“Yonder’s his horse,” Zeb called out and wheeled his mount to intercept Quincy’s.
Preacher turned his head and followed Zeb with his eyes for only a moment before turning his gaze back to a thicket of heavy brush below him. His brows knotted in a dark frown, he peered intensely into the tangled branches of young pines and laurel bushes whence Quincy’s horse had bolted. There was no sign of his youngest son. It didn’t look good. It wouldn’t be the first time Quincy had simply fallen off his horse, if that was the case. Were it not for the gunshots he had heard, he might have suspected as much.
With the possibility of ambush in his mind, Preacher dismounted before the thicket and took a good look around before entering. There was plenty of sign to paint a fairly accurate picture of what had taken place. Aside from the obvious path Quincy’s horse had created when it bolted, the underbrush was still bent and broken where a body had lain in wait. Preacher looked beyond the impression to see a small clearing a few yards ahead. He pushed on through the tangle and almost stepped on the body lying at the edge.
“Quincy!” Preacher howled upon finding his youngest a lifeless corpse. “Quincy!” he cried out again, this time wailing like a mother wolf over her fallen pup.
When Zeb rode up, leading Quincy’s horse, it was to find his father on his knees beside his brother’s body, tears streaming down the ominous face. He had never seen his father stricken this way before. “Is he dead?” Zeb asked in his simple way.
Without turning away from his son’s body, Preacher replied angrily, “They got my boy, my favorite, shot him in the chest. I always liked him the best, too.”
Oblivious to the slight, Zeb edged over to get a closer look at his late brother. “Dang!” he exclaimed. “Got him dead center.”
“I’ll kill every last one of ’em,” Preacher vowed.
“I don’t think it was any of them in that posse,” Zeb said. “They scattered and run off down the other side of the ridge. I could still hear ’em ridin’ like hell.”
His son’s comment stopped Preacher cold. Zeb was right. It was unlikely that Quincy had been shot by a member of the posse. “Jordan Gray!” he exclaimed softly. It had to be. There was no doubt in his mind, and he knew he would track Gray down if it took the rest of his life. Getting to his feet, he snapped, “Look around this clearing. Find the bastard’s trail!”
They scoured the perimeter of the small clearing until Zeb called out that he had found what they were looking for. Pointing at two faint hoofprints at the south edge of the clearing, he said, “He lit out yonder way, most likely headin’ for that canyon.”
Preacher studied the tracks for a few moments. Then, agreeing with his son, he said, “Let’s ride.”
“What about Quincy?” Zeb asked. “Ain’t we gonna bury him?”
Preacher hesitated, one foot already in the stirrup. “Of course we’re gonna bury him,” he said reluctantly and withdrew his foot from the stirrup.
“What are we gonna use for a shovel?”
This stopped Preacher for a moment longer, his mind already working on the thought of Jordan Gray getting farther and farther away. “Our knives,” he finally answered, drawing his skinning knife from its sheaf.
The rocky soil, laced with pine roots, proved to be a formidable task for gravediggers armed with nothing more than skinning knives. After laboring for almost half an hour with no more to show for their efforts than a shallow seam scratched into the hard ground, Preacher gave it up. “We’ll just lay him down here and cover him up good with rocks,” he said. So they spent another half hour collecting enough rocks to form a mound. When he was satisfied with the grave, Preacher prayed to the Lord above to receive his younger son in Heaven and promised that he would seek out and slaughter Quincy’s killer. Finished with the prayer, he said, “Let’s ride. The trail’s already gittin’ cold.”
* * *
Unaware that he was now the object of an intense manhunt far more perilous than the haphazard effort by the miners’ posse, Jordan was on his way out of the Black Hills. It would have been better if he could have somehow cleared his name before leaving Deadwood. But with the mind-set of the men there, he knew there was very little chance. Still grappling with the decision to return to Fort Laramie, he decided to make his way back to the Cheyenne River. Once he reached the river, and was out of the mountains, he would decide whether to continue on to Laramie or turn west to the Big Horns or maybe the Wind River Mountains.
The call of the mountains was a powerful force upon Jordan. He thrived upon the solitude they offered, but there was still a nagging thought that continued to return to plague him. Kathleen Beard is at Fort Laramie. And he had given up trying to deceive himself about his indifference to her engagement to Lieutenant Wallace. Kathleen was the only person who could lure him away from his mountains, and he admitted to himself that he would work as a scout, farmhand, or most any other job to be near her. More and more, he wondered if it would have made a difference had he expressed his feelings for her instead of simply slinking off to the Black Hills like a whipped dog. “God,” he confessed to Sweet Pea, “what a damn fool I was. She may have changed her mind about marrying Wallace.” Deep down, he doubted it, but he felt he needed to know for sure. Otherwise, he could never be free of the nagging thought of what might have been.
