Beneath a Dakota Cross by Stephen A. Bly Page A

Castlerock?”
    Fortune refused to look Edwards in the eyes. “I think this one’s a little closer.”
    â€œBrazos, I warned you!” Grass huffed.
    Big River Frank raised his bushy, black eyebrows. “What are you two talkin’ about? Is there a woman in the hills?”
    â€œGrass is right,” Brazos grinned. “I promised not to say a word.”
    Big River brushed his bearded mouth with the palm of his tattered leather glove. “If there’s a woman in these hills, we all get to go take a look at her. That’s the rule.”
    â€œShe ain’t . . .”
    A volley of three rifle reports echoed down from the direction of Texas Camp. Big River Frank stood in his stirrups and stared north. “Did that sound like hunters?”
    Brazos pulled the heavy hammer back on his converted Sharps carbine. “Too close together to be huntin’.”
    â€œIt could’ve came from our camp,” Edwards added. “Maybe them Sioux snuck over the pass and crept on down the creek.” By the time he had finished the sentence, Brazos and Big River cantered up the trail, guns pointed, eyes peeled.
    High above them, jagged peaks of Dakota Territory sandstone pushed their way heavenward past the tops of dark green Ponderosa pines. At that altitude, Lightning Creek was no more than ten feet wide, depending on the sluice boxes it had to run through. Banks were lined with boulders and river rock, almost devoid of vegetation, due to the aggression of the prospectors. The mountain grasses, what was left of them, still held a light summer green and were beat down by the constant rain.
    The narrow trail was sloppy, and an occasional splatter of mud flew off Brazos’s horse’s hooves. When they reached the stand of whitewood trees just below their claim, Brazos reined up and waited for the other two to catch up.
    Big River Frank had the deepest voice of any 120-pound man Brazos had ever met. The little man stood in the stirrups. “You hear any more shots?”
    â€œNo, but let’s ride in slow.” Brazos held the saddle ring carbine in his right hand and waved the barrel to each side of the creek. “Big River, you take the east bank. Grass, you skirt the tree line up there on the west. I’ll ride right up the trail. Fire a shot if you see danger and take cover.”
    A small, white column of smoke drifted up from the campfire, fifteen feet from the two canvas tents. Brazos studied the campsite as he slowly walked his horse forward. There was no movement. Hook Reed’s buckskin stallion was picketed and saddled like they left him—halfway between the fire and the diggings. The iron skillet was still propped on the rocks. Two wooden crates were pulled up to the fire circle, and deer meat still hung in the trees, covered by an India rubber sheet. The axe was still wedged in the pine round, next to the smoldering fire. The thicket of small whitewoods a hundred yards up the slope of the mountain revealed nothing more than a solid fence of light green, quaking leaves.
    In the corners of his eyes, Brazos could see Big River Frank to the east and Grass Edwards moving along the tree line to the west.
    Indians would have stolen the horse, pans, and grubstake. Maybe those shots came from on up the mountain. Maybe it’s the newcomers. Didn’t notice any at the miners’ meetin’. I don’t see Hook prowlin’ around. No matter how sick a man is, there are some things you don’t sleep through.
    Then Brazos spotted the blackened tin coffeepot sitting on the rocks next to the campfire. He reined up and raised his carbine high above the head as a warning to the others.
    Someone’s been in camp! There is no way on earth that Hook Reed would let the coffeepot get cold on the rocks! It’s hung on that iron rack day and night since the day we made camp three months ago. But I don’t see any hoofprints. If they walked in, they must have