DEATH RIDES THE BLACK HILLS
A Frontier G-Man Novel
by
Franklin D. Lincoln


PUBLISHED BY:
Monogram Press on Smashwords

Death Rides the Black Hills- Frontier G-Man No. 2
Copyright © 2012 by Franklin D. Lincoln
ISBN 9781476098920
SMASHWORDS EDITION


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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Chapter One
Ghost Riders


From out of the night they came, as ghosts with the full moon glowing on their skeletal faces and shiny buttons on their blue army uniforms that blended with the purple darkness of the night. Atop black steeds, they thundered out of the trees and splashed across the waters of Split Toe Creek. With the eerie shrill screams of long dead spirits, the night exploded into another world, dividing the real from the unreal as the riders came out of the water. Their skull like faces glowed in the dark, as did the rib cages, back bones and skulls of their ghostly mounts.
It was Little Elk who saw them first. He had heard of the Ghost Soldiers, but in all of his twelve summers, he had never seen them before. Chills swept over his small body as he realized that he was seeing the apparitions that he had long heard about but somehow always hoped they were just a legend.
He crouched low to the ground and peered out through the thicket. Shaking with fear, he dared not move for fear of being seen. He should have stayed in the teepee until morning, but the fire had dwindled low and the cool night air had aroused him from his sleep. It was usually his job to go out and gather more twigs for the fire and this night would be no exception His sister White Fawn, still slept soundly on the other side of the fire. She was several years older than Little Elk and had acted as a mother to him since the death of their mother and father. She was married to Brave Bear, a huge brutish man who had paid White Fawn’s father twelve ponies for her. As was her duty she served and obeyed Brave Bear. It had been peaceful these last few days with Brave Bear gone with the rest of the warriors and braves.
He was headed back with his arms full of branches, when he heard the sound of horses hooves. His eyes widened in fear and he dropped the load as he ran into the cover of the thicket.
Now, he watched as the Ghost Soldiers came nearer. He knew these were the famed ghosts of the soldiers that the Ogalala Sioux had defeated years before, and had became known as the hundred slain. Their spirits now inhabit these hills looking for revenge against the Lakota Spirits that guard the Black Hills from the Wasichus.
The Wasichus were flowing into the Black Hills in great numbers. At first they flowed like a creek and then as great rivers, invading sacred lands and spoiling hallowed ground. It was for the yellow metal that makes men crazy. Gold! 
Gathering himself together and realizing that the Ghost Soldiers were attacking, Little Elk knew he must warn his village for they would be helpless. Three days ago, the braves and warriors rode off to battle, leaving only the old men, women and children behind. Pushing himself to his feet he turned and crashed through the thicket back toward the village. He ran, staggering through the wooded debris. Even above the loud panting of his breath and the drumming of his heart beating his ears, he could hear the riders closing in behind him.
Closer and closer, they thundered after him, their ghostly mounts crashing through the thicket. Little Elk knew they had seen him. He raced onward screaming as he went. If the camp hadn’t heard the riders by now, his screams should surely arouse someone.
Then as if a door had opened for him, he emerged out of the thicket. The camp lie just ahead. Voices and screams answered his own as women and children emerged from their teepees as the elder men were too old and sick to arise. Little Elk’s feet flew across the encampment. He was still screaming with terror.
The Ghost Soldiers burst out of the thicket with renewed speed, galloping into the camp, trampling teepees and all that still remained inside them. The Soldiers slashed with their mighty sabers at the fabric of the falling teepees and anyone in their way.

Screaming women snatched up their children and tried to run. Older children ran screaming for their lives. The mighty horde of Ghost Soldiers poured full stream attack into the village, their horses hooves trampling all in the way and churning the earth with their sharp gleaming horseshoes.
“White Fawn!” Little Elk cried as he saw his sister running to meet him. He ran faster, toward her and she swooped him into her arms, starting to run.
“No White Fawn!” Little Elk protested. “Put me down! We can run faster than you can carry me.!”
She dropped him to his feet without slowing her pace and they continued to run away. Almost out of the light of the village now, but a huge Ghost Soldier was just behind. His gleaming saber slashed though the night air and his mournful banshee like scream seemed to turn the cool night air even colder.
White Fawn stopped and whirled to face the attacking demon. Flames from the burning camp flared high into the dark sky. The mounted apparition reared his horse onto its hind legs, silhouetting himself against the light of the fires, appearing as a devil from hell.
Then as if by some weird magic of fate, the horse reared over backward, spilling the Ghost Soldier to the ground. White Fawn and Little Elk resumed their flight. But, they knew the other Ghosts could catch them. They dove behind a large boulder and fell flat against the damp earth, White Fawn holding Little Elk’s trembling body close to her.
“Little Elk!” she whispered. “Listen carefully. It is I they want. I’ve got to stop this terror on our people. It is all my fault. I’m going to run out and let them chase me.”
“No White Fawn. Don’t Leave me,” he pleaded. He couldn’t understand how any of this could be White Fawn’s fault. She was good and all the family he had.
She pushed him back and looked him straight in the face. “Listen! I know what I’m doing. Here,” she said removing a chain from her neck. A stone gleaming in the moonlight dangled from it. “Take this.” She looped the chain over Little Elk’s head and tucked the stone beneath his shirt.
“Don’t let anyone know you have this. Understand?”
Little Elk was shaking violently, his eyes filled with tears. White Fawn repeated, “Do you understand me, Little Elk?”
Little Elk nodded slightly. 
“Now ,when I run out, you move back into the bushes. Stay quiet until the soldiers are gone. You will be safe. I promise.”
“But sister…”
“Hush, do as I say. When the soldiers are gone, go to the soldier’s town. Find Brave Bear and give the stone to him. Understand? Don’t let anyone else know about the stone. Only Brave Bear.”
Little Elk nodded. He had thought that Brave Bear had left with the other braves and warriors. He had not seen him for days. Little Elk had been glad that he was gone, for he did not like Brave Bear. He was a big man and often times cruel to him and his sister. There was little white Fawn could do to protect him from Brave Bear for she must obey her husband. She must obey. And now Little Elk must obey White Fawn and seek out the man he disliked and usually feared. Little Elk did not understand, but he knew he must do as he was told.
Little Elk tried to compose himself. He straightened, fighting to keep tears from his eyes. “Yes sister. I understand. I will take the stone to Brave Bear. I will tell no one else about the stone.”
“Now,” White Fawn said pushing him away from her. “I must go now. Do as I say.” He faded back into the bushes.
Without further word, she pushed herself up and ran back into the clearing. Shouts from the riders indicated they had found their prey and horses thundered after her. She ran with all her might, neither looking backward or left to right. She just kept running blindly ahead, the apparitions quickly closing on her until she was surrounded by horses and riders. She stumbled as a large burly ghost swept her off the ground and kept going, his mount’s gleaming shoes pounding the turf and disappeared into the darkness. The other soldiers followed, whooping shrilly and dissolving into the shadows from whence they had come.
Little Elk, trembling, peered out of the bushes and watched his sister disappear with the ghosts. He watched as they melted away into dark nothingness. Their eerie wails dying in the distance. Strangely, he did not cry as he had so easily before. A strange sensation waved over him. One of strength and anger. His jaw set, eyes glaring, fear being replaced by complacence and determination. 
Strangely, as he had hidden in the bushes, he felt his fear subside and a heaviness held him tightly to the ground as if covered by a giant rock, an impenetrable fortress of security.
As the ghosts dissolved, the heaviness seemed to lift from him and he started to emerge from the bushes. The tremendous noise of pounding hooves, shrill yells and the screams of women and children subsided to relative silence. There in the glow of the burning village, all that remained were bodies, strewn about the compound. Of the few survivors, women wailed in grief for the loss of their friends and children. The wounded moaned in agonizing pain. Surviving children cried and many hugged the dead bodies of their mothers.
Little Elk stood there in silence, surveying the damage and feeling bitterness over the scene before him. There was nothing he could do. It was over. His home had been destroyed and he had lost White Fawn. All he could do was to obey White Fawn and find Brave Bear. He shuddered at the thought of approaching Brave Bear without the protection of his sister. And what would Brave Bear do anyways? How would he find her?. Could she still be saved? Would he even care? He had never been in sympathy with the war chiefs, especially Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. He had always favored Red Cloud’s passive approach to the invasion of the Wasichus, white men, and had always hung around the soldier’s town, taking what ever he could that the whites would hand his way. He and others like him were disliked by the Braves and Warriors and referred to them as ‘Hangs Around the Fort’ dogs.
Little Elk stared off to the south, where the ghosts had vanished, heading back into the sacred Black Hills. He pondered his dilemma. If he went to find Brave Bear he would not know where his sister had been taken. He would not be able to tell brave Bear how to find her. But, White Fawn had told him to go and find Brave Bear. No. Little Elk thought. He should follow the trail of the Ghost Soldiers, find where they had taken his sister, then find Brave Bear and bring him to White fawn’s rescue. But what if the Ghost Soldiers found him? What if he got lost? Worse yet. He knew it was forbidden to set foot into the sacred Black Hills. What if the spirits swallowed him up? He would have to risk it. Without his sister, what would he do anyways? If his fate was to be left to the spirits, then that is what it should be.
The darkness of the night was beginning to melt into the oncoming grayness of dawn as Little Elk, with fear and anger in his heart, set out on his long perilous journey following the Ghost Trail into the Black Hills.


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CHAPTER TWO
Assassin


Whoever, it was back there, was still on his trail. For two days, Jack Clayton had noticed the wisps of dust and slight careful movement on his back trail. Now mid morning of the third day with the growing heat of the sun now rising toward its apex before noon, Clayton had reined his big black stallion, Regret, to a halt, dismounted, and led the steed into the shade of a large tree next to the rippling waters of a shallow stream. Here he let the big horse drink his fill as he dipped his canteen into the cool water a little upstream from where the great horse watered.

Jack stood, drank a little from the canteen, then squatted back down to refill and replenish what he had just used. Again he stood and attached the canteen to his saddle gear. Then, picking up Regret’s trailing reins, he gently pulled the horse away from the water before he drank too much. Regret nickered his disdain, but followed his master obediently away from the stream, as they retreated into denser shade of the tree.
Here Jack once again dropped the reins. He then loosened the cinch to his saddle and slid the entire rig off the Black’s gleaming back and let it fall to the ground. Regret shook his magnificent mane and neck, his rippling muscles flexing and relaxing as he shook himself with relief .
Jack pulled handfuls of grass from the shaded turf and rubbed his compadre down, wiping the sweaty body dry. Regret seemed to relish the pampering.
By the time, Jack had finished, Regret was starting to feel his usual frisky self Jack re-saddled the horse and led him back to the trail. Here, he removed his black flat crowned hat and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his sweaty forehead, then the inside of his hatband. All the while, he was staring back on the trail from whence he had come. The movement back there appeared and disappeared again. Whoever it was had come closer now. Jack’s brief rest had allowed the trailer to close the gap behind him. He was sure now that he was being followed. If it were merely someone traveling the same direction as he, there would not be need for caution and stealth. Often travelers of the trail sought the company of others as they rode along. This was definitely not the case. Clayton in his work as a government agent had been trailed many times and he knew when there was danger.
But why would he be followed? No one knew where he was going and why. Except for John Randolph, his boss and director of the Western District Justice Department which housed its secret headquarters just outside of St. Joseph, Missouri under the guise of a gentlemanly owned horse ranch. This time, however, Randolph did not have full knowledge of what Jack’s plans were, for Jack had made it clear that he was acting on his own and was not being sent on a mission by Randolph. The political arena being what it was, it was for Randolph’s own good that he not be aware of Jack’s actions.
Clayton knew from experience, that nothing ever had to make sense in his line of work and information could be leaked and transmitted in all sorts of devious ways and apparently, someone knew what he was up to. Someone was surely on his trail.
Jack resolutely replaced his hat on his head, climbed into the saddle, and sent Regret forward, continuing on the trail to the north country. “Let the devil catch up,” Jack thought to himself. “Let’s have it out. The sooner, the better,” he thought grimly and rode on.
As the day wore on, Jack stopped and rested several times. He took a break for lunch and a couple other breaks during the hot afternoon and eventually stopping late afternoon to make a night camp. He had found a cool shady area near a pool. After he had once again seen to Regret’s needs, Jack undressed, neatly stacked his clothes with the rest of his saddle gear and plunged into the cool water of the pool. He splashed around for awhile making no secret of his presence in the water. Whoever was dogging his trail should now believe that Clayton’s guard was down and now at a considerable disadvantage. If ever opportunity was knocking, Jack had left the door wide open.
After a few moments of splashing and kicking about, Jack seemed to relaxed and float lazily, enjoying the coolness and watching the late afternoon sun lowering in the west. He waited, listening intently to the birds and the slight wisp of breeze. Regret flung his head high and nickered, as if smelling danger in the air. He stamped restlessly at the grassy bank.
Then as if on cue, the silence of the day was broken by the steady clip clop of a horse’s hooves and the chink of metal shoes on rock Jack readied himself. Although, he seemed to be floating, he in fact was standing on the bottom of the shallow pool. His knees were flexed leaving his head and shoulders above the water with his arms still submerged.
The rider came slowly and steadily around a bend in the trail. The rider was a tall thin man, wearing a black hat and black riding duster. The afternoon sun behind him silhouetted him as a dark shadow, hiding his features. The streaming rays of the sun emanated like spires around his form. Jack watched coolly as the man led his dark brown mustang up onto the bank of the pool and drew rein. The rider sat back in his saddle and pushed his hat higher to the back of his head. “How do?” The stranger smiled, his face now revealed. Black curly hair fell across his seamed forehead. Black stubble of beard was almost long enough to blend into his think mustache. Dark piercing eyes glinted with a taunting sneer. “Look’s like you found a way to cool off, friend.”
“Waters fine,” Jack returned nonchalantly. “There’s enough to go around if you want to join me.”
The man smiled, saying nothing at first, then, “No, my friend. I think I’ll pass.” He chuckled. “You see friend, being there in the water, without clothes, without guns, puts a man at a very bad disadvantage.” He drew his pistol from the holster at his right side and leveled it across the pommel of his saddle.
Clayton stiffened, staring at the gaping big black bore of the pistol muzzle. He said nothing, waited. He heard the click of the hammer earing back. The man laughed, “So long, G-Man.” His knuckle whitened as he squeezed the trigger.
The silence of the afternoon erupted into exploding thunder and flame as the pistol roared. The dark man’s face twisted in surprise and agony as he realized what had happened. His bullet went skyward as he felt the impact of a bullet heavy against his chest, almost toppling him from the saddle. He fought to bring his weapon to bear once again on his target, but his hand was no longer steady, his mount floundering, and through his blurry eyes, he could see Clayton standing out of the water now, a rifle wrapped in his waterproof slicker was in his hands. Steaming smoke protruded from the gaping hole where the bullet had exited. Clayton grimaced, gritted his teeth and fired again. This time the man fell from his saddle to lie sprawled on his back, glassy lifeless eyes staring up at the waning sun, a black purplish hole smoldered between his eyes.
“Wonder what made him think I was his friend.” Jack mused to himself, wading out of the pool and onto the grassy bank.
Jack quickly dried off and dressed before examining the body of his assailant. The man carried no identification on him as Jack would have expected from a professional assassin. He did have a hundred dollars in his pocket and another five hundred in crisp one hundred dollar bills in an envelope in his saddle bags. A handwritten note accompanied the money. It read simply:
Clayton First!

L.

Jack nodded acknowledgement of its grim meaning.
Also in the envelope was a steamship ticket for boarding the Union Belle on the Missouri, leaving Marysville for Bismarck, North Dakota at 7:00 P.M. June 7.
Jack turned the ticket over. Written in the same handwriting:

Lower deck C12.

After giving the situation some thought, Jack made his decision. He was going to Fort Lincoln, outside of Bismarck, North Dakota anyways. He would be in Marysville tomorrow about this time and tomorrow was June 7, so why not use this ticket, take the steamship, and see what happens. “How about it, old hoss,” Jack said patting Regret’s gleaming black neck. “How about a vacation from the trail. You get to ride for a change. I’ll bet you get lot’s of hay and grain on one of those ships.” Regret shook his mane and whinnied as if he understood.
“Well, I’d better clean up around here. It’s best we find another camp for tonight. Wouldn’t want to get caught around here with a dead man. It might cause us a problem. Besides we still have daylight. It’s still way too early to quit for today anyways.” Regret snorted and shook his head as if in protest.
Jack turned his attention to the dead man’s horse. He stripped the saddle gear off and then rubbed the horse down with tufts of grass. He then led the horse to water and let him drink his fill. Then he led him up onto the bank and removed his bridle. With a slap on the rump he sent the horse off to run free.
Now to get rid of the body. Jack piled the saddle gear, except for the man’s rain slicker, which Jack could now use after having a blown a hole in his own, onto the man’s body and lashed it to him with his lariat. He then dragged the body and equipment to the pool and dumped them in. The weight was enough to sink them below the surface of the pool, leaving no trace that a body was hidden there.
Jack climbed into his saddle, spoke quietly to Regret and urged him forward into a trot as they rode off into the setting sun.


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Chapter Three
Riverboat Danger


Rain had pelted them since noon. The black low hanging clouds had hung over them like threats of impending doom and the wind whipped the rain against horse and rider in torrential sheets of water. Jack was glad he had saved the assassin’s slicker. Though not much protection, it at least kept some of the rain off him. There was little he could do for the rivulets of water that pooled on the upturned brim of his black J.B. and then streamed down the back of his neck.
Marysville was dark and dreary in the gloom of the storm and the darkness of early dusk, as Jack rode down the narrow, brick streets toward the river docks. Rain water pooled along the curbs, and Regret’s hoofs slopped through the puddles. The clop of his shoes against the brick and the splash of each step was drowned out by the falling rain and the roar of thunder which was now finally subsiding. 
It was nearly 6:30 When Jack found the Union Belle. In the darkness, it loomed as a large ominous shadow, rocking and creaking in the unsettled waters of the Missouri. Faint lights seemed to flicker from the windows of the upper and lower decks, only to be hidden by the torrent of rain.
Regret shook his head and pulled back against the reins as Clayton led him, unwillingly, along the wooden planking of the dock toward a ramp leading into a sub deck of the ship. Horses and cattle were being led aboard to be stabled here below the passenger decks.
A slicker clad handler met Jack at the mouth of the ramp, checked his ticket, and directed him to proceed. As Jack stood at the entrance into the ship, another handler at the foot of an inside ramp motioned him forward. Lightning flashed, briefly silhouetting Clayton in the doorway. Thunder clapped.

