Shadow of Legends Page 3

  When he reached the crest of the mountain, he was surprised to find the west slope blanketed with ten- to twelve-foot pines and cottonwoods. The slope was not nearly as severe, but finding a trail through the limbs, downed trees, and six-foot sagebrush proved tedious. He surveyed the mountain ridge on the far side of the gulch and spotted a lightning-scarred pine with a blackened forked trunk.

  “We’ll aim for that old wishbone tree,” he mumbled to the lathered pony. “The road is someplace between here and there.” I hope. I surely don’t want to turn around and go back down that mountain.

  As he descended the mountain slope, the Dakota sun played peek-a-boo with the pines behind him, providing a little shade but not much relief from the heat. He paused by a thicket of cottonwoods, none much larger than a fence post. The water in the leather-clad canteen was lukewarm and stale-tasting. He swished his mouth out, then spat it out on the dry soil.

  The white horse pinned his ears back.

  Todd leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck. “Sorry, Boy . . . didn’t mean to . . .”

  The horse pawed at the loose dirt and kept its ears pinned.

  Todd stood in the stirrups. What is it, Boy? Are we getting close to the road? Do you hear them coming? At least, you hear someone coming.

  Todd sat back down and pulled Dacee June’s Colt revolver from his belt. He cocked the hammer back to the safety position. When he spurred the gelding this time, the horse took a slow, reluctant step.

  You’re mighty worried, Boy. Must be a bear . . . or a wolf. Talk about a wasted afternoon. I should have stayed at the store and got that shipment inventoried. Then I could have sat around tonight and listened to another of Daddy’s “me and the boys done whupped ’em” stories. Lord, I have spent my life listening to those. The worst part is . . . He spurred the horse around a line of short aspen as thick as a brush corral—they’re all true!

  The horse jerked his head back, and Todd found himself at the top of a sheer twenty-foot bluff staring straight down at the rutted trail of Boulder Creek Road.

  He patted the horse’s neck. Well, I’m glad you didn’t want to go barreling through the sage, but empty roads don’t pin ears back. Is there someone down there?

  Todd surveyed the road for a mile in each direction and spotted no signs of movement. He was examining the embankment in front of him for a more likely descent when he observed dust rising up to the north.

  Well, someone’s barreling down the road. It’s the chasers or the chased. Either way, I don’t aim to be sitting up here like a moose in a meadow.

  He turned the horse south and worked his way along the rim of the bluff, fighting his way through sage as tall as the horse. The rim of the gulch never dipped.

  There was a flash of reflection from the boulders across the road. The horse pinned his ears back. Todd slid out of the saddle, pistol in hand, landing in a scrawny sage.

  Someone’s over there. Someone with a ’66 Winchester glistening in the sun.

  On the western slope where he stood, shadows from the mountain behind him wrapped him in a cloak of concealment, but the boulders on the far side of the road basked in direct sunlight. With the reins dropped straight from the horse’s curb bit, Todd hunkered down on his haunches. He waddled forward to find a peek hole through the sage.

  Somebody’s waiting for someone. Either Daddy and the boys stationed a trap for the outlaws . . . or . . . the other way around.

  Daddy’s packing his .50-caliber Sharp’s carbine, and it’s so tarnished it couldn’t reflect the glory of the Lord on judgment day. Sheriff Bullock still totes that iron frame Winchester. And the Jims? They don’t like rimfires, so they wouldn’t have a ’66. Unless the posse expanded, it must be the stagecoach bandits in the boulders.

  Of course, there’s a possibility it’s just a nervous hardware manager spying a broken beer bottle reflecting in the sun.

  Todd strained his eyes across the road. For a moment the scene was as flat and still as a painted stage curtain. Then, between distant boulders he witnessed a black horse’s tail swish into sight and then disappear.

  Back and forth.

  Hide-and-seek.

  That-a-boy. Thanks for the signal. Lord, maybe there is some purpose for horseflies. Someone’s cached in the rocks, but I still don’t know who.

