Beneath a Dakota Cross (8 page)

But someplace . . . is our place.

A place for me, Dacee June . . . maybe Todd, Robert . . . and someday, Lord willin', even Samuel. Lord, keep the prodigal safe today. Bring him to his senses.

We can't stay in Texas.

Mr. Houston was right. The war brought ruin to Texas. But they chased him out of the Governor's mansion . . . and now they chased me out, too. Lord, forgive them.

Now, Sarah Ruth, I promised you on your deathbed that I'd raise our boys to honorable manhood and Dacee June to respectable womanhood, and I aim to do it. We got one that is more trouble than the others, but I won't give up on him.

He stretched out on the ground and closed his eyes. He couldn't remember when he'd had his last full night of sleep.

And he knew that he would not sleep on this day, either.

Brazos had spent the war working out of Brownsville, Texas, making sure supplies from Europe could break the Union blockade and reach families up and down the Rio Grande. He, Big River Frank, and six others got the assignment of leading the Union ships in decoy chases, while the supply boats slipped in behind them. Over the course of four years, he watched seven boats and several friends sink in the surf of the Gulf of Mexico. In one incident, when their ship capsized, he spent twenty-eight hours floating atop two crates of dynamite that miraculously refused to sink.

It was the only time in his life that he had felt more lonely than he did at this moment. It had been four days since he said good-bye to Big River Frank and Grass Edwards.

He lay across the top of his bedroll, which he had spread out in the trees near the horses. Fifty feet up the hill a few coals glowed in the campfire. The unseen smoke wafted in his nostrils. Beyond the fire, the bright summer stars dimly reflected off the canvas tent that contained an unconscious Hook Reed.

Brazos lay on his back, his head propped on the Texas saddle. The Sharps carbine lay alongside, his right hand on the smooth, cold receiver. He tried to close his eyes, but they kept flipping open like a schoolyard gate during recess.

General Crook has moved the miners by now . . . they're probably at Cheyenne Crossing already. If I rode hard all night through Red Canyon, I might catch them before they reached Fort Laramie. Probably, I'd just catch some Sioux arrows or bullets.

But I can't up and leave Hook to die, and I surely am not goin' to speed it up. If I hadn't doctored that wound of Hook's, spoon-fed him, wrapped him up when he's cold, wiped him down when he's feverish, he would have died two weeks ago. So I've kept him alive for two more weeks.

For what?

Two more weeks of unconsciousness? Two more weeks of suffering?

Lord, sometimes doin' good don't make sense. If I cooled him off right now, then pulled his covers off and let him sleep outside, he'd catch a chill in the night and be dead by mornin'.

If he was dead, I could head down to the Cheyenne River. And Hook, he could waltz through the pearly gates.

But I can't do that.

You know I can't do that.

So, here we are . . . me nightguardin' camp and keepin' him alive, and both of us waitin' for him to die.

What if the Sioux come stormin' through here?

That's why I need to stay awake all night and keep watch.

He fingered the carbine at his side.

It's a strange feeling, Lord, to know I could fire this .50 Sharps as a warning shot, and absolutely no one would hear it.

No one but the unconscious Hook Reed.

And you.

But you know I'm going to stay.

I'll stay until Hook's dead. Or I am. Or both of us.

But I won't sleep.

I can't.

Coco's cautious snort woke Brazos. The sun had broken over the eastern pine-covered hills, and the well-used canvas tent took on new brightness in the light of early dawn. It was the first morning in three months that Brazos hadn't been up and around before the sun rose.

Without raising his head off the saddle he slowly pulled the Sharps carbine up across his chest and fingered the trigger. The heavy dual clicks of the hammer being pulled back echoed above the gurgle of Lightning Creek behind him.

Slowly, he scanned the region to the north of camp, towards the whitewood grove that had been a hiding place for Doc Kabyo two weeks before.
Something made Coco whinny and his ears stand up
. High above the limestone outcrop on the ridge to the west, a brown hawk coasted in a morning drift.