The dining room on the upper deck of the Union Belle was fairly empty when Jack entered and took a table next to the wall, as usual his back was next to it so he could view the entire room before him. The lights seemed to flicker as the storm churned waters rocked the boat more than usual.
After Jack had taken care of Regret, now stabled quietly in the livery below, he had found his own room which to his surprise was on the upper deck and did not correspond to the state room number that had been written on the back of the ticket. It might be well to find out the meaning of that lower deck location.
Jack had washed up and changed into a black broadcloth suit, with white shirt, string tie and gray vest. He had dispensed with the gun and holster that usually rode low on his right hip, but had retained the shoulder holster rig and pistol tucked out of sight under his left arm and concealed by his suit coat.
He had strolled nonchalantly into the dining room trying to be as invisible as possible. Tall and broad of shoulder and dressed as a dandy, with dark wavy hair and slate blue eyes, he did cut an unforgettable figure. He passed three gaming tables occupied by other fancy dressed gentlemen who looked like professional gamblers. He could easily pass as one himself.
Now he sat leisurely at his table, sipping hot coffee as he awaited his meal. Without showing particular interest, he surveyed the room and the people in it. Diners were busy with their meals and gamblers were engrossed in their games. So far, so good. No one seemed to be interested in the lone man against the wall. Except….perhaps or perhaps it was imagination or possible wishful thinking. One person may have noticed him. At least he noticed her. But why not? Not only was she a striking young lady with blond curly hair, light complexion and rosy cheeks with long lashes above clear blue eyes, and dressed in a stunning blue gown, but she was notable as a gambler at the middle gambling table. A sight rarely seen in the genteel south.
She obviously knew what she was doing, for she would play her cards and then reach out to sweep the pot from the center of the table and leave the cash lying in a disorganized pile in front of her. Her disgruntled competitors grumbled and threw their cards into the middle of the table and groaned with disgust.
The woman expertly gathered the cards, shuffled, and split the deck, and reshuffled with the ease and grace of a practiced professional. She flipped the cards around the table as if disinterested. Occasionally, her long lashes would lift and she seemed to peer out across the room, glancing in Jack’s direction.
Jack’s meal came and he proceeded to attack it, occasionally glancing at the gaming table. Her winning streak was continuing, but he could see the irritation the young woman was beginning to show with the game. The man to her left was dark with a lean angular face, dark eyes and straight black hair, greased back, slick and shiny, seemed to be more disgruntled than the rest and flashing expressions and words were sporadically being exchanged.  This continued for several hands and the exchanges appeared to become more frequent and more heated until the man jumped to his feet and pushed the lady’s chair aside as he grabbed for the pile of cash in front of her. She quickly grabbed a whiskey glass and flung the liquid into the man’s eyes. He yelped as the alcohol stung deep and he threw his hands to his eyes in reflex and staggered backward as the lady came to her feet and kicked the man in the shin. He doubled in pain, grasping his lower leg. While stooped, the lady flung the point of her folded parasol into his mid section. He groaned in agony. The handle of the parasol caught him full force in the chin and he fell backward onto the floor writhing. She tossed the broken and twisted parasol onto his heaving chest.
Without a word to anyone, she scooped her cash into her purse and stalked away from the table, walking straight and deliberate toward Jack Clayton’s table and sat down across from him. “How about a drink, stranger?” She said , not waiting for an answer. “Waiter,” She called. “A bottle of whiskey and two glasses.” The waiter hurried nervously forward, placed the bottle and glasses on the table, and scurried away.
Jack seemed speechless, tried to decide what to say now . And why was she here? He tried not to show his curiosity. He’d have to play along. “Well, I think that would be great. I certainly wouldn’t argue with you.” He nodded toward the gaming table where the game had broken up and the beaten man was slinking away.
“You’re a smart man,” She smiled. “I like your looks.” She was very forward. Jack, on the reserved side, felt a bit uncomfortable with the approach, but he needed to find out her game and just what was her interest in him. 
“Well,” he replied. “I like yours too. I guess that makes of even.”
“Good. Looks like we’re going to get along fine. What’s your handle Mister?”
Jack hesitated. “Jones, Jack Jones.” Coming up with a name quickly.
“Now isn’t that a coincidence?” She giggled. “Mine is Jones too. Francy Jones.”
“Are we related?” Jack retorted.
“Maybe we should be.” She flirted coyly.
“Maybe we should at that.” He chuckled appreciating the insinuation. Then he changed the direction of the conversation. “So what brings you to my table?”
Her expression changed like a cloud passing across the moon. Gone was the aggressiveness and exuberance in her voice. Instead she lowered her tone and said. “That man I had trouble with. His name is Bert Fleming and he is a very mean man. He’s not going to let me get away with what I did to him and I don’t dare leave this room without an escort.”
“Meaning, you think I could protect you?” Jack leaned forward and said low. “What makes you think you don’t need protection from me? Besides, I am a bit of a coward and I might not be of much help.” From what Jack had just witnessed, he doubted she needed protection from anyone. He wouldn’t mention that. He would just play along.
“Fleming won’t know that. I just want to be seen with you. Perhaps, it will discourage him.”
“Just who is this Bert Fleming?” Jack asked.
“Just some two bit tinhorn gambler I met at the game. He cheats.”
“Didn’t seem to do him much good against you.”
“I cheat too,” she stated matter of factly.
“Hmmm,” Jack nodded with a wry smile. “I just bet you do.” He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Then I suppose we ought to make this look real, so let’s just have a good time here for a while and when we are finished, I’ll escort you to your room, oh so gallantly.”
“I just knew I was going to like you.” She raised her glass and drained it.
They talked a while, Jack finished his coffee but did not partake of the offered drink. It seemed obvious that the couple were enjoying each others company and were having a pleasant evening.
Almost an hour had passed. The other dining tables were empty now and only one game was still in progress on the other side of the room. Jack left payment on the table and the couple arose. Jack took Francy’s arm and walked her slowly through the wide entranceway, showing enraptured attentiveness to her. For all to see, they were a very happy couple.
“My room is on the top deck,” She whispered, digging into her purse looking for the key. “B2”
Jack refrained from commenting that he too had a room on the top deck, B4. He had lucked out. It could be fortunate that they were housed so closely together. But then again, Jack never believed in luck. He would play along.
As they traversed the passage way, the swaying deck affected their balance and they appeared a bit tipsy. They laughed. All this added to the illusion of a couple having a good time. They glanced to the right to see out on the promenade deck and could see the rain lashing in over the outside rail. Tonight was not a good night to walk out there.
“Here it is,” She said, turning to the door at her left. She handed the key to Jack. He took it without a word, leaned a little forward looking down at the lock as he slid the brass key in and turned it until it clicked in the lock.
The click was echoed much louder behind him as the hammer of a pistol eared back, and he felt the pressure of hard steel pressing into his spine. “Hold it right there, Galahad. Raise your hands and turn around. One false move and I’ll blow you away. Got that?” A harsh menacing deep voice growled quietly close to Jack’s left ear.
Jack slowly raised his hands and turned slightly toward the voice. It was Fleming.
His piercing dark eyes were cold and menacing. A little behind Fleming and a bit to his left, Francy stood silently. Her face placid and calm.
“Thanks for the warning, Miss Jones.” Jack chastised. She shrugged. No verbal response.
“Get his gun, Francy.” Fleming ordered.
Francy moved forward, reached inside Jack’s coat and plucked the pistol from the shoulder holster. She looked up at him through her lashes. Remained silent.
“Thanks for such a lovely evening.” Jack taunted wryly. He felt the weight of the pistol leaving the rig. “We must do this again sometime. But, it will be my treat.”
Francy handed the pistol to Fleming and stepped back out of the way.
“Funny man,” Fleming sneered. “I’ll bet you’d like a night cap to top off your evening. This way.” He waved a pistol barrel toward and exit leading onto the promenade deck. “Come on move!” He shoved the muzzle into Clayton’s ribs.
Jack moved slowly, eyeing his captors warily. He knew what was coming. “Delighted,” He shrugged. Fleming shoved him through the port.
The wind whipped rain hit them with tremendous force and tended to push them backward, their feet trying to remain a hold on the rollicking deck floor, but Fleming braced himself, shoving Clayton ahead of him toward the rail.
Gun or no gun, Clayton knew he had to try something or for sure he would be going overboard into the murky churning water below. He twisted his body sharply, jabbing his elbow into Fleming’s jaw. Fleming fell backward, stunned, the heaving deck adding to his instability. Fleming dropped Clayton’s pistol to the deck, but his own, held tightly in his right hand, went off, spurting flame skyward into the darkness of the night. The roar of the wind and rain and drone of the steam engine drowned the noise of the shot to a mere pop.
Clayton dove at his captor, driving him into the outside wall of the upper deck. His left hand gripped Fleming’s right wrist and held his arm high so he couldn’t bring the weapon low enough to draw bead on Clayton. He buried his right fist into Fleming’s midsection. Fleming groaned and doubled forward. In desperation he stamped on Jack’s foot pushed him backward until Clayton felt his back against the outside rail. Fleming came on stronger bending the G-Man’s back over the top of the rail, gripping Jack’s left wrist. It was a death match as both men struggled in each others grasp, the rain pouring into their eyes, blinding them and heightening the sense of danger.
Clayton could feel his strength waning against Fleming and the rail at his back was digging into his spine with fantastic pain. Fleming had pushed him higher and further over the rail by now. Then with a tremendous burst of strength, Fleming pulled his gun hand free and in one swift, sweeping movement, he arced the weapon forward and slammed the barrel against the side of G-Man’s head with a thud.
Blackness absorbed Jack’s brain and numbing pain was only momentarily realized as all consciousness left him. He could not even feel himself falling as he pitched backward over the rail into the raging waters below.


****


Chapter FourOne
Watery Grave


Down, down, he plunged, with no sensation until he splashed into the cold water of the river. Suddenly, his consciousness returned. At first , he could finally feel himself falling and now sinking to the bottom of what could be a watery grave. Then he remembered Fleming and the struggle and now wide awake, realized what had happened. The river wasn’t terribly deep, but deep enough for him to sink to the bottom landing on his back in the sandy bed. 
He flipped himself forward, half sitting and reaching above his head, pushing off the bottom with his feet to propel himself into a rise toward the surface. Knowing he would have to swim for it, and realizing that his suit coat and boots could inhibit him, he was twisting and turning his body, wriggling out of the jacket and kicking his boots off as he sped toward the surface.
He had just finished removing the coat as he broke out of the water. It was almost as dark out of the water as it had been below, but even in the darkness and the heavy rain, he could make out the large moving shape of the steamer off to his right, between him and the eastern shore. 
Quickly, he lunged into a crawl stroke, trying to reach the ship before it would pass him and leave him behind. Stroke after furious stroke, the G-Man sped toward the boat. It was close enough now to hear the lumbering engine and he found himself just ahead of the big stern wheel and could feel himself riding off its wake. This momentum, combined with the natural northward current added to his speed and allowed him to keep up with the chugging craft.  But he couldn’t keep this pace for long and he couldn’t get too close behind the big paddles for fear of being sucked into them.
Clayton finally reached the stern and latched onto a docking hook. Relief. He could lie back now and let the boat tow him along. He lay back in the water, heaving for air and letting the cutting rain spicules pound his face. Then as he gathered his strength, he regarded the big paddle wheel beside him slapping its blades thunderously into the river and driving the bulky vehicle forward.
For several moments Jack surveyed the situation. There were no handholds for him to climb up to the deck. The only way up would be to ride the paddle wheel blades up, if he could , without being beaten to pieces. Even if he could, the wheel would take him past the first deck. He would have to ride all the way to the top and leap forward to land on the upper deck roof. He would have to be crazy to try such a stunt. Or desperate. “Well, I guess I’m both,” Jack thought to himself as he clenched his jaw in determination and swung himself toward the churning wheel. The blades whacked him on the knuckles and he quickly pulled himself back out of the way having failed to find hold on a passing blade.
Twice more he tried it. Twice he failed. Then, one more lunge and he found himself hanging from a blade, his kicking feet trying to avoid getting caught in the next blade below. The spinning wheel raised him rapidly toward the apex of its cycle. Jack would have to time it just right to leap forward and land on the ship’s roof. If he missed, he would be pulled down between the wheel and the stern to be crushed in the close space or beaten to death when it pulled him back down into the water.
There was no time to think. No time to judge. The wheel was churning too fast. Only instinct could pull him free of the wheel, stretch him into a dive and land on his side rolling across the steamer’s rooftop gathering scrapes and bruises.
He lay there several moments, wondering if he had done it. After a brief rest, he decided, he must have or else he was awakening in the afterworld and not in as pleasant a place as would have hoped for.
But apparently he was still in this world. Looking up into the sky he realized that the storm was subsiding. The rain was not pelting him as hard and the ship was not rocking as violently as before.
Jack pushed himself erect. Stood swaying unsteadily in the now diminishing wind getting his bearings and mentally noting every aspect of the roof top. There appeared to be an entrance way to the roof from down below about halfway along the port side of the craft. Jack padded across the rooftop on his sodden stockinged feet and bent over the partially raised square trap door-like porthole. Luckily, it was not locked from below and Jack had no problem pulling it wide open. He lowered himself feet first into the gaping hole and secured his feet on the access ladder which led him to the promenade deck on the upper level. This was about where he had fallen, but on the other side of the boat.
He felt inside his clinging water soaked trouser pocket and found he still had his key to his state room. He would need the sixgun he had left in there. 
Jack found his way back to his room, entered quickly without being seen and retrieved his weapon which he held high in his hand as he opened the door to leave. 
A quick movement in the hall forced him to duck back inside, swinging the door almost shut, but leaving a crack of an opening to peer out. He could see Francy Jones scurrying down the hall to the stairway leading to the lower deck. Once she disappeared into the well, Jack hurried forward, pulling the door behind him hoping to leave no trace that he had been there. There wasn’t much he could do about the puddles of water he had tracked in and out. Hopefully, Francy had not noticed or didn’t think anything about it since she probably didn’t expect that Jack could have possibly returned from his watery grave.
He hurried into the stairwell and clambered below, his bootless feet quiet on the metal stairs. Francy had already reached the lower deck and was walking hurriedly down the passage way when Jack reached the bottom of the stairs and peered around a corner to see her knock on a door, apparently an identifying code of some sort for she entered without waiting for acknowledgement from inside.
Someone else was entering the passage way from the other end of the hall. Jack ducked back and cautiously peered out again. It was Bert Fleming. He approached the same door, knocked and entered as did the visitor before him.
Jack stepped out and approached the door. It was C12, the number on the back of the ticket. He stood close, putting his right ear to the door, holding his pistol ready. There was a murmur of voices and he could hear steps toward the door and saw the doorknob start to turn.
He dashed away quickly and slid around a corner. He pressed his back tight against the wall and held his breath hoping he had not been seen. Francy passed by heading back up the stairs. Apparently, he had escaped detection. He took a breath and sighed with relief.
Was she coming back? He dared not return to the door, for she could return and he might not be so lucky another time. He decided he would wait. Worse case, if Francy did not return, he could at least watch and see who else might be coming and going. He settled back and waited.
After a few moments, Clayton once again heard the clang of shoe leather on metal steps and then saw the reappearance of Francy Jones. She carried a large brown envelope and hurried past his hiding spot on her way to C12.
As she passed by, Jack stepped out behind her and wrapped his left arm around her and clasped his hand over her mouth in one swift motion and pulled her to a halt, holding her firmly against his water soaked body.
She tried to struggle, but Clayton’s grasp was too strong for her. Her muffled protests were hardly audible and her eyes widened in fear and surprise. “I’m baaack!” Jack chided in almost a whisper. “Don’t move! Don’t make a sound! Understood?” he pressed the muzzle of his six shooter to her temple.
She nodded emphatically.
“Now let’s go visit your friends.” He pushed her along the passage way to the door. “Now knock the way you are supposed to. No tricks, I know the code.” He relaxed his grip enough to let her knock, then he loosed her, turned the knob, threw open the door and pushed her inside ahead of him, holding her as a shield.


****


Chapter Five
Change of Plans


The occupants were startled by the sudden burst and caught off guard as Jack came in shoving the door closed behind him and leveling his pistol, the hammer earing back to a menacing click. “Don’t move!” Clayton bellowed.
There were four men sitting at an oval table. Papers and documents were spread in front of them and they stared up with astonishment at Clayton’s invasion. Bert Fleming was particularly astonished to see Jack return from the grave. Two older men sat across the table from Fleming. Both looked distinguished in their expensive suits. One was heavy set, with loose hanging jowls and a much balding head of thin stringy gray hair. The man next to him was much younger, tall, trim and fit, with a strong face and graying slightly at his temples beneath a shock of dark brown hair.
Most surprising of all was the man sitting at the head of the table. He was a lean angular man just past middle age. Long dark sideburns beneath a full head of hair framed his narrow face.
 “Rudy!” Clayton gasped with surprise. The man was well known to him. Clayton had served with him in the Ohio 23rd during the recent war between the states. The man was Rutherford B. Hayes.
“Well, come in Jack. Good to see you again.”
“What is going on here. Rudy?” Jack demanded, releasing his hold on Francy and pushing her out of the way. He kept his gun level.
“Don’t tell me, Bert, that this is the man you threw overboard?” Hayes glared at Fleming.
Fleming swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Before he could answer, Rutherford added vehemently. “You idiot, Bert. This man is no assassin. This is Jack Clayton. Works for the Department of Justice. An old friend of mine. Saved my life during the war.”
“But, but how was I to……” Bert stammered nervously.
“Oh stop your blubbering, Bert and shut up.” Hayes leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply, gazing up at Clayton.
“Sorry about the misunderstanding, Jack. I’m afraid my associate here, is just a little over zealous.”
Jack swung the pistol barrel to aim point blank at Fleming’s chest. “I can fire him for you, Rudy.” Bert began to tremble.
Hayes laughed. “That won’t be necessary.” Then adding with a glare at Bert. “Not this time anyways.” Jack smiled, released the hammer slowly, and lowered the pistol to his side, moved to the end position at the table, sat down and placed his weapon before him. Francy carefully strode to the table and sat down next to Fleming.
“It’s been awhile, Jack,” Rudy said. “A lot has happened since the war.”
“I believe you are still the Governor of Ohio, Rudy.”
“For now,” Hayes replied. “A lot of people are hoping that it won’t be much longer.”
“Oh, seems to me you are a popular Governor.”
“Maybe so, maybe no, but some people want to see me as President,” Rudy apologized. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” Jack ventured. “Seems to me the country needs an honest man. One who will pay attention to business. A lot has happened these last eight years of Grant.”
“Yes. There has been a lot of graft and corruption throughout the government at all levels, right under his nose and now the country is in bad shape and his administration is in shambles. The party thinks I can rebuild it. I am not so sure.”
“But you’d give it your best shot.” Jack retorted.
“You are much too generous, Jack,” Rutherford scoffed. “You always were. I always admired that about you, but it’s your downfall. You are too trusting.”
“I think I’ve change some in that department,” Jack disagreed. 
Rutherford glanced at Francy. She lowered her lashes, avoiding both Rudy and Jack. “Didn’t look that way tonight,” Rudy added. “You ended up in the drink. I trust you had a pleasant evening with my trusted young lady assistant, here, before your unfortunate incident in the river, though.”
Jack glanced at Francy, “Guess you are right about me at that, Rudy.” He chuckled.
“Oh forgive me, Jack.” Rudy changed the direction of their repartee as he discovered that during the excitement of the reunion, he had completely ignored the other two associates who he now addressed.
“I am sorry, gentlemen for my oversight.” Back to Jack. “Jack I want you to meet Senator Windholm.” He gestured toward the older heavier set man. “Senator Windholm has been most instrumental in helping me run for president.
“And Allen Parker.” Indicating the younger man. “ He is an investigative assistant, helping me with the issues I may have to face if elected.”
“Gentlemen, I want you to meet Jack Clayton, the best federal agent in the country.”
“Now who’s being generous,” Jack replied. Then shook hands with the two men. ‘Investigative Assistant’ Jack thought ‘Detective’ as he shook Parker’s hand.
Once the amenities had been dispensed with, Hayes took control of the conversation. “Since, you are here, Jack, I guess I should tell you why we are here.”
Jack remained silent, waiting.
“There’s big trouble brewing up north and if I do by some misfortune of fate become president, I don’t want to inherit an Indian War. And that is just what will happen if somebody doesn’t stop it now. Gold has been discovered in the Black Hills, miners are pouring in and the government has been pressured to break the peace treaty with Red Cloud. The government has tried to buy the Black Hills, but the area is sacred land to the Lakota Sioux and Red Cloud won’t sell. I’m afraid our people are going to push the Indians into a war, so they can take the land and keep them on reservations.
“Two of the Sioux chiefs, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull have played into the politicians’ hands by taking their braves and moving off the reservation for better hunting lands. This is in violation of the Fort Laramie Treaty and the military is threatening to use force to drive them back onto the reservation and the politicians will use that as an excuse to take the Black Hills.
“I’m on my way to Fort Lincoln to discuss the matter with the Military, Indian and Land Commissioner there.”
“That’s very interesting, Rudy.” Jack remarked. “Seems we’re both on the same trail.” He went on to tell about a stolen train and stolen arms that had been requested by Fort Lincoln and the events that had led him to trek to the fort and investigate the situation.
Rudy listened intently and gave it considerable thought. “Looks like we’ve got a duplication of effort here. Perhaps we could work together. That way we could spread our resources and maybe save valuable time.”
“I’m listening,.” said Jack.
“I’ve had contact with Commissioner Thorpe before and he is expecting me. If I continue as planned, I can investigate the goings on at Fort Lincoln and leave you free for something else.”
Clayton’s brows drew together and he scowled with a hint of suspicion. “Like what?” he quizzed coldly.
Hayes held his palms up, “Whoa, there Jack. Just listen to me.” He waited a second before proceeding. There was no response from Jack, so he continued.
“As I said before, braves have been leaving the reservation. At first it was for new hunting grounds, but now they are leaving out of fear. Fear of Ghost Soldiers.”
“Ghost soldiers?”
“Yes. They believe the ghosts of the soldiers killed in the Fedderman Massacre have come to wreak revenge on the Lakota. There have been reports of them attacking villages, killing and kidnapping. I believe they are being attacked for the purpose of scaring them off the reservation, but I don’t, never did, and never will believe in ghosts.”
“You think real soldiers are attacking?”
“Could be. They could be raiders dressed as soldiers, but I wouldn’t put it past the military though.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Jack asked.
“I was thinking that while we proceed to Fort Lincoln, you could ride on to the Black Hills, find these ghosts, and try to persuade the Indians to return to the reservation before it’s too late.”
Jack pondered the proposal for a moment, then said. “That’s a pretty tall order”
“Yes, it is. It just may be impossible, but I’d like you to try.”


