Hattie Moon turned to see who had just come into her tent. “Well, where have you been for the last couple days?” she asked. “You’re a little too late for supper. We was just clearin’ the dishes away. I can fix you up a little somethin’ if you’re hungry, though.”
Ned favored her with a grateful smile. “I wasn’t plannin’ to make it to supper tonight, but I could eat, long as I’m here.”
“Where’s that young partner of yours?” she asked, already aware that Jordan was in trouble, but waiting to see what Ned had to say about it.
“That’s what I come into town about,” Ned replied. “I’m afraid some fellers think he bushwhacked that Bull feller, and I need to set ’em straight. I told him to head for the hills till I can find out what’s goin’ on.”
“Well, you were right to tell him that. Harvey Perkins and Sam Morris came in here to get Ben Thompson. They said they rode up on your partner standing over Bull’s body. They said they tried to take him, but he got the jump on ’em.”
“Who’s Ben Thompson?”
“He’s the head of the vigilance committee. He didn’t even finish eatin’. They went right out to round up the rest of the committee and call for a meetin’.”
“Where would that be?”
“Over at Sweeney’s saloon.”
“They don’t do nuthin’ without they get liquored up good first.” This came from Maggie who had overheard the conversation from the kitchen. She entered the tent, and plopped her bony backside down on the corner of the table, one leg propped on a chair. “Did Jordan do for ol’ Bull?”
“Hell, no, he didn’t,” Ned at once replied. “He come up on Bull’s camp no more’n a few minutes ahead of them other two fellers.”
“That ain’t the way it looked to Sam and Harvey,” Maggie said. “They said they tussled with him till Harvey shot Sam’s horse, and Jordan got the jump on ’em.” She couldn’t suppress the hint of a smile when she said it, visualizing the scene and the two fumbling miners.
“Ha!” Hattie blurted. “It’s a wonder they didn’t shoot each other, them two.”
“I better git on up to Sweeney’s before they go off half-cocked,” Ned decided.
“You want me to fix you a plate?” Hattie asked.
“I reckon not. I’d best git on over there.” He paused. “Maybe a piece of that cornbread, or a cold biscuit I could take with me.” Hattie reached for the platter and broke off half of the remaining cake of cornbread. “Much obliged,” he said, stuffing a generous mouthful in without pause.
Maggie placed a hand on Ned’s arm. “You’d better watch yourself, Ned. They might figure you were part of it.” She released him then. “I ain’t heard no pistols shootin’ in the air, so I know the meetin’ ain’t over yet.”
* * *
Although the meeting was not yet concluded, it had reached a high pitch. The late Bull Brady had suddenly been elevated to a status approaching beloved by his fellow miners. And as the level in the whiskey bottles receded, the degree of righteous demand for vengeance went up. Ben Thompson took his position seriously and was generally determined to make sure the committee had the right of it. Since there was no formal law in Deadwood, it had become necessary to form a vigilante organization to protect the prospectors from the type of crime that had victimized Bull Brady. Murderers had to know they would not be tolerated in Deadwood. Perkins and Morris were adamant in their testimony that Jordan Gray was caught red-handed. But Ben knew that the two partners were not above embellishing a story to make it more acceptable. Ben wouldn’t be sure until another witness stepped forward.
Unnoticed by the noisy gathering, a giant of a man stepped quietly into the back of the crowded saloon. Pulling back a chair from the rearmost table, he settled his imposing bulk and motioned for his two companions to take seats on either side of him. Content to watch the progress of the hastily called committee, he listened with interest to each man who spoke. It appeared that the consensus of opinion was that young Jordan Gray was the guilty man—that is, until one Ned Booth burst into the meeting.
“Hold on, here!” Ned shouted out over the din of voices, and everyone turned to see. “You boys are about to git all lathered up over somethin’ that didn’t happen the way these two fellers said.”
“Hell, you’re his partner,” someone in the middle of the room shouted, his comment echoed by several other voices.
Ben Thompson held up his hand. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
“Those of you who’ve met Jordan Gray know he ain’t the kind to bushwhack a man. He was huntin’ elk when he found Bull murdered.” Ned went on to tell the story just as Jordan had told him. The longer Ned talked, the more inclined Ben was to believe him. He had met Jordan the week before, and Jordan didn’t strike him as the kind to commit such a dastardly crime. Sensing their appointed leader was wavering, the gathered men began to grumble among themselves, most of them already strung tight enough to ride after Jordan that very night.
