Black Hills (9781101559116) (16 page)

She smiled at her husband, and he mouthed the words, “I'm sorry.”

She squeezed his hand again, total absolution in her smile. “But he did get us out of there.”

They would make the best they could of a bad situation and die together holding hands if that was meant to be. Their life had taken a bad turn, but they weren't complaining, they were dealing with the situation as it sat. They were westerners now.

The transition had been made; they were learning and growing. They may have made some bad decisions, but they were good people, strong people. The kind of people America needed to keep up the expansion. They would raise their children—two boys and two girls if they got their wish—their crops and their horses, and they would help raise their grandchildren. They would work hard, and they would face many challenges, but they would face them together, hand in hand, and they would make it. They didn't deserve to get treated the way they had been and have their money taken from them. Maybe after he got them to Pierre, Cormac would have to go see about that.

On the morning of the second day, the snow was a foot deep with a coating of frozen ice covering the top of everything between them and the creek, which was also ice coated along with all of the tree limbs and branches. With the shovel from his pack, crunching through the frozen surface of the snow with every step, Cormac expanded the area of open grass in the trees and broke the ice from the stream enough to get some water for cooking, fill his canteens, and allow the horses to drink.

Cormac hadn't tied the horses, but they weren't going anywhere. He spent a great deal of time petting them and running his hands over their bodies and their long legs, cleaning their hooves, and using a special comb for their manes and tails and a brush for their coats. In warm months he would use a currycomb, but he did not want to thin out their hair, especially during weather as cold as this. He brushed the air two inches in front of their faces repeatedly, “accidentally” brushing their faces from time to time until they moved forward enough to feel the brush. After that, when he again began brushing the air in front of them, they would automatically step forward to meet the brush. They were learning to analyze situations and react accordingly. They were learning to learn.

On day two, the sleet turned again to snow and was now beginning to drift. With a general depth of more than three feet, the drifts were becoming substantial and creeping into their area. Cormac and John Ferguson had to work harder to keep the horses' grass and a trail to the stream open.

By day five, they knew everything about each other that they wanted to share, the food was running low, and Cormac was becoming concerned about his ability to get them out once the storm stopped.
If
the storm stopped. Cormac was remembering being told about the rain having once fallen for forty days and forty nights, but that was highly unlikely so he would just worry about people-sized problems. As his pa had taught him, and as he related to the Fergusons, the first two priorities of survival were shelter and water, in that order. As long as they had those two things, they could live several days without food. He would worry about getting out when the time come.

Professor Ferguson was impressed that Cormac's mother had been giving him schooling and teaching him to scribe. He shared some of his learning about poetry, the arts, and music. A favorite of Mrs. Ferguson's was a little ditty written by a doctor around 1750 titled “Little Bess, the Ballad Singer.” She sang the only verse she knew in her best accented voice:

With nothing to do but talk, they discussed many topics, and Cormac was envious of the vast amount of knowledge they held between them. Knowledge they would pass on to their children and grandchildren as a basis from which to continue their educations.

After learning Cormac had been raised close to the Black Hills yet knew next to nothing about them, Professor Ferguson was expounding upon a subject for which he obviously felt great passion.

“Great poets,” Professor Ferguson was saying while he rearranged the burning logs and added more wood to the fire, “write thousands of words in their lifetimes. They read and study and ponder and experiment with the various meanings and sounds of word combinations, striving to give just the right emphasis and implications that will allow readers of the works to make the desired inferences, and sometimes, just sometimes mind you, everything comes together perfectly, and the result is exquisite perfection.” He paused and repeated himself for emphasis. “I like the sound of those two words.
Exquisite perfection
, only two words, but what magnificent words they are. Two words that can be applied to only a very few things in this world, but for those certain things, they are the only two words that accurately do them justice.

“A French artist named Leonardo di ser Piero Da Vinci painted a great many pictures in his lifetime, but in 1519, after working on it for seven years, he completed a half-length portrait depicting a seated woman with an enigmatic smile that has been called by some the greatest portrait ever painted: a masterpiece. That's what the Black Hills are: one of God's greatest masterpieces, exquisite perfection.”

“God at her very best,” broke in Mrs. Ferguson with a private-joke smile to her husband.

“Yes, yes, dear.” He smiled back, nodding. “I know. I know.”

“I've only seen photographs,” he continued, still looking into Mrs. Ferguson's eyes and returning her smile, “but would dearly love to take Rebecca to see them sometime. The Fort Laramie peace treaty gave the Black Hills to the Sioux Indians forever,” he explained, “on the condition they remain there, and quit scalping white people. The government also promised white people would stay off their land, but an army general named Custer claims to have found gold there, and now more and more people have been breaking the treaty and begging the government to reclaim the land. However, even before that happened, some Indians were coming out of the hills to attack white travelers and settlers and then running back to the hills to escape, so they were themselves breaking the treaty.

“The government has been refusing to give permission to go into the Black Hills or to protect any people that do. On the Indians' side, the war parties are conducted by individuals, and not necessarily condoned by the Indian chiefs. Anytime some young buck with a few loyal followers gets to feeling his oats or wanting to prove something, they go out on their own to do some raiding. Our government can't control all of our citizens, and the Indian government can't control all of theirs. It's a recipe for disaster, that's what it is, and I think it's going to happen. It's just a matter of when.”