****


Chapter Six
Indian Attack


The morning sun had climbed halfway into the clear blue South Dakota sky and the G-Man could feel the increasing warmth of its rays as they beat down on his back. He had been riding for three days now, heading west and keeping from the main trails as was his usual habit. So far the trip had been uneventful. The peacefulness of the trail had been a welcome change. Even Regret seemed to enjoy the solitude, even though Jack continued to push him onward at a steady pace.
Clayton had left Rutherford B. Hayes and his entourage aboard the Union Belle when it docked in Omaha. Rudy was continuing on to Bismarck and Fort Lincoln and Jack headed west toward the Black Hills.
Clad now in his usual range garb of gray cotton shirt, black leather vest that concealed his shoulder holster rig, and faded jeans with the cuffs rolled up over his spurless range boots, Jack guided Regret to a small stream that gurgled out of the wooded mountainside that loomed from the north.
His mount had just stopped drinking from the stream and Jack was replacing his refilled canteen on his saddle when he heard it. His peaceful trip was now over, for gunfire was raging on the other side of the mountain. It was never in Jack’s nature to ignore situations like this. Where there was gunfire, there was usually someone in trouble. 
With the litheness of an acrobat, he swung into the saddle, Indian style and sent the big black stallion racing up the mountainside.
The gunfire was more rapid and he could hear the whoops of Indian war cries as he neared the top of the hill. When at last he burst out of the woods, to see the open rolling plains below, he pulled Regret to a sliding halt, dismounted, pulling his Winchester from its saddle as he did so. He pulled Regret behind a large boulder and left him ground hitched.
Peering around the boulder, the G-Man surveyed the area. The scene below was one of desperate battle. A train of eight wagons had pulled into a loose sort of a circle and a war party of Indians were encircling them, trapping them like fish in a barrel, with rapid fire rifles. Flaming arrows had pierced wagon canvasses and fire was spreading . Two men tried to beat some of the fire out, only to be driven back under cover. 
From Clayton’s vantage point, he could see dead bodies lying within the inner circle of the train. The remaining teamsters were hunkered down beneath the wagons returning fire, but the battle seemed to be in the favor of the Indians about three to one and the war party was on the verge of overrunning the camp.
The G-Man opened fire with his rifle, firing in rapid succession, methodically aiming at each Indian one by one, closest to furthest. He wanted to get as many as he could before they could determine where the volley was coming from too soon. Surprise was his advantage. One by one, braves fell from their speeding horses, their rifles flying into the air.
It only took a few moments before the war party decided, the tide had turned on them. The one who appeared to be the leader, pulled, his paint horse up short, rearing it onto its hind legs. He waved his rifle in to air and whooped. His followers acknowledged and pulled rein on their mounts. Then they swarmed into a pack and they all turned their horses and sped off in a cloud of dust forgetting about the wagons.
Clayton rode slowly and warily into the circle of wagons. Canvasses were still smoldering from fire arrows and the smell of gunpowder and death filled the air. Men and women were attending to the wounded and covering the dead. Women and children were sobbing and men were standing about helpless and speechless.
A heavy set but rugged looking man of about fifty greeted Jack as he swung down from the saddle. “I don’t know who you are, mister, but we owe you our lives. Thanks.”
“The name is Clayton and I only helped. You men were doing alright.”
“Well just the same, Mister Clayton, thank you.” He reached out his right hand to shake. His Winchester was still clutched in his left. “I’m Amos Dunn. Wagonmaster, you might say. At least the folks elected me in charge after we left the main trail up on the Bozeman. Guess it wasn’t too smart an idea, after all.”
“What made you decide to leave the trail and come this way.” Jack asked.
“Too many wagons on the trail. We were just crawling along. Besides, the army kept holding us up, wanting us to turn back. Said it was illegal to go into the Black Hills.”
Jack listened, waiting for more.
“We had a guide. His name was Latrell. He said if we left the train, he could get us through to the gold fields ahead of everyone else.”
“You said you had a guide. You mean you don’t any more?” Jack questioned.
“That’s right,” Dunn answered. “Said he was scouting ahead and rode off. Next thing we knew those hostiles were on us. Then you came along.”
“You think the Indians got him?”
“Naww, not on your life. He led us in here a purpose and set us up. I’m sure he was in with them. I’m pretty sure I saw him riding with them.”
“A white man riding with Indians.” Jack mused. “Interesting. Do you think we got him or did he get away with them?”
“Oh, I’m sure he got away with them,” the wagon master said emphatically.
“You should have listened to the military,” Jack said trying not to sound condescending. “It is illegal to venture into the Black Hills. It’s for your own good. It’s just too dangerous.”
“I know you are right, now. It’s just that…..” He stammered.
“Gold, I know. You got the fever and you had to go. Maybe, you’ve learned now that it’s not worth your lives,” Jack finished for him.
“You’re right.” Dunn agreed. “But what’ll we do now? We’ve come too far to turn back and we haven’t a guide.”
“I suppose I could trail along with you for a while. Fort Buford is not too far to the south. I’ll see you through to there and the army can decide how best to help you.”
“It’s a godsend that you came along Mister Clayton.” Dunn smiled.
“I don’t know about that,” Jack said modestly. “But I do know we can’t stay here long. As soon as you take care of your people, we best get started before those heathens come back to pick up their dead. They just might have a larger force.”


****


Chapter Seven
Confrontation at Fort Buford


Fort Buford was an open post and relatively small. It stationed the Sixth Cavalry Engineers.  It was late afternoon when the G-Man led the beleaguered train into the open area of the parade field. Malingering reservation Indians lounging in the shade of the buildings watched with casual interest as the wagons passed by. Trappers, hanging about the Sutler’s store took note. Obviously, there had been trouble and that could mean a warning to their own safety. A Corporal rushed up to meet them, his rifle at port arms.
“Ran into hostiles north of here,” Jack said, gazing down at the Corporal from his saddle. “We’d like to report to your commanding officer.”
“Yes,sir.” Answered the corporal. “ You can pull your wagons off to the side of the parade grounds. I’ll take you to the commandant.”
Jack dismounted, handed his reins to Amos and followed the Corporal. Dunn motioned to the drivers and led Regret with him to the designated area.
The command post was a squat, log built structure next to the quartermasters.  It was dark inside and the air was stale after a hot day with little ventilation. The balding, stocky Master Sergeant at the desk looked up as Clayton and the Corporal came through the door. “This man wants to see the Major, Sergeant. Came in with a wagon train that was attacked by Indians.”
“The Major’s busy with the Commissioner right now.” The sergeant’s voice was deep and growly. “You may have to wait a while,” he said to Jack. “Let me check.”
He got up went to a door behind him to his left, knocked and entered without waiting for response. He disappeared inside and returned a moment later.
“It’s alright,” he said. “The Major will see you now.” He held the door open.
Clayton nodded and strode through the door. The sergeant pulled it closed behind him.
A tall middle aged man behind his desk was standing straight and tall. His light brown hair had not yet been tinged with gray. His blue uniform displayed a Major’s gold oak leaf on his shoulders. “Come in. Come in,” he greeted holding out his hand to shake. “I’m Major Pearson.”
“Pleased to meet you sir.” Jack took his hand. My name is Jack Clayton. I just brought in a wagon train that had been hit by hostiles. I found the train north of here and guided them in.”
“Well sit down and give me a full report.” Pearson waved him toward a rough wooden captain’s chair in front of his desk. A heavy set , distinguished looking gentleman with gray wavy hair, wearing a gray swallow tailed coat sat in a chair next to it. “This is Commissioner Thorpe,” the major explained. “He’s Commissioner of Military, Indian and Land Affairs for the Dakota Territory. He will also be interested in your report.”
Thorpe half rose extended his pudgy hand. Clayton took it, but not too readily as he recognized the name. He stared into Thorpe’s cold green eyes. “Commissioner.” He acknowledged and sat down. Thorpe eased back and took a drag on his expensive cigar.

What was he doing here? Jack thought. He was supposed to be at Fort Lincoln. Rudy would have missed him. Or had Rudy misled him. Was there something deliberate here or was there a change in plans? He would have to wait it out and play along.
“Cigar, Mr. Clayton.” The major extended a wooden tray of cigars. The bands indicated they were expensive Havanna.
“No thanks, sir,” Jack said, declining apologetically. “No offense sir, but I don’t smoke.  Never could develop a taste. ”
“Very well,” Pearson closed the tray and set it down on his desk. 
 “Well now,” Pearson said, getting comfortable in his chair. “Tell me about the attack.”
Jack quickly relayed how he had come upon the attacked train and helped them out. He deliberately refrained from telling the Major about the wagon master’s deliberate attempt to thwart military orders and enter the Black Hills illegally. He also omitted his reasons for being in the area and his affiliation with the government. He would keep that secret until the appropriate time. Besides, with Thorpe at his left arm, listening to every word, he did not want to tip his hand. He needed to find out more about Thorpe and what was going on.
“Do you know a man named Latrell, Sir?” Jack asked when he had finished relaying the story.
“Yes,” the Major replied, a hint of regret in his voice. “Unfortunately. He’s a renegade, but we’ve never been able to pin anything on him. He comes and goes. Claims to be a guide at times. Hangs around with the fort Indians a lot. Why?”
“He had hired on as guide to the wagon train. The wagon master believes he was in league with the Indians and led them into a trap. He disappeared before the attack.”
“Sounds like him,” the Major agreed. “I’ve heard similar stories about him. Haven’t been able to do anything about it. Haven’t seen him around for quite some time either. Wish I could help more, but right now I can’t. Maybe the Commissioner here might be able to do something.”
“My job is to protect this territory, Mister Clayton.” There was something about the way he said ‘Mister Clayton.’ “I will look into this matter at once.”
‘Yeah, I bet you will,’ the G-Man thought. Then to the Major, he said. “Perhaps, you can help the members of the train.  Their wounded need attention and they don’t know what they want to do now. I told them the army might be able to help them. I need to be moving on.” He took note of Thorpe’s reaction as he glanced out of the corner of his eye 
“Of course, you’ve done more than your share. We’ll take it from here. Send Mister Dunn in and we’ll discuss what’s best for his people.”

“The Major wants to see you, Amos. I’m sure he can help you out. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about the gold fever.”
“Thanks, Jack”
“Glad I could help.” He extended his hand. “I’ve got to be moving on now.”
Amos Dunn’s expression turned dark and his eyes steely with anger. He was staring over Jack’s shoulder toward the entrance to the fort.
“What is it, Amos?” Jacked asked. First thought was that Dunn was unhappy with him for leaving. “You’ll be alright. You won’t need me.”
“It’s not that, Jack.” Dunn said nervously. “That man.” He nodded directionally.
Jack turned. A wiry, scruffy bearded man in buckskin clothes and an Indian were riding into the fort and trotting their tired horses toward the Sutler’s store. “That’s Latrell.” Dunn said.
“Oh,” Jack responded appraisingly watching the two men ride up to the hitch rail. “Maybe we ought to have a talk with him. Come on.”
Latrell and his companion had dismounted, tied up and stepped up onto the wooden porch of the Sutler’s store. “Just a minute there, Latrell!” Jack shouted as he and the wagon master closed the distance from across the field.
Latrell and the Indian turned to face the two men striding toward them. The renegade’s dark eyes squinted menacingly. There was a deep scar running down his stubbly bearded right cheek. He showed no fear, surprise, or any other emotion. Didn’t acknowledge that he recognized Dunn. He stepped down off the porch. The Indian remained where he was.
“You dirty weasel,” Dunn warbled.. “You led us out there to get killed.” He was rushing past Jack, his fists balled with fury.
“Hold it, Amos,” Jack commanded, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and pulling him back.
“Let me at him,” Amos protested, stamping his feet.
“Just wait. Let me handled this.” Clayton pushed the wagon master slightly behind him.
“Is he right, Mister.?” Jack confronted Latrell. “Did you lead him into a trap?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Latrell growled. He spat tobacco juice into the dust at Jack’s feet and rolled his cud around in his cheek. “I went off scouting. When I got back the train was gone. That’s all.” He started to turn toward the porch. “Let’s go, Brave Bear.” He said to his companion.
“Wait a minute.” Jack warned, gripping Latrell’s shoulder to spin him around. “We’re not through with you, yet.”
Latrell spun on his moccasined heel. His fringed buckskin clad arm swung out and his fist smashed Clayton squarely on the chin. Jack staggered back and fell into the dust. Amos Dunn dived at Latrell, driving his head into Latrell’s mid section, doubling him over and driving him down on the porch floor. Brave Bear twisted around, pulling his knife from its sheath, raising it high, poised to drive the blade into the wagon master’s back.
Clayton lunged to his feet, came up behind Brave Bear and grasped his wrist, restraining the blade from being plunged into Dunn’s back. Brave Bear twisted under Jack’s raised arm to face him. Clayton drove a fist into Brave Bear’s face and the Indian fell backward sprawling into the street. The G-Man followed him down, landing on him with both knees pinning him down. Jack pounded a right and then a left into Brave Bear’s face. Blood oozed from his cut lip and he snarled viciously. The knife was still clutched in his right hand. With a desperate surge of strength Brave Bear arched his back, doubled his legs and catapulted Jack over his head to land rolling in the dirt. Brave Bear lurched to his feet, spun around and dived at Clayton, the sun glinting off the deadly blade of his knife as it arched downward at the G-Man.
Clayton rolled to the side. The knife plunged into the dirt where he had just laid . Jack came up quickly and stomped his right fool down on the Indian’s wrist. Brave Bear yelped in pain and his fingers loosed the hilt of the knife. Jack reached down, retrieved it and threw it away out of reach. In the same motion, he pulled Brave Bear to his feet and sent a powerful right fist to his jaw. Brave Bear fell backward, but Jack didn’t let him fall. He gripped him by the front of his shirt, held him and pounded his face again and again. Then seeing that the Indian was finished, he let him drop into the dust, standing over him sweating and heaving for gulps of air.
Meanwhile, Amos Dunn was still wrestling with Latrell, both men rolling over and over, first one man on top and then the other. Latrell had now gained the controlling position over Dunn and was now on top, holding the wagon master down and pounding at his face.
Clayton turned his attention to this other fight, jumped forward to come in from behind Latrell. Gripping Latrell’s collar, Clayton pulled him off the wagon master, spun him around, held him up and swung an arcing blow to his face. Latrell, already spent from the exertion of the fight could not fight back. His eyes glazed over and he fell faint, Jack’s right arm still cocked to drive another blow, but it was no longer necessary. He released his grip on Latrell and let him sink into the dust.
“What’s going on here?” A commanding voice sounded as Clayton helped his friend to his feet.
Jack and Amos, both breathing hard, turned to see Major Pearson standing before them. Commissioner Thorpe stood back slightly behind him.
“Take a look, sir,” Jack gasped, still winded. “We’ve got Latrell. When we tried to question him. He and his Indian friend attacked us. I suggest you put these men under arrest.”
“I think that is a very good suggestion, Mister Clayton” Pearson agreed. “Corporal, lock these men up in the guard house immediately.”