“He done it, all right,” a deep unfamiliar voice rose above the din. All eyes turned toward the rear of the room to discover a large mountain of a man in a heavy bearskin coat making his way forward. His imposing appearance brought an immediate silence to the crowded saloon and the mob parted to provide a passage for him. “I seen him when he killed that man, and this feller was with him.” He nodded toward Ned. His statement caused an angry eruption of voices.
Ned couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Why, that’s a damn lie,” he blurted.
“Hold on!” Ben Thompson shouted trying to restore order. It took a few minutes before the mob settled down again. When there was quiet once more, Ben turned to the dark stranger. “Just who might you be, mister?”
“Rix is my name,” Preacher replied, his voice rumbling like thunder. “Reverend Nathaniel Rix. Me and my boys was on the far side of the ridge when we heard a gunshot. We rode up to the top to take a look and seen him shoot that poor feller in the head after he was already laying on the ground wounded.”
“You’re a preacher?” Ben asked, not sure he had heard correctly.
“I am, sir. Me and my sons have been travelin’ the territory, bringin’ salvation to the heathens.”
Ben thought that over for a brief second. It was a rare thing, indeed, to find a preacher in Deadwood. Then he thought about the statement the preacher had just made. “You say Ned, here, was with Jordan Gray when he shot Bull.” Preacher nodded. “Sam and Harvey say Gray was alone,” Ben said.
Preacher paused no more than a second before answering. “This feller,” he said, indicating Ned, “was holdin’ the horses back in the trees. They wouldn’t have hardly seen him, but we could see him plain as day. I just wish we could have got down that mountain soon enough to help out, but there weren’t no quick way down from where we sat.” His comment stirred some of the mob to call for Ned’s capture right then.
“It’d take a preacher to make up a lie that big,” Ned said, angry as well as baffled as to why the man would concoct such a tale. Then it occurred to him that Jordan had told of finding a mysterious preacher and his sons burying a man and woman at a burned out cabin near Fort Laramie. That was pushing coincidence a bit far. He turned to face his accuser. “You lying son of a bitch, you and your two boys killed Bull, didn’t you?”
The atmosphere in the crowded saloon became intense once again as the vigilantes began to work up to a fever pitch. The mob looked to the stranger for his answer to Ned’s accusation.
Preacher smiled calmly and replied softly, “I reckon if me and the boys done it, we’d be long gone from here by now, instead of coming here to see that justice was done. Besides, I ain’t the one caught standin’ over the dead body.”
Doing his best to maintain control of the meeting, Ben called again for quiet. Then he asked Ned, “Where is Jordan Gray?”
“I couldn’t rightly say,” Ned replied. “He ain’t at the claim, is all I can tell you.”
“Took off, has he?” Preacher gave voice to the thought that was rapidly taking form in everyone’s mind.
“He didn’t have much choice,” Ned protested. “Them two lame brains was ready to hang him on the spot. He was gonna come in here to set you straight, but I told him to lay low for a spell till I could talk some sense into you folks.”
“Figurin’ that nobody saw you hidin’ back in the trees,” Preacher added, fanning the flames of suspicion he had ignited.
“Why, you lying son of a bitch . . .” Ned blurted and lunged for Preacher. He was immediately set upon by several of the men gathered close around him and taken bodily to the floor. He proved to be a handful, however, as he fought those who held him and almost succeeded in freeing himself before Barney Lipscomb grabbed his coattail and pulled him back. The coat was ripped in the process, tearing an inside pocket and dropping a leather pouch on the floor. Ben Thompson immediately reached down to retrieve it.
“Well, lookee there,” Sam Morris clucked. “How much is in there, Ben?”
“I don’t know,” Ben replied when he was sure the boys had the old man under control. “Maybe ten or twelve ounces.”
This caused rampant speculation among the gathering. They all knew that it was highly unlikely that Ned could have panned that much dust in the short time since he and Jordan had arrived on the scene. Harvey Perkins was the first to speak. “Looks like ol’ Bull was pullin’ more dust outta that creek than he let on.” He thought about it a second, then added, “And I expect that’s just this here feller’s half of the split.”
“I come by that dust honestly,” Ned protested to Ben. “I took it off a couple of dead miners me and Jordan come up on back down the valley a ways.”
“I expect you probably did,” Ben replied.
“You got it all wrong,” Ned exclaimed in frustration. “They was already dead when we found ’em.”
“Looks pretty plain to me,” Preacher commented. “Ain’t much doubt who killed your friend.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling of the saloon and proclaimed, “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Thou shalt not kill.”