There was no other movement.

Until the tent flap flew open.

“Hook?” Fortune's response to seeing Hook Reed crawl out of the tent on his hands and knees was more of a croak than a statement. Having kept night watch fully dressed, Brazos leaped to his feet, still clutching his carbine, and tried to straighten out his legs and back.

Barefoot, wearing only dirty long underwear and a blanket still draped on his shoulders, Reed struggled to straighten up, barely able to keep his balance.

“Hook! You shouldn't be up. What are you doing?” Brazos called as he shuffled towards the campfire.

When Reed turned to face Brazos, he also was facing the bright morning sun, and the sight made Fortune stop and stare.

Hook's face isn't hollow . . . his eyes are bright and alert . . . he looks thirty . . . he is thirty! Lord, you've healed him!

“I think I'll go on home, Brazos.” The voice was so strong and clear that it made the hair on the back of Fortune's neck stand up.

“Sure, Hook, when you feel good enough we'll . . .”

“Well,” Reed shouted, staring off at the sunlight behind Brazos, “ain't that a wonderful surprise!”

With his carbine at his shoulder Brazos spun around to view the object of Hook's gaze. But he saw nothing but the morning sun, the stream, and two horses still picketed in the tree.
What's a wonderful surprise?

The sound was like a 120-pound sack of barley being tossed out of the hayloft onto the barn floor—dead weight hitting dirt.

When Brazos spun back towards the tent, Hook Reed lay crumpled on the ground next to the slightly smoldering campfire.

Brazos had no urge to run over to Hook.

He didn't call out.

He knew.

Like the aroma of sweet perfume from a pretty lady, deep peace seemed to waft across the camp.

Well, Lord . . . I reckon you did heal him, didn't you?

Brazos walked over and knelt down beside the body.

Again the face was sunken.

Eyes wide open, shallow, lifeless.

And there was no pulse on the ice-cold wrist.

Brazos stared at the unshaven face.

Well, Hooker Davis Reed . . . you found your gold now. The streets are paved with it. I did what I could, Hook . . . sorry I couldn't do more . . . and forgive me if I did too much.

By the time the sun was straight above Lightning Creek, Brazos packed camp on the back of the buckskin stallion and carefully covered Hook Reed's grave with river rock and dirt.

He climbed up on Coco and stared down at the gravesite that blended in completely with the trail down to French Creek.

Hook, I wish I could have buried you beneath that Dakota cross of yours, wherever it is. There's no marker here, because I don't want no one disturbing your grave. Neither the four-legged nor the two-legged wolves can get to you now.

I read over you from the Bible and said prayers like I promised. And I committed you into the hands of God Almighty. We didn't catch up with Doc Kabyo yet . . . but I will someday. The Lord likes justice, and so do I.

Brazos tipped his hat. “Good-bye, pardner. We'll be back in the spring.”

Fortune had ridden down the gulch past Sidwell's cabin to French Creek and over to Gordon's Stockade several dozen times in the past three months. But this time the trip was completely different. Always before, camps lined up one after another on each of the three-hundred-foot claims. There had been men in the stream or huddled under an awning in the rain. Scattered about were always gold pans, sluice boxes, rockers, and Long Toms. There were always horses and mules hobbled in the tiny meadows, the noise of hard work in the air.

He never rode fifty yards without smelling a campfire, meat frying, coffee boiling, bread baking. Tents and lean-tos had littered the flat, west side of the stream. There had always been a “howdy,” a “mornin' Brazos,” a “pick me up some flour at the stockade,” or some similar request.

But this day, the men were gone.

The animals gone.

The tents and equipment cached or packed off.

Just markers, notices, and a half-worked little stream remained.

“They're all gone, Coco. It used to feel so crowded. Now it's empty. They aren't ‘dreary Black Hills' today. They're empty hills.”

Brazos reined up the horse and surveyed up and down the trail.
'Course, I don't know if they're completely empty.

