Blood Dance Page 9

  It was very tempting to draw a bead on him with my Sharps, because I was carrying both it and the Winchester. Blow his brains all over the country.

  I knew, however, that that would give me only a moment’s satisfaction, and soon we would be swarmed by a horde of men. Honest Roy and I could give them hell from our angle, and even do some sincere damage, but the end result would be us lying out here on the rocks supplying the buzzards with a buffet.

  “Why them gold poachin’ sonsofbitches,” Roy said.

  “You said it.”

  “I think maybe I’ll just see if I can give that Carson fellow a mole behind his left ear.” Roy raised his rifle.

  “No.”

  “It is Carson, ain’t it? And even if it ain’t—”

  “It is, and I understand what you’re saying, but you kill him, or any of them, and we’re dead men.”

  “Then what in the hell did we follow them all the way out here for? We knew there were a pack of them varmints.”

  “What I’m saying is we use common sense. Let them work the mine for us, and tonight, when it’s good and dark, we’ll go in.”

  “Umm,” Roy said.

  “They’ll post guards. I’m sure they expect the owners to show up eventually, and I’m sure they intend to bushwhack them. But being the owners, and having the advantage of knowing they’re here, we’re going to be one step ahead of them.”

  Honest Roy bit himself a chaw off a tobacco twist.

  “All right, Red Spot, let’s get comfy.”

  Then I heard the slightest sound, the trickling of gravel rolling down the rocks.

  I turned, poked my Sharps in that direction. A black sombrero came into view. I beaded in.

  And then a face—the face of Wild Bill Hickok.

  5

  “Hickok!” I said.

  The face broke into a grin.

  “I was just in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.”

  “How in the world…?”

  “Carl Mann back at the Number Ten, he said you two lit out of his place like a couple of jackrabbits with their butts on fire. And since it wasn’t any of my business, thought I’d follow after. Figured it was trouble. You boys sure don’t slow down much for a man that’s following you.”

  Hickok took a pair of blue spectacles from his pocket and put them on. “This damn light.”

  He looked at Honest Roy, who was eyeing him strangely. “I’d rather you not say anything about these spectacles. I’d rather not have it known.”

  “Not a word,” Roy said.

  “Now,” Hickok said, “what are you boys doing lurking around up here?”

  “It’s a long story, Bill.”

  “I haven’t got a date, get on with it.”

  So I told him. Told him everything. About Bucklaw. About our mine. When I was finished Hickok removed the black sombrero and ran his fingers through his long blonde hair.

  “I’d say you’re lucky, friend. Mighty lucky for this coincidence. Them fellows down there, they aren’t so lucky.” He smiled again. In spite of his attempt at self-control, I could tell Bill was ready to go. It wasn’t so much that he was a killer, but he was a man of justice and action, a one man judge and jury. I wasn’t any better.

  “I reckoned we’d wait until dark. Sneak down there and even out the odds,” I explained.

  “Sounds good,” Hickok said. “When it’s good and dark we’ll just go down there and pay them a social visit.

  “Yeah,” Honest Roy said, “well, all I can say is I hope these boys are caught up on their harp lessons.”

  6

  When night had settled in solidly, Hickok removed his spectacles and put them in his pocket. “It’s time,” he said.

  “Maybe we should split up and come from three different sides,” Honest Roy said.

  “Not a bad idea,” I said.

  “What might be better is for you to get down there closer, Roy,” Hickok said, “and keep a rifle bead on anything that moves. Me and Red Spot will go in there and do some throat cutting.”

  Hickok took out his knife; Honest Roy gave me his.

  “Let’s see how tough their flesh is,” Hickok said.

  We moved down silently and Roy took up a position behind the rocks with his rifle, my Winchester and Sharps, and Hickok’s Sharps.

  “With all those rifles you ought to be able to get at least one,” I told Roy.

  “You just tend to your own rat killin’,” Roy said.

  Hickok and I crept like Indians down into the camp.