* * *
After a half day’s travel, making his way through the many narrow canyons that wound through the mountains, Jordan came upon a strong spring that formed a small pool at the base of a sheer rock cliff. With darkness rapidly closing in, he decided he’d better camp there for the night. For the previous hour and a half, he had been following a game trail that led in a generally southern direction. He hoped that it would lead him around the mountain that had seemed intent upon blocking his way.
He was probably a day’s ride east of the trail Ned and he had followed into the Black Hills, so this area of the mountains was new to him. Without Jordan giving it conscious thought, his mind was already beginning to settle into the peaceful state that almost always descended upon him when he roamed alone and free in the high mountains. Away from the greed and destruction that mining towns like Deadwood cast upon the land, he could appreciate the art of the Creator in the steep, dark mountain slopes and the green valleys. There was a spiritual feeling about these mountains that he could not recall experiencing in the Big Horns or the Wind River range. He allowed that it could simply be his imagination, but he fully understood the Lakota’s reverence for the Black Hills, for he felt it too.
Several miles behind him, Preacher Rix stood up in his stirrups, glaring angrily at the steep wall of a box canyon. His son pulled his horse up beside him. Gazing at the pine–covered slope, now rapidly releasing the last rays of the sun, Zeb stated the obvious. “I don’t think he come this way. He musta took the other fork back yonder.”
Preacher glowered at his surviving son, his patience already threadbare. It had never been an obvious trail that Jordan Gray had left for them to follow, and now they were even farther behind after making the wrong guess at the confluence of two streams some two miles back. They had not found a track along the entire two miles, but Preacher had been almost certain it was the fork Jordan would have taken. It just looked to be the easier route. Preacher stared at the ground around him, still looking for sign and unwilling to believe he had lost the trail. “Dammit!” he bellowed. “Don’t that horse ever shit?” Damn him. He must know we’re trailing him.
But Jordan was not concerned with being followed. At the fork where Preacher had made the wrong choice, Jordan might have taken the same trail had it not been for the simple decision to try to work his way back toward the west in hopes of crossing the original trail Ned and he had taken into the hills.
The cold night air that settled onto the canyon floor as soon as the sun had disappeared brought a chill that made him long for the warm buffalo robe he had left behind when his packhorses were slaughtered. He wrapped his blanket around him and lay close to the fire, thinking about the coffee that had also been left behind. Luckily, the pouch of gold dust was safe in his saddlebags. It would be needed to buy new supplies when he got to Fort Laramie.
The thought of Fort Laramie caused him to create a picture of Kathleen in his mind. Choosing not to dispel it this time, as he usually tried to do, he turned over to put his back to the fire and drifted off to sleep, taking her image with him into his dreams. Sweet Pea ambled over and stood next to the sleeping man. Jordan had long since dispensed with hobbling the homely beast, knowing the horse would not wander. She had become firmly attached to her master, almost like a pet dog, and she stood over him now for a few moments, sniffing his blanket, before settling in for the night herself.
Stiff and cold, Jordan awoke when he heard Sweet Pea blow and snort a couple of times. He instinctively grabbed his rifle and sat up, pushing his blanket aside. The first rays of morning light were filtering through the trees on the mountainside above him, yielding enough light for him to look around his campsite. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Sweet Pea would normally blow through her nostrils when she heard or saw something that concerned her, followed by a snort if she felt there might be danger. Sometimes it was a real danger; sometimes it might simply be a fox or a coyote investigating his camp. As there was almost always something slinking around out there, Jordan decided it most likely some small animal. He put his rifle down and turned his attention toward reviving his fire.
A strip of pronghorn jerky would have to suffice for breakfast, for he had not taken time to hunt. Carrying the cold hard meat in his saddlebags was a habit he had acquired during the long, cruel months of winter in the mountains when game was sometimes scarce. The jerky was enough to quiet the arguing in an empty belly when there was no fresh meat to cook. His brief breakfast finished, he warmed his hands over the fire for a few more moments before saddling his horse.
Sweet Pea held still while she was being saddled, but Jordan noticed that the horse was still uneasy about something. Her ears, which were constantly in motion, were now standing rigid, instead of loosely erect as when nothing troubled her. Jordan had learned that it was best to pay attention to Sweet Pea’s sounds and signs, so he paused to take another look around him. As he carefully scanned the trees at the base of the canyon, the sun peeked over the ridge behind him, casting slender beams to light the tips of the pines.