****


Chapter Eight
The Little Thief


There was still a few hours of daylight left when Jack Clayton rode out of Fort Buford. He had left the settlers in the hands of the army and he trusted that the army would take proper action against Latrell and Brave Bear. 
Now dusk was starting to fall as Jack rode through the tree covered slopes of the foot hills above Split Toe Creek.  He guided the big black slowly and steadily, keeping constant vigil for trouble. Regret seemed to act nervous and Jack reassured him with a pat on his strong gleaming black neck. “Steady, big fellow.”  They continued on.
The stallion seemed to be growing more and more skittish as they traveled on, winding between the trees and emerging into a small, narrow, canyon. Clear water trickled in a sparkling stream. Horse and rider stopped to partake its refreshment. The sun had just disappeared behind the western bluff, dark shadows spreading into the canyon covering them with the coolness of oncoming night.
Regret raised his head high and shook it. He snorted and whinnied, stamped his feet nervously and pawed at the turf. “What is it, old fellow?” Jack pulled on his bridle trying to settle him down. His eyes roamed the canyon, peering into the darkness along the stream. He saw nothing. All was quiet, even the birds were silent. Something was ominously wrong here. Too quiet. Much too quiet. 
He surveyed the tops of the bluffs along the canyon walls. Nothing seemed to move. He stared and stared trying to discern something, anything in the foliage. At last he saw it move. Without taking his eyes off it, he reached toward the saddle rig and slid his Winchester from the boot and raised it high, stock firmly planted in his shoulder and took careful aim, waiting for it to move and make a clearer target. It was the biggest mountain lion that Jack had ever encountered. No wonder Regret had been so uneasy.
It moved out onto a rocky ledge, just below the rim of the west canyon wall. The glare of the setting sun obscured the target in his sights. The brightness stinging his eyes and making them water. His finger tightened on the trigger and he took up the slack within the trigger guard. Another ounce of pressure and he would send a speeding bullet at the big mountain lion. But just in time the cat screamed a blood curdling cry and dodged back from the lip of the ledge. The rifle roared and echoed down the canyon. The bullet chipped rock fragments in the cat’s face and he leaped from the ledge and disappeared into the shadows of the canyon. Missed.
“Well, old hoss.” Jack said, “We’d better put some distance between us and that cat, pronto.” He climbed into the saddle without booting his rifle. He wanted it in his hand at the ready if the cat came back. He spoke to his mount, nudged him forward and carefully rode on through the canyon.
It was completely dark by the time they emerged from the canyon into a grassy rolling valley. It was difficult to see just how far the valley stretched, but the graying horizon seemed far over the dark mountains. A sliver of moonlight peered through low hanging clouds.
They continued on for another half hour, picking their way along with what little light they still had until they entered a grove of trees. Now it was too dark to continue on. Hoping they had left the mountain lion far enough behind, which they probably had, since Regret no longer appeared skittish. Jack pulled Regret to a halt, dismounted and proceeded to make camp. He was pleased with his progress considering, his encounter with the wagon train and the diversion to the fort. Tomorrow, he should reach the Black Hills.
Jack quickly had fire going, its glow taking away the chill of the evening. With coffee brewing in a tin can and beans sizzling in a skillet, Jack leaned back against the trunk of a tree and relaxed with an open can of peaches. Regret snorted and stamped the ground. What was it this time, Jack thought. He put the can of peaches down, picked up his rifle, rose and strode in a wide circle around his camp. Nothing. Nothing but normal night sounds. Good. If the cat was near the night sounds would probably cease. He would keep his ear tuned. Stay on guard.
He came back to the fire, squatted and reached for the skillet. What happened here? His brows pulled together in consternation. The skillet was more than half empty. He reached for the tin of coffee. It was empty. He glanced to where he had left the can of peaches. Gone. Without moving or showing surprise, he rolled his eyes from side to side, looking around to find sign of the thief. Nothing. He sat back against the tree trunk once again and ate the remaining beans from the skillet. Then deciding to wait for developing events, he spread his blanket beneath the tree and using his saddle for a pillow he wrapped himself in the blanket for a good night’s sleep.
Clayton lay quiet for several minutes, fatigue overtook him and he started to drift off. If the thief, whoever or whatever it was, returned Regret would surely make warning sounds. Jack had learned a long time ago how to sleep lightly and awaken at the least alarm.
He had almost succumbed, when Regret whinnied low. Clayton rolled over in his blankets, positioning himself so he could see Regret in the glow of the flickering campfire. A puzzled grin crossed his face as he focused on the sight before him.
There in the light of the fire, he could see Regret down on all fours. A small Indian boy was on his back, drumming his heels against Regret’s ribs and cursing with a whispered voice, trying to ride off with the big stallion.. Regret merely tossed his head in annoyance and nickered with amusement, refusing to rise to his feet. If it had been a grown man trying to steal him, the black would have treated him disastrously, but a child was a different matter and he would never harm a child.
The mystery of the disappearing food was solved. Obviously, the youngster was hungry and desperate. Alone in the wilderness and probably scared to death. Carefully, silently, Jack arose from his blankets and tip toed stealthily toward the horse and child. The young boy’s attention fully on the frustration of the stubborn horse, didn’t see Jack approaching until almost the last second. Jack reached out for him, but his arms came up empty as the boy spotted him, wild eyed, and slipped off Regret’s back to the opposite side, and ran into the trees.
“Wait. Don’t be afraid!” Jack called after him, regaining his balance and darting around Regret’s large body on the ground and raced after him.
Clayton could hear the boy crashing through the brush up ahead and followed suit. He quickly closed the distance, his stride so much larger than the boy’s short legs. Thorns scratched at his legs and arms as he pushed on through the thicket.
They burst out of the undergrowth into an open plain almost at the same time, Jack only a step behind the boy, his arms outstretched reaching for the boy.
The small Indian dodged sideways. Jack missed him once again and stumbled, his hands hitting the grass before him preventing him from completely falling. He regained his height and continued on as his quarry ran down the slope. The moon had passed out of its cloud cover now, and Jack could see the Indian boy run down an embankment and leap onto a meager trail below.
The boy fell and rolled over in the middle of the trail as he landed. He screamed in terror as his tried to rise in time to see a band of horses coming around a bend in the trail and bearing down on him. The horses’ and riders’ skeletons seemed to glow in the dark and the skull faces of the Ghost Soldiers were blank and menacing.
The boy froze with fear, the thunder of the fiery hooves droning in his ears. They were almost upon him, when Jack dived from the embankment, his arms enveloping the boy and rolling across the trail into a thick growth of tall weeds. Jack rolled to a half sitting position, holding the boy in front of him tightly, his hand over the boy’s mouth, preventing him from crying out.
The ghostly riders thundered on past them, their pace never waning. Sand and stones flying airborne as their gleaming shod hooves churned the hard packed turf of the trail. Jack ducked down, pulling the boy with him, waiting and hoping they had not been spotted in the dark. The boy’s eyes rolled upward into his head and fainted.
Jack remained still, clinging to the boy and feeling his heart drum beneath his chest. He counted eight riders as they passed by and disappeared down the trail. It seemed like an eternity, but Jack waited patiently until he was sure they had gone.


****
Chapter Nine
True Arrow


The boy finally awakened. When his eyes opened, he started suddenly at the sight of the G-Man sitting beside him next to the warmth of the campfire. “Just hold it there, son,” Jack said calmly in a soothing tone, as he held the boy down, restraining him from rising. “Take it easy, I’m your friend. I’m not going to harm you.”
“White men are not my friends,” the boy growled bitterly. 
Jack understood this bitterness and said. “I know white men have mistreated your people, but we are not all like that. If I weren’t your friend, would I have saved you from the Ghost Soldiers?”
The boy thought for a moment, then tried to sit up. Jack released his hold on him so he could rise. “But, I tried to steal your horse. How can you be my friend?”
“Looks to me like you thought you didn’t have a choice. You were scared, alone and hungry. You didn’t know if you could trust me. Besides, you are just a little boy and you need help.”
“I am not a little boy and I was not scared.” The Indian protested. “I am a brave warrior. My name is Little Elk and I have been searching for the Ghost Soldiers. They have stolen my sister and carried her off and I am out to find her. I have been searching for days. Tonight was the first I saw them since they took her.”
Jack listened with interest. “Can you tell me more about what happened? Maybe I can help.”
“Why should you help me?” Little Elk said sullenly. You a white man, a Wasichus.”
“That is exactly why I should help you. White men have wronged your people and I would like to help right those wrongs. Yes, I am white, but I am not a Wasichus. I have no desire for your land, your home. We should all be brothers and help one another. I admire Little Elk’s courage and bravery. It would be an honor to ride with Little Elk.”
Little Elk’s eyes brightened and he smiled, his chest heaved with pride. “You tell truth?” Little Elk asked.
“True as an arrow, my young friend,” Jack answered. 
“Then I will call you True Arrow,” the boy said.
“I would be proud that you do.” Then Jack said. “Now will you tell me what has been happening.”
Little Elk relayed the story about the raid on the village and his sister’s abduction and how she had asked him to find her husband Brave Bear and how he had disobeyed and tried to find her on his own. He omitted any mention of the stone on the chain around his neck and hidden beneath his shirt. He didn’t admit to getting lost, merely said he had been searching for days, but Jack knew the boy had lost his way and decided to go to Brave Bear after all.
After the boy had finished relaying the story Clayton said, “You said the braves and warriors had been gone from the camp for several days?”
“Yes, but Brave Bear would not go with them.”
Interesting, Jack thought. If the warriors were away, then who ambushed the wagon train? Were they Indians at all? He should have checked the bodies. Perhaps, they were whites dressed as Indians or renegades mixed in with whites. He wondered.
“And White Fawn said Brave Bear would know where to find her?”
“Yes, but I don’t trust Brave Bear. He is a mean man.”
“Maybe, I can help you find Brave Bear,” Jack said. “I know where he is.”
Little Elk’s eyes widened with fear at the thought.
“Don’t worry.” Jack reassured him. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
Little Elk stared into Clayton’s face warily.
Jack told him about Brave Bear’s incarceration in the guard house at Fort Buford. He omitted that he had fought with Brave Bear and had him arrested. “In the morning,” Jack said. “We’ll ride to the fort and find out from Brave Bear where to look for White Fawn. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes,” said Little Elk. “True Arrow knows what is best.”
“Then I suggest we get some sleep. It’s been a long day and tomorrow will be also. We’ll be riding early before dawn.”


****


Chapter Ten
Return to Fort Buford


It was almost mid morning by the time, Jack and Little Elk, riding double on Regret with Little Elk in front and Jack hanging off the rear of the saddle, rode into Fort Buford. The scene was much the same as the day before; the fort Indians still lingering lazily about and the sparse military personnel idly attending to menial affairs. What was surprising was that the wagons were gone. He had expected them to still be here. With wounded to be cared for, he didn’t think they would be traveling for several days.
Jack angled the big black off to the side and reined in at the hitch rail in from of the post headquarters. He lifted Little Elk down first, then stepped down himself and spun the reins over the rail.
He was just helping the boy onto the porch, when the door opened and Major Pearson stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him. “Mister Clayton,” he said with surprise. “I thought you’d be far away by now.”
Something about it bothered the G-Man. A hint of suspicion. “I’ll bet you did.” Jack thought, not sure why he did. Offering no explanation for his return immediately, Jack asked. “Where is the wagon train? I am surprised they left so soon.”
“Actually, so am I.” The Major said. “I advised them to stay until they were completely ready to go, but they were anxious to return to their homes. So, I sent a detail with them to accompany them back to the Platte River.” Then he changed the subject and asked again. This time more demandingly. “So, what brought you back?”
“I want to see Brave Bear.” Jack stated flatly.
“I am sorry, but that will not be possible.”
“Oh, why not?”
“He’s not here.”
“What?” Clayton raised his voice, incredulously.
“Don’t get upset.” Pearson warned. “It’s strictly procedure. We can’t hold renegades here. Brave Bear and Latrell have been transferred to Fort Laramie. A squad of soldiers took them not more than an hour ago. Sorry you missed them.” Then added. “Just what did you want to see him about?”
“This is Little Elk,” Jack said placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Brave Bear is husband to Little Elk’s sister. She’s missing and the boy is all alone. Brave Bear is the only family the boy has left.”
“I see.” Pearson said. “You wanted to turn the boy over to him? A renegade? I’m sure the boy would be better off on the reservation anyways.”
“You’re right, but I have some questions to ask Brave Bear.”
“I’m sorry, but, if you would like, we can take the boy back to the reservation and you can be on your way.”
Little Elk spun his dark heard and looked up pleadingly at Jack. “No that won’t be necessary,” Jack said. “The boy stays with me. Come on Little Elk.” He turned the boy toward Regret and lifted him into the saddle and swung up behind him.
“If you should change your mind….” Pearson said.
“I won’t,” Jack stated flatly, lifting the reins and prodding the black. They rode out. Pearson clenched his fists, tightened his jaw, and watched them ride out.

He watched until they disappeared over the horizon, then turned and entered the command post. “Get Latrell and Brave Bear here, pronto.” He ordered. The burly Master Sergeant saw the fire in the Major’s eyes. He leaped nervously to his feet from behind his desk and practically tripped over his own feet, not able to get out of the office fast enough. “Fool!” Pearson muttered to himself with a grouch on, and went to his office and closed the door behind him.
“Well?” Commissioner Thorpe asked. “You got rid of him?”
“Yes,” Pearson growled, rounding his desk and plopping into his chair dejectedly. “But he’s suspicious. He wanted to see Brave Bear. Claims the boy he has with him is Brave Bear’s. I told him Brave Bear and Latrell had been sent to Fort Laramie. I couldn’t let him know I didn’t lock them up, could I?”
“No of course not,” said Thorpe.
“I’ve sent for Latrell.” Pearson added.
“You did right. We’ll send him out and have him kill our Mister G-Man.”
“That might not be so easy.” The dusty range attired man sitting next to Thorpe said, taking a drag on the expensive cigar Thorpe had given him. “I found that out.” He glanced to the woman sitting to his right. She was dressed in a vest and divided riding skirt.
Bert Fleming and Francy Jones had ridden hard for two days after arriving at Fort Lincoln and finding that Commissioner Thorpe had gone on to the Black Hills. Rudy Hayes had wanted to ride on and find Thorpe, but his companions persuaded him that in light of the recent happenings at Fort Lincoln and the dispatch of General Custer to Wyoming, it would not be prudent for a presidential candidate to get caught in the middle of a potential Indian war. Fleming suggested that he and Francy ride on in his stead and transact their business with Thorpe while he should return by river boat to Omaha and then on to Ohio.
“You don’t just kill a man like Jack Clayton.” Francy said. “You have to outsmart him.”
“You seem to have a high opinion of Mister Clayton, but after all he’s just a man ,Miss Jones.” Thorpe smiled confidently.
“Bert thought he had killed him once,” Francy Jones nodded toward Bert Fleming. “But he failed.”
“I’m not Bert,” Thorpe chuckled. “So, tell me Bert, what did Hayes think of your failure?”
Fleming squirmed uneasily in his chair. Francy said, “He thought he was a blasted fool, of course.What else?”


****


Chapter Eleven
Ambush on the Trail


Outside the post, Jack turned the big black northward, the general direction of Fort Laramie. They would have to overtake the squad and get Brave Bear before they got too far away. Jack wondered why he had felt so angry and suspicious of Major Pearson. Something didn’t seem right. And things began to seem even more wrong. They should have found tracks of the squad, but they found much more than that. Not only were there tracks of many horses, but there was also wagon tracks. Several wagons. A wagon train. But this could not be Dunn’s train. They were headed south toward the Platte. Or were they? Strange, Amos would take his wounded before they were well. Why would Pearson tell him they went south? Jack became more agitated and rode silently, not letting Little Elk know he was worried. 
They rode steadily onward, Jack scanning the trail ahead and occasionally looking back to cover their back trail. They had only ridden about a half hour when Jack noticed a dust cloud about a half mile back. It could be just someone else using the trail, but given his suspicions, he was afraid he was being followed. He didn’t like being followed. Someone always wound up dead and one of these times, it might well be him.
They rode on. Clayton kept glancing back. The dust cloud was closer now. Whoever was on the trail, was in a big hurry, coming fast with no regard for stealth or caution. 
Well, it was time to find out what this was all about. He guided Regret off the trail and climbed a slope into a stand of pine and reined up before a large boulder “Down you go Little Elk.” Jack said, taking the boy’s arm and lifting him down from the saddle.
“Why are we stopping, here True Arrow?” The boy asked. “What are we doing?”
Jack swung down, pulled his rifle from its scabbard and led the black behind the rock, guiding the boy along also. “Get down and be quiet, son” Jack said, kneeling behind the rock, pushing the boy a little behind him. “There is someone on the trail behind us. I want to make sure they are not following us, so we’ll wait here and see who they are. If it’s none of our business, we’ll let them pass and then get on the trail again. Do you think that’s a good plan?”
The boy smiled, proud that True Arrow would ask his opinion. “Yes. Good plan.”
For several minutes, they waited, watching the trail intently. The sun was getting higher in the sky. Its warmth reflected off the rock and warmed them, taking away the chill of early morning.
Closer and closer the dust trail loomed. Now they could see there were two riders. They were pushing their mounts hard without regard to their wellbeing. Clayton always disliked men who mistreated their horses. Without knowing who they were, friend or foe or no, he knew he wouldn’t like them.
Minutes ticked by. Jack and Little Elk waited silently and patiently. The riders were close now. They could hear the snorting and heaving and breathing of the lathered mounts. 
Closer, closer. Then as if emerging from the cloud of dust the two figures appeared clearly. Latrell and Brave Bear. So, the Major had lied. Latrell and Brave Bear had been at the fort all the time. And now, it was plain to see that they were after Clayton and the Indian boy. The G-Man didn’t know what the game was, but he was going to play it.
“Stay down, Little Elk.” He whispered, raising his rifle and bracing it across the top of the boulder.
As the two riders came almost abreast of them, Clayton let loose, levering and firing round after round into ground just in front of the running horses feet. They reared on two legs, their front legs pawing air and whinnying shrilly with terror, spinning and churning dust. Latrell and Brave Bear taken by surprise, had no time to react to the ambush. They fell from their saddles and rolled in the dirt, Jack peppering more dirt into their faces as they rolled, with each successive shot driving a bullet into the dirt scant inches from them. The shrieking horses turned and ran off. Brave bear lay face down in the dirt. His hands clasped over his head as if for protection.
“Stay here!” Clayton ordered and stepped out from behind the rock, not bothering to look back to see if Little Elk understood. Holding the rifle at the ready, he climbed down the slope.
“All right, on your feet!” the G-Man commanded, waving the rifle barrel back and forth at the two men. 
Brave Bear unclasped his hands, rolled over and glared at his captor. “You’ll die for this, white man,” he growled.
Jack ignored the threat. “I said on your feet. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Slowly Brave Bear pushed himself up and stood in a crouch, swaying on unsteady legs.
“You too, Latrell. And don’t try anything.”
Latrell stood up silently. Spat a stream of tobacco onto the ground and rolled his cud. Then said. “What do you keep picking on us for? We never done nothing to you.”
“I am not going to give you a chance to either,” Jack retorted. “Now one at a time, carefully, and I mean carefully, toss your weapons to the ground.”
Neither man moved. Just stood staring, taunting. Jack levered a round. “Now!” he shouted.
Brave bear reached for his belt, lifted his knife and let it drop into the dirt. “Now you, Latrell!” Jack commanded. “Remember, be careful.”
Latrell reached for his pistol. “Uh,uh.” Clayton warned. “Left hand.”
Latrell switched hands and reached across his body to pull the six gun awkwardly from the holster. He paused a moment, contemplating, then thinking better of it, he tossed it into dirt.
“Little Elk,” Jack called. “Bring Regret down here and bring me the rope from my saddle.”
“You are not helping your sister by helping this wasichus, Little Elk.” Brave Bear warned as he watched the boy lead the big black down to the trail.
“You don’t care about my sister.” The small Indian sneered. “You are a mean man.”
“If I ever get out of this, you’ll find out how mean I am.” Brave Bear warned.
Little Elk stared at him with hatred and fear. He swallowed hard and looked to Jack.
“Don’t worry, son. He won’t hurt you again.” Jack took the rope from the boy and tossed it to Brave Bear. “Now tie your friend up. Good and tight. Savvy?”
“I savvy,” he grumbled.
Reluctantly, Brave Bear went to work and trussed Latrell with his hands and feet behind him. “You can’t leave us out here like this.” Latrell pleaded.
“No,” Jack said. “Just you. Brave Bear is going with us. He’s going to take us to White Fawn, isn’t that right Brave Bear?”
Brave Bear leered at Little Elk. “Yes,” he hissed.
Little Elk trembled, his lower lip quivered. Jack suspected there was something between Little Elk and Brave Bear that the boy had kept from him.
“Little Elk,” Jack said. “Think you can round up those two horses for us?”
Little Elk nodded, turned and ran off down the trail after the horses.
“Put your hands out toward me. Keep them close together and be very careful.” Jack lifted the muzzle of his rifle close to the Indian’s face.
Brave Bear reluctantly extended his hands and Jack slapped a set of handcuffs on his wrists.
“Get one thing straight, Brave Bear,” Jack warned. “You leave that boy alone. He’s been through enough. And one more thing, if I think you are just leading us around, playing us, I mean if we don’t find White Fawn in a reasonable amount of time, or if we do find her and she’s not all right. I’ll kill you where you stand. Got it?”
“As you say,” Brave Bear sneered. “I got it.”


****


Chapter Twelve
Trail of White Fawn


Latrell’s protesting curses faded into the distance as the three riders rode on down the trail. Little Elk finally had a mount of his own and Jack led Brave Bear’s mount by the reins keeping the Indian close to him while Brave Bear clung to the saddle horn.
They continued northward awhile, the wagon tracks still ahead of them. After a quarter mile, Brave Bear indicated a change in direction toward the west. Whatever was the deal with the wagons, that would have to wait until they found White Fawn, the G-Man decided. And Brave Bear, old son, you’d better be taking us in the right direction.
The noon time sun was straight above them when they stopped at a narrow stream to water their horses and refresh themselves. Little Elk had run down to the stream and fell prone, his face in the water, drinking greedily, while Jack offered Brave Bull a drink from his canteen, not allowing him to get down from his horse. “How much farther?” Jack demanded.
“Three, four hours,” Brave Bear answered sullenly, stoppering the canteen and handing it back to Clayton. As Clayton reached for the canteen, Brave Bear lifted his foot and kicked at Jack’s face. Clayton fell back off balance as the Indian came off the saddle at him. But Jack had been wary and regained his composure quickly. His hands lashed out, receiving the lunging body, by grasping his shirt, pushing him erect, spinning him around and striking a solid blow to the Indian’s chin. Brave Bear fell backwards into the stream, kicking and splashing futilely as Jack waded into the water, grasping his shoulders and rolling him over face down under the surface and holding him down with a knee between his shoulder blades. He held him a long time. The Indian’s body went limp. Clayton pulled him up quickly. Brave Bear gasped with a raspy heave for air. Clayton shoved him back under, held a while longer, then pulled him up, spun him over and threw him down to land on his back in the stream.
Brave Bear lay there gasping, the fight entirely gone out of him. The G-Man stood erect over him, breathing hard with the exertion and rage. “I hope you had enough water, my friend. It’s the last you get until we get White Fawn. Now get up!” Clayton ordered.

