Cruel Rider Page 10

  Jordan made no reply to Ben’s thanks, merely nodding his acknowledgement. He turned Sweet Pea’s head, and gave the mare a gentle nudge with his heels. The Arapaho’s pony jerked at the reins, taking a few steps to follow. “Better hold him,” Jordan advised. “He looks a little skittish.” With that final piece of advice, he rode off through the trees.

  Ben scrambled up on the horse and yanked back hard on the reins to hold the nervous pony. The horse responded by rearing on its hind legs, causing Ben to grab for the saddle horn to keep from being thrown. When the horse settled down again, Ben’s hand slid off the horn to rest on the butt of Jack’s rifle. Desperate thoughts flooded his brain as he gazed at Jordan Gray’s broad back, and he suddenly saw a picture of his heroic return to Deadwood with the body of the notorious scout draped across his saddle. He hesitated. Although moving at a leisurely pace, he would soon be swallowed up in the forest of pines. The temptation was too great. It was an opportunity to make a real name for himself.

  Thirty yards away, Jordan heard the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked. His reaction was automatic. He rolled out of the saddle, his rifle in hand. Ben never got off the shot. Jordan, in lightening fashion, pumped two .45 caliber slugs into the hapless man’s chest before the sheriff could steady his aim and pull the trigger.

  Stunned for a moment by the suddenness of Thompson’s attempt on his life, Jordan remained kneeling on the ground as the sheriff recoiled from the impact of the shots and fell from the horse. A wave of anger swept over Jordan then—anger for the senseless waste of it all. He rose and walked back to the fallen man, still wary lest the sheriff was still alive. But Thompson was dead, one of Jordan’s bullets had found the heart. Jordan stood over the body for a long moment, contemplating the sorry turn of events. “Damn you,” he suddenly blurted, and kicked the lifeless form.

  It was close to dusk when the lone rider, leading the Indian pony with a body riding across the saddle, stopped on the ridge overlooking Deadwood Gulch. Still nursing an anger that simmered at a low boil inside him, Jordan looped the Indian pony’s reins around the saddle horn and gave the horse a slap on the rump. It responded by galloping a few yards before settling back to a walk. Then it stopped and turned to look at Jordan.

  “Git!” Jordan commanded, but the horse continued to stand and stare, showing no inclination to proceed or to follow. Jordan wheeled Sweet Pea and rode off down the other side of the ridge, confident that Jack Little Hawk’s horse would eventually wander on into Deadwood. He had gone to the trouble to return the sheriff’s body because he felt it necessary to issue a warning. With no pencil or paper available, he had lettered a crude message on Ben’s shirt, using the dead man’s blood for ink. Leave me be, it read.

  Chapter 8

  “Maggie, come take a look at this!” Hattie motioned for her partner before stepping outside on the wooden walkway.

  “Empty-handed,” Maggie said. “I told you they wouldn’t catch him.”

  Hearing their comments, Polly joined them at the door, still holding the knives and forks she had been in the process of laying out by the plates. She shielded her eyes against the sun and peered at the four riders, led by J.D. Watts, their horses walking slowly down the middle of the street,.

  “Hell,” Maggie commented. “There ain’t but four of ’em. Where’s Ben Thompson?”

  “And the Injun,” Hattie added.

  The three women walked out into the street to intercept the four members of the posse. They were soon joined by a sizable crowd from the saloons as the word spread that the posse was back. The four riders pulled up to relate the news. J.D. took on the role as spokesman. “We caught up to him, all right, and we went as far as we could go before we had to turn back. The horses couldn’t make it up to the mountaintop where he was holed up.” He nodded his head toward Whitey. “Whitey’s horse damn near broke his neck. Jordan Gray had the high ground. He coulda picked us off one by one, but Ben and Jack was lucky enough to get to cover before he spotted ’em.”

  Someone in the crowd called out, “Where’s Ben?”

  “Don’t know for sure,” J.D. answered. “There wasn’t no way we could tell, pinned down like we was.”

  “Didn’t you wait to find out if him and the Injun was all right?” someone else asked.