It was no more than a fraction of a second, but his eye caught the flash of sun reflecting from a metallic surface, and then it was gone. Immediately alert, he nonetheless took care not to show signs of alarm. The flash of metal had come from a point where the pines were thickest. He could see nothing out of the ordinary in the trees, but he knew for sure that God had made no part of a pine tree out of metal, and he was certain of what he had seen. Moving without apparent haste, he slipped around to the other side of his horse. With Sweet Pea between himself and the pines, he pretended to adjust the saddle while he peered over the horse’s back, trying to spot any sign of movement. Indians? he wondered. There was no thought of the posse from Deadwood. There was no possibility that they could have caught up to him, even if they had ridden through the night while he slept. There was no way they could see to follow him through those narrow canyons and over the ridges in the dark. Preacher? He doubted it. If it was Preacher, he would already be shooting, instead of simply watching. Yet Jordan was certain there was something or someone out there watching him. Sweet Pea was certain of it as well. She tossed her head around and snorted defiantly. Considering his options, he decided there were only two. He could take cover behind a low rock ledge beside the stream, or he could make a run for it down the length of the canyon. Although he was not certain where the canyon might lead him, he favored that option over digging in to stand off a possible attack when he wasn’t sure of the odds.
“Well, girl,” he whispered low, “let’s get the hell outta here.” With one foot in the stirrup, he gave her a slap on the rump, and she immediately responded. Before he swung his leg over and settled in the saddle, she was in full gallop. In the next instant, he heard the distinct snap of a bullet passing over his head, followed by the crack of a rifle. Behind him, he heard war cries, and glancing back over his shoulder, he saw several warriors running from the trees to take a shot at him. Lying low on Sweet Pea’s neck, he urged the mare for more speed, and she held nothing back as several more bullets zipped around them. Then the shooting stopped while the warriors ran back into the trees to get their ponies. Jordan and Sweet Pea raced toward the end of the canyon and the mountain that appeared to close off the passage.
The homely mare soon exposed her inner beauty, gliding over the grassy valley floor with long, steady strides that increased the gap between them and the war party. Behind him, Jordan could hear the war cries of his pursuers echoing against the rocky walls of the canyon. Still lying low against Sweet Pea’s neck, he could feel the power of her strides surging up through her shoulders and withers as her hooves pounded a steady rhythm over the ground, rapidly consuming the length of the valley. In no time at all, they reached the southern end of the canyon and, much to Jordan’s relief, a narrow passage that led to another canyon.
Due to the confined space and the winding curves of the passage, Jordan had to hold Sweet Pea to a slow walk for a distance of close to seventy-five yards. He sat patiently, glancing up at the sheer rock walls on either side as Sweet Pea followed the narrow trail. Angry cries of Lakota warriors came closer and closer as they approached the mouth of the passage. Finally, the narrow pass opened to a canyon much the same as the one he had just fled. Sweet Pea immediately jumped to a gallop without waiting for Jordan’s urging.
Recognizing his advantage at this point, he quickly made a decision. He was confident in Sweet Pea’s ability to outrun the war party. On the other hand, the warriors were sitting ducks when they reached the end of the passage. Being only wide enough to permit riders to go single file, the passage presented the opportunity to stop the war party in its tracks. Some fifty yards into the valley, Jordan brought Sweet Pea to a stop and wheeled her around. Without dismounting, he drew his Winchester, cocked it, and waited for the first warrior to reach the end of the passage. Even though he was being chased, he had no real desire to kill his pursuers, only to stop them. He was a trespasser in their sacred land. He couldn’t really blame them for coming after him.
He didn’t have to wait long. In what seemed to be only seconds, the first warrior appeared near the opening of the pass. Pulling the trigger and cranking each round in the chamber almost in one action, Jordan sent three shots ricocheting off the rocks on both sides of the warrior’s head, driving the startled Lakota back into his friends. Jordan cocked another cartridge into the chamber and waited. Before long, he spotted the head of a warrior cautiously peeking around the base of a boulder guarding the mouth of the passage. Jordan held his fire, letting the man inch forward on his belly until he could get a good look into the canyon. Clear of the boulder, what the warrior saw was a rifle leveled at him. Jordan’s shot chipped off a shard of rock inches from the warrior’s cheek, and the Indian immediately scrambled back to safety.
In the confines of the narrow passage, the Lakota war party was in a state of confusion as those in the rear tried to push forward, not sure what was confronting those in the lead. After several chaotic seconds with Indian ponies pushing and shoving against one another, the word was relayed back to wait.
Painted Wolf, after narrowly avoiding being shot, crawled back to define the situation. “We are trapped here,” he said. “The white man sits and waits to shoot us one by one if we try to get out of here.”
Frustrated, yet reluctant to see any of his war party killed, Red Feather recognized the futility of trying to press the attack. It was difficult to acknowledge defeat of a war party eighteen strong by a lone white man with a repeating rifle, but it would be suicide to continue. “We must go back,” he finally stated. “It is foolish to push on.”
Painted Wolf, always reluctant to admit defeat, complained, “Maybe we should ride out as fast as our horses will run. I think he is not such a good shot. He missed with every shot.”