“Amen, Reverend,” Sam Morris said. “I got a rope on my saddle. We can string this murderer up right now.” Most of the gathering shouted their endorsement of his suggestion. The righteous men of Deadwood were set on a hanging. Ben Thompson was the only one who voiced a cautionary thought.
“According to Sam and Harvey, this old man wasn’t the one that did the actual shooting.”
Sam, already impatient to see Ned swing, proclaimed, “He was part of it, just as much as if he pulled the trigger. Besides, Jordan Gray’s done lit out. He mighta got away, but by God, we got his partner.”
There was no need to take a vote. By this time, almost every man there was anxious to see a hanging. They crowded in around Ned, many hands grasping his arms and legs, and carried him outside. No amount of pleading from the old man could dissuade the mob from their intent to demonstrate to all would-be murderers the folly of preying upon Deadwood miners. His pleas for reason ignored, he tried his best to resist, struggling against his captors and cursing the lot of them with every breath. All of his efforts were to no avail. His hands tied behind his back, he was hoisted up on his horse and led to a solitary cottonwood in the center of the gulch. When it was apparent that he was helpless to prevent his execution, he finally calmed down and sat waiting to meet his fate.
“It might go easier on you in the next world if you was to tell us where Jordan Gray is,” Ben Thompson suggested.
With the calm demeanor of a man resigned to face his Maker, Ned looked down at Ben. “You can kiss my ass.” Then he took a look around at the faces staring up at him. “I’ll see every man here in Hell—a curse on the lot of you for hanging an innocent man.” He had no sooner gotten the words out when the horse bolted, leaving Ned swinging back and forth from the cottonwood limb, his feet kicking frantically.
The sudden start of the horse caught everyone by surprise, and Ben looked back to see Preacher Rix standing with a quirt in his hand. When Ben’s eye caught his, Preacher smiled and said, “You men have done the right thing. We can’t let outlaws get away with murderin’ innocent folks.”
A late arrival to the lynching, Hattie Moon was stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Ned’s horse charge out of the mob. “What have you damn fools done?” she demanded. Sam Morris, a foolish grin plastered across his dingy face, informed her of what had taken place. “That ol’ man ain’t murdered nobody,” she protested. “You damn fools are the only ones murderin’ anybody.”
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Hattie,” Ben Thompson implored. “You weren’t here to hear all the evidence.”
“That old man didn’t have it in him to murder anybody. Cut him down, Ben.”
“We’d best not, Hattie. Looks like he’s still breathin’. Besides, we want him to hang there for a while so everybody can see what happens to outlaws in Deadwood.”
“Damn maniacs,” she uttered, knowing there was little to do for Ned now. As she watched, his limbs finally stopped trembling, and he was still.
“He put a curse on all of us just before he swung,” Harvey Perkins whispered softly in her ear.
She turned to look at him. Knowing how superstitious Harvey was, she couldn’t resist saying, “I expect the curse will get all of you then. A dead man’s curse is hard to shake.” The look in Harvey’s eyes told her that her comment had the effect she intended. She hoped he would worry himself to death over it. Hattie had not known Ned Booth long, but she was certain that he and Jordan had nothing to do with Bull Brady’s death.
Soon the spectacle of a hanging lost its entertainment value, and the mob thinned out, most of the people heading back to Sweeney’s saloon to congratulate themselves on their action. One of the men got a board from behind the saloon and hung it around Ned’s neck with the inscription THE PRICE FOR MURDER IN DEADWOOD. Later that evening, when things had quieted down, Hattie Moon and Maggie Hogg drove a wagon to the tree and cut poor Ned down. The two of them managed to load his body onto the wagon and take it back to the Trough, where it lay until Manual, their hired hand, took it up the valley to bury it. A dark figure, standing in the shadows at the back of the saloon, watched the efforts of the two women to salvage some degree of dignity for the late Ned Booth. Unseen in the darkness of the shadows, a wide smile creased his heavy beard. The whole episode had gone quite well from Preacher’s point of view. It had succeeded in taking any suspicion from him and his sons. He was especially pleased with his influence upon the will of the lynch mob. The Lord helps them what helps themselves, he thought to himself and turned to fetch his sons.
* * *
Jordan peered up at the sun. It looked to be considerably past midday. Maybe he and Ned got their signals crossed, but he was certain that Ned had said to meet him by the waterfall. There shouldn’t have been any confusion about it. Where he now sat was almost the same spot where two pronghorn deer were grazing when he jumped them one afternoon. They were so surprised that he had easily shot one of them and could have gotten the other one if Ned and he had needed the meat. No, this was the right place. Maybe Ned just forgot.