  I’ll tell you true, I found something bothersome about cutting a man’s throat while he slept. I’m no fool for fair play when the odds are against you, but this seemed just plain nasty and sneaky.

  It didn’t bother Hickok any. He cut two throats before I could slice my first. We were five down on them—Hickok three, when a guard spotted us and yelled. Next he lowered his rifle on Hickok who was sneaking from one tent to another.

  That fellow should have shot first then yelled. His voice gave Hickok the drop, and that was all Hickok ever needed. Both of those silver-plated revolvers seemed to jump into Hickok’s hands, and when they spat fire that man tumbled dead as the stones around him.

  I dropped the knife and went for my Colt as men came foaming out of tents and off their ground pallets.

  A shot plucked at my shirt collar. Another splattered at my feet.

  I shot a man twice in the head.

  Hickok, hardly seeming to pay attention to the gunfire and screaming men around him, yelled, “I’ve told you about them head shots, Red Spot!”

  I heard Honest Roy bring a Sharps into play, and in the next moment a man was flying ass over elbows into a tent, knocking it down.

  I was watching for Carson out of the corner of my eye, and after a moment I saw him. The major came out of his tent with a revolver in either hand, blazing away at me.

  I returned the fire and knocked off his hat, remembering what Hickok had said about head shots. I was trying to remedy that when Honest Roy’s rifle roared again and dropped another of the polecats, kicking a hole in the man’s chest about the size of Hickok’s sombrero—which Hickok was no longer wearing, it having been restyled by a bullet and knocked to kingdom come.

  Carson wheeled out of my sights, and Hickok and I started running, side by side, guns blazing. The camp had really opened up on us now, and without discussing the matter, we were heading for high ground and the protection of Honest Roy’s long range shooting.

  Carson had turned on Roy’s concealment now, and was barking his revolvers at the old man’s hideout.

  Roy yelled, “Dammit!”

  “I believe,” said Hickok, after we had jumped behind a mass of boulders, “that your eloquent friend has been hit.”

  “Sounds like it. I’m going over to him.”

  “We’ll make it a twosome.”

  We darted out of cover and headed for Roy. Bullets splattered around us like drops of hard rain. I couldn’t believe we weren’t being plastered all over the rocks. Hickok’s luck must have been something he could share.

  Running zigzag, firing as we went, we made it to Honest Roy’s cubbyhole.

  “We dance well together,” Hickok said after we had hunkered down behind some rocks.

  “Yeah, we’ll have to try it again sometime.”

  Hickok picked up his Sharps, propped it on a rock and blew away a Crow warrior who was advancing.

  “Parted that varmint’s hair,” he said.

  Honest Roy was shoulder hit and bleeding pretty bad. I tore off the front of his shirt and put it against the wound.

  “Use your own damn shirt,” Roy said.

  “I like mine,” I said. “It’s clean. Yours isn’t.” Roy was still affecting his dude clothes, but the months hadn’t been kind to them, and neither had Roy. They didn’t look too dude-like at the moment.

  “Lucky shot,” Roy said, “bounced off that rock.”

  “Shut up, Roy, and hold this bandage to yourself.
”

  I crawled over to Hickok, who had brought the Winchester into play now. “They’ve skeddaddled for cover,” he said.

  I picked up the Sharps rifles, loaded them in turn from the loads Roy had laid out on the ground. I put one aside and held the other, ready for action.

  There wasn’t much movement now. Everyone had hid, except for one man who we had thought was dead. But he was just bad wounded, and was now crawling slowly across camp, trying to reach the shelter of the nearest rocks. None of his comrades came out to help him, in spite of the fact that he was yelling for assistance.

  I couldn’t say as I blamed them. If they showed their heads it was damned likely Hickok would blow them off. He was the damnedest shot I’d ever seen, no matter that he claimed his eyes were getting bad. I hadn’t thought guns could do the stuff Hickok made them do that night, and all by the light of the moon!

  The injured man was screaming his lungs out now, and he was barely able to crawl. Frowning, Hickok lifted the Winchester and lowered the boom on him. Things got quiet again.

