Yankton

Chapter 26

Chapter 26 It Just Keeps Getting Better

Mr. Welsh was true to his word taking us out to breakfast in the morning. I had only managed to get some decent sleep when he came crashing around the freight office, but since there was an early train in from the east. Breakfast was at the hotel where we observed travelers just off the train trying to grab a bite before resuming their journey.

Fred Harvey was still a couple years away from becoming a reality, so here we were chowing down on buffalo steaks and eggs. We told Mr. Welsh about our run-in's with bandits in which he strongly urged us to report it to the sheriff.

Sherriff Walton Wheeler was a dour looking man a little shorter than me, full beard, and rather unkempt looking, certainly not a TV western sheriff, more like the sort of lawman you'd see in one of those "spaghetti" westerns. He listened to our story asking for descriptions of the men. I just wanted to show him the pictures we took with our phone cameras but I didn't think it would be a good idea.

"Sounds to me like you shot up Clayton Jenks and his bunch, can't say they'll be missed, been a burr under my saddle for neigh a spell now." When I told him where the firefight took place, he sighed,

"Fellow by the name of Abner Clark, I'm sure you saw the graves." Mark and I nodded, then Mark said,

"We figured it must have been cholera or dysentery, I kind of straightened them up a little." Wheeler looked at him and grimaced,

"Mighty nice of you," he replied,

"Unfortunately it was worse than that. Abner told me he just come back with a load of rocks and found his wife and daughter murdered, by whom, we never found out, weren't no Indians, they wasn't scalped, and they would have taken the child, probably Mrs. Clark as well. No, it was probably saddle tramps or even "hider's." Anyway it broke Abner's heart, he stopped by, told me what happened, said he buried them under the big tree and was going back to Ohio, said the west weren't for him."

"Do you think someone like this Jenks bunch might have done it?" Asked Mark. The sheriff studied him for a long moment, then shrugged,

"I've often wondered that, but who can really say, Abner said whoever did it took her wedding band, said it had an inscription reading "With true love, Abner 1875," you didn't find no ring on Clayton did you?"

"No sheriff," I replied, "But in our line of work we draw trouble like flies, if I ever come across anyone carrying it I'll let you know." We then explained to the sheriff that we were employed by Michael O'Rourke to guard gold shipments coming out of the Black Hills, and would probably be coming here from time to time.

"Fair enough," he replied, "Mr. O'Rourke must be pretty confident in you men to entrust his shipments to just the two of you."

"Well let's just say that we've got a little "edge," on everyone," I replied, "Unfortunately it tends to take a terrible toll on bad guys." Before we left, the sheriff informed us that Jenks had a small reward out on him. Fifty in gold didn't seem like a whole lot, but it bought us a new wheel for the wagon up at the Clark place, as well as a well-worn harness and canvas cover for the wagon. Before heading back we checked into one of the gun shops as I was always on the look-out for unusual weapons in decent shape.

While we were in the shop, I overheard a man asking how much a Winchester cost, as all he had was a strange looking rifle he called a Terry carbine.

"Fellow traded it to me for fixing his wagon axle," explained the man who introduced himself as Frazier Moss.

"Sir, I am a blacksmith as well as a farmer, coming here from Iowa, had a little bad luck along the way, so's we got a late start. The proprietor here tells me the wife and I would do well to wait out the winter here in town but honestly sir, I've got no more money, the local smith don't need any help, and quite frankly, I don't know what to do."

I suggested we take the conversation over to the hotel where I ended up buying coffee for him and his wife while we talked. They also had a little boy named Travis; I then made him an offer.

"Mr. Moss, if you are interested, you're welcome to come with Mark and me, we're headed back up towards Deadwood way. We've got a little community in the making, Purgatory, but don't let the name throw you, Mark here is a damn good doctor, so you can rest assured you'll never be far from medical help. There's property across from us that would be suitable for farming, but more importantly, we could use a good blacksmith in our little town. I'll even be glad to help you get your forge up and running, we get a lot of people coming through, prospectors and the like."

"Well we was planning on settling 'round these parts, but your offer sounds most interesting." He then talked it over in private with his wife who was not sure she wanted to live near a saloon, but I assured her that there was a spot of land far enough away that they wouldn't be bothered, yet close enough to take advantage of the traffic.

