hard Luck Creek joined the stream that ran the length of Deadwood Gulch. At a little past ten o’clock, Maggie appeared, driving a team of mules. Ned didn’t own a pocket watch, so he didn’t know what time it was, just that it seemed a whole lot later in the morning. He beamed a wide grin of relief when he saw her.
“I ain’t sure you can get a wagon very far up this creek,” he said. “The trail ain’t that wide once you get about half way up the mountain. We might have to leave it partway, and go the rest of the way on horseback.”
As Ned had predicted, the trail became extremely narrow, and very steep in many places. There was no question Maggie’s wagon could not make it. Ned suggested that they could leave the mules and ride double on his horse, but Maggie voiced concern about leaving her team and wagon for somebody to steal. “I know a good place to leave it,” Ned volunteered. They turned back then, and Maggie followed Ned down the trail again for a few hundred yards to a grassy clearing by a little spring. “You can leave it here,” Ned said. “They oughta be all right.”
“The hell they will,” Maggie retorted. “I’m tired of playin’ games. You been sniffin’ around me ever since you set foot in Deadwood.” She had grown tired of bouncing over the rough trail, pretending she was looking for turnips. There weren’t any turnips up on that mountain. She knew it. He knew it. And the more she thought about what they had really wanted total privacy for, the more she felt they were acting like schoolchildren. She climbed down from the seat and wrapped the reins around a tree. Looking up at Ned, who wasn’t sure what was about to happen, she reached over behind the seat, pulled a large buffalo robe from under it, and spread it in the back of the wagon. Giving Ned a wink, she said, “Soft as a featherbed—I’m too damn old to bump my bottom against the bare boards of a wagon bed.” Ned remained in the saddle, stunned by her blatant remarks. “Well,” she scolded, “are you gonna get down from there or not?” When he still did not respond, she asked, “This is what you come up here for, ain’t it?”
At last able to respond, sure now that they were both thinking the same thoughts, Ned was quick to reply, “It sure is, but I reckon I figured I was gonna have to work a little to get at it.”
With impatience registered on her face, she spoke matter-of-factly. “Ned, I’ve got to get back and help Hattie in the kitchen. We both know what we want, and it’s been a long time for me—since my husband died, in fact. So let’s get on with it.”
“It has for me, too,” he admitted. Then he threw a leg over and stepped down from the saddle, grinning from ear to ear. He looped the reins through the wagon wheel, then reached over and patted the buffalo robe. “Yessum,” he chortled, “soft as a featherbed.”
“Shuck them clothes, and let’s see if there’s anything in there worth all this trouble,” Maggie said. “But first, I’d advise you to tie them reins to the tailgate. If my mules was to happen to bolt of a sudden, they might break that horse’s neck.”
Still grinning, Ned did as she advised, although he saw little risk in the mules bolting. They were both grazing contently upon the grass. After he retied the reins, he started undressing, while keeping a fixed eye upon the lady, who was doing the same. After the outer clothes were shed, it appeared to be pretty much a draw as far as sexual appeal was concerned. Both paused a moment at that point to appraise the other. They were both wearing long underwear, Maggie’s new and freshly washed, obviously a pair she saved for special occasions. Ned’s, on the other hand, were faded and gray, drooping at the knees and elbows. There was a button missing on one corner of the back flap, so they sagged to one side.
There was a moment of hesitation on Maggie’s part at the sight of her eager swain. “You ever think about washin’ them long johns?”
“Shore,” he replied while working at the buttons, failing to see the relevance of her question. “When they start to itch, I think about it.” He didn’t bother to mention that thinking about washing them was as far as he usually got.
She considered that for no more than half a second before attacking her buttons, overpowered by her own internal itch. Beggars can’t be choosers, she thought. In a matter of seconds, they were standing before each other, naked and shivering in the chill spring air, each appraising the other. Eager to get to the serious business, Ned lunged for her, his hands groping her bony ribs and hips. In his uncontrolled ardor, he caused her to bump her bottom against the edge of the wagon bed. “Wait a minute, dammit!” she complained. “Help me up on the wagon. I’m freezin’. Let’s get under the robe.”
Distracted by the sight of Maggie in her middle-aged glory, Ned had been oblivious to the cold. He noticed then the chill bumps standing all over the lady’s pale skin. At that moment, in that degree of animal heat, however, she could have been Cleopatra in his eyes. Nothing short of an earthquake or an Indian attack was going to stop the wheels of passion already in motion. As gently as he could manage under the circumstances, he helped her up on the robe. He climbed up beside her and doubled the robe over them. Skeptical that her lover’s equipment was functional, Maggie was relieved to see signs of life in Ned’s lower regions. Ned seemed to be relieved as well.