  “I cannot abide that damn screaming,” Hickok said.

  Suddenly the rocks across the way lit up as a barrage of gunfire ripped at the rocks around us. I dove down and covered my head with my hands. Hickok got behind his rock and pressed his back to it. When I looked up at him he was smiling.

  “Having a good time, Bill?”

  He winked at me and his grin split wider. “Why I haven’t had this much fun since the hogs ate my baby sister.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” I said.

  “That’s terrible,” Honest Roy said, taking Hickok very seriously.

  “Just press that rag to the wound and shut up,” I told Roy.

  Rock chips were flying all around us, bullets were bouncing about like June bugs.

  “Reckon they’re closing in on us?”

  “I reckon they’re running like hell,” Hickok said, and suddenly he stood up with the Winchester and began to return fire.

  I bounced up with the Sharps. A line of men, Carson in their lead, were darting across the clearing toward where their horses were tied. I cursed myself. The horses should have been our first priority.

  Hickok and I each dropped another man. The Sharps nearly took off the head of mine.

  A moment later we heard horses thundering down the pass. Hickok jumped his rock and bolted across the way. I picked up the other Sharps, Hickok’s, and ran after him.

  Hickok caught the last man riding hell-bent-for-leather down the rise, just about to make the bend around a rocky trail. Hickok shot the horse out from under him. The falling animal dropped and tossed the rider far right. When the man came up he had a revolver in his hand. I gave him a third eye—a big one—with the Sharps.

  “The forehead,” Hickok whined. “You are the head-shootinist fellow I ever did see.”

  Chapter Seven

  1

  “I’m going after them,” I said.

  “I figured as much,” Hickok said as we walked back to Roy. “We’ll catch them.”

  “Bill, you have been one fine friend—”

  “Just evening up the score.”

  “—but I’m going alone.”

  “Hero, huh?”

  “Not hardly. Roy there is going to need a doctor. We can put him in the wagon Carson had, hitch us up a team from the horses they left, along with yours and Roy’s, and you can take him into Deadwood.”

  “Deadwood doesn’t hardly have a doctor,” Hickok said.

  “It’s got more than we’ve got. Besides, he’d be better off than riding with me.”

  Roy, who we were now standing over, said, “I don’t like doctors.”

  “Shut up,” Hickok said.

  “Don’t be tellin’ me to shut up. Don’t care if you are Wild Bill Hickok… Awww!”

  “Hurts, don’t it,” Hickok said, grinning at Roy. “Maybe I ought to just shoot him here,” he said to me.

  “He would be quieter, and that is a natural fact.” I bent down to look at the wound. “Bill, he’s lost quite a bit of blood. Think his shoulder’s broken, too.”

  “Course it is,” Roy snapped. “Otherwise I’d be up from here a-lightin’ into you two.”

  “He talks best when he’s got a shoulder wound, I bet,” Hickok said.

  I tore up some more of Roy’s shirt—an act I got cursed for—and padded the wound. After that we got the wagon hitched up with a couple of horses that we had to chase down, plus Roy’s and Hickok’s. We made it as comfortable as we could in back and put the old codger on some empty flour sacks and a few blankets that Roy and I had there at the claim.

  “I don’t really like this,” Hickok said as he stepped up on the wagon.

  I had my horse now and was mounted.

  “I know, Bill. Has to be.”

  “Reckon. Damn you, Red Spot, I like you. Don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Yeah, don’t,” Honest Roy said, “ ‘cause I’m gonna do it when you get back, you empty-headed sonofabitch.”

  I grinned at Roy. “I hope you hit every bump in the road.”

  I rode up close to Bill. “Take care of the old timer.”

  “No need to tell me,” Hickok said. Then: “Touch skin, friend.”

  We shook.

  Honest Roy said, “Remember, Red Spot, take care of yourself so I can have you. When my shoulder heals you’re gonna get a tannin’.”

  “I’ll remember, Roy.”