The day wore on and the travelers continued on. By mid afternoon, they entered a basin just below Split Toe Creek. Jack began to recognize the area near where he had found Little Elk and had seen the Ghost Soldiers. So far it looked like Brave Bear was leading them in the right direction. They would soon be entering the sacred Black Hills. Hopefully, they would find White Dawn before dark.
The trail, narrow enough for a single horse, wound through the rocks and trees. There was little visibility to their right and left. So far there was no sign of Indians, Ghost Soldiers, or spirits. The only sounds were that of the horses hoofs in the thick turf, the chink of metal horseshoes on rocks, the creak of leather trappings, and birds trilling in the trees.
Jack would occasionally glance at Little Elk to keep him assured. Brave Bear sullenly rode on, speaking only when Jack demanded clarification of direction. Other than that, the riders rode silently, Clayton ever on the alert for the slightest hint of trouble. He knew it was only a matter of time before trouble would come their way. Hopefully they would find White Fawn before that trouble came.
Then, like a bolt out of the blue, the stillness of the afternoon air was shattered by a rifle shot. Their horses startled and stamped their feet nervously.
Jack slid his rifle from its boot and held it ready, barrel pointed skyward. “That came from over the next hill,” Jack stated flatly. “We’d better check it out.” He added, prodding Regret ahead and leading his companions off the trail and up the wooded slope.. “Little Elk, stay back behind us. If I say run, turn your pony and get out of here, understand.”
He nodded yes, saying nervously, “I’m not scared.” He trembled.
They rode cautiously up the hill. Another rifle shot rang out and then another.
By the time they reached the top of the hill and broke out of the trees, they reined up to view the scene before them. Down below in a shallow wash, two riders were off their mounts. A man and a woman. The man had his rifle stock pressed against his shoulder and aimed at a ledge on the adjacent cliff. Smoke still steamed from the barrel.
At the sound of the approaching riders, the man spun around leveling his rifle in their direction. He was about to cry out a warning when, as if recognizing the riders, he lowered his rifle and watched them ride in. It was at this moment that Jack Clayton recognized Rutherford B. Hayes’ associates; Bert Fleming and Francy Jones. 
“Mister Clayton,” Fleming shouted. “We were hoping to meet up with you.”
“Oh. Have you been trailing me?” Jack thought, his face twisted in a threatening mask of wonder. “Just what is going on here? And why are you here?” He demanded.
“When we got to Fort Lincoln, Lionel Thorpe wasn’t there.” Francy interjected as if she didn’t trust Bert to explain. 
Lionel..L , that was the signature on the note that was in the would be assassin’s pocket. The man he had shot on his trail in Missouri, Jack thought. Coincidence? 
“No,” Jack said, ”He’s at Fort Buford. At least he was yesterday.”
“You’ve seen him, then?” Bert Asked. “Did you question him about that arms requisition?”
“No. Things got a little complicated and I didn’t get chance to.”
“That’s all right,” Francy said. “The Governor sent us here to question him. Fort Lincoln was practically empty when we got there. Custer and the entire seventh cavalry has been sent to Wyoming to clean out the Sioux. Hayes is a presidential candidate. He couldn’t come down here with us and take a chance at getting caught in an Indian War. We are on our way to Fort Buford now.”
“I see,” Jack said. Then “What was all that shooting about, just now?”
“Oh, that.” Fleming glanced at his rifle. “We were coming down this wash when the horses became skittish and then we saw a big cat, up there on that ledge. I took a few shots at him and now he’s gone.”
“You didn’t hit him?”
“I’m not sure. I think I may have grazed him, but just a sting.”
“If there’s a wounded cat up there, we’d better not hang around here.” Jack said, urgently, looking furtively along the cliff ridges. “Saddle up and come with us. We can talk some more after we put some distance behind us.”
Jack and his party led them over the hill and back to the trail they had been traveling. Fort Buford was to their back trail and Jack knew they would be wasting valuable daylight time in backtracking, but he remembered an open area by a small stream where they could rest their horses and further discuss the situation. Jack was wary of this chance meeting, if it was by chance. He was not a man who believed in coincidences, but he would play along.
A few minutes later, on the back trail, Jack brought his party to a halt at the stream bed. On their way, Jack had relayed what had happened at the Fort and his search for the Ghost Soldiers and Little Elk’s sister. He told of his suspicions of Major Pearson and how he had been pursued by Latrell and Brave Bear .
They rested for a while at the stream bed. Jack supplied some Jerky and opened a can of peaches. Fleming relaxed on a large rock smoking a cigar while they filled each other in on their respective missions. 
“The governor has suspected Thorpe of underhanded dealings and it looks for sure that he was right, but I don’t think he ever suspected Pearson of anything strange going on at Fort Buford. I don’t think we’ve ever heard of Major Pearson. Have we Bert?” Francy said.
“No. I never have,” Bert answered. “But, it sounds like we’ve got two birds to round up instead of one.”
“Well, I guess you ought to get to it. And I need to get back on the trail.” Jack said rising and striding to his horse.  Little Elk followed suit and climbed into his saddle. “You can follow this trail back out the hills, then head south and you’ll find the fort.” Jack swung into the saddle and settled himself.
Fleming motioned toward Brave Bear. “You going to be able to handle him all by your self?” he queried. He scratched his ear and said.“I was just thinking. We can pick up Thorpe and Pearson anytime. Maybe we should trail along with you. Help you keep an eye on this savage, get the girl back and maybe solve this mystery of the Ghost Soldiers.”
“Bert, you know those aren’t our orders. We can’t do that,” Francy interjected.
“Look, Francy, this is our chance to come through for Hayes. The old man will be thrilled. Besides, with Custer on the move, if we can get rid of these Ghost Soldiers and get the Indians back onto the reservation before Custer gets here, we’ve got a chance to stop a full scale war before it starts.”
“I…I suppose you’re right.” Then to Jack. ”What do think, Jack?”
I think I’ll play along, Jack thought but said. “I think we’d better get going. We’re burning daylight.”

Darkness came early in the Black Hills. The large mountains covered with trees shading the valleys and the buttes of the deep canyons spreading their darkness into the blackness of night as the sun disappeared below the horizons of the high bluffs. Brave Bear led them into a narrow canyon that narrowed to a cleft in the rock wall with only enough room for a horse to squeeze through. The riders would have to lift their feet out of the stirrups, bending their knees sharply and propping their heels against the top of the saddle.
Wary of the precariousness of this situation, Jack drew his six shooter and put it to Brave Bear’s chin. “Are you sure this is the way? If you think you can try something in there, forget it.”
“This is the way. I swear,” Brave Bear pleaded, his eyes rolling downward at the cocked hammer of the pistol in Clayton’s hand. “It opens out into a basin. It won’t be much farther when we reach where the soldiers are holding White Dawn. I Swear, I do not want to die.”
“And you are sure we can make it through? The trail is wide enough. I don’t want to get stuck in there.”
“I have gone through many times,” Brave Bear replied. “Even at night.”
“You’d better be right.” Clayton eased the hammer down and holstered his weapon.
“Fleming,” Clayton called. Bert angled his horse and rode up beside Jack. “It’s going to be really dark in there. We may not even be able to see each other at times, if at all. I don’t want any problems from this Indian, understand. When we ride through, I am going in first. I want you to ride directly behind Brave Bear so we can wedge him between us. If he tries anything in there, shoot him.”
“Glad to.” Bert smiled. “Dirty redskin savage.”
“Never mind the remarks, Fleming and by the way, don’t kill him unless it is really necessary.” Jack could now see the worry in Brave Bear’s eyes.
“Little Elk,” Jack raised his voice so the lad could hear. “You ride behind Fleming, but not too close, in case something happens. I don’t want you to get caught in the middle of something. Francy, you take the rear behind Little Elk Again, not too close, but close enough to look out for him. Now everyone set? Everyone know what they are supposed to do?” He glared at Brave Bear. “Especially you, my friend. Make sure you know what you are supposed to do.”
“I know,” the Indian grunted.
“Ok.” Jack said, “Get ready to get your feet up.” He led off into the darkness of the cleft. The trail was winding and at first they could ride with their legs in the stirrups, but as they progressed into darker and darker shadows, their legs began to brush against the rocky walls until finally they had to raise them, practically perching on their saddles, and now completely enveloped in darkness, with only the sound of horses hooves on rock to assure them that the others were there. 
Time dragged on in the darkness. It seemed like an eternity, but the trek was relatively short and only a few minutes had actually ticked by, when Clayton saw a faint lightening of the blackness ahead. They should be emerging soon and even the outside darkness would be welcome after the total blackness of the trail.
The blackness lightened more and more and then Jack realized they were at the mouth of the cleft. In a moment they would emerge. It was time.
The cleft emptied into a large basin covered with aspen trees and scrub brush. Rock walls lined the basin on three sides with the only access out being straight ahead. Had the G-Man seen this area before, he would have known it was the perfect place for a trap or ambush.
And that was exactly what was to happen. Behind tree trunks and boulders, ambushers lay in wait. Their skull like faces glowed in the darkness as they peered out from their perches, waiting; rifles ready. There were eight shooters in all.  They were The Ghost Soldiers.
Patiently they waited, listening to the sounds of horses’ hooves, creaking leather and jingle of trappings waiting for their target to emerge from the darkness into the moonlit basin. Louder and louder the sounds broke the stillness of the air. Then, the big black stallion emerged out of the blackness, lunging into a run as it escaped the confines of the cleft.
Rifles boomed, flaming muzzles lit the night with flashing light. A hail of bullets plowed into the chest of the first man emerging from the cleft. His horse reared in terror, dumping his bullet ridden rider into the dirt. 
“No! Hold your fire!” A voice from the next man emerging screamed.
The firing ceased abruptly as the ambushers realized what had happened.
The big black stallion had emerged riderless from the cleft. Just before reaching the mouth of the cleft, suspecting an ambush or trap just ahead, Jack Clayton released the rope leading Brave Bear’s horse. With knees doubled and feet perched on his saddle and unseen by his companions behind him, pushed himself erect, standing on the saddle and reaching upward above his head, placed each hand on each side wall. Then he kicked his legs outward and propped his feet against the walls and hung there wedged in the cleft, spread eagled and letting the other riders pass beneath him.
The Ghost Soldiers, in their haste opened fire at the first sign of movement coming out of the dark chasm. Without Clayton in the saddle, the bullets had passed on into Brave Bear. 
Fleming, realizing a mistake and fearing for his life, screamed for a cease fire as he rode into the open area, angling his horse to the side, looking for shelter, if the fusillade continued.
Meanwhile, Jack, clinging to the rock walls, counted the passing horses beneath him. The third horse would be Little Elk’s. He loosed his grips and dropped behind the saddle. The boy startled, loosened his grasp on the reins as Jack wrapped his arms around him, taking control of the reins and leaning over the boys back, holding him low. Little Elk screamed with fear, not knowing what was happening. Clayton drummed his heels against the steed’s ribs and sent him speeding out of the cleft, driving through the assailants outside.
Confused by the shooting of Brave bear and the emergence of Fleming causing a cease fire, they were caught off guard momentarily as horse and riders charged by. 
Jack and Little Elk had just ridden past the circle of Ghost Soldiers when they regained their composure. Wild, frenzied yells echoed and then rifles fired. A hail of bullets flew over the riders’ heads and dug holes in the ground around the horse’s running hooves, but for some unexplainable reason they missed the fleeing quarry. And then, suddenly they seemed to be out of range. The firing ceased as the assailants hurried to their horses to mount up and take flight.
By now, Jack could see Regret lingering just a little further down the trail. He sat up straight in the saddle, pulling Little Elk with him so the boy could see he was with him. He pulled alongside Regret, handed the reins to the boy, and without a word of instruction, he leaned out from the saddle and leaped onto the big black stallion’s saddle.
Regret sprang forward and took the lead ahead of the Indian boy. The black was a much faster horse, but Jack could not let Little Elk fall too far behind so he restrained Regret from his full speed.
Without looking back, he knew the Ghost Soldiers must now be in pursuit. A moment later he knew he was right as the firing started again, but from running horses accurate shots were almost impossible, besides it appeared that the pursuers were still back out of range.
Little Elk drummed his horses ribs, trying to push it faster, and surprisingly succeeded. Good boy, Jack thought and allowed Regret to stretch out a little more.
They rode to the end of the basin and urged their mounts up a rocky slope into a thick growth of aspen trees. The torturous climbing up the shale covered slope had slowed them down and tired the horses. This would allow their pursuers to close the distance between them and once again ride into firing range.


****


Chapter Fourteen
River of Death


Little Elk rode close behind the G-man and his black stallion as they wound their way through the heavy growth of trees. The spreading branches blocked out all moonlight from their path. It would be slow going now, but it would also be slow going for the pursuers. “This way,” Jack said taking the reins from the boy and leading his mount so they wouldn’t get separated in the darkness.
They could hear the shouts of voices and horses sliding on the rock strewn slope below. The noise was louder now. They were getting closer.
Clayton felt the land falling away into a downward incline. He heard his mount’s shod hooves splash in water. They had found a narrow stream. The stream would have had to have rolled out of the mountains. If they followed its course, it would lead them out without having to thread their way futilely through the trees. They could make time getting away, while the Ghost Soldiers searched the woods. With any luck they could get far enough down the stream that their pursuers would not hear the splashing hooves. 
Farther and farther they traveled. The din of shouting voices and horses crashing in the brush and foliage of the woods lessened and seemed to be fading into the distance behind them. Clayton urged the horses forward at a faster clip.
They followed the stream as it angled downward though a narrow valley until they reached where the stream ended in the lowlands. Here the stream eddied out into a river, about a hundred and fifty feet wide. The naked moon shone brightly in the night sky here and reflected its ghostly light on the swirling waters as the current rushed by with a roar. Across the river, the banks rose slightly and Clayton could see open rolling plains disappearing into the dark horizon.
Once across the river, they could make good time and put distance between them and their pursuers. The current was strong along this section of the river as it narrowed from out of the north and continuing to narrow southward into a narrow canyon. It would be tricky crossing, but chances were better here than farther down stream where the waters turned white with rapid churning and swells.
“Hang on tight, Little Elk.” Clayton warned sternly as he led the boy’s horse into the water. “It will be rough going, getting across.”
With determined deliberateness, the G-Man pushed the horses onward into the heavy swells of flowing water. The horses balked at the turbulence, stamping and tossing their bodies as they lunged into the force of the current. The river deepened quickly as they reached midway across: the water now up to the horses ribs and rider’s legs totally submerged in the cold liquid. Even Regret shivered and trembled as he stumbled against the rocky bottom of the riverbed, hooves slipping and sliding. He whinnied shrilly and snorted with effort and discomfort.
Little Elk’s mount, of lesser strength and courage dealt with the challenge with more fear and resistance. He lunged and floundered, splashing water violently about him and frightening himself even more. The horse raised upward, bringing his forelegs off the bottom of the river. He twisted , turned, flailing wildly and pulling back on the reins that Clayton held firmly in his hand. Jack felt the tremendous tug of the lurching horse. It almost pulled him from his saddle, but he regained his hold and quickly wrapped the reins around the saddle horn. Little Elk screamed as his mount lunged again, both hands clinging tightly to the horn of his own saddle.
Jack had turned in his saddle to concentrate on settling Little Elk’s horse and now he could see back across the river. The Ghost soldiers had just emerged from the thicket and rode out onto the river bank. They, for sure, had spotted Clayton and his young companion now more than three quarters of the way across the river. 
Little Elk’s horse lunged again and rolled sideways, falling deeper into the waters, just as the firing started. A hail of bullets flew over their heads as the boy lost his grip on the saddle and fell backward into the current. He screamed shrilly and landed with a torrential splash, disappearing below the surface of the dark waters.
Without hesitating, Jack lifted from the saddle and dove into the river after him. Bullets plopped into the water all around him, but he ignored them as he struggled to swim in the wild current. His only thought was to reach the boy. He did not see the pursuing riders plunging into the water coming after them.
He splashed and kicked about, searching desperately for Little Elk. Somehow in the darkness below the surface, he was finally able to see a dark shape. The boy was no longer struggling. Jack’s heart drummed in his head and he was running out of breath as he reached Little Elk, wrapped his arms around the boy’s body and kicked them upward toward the surface.
He gasped for air, his lungs aching, as they came up into the dark night air. He treaded water and shook his head wildly to clear his brain and shake the water from his hair and eyes. He could see Little Elk lying silent with closed eyes, in his arms. Rage and fear consumed him, leaving him oblivious to the resumed firing of the soldiers and bullets flying about them. If the boy was dead, it was his fault for bringing him into this. If he was still alive, Jack knew he must get him ashore quickly or for sure he would be dead.
As he glanced around to see they were almost across the river, he finally realized their pursuers were closing in. So close, yet so far. He couldn’t give up. With stroke after stoke, he swam toward the river bank, his arm under the boy and holding his head above water. 
The current was raging faster now and the soldiers seemed to be falling behind. Then Jack suddenly realized that the current had pulled them farther down river toward the narrows. He was now no longer making progress toward the bank. The rapids swirled white around them sucking them into the mouth of the canyon leaving the pursuing riders to cease pursuit.
Faster and faster the force of the water pulled them forward, Jack struggling to hang onto the boy. He slammed against a rock near the river bank. Pain wracked through his tortured and soaked body. He gritted his teeth and clung harder to the boy.
Again and again he slammed into rocks and boulders. Desperately, he tried to obtain a hold on them, trying to slow them down or find some sanctuary from the swirling current. Then without warning, it happened. A large boulder seemed to loom from out of nowhere. Jack’s back slammed full force against it. His head snapped back and his head struck the upper part of the rock with a crushing blow. Lightening seemed to flash within his brain and then total blackness overtook him. In that last fleeting moment of consciousness, he felt his arms relax and Little Elk was swept away into the darkness of the merciless waters of raging death.