  Hoofbeats rumbled and raced the cloud of dust down the road from the north.

  If I spotted them, they surely could have observed me. Maybe not. They didn’t shoot at me. ’Course, if they were waiting in ambush they couldn’t shoot or they’d give away their position.

  I’ve got to coyote around behind them and keep them from retreating down the road. But if I mount up, they’ll spy me and open fire. ’Course, if they do that, the riders on the trail will be warned. But I’d like to be more than just bait.

  Todd steered his long-legged horse through the brush to the south. He reached a grove of scrub pines that bordered the road south of the boulders, six feet above the roadway. He spied a saddled bay horse tied off at a tree but didn’t see any others.

  I surmise it’s the posse plowing that dust. I surmise it’s the stagecoach hold-up men in the boulders. I surmise I can cut off their retreat without getting myself shot. Lord, that surely is a lot of surmising. And it’s about time to let the party begin.

  The moment the galloping horses crested the rise in the road that led to the boulders, Todd fired a .45-caliber ball of lead into the tree trunk where the horse was tied. Splinters flew as the horse jerked free and bolted down the hillside.

  The horsemen from the north reined. Several shots exploded in Todd’s direction from gunmen cloaked in the boulders. He crouched in the safety of the trees and studied the horsemen up the road as they scrambled to safe positions. The first man off his horse wore a round, floppy black felt hat, a thick gray drooping mustache and chin almost as pointed as his long hawklike nose. An iron gray, bulky carbine was in his right hand.

  Alright, Daddy Brazos, you’re leading the posse. Now, let’s pin these boys down without any of us getting hurt.

  Todd emptied a couple more shots in the direction of the boulders. I can’t hit you back here, Boys, but I can keep the back door closed.

  Gunshots blasted from up the trail, and the outlaws in the boulders returned fire, ignoring Todd. He scooped several cartridges from his suit coat pocket and reloaded the cylinder as he waited for the gunman to flee up the trail.

  Black powder explosions.

  Puffs of gunsmoke.

  Muffled shouts.

  Whinnies of horses.

  They won’t come out of those boulders until they run out of bullets. You’ve got them pinned, Daddy Brazos, but you don’t have them captured.

  Sweat rolled down Todd’s face and melted into the starch of his stiff shirt collar. His right wrist cramped as he trained the gunsights on the back of the boulders.

  Then the gunshots stopped.

  Someone shouted from the protection of the trees up the trail.

  It was a familiar voice.

  “Boys, toss out those guns and come walkin’ out slow. I’ve got a stick of dynamite here, and I reckon I’ll just toss it in those boulders if you don’t come out real quick.”

  Todd allowed his revolver to slump in front of him. Not the old dynamite trick, Daddy Brazos.

  “You ain’t got no dynamite,” someone from the rock screamed.

  Todd yanked the revolver up and took aim at the boulders. You’re right about that, Mister. I presume you’ll try to make your break this way.

  “Look out here. What do you see?” Todd heard his father shout.

  More than likely they see a straight stick and a string. Daddy, that old bluff won’t work again.

  Two shots blasted from the rocks.

  They aren’t buyin’ it, Daddy.

&nb
sp; “You boys intend on being buried in the same grave, I take it. Won’t be enough attached to tell which parts belongs to who. We’ll jist pile you all up together in a common hole.”

  “You cain’t bluff us!” a voice screamed, and a couple more shots were fired.

  This time a deeper voice hollered back. “Boys, this is Sheriff Seth Bullock. I trust you know that it’s Brazos Fortune holdin’ the dynamite.”

  “Ol’ Man Fortune?”

  “It ain’t Junior!” Bullock shouted.

  “We thought the old man was dead!”

  “You thought wrong, Boys,” the sheriff yelled. “And I can’t help you now.”

  An object flew through the air toward the huge boulders.

  “Run fer it, Boys, he done tossed it!” the sheriff screamed.