“That ol’ fart probably went to gape at Maggie and forgot all about me sittin’ up here in the mountains,” he confided to Sweet Pea. The indifferent horse didn’t dignify the statement with a response. As the afternoon wore on, Jordan finally decided that Ned wasn’t coming, and now he was worried that something might have happened to his friend. “Come on, Sweet Pea, we’d better go back to camp and see why Ned didn’t show up.”
* * *
Something wasn’t right. Sweet Pea sensed it. The homely mare cocked her ears forward and broke into the peculiar stutter step that Jordan had come to recognize whenever she approached strange horses. “What is it, girl?” he whispered, his own senses sharpened now.
Approaching his camp from the slope above, he took advantage of the thick stand of pines that shielded their claim on that side. Ned’s horses and his own packhorse should ordinarily be nickering a greeting to Sweet Pea, but there was no sound coming from his camp. Then Sweet Pea snorted, as she commonly did when challenging a stranger. Jordan heard an answering snort from the trees on the far side of the camp, and he knew he had a welcoming committee.
He pulled his horse to a stop and slid down from the saddle. Leaving Sweet Pea in the pines, he started working his way around the camp on foot, his rifle cocked and ready. His immediate concern was for Ned. If there was an ambush awaiting his return to camp, something must have happened to his partner. Stopping when approximately halfway around the clearing where he and Ned had set up their camp, he paused to take a look. Moving down to the edge of the trees, he studied the camp. Ned’s horse was gone, as well as both packhorses. Scanning the clearing slowly, his eyes settled on Ned’s pan. It was still perched on the split table rock where Ned had left it the day before. Ned never came back from town. No wonder he had failed to show up at the waterfall. Jordan at once felt a cold sensation of dread clutching his throat. If Ned were in trouble, Jordan felt it was mainly his fault. He shouldn’t have let Ned talk him into taking to the hills while the old man went into Deadwood. More anxious than ever now, he moved back into the trees and continued the circle around his camp.
* * *
Johnny Cabel left the cover of the rock he had been lying behind and crawled over closer to Web Dupree. “Did you hear that? Somebody’s comin’.”
“Yeah, I heard it,” Web replied. “Most likely, he heard that damn horse of your’n, too.” Never taking his eyes off the clearing, he lamented, “He might decide not to come on in now. Get on back behind that rock and keep your eyes peeled.”
Web Dupree had enjoyed very limited success as a prospector. He had found some traces of the precious dust in the three different claims he had mined, most of which was lost right away in the saloons and gambling houses that sprang up in Deadwood almost as soon as the first nugget was discovered. His lack of success had served to turn him bitter and envious of those who seemed to have better luck. He and Johnny Cabel decided to go in partners on the last site, a venture that seemed hopeless from the start. Johnny, like Web, was becoming more and more morose as each week passed without sign of color. It was getting to the point where they seldom had a civil word between themselves. Hope was rekindled, however, in Sweeney’s saloon when they, along with Sam Morris and Barney Lipscomb, were among the first to grab Ned Booth.
When that leather pouch fell out of Ned’s coat and plopped on the floor, Web’s eyes grew as large as saucers. He glanced at Johnny, who was looking right back at him, both of their minds locked on the same thought: Jordan Gray is carrying another one just like it! As might have been expected, Ben Thompson took charge of Ned’s pouch, promising to weigh it and divide it among those riding in the posse. Certain that others would be having the same thought, Web and Johnny hung back from the mob, watching from the fringe of the crowd as Ned was strung up. And while the others stayed to enjoy the final gyrations of the dying man, the two of them slipped away to get a head start.
It was early evening when they had found the camp near the head of the stream. Johnny had been in favor of immediately claiming the two packhorses hobbled near the water, but Web felt like it might spook Jordan Gray if he noticed the horses gone. They talked about it. Johnny argued that it would be difficult to claim the horses for themselves if a posse showed up before they could hide them. When he convinced Web that Jordan would hardly have time to notice since they planned to shoot him down as soon as he entered the clearing, Web changed his mind. “I expect you’re right,” Web had conceded, so they cut the hobbles and took the horses across the slope and left them to graze.
Now it seemed that their waiting had paid off. Somebody was approaching the camp from the other side of the clearing. There were mighty slim odds that it could be anyone other than Jordan Gray. The question was whether or not he had been spooked when the horses snorted. If their luck was holding, he would merely think it was the packhorses.