****


Chapter Fifteen
Flight in the Forest


The eastern sky was beginning to tinge with the hint of grayness as Jack Clayton opened his eyes and stared upward at the ominous sky above him. At first he remembered nothing, then gradually it all came back to him. The raging waters, the Ghost Soldiers and Little Elk. Little Elk…..no he couldn’t have, but reason told him he had lost the little boy. Little Elk had trusted him with his life and Jack had failed him.
Now Jack lay soaked and aching along the shallow stone bed bottom of the river where it met the western bank. The water was calm now and all seemed peaceful around him. He half sat up and half crawled up on the bank, his legs and boots still in the rippling water, and gazed slowly around him. He could see the narrow canyon now to the north of him. He knew he must have passed through it and found himself dumped into the widening river that now ceased to rage before him. By some miracle he had survived and washed up against the river bank.
Perhaps, he thought, Little Elk may have also survived and washed up against the bank somewhere. But no, he did not dare hope. He must accept it. He had lost him forever and it was all his fault. But then, he thought and his jaw tightened with rage. It was the fault of those fiendish demons….the Ghost Soldiers. Well they were going to pay, Clayton vowed to himself. Whoever or whatever they were, they would pay. He would track them down and find them, no matter how long it took. Then realization swept over him as his clouded brain began to clear. He would not have to find them. They would find him.
Again, he looked at the graying sky, dawn was approaching. He had probably been here for several hours. The riders would have had to ride around the canyon to reach this part of the river. That would have taken some time, but Clayton had no idea how long it would take them. With as much time already passed chances were they would be along soon.
Must get off this bank. Get out of sight. Hide in the tree covered slopes along the river bank. No time to run. Just hide. He scrambled to his feet, ran along the level top of the river bank until he reached the woods. He paused to look back and listen. Then he heard them. He had not made his retreat any too soon. The chink of trappings and the sound of horses hooves on rock and the sound of brush popping told him they were almost there. He ran higher up the slope, found a large oak and slid to his knees behind it and peered out.
Down below, he could see the riders emerge from the undergrowth on the other side of the river. They were spread out and far apart, but seemed to be converging along the river bank into one cohesive group. Obviously, they had been combing the area on that side of the river, looking and watching to make sure the G-Man had not somehow survived and escaped into the countryside.
The leader of the band pointed across the river and upwards into the wooded hills. Then they moved forward, fording the river and again spreading out, riding away from each other. They would make a sweep of the woods. Jack knew that if he could avoid them, there was a good chance they would be convinced that he had in fact drowned. The trick would be to make sure, they didn’t find him. He moved out and climbed higher up the slope into the densest part of the forest.
Higher and higher, he climbed until the land leveled out before him. The sound of approaching horses grew louder. From time to time he would seek shelter in brush or behind a large tree and check his back trail. He had just crawled behind large rotted stump, when dried brush crackled behind him. He swiveled on his belly in the leafy bed of the forest and peered up from the hollow he lay in. Almost directly in front of him, a horseman came into view among the trees. He was moving slowly, carefully searching the area. Without the stump in front of him, Clayton’s only hope of concealment was the shallowness of the hollow. He pressed himself close to the ground, lifting his head just enough to watch the encroaching rider.
Leaves and twigs crunched beneath the horses feet, the noise becoming louder as it approached. Jack held his breath and waited. Closer and closer came horse and rider. Steadily and deliberately onward it came. Within inches they passed by and continued on. The rider was a large man, for a man was what he was. He was no ghost. The phosphorescent painted skull face and bones no longer glowed as bright as the darkness was fading into dawn. Knowing he could not elude all the riders as luckily as he had this one, Jack quickly formulated a plan. He groped the ground around him until he found a rock of sufficient size and weight.
He arose and followed the horseman a short distance and then darted behind a tree. Still standing, he reached out and tossed the rock into the thicket just a little ahead of the man and off to his right. The rock landed solidly with a sudden crash. The rider pulled up sharply, listened a moment, then pulled his pistol from the cavalry holster on his side and angled his mount toward the thicket.
Jack had lost his guns in the river but still had his knife strapped inside his boot. He pulled it free and quick on his feet darted after the horse and rider, hoping his own footsteps would be masked by the sound of the moving horse.
The so called soldier heard him at the last minute, startled and started to swing around as Jack leaped into the air wrapping his left arm around the man’s chest and shoulders, pulling him from the saddle and hurtling him to the ground. The horse shied away, reins trailing. The man grunted with surprise as he struck the ground, wind being driven from his lungs and his hand dropped the weapon momentarily, then reached for it again as Jack rolled him over onto his back, reached beneath his tunic, and slid the blade of his knife between the man’s ribs. Jack was so close to the man’s face as he ripped upward with the blade, he could see the man’s eyes widen in the gloom, then shrink to dots as the life waned out of him. The man’s fingers relaxed, never able to regrip the gun.
The moment had been swift and violent, hopefully quiet enough not to draw attention. No time for remorse only swiftness. Quickly, he sheathed his knife in his boot, stripped the army tunic and cavalry holster from the dead man and put them on over his own clothes, pushed the too large hat down over his ears to hide his paintless face, and slid the pistol into the holster. Then he dragged the body into the thicket covered it over with leaves and dead brush before returning to the area where the riderless horse stood; reins caught on a stump.
From now on things were going to get tricky. Mighty tricky, indeed. The G-Man took up the reins, swung into the saddle and urged the mount forward. Somehow he must blend in with the other soldiers and become one of them.
He guided the horse away from the area, but not too far, so the others would see he was searching here and would not venture this way. Slowly methodically he worked his mount as if searching and continuing through the woods. From time to time he would sight one of the other men and wave back, if they waved first. As the woods thinned, Jack could eventually see the others, still spread out but approaching the end of the woods to converge on an open trail along a valley.
Dawn was now imminent for the gray sky was turning to hues of red, purple, and orange. The risk of recognition grew stronger with each passing minute as the sun’s rays began to streak and beam above the horizon.
Clayton was the last of the band to emerge from the woods onto the trail. The others seemed to be acknowledging one man as leader who seemed to be signaling them to regroup. Perhaps, they had now decided they were going to find no trace of Jack Clayton or Little Elk and had accepted that they had drowned with the river giving up no trace of the bodies. They spurred their mounts forward to join the leader. Jack followed suit and rode after them until he was close in line as the last rider of the group.
He would have to play it all by ear now. He had no clue where they were going or what would happen once they got there, but he was sure he was being led to White Fawn and all the other answers he was seeking.


****


Chapter Sixteen
Black Hills Gold Mine


They rode on for another hour, the trail winding upward, deep into green covered hills. The early morning sun was beginning to break the chill of the disappearing night air as it rose with the ascent of the riders. The crisp blue of the morning sky melted against a distant horizon as they rode out onto a grassy meadow on the top of a hill.
Clayton could see the file of riders ahead of him starting to angle downward as the trail seemed to dip over the top of the hill to descend down the other side. One by one the riders disappeared over the crest of the hill, Clayton following close. As he approached the pinnacle of the hill he could see the land beginning to roll away revealing the enormous valley below them. 
Jack almost gasped at the sight. He continued to follow the file of men. What he saw below was stark contrast to the green meadows they had just passed through. For in this valley the green had been stripped from the land by greedy men. The valley was surrounded by mountains on both sides and these mountains had also been stripped of their natural beauty, leaving mountains and valley with the dull brown and gray of churned earth and rock.
Gold! Gold had been found here and mining on a grand scale was in progress. The walls of the mountainside were catacombed with a latticed wooden network of stairs and platform levels giving access to the hundreds of workers who dug and chopped away at the soil and rocks. Picks and shovels clanking and chinking against rock as hundreds of workers slaved away. And slaves were what they were. Mostly Indian slaves. So this is what the ghost soldiers did with their captives. There were old men struggling to keep working trying to avoid the whips of the vicious looking guards that stood watch over them. Sweaty, dirty faces of women and children cringed in fear as they continued to work under threat of torture.
Half way up on each side of the valley, Clayton could see the wooden barred cages built into the mountainsides. They were large holding pens overcrowded with old, sick, and worn out men, women, and children who could not work at present. Perhaps a second shift or merely kept as a repository to replace other workers as they succumbed to the rigors of the mine.
At various points in each mountainside, Jack could see where tunnels had been drilled or blasted allowing access to deeper veins. Makeshift bridges had been built between the various levels of operations and tracks had been laid to allow ore cars to traverse up and down the mountains. Flumed sluices had been built to wash the ore and sift it as well as flumes to provide water for huge wheels that drove the myriad of pulleys and guide cables systems for moving earth and ore. Several makeshift elevator platforms were also powered with water supplied by steam from a boiler housed in a shack at the foot of the mountain on the western side of the valley. Smoke billowed from its steel pipe chimney. A huge water tower loomed over the rear of the building.
Opposite this shack on the other side of the valley was a larger building. It was built of logs and appeared much more solid and permanent. This was probably the headquarters, office or whatever from which operations were run. There was a corral behind it that was filled with horses. Just outside the corral were eight covered wagons parked in two rows of four, wagon tongues raised to push the wagons closer together
The G-Man surmised that these were the wagons of Amos Dunn’s party. Gazing closer at the mountainside to the east, he knew he was right. There were white people digging into the dirt. Among them were men, women and children who he recognized. And there was Dunn himself on the third level up, shoveling dirt and ore into a hopper suspended by two rope cables for sending the diggings below for loading into wagons.
Whoever ran this operation was ruthless. He was kidnapping whites as well as Indians and using them as slaves. They probably would be worked to death. For sure they probably would not leave this valley alive unless the G-Man could do something. But what? One man alone against perhaps fifty men including the soldiers, guards and whoever else may be here. He would probably die here too.
The riders had descended into the valley now and were passing by the work operations on both sides. Dust billowed up from their horses hooves half hiding them in the cloud. Jack kept his head down as he rode along and no one seemed to notice him as an imposter. 
The riders rode up and halted in front of the log building. Jack kept to the rear of the pack. The door opened and a large man stepped out onto the wooden porch. The man was Lionel Thorpe.
“River got them.” The leader and spokesman of the group reported.
“Are you sure, Dawson?” Thorpe demanded.
“Saw them go in. They didn’t come out.” Dawson chuckled.
“But no bodies?” Thorpe said with disgust.
“Well no but…”
“You fools. Now we can’t be sure. You’d better hope they’re dead.” He threw his cigar into the dirt. “Now get out of those outfits and get to work.” He turned and stepped back inside and slammed the door shut.
“Jackass!” Dawson growled with annoyance at Thorpe’s arrogance and condescension. Then to his men, “You heard him, get moving.” They pulled their horses back, turned toward the corral and rode toward the gate.
Jack followed suit. This was getting really dicey now. How was he going to pull this off? Surely, they would spot him when he got out of uniform. Carefully, he mimicked whatever his companions were doing. They dismounted, removed saddle and blanket and stacked them on the corral rails. Jack kept his distance and kept his head down. The others led their mounts into the corral, removed their bridles and hung them on the rails, exited the corral, closing the gate behind one by one and strode off toward another shack further down the valley. This was probably some sort of bunk house, Clayton mused.
Jack made sure he was still the last man and followed the others’ example. So far so good, but he could not follow them to their quarters. He would be found out there for sure. He had removed his mount’s bridle but did not hang it on the rail. He merely dropped it in the dirt and faded back into the herd of milling horses. He hoped the man he was supposed to be would not be missed until he could find a suitable hiding place and formulate a plan. He bent low and threaded his way through the herd. When he had reached the middle of the herd, he moved sideways toward where the wagons were parked. As he got closer to the rails, he bent lower until he was crawling on all fours. Here he peered out from under the lower rail, making sure that he would not be easily visible. Then quickly he made his move and crawled under the rail, keeping to the shadow of the wagons and sliding between the third and fourth wagons lined against the fence. He then catapulted himself inside the rear canvas opening of the third wagon and fell flat on empty floor of the wagon bed. He crawled to the front, lifted a bottom corner of the canvas too create a peephole. He sighed with momentary relief. He rested, breathing deeply, and watched and waited.
All right, what now? He didn’t know. Would they start looking for the man he was supposed to be? Probably. That meant he could not risk waiting all day for darkness to return. It would have been dangerous enough to do something at nighttime, but in the light of day, it was probably impossible. He would wait a while, try to figure something out. See what happens. But then he was going to have to do something. Anything.


****


Chapter Seventeen
Revelations


Jack waited and watched. The activities continued, guards shouting, cracking whips, workers moaning and sometimes screaming. There were occasional blasting charges and the roar of falling rock and earth as they sought deeper entrance into the mountains. The wagon shook and the floor vibrated beneath the G-Man’s prone body.
After a half hour of watching, he saw Thorpe stride out into the valley, examining and surveying the work. Jack’s pulse quickened. Two people were walking with Thorpe and they all looked pretty chummy. A man and a woman. Bert Fleming and Francy Jones. So they were all in this together. He had suspected this all along. The chance meeting on the trail seemed to contrived. The story about the mountain lion was fake. Oh, there probably was a mountain lion that they had seen on the trail. Afterall, Jack had seen one himself in that general vicinity. But when Jack saw it, there were no sounds of other creatures. The birds were still singing on the trail when he had met up with the couple.
Clayton also had noticed Fleming smoking the same kind of cigar that Major Pearson had offered him back at Fort Buford. Both Bert and Francy denied ever meeting Pearson. It was a good thing he had had these suspicions, for the two associates of Rutherford B. Hayes had set him up for ambush coming out of that narrow canyon last night. Did this mean that Hayes was into this too? Or had he been duped by traitors?
Jack hated to think it was the former. Most probably, it was the latter. Hayes was no fool. He probably had suspicions and that was probably why Jack was here in the first place.
Clayton watched the threesome for several minutes. Anger was seething in him as he thought of Little Elk and these evil people had taken an innocent young boy from this life. Thorpe, Fleming and Jones seemed to suddenly look in the same direction. Then, with the lead wagon obstructing and partially obstructing the view Clayton saw someone ride in, halt and dismount before the trio. The newcomer wore a blue army uniform. Insignias on his epaulettes designated him as a Major. Major Pearson. Though Jack couldn’t hear him, he could tell that he was excited. He was speaking rapidly and him arms waved with animated excitement. The trio turned and all four of them strode back toward the log building. As the major passed by leading his horse another horse and rider came into his view for the first time as his vantage point in the wagon had precluded it until now. Clayton’s heart leaped beneath his chest as he saw this second horse was also being led by Pearson. It was a big black stallion. Regret. And in the saddle, hands tied behind his back sat Little Elk. Then they all passed from view as they entered the log house.
Alive! Little Elk was alive! Jack could hardly believe it. He could hardly contain his excitement. What now? He thought. He lay there stunned; trying to process this in his mind.
He was still trying to come up with something, anything when Thorpe, Pearson, Bert and Francy reappeared crossing the compound toward the western walls of the mining fields. Fleming pushed Little Elk ahead of him as he followed Thorpe and Pearson. The boy’s hands were still tied behind his back and he dragged his feet belligerently, prompting Fleming to shove him forward with more force. Good boy, Clayton thought. Fight them all the way. He saw no tears in Little Elks eyes, only rage and hatred.
Jack wanted to jump out of the wagon and run to the boy’s side, but that would be foolish and he would have no hope of ever rescuing the boy. He had to wait. He had to watch the mistreatment. There was nothing he could do now. Just wait and watch.
He watched them reach the work area and climb into a wooden platform elevator of sorts that was used for transporting workers and heavy loads of gold. Water was released from the flume and the heavy wheel powered by the boiler room steam churned rolling the rope cables on the pulley system and raised the platform steadily up the side of the mountain. It halted on the second landing of plank catwalks at the entrance to a large mine shaft opening in the mountain wall. Clayton watched apprehensively as he saw them exit the platform and disappear into the darkness of the gaping maw of the shaft opening.


****


Chapter Eighteen
Daring Attack


Ready or not, the G-man knew he had to act. He feared what may happen inside that mountain and he would have to throw caution to the wind and get in that mine opening. He couldn’t let them put that boy where he could never find him.
Quickly, he stripped off the army holster, tunic , and hat. He then off pulled his own leather vest and shoulder holster harness. Now in shirt sleeves, he tucked the pistol in his belt underneath his shirt. Then he crawled to the rear of the wagon and pitched forward over the edge and landed in the dirt between the two wagons. He turned himself around on his belly, deliberately trying to grind as much dirt and grime into his clothes, hands and face as possible. He them gripped the elbows of each shirt sleeve and tore the cloth. Hopefully he could make himself look like one of the workers and make his way across the compound.
With a prayer in his heart, Jack mustered his courage and rolled out from under the wagons and pushed himself to his feet, and started walking as if tired and unsteady on his feet. He had gone about six steps when a swarthy, big oaf of a man grabbed him by the collar and threw him face downward into the dirt. “Where do you think you’re going?” The man growled and slapped his whip across Jack’s broad back.
“Water. I need water.” Jack croaked looking up under his arm that he held across his face as if for protection from the lash, but actually hiding his face.
“You’ll get water when I say,” The guard bellowed. He lashed Jack’s back twice more, ripping the shirt each time and cutting the skin, letting blood flow. Clayton’s disguise as a worker slave was now perfect; beaten and dirty like all the rest. “Now get up on that pile and get to work.”
Jack scrambled to all fours and was practically crawling up the mountainside, churned soil and rock slipping beneath his feet until he reached the top of the first level of digging. A half dozen slaves wielded picks and shovels chipping away at the earth. Another guard on this level greeted Clayton with another lash of his whip. Jack fell to the ground and rolled next to another worker lying flat on his on back “Get that shovel.” The guard ordered pointing to the man lying there. “And get to work!” 
Jack rolled over and looked at the man. He held a shovel clutched in his hands across his chest, but didn’t move. His eyes were glazed and empty staring blankly into the sun directly above. Flies were buzzing around the dead man’s open mouth and his stiff body was giving off a stench.
Quickly, as if fearing for his life, Jack jumped to his feet, gripping the shovel handle and pulling it loose from the death grip. He plunged it into the dirt and started to dig, shoveling dirt into an ore car. He furiously shoveled, keeping up with the other workers as if he were actually one of them. What now? He had to reach the next level and enter the tunnel and he could not afford to waste time. The guards were ever vigilant and if he made his move, it would be in full view all the time.
As he worked, he watched the elevator platform descend from above. There were three men aboard. He recognized one man right away. It was Latrell. The winch halted and the platform came to rest below. Latrell and his companions stepped off the platform and walked away.
Clayton kept working, watching and waiting . A little later, he saw Latrell returning to the platform. He climbed aboard and released a lever which put the platform in motion and start to ascend upward.
The platform had lifted almost three quarters of the way up to the first level when a blast from the northeast tunnel shook the ground. Though explosions were the order of the day, the blasts did tend to distract workers and guards momentarily. The rising platform swung from side to side, reeling with the impact of the blast. Almost without thought, Clayton took advantage of the distraction and ran toward the cable shaft way of the approaching platform. “Hey! Get back there!” A guard shouted, spreading his arms to hold Jack back.
CRAAAAK! The G-Man’s shovel clanked against the guard’s face with a tremendous blow. The guard fell back, his face a bloody mess, Clayton’s shovel landing on top of his writhing body as he discarded it and dove for the platform cables. A hail of bullets flew over his head as he dived into the air space above the platform. 
He landed with a thud onto the platform, wrapping his arms around Latrell’s buckskin clad body and pinning his arms down at his sides. Latrell was already gripping his pistol and had it half out of its holster when the G-Man’s grip prevented him from drawing it completely. “What the….?” Latrell stammered with a grunt, not yet fully reacting to the sudden surprise action. The platform, still rising, swung violently back and forth from the impact and struggle onboard.
Bullets crashed into the platform cage framing. Splinters spat into Latrell’s face as Jack spun him around in front of him, using him as a shield. Latrell realizing the danger from his own men screamed. “Hold your fire! For God’s sake, stop! You’re liable to hit me.” The firing slowed and then ceased as the platform reached the next level. Jack kicked his foot against the release lever and the platform jerked to a sudden halt. He backed off the platform, dragging Latrell with him and backing into the mouth of the tunnel.
Three feet into the darkness of the tunnel, Clayton spun Latrell around and shoved him face first into the rock wall, the impact stunning him and forcing him to release his hold on the pistol butt. Jack released his bear hug hold, pulled the pistol from Latrell’s holster and jammed the hard barrel into the side of his neck. “You’ll live as long as you do as I say.” Jacked whispered in Latrell’s ear. “Now, turn around.” Jack pulled him back from the wall, practically turning him around, himself.
Latrell, head bent, glared up from under his bushy brows. Pain and rage roaring in those dark pupils. “Clayton,” He grunted. “I should have known.” Then added. “You’re the one who is going to die G-Man.”
“Maybe so,” Clayton acknowledged. “But you will die with me. I promise.” He shoved Latrell forward ahead of him into the tunnel. “You’re taking me to the others, understand?” He pressed the gun barrel deeper into Latrell’s neck. “Now move.”
Slowly they progressed deeper into the tunnel, the only light coming from torches at varying distances along the tunnel walls. There seemed to be no one else in the tunnel. Obviously, this was not a working shaft, for there were no workers or guards. Wherever Thorpe and his companions had gone, it must have been far enough into mountain, that they did not hear the ruckus outside. They had reached a fork in the tunnel where it branched out in two opposite directions, when a horde of guards clamored through the mine opening, firing high into the tunnel ceiling. Obviously, they didn’t want to hit Latrell, but by firing they might be able to warn the bosses that there was trouble.
The G-man spun Latrell again, holding him in front of him and backing up. “Where are they? Which way?” Jack demanded. Latrell nodded toward the right.. The guards continued to advance, weapons ready, but holding fire.
Jack fired twice into the mellee. Two men fell. The others panicked and retreated. Jack backed into the left branch, dragging Latrell with him. Surely, the gunfire had alerted his adversaries by now and they would be rushing to see what the trouble was. Jack strained his eyes to see movement coming from the right branch. Strained his ears, listening for some sound. So intent was he that he did not hear nor detect movement behind him. As he backed further into the branch, he felt his back pressing against hard steel. “Hold it right there, Jack.” Clayton recognized Bert Fleming’s voice. “Now let him go and hand me the gun.”
Jack froze. The hackles on the back of his neck bristled. He jammed the gun muzzle deeper into Latrell’s flesh. “Uh..uh.” Jack answered. “I’ll kill your man, here.”
“Go ahead,” Fleming chided. “We don’t need him.”
“What are saying, Bert?.” Latrell babbled angrily. “Don’t let him kill me.”
The guards had now regrouped and came rushing into the tunnel, halted in front of Clayton and Latrell, rifles pointed directly at the two men. It would be useless to fight now. With a sigh of defeat, Jack released his hold on Latrell, stepped back and held his hands up, letting the pistol fall limply hanging by his trigger finger in the trigger guard. Bert promptly plucked it from him as Latrell turned to face him and smashed his big brutish fist into the G-Man’s face. Fleming stepped to the side and let Clayton’s body splatter against the hard rock floor of the tunnel as he sunk into the darkness of semi unconsciousness.