She finally relented, and so the Moss's would be accompanying us back to Purgatory. Thinking Mr. Moss's carbine might be worth something, I traded him for one of the Winchesters as well as a Colt pistol. The thing that intrigued me about the Terry was its bolt action design. I had never heard of any bolt action rifles before the late 1880's and then only in Europe. Moss showed me how it worked; it was a capping breechloader, using a conical bullet wrapped in a paper envelope with an attached felt wad. He showed me how you pulled the bolt back then inserted the cartridge, closed the bolt and capped it.

"Nobody carries ammunition for the derned thing," complained Mr. Moss. He was glad to exchange it for the Winchester unsure as to why I would make such an uneven trade, I assured him.

"Don't worry Mr. Moss, I know what I'm doing, I can't tell you, but I will get my money's worth out of this."

The carbine was in sufficiently good enough shape and rare enough, so that when I eventually sold it at auction, I got around $35.000 dollars for it. One of Moss's problems was that he was carrying everything but the kitchen sink, I told him that we would be picking up an abandoned wagon farther north which was why we were carrying a rear wheel and harness. We strapped the wheel to Moss's wagon and piled the harness on Ruth's pack frame. Jenny Moss was a true woman of pioneering spirit; she never said a whole lot, focusing her attention to her son, and the task at hand, again, just another character trait not seen in the twenty-first century. Young Travis was a blond haired dynamo of energy, he was eight years old, but was nothing like your typical eight year old in 2014. He showed me a knife he had made, I thought it was store bought, but his dad assured me that Travis had fashioned every bit of it, the thing was sharp as hell, Travis was smart as well, his mother oversaw his education, telling me he was versed in Shakespeare, but his favorite author was James Fennimore Cooper.

By the time we had started back it had begun to snow again, so that by the time we arrived back at the Clark place, we had a full blown storm. I've got to say that I've had to do some pretty damn unpleasant jobs in my life, but fixing that wagon in a snowstorm, and securing the horses probably ranks as the worst. We ended up with a "manger" type situation with all of us camping out next to the fireplace, with the animals picketed under the open end of the shack. Mark and I had our Carhartt's both jackets and cover-alls, as well as insulated boots, but given how crappy clothing was back then the Moss's weren't doing so well. We put Travis and Mrs. Moss in our sleeping bags and gave Mr. Moss a buffalo coat I had taken off one of the men from the first batch of bandits we had run into. Hot MRE's and coffee saved the day though, Mark kept checking everyone for hypothermia and frostbite, but we rode the storm out. Our guests kept eying our little propane stove, as well as the "remarkable food," as Mrs. Moss called our MRE's, but said nothing.

At one point, the horses became skittish at some wolves or coyotes prowling around so Mark took out his AR and stood guard. Mr. Moss really gave that rifle the eye, but again said nothing, I noticed his reaction and merely said,

"When you are around us long enough Mr. Moss, the answers will come, but it's just something we can't tell you, you'll have to discover them for yourself." The storm raged for two of the longest days I think I've ever experienced, we had used all the wood from the shack that we had dared for firewood, but the sky dawned clear on the morning of the second day, in fact the sun came out and it actually warmed up into the low 40's. We didn't fool around, but quickly got packed up and on our way. Unbeknownst to the Moss's, Mark took several photos of us "digging" out, as well as our shelter.

Mr. Moss as well as young Travis helped Mark and I as we struggled with the harness, trying to get our horses into it. Someone had told me horses used for riding had a hard time pulling wagons, but Moss said it wasn't so,

"It will take a little time for them to get used to it," he explained, but treat them right, and they will pull for you. With Ruth tied to our wagon and Travis at the reins, we started off.

Since it was open prairie there wasn't a whole lot of places for the snow to pile up, for as much as it snowed, there was only a couple inches on the ground. While Travis drove, Mark and I took turns riding in the back. Mr. And Mrs. Moss followed behind us as we plodded along. The horses didn't want to work together at first, but after several miles, they started to understand what was expected of them. Travis was curious as to why grown men like us didn't know anything about hitching up a team, let alone why we didn't know how to drive one.

"How come you men can't drive a team?" he asked.

"Never had the occasion to learn," I replied. Travis thought that was silly.

"Where we come from, it's not exactly a high-demand skill," I said.

"Not knowing how to drive a team," said Travis, "Where do you come from?"

"Just keep your ears and eyes open son," I replied, "Eventually you'll have the answer to that." This only confused him even more, but he said no more.