“I hope he ain’t been anywhere to spend any of that dust,” Web whispered.
“What?” Johnny whispered back.
“Nothin’,” Web replied, still in a hoarse whisper. “Be quiet now, and let him come on in.” He was already thinking of the possibility of dissolving the partnership. Who could say Johnny wasn’t shot by Jordan before Web got him? The thought brought a thin smile of anticipated satisfaction to Web’s face. He shifted his body around to the other side of the pine he was using for cover, hoping to get a wider view of the camp. It had been at least fifteen minutes since he had heard the horses snorting. Jordan was being mighty cautious. Come on in and get your medicine, Web thought, his eyes straining for the first glimpse of his intended victim. Behind him, he heard his horse whinny. It was answered by another suspicious snort from Jordan’s horse on the far side of the clearing. What the hell’s he doing? He ain’t moved from that spot.
“Lay those rifles down and get your hands up where I can see ’em.”
Web froze. The voice came from right behind him. “Now hold on, mister,” he pleaded. “Me and Johnny was just guardin’ the camp.” He laid down his rifle gently.
“Where’s Ned?” Jordan demanded.
Web hesitated before answering. He glanced at Johnny and tried to signal him with a furrowing of his eyebrows. Like Web, Johnny had laid down his rifle as directed. His hands up, he rolled over to a sitting position. Jordan’s attention seemed to be mainly focused upon Web, so Johnny let his right hand drop slowly until it hovered over the Colt .45 he wore on his hip. Jordan didn’t seem to notice.
“Ned’s in town,” Web replied to Jordan’s question.
His answer wasn’t enough to suit Jordan. “Whaddaya mean, he’s in town? What’s he doin’ in town?”
“Swingin’ from a cottonwood,” Johnny blurted and made his move. He was fast. His hand dropped to the handle of his Colt, and the weapon had almost cleared the holster when Jordan turned and fired, sending a bullet ripping through Johnny’s chest. Web snatched his rifle from the ground and managed to get off a shot while Jordan cocked his Winchester and spun back to face him. With no time to aim, Web’s shot was wide, merely grazing Jordan’s shoulder. Ignoring the wound, Jordan put a bullet in the center of Web’s forehead.
It had all happened in the time it takes to blink an eye. Jordan stood somewhat dazed over the two dead men, hardly believing what had just taken place. When he had circled around behind the two men, he had no intention of killing anyone. He merely wanted to keep from getting shot himself. He even had slim hopes of convincing the two that there had been a mistake in thinking that he had murdered Bull Brady. Now the man’s blurted remark came back to mind. Swinging from a cottonwood. Surely that had not been what he meant. But what if he did? Jordan could not control a sudden feeling of panic. What if those crazy sons of bitches had seized upon poor Ned, a total innocent, just as Jordan was innocent? He could feel the muscles in his arms tightening as a wave of anger swept over him, and he knew he had to find out if something had happened to Ned.
He stood where he was for a long moment, still staring at the two bodies, stunned by the thought that they had lain in ambush set to kill him. He realized that he could trust no one in the settlement of Deadwood Gulch, never sure if the next stranger he met might suddenly pull a gun. He might have been inclined to simply climb on Sweet Pea and head for the Powder River country, or the Wind River range, and say to Hell with Deadwood. He might have been, that is, had it not been for his concern for his friend. “If they’ve touched one hair on that old man’s head . . .” he muttered to himself. Knowing there was only one place to find out, he determined to ride into Deadwood.
With no interest in anything that belonged to the two would-be assassins, he nevertheless paused to untie their horses. The only things he took, after second thoughts, were a couple of .45 caliber ammunition belts. He figured he was going to need them. He left the bodies where they lay and walked across the clearing to retrieve his horse. There wasn’t much time spent in taking care of his wound. It didn’t appear to be serious, so he knelt by the stream and cleaned the blood away, then wrapped it with a clean cloth from his saddlebag. Passing the tent, he paused to take a quick look inside to see if there was anything else he needed. He didn’t take much time since he had no way of knowing when someone else might show up looking for him.
Guiding Sweet Pea away from the camp, he deemed it prudent to take a wide swing around the mountain in case there was a posse of vigilantes on their way. Halfway around the eastern slope, he came upon his and Ned’s packhorses, peacefully grazing on a patch of bear grass. By this time, it was almost totally dark, but he managed to find a grassy ravine in which to hobble them until he could return for them.