“I think he is a very good shot,” Red Feather replied. “I don’t think he meant to kill. He does not look like he seeks the yellow dirt like the others. He has no packhorse, none of the tools the miners use. I think he merely wants to pass through our lands. I think he is saying let me go in peace. I say we should back out of this trap and go back to our village. Maybe we will catch him on the other side of this mountain. If not, I’ll go alone to look for him to make sure he is leaving Paha Sapa, but the rest of you should return to our camp. If he is on his way out of these hills, I say we should let him go. But I only speak for myself.”
Those close enough to hear decided Red Feather spoke with wisdom. They had been on their way back to their camp on the Cheyenne River when they had discovered this white man. They had been away for many days, and all felt the need to return since there was word that the army had sent out patrols looking for Lakota who had left the reservation. “It is best that we hurry back to our camp,” Two Kills said. “We must see that our women and children are safe. I agree with Red Feather.”
Even Painted Wolf was persuaded. “I’ll go with Red Feather,” he said. “The rest of you hurry back to the camp, and we’ll catch up as soon as we see that this white intruder is on his way.” The word was passed back, and the war party started backing out of the passage until reaching a curve where there was enough room to turn their ponies around and proceed.
Out in the open valley, Jordan watched and waited. After a few minutes, when there was no sign of further attempts by the warriors to gain a position to shoot from, he wheeled his horse, and Sweet Pea once again sprang into full gallop. Racing down the length of the valley, he fully expected to hear gunshots behind him, but to his surprise, the Indians did not come after him. Ned Booth had often said you could never figure out what a Sioux Indian would do. I guess he was right, Jordan thought.
* * *
“Pa, look!” Zeb Rix pulled hard on the reins, causing his horse to stop and back up a few paces.
“Stay back,” Preacher warned. He had already spotted the Lakota war party entering the lower end of the valley. “Just hold still right there till we know for sure they ain’t seen us.”
Edging the horses back into the trees, they watched, ready to run for it if necessary. After a few minutes, it was obvious that the Indians had not seen them, for they headed off over a ridge to the west. “They come from the way Jordan Gray had to have rode,” Preacher said. “Maybe that was what the shootin’ was about.” Maybe Jordan Gray had run right into the Sioux war party, and the Indians had settled the score for Preacher. He hoped Jordan had escaped because he wanted the satisfaction of dealing with his son’s killer personally.
As the Rixes watched the war party climb the ridge, two members of the party broke off from the others and headed back across the lower end of the ridge and the other side of the mountain. “Now where are them two goin’?” Preacher wondered aloud. Quincy’s death had sparked an unrelenting lust to spill someone’s blood. If there was a chance the war party had killed Jordan Gray, then Preacher would at least demand satisfaction from those who had killed him. Besides that, he never passed up an opportunity to kill an Indian, and he liked the odds when there were only two. “Let’s follow them two,” he said to Zeb.
“What about Jordan Gray?”
“We’ll git back on his trail, but first, we’ll see what these two heathens is up to.” He waited a couple of minutes longer until the last of the war party disappeared over the ridge; then he left the cover of the trees and made straight for the point where the two warriors had crossed.
Topping the ridge, the father and son paused long enough to make sure they hadn’t been seen by the two warriors they were stalking. The two Indians were not in sight, so the Rixes descended to the base of the ridge to find a game trail that circled the mountain before them. From the hoofprints they found, Preacher determined that the Indians had followed the trail. Riding as fast as they could while still maintaining a cautious eye, Preacher and his son followed the narrow, winding trail, skirting the mountain, which was on their left now, then down through a rocky gulch that separated it from another mountain on their right. There was no sign of the Lakota warriors. Up through the pines, then down again to weave its way around huge boulders, the trail led them almost completely around to the valley beyond the mountain. Unknown to Preacher, it was the valley where Jordan had turned back the war party in the narrow passage. He was about to leave the game trail and ride down into the open meadow when he spotted the two warriors some fifty yards below him.
He quickly held up his hand to halt Zeb behind him. “Hold the horses,” he whispered as he dismounted and handed the reins to his son. Drawing his rifle from the saddle sling, he made his way a little farther down the slope to a point where he could get a better look at the Indians. They were completely unaware of the two white men following them. Sitting on their ponies, they appeared to be discussing something, as one of them pointed toward the south end of the valley. A slow grin crept across Preacher’s dark face as he raised his rifle and sighted down on the shoulder blades of the warrior closest to him.
Below Preacher, Painted Wolf jerked upright when the bullet slammed into his back. He appeared to brace himself for a moment before sliding sideways from his pony. At the sound of the shot, Red Feather rolled off his pony, narrowly avoiding the second slug that ripped the air over his horse’s back. With his rifle in hand, the Lakota warrior crawled over to Painted Wolf. Keeping low to the ground, he managed to drag Painted Wolf to cover behind an outcropping of rocks. Searching desperately, he tried to spot the source of the attack on the hill above him while glancing back frequently to determine the severity of Painted Wolf’s wound. His friend made no sound, lying as still as the rock he was behind, and Red Feather soon realized Painted Wolf was dead, the bullet having severed his spine. Red Feather turned his full attention back to the slope. A movement in the trees below the game trail caught his attention, and he turned in time to see the muzzle flash of a rifle. The bullet ricocheted off the rocks behind him. He quickly raised his rifle and returned fire, his shot answered almost immediately by three shots in quick succession. Hunkering down behind the rocks, Red Feather loaded another cartridge into the chamber and crawled over to the opposite side of the largest of the rocks. With only three more cartridges in his belt, he wished he had been able to grab Painted Wolf’s bullet pouch before the shots caused both ponies to bolt. Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see the ponies standing some one hundred yards away in the grassy meadow.