With neither party willing to waste time on tender passion, the job was done in a businesslike manner, swift and noisy, with an abundance of grunting and heavy breathing. The buffalo robe was flung aside as both parties were soon bathed in sweat. Long absent from the mating ritual, Ned emptied his chamber early. But in his desire to please, and in an effort to maintain his pride, he stayed in the saddle, riding as hard as he could manage, until the lady’s prayers were answered. When she finally arrived, she uttered a primal scream that caused the mules to bolt, pulling the wagon several yards before being stopped by the securely tied reins.
Spent, and feeling as if near death, Ned rolled over on his back to catch his breath. I’m too old to do this, he thought, but he had to smile, thinking of his conquest. There was no time for more than that one thought, however, before he was rolled off the wagon when Maggie jerked the robe out from under him. “Get up,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. Hattie’ll be pulling her hair out.”
It had ended as abruptly as it had started. Maggie hustled back into her clothes and was driving her team of mules back down the trail while Ned was still fumbling around trying to button his underwear. Pleased that he had been able to satisfy the lady, even at the near cost of his life, he grinned widely, just for himself. He took his time climbing back into his shirt and pants, and pulling on his boots, his mind tracing back over the entire encounter. Walking up to his horse, he said, “Good thing Maggie stopped me from tying you up to that wagon wheel.” Then he stopped to think, Wonder how she knew them mules would jump like that? It occurred to him then that he might not be the first old man with whom she went hunting for turnips.
Jordan Gray looked up from the meat he was tending over the fire when he heard Ned’s horse splash through the stream. He didn’t say anything until Ned had dismounted, walked over to the fire, and sat down wearily. With the hint of a smile on his face, Jordan spoke. “I swear, Ned, you look plumb tuckered out. Diggin’ for turnips must be hard work.”
“The older you get, the harder it gets,” Ned replied with a heavy sigh.
For several days after the hunt for turnips, Ned seemed content to stay in camp and work the claim. Jordan suspected that his partner’s itch had been sufficiently scratched to last him a while. It was probably just as well that they stayed away from the Trough for a time. Jordan was aware of the possible danger from Bull, which Hattie and Maggie had warned him about, but he was not one to worry over it. He took the normal precautions whenever he camped in dangerous country, whether threats might come from Bull Brady or a Sioux war party. His honest feeling was that Bull was not inherently an evil man—just a bully—and the odds of getting bushwhacked by him were slim. Ned was not so sure. He tended to agree with Maggie that they should both watch their backs.
* * *
The object of Hattie and Maggie’s concern was consoling himself by working feverishly at his claim. The unexpected beating at the hands of Jordan Gray had produced a shocking effect upon the huge man, to the point where he had suffered a considerable loss of his once invincible confidence. No man had ever bested him in a fight of any kind, and Jordan had done it with such ease that Bull wondered if he had somehow been tricked. The more he thought about it, the more he began to be convinced that Jordan had simply taken him by surprise. Surely in a rematch, the results would be far different. With that settled in his mind, he turned his thoughts to another problem, this one of financial concern. “There ain’t no gold here,” he blurted, suddenly fed up with the constant digging and sifting with no measurable result.
Bull had not been lucky in his choices of sites. This was the third claim he had worked with no more than four or five ounces of gold from the lot. How could it be, he wondered, that farther down the same creek there had been several strikes, and yet he struck nothing but sand and gravel? Angry, he threw his shovel down and turned his face toward the heavens. “Why?” he roared, his deep voice filling the narrow gulch with echoes that bounced from rock to rock, seeming to mock his cries of anguish. “Damn you,” he roared again, cursing the canyon and the stream. “I work as hard as anybody. Why can’t I strike it?”
“Maybe you need to put your trust in the Lord,” a voice fully as deep as his own came back.
Startled, Bull turned toward the sound, instinctively snatching up his rifle in the process. Searching quickly from right to left, he saw no one at first. Then the voice spoke once more. “You got no call to take up your rifle.” Then he saw three mounted riders wearing heavy bearskin coats. Leaving the cover of the pines, they walked their horses slowly out into the open.
Cautious, Bull cocked his rifle and held it ready. No one who knew of his reputation as a belligerent ever approached his claim. “Who the hell are you?” Bull demanded.
