Cruel Rider Read online

  “Maggie’s right, Hattie. It wasn’t your fault he killed her. A man like that would have eventually found a way to get to her. It was just a matter of when.” No one said anything for a few moments, each forming an image of Polly’s face in recall. Jordan found that the brutal murder of the young girl ignited a spark of fury inside him. According to what he had just been told, Polly had suffered a great deal in her brief journey on God’s earth—more than he could reasonably explain. She had been forced to run away from her abusive husband, only to suffer the tragic encounter with Jim Eagle—then to end her life at the hands of a vengeful killer. If there truly was a God who looked after good folks, why did He let things happen that way? He shook his head to rid his mind of questions that had no answers. Every time he delved too deeply into matters relating to God and the why of things, it only served to complicate his sense of reason. He found he was more comfortable when he just accepted what his eyes told him. For whatever reason, God made coyotes. The four-legged variety served a useful purpose. The two-legged kind served no purpose, and were best eliminated. Jordan decided at that moment that he would undertake the responsibility to rid the world of Bill Pike.

  “This Pike,” Jordan finally asked, “did a posse go after him?” When both women replied no at the same time, he shook his head in disgust. “They damn sure never missed an opportunity to get one up to come after me.”

  Maggie couldn’t resist raising an eyebrow when she reminded him, “There ain’t no sheriff here since you shot the one we had. And there ain’t been nobody willin’ to take the job.”

  “I didn’t have much choice on that one,” Jordan quickly replied in defense of Ben Thompson’s death. “I let him go, but he tried to put a bullet in my back.”

  “We never thought it was anything but that,” Hattie immediately assured him. Maggie nodded her agreement.

  “Anybody have an idea which way Pike headed after he killed Polly?”

  “Nobody seemed to care but Toby Blessings,” Maggie answered regretfully. “He said he saw a stranger headin’ up the old east trail toward Wolf Valley.”

  “Who’s Toby Blessings?”

  She explained that Toby was a boy who had been totally infatuated with Polly. She paused, watching him closely. “You goin’ after him?”

  Jordan nodded thoughtfully, then replied, “I reckon.” He missed the look of gratitude on Hattie Moon’s face. “Now I expect I’d best get outta here and let you ladies go back to bed.”

  “Hell,” Maggie snorted. “It ain’t no use to go back to bed now. It’s almost sunup—time to get the fire started in the kitchen stove.”

  Jordan walked over to the small window and pulled the heavy curtain aside. Maggie was right. The first rays of the morning sun were already probing the shadows between the buildings. They had talked longer than he intended. He had planned to be gone from Deadwood before daylight. “I’d best be goin’,” he said.

  Moments before Jordan looked out the window, Rufus Sparks took a shortcut behind The Trough on his way from the hotel to the stables. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Sweet Pea behind the building, standing, reins on the ground, patiently waiting. There was no doubt in his mind. No one else rode an ugly horse like the one he was gaping at—no one but Jordan Gray. His heart pounding, he turned on his heel and ran back up the alley to give the alarm.

  At that early hour, there were only a few souls stirring, but Rufus’ cry of alarm was sufficient to flush out several of the town’s citizens. Whitey Hickson stuck his head out the door of the sheriff’s office, where he had spent the night after staying at the Silver Dollar too late to return to his claim. Seeing Rufus running up the center of the street, he called out to the excited man, “Rufus! What the hell are you hollerin’ about?”

  Without taking time to catch his breath, Rufus stammered, “Jordan Gray, that’s what!”

  “What . . . where?” Whitey demanded.

  “At The Trough,” Rufus answered, still gasping for breath. “I seen his horse back in the alley.”

  Struck by an immediate fear that Jordan had returned to extract vengeance from the town that had caused him such pain, Whitey’s first instincts were to lock the door and lay low until Jordan rode out of town. Only Rufus’ excited insistence kept him from doing so. Whitey was forced to take some action. “Go get J.D.,” he said. “He stayed in the hotel last night.” He hurriedly turned to look for his boots. “And get anybody else you see,” he called after Rufus, who was already on his way to the hotel.