  Two men dove into the dirt of the roadway, throwing their guns out in front of them. Hands wrapped around their heads, they waited for an explosion.

  Todd gazed up the trail. His father, Sheriff Bullock, and the Jims emerged from behind the trees.

  The dark-headed, small unshaven man in the road sat up and screamed. “I told you he didn’t have any dynamite!”

  “Boys, Boys, Boys . . .” Brazos shouted as he approached with his Sharp’s carbine. “You are just too gullible to be hold-up men.”

  The big, blond-headed man sat up and brushed off his shirt. “You’re supposed to be a church-goin’ man, Fortune. How come you was to lie to us like that?”

  “Just to save your lives, Boys. With the Lord as my witness, I ­didn’t want you to get yourself all shot up,” Brazos said. “You don’t want to go to prison wounded.”

  “We ain’t goin’ to prison at all,” the dark-haired man sneered.

  Todd stood and revealed his position.

  Brazos showed no sign of surprise. “Glad to see you blocked the trail, Son,” he shouted. “Where’s that third one?”

  “He’s either in the rocks or dead. He didn’t come this way,” Todd hollered.

  Brazos Fortune threw his .50-caliber carbine to his shoulder and pointed it straight at Todd.

  Todd dove off the embankment head first. The dirt ground into his wool suit as the single-shot Sharp’s roared. The five-hundred-grain lead bullet tore through his recently vacated position.

  His face slapped into the dirt of the roadway, Todd heard a scream from the cliff behind him. He struggled to his feet, picking dry pine needles and pebbles out of his hands and hair.

  “There’s the third one,” Brazos announced.

  “You done killed Patrick!” the blond outlaw screamed. “I’ll get even with you for that, Brazos Fortune!”

  “There’s plenty of room in Hades, if you’re in a hurry to get there,” Sheriff Bullock said. He and Yapper Jim snapped wrist irons on the two men sprawled in the roadway.

  Todd Fortune glanced down at the nearly ruined suit. The third one did sneak by. One more minute and he would have shot me in the back!

  Brazos and Quiet Jim sauntered toward Todd.

  “I thought you was aimin’ at your own boy,” Quiet Jim mumbled.

  “I knew he would drop when the gun was pointed. I taught them all that when they were young,” Brazos said.

  Todd brushed some of the dirt off his slightly ripped coat. “It would have been nice to know what was goin’ on.”

  “Didn’t have time,” Brazos reported. “He had his gun drawn and was pointin’ it at the back of your head.”

  “I don’t know where he came from. I never saw him slip out of the boulders.”

  “Sage ain’t all that good a cover.”

  “Well, it stopped two of them from retreating, and kept you from riding into a trap.”

  “That it did,” Quiet Jim nodded. “And we’re mighty grateful for that. How did you flank us?”

  “I came straight over that mountain.”

  “Plumb over the top? On a horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “What made you think to do that?” Quiet Jim pressed.

  “A twelve-year-old girl.”

  Brazos threw his arm around Todd’s shoulder. “You’re a dirty mess, Boy.”

  “I didn’t plan on diving down that bluff until you pointed that Sharp’s at me.”

  “Rebekah will pitch a fit to see you that dirty and that new suit she bought you all tattered.”

  “I reckon she will.”

  “Who’s watchin’ the store?”

  “What?” Todd said.

  “Well, if you and me are gallivantin’ around the countryside, who’s takin’ inventory on that bull-whacker’s freight?”

  “I figured it would wait. This was more important.”

  “This band of geezers could’ve taken care of this. You didn’t need to come out here and get yourself tore up,” Brazos insisted.

  Todd grabbed up Dacee June’s revolver. No word of thanks. No congratulations. No acknowledgment. Just worried that I’m letting down on the job.

  “Well, I’m one dumb old geezer that’s mighty glad you showed up,” Quiet Jim added.

  “This one up here is as dead as a buffalo chip in Kansas,” Yapper Jim hollered.

  “Let’s load ’em up and get back to town, Boys,” Sheriff Bullock called out. “I aim to finish that hand of whist.”