  Hickok reached deep into his broad red sash, fished out a Remington short gun, caliber .41.

  “Take this for a hide-out gun, friend. You never know when you might need it.”

  I slipped the Remington into my boot, just inside the neck of my old, worn sock. “Thanks.”

  “And remember, Red Spot. All that head-shooting is going to get you in trouble. If you hit, it’s good, but it’s a smaller target. I’ll tell you this: if you shoot a man in the belly near the navel it may not be a fatal shot, but it will shock and stall his brain and arm to the point that the fight will be over.”

  “I’ll remember, Bill.”

  “I doubt it.”

  I wheeled my horse, and thundered down the rocky pass ahead of Hickok and the wagon bearing Roy in back. I heard Hickok say, “Shoot straight,” and then “Heeya,” to the horses, and parted company. The next time I saw Wild Bill, the great pistoleer was in a coffin. But that is another story.

  2

  It was hard getting my mind off Roy, but I figured he would be okay. It had not been a real bad wound, but certainly one that must be attended to. I thought, too, about Bill, and how we had become fast friends so quickly. I would miss them both at my side—the Gentleman Killer and the loud but competent Honest Roy.

  Night tracking is hard as hell, and for me it was harder. Even when Bucklaw and I had trailed Apaches, Bob had been the main tracker, as I never was outstanding at reading sign.

  There wasn’t much moonlight, and I kept climbing off my horse to check the ground. I wished I had some matches.

  I figured out that the bunch had split up, and half had gone one way, the rest another. Made sense, especially if they thought all three of us were on their tail. And after them seeing that madman Wild Bill handle a pistol, I was sure their minds were set on staying out of range.

  All this became unimportant, however, for the night was suddenly filled with the sound of screaming.

  I rode toward the sounds with my Winchester drawn, and pretty soon I broke out of a grove of pines into a clearing. I could see three men grappling. One white man and two Indians. Two others lay dead on the ground. One of the Indians was hopping about the others like a rabbit, only this rabbit was vicious and had a nasty claw in the shape of a Bowie knife.

  The other two were down to knives as well, and they were trying to put the pin on the hopping Indian, but he was too fast. He was bouncing in and out, slashing, jabbing, and probably making quite a mess of the two.

  I knew immediately, from the way he moved, that it was Dead Thing. I knew too
that the others were part of Carson’s gang. I lifted my Winchester, and taking Bill’s advice, shot low.

  I dropped the white man and he screamed like a banshee.

  The Indian turned slightly, only for a moment to look-see the shot, and that was his mistake.

  Dead Thing planted his knife in the man’s chest and took him down.

  3

  Dead Thing had finished off the white man by cutting his throat and was already scalping by the time I walked over to him.

  “You took long enough, brother,” he said.

  “Well, I been busy. Sort of got held up by some old friends.”

  He looked up from his grisly work and smiled. His face was covered with blood. It wasn’t his.

  “Scalp?” he said, holding them up.

  “No. I still don’t collect.”

  He grunted.

  “Sort of left me high and dry after the Sundance, didn’t you, Dead Thing?”

  “I knew we would meet again. Our lives are entwined.”

  I knelt down, using my Winchester for support. “Sort of seems that way, don’t it?”

  “We will finish this hunt together. You do not think it is chance that brings us together?”

  I had to admit that it seemed like too much of a coincidence. But I said, “Seems like every time I see you, you and I are shooting or knifing someone.”

  “We have a trail to follow.” Dead Thing moved to the others he had killed, began scalping them. I noticed the bodies bristled with arrows.

  “Stands to reason our paths keep crossing. We’re after the same thing.”

  “I have not been hunting them, brother. I have been waiting for this moment to arrive. I knew they would come to me, and you drove them here. You, the old man and the long hair who looks like the one you call Custer.”

  My mouth fell open. “How do you know about…?”

  “My vision.”

  “Vision, my ass. You’ve been spying on me.”

  Dead Thing smiled. “I am surprised that you did not learn more. That the dance did not teach you.”