Black Hills (9781101559116) Read online

  She was of average size, with dark hair and cheeks blushed red from the cold. Cormac wondered if there were any others with them that were still hiding in the woods, but a glance at Lop Ear and Horse showed them paying no attention to anything other than the approaching couple.

  “Go ahead and sit down on that log by the fire,” he told them. “I’ll get you some coffee and fix you something to eat.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated, sir.” The man helped his wife around the fire to the log, only to huddle and stand as closely as possible to the heat, holding out their hands and turning first their backs and then their fronts to the fire. The man turned back with his hand out to Cormac. “My name is Ferguson, sir. John Ferguson. They call me Jack, and this is my wife, Rebecca. May we know your name?”

  Unspeaking, Cormac shook the hand and stared a long moment at the only person other than his sister he had ever met named Rebecca.

  “Good morning, my name is Cormac Lynch. Welcome to my fire. One of you will have to drink from a bowl; I only have one cup.”

  “Mister, if you’re willing to give us coffee, I’ll drink it out of my shoe if I have to.”

  Cormac fried more bacon and potatoes, giving them the last two biscuits with more coffee with which to wash it all down. The food quickly disappeared.

  “Thank you, mister,” the woman said finally, smiling widely, the first words she had spoken. “Do you mind if I call you, Mack? Cormac sounds so formal and not at all as friendly as you really are.”

  “You’re welcome,” he answered. “I’m glad I was here, and yes you can.” Cormac rolled a smoke and offered the makings to his man-guest.

  “No, thank you, but my wife might like some. She’s from the hills of Tennessee and most of the people in that neck of the woods smoke or chew, or both.”

  Speechless, Cormac offered it to the woman who eagerly accepted. Making a paper trough with her thumb, forefinger, and middle finger of her left hand, she filled it with tobacco, and then rolled it expertly with the same hand, licking the sticky side of the paper. She finished the roll with one hand while she handed the tobacco bag back to Cormac with the other. Cormac had never seen it done better. He watched in amazement as she lit it and took her first long drag.

  “I can do that with one hand, but not as gracefully as you,” he told her. “I’ve never seen a woman smoke before.”

  “It does surprise some people, but I enjoy it,” she said while she gave the big hat back to her husband and shook out her long dark hair. The hot food and fire were doing their jobs, and with the fire close in front, Rebecca Ferguson unbuttoned the big coat. “It reminds me of home. I learned how to roll cigarettes making them for my daddy. I haven’t got to have one lately, so it tastes very good.” Unwrapped, she was a woman of average looks made more attractive by her smile.

  “Tell me what’s happened that’s got you travelin’ half dressed in the dark on a cold night like this,” instructed Cormac.

  “Curse me for a fool,” began the man named John, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I lost her in a crooked poker game. I can’t believe I was so stupid. By the time I realized what was going on, it was too late, and I was in serious trouble.

  “On second thought, could I change my mind and have that smoke you offered? I only smoke but rarely.”

  Cormac handed him the Bull Durham bag and waited while he got his smoke going with none of the experience and grace shown by his wife. The day was getting off to a hazy start, but it was light enough to see through the trees to the river running fast and deep and looking very cold.

  Cormac was anxious to get on his way; he didn’t like the ominous look of the clouds; they were in for some weather. But at the same time, he couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves. They had neither the clothes nor the experience to deal with the storm that was coming, and he was curious to learn how a man could lose a wife he obviously cared for in a game of poker.

  “Right after we married five years ago in New York, we moved to Southern Missoura. We both wanted to raise our children in the country, but had no idea how hard the life of a farmer was, and we knew nothing about farming. We hadn’t thought it out. I had some money saved, so we bought an existing farm to save the time and effort of building our own. We couldn’t wait to start planting our own crops.

