Beneath a Dakota Cross by Stephen A. Bly Page B

been from the north.
    Brazos slipped down out of the saddle and let the reins drop in front of Coco. He reached into his canvas coat pocket with his left hand and felt the cold brass and lead of a half-dozen .50-caliber cartridges. Then he grabbed the reins and led the horse towards the tents, keeping the dark sorrel gelding ahead of him as a shield from the grove of whitewood trees.
    If anyone is still here, they’re in our tents . . . or up in that aspen grove.
    As he approached the campfire, he thought he heard a horse whinny up the mountain. He paused near the fire to peer over the top of his saddle horn.
    Pointing the Sharps towards the trees, he glanced over at the closest tent. Three holes the size of his thumb punctuated the flap, two showed black powder burns on the outside. The other a clean puncture. Gunsmoke lingered inside.
    The mechanical click of a gun hammer checked inside the tent. Brazos left the horse by the dying fire and squatted down next to the tent. He avoided the front flap and the bullet holes.
    â€œHook . . . it’s me . . . Brazos,” he spoke softly. “Are you all right?”
    He scanned the grove of trees while he waited for an answer. Brazos glanced over at Grass Edwards, who was off his horse and crouching behind several large boulders on the far side of the creek. Brazos pointed his carbine barrel towards the grove of whitewoods.
    Finally there was a faint reply from inside the tent. “They done shot me, Brazos!”
    On his hands and knees, Fortune scooted around to the tent flap in front. As he did he exposed himself to the grove of trees. The puff of smoke, the report of the rifle, and the tumbling of the newly punctured coffeepot caused the horse to bolt towards the creek. Brazos ducked inside the tent. Edwards and Big River blasted away at the grove of trees. Then the shooting stopped.
    Hook Reed lay sprawled on top of his brown canvas bedroll, blood soaking up his dirty wool shirt near his right shoulder blade. His right hand clutched the bronze receiver of his ’66 Winchester rifle.
    Sweat rolled down the creases of his unshaven face. Blood trickled down his chin where he had bitten his lower lip.
    Tired brown eyes stared through the lingering gunsmoke at Brazos. “I knew you would come. I ain’t goin’ to die alone. No, sir . . . that wouldn’t be right,” Hook insisted.
    â€œYou’re not goin’ to die at all,” Brazos said. “I’ll fix you up. You hang on, partner. How many men are out there?”
    â€œI only saw three, but there could have been more.”
    â€œWho were they?”
    â€œDoc Kabyo and some others.”
    â€œWhat’s Kabyo doin’ in the hills? I thought he spent his time robbin’ stages.” Brazos dropped flat on his stomach beside Hook Reed as several more shots crashed through camp from the whitewood trees.
    â€œHook, we’re goin’ to chase down these boys that shot you, then I’ll be back to doctor that wound.” Brazos pulled a wool blanket out of his own bedroll and stretched it over Reed. Then he jerked a folded cotton shirt out from under the rubber sheet. “This shirt’s fairly clean. Press this up against that wound and lay still.”
    Hook tossed his rifle down and reached up and grabbed Fortune’s wrist. “Say a prayer over me, Brazos.”
    â€œYou’re goin’ to pull through, Hook. We’ll nurse you back.”
    â€œNo, I mean right now. Say a prayer over me right now.” His thin, bony fingers felt ice cold on Brazos’s hand.
    Fortune raised up on his knees and laid his left hand on Hook’s forehead. But he didn’t take his eyes off the tent flap while he prayed.
    When he finished, Hook Reed dropped his arm back down on the gray wool blanket. “You goin’ to kill ’em, Brazos?”
    â€œI don’t reckon Kabyo’s the type to surrender.”
    â€œI didn’t tell Kabyo