That night the storm broke, and they awoke to sunshine-blanketed snowdrifts, where snow backed up as high as their heads against some restraint. Lainey would have loved this view.

“We got our work cut out for us,” he told the Fergusons. “Pushing a trail through that snow is going to be hard work; it'll be too soft to walk on top of without snowshoes. But we got to do it; we're out of food. We can't be any more'n a mile and a half from the river, and once there, according to you, it's probably about thirty miles as the crow flies to Pierre, but following the winding river, who the heck knows.”

After washing down the last few bites of jerky with some coffee Mrs. Ferguson made by re-boiling the grounds she had been wisely saving, and giving the horses the last of the grain, they packed up and headed out. Away from the snowdrifts, the snow depth averaged between three and four feet. With Mrs. Ferguson riding Lop Ear, and Horse carrying the pack, Cormac and John Ferguson, each leading a horse, alternated breaking the way in ten-minute intervals.

They were both strong and John proved to be no slacker and up to the task, as was the sunshine. The day was pleasantly warm and when they weren't leading, the men walked with their coats unbuttoned and held open to allow more ventilation.

Progress was slow but steady, and dinnertime came around to find them nearing the water with their stomachs wishing there was something coming down the chute. A rabbit or other varmint would make a fine lunch, and Cormac unhooked the hammer thong and loosened the gun in his holster in preparation of an animal or bird suddenly flushing from a snowbank or the brush. As a group, they broke though the last of a tightly grown grove of green spruce trees not far from the water.

“Well, well. Look what popped out of the woods. Good to see you folks. I was worried about you.” There were all seven riders with the bluffer, still the apparent leader, sitting comfortably on his horse with a gun in his hand, pointing at John Ferguson, who had promptly thrown his hands into the air. With no more warning than that, the man pulled the trigger, and Professor Ferguson staggered backward and fell unmoving to the ground. Cormac was stunned.

“What was that for?” he asked numbly as Mrs. Ferguson ran to her husband.

“I couldn't have him running around the country with his lies about crooked poker games and such, now could I?” As he was swinging his gun toward Cormac, Cormac palmed his and put two .44 caliber bullets into the middle of the big man's chest. He was slammed backward off his horse with his eyes and mouth open wide in surprise. As shocked as Cormac had been at the senseless killing of Professor Ferguson, so were the big man's friends, and that may have contributed to their next mistake.

Grabbing for their guns, three of them cleared leather before Cormac, shooting quickly but not hastily, placed his bullets exactly where he wanted them, and they joined their friend on the ground in the same condition as he: dead. Being killed quickly was more'n they deserved. Cormac would do it again more slowly if it were possible.

Cormac turned his attention to the last three. Their hands were as high as they could reach. They were suddenly decidedly lacking of enthusiasm in their venture.

“Take it easy, mister, please! Just take it easy! We ain't doin' nothin', really. We didn't even want to come, but it's not healthy to cross Luther. He was mad at the guy for crossin' him and wanted to teach him a lesson, and he had his eye on the woman. But we didn't want any part of it, mister. Honest.”

“Well, let's us consider the situation,” Cormac said seriously. “My friend had his hands up, and your friend shot him anyway while you three sat there and watched. Now you have your hands up, and I have a gun pointed at you. Kinda funny how attitudes can change dependin' on your point of view, ain't it?” Cormac clicked the hammer of his pistol for effect and the men started. He had their undivided attention.

“Mister, wait, please!”

“Oh, shut up! Thank God I'm not cut from the same lowlife crud as you and your friends. I'm not going to shoot you for no reason. Just make sure you don't give me one. Keep your hands right where they are, and you might leave here in one piece.”

Cormac looked at the Fergusons. The whole story was told in a glance. Mrs. Ferguson was holding and rocking her husband, crying uncontrollably. What a waste, Cormac thought. What a damn shame and a waste. A peaceful man, John Ferguson had willingly complied with the implied contract. The man had pointed a gun at him without shooting, indicating that if he didn't resist, he would not be shot. Mr. Ferguson acknowledged acceptance of the agreement by raising his hands in the air away from his gun, and the son of a bitch killed him anyway.

All of the Fergusons' plans for buying another farm, having children and grandchildren to hold and to love and give Christmas and birthday gifts to, grandchildren to whom to pass all of the valuable knowledge they had spent a lifetime acquiring, vaporized in an instant of cruel stupidity.

Returning his attention to the three with their hands up: “You damn well better keep your hands up . . . and get off your horses,” Cormac said nastily, motioning with his pistol and not wasting any foolish words about what would happen to them if they didn't follow directions. They damn well knew. They had the idea, but it was a bluff. Like most people, he carried but five bullets in his six-shot revolver for safety. His gun was now empty, but they didn't know that.

Once they were standing, he had them remove each other's guns and throw them in the snowbank. Casually he picked one of the guns out of the snow and checked the load before holstering his own empty pistol.

“Now take off your coats.”

“Mister, what are you goin' to do to us? It's cold as hell.”

“Just do it, or you'll be in a place considerably warmer than you would like.”

Unhappy about the turn of events, they just did it.