The rider in the middle responded. He was larger than the other two, fully as big as Bull, and obviously the eldest. “I’m a man of God,” he proclaimed. “Folks call me Preacher Rix. These here are my sons, Zeb and Quincy.” He fashioned a crooked smile for Bull’s benefit. “Sounds like you ain’t havin’ much luck with your prospectin’.”
“I reckon I ain’t,” Bull replied. He was prone to add, If it’s any of your damn business, but he restrained his tongue since the man was a preacher. There were few things that Bull held in respect. Preachers fell among that group, a fact more of superstition than genuine respect.
Since it was apparent that an invitation was not likely forthcoming, Preacher asked, “Mind if we step down?” His original plan, while watching the camp from the trees before, was to simply shoot the man from a distance. But first he had chosen to wait in hopes he might see where Bull hid his treasure. After having heard Bull’s desperate lament, however, Preacher had decided it a waste of time. There was no sense in alerting any other prospectors who might be in hearing distance of a shot if there was no prospect of a payday for him and his boys. Maybe they could at least get something to eat. They had eaten nothing but wild game for the past several days.
“Reckon not,” Bull answered, keeping a wary eye on the threesome. Anybody could claim to be a preacher. He kept his rifle handy just in case. Preacher Rix had a fearsome look about him. Bull decided that if he was a preacher, he could give the devil quite a tussle. He wasn’t sure about the man’s sons. The one Preacher had called Zeb had what Bull would describe as weasel eyes, flitting all around constantly as if searching for something. The other son, Quincy, was possessed of a vacant look and a half grin that would indicate intelligent thought had never taken root behind the bushy eyebrows. He limped on one bandaged leg. Hoping to discourage a visit and the prospect of a sermon, Bull said, “I ain’t got no grub. I et my dinner about an hour ago.”
Preacher answered with a wide smile. “Well, that’s all right, friend. We’ve got a little meat left. Since you already got a fire goin’ there, we could cook up some of it—even share it with you if you’re still hungry. Pronghorn—Zeb shot it this mornin’. It was a right good shot, too. Right behind the critter’s head—musta been seventy-five or a hundred yards off, weren’t it, Zeb?”
Zeb’s gaze settled on Bull for a long moment, and he nodded in answer to his father’s question. A faint smile creased his jaw, but he said nothing. Bull began to wonder if it might have been a mistake to let them step down. As a precaution, he kept his rifle in one hand while Preacher and his sons cut some strips of antelope to roast over the fire.
“Looks like you run into a little hard luck,” Preacher offered in way of conversation. Bull’s hand automatically went up to gingerly touch his broken nose, but he declined to explain the appearance of his face. Preacher paused for Bull’s reply. When there was none, he went on. “Hope it ain’t because of strong drink and sinnin’. I’m here to preach on the sins of drinkin’ and fightin’, tryin’ to save the souls of the heathen, Injuns and whites alike.”
“Is that so?” Bull responded, making little effort to disguise the sarcasm in his tone. “Well, mister, you got your work cut out for you.”
“How about you, friend?” Preacher asked, his fierce dark eyes locked on Bull’s in an accusing stare. “Have you accepted Jesus as your savior?”
Bull grunted impatiently before answering. “I’ve accepted this here rifle as my savior, and I expect you’ll find most of the men in Deadwood with the same religion.”
A thin smile slowly formed on Preacher’s face. “Is that a fact? Well, looks like I’ve come to the right place.” He pulled a strip of meat from the flames. “Eat up, boys. We’d best get about our business, and let this man get back to his.”
Bull was anxious to see the three uninvited guests depart, but he was cautious not to turn his back to them. He stood aside, rifle still in hand while Preacher and his sons ate the roasted meat. When they had finished, Preacher wiped his hands on his heavy coat and summoned his two offspring to mount up. “Let’s get on our way, boys.” He stepped up into the saddle before a final word for Bull. “Lord’s blessings upon you, friend.”
Bull merely grunted in reply, happy to be done with them. He turned to go back to his sluice box. It was a fatal mistake. Zeb’s bullet caught him right between the shoulder blades, and he crumpled heavily to the ground, mortally wounded.
“Woo-hah!” Quincy sang out excitedly.
His father, who had been surprised by the shot, pulled up on the reins and turned toward his eldest. “I swear, Zeb, you do beat all. Did I tell you to shoot him?”
“No, sir,” Zeb replied sheepishly, his eyes still on the fallen man, “but he was a heathen, same as the others.”