  In spite of the commotion already taking place in the street, Jordan was unaware that his presence was known as he stepped up in the saddle. The noise in the street was effectively muffled by the long alley that made a turn behind the kitchen before it opened by Maggie and Hattie’s sleeping quarters. He was already seated aboard Sweet Pea, the two women standing by his stirrup, when the faint sound of some activity reached his ear.

  “Uh-oh,” Maggie said softly. “Somethin’s goin’ on. You’d better be careful, Jordan.”

  Thinking that to be sound advice, Jordan decided it best to avoid the alley, and go around the other side toward the stables. He turned Sweet Pea’s head and gave her a gentle nudge. “You two take care of yourselves,” he said as he walked his horse toward the back corner of their little shack.

  A rifle ball whistled past his ear just as he cleared the corner. By the time the sound of the shot was heard, he had dropped the reins, and pulled his Winchester. Overly apprehensive, Whitey had fired prematurely, jerking his rifle up and firing as soon as he saw Sweet Pea’s head clear the corner of the building. Now he found himself in a bad situation because Jordan was quick to spot him behind the watering trough, and promptly sent a shower of lead his way. Unwilling to shoot it out with the likes of Jordan Gray, Whitey crawled away from the trough, and sought protection in the stable.

  With no way of knowing where or how many were lying in ambush, Jordan was forced to make a decision. There was no option to stay where he was. He was going to have to make a run for it. Because the voices he had heard before seemed to have come from the head of the alley on the other side of The Trough, he guessed that his best chance of escape was out the north end of town past the stables. The only problem was the fact that Whitey was hiding in the stable now, and would be in position to get a clear shot at him as he rode past. He had decided he was just going to have to risk it when he was startled to hear Maggie’s shrill voice beside him.

  “Whitey! Hold your fire,” she yelled. “I don’t want you shootin’ me!” Then to Jordan, she said, “Take your foot outta the stirrup and give me a hand.” She reached up to get a boost.

  Puzzled at first, he then realized what she proposed to do. “No. That’s too dangerous, Maggie. You’ll get yourself shot.”

  “Move your foot,” she insisted. “He’d better not shoot me. Hattie’ll cut off his rations—if she don’t kill him.” She rapped on his boot impatiently. “Move your foot, dammit, and give me a hand.”

  He still refused, unwilling to place her in harm’s way. Sweet Pea had already started to walk toward the stable when Maggie suddenly grabbed his boot and jerked it out of the stirrup. Surprisingly spry for a woman of her years, she stuck her foot in the stirrup and grabbed onto Jordan’s leg. He had no choice but to reach down and pull the determined lady up behind him, or else they both might have wound up in the dirt. “Maggie, you crazy . . .”

  “Ride,” she commanded, interrupting his protest. With both arms wrapped around his waist, she locked onto his back, and Sweet Pea was off with a bound. “Whitey Hickson may be a lot of things,” she said, “but he ain’t ever shot a woman that I know of.”

  “You might be the first,” Jordan replied.

  When Sweet Pea passed the stable at a gallop, Whitey ran out and raised his rifle to fire. Maggie was right. He couldn’t take a chance on hitting her. He held his aim for a long time before he cursed in disgust, and lowered his weapon. He was standing in the middle of the street, watching the fle
eing pair when he heard J.D. and Rufus running up behind him.

  “Why the hell didn’t you shoot?” J.D. demanded.

  “He had Maggie up there behind him. I couldn’t take a chance.”

  “Hell,” J.D. snorted, “you coulda shot the horse.”

  “If he hadda, he’da got his ass full of buckshot.” Startled, they turned to find Hattie standing at the corner of the building, holding her shotgun.

  “You damn women,” J.D. grumbled. Then he changed his mind about berating her, knowing he could never win that battle. Turning to the other two, he said, “Reckon we oughta round up some more of the boys and go after him?”

  “Hell, no,” Rufus replied emphatically. “I ain’t goin’ after him.”

  “Me, neither,” Whitey announced. “I’m gettin’ damn tired of riskin’ my neck goin’ after that man. I say he’s gone, well, good riddance. Who the hell ever said it was our job to go after every wild gunman that rides into town, anyway?”

  J.D. stood thinking for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Well, to hell with him, then. I need a drink.” The three turned and walked toward the saloon.

