“Why are we goin’ after that feller, Pa?” Zeb questioned. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him to go after someone who had demonstrated the ability to fight back. Six men had already gone after him, and not but three of them came back—and one of them wounded. Even Zeb’s simple mind could see the folly in chasing such a man.
Preacher snorted in disgust for his elder son’s lack of cunning, but he answered patiently, “Them fellers in town is so scared of Jordan Gray that they’re all huggin’ each other in the saloon, a-feared to go back to their claims. Hellfire, Zeb, we ain’t goin’ after Jordan Gray. I expect he’s halfway to Montana territory by now. And while them yeller-tailed miners is huddled up together in town, why, we’ll just help ourselves to whatever we find, with nobody to bother us.”
“Ain’t everybody in town,” Quincy pointed out. “What about all them people still settin’ on their claims?”
“Why, that’ll be the Lord’s business as usual, like we’ve always done,” Preacher explained. “The beauty of it is anybody gets killed, they’ll blame it on Jordan Gray.” He paused while his two offspring beamed their admiration for their father’s guile. “And it was mighty nice of ’em to take up a collection to take care of our supplies, warn’t it?” He chuckled at the thought.
Preacher took a long look at his two sons as they climbed up in their saddles. They weren’t the brightest pennies in the purse, but they were good boys. They feared the Lord and their daddy. Preacher felt a great deal of pride in the job he had done, rearing two rambunctious sons without benefit of a mother’s guidance. Cora very seldom crossed his mind anymore. The boys’ mother was not worthy of his thoughts, although he should probably give her some credit for the line of work he undertook. Thinking about her now caused Preacher to grin to himself.
As a young man, Preacher had never been predisposed to honest labor. For that reason, he had been drawn to Cora’s father’s calling as pastor of a little church near Omaha. He had never heard a calling himself and admitted as much to Cora’s father, and the old man advised him to find other work. After Quincy was born, Preacher bounced from one job to another, usually leaving or being fired, most often for breaking some fellow worker’s skull in a trivial disagreement. It was after one such altercation at a sawmill that Preacher came home early one afternoon to find Cora lying on their bed with her ankles locked behind her cousin’s bare backside. It was like the touch of a match to an open keg of dynamite. He was still smoldering from the rage that had just sent a fellow worker to the doctor with a broken jaw, and the sight of his wife in the embrace of another was enough to cause the explosion that took two lives.
Cora had sent Zeb and Quincy up to the woods to cut firewood when her cousin Wilbur stopped in to visit. It had never occurred to Preacher until that day that the boys had been sent to cut wood so often that there was enough firewood stacked back of the house to last for three or four winters. On that day, when the boys came back with another wagonload of wood, it was to find their father standing over a freshly dug grave. “Just throw that load off right on top of the grave,” Preacher had ordered.
When Zeb asked what was buried in the grave, Preacher had explained to his two sons that he had been called upon to dispatch two sinners to Hell. “Ma and Uncle Wilbur?” Zeb had asked at once. When Preacher answered that it was, Zeb looked at Quincy and grinned. “We knowed they was sparkin’, didn’t we, Quincy?”
Quincy reflected his brother’s grin. “Yeah, we sneaked back to the house one time and peeked at ’em through the window.” He chuckled. “They was goin’ at it like a couple of hounddogs.” Then he furrowed his brow when a deeper thought struck him. “Sinners is the Lord’s enemies. Ain’t they, Pa? So you’re doin’ the Lord’s work when you kill a sinner.”
His son’s simple statement had profound impact upon Preacher. Out of the mouth of babes, he had thought, and he knew at that moment that he had received a sort of calling. It might not have been from above, but it would serve his needs and satisfy the simple minds of his sons. “We’ve got to leave here now,” Preacher had then told them. “The Lord’s called upon me to seek out other sinners and let them know the mighty sword of the Lord.”
Before leaving, he stood before the monument of firewood and said a few words of prayer for the benefit of his sons. The fact that neither son seemed to feel any sorrow over the passing of their mother did not strike Preacher as being that unusual. Cora had never showed much in the way of affection for either boy, and her cooking left a great deal to be desired as well. So, he reasoned, there was very little about her to be missed. It was strange, indeed, that his calling in life had been showed to him through his younger son, the one who seemed less likely to have intelligent thought. Quincy was always kind of special to him after that, even taking into consideration that the boy held a striking resemblance to Cora’s cousin Wilbur.