  “There ain’t no way you are ever goin’ to beat three Texans,” Yapper Jim chided.

  “It’s sad to see how quickly old men lose their memory, ain’t it?” the sheriff winked at Todd.

  The laughter and upbraiding continued as Todd hiked back up the bluff to his waiting horse. Loose dirt trickled down between his skin and his long underwear as he pulled himself up into the saddle.

  Brazos Fortune, did you ever think what could have happened if your oldest boy hadn’t plunged off this bluff? The possibility never crossed your mind, did it?

  Todd rode his horse slowly down to the road where the Jims tied the dead man to his horse.

  He studied the posse.

  You old men are a different breed. I can’t even think the way you think. You smell danger five minutes before it happens. You make a lifetime of decisions in a split second of terror that would freeze most men. Then you put it all behind you with a joke. You go on back to living as if you haven’t just teetered on the brink of eternity.

  It takes me six months to think something through. You four never thought about anything for six months. Maybe Daddy’s right. Maybe I should have stayed at the store. Maybe Rebekah’s right. Maybe I am a hay camp banker.

  I don’t know what troubles me more . . . goin’ to run a bank and finding out that I hate it . . . or going to run a bank and finding out that I don’t.

  That woman’s right.

  We do live in the shadows.

  Not just the shadow of a shady gulch.

  The shadow of Deadwood legends.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You don’t have that morning sickness, do you?” Dacee June blurted out as she strolled back into the parlor. She left the front door wide open.

  Rebekah sat up, then slumped against the back of the sofa. She unfastened the top button of her Pride Muslin, double-ruffle, hidden-embroidery collar. “Heavens no. Why do you say that?”

  “You seem to have an awfully weak stomach. Jamie Sue maintained that during the first few months that she carried little Frank, she got sick to her stomach a lot.” Dacee June chewed on her fingernails as she talked. “And everyone knows how sick Columbia’s been.”

  With thoughts of stagecoaches and strewn bodies still in her mind, Rebekah could feel her neck as well as her forehead perspire. “I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Dacee June’s sweeping, thick brown eyebrows sagged. “I guess I was, sort of.”

  “
That’s quite alright. We are sisters-in-law.” Rebekah pulled a linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and dabbed her forehead.

  Dacee June’s voice was soft, almost sad. “I’m sorry I solicit such personal things. I suppose it’s the kind of question I know I should ask my mother. Even though it’s been eight years since she died, I still pine for her.”

  Rebekah stood and walked to the open door. Even though the drift was warm, it felt cooler than the stale air of the parlor. “I know what you mean. I miss my mother dearly as well. I regret I never met your mother. Todd speaks of her often.”

  Dacee June strolled up beside her. “You know what’s scary? Some days I forget what she looked like. Does that ever happen to you?”

  “Well, no, not really. I was much older than you when my mother died. So I have years and years of memories. Of course, she never gets older in my mind. At this rate, I’ll be older than her in another dozen years.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost this little locket. I don’t want to ever forget her.” Dacee June opened the small silver locket that hung around her neck on a thin silver chain, took a quick glance, then snapped it shut. “You would have liked her, Rebekah. Daddy says she was a lot like you.”

  Although ten years younger, Dacee June was several inches taller. Rebekah slipped her arm into her sister-in-law’s. “Oh, how’s that?”

  “Daddy says you’re both very beautiful and very stubborn.” Rebekah flinched at the description. “He meant that in a good way. He says that’s the only kind that Fortune men marry.”

  Rebekah relaxed and gave Dacee June’s arm a squeeze. “If Daddy Brazos compares me to his Sarah Ruth, I am honored. I’ve never known a widower who still loved his wife as much as your father.”

  Dacee June rocked back on the heels of her tall riding boots. “Yeah, Daddy says love is something you choose, and he gets up every day still choosing to love her.”

  Rebekah gazed over the top of Deadwood at the pines on the far side of the gulch. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”