  “That’s the smartest thing you ever did,” Hattie clucked as they passed her. A scowl from J.D. was all she received in response. Already speculating upon the possibility of persuading Sweeney to open the saloon at this early hour, Whitey and Rufus ignored the remark.

  Just past the edge of town, Jordan reined his horse up to a stop. “This oughta be far enough,” he said. He held her arm while she dismounted. “It’s a pretty good walk back to town,” he commented apologetically.

  “I reckon I can make it,” she replied, laughing. Once she was on her feet, she straightened her nightgown. “I wonder how the town will like the new fashion?” she joked, pulling the gown up closer around her.

  “You can take my coat,” he offered, reaching back for his pack.

  She stopped him. “No. Hell, no. I ain’t worried about it. They all think I’m crazy, anyway.” She reached up and placed a hand on his arm. “You just watch yourself, Jordan, if you do run into that son of a bitch that shot Polly. He’s a mean one.”

  He nodded. “I will, Maggie.” He nudged Sweet Pea, but reined her back after a few yards, and looked back at Maggie once again. “I’m much obliged, Maggie, to you and Hattie.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Maggie replied, smiling.

  Chapter 10

  There was no point in wasting time looking for a fresh trail that might or might not be that of Bill Pike. Pike could have taken any direction away from Deadwood. Jordan knew if he ever met the man, it would have to be strictly as a result of pure luck. Where would a man like that likely head for? He could have decided to ride on to Bismarck and Fort Lincoln, or he might have returned to Fort Laramie. Hattie had said that the boy, Toby Blessings, had seen a stranger riding out toward Wolf Valley. That was a roundabout trail that crossed the main trail at the lower end of the valley. If a man continued on, crossing the main trail and heading west, he would eventually come out on the Belle Fourche—hardly the way to Fort Laramie. But Fort Laramie was where Pike had found out that Polly had gone to Deadwood. Jordan decided that because it was from Fort Laramie that Pike had come, he would most likely be heading back that way. But who could say for sure? Maybe he had reason to head for the Big Horns, or beyond.

  Jordan had no idea what the man looked like—except for the fact he had a scar on his left cheek—or what kind of horse he rode, but Toby Blessings had seemed certain that the man he had seen on the Wolf Valley trail was Bill Pike. It was the only thing approaching a solid guess. There was nothing else to go on, so Jordan decided to follow the same trail.

  As Sweet Pea carried him through the hills and valleys before the river, Jordan rode easy in the saddle, his mind occupied not only with thoughts of the manner of man he hunted, but also of obligations he had left behind in Laramie. When he had learned of Polly’s decision to hire Jim Eagle as a guide, he had left a puzzled Lieutenant DiMarco wondering if his scout was going to return. I expect I may have lost my job as a scout, he thought. The possibility didn’t overly trouble him. Scouting for the army was not his greatest ambition in life. He had witnessed Crook’s arrival at Fort Laramie back in February, where the general had picked up three more companies of cavalry to join his campaign against the Sioux. At that time, Jordan was offered the opportunity to join a company of approximately thirty scouts under the command of Colonel Thaddeus Stanton. He had declined the offer. He judged the assembly of scouts to be no more than a collection of riffraff, cutthroats, and ne’er-do-wells—not the caliber of men he felt he could rely upon. The mere fact that, with that collection of scouts, Crook’s column had attacked a Cheyenne village on the Powder River, thinking they had destroyed Crazy Horse’s Sioux camp, was testimony enough that his assessment had been accurate. Until that point, the Cheyenne had considered themselves at peace with the army. Jordan had been at Fort Laramie when the news came back that Crazy Horse’s village, his supplies and food stores, had been destroyed. He had been skeptical at once. His own feeling was that Crazy Horse was most likely camped on the east fork of the Little Powder. From what he had been told by Iron Pony, the village Crook’s troops attacked was not as large as that of Crazy Horse. Some scouts, he had thought. They can’t even tell the difference between a Cheyenne and a Sioux camp.

  Now, as Jordan approached the Belle Fourche, General Crook’s column was about to set out from Fort Fetterman, once again in search of Crazy Horse’s Oglala Sioux. He damn sure better be ready for a fight if he finds him, Jordan thought. Then he put it out of his mind. He had other things to think about—primarily a man with a four-inch horizontal scar across his left cheek.