A deserted Lightning Creek gulch had made Brazos feel lonely. But the totally vacant French Creek mining district brought a feeling of depression and doom.

With the lead rope of the buckskin in his left hand and the carbine and the reins in his right, he plodded along the deserted creek towards the abandoned Gordon Stockade.

The stockade sat like a tiny ghost town. Ten-foot-tall walls were deserted bastions in the corners of the eighty-foot square fort. Peering past the twelve-foot opened doors, Brazos Fortune gazed at the six small, empty log cabins.

Captain Mix drove out Gordon and the others in April.

Now, General Crook swept though cleaning out all the rest.

Who will come in next, and how long before they're driven out?

He stared off to the west.

I got two more hours of daylight. Trailing that mob will be easier than following railroad tracks. But I'd surely like to know how far ahead they are.

Fortune gazed off to the north.

Maybe I should ride up the slope of Buckhorn Mountain. Some say you can see the mouth of Fourmile Canyon from there. At least they ought to be sendin' up a dust cloud. 'Course, if they're already out on the plains . . .

The two saddled horses grazed on clumps of silver-green Junegrass as Brazos Fortune leaned against the trunk of a one-foot-thick Ponderosa pine. He chewed on a grisly piece of deer jerky, the carbine flung across his lap.

He gazed over at the horses. “You two reckon we should just unpack and spend the night up here on Buckhorn? Can't see anything, or anyone, in any direction. That was a steep, rocky trail, and we covered our tracks. Good chance no one will find us up here. 'Course, there's no one around to follow us, anyway.”

Lord, here I am talkin' to the horses again. Other than those words from Hook, I haven't talked to anyone in days. I wonder if this was what it was like for Adam. This is a beautiful land. It's not a Garden of Eden. But it's Eden to me . . . not Canaan land, but a promised land. It's someplace new, fresh, different, unsettled—a break from the past. It has the potential for peacefulness . . . and violence.

Adam must have known how to talk if he named the animals. But without someone to respond . . . without Eve . . . it must have been like drowning in wonder.

Eve.

He gazed to the western sky and the dying sun.

Sarah Ruth, what am I doin' here?

Sometimes I don't know if I'm following the Lord's leading or just running away.

He spied a slight dust devil to the southeast.

But there was no breeze.

Maybe someone else is late. If there's several of them, we might have a chance out on the plains. Providin' it's not Doc Kabyo and them.

Fortune stepped over to his saddlebags and pulled out a small, brass spyglass. He returned to his perch, then shoved his spectacles into his vest pocket and positioned the spyglass.

He could see nothing but dust.

Sitting back down, he dropped the block on the Sharps single shot, pulled out the .50-caliber bullet, inspected it, then shoved it back into the chamber.
Right at the moment I'm mighty glad the army converted these over to cartridge guns.

The dust column seemed to be approaching, and yet was still at least three miles away. He didn't bother cocking the hammer. The dust cloud dissipated at the eastern edge of the meadow. He fought back the urge to stand up and stare.

I'm not givin' them a silhouette or a shadow. Not until they show themselves. They're stopping near the Dutchman's cabin . . . maybe some pilgrim just comin' in that hasn't heard of Crook's edict.

He again peered across the valley with the spyglass. The first thing he spotted were flames lapping up the shake roof of the cabin, then billowing smoke, then several dozen mounted warriors. He jumped to his feet and threw the carbine to his shoulder.

The cabin on fire? No one would burn it down . . . except for Sioux! They must have just been waiting to take this land back.

He lowered the Sharps.

I reckon it's their move. The miners are gone. They'll torch Gordon's Stockade, too. I can't contest that. Must be two dozen of 'em . . . and I'm over a mile away from the stockade. I ought to be further away.

He marched over to the horses and began to tighten the girths. “Well, boys . . . I do believe we'll ride north. The Sioux have just reclaimed their precious Pahá Sápa, their Black Hills. And I'm very glad we came up this mountain. Maybe they'll be so occupied with burning the stockade, they won't see us slip over Buckhorn.”