Not far away, Zeb was unable to contain his excitement any longer. He tied the horses to a tree limb and scrambled down to join his father.
“I thought I told you to mind the horses,” Preacher scolded.
“They’re all right,” Zeb replied, all the while searching for a target. “I tied ’em to a tree.”
“I got one of ’em,” Preacher said. “The other one’s behind them rocks down yonder.” He pointed out the mound of rocks just as Red Feather fired another shot. Anxious to get in on the fun, Zeb squeezed off three rapid bursts, sending shards of rock flying. “Dammit, boy,” Preacher rebuked sharply. “Wait till you can see somethin’ to shoot at.” Zeb responded with a nervous giggle. Understanding his son’s passion for killing, Preacher said, “Don’t fret yourself. You’ll git your turn.”
Content for the moment to sit and wait for the Indian to make a run for the ponies standing in the open meadow, Preacher rested his rifle barrel in the fork of a small limb. “Come on outta there, you heathen,” he muttered patiently. Zeb, on the other hand, was possessed of very little patience for anything. He stood up and cranked out three more shots, chipping away at the rocks. His barrage was immediately answered by a single shot that barely missed his head, sending him scrambling behind a tree trunk. “Dang blast it, boy,” Preacher snarled. “You done pinpointed our position for him. We’d better move.”
With Zeb following, Preacher quickly made his way farther down through the trees to a new position behind a sizable rock. There was a short pause before the Indian fired another shot at the trees Preacher and Zeb had just fled. The pause was enough to make Preacher think, He ain’t got nothing but a single-shot rifle. He looked around him then, deciding the best place to move to next. “Zeb, throw a couple more shots at him, then hustle your ass after me.” Zeb did as he was told, and ricocheted two more slugs off the rocks. As soon as he fired, Preacher reached up and pulled him roughly to the ground. The return fire he expected was short in coming. As soon as Red Feather fired, Preacher ordered, “Come on,” and made a dash for a pine thicket a few yards farther down the slope. Once within the cover of the thicket, Preacher paused to study the bastion of rocks. “He sure is stingy with his bullets,” he mused aloud. “He must not have many.” The thought brought a grin to his face. He turned to Zeb. “Let’s just see how many he’s got.” Raising his rifle again, he aimed at the edge of the rocky fortress and blasted away. Zeb followed suit. After a volley of more than a dozen shots, they hugged the ground and waited. As Preacher expected, a single shot answered the barrage and then nothing.
Enjoying the game now, Preacher moved again, this time down to a gully roughly on the same level as the outcropping of rocks. He could not be sure, but he was willing to gamble that the heathen had very little ammunition left, for the warrior failed to fire at them when they scrambled for the gully. Had he known that his enemy had already fired his last cartridge, he would have strolled boldly across the short expanse of grass that separated them.
Red Feather’s situation was desperate. It would only be a matter of time before his assailants realized that he was out of bullets. Death was certain. His only chance was to make a run for the horses, but to do so meant sprinting across approximately one hundred yards of open meadow. He knew there was very little chance he could make it, but it was his only option. Laying his rifle aside, he crawled to the edge of the rocks and prepared to run. After taking a deep breath to make sure he had plenty of wind, he braced himself to spring forward. After a short prayer to Man Above, he launched his body into the open, sprinting as hard as he could.
Preacher, watching the rocks intensely, immediately jumped to his feet and fired. His bullet caught Red Feather in the thigh, causing the sprinting warrior to crash heavily in the grass. With his evil grin in place, Preacher reached up and grabbed Zeb’s rifle barrel before his son could squeeze the trigger. “Hold your water,” he said. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
In no particular hurry now, Preacher stepped out into the open, paused a moment to look around, then leisurely walked toward the wounded man, reloading his rifle as he walked. Zeb, anxious to get to the helpless Indian, ran ahead of his father, giggling gleefully, like a schoolboy one third his age. By the time Preacher reached Red Feather, Zeb was standing over the fallen warrior, his rifle pointed at Red Feather’s head. “Let’s turn him over so he can see it comin’,” Preacher said as he walked up. Red Feather tried to resist, but Preacher was too powerful. He grabbed Red Feather’s ankles and flipped him over on his back. Red Feather grunted in pain. Zeb, the muzzle of his rifle only inches from the warrior’s face, cocked his weapon and prepared to fire.