  “That’s when we first began realizing there was more to it than we thought. We didn’t know how much water it would take, and there was only a small well near the buildings that ran dry anytime we tried to take out too much. There was enough rain to get us through the first year, and we sold our crops for enough money for food and seed to get us through the next, but that year brought very little rain. We got a very poor crop, but figured the upcoming year would be better. It wasn’t.

  “Rebecca’s sister in Pierre wrote us that her husband could give me a job in his general store, so we jumped at it. We couldn’t find a buyer for a farm with no water, but we sold our furniture and personal effects and left with one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Travel expenses and food took us down to one hundred and five, but that was still plenty enough money to live on and buy space on the riverboat to Pierre. I think it’s about another thirty miles upriver from here.”

  John Ferguson halted his story to ask for another cup of coffee. Cormac poured it for him while he continued.

  “We planned on staying the night in a small village on the river about fifteen miles south of here and catching the boat in the morning. We were told there’s one coming through on a weekly basis, and the next one was due tomorrow morning; that’s this morning now. While we were waiting, Rebecca wanted to get a bath, and while she was taking care of that, I went next door to the local saloon for a beer. That was my first mistake.

  “There were some fellas playing poker for matchsticks back in one corner. Now, I am not a poker player, but I do enjoy it. There was a lot of laughing and joking from the table. They were having a lot of fun teasing a big guy about always trying to bluff them and always losing. One went to the outhouse and stopped to talk with the bartender on his way back. They were laughing and having fun, and I found myself drawn into the conversation; he invited me to join the game. So I said sure, it’s just matchsticks, it’s a good way to kill time waiting for Rebecca.

  “I was lucky and started winning right off. One of them makes a joke after I’d won a few hands that it was too bad for me we weren’t playing for money. The big guy that was always losing his bluffs agreed. He had better luck playing for money, he said. He couldn’t take matchstick-playing seriously, so he talked the others into playing for two-bits and four-bits.

  “I was still winning more than I was losing so I stayed in the game. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I had never done so well. Somehow the bets had increased to five and ten dollars, and I was still winning. I couldn’t wait until Rebecca returned so I could show her how much money I had won.

  “By then, the big guy was pretty drunk, I thought. I realized later he was just acting and they were all in on it. Then I got dealt four aces, and he was raising. First thing you know, I had all of my money on the table, and he took out a big wad of bills and threw it in the pot and said I had to match it or he would win all the money without even showing his hand.

  “I told him I didn’t have any more, so we should just show our hands; I knew he was bluffing again. He said no. I had to match his bet or forfeit the pot. Just then, Rebecca knocked on the window, all sparkly clean and pretty and smiling at me, to let me know she was there.

  “The big guy said he would accept a voucher that she would clean his house for him as a matching bet because he was terrible at house cleaning and was tired of living in a pigsty. It was either agree or lose all of our money, so I agreed. It was just to clean his house, and I would help her if I lost, but I knew my four aces wouldn’t lose.

  “When he dealt the last card, he fumbled a little and it was easy to see he was bottom dealing. When I called him on it, he became furious and pulled out his gun and
said I better realize real quick that I had been mistaken, or he was going to kill me right then and there, right in front of Rebecca. I’m no good with a gun. In fact, I don’t seem to be much good at anything.”

  Rebecca’s hand found his and squeezed. “Mine was still in my holster with the thong on the hammer,” he continued. “I wasn’t anticipating any gunplay.

  “I asked the other players if they hadn’t seen it, too, and they all said no, they hadn’t seen anything. It was too obvious for them not to have seen it. I knew then I had been set up, and they would kill me for the money if I gave them the chance. So after agreeing that I must have been mistaken, I let him take the pot with a royal flush he had dealt himself.

  “He said if she wasn’t at his house the first thing this morning, he would come looking for us. He said there was no place to hide, and the boat wouldn’t be coming until around the dinner hour. He was making jokes to his friends that made it clear he had more than house cleaning in mind for her once he got her there.

  “I had no choice. I took the directions to his house and promised we would be there early. When I walked out, I let them hear me tell Rebecca that we should go get something to eat before turning in, and then we started walking and just kept going. We just left our things. I had to get her out of that village.”

