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