Now, as Preacher thought back over the years since he had left his wife, he felt satisfied with his chosen path. He had never felt remorse for any of the many sinners he had sent to their glory. At times, he even believed he really was doing the Lord’s work. He turned in the saddle to take a look at Zeb and Quincy, following blissfully along behind him. As full-grown men, the boys were strong and enthusiastic disciples of their father’s work, young men a father could be proud of.
* * *
Preacher Rix was not the only man contemplating his path in life at that moment. High up in the pines, near the summit of a rocky-faced mountain, Jordan Gray sat quietly waiting for the unholy preacher. The smoldering rage that had driven him to seek total vengeance upon every man who had a hand in Ned Booth’s lynching had left him now. Maggie was right. The vigilante posse was just a confused mob of drunken fools. The one who had instigated Ned’s murder was Preacher Rix, and Jordan was resigned to wait for him to settle up for Ned.
It was time to think with a calm mind. Maybe Maggie Hogg was right about another thing, too. Maybe he should ride out of these mountains after he settled with Preacher, and leave all that had happened here behind. He had taken three lives. Was this not compensation enough for the loss of his partner? But three of the six men who had come to kill him had managed to escape, and he was pretty sure that he had recognized two of them as the very two who had attempted to hang him at Bull Brady’s camp. The leader of the posse, Ben Thompson, was a fair man according to Maggie, but Jordan could not forget that he had allowed the mob to hang Ned. It was a great deal to consider for a man who held no fondness for taking a life. As for Preacher Rix and his sons, Jordan felt no compassion for the blatant murderer, and no fear with the knowledge that Preacher was now searching for him. If he got the opportunity, he could rid the world of Preacher Rix with no qualms.
Finish what he had started here or leave before more lives were taken? It was time to make the decision. A squeal from one of the packhorses caused him to snatch up his rifle, ready to fire, but it was only the result of Ned’s packhorse standing too close to Sweet Pea. The ornery mare was not yet comfortable with Ned’s horse and wouldn’t hesitate to take a nip out of its flank if it crowded her. Jordan could not help but smile.
Kathleen Beard—the name suddenly jumped to the forefront of his conscience mind, an occurrence that often happened when he did not discipline his thoughts. This time, he permitted the name to linger. He wondered if she was now Mrs. Thomas Jefferson Wallace. The thought of it still caused pain. When he left Fort Laramie, she had not formally accepted the lieutenant’s proposal, but she made it plain that she intended to. He could not deny a strong desire to find out for certain. Maybe I’ll ride back to Laramie and find out, he thought. Without really realizing it, he had just made up his mind to leave the Black Hills and the trail of vengeance. If he could have known of the hornet’s nest being stirred up in Deadwood, he might have decided it best to strike out immediately instead of waiting to let his horses graze on the new grass.
* * *
The sun was not quite directly overhead when Grady Bostick drove his lathered horse recklessly down into the gulch and pulled up in front of the saloon. Without taking time to loop the reins over the rail, he charged into Sweeney’s, shouting the news. “Fraiser’s dead! Dry gulched!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “I just come from his claim!”
His frantic announcement brought a momentary silence to the noisy saloon, and then the joint erupted into a chorus of angry cries. Although early in the day, there was a sizable crowd in Sweeney’s due to the supposed threat of a killer stalking the mountains. Many cried out for action. The loudest voice belonged to Sam Morris. “By God, he’s gonna kill us all one by one. We’ve got to go up in them hills and run him to ground.”
“What about the preacher?” someone asked. “Ben said he didn’t want nobody in his way.”
“I don’t know about you fellers,” Sam retorted, pushing his way to the center of the crowd, “but I ain’t got much faith in no Bible-thumpin’ preacher.” He looked around him to see how many agreed with him. “We got us a mad dog here. I say we go up and git him.”
The room filled with the din of excited voices, as everyone tried to speak at once. “Somebody better go get Ben,” a man standing next to Sam said.
“To hell with Ben!” Sam immediately exclaimed. “It was Ben’s idea to set here while that jackleg preacher went after that killer. If we hadn’t listened to him, we mighta already had Jordan Gray strung up to a tree.”