  Horse and Lop Ear came to attention, staring downstream a few seconds before the sounds of riders came to them.

  “Someone’s comin’,” Cormac told them. “Quick, hand me your dishes and get behind the boulder and stay quiet.” He unbuttoned his coat and loosened the Smith & Wesson in its holster as seven riders came into sight through the woods.

  “Hello the camp, we’re comin’ in,” came the voice as the newcomers rode in without waiting for an invitation. Cormac had just gotten out of one situation with rustlers, now he was in another one with who knows what. If this was what the world was like off the farm, maybe he better just go back and spend the rest of his life pickin’ taters, shootin’ rabbits, and teasin’ Lainey. Well, at least pickin’ taters and shootin’ rabbits. The Lainey door was closed. No, that whole situation was closed. Time to pretend like he was a big boy and play the hand life was dealing him. At least he knew God wasn’t stacking the deck.

  Although appearing to be holding a cup of coffee with both hands, Cormac faced the newcomers with the weight of his coffee cup supported by his left hand, leaving the right free for gunplay, if such became necessary.

  “Mornin’ boys,” Cormac said easily. “If you’re wantin’ coffee, I can make you some if you got cups. I only got this one.”

  “We ain’t lookin’ for coffee. We’re lookin’ for a man and a woman who’s got something that belongs to me. You seen anything of them?” The man doing the talking must have been the bluffer; he was runnin’ the show, and he was big. All were dressed for cold weather in heavy sheepskin coats with big collars and warm gloves, if there was such a thing—Cormac’s fingers were always cold when he was wearing gloves, mittens were much warmer. Most were wearing the ten-gallon hat that was getting so popular.

  “Nope, sorry,” he answered. “But I just got up. If they came this way, they passed on by without me hearin’, but I’m surprised my horses didn’t hear their horses and let me know.” That was a nice touch, he thought.

  “They aren’t riding, they’re walking.”

  “Why in the world would anybody be walking as cold as it is? They smokin’ loco weed?”

  “You’re right about that, but he’s not the smartest one around these parts. It’s hard to track them in this cold. The ground is frozen solid, and we lost their trail about an hour ago. Maybe they went inland. I reckon we’ll go back and circle the area and see if we can pick up any sign.”

  Cormac Lynch watched them leave and immediately started packing up.

  “I’m guessin’ they’ll be back; we gotta get you outta here, and we gotta find some shelter. There’s a norther a comin’.”

  “Mister, it’s not fair you getting dragged into this, but if you’re willing to help, I have to let you. I don’t know how to protect Rebecca on my own.”

  As always, Cormac packed the scattergun and his extra pistol last, each tied separately for quick access if needed, as the scattergun already had been once.

  They needed to make time, and the fastest way was for Cormac to walk and let them ride on Horse. Mrs. Ferguson needed to ride and Cormac couldn’t ride with her while making her husband walk. It was Lop Ear’s turn to carry the pack. Cormac had the husband wear his own coat and hat and let Mrs. Ferguson wrap herself in his slicker around the blanket from his bedroll.

  They were packed and on the trail within ten minutes. He didn’t bother to put out the fire. As cold as it was, that fire wasn’t going anywhere.

  “We’ll head upriver for a ways to get some distance between us and them, and then we’ll swing inland to find shelter. I think this storm is gonna be a norther, and they can get rough. I would imagine if we can stay out of their way until it starts, there’ll be no tracks to follow and they’ll head for home and that’ll be the end of it.”

  Cormac Lynch stepped out smartly. There was no mistaking the weather was quickly getting colder. They came upon some hills after what Cormac thought to be about two miles and turned inland as snow flurries began. The temperature continued to drop rapidly, and the snow got heavier. Luckily, with no wind to push it, it was falling straight down. If it had not been for the circumstances, it would have been a very pleasant walk.

