J.B. Hogan—The Last Rider, Part V: "Black Hills Gold"

MOSE WAS IN A back pen culling cattle when he first heard some kind of ruckus over by the main corral. The constant blaring of the cows made it hard to pick up regular noise, but he thought he heard someone calling his name. Across the pens, he saw Neal, the drummer, up on one of the fences waving. He waved back, thinking Neal was just being his usual friendly self, but the drummer’s insistent swinging of his arms indicated there was something else afoot.

He guided the little paint he was riding, one of Phelps’ prize cattle yard possessions, through the gate of the pen and then through the maze of other pens and lanes until he reached the main corral. Neal was still waving and yelling at him, and he began to make out what the man was saying.“

Come quick, he shot him. Come quick.”

“What?” He brought the little paint alongside the fence on which Neal continued his wild gyrations.

“He killed him, shot him dead. He killed him.”

“Easy, Neal, speak slower. What happened?”“

Ab.” Neal almost broke down. “He’s dead. The Pinkerton killed him.”

“Ab’s dead? What are you saying? The Pinkerton?”

“He came for Ab in the saloon and Ab cursed him, called him terrible things. The Pinkerton shot him. Shot him dead.”

“Who’s looking out for Ab?”

“He’s dead. They left him lying on the saloon floor. I took him over to the doctor’s house, but it was too late. Too late. He didn’t weigh nothing. He was just skin and bones.”

“All right. I’ll see to it. I’ll take care of it.”

“What are you gonna do? You going after the Pinkerton? You gonna....”

Without another word, Mose guided the horse out of the main corral and into the street.

“Where you going?” Neal called after him. “What are you going to do?”

Grimly silent, Mose raced the little paint into town to the stable where he boarded Buster. For the job that had to be done, only his own trustworthy horse would do. Letting the paint wander free in the stable, he saddled Buster and rode him back to the Stockman’s Hotel. Up in his room, he loaded both his pistols, strapping the Colt into the holster on his gun belt and stuffing the Griswold behind the belt.

Out in the hallway, he paused for a moment in front of Ab’s room—listening. For what? There was no sound. He opened the old man’s door and looked inside. Everything was the same, except there was no Ab. He knew he was gone, but he had to check one more time.

Downstairs, people were beginning to gather. Several were out in the street by Buster. He walked past all of them without speaking and swung up into the saddle. The drummer, Neal, rushed to his side.

“They say he rode out to the west, on the Warrensburg road.”

Mose dug his heels into Buster’s flanks and with a slight wave of his right hand rode hard out of town.

—

RUCKER, THE PINKERTON, WAS easy to follow. Maybe even wanted to be. At a way station on the edge of town, where the road south to Springfield converged with the western one leading to Warrensburg and the area south of Kansas City beyond, a stable hand told Mose that a fellow fitting Rucker’s description had just ridden out, to the west. Couldn’t be more than a couple of miles ahead, wasn’t in any kind of hurry it didn’t seem. He thanked the man and hurried Buster along.

Not twenty minutes later, at a small creek crossing on the Warrensburg Road, he found his quarry. Rucker was casually letting his horse drink from the stream and showed neither surprise nor concern at his arrival.

“Come looking for yours, cowboy?” The Pinkerton turned in the saddle.

“I reckon you can get down off that horse.”

“I knew you’d be coming.”

“You killed an old man what never done nothing, you had no right.”

“The old bastard cursed at me like I was a scalp-selling Indian. He was a foul-mouthed, rotten old man.”

“That old man was a better man than you could or ever will be, even if he was the devil himself.”

“And now you plan to avenge him, is that it? There’s lots more Pinkerton men where I come from. Even if you was to shoot me down, they’ll come for you. You’ll never get away with it. Best you just turn tail and head on back to your cow punching and leave the lawman work to me.”

“No lawman would’ve murdered a helpless old man like that. No real man would have neither.”

“You’re set then to finish this here and now?”

“I sure am.” He moved his right hand toward the Navy Colt.

With a fast swivel in the saddle, Rucker drew his pistol and fired a wild shot. In a heartbeat, Mose pulled his .36 and leveled two fast, accurate rounds in return. Both shots hit the target. Wounded in the left leg and left arm, Rucker half-slid, half-fell from the saddle and landed with a pained cry on the ground beside the creek. Mose dismounted and walked over to him. He kicked Rucker’s .44 into the water.

“You can’t murder me.” Rucker moaned. “Not in cold blood.”

“You killed Ab in cold blood.”

He raised the .36 and fired once more.

“We’re even now, Pinkerton. Lord have mercy on your soul—and mine.”

—

AFTER SHOOTING DOWN RUCKER, Mose knew he had no future in Sedalia, or anywhere in Missouri for that matter. His life wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel once word got back to the Pinkertons about the death of their man. His only chance was to get out of town and to get out of there fast. Leaving Rucker beside the stream where he had died, he climbed into the saddle and rode Buster hard back to Sedalia.