****


Chapter Nineteen
Trapped


Moments later, Clayton opened his eyes. He was still flat on his back on a rock floor, but there was more light here than in the tunnel. He had been moved. As he began to focus through the haze of pain, he could see he was in a room inside the cavern. There was a large plank door which probably led back into the mine tunnel. Torches burned brightly in the holders on each wall of the room. He was lying next to an oak table, on which a kerosene lamp gave off an added glow of illumination.  Above him, peering down at him were the faces of Lionel Thorpe, Bert Fleming, and Major Pearson. Off to their right and a little behind them, Francy Jones stood close to the wall watching. Next to her, bound in wooden chairs with their hands lashed to the chair backs sat the little Indian boy, Little Elk, terror etched on his young face, and a raven haired Indian girl. Jack deduced that this was probably White Fawn. He had found her, but all was lost now. They were all prisoners. For how long, he dared not guess for however long it would be, they would never leave here alive. 
“So, Mister Clayton,” Lionel Thorpe chided. “You are, unfortunately, still alive. You are indeed a most amazing man. Miss Jones did warn me you would be a challenge. She said that no one can just kill a man like you. She said, we’d have to outsmart you. Well, you were wrong Miss Jones,” Thorpe sneered glancing to his right. “He wasn’t so smart after all. Rushing in here so brazenly was not the most intelligent strategy.” He raised his arm and pointed a pistol muzzle inches from Clayton’s face. “And now Miss Jones, you will see that I will now just kill him. Just an ordinary man after all, you see.” He eared back the hammer of his pistol and it clicked into full cock. The sound clearly ringing in Jack’s ears.
“No, you can’t do that to True Arrow!” the boy screamed from his perch on the chair. “I’ll tell you where it is, but don’t shoot him! Please don’t shoot him!”
Lionel smiled and without taking his eyes off Clayton, he said. “That’s a good boy. I knew you’d come around. He released the hammer slowly taking it off cock, then held the pistol straight down to his side and turned to face the boy. “All right, where is it?”
“Let him up.!” Little Elk demanded.
Thorpe told himself, he could wait. The kid had spunk. He liked that, but he was still going to kill the boy and his sister and Jack Clayton, just as soon as he got what he wanted. He nodded to Fleming and Pearson to move back and give Clayton room to get up. “You heard the kid.” Thorpe ordered. “Get Up!”
Warily and slowly, Clayton climbed to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily at first, fighting the dizziness. Gradually his head was clearing. “What are they after, Little Elk?” Jack asked the boy directly.
“The stone.” The boy answered. “White Fawn gave me the stone. She said to take it to Brave Bear, but I did not give it to him.” Then to White Fawn, “I am sorry, sister. But I was afraid of Brave Bear and I trust True Arrow. I am sorry I disobeyed you.”
“You were wise, Little Elk.” She said. “You knew best after all.”
“So what is so important about a stone?” Jack asked.
“Not just a stone.” White Fawn answered. “A sacred stone. It belongs to Chief Crazy Horse. It protects him from harm. He always wears it into battle.”
Jack appeared puzzled. He knew the Indians were superstitious, but he was not and he could never believe in a stone with magical protective powers. He started to formulate a question for Thorpe.
“Yes I do believe in the sacred stone.” Thorpe answered the unasked question. “Crazy Horse has miraculously survived on many occasions. Maybe only, because he believes in it, is why it works. But it seemed to work last night when my men could not bring you down with their bullets. The boy was with you and he had the stone. You too were protected. And how would you explain the boy’s survival in the river. Pearson found him hiding in a little cove among the reeds, the current never swept him away. Pearson didn’t know about the stone at the time, so he didn’t look for it until he arrived here. The boy apparently hid it someplace on the way.”
“What….?” He could not believe in a sacred stone, but he did remember how they eluded the bullets and how they had hidden from the Ghost Riders the night he found Little Elk and the soldiers had miraculously passed them by. 
“It’s true all right,” Thorpe said. “The night my men raided the village, they couldn’t get close to White Fawn while she had the stone. Only after she gave it to Little Elk could they get her. The boy was left behind protected by the stone.”
“Why did you tell your brother to take it to Brave Bear? He was in league with these men.” Clayton asked the girl.
“I did not know that at the time. Brave Bear ordered me to steal the stone from Crazy Horse and take it to him at the fort. He told me if I did not, the Ghost Soldiers would come for me and Little Elk. I always obeyed my husband no matter what he demanded, but this time he shamed me. He sent me to Crazy Horse’s teepee the night before he left for battle. I do not do such things. But I obeyed. I waited for Crazy Horse to fall asleep and then I took the stone from around his neck and replaced it with another. He rode off with the warriors, the next morning without noticing. 
“I was so ashamed, I could not force myself to go to the fort and face Brave Bear. I had finally decided that I must do as Brave Bear wished, but I had waited too long and the Ghost Soldiers came and took me away. I know now they were just evil men and Brave Bear was evil too.”
“Enough of this talk,” Thorpe declared. “Now, kid, you are going to tell me where it is.”
“Why is the stone so important to you anyhow?” Jack interrupted.
Thorpe glanced from Clayton to Pearson. “Want to tell him?”
Pearson swallowed hard. “When Crazy Horse and his braves rode out the other day, they were on their way to the Rosebud river country in Wyoming to join forces with all of the Sioux and Cheyenne tribes. They will be a massive army and our own stupid General George Armstrong Custer is on his way there right now with his seventh cavalry. He doesn’t know it, but he’ll be massacred. He won’t have a chance with a force of that size. Even if he had gotten that arms shipment that brought you into this, he wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“And you want a massacre?” Jack asked incredulously.
Thorpe grinned. “You really are stupid aren’t you?” He chided. “You saw all the gold we are taking out of these hills. We are not supposed to be here. This is Indian land. But once the public becomes infuriated over this massacre, they will sanction the government to wage a full scale war. Crazy Horse will be rendered useless without his stone and the government will lay claim to these hills. In my position I will be first in line to claim legal title to all of this.” 
Clayton smirked. “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy and rich.” Thorpe grinned.
“I thought you said you’d had enough talk,” Bert Fleming interjected impatiently. “Where’s the stone kid?” He extended his arm and placed the muzzle under Little Elk’s nose. The boy’s eyes crossed, staring at the barrel. He trembled and perspiration dripped off his chin.
“I..I hid it.” He stammered.
“Yeah, yeah, we know that. Where?” Bert’s voice raised with more menace.
“In… in the canteen. On..on the saddle.”
“Come on kid, you can do better than that. We searched every inch of that rig, including the canteen.” Fleming clicked back the hammer of the colt.
“Back off Bert,” Francy pleaded as she came forward. “Can’t you see how terrified he is?”
“He should be,” Bert growled.
“She’s right, Bert.” Lionel said. “He can’t think straight. Back off.”
Bert eased the hammer down and stepped back. Francy stepped in and stooped in front of the boy. “Just calm down a little. Think carefully and tell us where you hid the stone.”
“I did hide it in the canteen, but not on the black horse.” Little Elk explained meekly “I had crawled out of the river bottom and found my horse and the black on the river bank. When I heard the army man coming, I put the stone in the canteen on my horse and then ran back into the reeds where I had been hiding. The other men didn’t find me there during the night, so I thought he wouldn’t find me either.” He glared at Pearson. I didn’t know the stone was protecting me. I should have kept it and he never would have found me either.”
Thorpe and Fleming looked at each other, satisfaction creeping across their faces. It really was true. The stone did have protective powers, incredible as it may seem.
“When the army man dragged me out of the river and took me to the horses, I climbed on the big black so he would not find the stone.” The boy continued.
“That’s fine, boy.” Pearson said. “You did just fine.”
“You won’t kill True Arrow then?” The boy pleaded.
Thorpe smiled thinly. “No boy, I won’t kill him.” He glanced at Jack, a threatening glint in his eye. Clayton knew what he meant was, he wasn’t going to kill him right now, but he would later on.
“Promise?” The boy demanded.
“Oh, yes. I promise.” Lionel chuckled. Jack said nothing. Thorpe knew full well that Jack understood.
“Pearson,” Thorpe said. “Take Latrell with you and go back to where you found the kid. Find that horse and get that stone.”
“What if the kid’s lying and it isn’t there.” Pearson asked.
“Then as soon as you get back, if you don’t have it I’ll just have to kill them all. Now get going and get back here pronto.”
“Right!” Pearson answered. “We’re on it.” He picked up his hat from the table and hurried through the door way, pulling the plank door shut behind him.
“I hope you’re telling the truth, kid,” Fleming warned. “You heard what the man said would happen if they come back without the stone and we find you had lied to us.”
“If they find the horse, they will find it. I tell the truth.” Little Elk spat the words defiantly.
Fleming chuckled. “I hope so, kid.” Then turning to Thorpe, “What’ll we do with this galoot while we wait?”
“Tie him up until Pearson and Latrell get back and keep him here with a gun on him. Don’t leave him alone. I want no slip ups. No chance of him getting out of here. Now,I want to alert the men as to what is going on I’ll be right back.” He opened the door and walked out.
“All right, G-Man.” Fleming kicked another chair out from under the table. “Sit down!” He shoved Clayton into it. The chair legs scraped on the rock floor as it slid backward with the impact of Jack’s body.
“Francy,” Bert ordered. “Get the rest of the rope and tie him like the others.”
The girl hurried to a corner and retrieved half a length of rope. The rest of it had been cut off to bind the other two captives who now sat facing The G-Man sitting in his chair.
Expertly, she wound the rope around Clayton’s arms and muscular body. Luckily or perhaps not so luckily the first strand fitted above and the second strand fitted below the pistol still hidden beneath Jack’s shirt. Jack stiffened his body. He had expected her to find it, but she hadn’t. She worked quickly with professional skill as she pulled Clayton’s arm through the vertical slats of the chair back and wrapped the rope around his wrists tightly. Jack grimaced and grunted as she pulled the binding tight and dug into his flesh. “There. That should hold you.” She stepped away and faced him. “I still think you are an extraordinary man. You don’t die easily.”
“Your faith in me, Miss Jones is overwhelming.” Jack said, a hint of smile on his face and a slight nod.
“Oh for Pete’s sakes, Francy. You got a thing for this guy?” Bert said with annoyance and a hint of jealousy.
“ Of course not, Bert. You know he’s only our ticket to a wealthy life. You know you’re the only one I care about.” Her voice grew soft and her lashes flashed coyly as she moved around him, coming close and raising her arms to clasp them around his neck and half turning him away from Jack. He smiled and reached his arms around her and pulled her close, lips almost touching, their breath on each other’s face. Suddenly, his eyes widened then closed as his knees buckled, sagging him into a heap on the floor.
Clayton stood over him, pistol still held high after rendering a crushing blow to the back of Fleming’s head. Fleming’s pistol was now in his left hand as he had plucked it from his holster as he fell. The girl had stepped back to let him fall, a smirk of self satisfaction on her face.
“Mind telling me what this is all about?” Jack demanded with a mix of annoyance and appreciation.
“He thought I was working with him, but I wasn’t. Rudy knew he was mixed up in this and had me play along to find out just what was coming down. “Bert knew who you were all the time back on the Union Belle. He had expected a hired assassin to kill Rudy, and when you showed instead, he knew things had gone wrong.”
“They did. I killed his man.”
“I was sure you had.” She acknowledged glumly, then added. “Rudy’s orders were to stick with him to get the goods on Thorpe, if it were Thorpe and whoever else might be involved. We didn’t know about Pearson or anyone else for that matter. Thorpe has big contacts in Washington who also want the Indian’s land. Rudy thinks there is a wide scale conspiracy.”
“I do too,” Jack agreed. “Someone has known every move I have made for quite some time. Somehow, Thorpe and Fleming knew I was on the way to Fort Lincoln to find out something about that arms affair I was involved with in Texas last month.” He was referring to the foray he had with Alexander “Lucky” King who also had contacts in high places. “Thorpe sent the would be assassin after me first before he was to get Rudy”
Bert started to move and moaned.
“We can talk about this later,” Jack said tuning to look at the prostrate man on the floor. “We’d better take care of your friend here.” He squatted behind the awaking man and pulled Bert’s bandanna loose from his neck, pulled him to a half sitting position and wrapped the bandanna around Bert’s head with the cloth bound tightly across his open mouth. Fleming was still in a stupor and offered no resistance. Clayton pulled the man’s hand behind him and reached the loose rope still lying on the floor where he had left it after escaping from his chair. “Untie Little Elk and White Fawn while I tie this jasper up. I’ll tie him better than you did me.” Jack said as he worked at the bonds. “You made it look convincing to your friends when drew the rope so tight it hurt me. Then when you didn’t tie the knot, I was totally confused. But, I am a man who plays along.”
“I counted on that,” Francy chuckled.
Fleming was just coming to, when Jack finished binding his hands and legs behind him leaving him bent in a sort of reverse fetal position. “Sorry, Bert” Jack said as he pistol whipped the man again He rolled limp on the floor.
Francy quickly freed the two captives of their bonds and they had risen from their chairs and were rubbing their wrists and legs, trying to restore circulation.
“True Arrow,” Little Elk called excitedly as his ran to Clayton and wrapped his arms about the G-Man’s waist. “I’ve got to tell you!” He sounded desperate.
“Tell me what?” Jack answered.
“I lied! I Lied!”
“What about?’ Jack was confused.
“The stone. They will not find it. I didn’t hide it in the horse’s canteen.”
“No? Where did you hide it?” Jack pushed the boy back a step and held him at arm’s length.
“I didn’t.” Little Elk said ashamedly. “I lost it. I…I must have lost it in the river.”
So, Jack thought, the stone didn’t have any magical protective powers after all. Jack never believed it anyways. How could Thorpe and his cohorts have been so stupid? “Then it was not the stone that saved you in the river.”
“No. I didn’t even know it was supposed to. White Fawn never told me what the stone was. The army man found me where I had floated into the reeds. When he brought me out, it was for the first time. The stone was already gone. They will kill us when the army man gets back.”
“Well, we were already in a spot anyways. There’s too many guards for us to fight. I don’t know if it is possible, but we’ve got to find a way out of here or at least hide until we can sneak away after dark. They’ll be looking for us, especially after Pearson and Latrell return with the news. They should be back in about two hours and it’s a good five hours before dark.”


****


Chapter Twenty
Escape to Nowhere


The G-Man pressed his back against the rock wall of the branch tunnel and carefully peered out around the corner to see if the main tunnel was clear. He held his pistol high at the ready. Francy pressed close behind him, with Little Elk and White Fawn following. The blue of the afternoon sky filled the entrance at the end of the tunnel. All was clear, no one in sight.
“It’s clear in the main tunnel, but they’ll see us if we go out that way.” Jack whispered. “Do you know where that other tunnel goes?”
Francy shook her head ‘no’. “We’ll have to try it though. I know there’s no way out from the direction we just came from.”
Jack checked the main tunnel again, making sure that it was still clear. “Go!” He motioned them forward, remaining where he was to cover them as they swiftly slid into the darkness of the other branch of the tunnel. Then he dashed across and found his way past his companions so he could lead them and confront any dangers first.
Slowly and steadily, they moved deeper into the tunnel, winding and turning, burrowing downward through the mountain. At times the pitch was so steep that their feet slipped on the rock floor. Their constant reliance on clinging to the rock wall was all that prevented them from falling. What feeble light had filtered in from the main tunnel was now gone and the foursome groped along the rock wall in total darkness, listening for sounds, alert to dangers, but the sound of their own breathing and click of their footsteps on rock was all they heard.
Deeper and deeper, they descended into the dark chasm. Clayton started to feel dizzy and more unsteady on his feet. Suddenly he stopped, forcing his companions to halt with him. “What is it Jack?” Francy asked.
Jack remained silent a moment, sniffing the air. “How are you all feeling ?” Jack asked with urgent concern.
“Tired,”Francy answered. “Well maybe a bit woozy.”
“I feel funny too, “ Little Elk said.
“Gas!” Clayton gasped. “There’s natural gas seeping through the walls. We can’t keep going. We’ll have to go back.”
“But it’s dangerous to go back,” White Fawn protested. “Those men will kill us.”
“We’ll have to chance it. The gas will kill us for sure if we go ahead. Wait while I get past you so I can be in the lead going back.” He didn’t wait for answer, but groped his way back, touching each and every one as he moved. “We’ve got to hurry away from here,” he said, taking White Fawn by the hand and starting back up the incline of the tunnel.
They were about halfway back to the main tunnel, before the dizziness subsided. The gas did not flow this way, meaning that there must have been an opening somewhere in the tunnel below creating a downdraft and sucking the gas in that direction only.
Suddenly, they heard the sound of an approaching group of men coming from the main tunnel. They burst around the corner into the branch tunnel. In the light of their torches, Clayton could see there were seven or eight men. The torches illuminated the tunnel before them, and for the first time, Jack got a glimpse of the tunnel they were in. They had been crawling along the rock wall unaware that there was a spur rail running down the center of the tunnel. He should have surmised as such, since most mines had rails for their ore cars. And there in the flickering light, he saw an ore car ahead of them.
At the same time, the advancing men opened fire on their quarry. The G-Man answered back, his pistol flaming three times in the gloom. Three men dropped to the floor. The thundering crash of each shot echoed within the enclosed walls, mixing with the resounding echoes of the assailant’s fire.
The guards halted their fire and retreated, leaving their fallen comrades where they lay with their burning torches on the floor next to them. “Follow me!” Clayton shouted, running toward the retreating men.
“What are we doing?” White Fawn screamed, yet still following Jack’s lead, running to keep up with him. The others followed suit.
Light had once again faded as the other men retreated with their torches, but the lingering glow of the fallen torches, provide just enough light to show the way to the ore car. If Jack had had time to think about anything but the urgency of the moment, he probably would have thought, ‘I’ve done this before.’
“Quick! Everyone in!” He helped White Fawn into the car, while Francy lifted Little Elk in and scrambled in after him. 
The guards had regrouped and were back firing, by the time Jack found a perch on the rear coupling of the car and released the hand brake, sending the car into motion down the natural decline of the tunnel. Bullets spanged dangerously close and Clayton returned fire as the ore car picked up speed and rolled into the darkness of the tunnel below. “Keep down!” He shouted to his passengers. Firing from the pursuing men halted as they ran forward after the speeding car. 