  Away from the river, the land was no longer flat, and the going became harder. Cormac had the Fergusons walk a ways to get warmed up, but the doing of it slowed them down, and he re-mounted them at the first sign of her getting warm and loosening her blanket wrapping.

  The snow was deepening, and the wind had started blowing, dropping the temperature even more and putting a bite in the air. Cormac knew the signs of a Dakota blizzard in the making. Birds, rabbits, and squirrels were nowhere to be seen; they were already holed up in their lairs. Cormac needed to find a hidey-hole for them, too, and soon.

  They came upon a stream flowing out of a tree-filled canyon with hills eventually climbing to four or five hundred feet and followed it upward. Somewhere in the canyon would be shelter. On a flat plain in the middle of a blizzard was no place for anyone with a choice and a lick of common sense. Sitting in the saddle, Mrs. Ferguson pulled the blanket up around her head, like a tent held together from the inside, and Mr. Ferguson had his arms wrapped around her from behind with his own head down, letting his hat be his windbreak.

  God was done fooling around and was getting serious; he’d given all the warning he was intending on. The piercing icy wind that penetrated the marrow was bitter cold and lashing out brutally with the driven snow turning to sleet and being driven nearly horizontal, dropping the visibility to less than ten feet. Walking into the wind, the icy sleet covered the faces of Cormac and John Ferguson and found its way down their necks and under their collars. They were getting wet through and through.

  The blanket wrapping Mrs. Ferguson’s upper body had become sleet-coated over the slicker and had frozen solid into a private shelter. Her wisely holding it away from her body as much as possible kept an air space around her to be warmed by her breath, with her husband’s body to protect her back. Her legs, however, were not so lucky and became soaked, and were probably beginning to freeze. Her blanket-tent was showing signs of cold-chill shakes making it clear that her body temperature was dropping too far and too fast.

  Although Cormac had waterproofed his shoes with melted tallow, the coating of ice forming on the outside was beginning to freeze his feet, and they were becoming painful and throbbing with every step. Frostbite would not be far behind. The Fergusons’ feet would be wet, and lack of use would make them even colder than his own. Forced to keep looking around for shelter, Cormac couldn’t hide his face, and it was an open target upon which ice was forming into a mask. It was a freezing, bitter cold.

  Cormac knew he could
wait no longer; if there was to be a shelter, he would have to build it. As they traveled up the canyon with the river on their left, the wind suddenly dropped as they followed the river around a left-hand corner. They found themselves facing a tight stand of twenty or thirty spruce trees on their right, about twenty feet from the river and close to an embankment. Cormac guessed the embankment would measure out to be about twenty-five feet high with the bottom having been hollowed out to leave a large overhang, which had been cut out by previous flash floods racing around the corner many times a year for many years: a cave with a roof, but no sidewalls. Deadfall wood for fires was abundant. They had found their windbreak. “Thank you,” Cormac said, looking upward into the freezing fury of the storm as he helped Mrs. Ferguson into the shelter. “Thank you very much.”

  In a matter of minutes, Cormac and John Ferguson had a large fire radiating heat into their makeshift home. Whatever he was or was not, John Ferguson was no slacker; he pitched in without being told. He was a worker, and they worked well together.

  After removing the pack and saddle, Cormac dried the horses with an empty gunnysack, and then, with fallen logs, the two men built a three-foot-high reflecting wall on the opposite side of the fire from the hollow to direct the heat inward. With an axe from Cormac’s pack, they cut and stacked enough firewood under the overhang to last a few days. An abundant amount was still there for the taking, but Cormac wanted to get in a goodly supply before it became snow-covered and wetter than it already was.

  While they were busy, Mrs. Ferguson had taken charge and set up a kitchen close to the fire with items from Cormac’s pack. Using melted snow, she had made a pot of stew from his supply of jerked beef, potatoes, and his last wild onion as well as had a batch of pan-bread nearly done baking on some embers she had pulled from the fire.