  J.D. shrugged and shook his head. Lester Pierce answered for him. “Hell, we was out in the open gettin’ shot at. Him and Jack was in the trees. We had to get outta there. There wasn’t no way we could say which way they was headin’, so we just come on back. He’ll most likely show up pretty soon.”

  Relieved that the posse had been unsuccessful in capturing Jordan, the three women returned to their chores in the kitchen. The usual crowd came in for supper, Whitey Hickson among them. He enthralled the diners with an embellished account of that day’s incident on the mountain. “Lead was flyin’,” he said. “I felt one whistle right by my ear just before my horse went tail over teacup down the side of that mountain.” He went on to tell of the hailstorm of bullets that forced the four of them back. His fellow diners were properly impressed, and the question was raised concerning what would be done about the wanton murderer.

  Overhearing the question, Hattie remarked, “Jordan Gray ain’t no murderer. You boys ain’t got enough brains to stack a pile of sheep dung, even if it came with directions.”

  Whitey laughed. “Hattie, you and Maggie has always been soft on that man. But fact is fact, and there’s a lot of poor souls dead around here because of Jordan Gray.” Then answering the question just put to him, he said, “I don’t know, Charlie. I reckon we’ll have to wait to see what Ben says.”

  As it would happen, Whitey was the one who found Ben’s body. After supper, he and some of the others adjourned to the Silver Dollar Saloon where he continued to embellish on the standoff in the mountains. It was well past dark when he made his way to his horse, walking on somewhat shaky legs due to the consumption of a considerable quantity of Sweeney’s whiskey—the first round on the house, in reward for his heroism. The horse, although showing the scars of a distressful afternoon, had made this trip countless times before, so it wasn’t necessary for Whitey to remain sober enough to guide the animal. Teetering in the saddle, fighting off the overpowering desire to sleep, Whitey was intent only upon reaching his claim before falling off. He would have missed the Indian pony carrying Ben Thompson’s body had not his horse stopped of its own accord. Whitey sobered up considerably when his half-pickled brain registered the discovery.

  For the second time that night, Hattie, Maggie, and Polly joined a gathering of townsfolk in the middle of the street. “Oh, my Lord,” Hattie sighed, sincerely sorry to find that Ben Thompson had been killed. She and Maggie had never really found fault with Ben, aside from his hardheadedness at times. She would not have wished this fate for the self-proclaimed leader of the Deadwood vigilante committee.

  “I reckon he finally caught up with Jordan Gray,” Rufus Sparks muttered under his breath.

  “He should have left him alone,” Polly Hatcher was quick to respond. The Jordan Gray who had come to her rescue and seen her safely to Deadwood would not have killed had he not been forced to. She was certain of that.

  Hattie put her arm around her niece’s shoulders, and turned her away. “Come on, honey, there’s no need to fret about it.” Ben Thompson was an important man to most of the folks in Deadwood, and there was no use in riling anybody up anymore than they were bound to be over this latest encounter with Jordan. Glancing at Maggie, she said, “This ain’t gonna do much for Jordan’s stock around here.”

  It was not until morning light that the undertaker discovered the message written in blood on Ben’s shirt. When the word got out, even Maggie and Hattie wondered if Jordan might be developing a bloodlust. “I hope to hell that ain’t the case,” Hattie lamented. “He was too nice a young man to turn bad.”

  Ben Thompson had been a key figure in the daily happenings in Deadwood. He had organized the original vigilance committee, and
later took on the job as sheriff. Even so, death was a frequent visitor in the unruly mining town, so the shock of Ben’s demise wore off quickly, and the town soon got back to the business of prospecting, drinking, and gambling. Not one of the town’s citizens was concerned enough to worry about the whereabouts of Jordan Gray—just as long as he wasn’t in Deadwood. There was the question of who might fill the vacancy left in the sheriff’s office. And while J.D. Watts voluntarily took on the task of repairing the window in the jail, he adamantly refused the job of sheriff.

