Philip Dampier's Blog

Shootout at the Spring

Episode Nine

Chad

It took a lot of the early morning light to pile stones on the two bodies, and the pile of stones made a large grave. When they were finished, Luke shook Chad’s hand and mounted his horse.

“I thank you, Marshal; if I’d found these two alone, I’d probably be the one needing stones. I hope I see you again one day.”

“If you decide you want to become a marshal, visit my office in Fort Pierre. I’ll give you my highest recommendation.”

“Good luck with your bank robber.”

“You tell your mother and sister hello for me and stay safe.”

Chad watched his new friend ride away, leading the three horses. He turned Buck towards the river and started downstream, looking for a good place to ford. He knew it was possible Lance had chosen to follow the river for some distance since the territory to the west was rugged and had areas where water was scarce.

Not that the Cheyenne was all that large a river as you moved downstream. The badlands which the river skirted further to the southwest were rugged and unfriendly. The chances of meeting hostile Sioux were high, so following the river downstream made sense even though it was flowing northeast.

Did outlaws like Lance do sensible things like following the river, or did they take chances like heading due west through the mountains? Chad had alternated between looking west and looking at the ground along the bank of the river. He decided that Lance would do the sensible thing.

Chad eased closer to the bank two miles downstream, where the river crossed a sizable area of nearly flat ground. He came to a place where the grass was worn away more than usual. There, next to the water, were two hoof prints, both indicating the horse was wearing shoes. Not an Indian, then; but could be and probably was his outlaw.

Chad urged Buck into the river and found the bottom solid and the water only belly deep on his horse. He paused before leaving the stream to examine the ground. The same shoe marks moved straight up the bank. Chad followed until they disappeared into the grass. He dismounted to get a better view of the ground’s surface. Leading Buck, he moved in a semi-circle, walking slowly, his eyes looking for some sign of a horse’s passing.

Almost due west of the crossing, he found horse manure. It was no more than a day or two old, and he took it as a sign that his quarry had gone straight into the low rocky foothills leading to the Black Hills themselves. Chad knew from a territorial map that there was a lot of hilly grassland between the foothills he was in and the higher elevation Black Hills. If Lance reached the small prairie, it would be easygoing until he got into the Black Hills themselves. He spoke to Buck, and they moved forward into the rocky formations and heavy evergreens.

The sky boasted a clear view of the sun with only the occasional cloud drifting by. The grass growing between the rocks was dry, and it rustled as Buck stepped through it. The outcroppings broke the wind, and the sun felt pleasant on his back. Chad’s shoulder gave him a twinge every now and then when Buck stumbled on the rocks. He ignored the slight pain. The wound was almost completely healed, and he put it out of his mind as much as possible.

He set a course to take him on the straightest line across the foothills. The going was rough, and he was now thankful for Buck’s size and sure-footedness. Here and there, he crossed small creeks, all flowing back down to the Cheyenne. The sun hit its zenith, moved behind some heavy white clouds, and then reappeared two hours later in a small break. Twice, he saw birds of prey riding the warm air currents coming off the rocks. In the west, dark clouds appeared on the horizon; there was rain over the Black Hills, more than likely.

Slowly, they climbed upward as they moved in and out of trees and rocks. Heavy bushes and small clumps of briars filled the in-between spaces. The large hill they were climbing was dwindling to a slight crest of heavy trees and stone. It was beautiful country, but the marshal had no time to enjoy its beauty. His mind accepted it for what it was but spent little time on the small details like bright-colored flowers among the rocks or the ferns growing among the denser trees. He was surrounded by beauty, but duty kept him from noticing.

Buck began to act nervous as if he had detected some unexpected scent moving through the trees. Chad tightened the reins and reduced their pace down to a slow walk. They made their way around a particularly large outcropping of rock and discovered a grassy area almost a hundred feet across. Buck snorted. Chad stopped his mount and pulled his hat down to shade his eyes from the bright sunlight that had found a break in the drifting white clouds.

There, in the furthermost corner of the clearing, he saw a dark bay horse, or at least the front half of a horse, standing in heavy brush. The horse’s ears flicked a greeting, and it moved its head, pulling its reins up off the grass floor. Chad quickly unholstered his Colt and moved Buck in the direction of the riderless horse. He rode to within a few feet of the animal and then dismounted and dropped Buck’s reins to the ground. He stood still and listened. He heard gray jays in the nearby trees and the sound of the slightest breeze high in the needles. The abandoned horse lifted its head and made a soft noise with its lips.

Chad stepped around the dark bay and searched the area carefully. Ten feet away and propped against a large Douglas fir was the body of a man. There was a bloody gash on his forehead, and his eyes were closed. The man was wearing a black, worsted suit and a white shirt. Small specks of blood dotted the shirt. Beside him, upside down on the ground, was a black bowler hat. Chad could see no evidence of a handgun, but an old black powder rifle was slung beside the saddle on the bay horse. 

Chad studied the situation for a minute. Had the man been thrown by his horse, startled by a snake or some other animal? If so, how did he get turned around so that his back was to the tree? He moved closer to the wounded gentleman (at least he was dressed like a gentleman) and felt for a pulse. He found one, and it was much stronger than he expected. He went back to his horse and retrieved his canteen. There was no telling how long the man had been out, but he was sure to be in need of hydration.

With more gentleness than might be expected of a marshal, he began to clean the wounded man’s head. The wound was not deep, caused probably by something blunt rather than sharp. Lance Powell was here, it had to be him, he said to himself. I’m liking him less and less.

The marshal moved in a circle around the stranger and his horse. There was no possibles bag tied to the bay’s saddle. Next to an outcropping of granite was the remains of a small fire. He stooped down and felt the ashes. They were cold, probably left from that morning’s early breakfast. Looking at the grassy area, he did not see any kind of bedding. Lance had obviously arrived after the gentleman had loaded up, so where were the supplies? It was possible that Lance had taken them, but it would definitely slow him down. Chad decided that Lance would have been more interested in cash and food than goods.

With that in mind, he stepped into the edge of the woods and began a search. He moved around a clump of brush and came up short, facing a rather large, dark jenny with a sizable pack on her back. She was grazing on the sparse grass with her lead rope trailing behind her. She was one of the largest female donkeys Chad had ever seen and looked well cared for. He picked up the rope and led her back into the clearing. He tied her to a tree until he could determine what needed to be done.

Chad returned to the older man leaning against the gray trunk. The gentleman’s eyes were open but not focusing too well. Chad smiled and bent down with the canteen and pressed it against the man’s lips, encouraging him to sip. Slowly, the water found its way into the corner of the man’s mouth; his eyes moved. He looked at Chad for several moments before he tried to speak. Chad offered more water and was glad to see it disappear.

“May I have your name, sir?” Chad asked.

“Linwood; Samuel A. Linwood. May I know yours, sir?”

“Chad Pennington, U.S. Marshal for the Territory.”

“Are you after the rascal that hit me on the head?”

“I think I am. Did he take anything?”

“My purse. My life savings. May God have vengeance on my enemies. He will provide, I am sure. He has already provided you, Marshal.”

Chad moved to his horse and brought the dodger out. “Does this look like the man who assaulted you, Mr. Linwood?”

Linwood nodded. “That’s him, all right. I’ll never forget that scar. He’s a mean one, Marshal Pennington.”