“Sam’s right,” someone said. “Let’s get mounted and go after that bastard while there’s still plenty of daylight left.” There were only a few dissenting voices while the majority in the gathering expressed excited support for immediate action.
“All right then,” Sam said, his face flush with bloodlust and whiskey. “Grab your guns. We’re gonna go get us a badger.” In a matter of minutes, the saloon was emptied as the crowd of miners, drunks, and hangers-on spilled into the muddy street, yelling and hooting with drunken courage. Sweeney, left standing alone behind his bar, walked to the door to watch the disorganized posse assemble. He shook his head slowly. If Jordan Gray is anywhere within five miles of that mob, he’ll damn sure hear them coming. As he turned to go back to the bar, his eye caught a glimmer of metal under one of the tables. Bending over to take a closer look, he discovered a silver dollar protruding from a crack in the plank floor. He picked it up and brushed it off. A sign of good luck, he thought. Then another thought occurred. He had been trying to decide on a formal name for his saloon. The Silver Dollar—that’s what I’ll call it. “Now I reckon I’ll sweep up a little while I’ve got the chance. I expect they’ll all be back in here before dark.”
* * *
Making his way carefully down through a narrow passage chiseled out of the rocky face of a cliff, Jordan leaned back in the saddle, one hand resting on Sweet Pea’s rump. She might be ugly as a goat for a reason, he couldn’t help thinking, smiling to himself. The steepness of the path had caused him to consider finding another way down to the spring where he had temporarily left the packhorses while he had waited in vain for Preacher, but Sweet Pea had shown no hesitation. So Jordan let the cantankerous mare make the decision. Halfway down, when her front hooves slid a few feet in the loose gravel, he had to wonder if maybe he was giving the horse credit for more sense than she actually had. It wouldn’t have taken much before man and horse went head over heels in a rock slide. Undeterred, the mare found her footing again and proceeded down to the bottom of the passage without mishap. “You had me worried there for a minute, girl.” He gave her a pat on the neck and guided her toward a ring of trees that circled the mountain’s base.
Striking an old game trail, he rode down through the pines until he came to a clearing, where he paused to get his bearings. The clearing, a mountain meadow, extended toward the eastern side of the slope. The spring where the horses waited would be to his right, toward the western slope. He had climbed up to the top of the mountain to take a look around and determine the best way to circle back south, avoiding his camp. He had spent enough time hunting in these mountains to know them as well as Ned Booth had. Confident that he was swinging wide enough, he turned Sweet Pea toward the west and the waiting horses.
He had no sooner entered the dark pines again when he heard the shots. A barrage of gunfire, the shooting went on for several minutes, the sound reverberating through the trees below him as if a major skirmish was in progress. Finally, the shooting tapered off with a few random shots and then silence again. Whatever it had been was apparently over. With real cause for alarm, Jordan urged Sweet Pea forward. His packhorses were in that direction.
Closer to the spring now, he picked up the sound of voices. White men, he determined immediately, yelling to one another. He continued on toward the sound, his senses alert, his eyes taking in everything before him, lest he stumble into an ambush. Close enough now to make out the words being flung back and forth among the members of the posse, Jordan dismounted. Pulling his rifle from the saddle sling, he made his way on foot to a spot some one hundred yards above the spring. Below him, he could see the source of the noise. It looked like half the town of Deadwood had stormed up the slope. There was little need for speculation upon their intent. Next to the little trickle of a stream, he saw his two packhorses, their bodies riddled with bullet holes while riders crashed around wildly in the brush, looking for any target to shoot at. Jordan felt his face flush hot as the anger filled his veins. The useless slaughter had been meant for him.
A voice rang out loud and clear above the others, and Jordan shifted his gaze to spot Sam Morris emerging from the trees, his rifle raised above his head. Jordan didn’t know the man’s name, but he recognized him from earlier encounters. While he watched, Sam yelled to the others, “He can’t be far away! He wouldn’t run off and leave his horses.” He then lowered his rifle and fired several times into the carcasses.