  For Polly Hatcher, life had at last dealt her a peaceful hand. She was genuinely welcomed by her aunt and her aunt’s gruff, pistol-toting partner as a member of their little family. The Trough had gone from the original tent to a pine-frame dining hall with two long tables, end to end, down the center of the room. If Polly had not shown up when she had, Maggie and Hattie would have been pressed to hire someone to help them. The town had progressed slightly from the days when Maggie found it necessary to wear her .44, but she still wore it, feeling undressed without it.

  Although apprehensive at first when she felt the open stares of the customers as she helped serve the meals, Polly soon became accustomed to them. She had not gotten to the point of exchanging flirtatious remarks with the men, answering suggestive comments with nothing more than a shy smile. But within a few days’ time, she became comfortable with her situation. And the horrifying nights, when she would awaken from dreams of Bill Pike’s bleeding body standing over her, were occurring less frequently. The town might be wild and dangerous, but she felt safe under the protection of Maggie and Hattie.

  It didn’t take long for word to get around the gulch that there was a new young lady at The Trough, and that she was a comely lass at that. Most of the town’s male population came by to ogle Hattie’s niece, resulting in a sharp increase in business. Polly soon became accustomed to the openmouthed gapes, and politely declined several offers to hitch up in her first week in town.

  One soul that seemed to find a reason to frequent The Trough between the regularly scheduled hours was young Toby Blessings. Though no more than nineteen, Toby had pulled a man’s load for more than five years, following gold strikes across Montana Territory before ending up in this homely gulch. When he drifted into Deadwood in the spring of the previous year, he seemed to have naturally gravitated toward Maggie and Hattie. Having no family of his own, the two partners of The Trough came to be like aunts to the lonely young man. With the arrival of Polly Hatcher, Toby suddenly found an object of worship. He was smitten with his first glimpse of the flaxen-haired girl, her perfect face marred only by healing scars and bruises. Already accustomed to the shy young man’s frequent visits to The Trough, Hattie found it amusing when Toby began to show up between meals, offering to chop wood or repair the roof shingles—anything for an excuse to be close to Polly.

  “That boy follows her around like a puppy,” Maggie commented one day as she sat before a large pan of potatoes she was peeling. She had paused to watch Toby carry an armload of wood after Polly.

  Hattie looked up from the peas she was shelling to gaze after the two young folks. “‘Pears to me, if he’s supposed to be a prospector, he’s lookin’ for gold in a peculiar place.”

  “Oh, he’s prospectin’, all right,” Maggie said with a laugh. “Only it ain’t for gold.”

  They both laughed at the thought. It would take an earthquake under Toby’s feet before the shy young man would make an aggressive move toward Polly, who seemed oblivious to the obvious emotions worn undisguised on Toby’s face.

  The two women may have been correct in thinking Toby to be shy, but he was also a determined young man. That was evident by his departure from home at the tender age of fourteen when he set out for the Montana gold fields, determined to be his own man. He had never before been struck so helpless by the mere presence of a woman until he first laid eyes upon Polly Hatcher. From that fateful moment, he could not rid his mind of her face, and he realized that he wanted always to be close to her. As a result of that total infatuation, he found more and more excuses to show up at The Trough to offer his help with the chores, following Polly around—as Maggie had said—like a puppy.

  If Polly was aware of the effect she had on the boy, she didn’t show it. After a few days of constant visits by Toby, and some good-natured remarks by Maggie and Hattie, she had to acknowledge the young man’s devotion. “Why, he’s just being friendly,” she said, knowing full well that it went deeper than that. “I expect he’s been all alone for so long that he just wants to be around someone to talk to.”

  “You think so, huh?” Maggie snorted. Then she looked at Hattie and winked.

  “Honey,” Hattie chimed in, “that boy ain’t got his eyes uncrossed since he first set ’em on you.” She winked back at Maggie. “I expect you’d better get ready for a marriage proposal.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s that serious,” Polly said, blushing. It was flattering, she had to admit, but she had no desire to lead the boy on. Maybe, she thought, his fascination for her would soon wear out. It seemed harmless enough to her, but she soon became aware of just how serious it was to Toby. The occasion came on a chilly spring afternoon when he came by the kitchen to find Maggie out back chopping wood for the stove.