“That don’t make no difference. I oughta whip you for pullin’ that pistol. Anybody in earshot’ll come runnin’ when they hear that shot.” He looked down to make sure Bull wasn’t moving. “It was a clean shot, though. Fetch that rifle. Quincy, take a quick look in that there tent. See if there’s anythin’ worth takin’. Be quick, boys. We need to leave this place before some of his neighbors show up.”
“Pa, he’s still breathin’,” Zeb called out as he pulled the rifle from Bull’s hand.
“Well, finish him off. We don’t want him doin’ no talkin’.”
Quincy, on his way to Bull’s tent, stopped to complain. “Let me do it, Pa. Zeb’s already shot him once.”
Zeb, grinning at his brother, immediately pointed Bull’s rifle at the back of the wounded man’s head and pulled the trigger. The harsh bark of the Henry rifle prompted Preacher to urge his sons to hurry. “Git mounted. We ain’t got time to hang around here now. If he’s got friends, they’ll be comin’ to see what the shootin’s about.”
* * *
Bull didn’t have any friends, but the shots were heard by a solitary hunter searching for signs of elk in the next canyon. Jordan paused to listen when he heard a pistol shot. He didn’t think much of it until a few minutes later he heard the report of a rifle. This gave him pause to consider the possibility that someone might be in trouble. He decided to take a look.
Leading Sweet Pea, he crossed over the ridge and made his way down through the pines to a point where he could get a view of the canyon beyond. At first glance, the narrow gulch appeared to be empty, but as he scanned the length of it, he spotted a thin wisp of smoke lazily drifting up from behind a screen of low brush. Leaving Sweet Pea in the trees, he continued to descend the slope until he reached the bottom. It was a camp all right. As he had figured, the smoke he had seen was from a campfire. Beyond it, he spied a tent, half hidden by the thick brush beside a narrow stream. But there was no sign of anyone around. Deciding it safest to announce his presence, he called out, “Hello the camp! Anybody home?” There was no answer, the breeze rustling the leaves of the willows beside the stream the only sound to be heard. He scanned the canyon floor from left to right again. Whoever had been there was now gone. After a few minutes more to make certain, he left the cover of the trees and approached the campsite.
Before he reached the fire, he discovered the body. It had been rolled over the low lip of the stream and was lying half in the cold mountain water. He at once dropped to one knee and brought his rifle up ready to fire while he quickly looked around him again. The silence of the canyon remained unbroken. Satisfied that he was not in danger of being the next victim, he returned his attention to the dead man. Although the corpse was lying facedown, the bulk of the body told him who it was. To be certain, he reached down and pulled the shoulder over to get a look at the face. It was the man they called Bull all right. A strained look of agony frozen upon his face was evidence of his last desperate moments while he awaited the final shot that sent him from this world. It wasn’t hard to figure out: shot in the back, then executed while he lay wounded. It was a tough way to go. Jordan couldn’t help but pity the poor man who still wore the marks of the beating he had suffered at Jordan’s hand.
Jordan was not the only person who had heard the shots. He had started looking around the camp for sign when he heard the horses approaching from downstream. In a few moments, two riders came into view, miners from the look of them. Jordan stood up and waited for them to approach. He recognized one of them as a stout, gray-haired man who had been at the Trough the day he had fought with Bull. Upon seeing Jordan standing beside the tent, the man spoke.
“Heard the shootin’ down at our claim,” he said. Jordan gestured toward the body with a nod of his head. “Damn,” the man uttered. “Bull?” Jordan nodded again.
“Damn,” the man’s partner echoed.
“Looks like he got it in the back,” Jordan offered and turned to lead them to the body. As soon as his back was turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked. He whirled back around to discover the barrel looking directly at him.
“Shore looks that way,” the gray-haired man said, his voice emotionless. “I reckon you settled your score with Bull. Ain’t none of us sorry to see ol’ Bull with his toes turned up, but we don’t hold with no backshootin’ sons of bitches here.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, mister,” Jordan said, his tone equally emotionless. “I just got here a couple of minutes before you did. I heard the shots same as you.”
“Is that a fact?” The gray-haired man shot a quick glance at his partner. “He just got here a couple of minutes ago. Whaddaya think about that, Harvey?”
Harvey, his pistol drawn and leveled at Jordan, stroked his chin in an exaggerated gesture. “‘Pears to me he got here a tad sooner than that—soon enough to settle ol’ Bull’s hash.”
“You’re dead wrong,” Jordan insisted. “I’ve got no reason to kill a man. If I’d killed him, I wouldn’t have stood here and let you ride up.”