****


Chapter Twenty One
Ride of Death


Faster and faster, the ore car rolled deeper into the mountain. Jack clung tight to his perch on the rear of the car. He could see the bobbing lights of the torches as the assailants kept running after them.
Jack knew they must be in the part of the tunnel, that was filled with gas, by now. They were traveling so fast, that its effect was not hitting them. Hopefully, they would roll to a breath of fresh air before they would succumb to the gas.
The pursuers ran fool heartedly into the gas, their torches exploding the air, bursting into a huge ball of flame, filling the tunnel and flaming after the rolling ore car.
Jack’s heart leaped in his throat, unable to make a sound. Stark terror raced through his tense body. His companions screamed. The car rolled on faster and faster downward through the tunnel, careening around curves and sharp turns, whipping the passengers violently from side to side, the giant fireball trailing at tremendous speed behind them, bathing them in its light and singeing them with its terrific heat. 
A final turn brought them into a straightaway and they could see light from the gaping mouth of the tunnel below and up ahead. In a blinding second of speed, the car burst out of the mine entrance into the open air almost leaping from the tracks as Clayton tried to slow it with the hand brake. The wheels screeched and sparks flew from the rails as tremendous friction almost failed to slow their descent. They rolled to the end of the track and the car pitched forward and sideways into the churned turf at the base of the mountain. Jack jumped free, landing in the dirt and rolling, his companions tumbling in a confused tangle from the overturned car, as thunder roared inside the mountain when the gas exploded, practically blowing that part of the mountain away, rocks and clods of earth flying upwards and hailing down on everything below. Dark billowing clouds of smoke belched out of the hole that was once the entrance to the mine.
Clayton was still rolling on the ground as bullets plowed into the dirt beside him. He jumped up in a crouch, saw a guard running toward him, raising his rifle to shoot again, and fired twice into his belly. The man fell backward, his rifle flying into the air.
“Jack!” He heard Francy scream. “Look out behind you!” Jack spun around, looking for the danger. A shot rang out from behind him and as he looked up, he saw another guard pitching face down off the platform of the water tower above, blood splattered across his chest. The body plopped into the dirt close to the G-Man.
Clayton swung around to see an Indian had retrieved the rifle from the first guard that Jack had killed and had fired on the water tower guard who had taken a bead on Clayton. Jack waved acknowledgement of appreciation to the Indian. Another Indian retrieved the rifle and pistol from the water tower guard, just in time to rise and shoot two more advancing guards. The first Indian was now running back into the pack of workers, picking out guards to shoot.
More guards were quickly advancing toward them. Jack fired and downed one. His Indian allies got two more. More Indians seized the fallen weapons and now there was a force to be reckoned with.  
Turning his attention to Francy, Little Elk and White Fawn, Jack could see they had recovered from their spill from the ore car and obviously they had not gotten hurt badly for they were making their way toward the building that served as a bunk house for the guards. Three guards spewed out the front door. Francy shot them dead with expert efficiency. Then she stepped inside, looked around and motioned the others inside.
A bullet singed Jack’s side, spinning him around to face his current assailant. He fired automatically, bringing down a man less that ten feet from him. The man’s last shot went off convulsively and the bullet bore into the dust at Clayton’s feet. Almost at once another man was on him from the rear. He twisted his body and squeezed the trigger. Click! The hammer fell on an empty chamber. By instinct alone, the G-Man whipped the pistol up and stuck the man full force with the pistol barrel. The man fell back and landed in the dirt. Jack slammed his colt into his holster, pulled the other one from his belt and shot the prone man.


****


Chapter Twenty Two
Flaming Guns


As each guard fell, Indians were swooping in to retrieve the weapons and now the reckoning force of Indians was turning into an offensive. The valley echoed with the thundering volleys. Men were falling and dying. Both red man and white man alike were dying this day in the sun.
Jack fired again and again, moving quickly from side to side, dodging flying lead as it whistled past him like a nest of angry bees. Cover, he needed cover. He fell behind a barrel. Lead poured into it. He peered out furtively and threw lead back. Then he rose and ran retreating toward the boiler hut. Bullets splintered the casing as Jack slid around the corner into another guard. He fired directly into the man’s belly, jumped over his fallen frame and threw his shoulder into the building’s door.
The door shattered under the impact and Clayton practically fell through, landing on the wooden floor with wood splinters showering him. He rolled to his back in time to see two guards inside rush at him. He fired twice and downed them both. Pushing himself to his feet, he saw three more men advancing toward the open doorway from outside. He fired, one man fell. The other two ducked back out of line of fire as Clayton squeezed the trigger and found this colt empty too. No time to reload! He dropped the pistol and ran toward a stairway that led to the roof.
Passing the boiler at the foot of the stairs, Clayton gripped the thermostat lever and pushed it all the way to its extreme. He rushed up the stairs. There was a doorway at the top. He rushed through just as the two guards ran into the building, firing and riddling the door as it slammed shut behind the G-Man. 
Outside Clayton found himself on a catwalk that led to the water tower platform. From this platform he dived into the water sluice that led to the second level of planking running along the mountainside, and slid pall mall down the chute.
Inside one guard shouted to the other, gesturing toward the boiler gage. “Get out of here! She’s gonna blow!” The two men dived out the door, just as the boiler burst and the building blew to a million shards of wood and debris raining over the whole valley. Flames gusting skyward, smoke filling the air. The blast took the water tower with it, dumping tons of water, bringing down scaffolding and planking.
The sluice crumbled beneath the G-Man’s feet and he dived sideways out of the chute into mid air and seemed to hang their suspended like a feather in a storm, then he fell hard, crashing onto the second level planking. His whole body ached and his head felt like his body had been driven upward into it as he landed. The force was so great that the planking gave way to the impact and his feet fell straight though the broken wood. His arms, feeling like they had been ripped from their sockets, splayed outward and gripped the floor of the planking. He held on for dear life, his feet dangling through the hole and the sharp broken pieces of board dug into his body as he struggled to pull himself upward and out of the hole. 
A loud crack came from above. He looked up and saw the third level scaffolding swaying. A major part of the water tower had fallen on it and had broken the framing loose from the mountain.
“It’s! Going to fall,” Jack thought to himself. “Got to get out of here!”
 He reached out farther from the hole, getting a grip to pull himself upward. He heaved forward. Moved a little. Then he reached out again and shoved again. Again he moved. Twice more he repeated the process. He was making progress. The scaffolding above moved and clattered again. Again he reached out and pulled. More progress. Now just his boots the still hung through the hole. He started to pull again, then he halted abruptly. In front of his nose was a pair of boots. He tried to look up through the matted hair hanging in his eyes. He saw the blue black barrel of an army colt staring him in the face.
Bert Fleming, looking a little worse for wear after the pistol whippings Jack had given him, grinned down at him. “You’ve done enough G-Man,” He growled, earing back the hammer. 
Clayton stared blankly without emotion waiting. Then ,CRAAASH the scaffolding above started to crumble. A section fell toward them. Fleming fell backward and Jack pushed himself forward, all the way out of the hole and dived on top of Bert Fleming, gripping his gun arm and rolling close to the side of the mountain. The debris fell and tumbled, falling outward from the mountain and barely missing the two men on the planking, as they struggled for possession of the weapon
Back and forth the two men rolled, each man gripping the others arms, Jack’s left clutching Fleming’s right. Fleming trying to bring the gun barrel to bear on Jack’s face. Fleming pushed hard and rolled over, pinning Clayton beneath him.
Jack had fought this man this way before on the boat. Again Fleming was winning, bringing the pistol barrel closer and closer. Clayton wild eyed, mustard his strength and rolled sharply away from the mountain wall, bent his knees, and kicked out at Bert’s midsection. Fleming grunted with pain. Jack loosed his right hand grip and drove his fist into Fleming’s jaw. The man fell back loosening his grip on the weapon, Jack lifted Fleming’s gun hand and slammed it down on a wooden plank. The pistol slid loose and skittered across the planking. Clayton rolled back, stretching his body out to reach for it. Inches away! He crawled forward, reaching, reaching.
Fleming on his feet now, sprang forward, stomping his boot down hard on Jack’s hand before he could close his fingers around it. Fleming snatched it up, laughed and pulled the trigger….just as a section of scaffolding fell, striking him full force in the chest and head. He had no time to scream as he fell backward off the planking onto the ground below with tumbling scaffolding pounding and burying his body.
Jack rolled back tight against the wall of the mountain and let it all pass. He lay there, heaving and gasping for air, watching the dust billowing up from the rubble.
A moment. Maybe two. That was all he could spare. No time to rest. Only until the falling debris was over and it was safe to move from his shelter. He could still hear gunshots. The battle was still raging, but seemed to be coming to an end as the shooting became less frequent and intense.


****


Chapter Twenty Three
Last Regret


From his perch, he could see most of the valley now. He could see the carnage of bodies strewn about the complex. He could see attacking Indians subduing what was left of Thorpe’s personnel and releasing the imprisoned slaves from the holding pens. He could see Amos Dunn and his crew taking some prisoners into tow. Francy had ventured out of the bunkhouse, leaving the others inside, while she looked to see if it was safe to leave their shelter.
And Thorpe! Clayton was not surprised that Thorpe had stayed out of harm’s way. And there he was! Running as fast as he could to the corral behind the log house. “Give it up, Thorpe,” Jack thought to himself. “You’ll never get out of this valley.”
The G-Man pushed himself to his feet, found a ladder, quickly climbed to the valley floor, and ran for the corral after Thorpe.
He was almost there when a herd of riderless, saddleless horses thundered out of the corral, churning earth and creating a cloud of dust as they stampeded toward the entrance to the valley. Thorpe was inside the herd, riding a saddled big black stallion, using the herd as cover for his escape.
As the horses passed by Clayton, he picked out a gray, reached for its flying mane and swung himself aboard, riding bareback into the melee after Thorpe.
Thorpe’s mount could move only as there was room within the band of horses. He could barely see where he was going, much less see the two riders coming from the other direction. Pearson and Latrell had heard the gunfire and turned back. They had just ridden in as the herd barreled into them. Their horses reared and stumbled, trying to avoid the onslaught of an ocean of horse flesh. They screamed and yelled, trying to bring their mounts under control. The more they tried, the more their horses panicked and floundered.
Thorpe was still riding forward, but as the flurry of motion ahead blossomed into full scale confusion, the herd was panicking with claustrophobic fear. The big black reared on his hind legs. Thorpe, clenched the reins tightly and tried to avoid falling off. This was when he finally saw Latrell and Pearson go down and the lead horses trample over their lifeless bodies.
The stream of horses seemed to even out now that the obstacles in the way had been removed and the horses could continue running straight ahead. But Thorpe’s mount did not settle down. He bucked and he swiveled and reared high on two legs. Thorpe swore and grabbed the pommel of the saddle, trying to hold his perch. The big black reared again and again until Thorpe finally lost his hold. He went down screaming, tumbling into the dirt. The last thing he saw was a myriad of flying hooves coming into his face and pounding his body to shreds.
The horses ran on, mindless of what had been left behind. Jack slid from the back of his horse and let it go with the others.
The only horse that remained was the big black stallion who stood proudly over Thorpe’s body, his head aloft and shaking his flying mane.
Jack strode up to the horse and patted his gleaming neck. “Good boy, old son.” Then standing over Thorpe’s body. “You took the wrong horse. I’ll bet you Regret it, now.”


****


Chapter Twenty Four
A Good Day to Die


The pungent smell of gunsmoke, fire, and death filled the air and hung over the valley like a blanket. The heat of the day was waning as the late afternoon sun was starting to drop below the western horizon. The runaway horses had been rounded up and brought back. Most of the slaves had banded together with their own people and were preparing to go home and take their dead with them. What few guards that had surrendered were bound and would be taken to the Indian villages for punishment. Probably better if they had died with their fallen comrades.
Amos Dunn had gotten his people together . They had loaded their wagons and hitched their teams. “This has been one helluva adventure,” Dunn said to Jack. “We’re all in a hurry to get back home. Never going to venture out again, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t blame you none, there,” Jack conceded.
“Still don’t know how to get back,” Dunn said. “Do you suppose you could trail along with us, just one more time?”
Jack smiled thinly, “I wish I could, Amos. But this thing isn’t over yet. I’ve got to try to stop a full scale Indian War.”
“I don’t understand,” Dunn said. 
“You don’t need too. It’s my problem. You’re out of it now. I’ll see if White Fawn can find one of her people to help guide you back”. Jack reached out his hand. Amos took it and shook. “Maybe we’ll meet again someday.” Clayton turned and walked away.

White Fawn had told Clayton that Crazy Horse was camping with his warriors and with several other tribes on the Rosebud. Clayton also knew that General Custer was on his way there to engage and annihilate the enemy, unknowing that he was riding into a trap The G-Man needed to get to Crazy Horse in time for White Fawn to explain about the lost sacred stone and persuade him not to attack without his magic. If that didn’t work, he must warn Custer to abandon the mission.
Time was too short to wait for morning, there was still some daylight left and they could travel some in the dark. Pausing only long enough for Clayton to clean his wounds and put on a fresh shirt and hat, Jack Clayton, Francy Jones, White Fawn, and Little Elk rode out of the valley, leaving the others behind to cleanup.
White Fawn led them out of the hills before dark. They continued westward as long as they could before it became too dark to travel. They could not risk a horse stepping into a hole and coming up lame. They made camp for the rest of the night until a couple of hours before dawn when the beginning gray of the sky offered enough light to travel on safely.
On and on, they pushed forward; the sun chasing them into early morning and then beating down on them by noon. By mid afternoon they found themselves just south of the Rosebud River. Here they saw signs of many horses. The turf of the grassy meadows had been cut and churned by the steel of horseshoes and also the signs of many more unshod ponies’ hooves. Obviously, there had been both soldiers and Indians here recently. Jack felt disheartened and glum. It was beginning to look like they were too late. With pangs of guilt and regret, he pushed on heading north following the signs. 
A short while later, they brought their mounts to a halt at the top of a knoll and gazed out across an open meadow below at the sight before them. Jack’s stomach wretched and turned and he could taste bile rising in his throat. Francy and White Fawn lowered their heads and looked away. Little Elk cringed.
On the other side of the meadow, they could see The Little Big Horn River, running red with blood. The meadow itself was strewn with bodies of soldiers. Two or three hundred, Jack estimated. Probably, Custer’s entire troop. Arrows protruded from their twisted bodies. Bloody dried heads attracted an army of flies as they buzzed about, feeding off their scalped skulls. One body had been mutilated and desecrated so bad with a plethora of arrows piercing his body like a pin cushion. He had been shot many times and his ears cut off. The blood soaked buckskin jacket the man wore identified him as the leader of the troop; George Custer himself. The heat of the day was already causing the stench of death to fill the air. Clayton had not seen such brutal carnage since the War Between the States.
The G-Man swallowed hard. They had been too late. The conspirators in Washington had succeeded with this part of their plan. This would bring on full scale war against the Sioux and it would not cease until they had all been killed or forced onto a reservation. The Black Hills would become government land, and soon the white man would legally be over running the sacred lands.
They had all seen enough. Too much. Time to ride on. Jack reined Regret around to ride on westward. Without saying a word the others followed until Clayton drew up abruptly, pointed toward a ridge to the west.
There, sitting astride their ponies, apparently admiring their handy work below in the meadow, hundreds of warriors, lined side by side, dotted the ridge, their painted bodies gleaming in the sunlight and the feathered war bonnets of the chieftains flowing in the wind.
White Fawn reined her horse to a halt beside Jack. “Crazy Horse. The one in the center.”
Jack focused on the one she pointed to, his eyes squinting against the sun, wondering if they would be attacked. “Think they will attack us?” Jack asked.
White Fawn swallowed hard and said with reluctance and fear, “I will ride ahead and talk to him. I will tell him all that has happened and ask him to spare you. I betrayed him. It is I he should want to punish.” With that said, she slapped the reins to her horse, kicked him in the ribs and rode to the ridge.
“What are the chances, Jack?” Francy asked quietly, as she pulled up alongside of the G-Man.
He said nothing at first, then, “I don’t know.” He said resolutely. “We wait and see.”
White Fawn rode to the top of the ridge, halting her mount in front of Crazy Horse. Jack and Francy waited, impatiently, watching for signs of danger to the Indian girl. The minutes, dragged on. White Fawn was still talking to the chief and he was still listening.
Minute after agonizing minute crawled by, the sun burning hotter in their faces and starting to blot out the scene before them. Then, with sudden movement and milling about, White Fawn moved her horse to the left and turned to face her companions below. With the sun in their eyes, they could barely see her arms waving. Was she motioning them forward? Or a warning to go back?
Then it looked as if Crazy Horse had ridden his horse to her side. He raised his spear high in the air, waved it back and forth and then pitched it blade first into the ground, coup and feathers from the shaft moving in the breeze of the afternoon.
“I hope this is an invitation,” Jack said and prodded Regret forward. Francy and Little Elk followed obediently.
Slowly and steadily, they rode forward. No action was being taken. So far, so good. Closer and closer they rode until finally they drew to a halt directly in front of Crazy Horse and White Fawn. Clayton raised his arm, holding his palm open in a sign of peace. “We come in peace, Crazy Horse. We were not part of what happened here today and we regret that we were too late to prevent this.”
“White Fawn tells me that you speak truth. You are True Arrow.”
“Yes, Chief. I am your friend. And I tell you true, that not all whites are your enemies. But some are evil, just as you find some evil ones in your own tribes. The bad whites are responsible for what happened here today and I will try to bring them to justice.” Jack said.
“I believe you speak truth, True Arrow. But it is too late.” He pointed to sea of bodies below. “We are finished. We have lost.”
Clayton was astonished at these words. Chief Crazy Horse knew full well that what appeared to be a victory was only the beginning of defeat. “More soldiers will come like a horde of grasshoppers in the wind. We will fight and we will die.”
“You are a wise chief,” the G-Man said. “Crazy Horse speaks truth. Perhaps, it best to not fight.” 
“I must,” The chief said flatly. “I will continue to the end.”
“You know the sacred stone is gone? You will no longer be protected.”
 “White Fawn has told me about the stone.” Crazy Horse said without sadness.
“You will not punish her?”
“No. She was obedient to her man. White Fawn is good woman. The stone was not what protected me, but the belief that it did. As long as I believed I could not die, I would not. But now it is time to fight as any other man.” The chief explained.
“I admire Crazy Horse’s wisdom and courage,” Clayton said, “But I ask you to give it up before more blood is shed.”
“It must be.” Crazy Horse stated.
“Then you will die. You know that.” Jack pleaded.
“Yes,” answered the chief. “And when I die, it will be a good day to die.”

Nightime had come and the full moon rode high in the sky. Jack and Francy had been on the trail now for three hours on their way back to Omaha where, according to Francy, Rutherford B. Hayes would be waiting for them. They had left Little Elk and White Fawn far behind them now. The moon reflected off the dew covered grass, turning the trail into a shimmering silvery glow. They rode steadily eastward toward the distant horizon; two RIDERS OF THE SILVER TRAIL.


Jack Clayton will return
In
RIDERS OF THE SILVER TRAIL.