  “Here, ma’am,” Toby immediately volunteered, “let me do that for you.”

  Maggie straightened up, and leaned on her ax. “Why, hello, Toby,” she greeted him. “Nice of you to offer, but I’ve been chopping wood for more years than I can remember.”

  “Well, then,” he responded with a shy smile, “you can let me spell you for a bit.” When she failed to accept at once, he insisted. “I don’t mind.”

  She laughed and handed him the ax. “All right, if you really want to.” She nodded toward the large pile of wood behind her. “I just need to bust up a couple of armloads of that bigger stuff for the stove.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he replied and set into the chore with determination. After a few minutes, Maggie excused herself to attend to something in the kitchen. She left him to his work attacking the woodpile, noticing he was constantly stealing glances toward the kitchen door.

  Hattie turned in surprise when Maggie came in the kitchen. “Who’s choppin’ wood?” Hattie asked.

  “Toby Blessings. Who else?”

  Hattie laughed. “You must not have told him Polly ain’t here.”

  “No, I reckon I didn’t,” Maggie said. “I wasn’t gonna tell him till after I got my firewood.” They both laughed then. “I reckon I’d better go back out there before he goes through the whole woodpile.”

  Outside, Maggie exclaimed, “My goodness, boy, that’s wood a’plenty for now.”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty of steam left. There ain’t many men better at splittin’ wood than me,” he boasted.

  “I can see that, but there ain’t no need to chop up any more. That’ll do me for two days.”

  He stopped then, but she could see the reluctance in his face, and realized that he hesitated to give up an excuse to hang around. Although he tried to be discreet about it, his eyes were constantly looking beyond her toward the kitchen. With a twinkle in her eye, she grinned and said, “Polly’s down at the creek washing clothes. She might appreciate a hand carryin’ the basket back.”

  He couldn’t avoid the blush. “Why, shore nuff,” he stammered. “I reckon I could do that.” And he was off.

  “Supper’s on the house,” Maggie called out after him, “for cuttin’ all that wood.”

  Polly looked up when she heard someone coming down the path. Recognizing Toby, she greeted him cheerfully. “Howdy, Toby. What are you doin’ down here?”

  “I come to help you,” he said. Then he thought to add, “Miss Maggie said you might need help.”

  “Is that so?” Polly said with a smile. “Well, I’m just about finished here, but you can carry my basket back if you want to.”

  It burst out before he could stop it. “I’d carry your basket to Ki
ngdom Come,” he blurted. Then realizing in horror that the words had dropped out of his mouth, he started to stammer an apology.

  She interrupted his efforts. Smiling sweetly, she said, “I really didn’t intend to go that far—just back to the house would do.”

  He was mortified. Feeling foolish and immature, he attempted to extricate himself from the embarrassing situation. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that,” he said, then paused to think again. He suddenly decided that the cat was out of the bag. He already had a start on something he had been trying to summon the nerve to say for days. So it was now or never. Determined to state his feelings, he bolstered up his courage and came out with it. “Polly, I wanna marry you.”

  Literally stunned by a statement so unexpected, Polly could do little more than stare wide-eyed at the young man. With no desire to hurt the boy, she thought for a long moment before responding, “Why, Toby, that’s the sweetest offer I’ve ever had, and I’m really flattered you like me that much.”

  “Wait!” he interrupted, in a panic to stop her before she could add but. “I know you think I’m young, but a lot of folks has told me I’m a lot older than my years. You couldn’t find nobody that’d work harder for you than me.”

  The desperation in his face was enough to bring a tear to her eye as she gazed at the still-boyish features, the scraggly attempt at a mustache, the unruly sandy hair. What, she wondered, could she say to this innocent boy? How could he possibly deal with the pain and torment she had already endured in her life? “Toby,” she pleaded softly, “you don’t know anything about me—where I’m from, what my life has been before this.”

  “I know all I need to know,” he insisted. “All that other stuff don’t matter. I’d make you a good husband. I swear I would.”