“I expect you didn’t have time to run by the time you saw us,” Gray Hair replied. “Now suppose you lay that rifle down real gentle. Make any funny moves and I’ll shoot you where you stand. Shoot you now, or hang you later—makes no difference to me, but we’ve about had our fill of murderin’ claim jumpers around here.”
Realizing they were not prone to hear his side of it, Jordan considered the chances of getting the jump on the two of them. His rifle wasn’t cocked. He might be fast enough to cock it and get one of them, but the other one would certainly put a bullet in him. “You’re makin’ a mistake,” he repeated and laid the Winchester on the ground. “Suppose we let the law settle this.”
“The law?” Harvey blurted with a laugh. “We’re the law, me and Sam, judge and jury. Miner’s law is the only law in Deadwood, and you was caught red-handed. Whaddaya say, Sam?”
“Guilty,” Sam replied without hesitation. “I say hang him so other outlaws will see what kind of welcome they git in Deadwood.” He grinned at Jordan. “There you go, Mr. Backshooter. There’s your fair trial. Keep that gun on him, Harvey, while I git down.”
Jordan had little choice but to stand there helpless while Sam prepared to dismount. They had the drop on him, and at this point, he wasn’t sure what his next move should be. But he was certain of one thing, he had no intention of being led meekly to the slaughter. “Back away from that rifle,” Sam ordered as soon as his feet were on the ground. Jordan complied without protest, taking a couple of steps back. His eyes constantly shifting back and forth between the two miners, he waited for his chance. The only option he could see was to overpower the one called Sam. But could he do it before Sam’s partner shot him? I guess I’m about to find out, he thought. “Watch him, Harvey,” Sam cautioned as he bent over to pick up Jordan’s rifle.
“I got him,” Harvey replied confidently.
Jordan waited until Sam picked up his Winchester and had a rifle in each hand. Then, with the swiftness of a mountain lion, he launched his body. The sudden attack caught Sam by surprise just as he was about to straighten up again. The force of the impact drove both men flailing against Sam’s horse, causing the startled animal to rear in fright. Harvey tried to react quickly enough, but had his hands full trying to control his equally startled horse. By the time he reined the horse around again, Jordan and Sam were in a desperate struggle to gain control of Sam’s rifle, Jordan’s Winchester having been dropped on the ground once more. Harvey tried to wheel his horse in position to get a clear shot at Jordan, but the two men were rolling under Sam’s horse, and the confused animal lurched against Harvey’s horse in an effort to avoid them. Desperate at that point, Harvey took the shot anyway, but his horse reared when Sam’s horse slammed against it, causing him to miss wildly, the bullet finding purchase in the animal’s left hind quarter. The horse screamed and reared again, this time its front hooves landing on the other horse’s rump. In the confusion, Jordan managed to overpower Sam, taking him from behind and clamping an arm under his chin. Sam had to release the rifle and grab Jordan’s arm with both hands in a frantic effort to keep his windpipe from being crushed.
With the rifle now in his possession, Jordan continued to clamp down on Sam’s neck, holding the desperate man in front of him as a shield against Harvey’s pistol. As for Harvey, he had his hands full trying to keep from being thrown from his horse. When he finally regained control of the startled animal, it was to confront the business end of Sam’s rifle leveled at him. He hesitated, not sure what to do.
“Drop your pistol if you want to live,” Jordan advised. Uncertain still, Harvey didn’t move. “If you shoot, you’re gonna hit your partner, and I’ll cut you down with this rifle. Make up your mind before I choke his wind off for good.” Harvey seemed paralyzed with indecision. Finally, Sam managed to screech a desperate plea that moved Harvey to drop his weapon. “Now get off the horse and back away from the pistol,” Jordan commanded. As soon as Harvey dismounted, Jordan shoved Sam, gagging and stumbling, into his partner. “Now start walkin’,” he ordered, gesturing toward the north end of the canyon. “If I see you lookin’ back, I’m gonna put a bullet in your butt.”
The two miners did as they were told, walking as fast as they could manage toward the head of the gulch. Jordan watched for a few moments before discarding Sam’s rifle and picking up his own. Both men jerked their heads around when they heard him cock the Winchester. He immediately dusted their heels with a shot in the dirt behind them, causing them to look straight ahead again. They picked up the pace without having to be told.
“Whaddaya think he’s gonna do?” Harvey whispered as he and Sam walked nervously toward the far end of the canyon.