Farther on we spotted more buffalo, black against the snow, but they were too far away. Travis continued to talk about his dad, as well as his family. It was all pretty typical, but Mark and I listened for lack of anything better to do. Like so many, the Moss's were lured by the railroad to come west and homestead the land; finally I was getting a little tired of his yammering, so I said.

"How do you feel about it Travis? I know you're just a boy, and have to go where your parents decide to settle, but take a good look around, is this where you want to grow up, nobody around for twenty miles or more. You know that shack we stayed at?" The boy looked at me and nodded.

"Well you didn't see them, but there were two graves under that tree, the Clark family. Mrs. Clark and her daughter were buried there, Mr. Clark came home one day and found them murdered, it was too much for him so he just buried them, and went back to Ohio, the sheriff told us they never did find the killers." Mark then spoke up,

"You know Brian, I've been thinking about that, the sheriff told us Mr. Clark came home and found them murdered, but what if he was the murderer? Kitty was telling Mel and I that it's not uncommon for people to flip out, being miles from anyone else, the incessant wind, the loneliness, it drives people crazy." He had a point, but the mystery would remain unsolved until either the murderer, either Clark or someone else confessed.

We pushed on to a stand of cottonwoods, building a fire, but sleeping in the wagons. We kept to a straight course, north, so we didn't pass near the scene of the first shoot-out. Following the Cheyenne River, we turned west and north towards present day Hot Springs, signs of civilization were now becoming more common. From what I remembered reading, the city of Hot Springs grew up around a sanitarium but that was still several years into the future. Even so, there was a small collection of houses and a couple of shops. The actual springs were marked by the steaming water which reminded me of Yellowstone. Again we found a grove of trees to camp in. While I worked on building a fire, and taking care of the horses, Mark and Mr. Moss rode over to a small general store to buy some supplies, when they returned, Mark pulled me aside, and whispered,

"When we were in that store, Mr. Moss asked the clerk about the weather and any interesting news. The guy told us that the whole area was talking about a group of men found shot to death along Hat creek. The men were all found scalped and mutilated, so there's a big Indian scare on. Funny thing though," he continued, "I asked the guy for details as to the exact location, he told me that from what he was told, it was where the creek turns sharply west, wasn't that where we had the run-in with those guys?"

I thought about it and agreed,

"Remember those Indians we saw in the distance?" Mark nodded,

"What if they came upon those men, scalped them and took whatever we left/"

"Kinda dumb on their part," replied Mark, "Now the army is going to be looking for them thinking they did the original shooting." I shrugged,

"Good for us, bad for them, I guess." I hadn't thought about that incident in awhile, but my first thought went to the picture of the woman still in my pocket. The Moss's wanted to lay over a day so Mrs. Moss could do some laundry, using the hot water from one of the nearby springs. From the looks of things, others used the spring as a natural wash tub as well, there was a crude table and cloths rack nearby she used as well. Mark and I used the opportunity to shoot a good sized mule deer which we slung over Ruth who protested, but didn't give us any trouble. W came a different direction to our camp when Mark pointed to an Indian teepee set up in a grove of cottonwoods. On a whim, we carefully approached the camp, to find an old woman and what was probably her husband, also very elderly looking. As we approached, the old woman screeched and grabbed up a baby and a young girl who had been in the teepee.

Mark and I immediately stopped, and held up our hands. While we sat on our horses, the old couple and girl warily studied us, Mark then nodded towards then and said to me,

"Man those people don't look so good, let's give them half the deer." I didn't argue, just continued to watch the Indians. Mark slowly dismounted, and walked over to Ruth, cutting the straps holding the deer on the pack frame. Dropping it to the snow, he took his knife and proceeded to skin out he deer, cutting the head off, and roughly splitting the carcass in half. The Indians watched in rapt attention now watching both of us. He worked without saying a word, returning our half to the pack frame and tying it back on. Wiping his hands and knife in the snow he stood there and spread his arms. First pointing to the meat and hide then at the now curious Indians he said not a word, just climbing back on his horse.

""Let's go," was all he said. We moved off slowly not turning around. Back at camp, he turned to me and said simply,

"Call it my debt to history."

That evening, we enjoyed roast venison and bread baked in a Dutch oven courtesy of Mrs. Moss. In the morning, I found a beaded pouch just setting on the wagon tongue. The leather and beadwork was incredible, and later when I had it appraised was told that it was worth at least six thousand dollars. Needless to say, it was one item never to go up for auction. We never saw those Indians again, but Mark and I wonder from time to time whatever became of them.