“What’s your hurry?” Preacher asked. “I ain’t never skinned no Injun before. Whaddaya say we skin this one?” He glanced up at his son. Noting the look of disappointment in Zeb’s face, he added, “You can try your hand at it.” Zeb’s face immediately lit up again. Red Feather, understanding English very well, tensed perceptively and struggled to free himself from Preacher’s powerful grip. The huge man merely laughed at the Indian’s efforts. “Go fetch some rope off my saddle,” he said. “I’ll hold this buck here. And bring the horses up with you,” he called after Zeb, who was already running toward the slope. He knew his son wouldn’t think to do it on his own.
“Well, Mr. Redskin,” Preacher gloated, “I reckon you ain’t as lucky as your friend back there. You ever seed a man skinned before? I ain’t myself, but I bet it’s a pretty sight. I’m gonna let my boy do the work. Zeb loves to work with a knife.” He studied the dark eyes gazing unblinking up at him. “You understand what I’m sayin’, don’t you?” Red Feather didn’t answer. “Shore you do,” Preacher went on. “I can see it in your heathen eyes.” Preacher chuckled. “Does that leg pain you some? I’ll have Zeb dig for the bullet when he skins your legs.” Red Feather suddenly lunged backward in an attempt to break his captor’s hold on his ankles. His unexpected surge caught Preacher by surprise and resulted in his freeing one ankle, but the big man reacted quickly enough to hold him fast with the other hand. Red Feather kicked violently with his free leg until Preacher grabbed his rifle and knocked him senseless.
“Let’s do this right,” Preacher said and dragged Red Feather back to meet Zeb at the trees on the edge of the meadow. With Zeb’s enthusiastic help, he tied ropes from the Indian’s ankles and wrists to four young saplings, spreading the barely conscious warrior’s limbs wide apart. When he was satisfied that Red Feather was stretched as far as his limbs would permit, he told Zeb to fetch a hatful of water from the stream that divided the valley. When Zeb returned with the water, Preacher instructed him to throw it in Red Feather’s face. “We wanna make sure he don’t miss any of the fun.”
Content now that all was ready, Preacher sat down on a rock. “All right, son, go to it. Let’s see if it’s the same as skinnin’ a deer.”
“He ain’t got much fur, has he, Pa?” Zeb chortled. “I reckon it’s best to split the hide down his belly first.” He held the long skinning knife up before Red Feather’s face so his victim could see it. Red Feather’s eyes were wide with terror. But in one last show of defiance, he spit in Zeb’s face. Startled by the spittle dripping from the end of his nose, Zeb looked at his father.
Preacher threw back his head and laughed. “By damn, he’s got sand, ain’t he?” Then, just as suddenly, his face turned dead serious. “Cut him,” he ordered. “Let him know the wrath of the Lord.”
Zeb thrust the knife downward into the warrior’s chest, just deep enough to pierce the skin. Red Feather stiffened with the pain, but made no sound. Zeb grinned and held the blade there for a moment. Watching the fun, Preacher was about to tell his son to go on and rip his belly apart when he heard what sounded like a solid thump and saw the ragged hole that suddenly appeared in Zeb’s throat. Less than an instant later, he heard the crack of the rifle. Too stunned to move at first, he watched in horror as his only remaining son stood for a long moment, his eyes bulging, staring into eternity before crumpling to the ground. Then Preacher’s natural instinct for self-preservation took command and he rolled away from the bound Indian, seeking cover in the trees. His first thought was that the rest of the war party had heard the shooting and returned to investigate. He searched the ridge above him frantically, but could see no one. Not ready to take on an entire war party, he jumped on his horse and sped away across the open meadow toward the ridge on the far side.
From his vantage point; Jordan sighed in relief. He had not been sure he could hit his target two hundred yards away. He wasn’t sure where he had hit his target. He had aimed at Zeb’s back. But at least he had hit him somewhere that had dropped him.
Even at that distance, he had recognized the pair—Preacher Rix and one of his half-wit sons—up to their evil tricks. Jordan had heard the gunfire and, after some deliberation, decided to go take a look. At present, he didn’t know if he had been in time to save the Indian’s life. The way the man was strung up by his limbs, it was hard to tell if he was living or dead.
Jordan watched until Preacher reached the far side of the valley and disappeared into the trees that covered the ridge beyond. He could have thrown another shot in Preacher’s direction, but the huge brute was already out of range, so Jordan decided not to waste the ammunition. He stepped up into the saddle and guided Sweet Pea down the steep slope toward the captive Lakota warrior.
Suspended between four saplings, the muscles in his arms and legs screaming in pain, Red Feather could scarcely believe the sudden reprieve from torture and slow death. He could now hear the horse approaching from behind him, but if he had been saved by his friends as he assumed, he was puzzled that he heard no cries from familiar voices. A few moments later, he was again cast into a state of uncertainty, for it was another white man who approached. Again, he waited helplessly to know his fate.