Jordan’s temper snapped. Without thinking about it, he pulled his rifle up and aimed. A single shot from the Winchester and Sam Morris suddenly jerked upright in the saddle, his rifle falling from his hand. Then he leaned to the side and slid out of the saddle, landing in a heap on the ground. Instantly chambering another cartridge, Jordan sighted down on a rider next to Sam as chaos took command of the posse. With his sights set on the rider’s back, he followed the man’s frantic dash for cover, but he hesitated to pull the trigger. It was an easy shot, one he couldn’t miss, and yet he decided not to take it. He pulled his rifle down and knelt, watching the pandemonium taking place below him. The posse had scattered in all directions, seeking the nearest cover they could find. Shots were being fired blindly from both sides of the little stream because no one in the posse could see where the shot that killed Sam Morris had come from. In a few moments, someone cried out in pain as a wild shot claimed a victim. The madness of it all was not lost on Jordan Gray, and he was inexplicably calm as he grasped the folly of the situation. He was suddenly sick of the senseless killing. These were not bad men who had come to kill him, but merely a confused mob incited to take up an unjust cause. It was time to leave Paha Sapa. White men had no right to be here in the first place. Turning his back on the chaos below him, he started back to his horse.
Making his way up through the trees, he paused when within about thirty yards of the gully where he had left Sweet Pea. He could see the horse from where he stood, and something about her triggered his sense of caution. Usually content when left to graze, the mare was shifting about nervously, her ears twitching in the wind. Something was bothering her. Jordan dropped immediately to one knee. As he did, a pine branch snapped in two directly over his head, and he saw the muzzle flash of a rifle from a thicket no more than fifteen yards from him. There was no time for thought as he pumped two rounds into the thicket and chambered another. The cry of agony he heard told him that he had hit his target. A moment later, a man staggered from the thicket and collapsed.
Jordan waited, scanning the trees around him until sure his assailant had been alone. Then he advanced toward the body slowly, still holding his rifle ready. The man was dead, two slugs no more than a hand span apart in his chest. Jordan knew he had seen the man before, but he couldn’t place him at once. Then he recalled. The last time he had seen him, the dead man was wearing a heavy bearskin coat. He was one of Preacher’s sons, Zeb or Quincy, he wasn’t sure which. Jordan cocked his head to the wind, listening. Preacher Rix could not be far away.
Having already decided to put Deadwood far behind him, he had to reconsider his decision. He was convinced that it would be all right with God and everybody else if Preacher Rix was stopped. On the other hand, he no longer felt that it was up to him personally to correct God’s mistakes. He had done enough killing. Maggie Hogg’s words came back to him: You can’t kill the whole town. After a few more moments’ thought, he decided to leave Preacher Rix and the confused posse of miners to take care of themselves. “Come on, Sweet Pea,” he said to the waiting mare. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
* * *
“Where’s your brother?” Preacher asked when Zeb pulled his horse to a stop before the fire and dismounted.
“Said he was gonna take a look at what all that shootin’ was about on the other side of the ridge,” Zeb replied.
Slightly irritated, Preacher said, “I thought I told you to stay on this side of the ridge until that crazy bunch of miners was gone.” Zeb merely shrugged indifferently. Preacher and his sons had spotted the posse when they were first starting up the western slope of the mountain. Annoyed that Ben Thompson had not kept the mob away from the claims as he had agreed, Preacher had decided to cross over to the far side of a high ridge to avoid contact with the posse. So far, the pickings had not been as good as he had hoped, with little to show for the few claims he and the boys had raided. The only gold he had found was on the one man they had killed.
“Might as well rest the horses,” he had told his sons and selected a spot down the slope to wait out the posse. The spot he picked was a long, narrow gully, where he felt a small fire would go unnoticed from the opposite side of the ridge. “Cup of coffee wouldn’t be bad either, would it?” By the time the coffee water was brought to a boil, they heard the eruption of gunfire reverberating across the ridge tops. Alert to possible trouble coming his way, Preacher had stood up, his ear to the wind. After a while the shooting had stopped. “Zeb, you and Quincy go back up to the top of the ridge and keep your eyes open,” Preacher had instructed. “But don’t go off down the other side. I don’t want none of that crazy bunch to spot you.”
Now Zeb was back without his brother, and it riled Preacher when he was disobeyed. He decided to let it go. Boys will be boys, I reckon. To Zeb he said, “Set yourself down and have some coffee. Quincy’ll just be too late to get some.” Zeb was still blowing his coffee to cool it enough to drink when they heard three more shots. These last shots sounded closer than the original volley. Preacher was immediately concerned. “We’d better go find Quincy,” he said and dumped the remains of his cup on the fire.