  Jonah Parsons paused a moment to listen. Solomon, his mule, curled his upper lip and let out a low bray to alert Jonah that it had caught the scent of a strange horse. The mule was very seldom wrong about things like that, so Jonah got to his feet and moved away from the fire. Might be a horse, might be a wolf or coyote, he thought. There was no sense sitting by the fire where he would make an easy target. Unlike most white men, Jonah had no fear of trouble from Sioux or Cheyenne war parties. He was well known by local bands of both tribes, and generally accepted as one of them. Still, it was always best to be cautious anytime when traveling alone in this part of the world.

  As usual, Solomon was right. Jonah knelt just below the rim of a gully, his rifle ready, his aging eyes searching the darkness for sign of any movement when he heard his visitor call out. “Hello, the camp!” It was a white man by the sound of his voice, but Jonah could not make him out as yet.

  “Hallo, yourself,” Jonah returned, still straining to see who was approaching his camp.

  “I’m comin’ in. All right?”

  “Come on then,” Jonah replied.

  After a few moments, the form of a single rider appeared, moving up from the willows by the creek. Still cautious, Jonah remained where he was in the dark shadow of the gully, watching the stranger carefully. When it was obvious the man was traveling alone, Jonah stepped back into the firelight to greet his visitor. “Howdy,” he offered guardedly, still wondering what possessed a man to be riding around the prairie in the middle of the night.

  “Howdy,” Bill Pike returned, and stepped down from the saddle. Noticing that Jonah was still careful to keep his rifle ready, he sought to put the old man at ease. “You got no call to worry about me. I just caught sight of your fire and thought you might have a cup of coffee to spare.”

  “You pick a strange time of night to travel,” Jonah remarked.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m in a hurry to get to Fort Laramie. I’m plumb out of supplies, and I ain’t had much luck huntin’, so I’ve been ridin’ at night to make up time.”

  Jonah studied the man’s face for a moment. It was not a kind face, he decided. It might be a good idea to keep a careful eye on him. “Come from the Black Hills, I bet,” Jonah finally said. “Lookin’ for gold till you
r supplies run out.”

  A sly grin formed on Bill’s face. “Well, now, that’s a fact, all right.”

  Jonah relaxed his grip on the rifle. “There’s coffee in the pot. Help yourself.” He paused, watching for a moment as Bill filled a cup. “You say you’re headin’ for Fort Laramie?” When Bill nodded, Jonah continued, “Well, if you just come from the Black Hills, you ain’t hardly headed to Fort Laramie. You’re headin’ west, toward the Powder River country.” He pointed toward the south. “Laramie’s that a’way.” And you ain’t the first dumb-ass pilgrim to go wandering around lost, he thought. “Git yourself some of that deer meat on the fire. I got plenty.”

  “Much obliged,” Pike said, somewhat irritated to find out he had been traveling in the wrong direction. He tried not to show it as he eagerly helped himself to Jonah’s supper. “I reckon a man gets a little confused travelin’ at night.”

  “I reckon,” Jonah replied while thinking that it never happened to him.

  “Where are you headed?” Bill asked as he devoured a chunk of meat the size of his fist. Now that his hunger pangs were subdued, he glanced around the little camp, taking inventory of Jonah’s possessions. Returning his gaze to the old man, he told himself that it might have been good fortune that he had stumbled upon Jonah’s camp.

  “Powder River Valley,” Jonah answered in reply to Bill’s question.

  “What’s at Powder River?” Bill asked.

  Jonah shrugged. “Nothin’ much but a whole heap of soldiers and maybe just as many Injuns.” He could see at once that his answer puzzled his visitor. “The soldiers set out to find Sittin’ Bull and his folks,” Jonah explained. “They’re supposed to have set up a stagin’ point at old Fort Reno.”

  “What the hell would you wanna go there for?”

  Jonah smiled patiently. It was like trying to explain the lure of the high mountains to a child. “There’s bound to be a helluva fight when them soldiers catch up to Sittin’ Bull and Crazy Horse.”