Jordan rode slowly around the captured warrior before dismounting and drawing his knife from its sheath. Not a word was spoken by either man. Red Feather watched the broad-shouldered white man dressed in animal skins. He could not tell from the quiet, steady gaze if he were to be spared or if his execution had merely been delayed. He involuntarily tensed when Jordan knelt before him to cut the ropes binding his ankles. He released his breath in a long sigh, not realizing until then that he had been holding it.
When the last rope was severed, Jordan just managed to catch Red Feather by the arm to prevent the weakened Indian from collapsing. Red Feather could not suppress a groan of pain when his tortured joints were suddenly released. Jordan lowered him gently to the ground. Assuming the Indian spoke no English, Jordan pointed to the bullet wound in Red Feather’s thigh and tried to motion that he intended to examine it. He was surprised when Red Feather spoke.
“Why have you saved my life? You are my enemy.”
Jordan looked up into the dark eyes that stared unblinking at him. “I’m not your enemy,” he stated simply.
“All white men are enemies of the Lakota people.”
“I reckon I can understand why you think that way, but it ain’t necessarily so. That man that just rode off from here—he’s my enemy. You ain’t my enemy unless you raise your hand against me.” His gaze locked on the warrior’s for a moment. “Right now, I’d best take a look at that wound while you’ve still got some blood left in you.”
Red Feather considered Jordan’s words. Then he thought about the incident back in the narrow pass when Jordan could have very easily killed Painted Wolf, but chose to spare him, taking only warning shots to hold the war party at bay. The white man was right. These were not the acts of an enemy. “How are you called?” he asked.
“Jordan Gray.”
“Jordan Gray,” Red Feather pronounced slowly, memorizing the name. “I am called Red Feather. Thank you, Jordan Gray, for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome,” Jordan replied. “I’m glad I came to take a look-see.” He paused to glance at Zeb Rix’s body. “It was a pleasure.”
With Jordan supporting him, Red Feather hobbled over to the stream to clean his wound. Afterward, Jordan searched through his saddlebags until he found an old cotton shirt he used for rags. Tearing off a strip, he used it to bind Red Feather’s wound. “I ain’t very good at this,” he apologized, “but I reckon it’ll stop the bleedin’.” A picture flashed though his mind of the gentle touch of Kathleen Beard’s hands when she had once bandaged his wounds. Just as quickly, he banished the image from his thoughts. “I best get those horses in,” he said, looking at the Indian ponies grazing in the meadow.
From the top of the ridge on the other side of the valley, Preacher Rix stood watching the man round up the two ponies. He could feel the angry blood pulsing through the veins in his neck, filling him with a hot hatred that cried out for vengeance. Jordan Gray. The name was a curse on his family. Now Jordan Gray had taken another son from him. Calling for God to witness his oath, he vowed to cut Jordan’s heart out and eat it. If he had known it was Jordan alone when Zeb fell dead, he would not have fled. Checking his rifle now, he prepared to return to the meadow to extract his vengeance when something at the head of the valley caught his eye, causing him to hesitate. Sixteen Sioux warriors suddenly appeared, their ponies prancing smartly as the warriors guided them out on the valley floor.
Circling around behind the two grazing ponies, Jordan let Sweet Pea herd them back toward the stream, where Red Feather waited. His mind on the horses, he was not aware of the war party until the shots rang out, and the slugs ripped into the grass before him. His first reaction was to reach for his rifle.
“No!” Red Feather immediately cried out and struggled to his feet. Waving wildly, he called out to his brothers to hold their fire. “Come!” he yelled to Jordan. “Come stand by me.”
Jordan did as Red Feather directed, but he kept his rifle ready. Although they had stopped shooting, the war party was now charging toward them at full gallop. Jordan could not be sure if they understood Red Feather’s signals or not. He wheeled Sweet Pea around behind Red Feather and dismounted. It was too late to run. He hoped Red Feather hadn’t changed his mind about being friends.
In a matter of seconds, Jordan and Red Feather were surrounded by Indian ponies, their hooves stomping and sliding as their riders pulled them to a sudden stop. The warriors slid off their ponies and crowded around Jordan and Red Feather, their voices loud and excited. Jordan knew very few words of the Lakota tongue, and the voices sounded angry to him. He was not certain that he had chosen wisely. It might have been better to give Sweet Pea his heels when he first caught sight of the war party. Then, as one, the warriors turned to look toward the edge of the meadow where Painted Wolf’s body lay, and Jordan figured Red Feather had just given them the news of the warrior’s death. While several members of the party went to take care of Painted Wolf’s body, the rest turned their attention to Jordan, as Red Feather told them that the white man had saved his life. The angry glances disappeared, and the warriors nodded to Jordan, smiling their approval. One of the Indians, who appeared to be older than the others, spoke directly to Jordan, causing those around him to laugh and nod their heads in agreement. Puzzled, Jordan turned to Red Feather for explanation.