“Whatever the hell he wants,” Sam replied, his irritation amplified by the hoarseness in his aching throat. Unlike his partner, he no longer feared for his life, reasoning that Jordan would have shot them already if that was his intention.
“You think he’s stealin’ the horses?” Harvey whined.
“I expect so, at least the sound one.” Forgetting Jordan’s instructions not to turn around, he stopped, faced Harvey, and demanded, “What the hell did you shoot my horse for?”
“Well, dammit, I didn’t go to do it. My horse bucked.”
Sam was about to reply, but at that moment, both men realized that they had stopped walking, and no shots had been fired. They turned around and looked back toward the camp. He was gone. Both horses were standing waiting, Sam’s wounded horse off to one side of the stream. “Well, he might be a murderer, but looks like he ain’t a horse thief,” Sam commented dryly. “Come on, we’d better spread the word that we got another outlaw on our hands. He may have just been after Bull, but Bull ain’t the only one that’s been dry-gulched lately. There was them two fellers south of Deadwood last week. Don’t it seem peculiar to you that this same feller we caught standin’ over Bull’s body is the same one that told everybody about findin’ the other two? We’d best tell Ben Thompson to call a meetin’ of the vigilance committee.”
* * *
Ned Booth paused as he bent over his pan filled with the fine gravel from the narrow stream. Not sure if he had heard something or not, he listened for a moment before deciding it was nothing. Just as he was about to turn his attention back to the gravel in his pan, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Startled, he spun around, his hand automatically going to the handle of his pistol. “Dammit, Jordan,” he cursed, angry for a split second. “One of these days I’m liable to shoot you—sneakin’ up on a man like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Jordan replied. “I wasn’t tryin’ to sneak up on you. I guess you were just too busy to notice.”
“Hell, I knowed it was you,” Ned lied. Truthfully, he knew Jordan just naturally moved as silently as a Blackfoot warrior. Ned hated to admit, even to himself, that his ear wasn’t sharp enough to detect his partner’s presence until Jordan was practically stepping on his heels. Even the mangy horse Jordan rode seemed to tiptoe through the trees. Ned looked over Jordan’s shoulder toward Sweet Pea. “I don’t see no meat across the saddle. No luck today?”
“I had luck, I reckon—all of it bad.” Then he proceeded to relate the series of ill-timed incidents that had resulted in his confrontation with the two miners.
Ned listened, deep concern showing in his face. He set his pan on top of a low table rock that had been split down the middle by some ancient storm. “I swear, Jordan, trouble seems to think it’s your next of kin.”
There were immediate decisions to be made. Jordan was inclined to ride into Deadwood to set the record straight, but Ned convinced him that would be tantamount to suicide. “There ain’t no law in Deadwood. More’n likely they’ve got a vigilance committee, and they’d string you up for your trouble.” He thought for a moment. “I’d best go into town and find out who’s the man that runs things. You better lay low for a spell till I can talk to ’im. The quicker we get this straightened out, the better. I’ve seen these things get outta hand if these boys get to drinkin’. One time in Montana I seen ’em hang a stranger just rode into town and stopped at a feller’s camp to water his horse. Nobody saw the feller for two days, so they figured the stranger had kilt him. They strung him up, right in the middle of town. The next day the feller he was supposed to have kilt showed up. He’d been up in the mountains hunting for elk.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” Jordan protested. “If I run, it’ll look like I did.”
Ned persisted. “Jordan, if you don’t, they’ll send a lynching party up here lookin’ for you, and when they’re liquored up real good, they ain’t gonna take time to find out if you’re guilty or not.” Ned sounded pretty confident that he knew what he was talking about, so Jordan finally gave in. “The best thing, boy,” Ned assured him. “You pack up some possibles and head back up in the mountains. I’ll get right on into town and try to talk some sense into whoever’s the big dog. I’ll meet you tomorrow about midday and let you know how things are.” He paused to think for a moment. “You know that little waterfall where you surprised them two pronghorns? I’ll meet you there.”
Jordan was reluctant to leave Ned behind. “What if they think you were in on it?”
“Hell, I ain’t worried about that. Them two fellers who saw you at Bull’s claim know I weren’t there. I’ll be all right. Now get goin’ before some crazy vigilantes come ridin’ in here.”
“All right then,” Jordan said. “I’ll leave my packhorse here.” He gathered up a few things and packed them in his saddle bags. “You be careful, old man,” he cautioned as he stepped up in the saddle. Turning Sweet Pea’s head toward the towering mountain behind him, he touched a finger to his hatbrim in a farewell gesture and gave the mare his heels.