“Many Horses says he knew you were a brave man. It would take a brave man to ride a horse that looks like a coyote.”
Jordan grinned and once again received nods of approval from the Lakota warriors. Several of them repeated the words sung ma he tu while glancing from Jordan to Sweet Pea. Jordan nodded in return, then looked again to Red Feather for explanation.
“Coyote,” he translated.
Suddenly, a high-pitched war cry rang out, and Jordan turned to see a warrior standing over Zeb’s body by the pine saplings. He was holding a bloody scalp over his head. The other warriors joined in the triumphant cry. After some discussion, with most of the warriors looking to Many Horses for his opinion, the warrior with the scalp came up to Jordan and presented the grisly trophy to him. Jordan had no desire to have the bloody piece of hair and scalp, but he was not sure if it would be an insult to refuse it. Glancing at Red Feather, who nodded approval, he mumbled, “Much obliged,” and accepted it.
Up on the ridge top on the far side of the valley, Preacher Rix observed the scalping of his son, and he could barely control his agony. Moaning helplessly, he watched as the warrior handed Zeb’s scalp to Jordan, and the sight almost blinded him with rage. Desperately needing some way to vent his fury, he grabbed a limb of the pine he had taken cover behind and snapped it in two. He cursed Jordan Gray, the Lakota warriors, even God Himself. That done, he vowed to follow Jordan Gray, no matter where, until he had an opportunity to kill him. “If it takes the rest of my life,” he stated, “I’ll track him down until I catch him alone, and then I’ll feed his guts to the wolves.” He would have to be patient, for across the meadow the war party mounted up and started toward the southern end of the valley, Jordan Gray with them.
There had been some discussion among the warriors about whether or not they should go in search of the man who had killed Painted Wolf. Most had been reluctant to return to camp without avenging Painted Wolf, but Many Horses had reminded them of their obligation to protect their women and children. “The soldiers have already sent patrols out to other camps to punish the people for ignoring the white father’s orders to return to the reservation. We have been away for a long time. We must see that our people are safe, and move our camp to the Powder River valley to join Sitting Bull and the others.” He had turned to look at Jordan. “This man is our friend. He has killed one of the white men and avenged Painted Wolf. I think it best to return to our people now.”
Jordan rode beside Red Feather as the Lakota war party filed out of the valley. It was not his preference to accompany the Sioux back to their camp. He had other issues on his mind that could only be resolved back in Fort Laramie. But his new friend, Red Feather, was intent upon showing his gratitude, so Jordan agreed to ride with them, thinking it might be impolite to refuse the invitation. It would be a two-day ride to the Sioux camp, but it was in the general direction of Fort Laramie, so it would not be that much out of his way. Also, he had never been to an Indian village before, so he had to admit to a mild curiosity to visit one. Sweet Pea was still a little leery of the Indian ponies, so Jordan was careful to keep a safe interval between the mare and Red Feather’s pony lest she take a notion to take a bite out of the unsuspecting animal.
As Jordan rode along in the midst of a Lakota war party, his mind was busy sorting through a mental stew of random thoughts. His decision to accompany Ned Booth to Deadwood had resulted in a series of unfortunate turns of fate. There was a definite feeling of guilt on his part, for Ned would in all likelihood still be alive if he had not been Jordan’s partner. As for Deadwood, the town regarded him as a wanton murderer who stalked isolated mining claims, and he saw no way to disprove it. Now he questioned the reasoning behind his decision to return to Fort Laramie. Kathleen had given him no reason for hope—or had she? He found it difficult to remember now why he had thought so. Maybe he was a fool to think she had feelings for him. She was going to marry her handsome lieutenant. He shook his head to clear his mind. He glanced up to see Red Feather watching him, a questioning look in his eye. Jordan smiled at the Lakota warrior, and Red Feather returned the smile. Maybe, Jordan thought, I belong here with the Sioux.
From his position, when the last warrior rode out of the little valley, Preacher Rix guided his horse down to the grassy floor. His mind gripped in a partial daze, he rode to the edge of the meadow and dismounted by Zeb’s body. Long minutes passed while he stood transfixed, staring down at his elder son’s lifeless eyes. The expression on Zeb’s face, now eternal, told of the sudden shock when his life ended. A flash of anger flooded over Preacher when he looked at the ragged wound where once Zeb’s hair had been. In Preacher’s life now, there remained but one certainty, and that was the fact that Jordan Gray was a dead man. No matter where he had to go, or how long it took, he would follow Jordan Gray. He would not rest until Jordan Gray’s body was rotting in the sun. With the patience of a man who knew the inevitable truth, Preacher took his time burying his son before following the party of Lakota. They would not be hard to track, especially with the trail left behind by the travois carrying Painted Wolf’s body.