Without looking at anyone or speaking to a soul, he hurried over to the Stockman’s to get his gear and money. Although it went against his grain, he went into Ab’s room and took the old man’s money from its hiding place under a board next to a bureau by the back wall.

He was surprised to find the old man had managed to hoard over seventy dollars. With his own money and Ab’s, he had more than one hundred dollars in paper and coins. Enough to finance the gold-hunting expedition Ab had hoped that they would do together one day soon. Even though it was getting late in the day, he knew he had to leave quick, so he headed straight over to the Phelps’ cattle yard to settle up with his old boss.“

What happened?” Phelps asked when Mose told him of his plans. “What did you do? Why do you have to leave right now?”

“That’ll all be clear enough soon. I only stopped by to thank you and to ask you a favor.”

“What is that?”

“Will you make sure for me that old Ab gets a decent burial. A proper grave with a stone for it?”

“Of course, I will.”

“Here’s some money to take care of that.” He handed two ten-dollar bills to Phelps. “Reckon that’s enough?”

“We’ll make it do.”

“If it’s short, use whatever pay I have coming to fill it out.”

“If there’s anything left over that?”

“Do with it what you will.”

“Best of luck to you.”

“Best to you, sir.” He turned Buster away from the corrals and toward the road.

With a wave of his right arm as he rode away, he trotted the horse through town, out and away, beyond Sedalia, heading toward the north and west. He never looked back. There was no reason to. There was nothing left for him there now.

—

AFTER THE SHOOTOUT WITH the Pinkerton man, Mose knew he had to get out of the area quick. Keeping Buster at a steady pace, he headed northwesterly in the general direction of Kansas City. Camping nights beside clear water creeks and surviving on trail jerky, he neared the city on the third afternoon after leaving Sedalia.

Kansas City. A turning point in his life and in the fortunes of the Confederacy for whom he had fought. At the beginning of Stirling Price’s 1864 campaign to retake Missouri, he had been conscripted out of his bushwhacker gang into Jo Shelby’s Missouri 1st Cavalry along with the James and Younger Brothers. The unit saw action in Sedalia, Boonville and Lexington, among other places, but the Federals drove them to the west and a final confrontation at Westport on the outskirts of Kansas City proper.

After some initial gains, Westport became a Southern debacle and his outfit, under Shelby’s leadership, had rallied to save Price from complete disaster. With the Westport defeat, Confederate hopes of regaining Missouri were dashed. In the aftermath of the defeat, the remains of the army drifted south, losing men in droves as they deserted to homes and families long neglected during the bloody conflict between the states.

He stayed with Shelby and Price even when the war ended the following spring and he had crossed into Mexico with them and several hundred of their remaining men. The generals offered their fealty to the emperor Maximilian, but Mose and the other ex-rebel soldiers were just hoping to survive and avoid possible prosecution by overzealous, victorious Federals back home.

His main recollection of the time south of the border, working on the great hacienda named for the Mexican empress Carlota, was the recurring image of the lovely young daughter of one of the Mexican patrón’s appointed to help the Americans learn to ranch and farm for themselves.

The girl’s name was María Consuela, and she had the darkest, shiniest hair and the deepest brown eyes he had ever seen. Her comings and goings always drew the attention of the young men, especially if they happened to be working anywhere near the ranch’s big house where the girl’s family lived.

Invariably dressed in some fine, white dress, María Consuela’s seventeen year-old figure was impossible to hide even beneath rich, modest garments. All the rebels were impressed by the girl’s beauty but none more so than Mose. Not much older than the girl, he was unable to hide his admiration for her beauty and grace. On more than one occasion, she seemed to reciprocate the interest by giving him a brief, heart-stopping smile.

“Oh, boy.” Charlie Jay, one of his young rebel friends teased him. “You gonna marry the jéfe’s daughter, be the patrón of the ranch.”

He ignored his friend’s joking, and the laughter of the other boys, to stare after the girl, imagining a life with someone as beautiful as she. One day while he was working near the ranch house hoping for a glimpse of her, she suddenly appeared on the front porch.

“Buenas tardes, señorita.” He bowed slightly as he tried out some of the Spanish he’d learned in Mexico.

The girl gave him one of her dazzling smiles just as her father and an older brother came through the front door onto the porch. The men did not have dazzling smiles for the young gringo. With a respectful nod to them, he went back to tending his own business but not before giving the girl a surreptitious, admiring look.

A few days later, he managed to find an excuse to work inside the big ranch house. His friend Charlie Jay helped him concoct a story about having to fix a window sill in the kitchen. And sure enough, while he was working, the girl came in. They spoke to each other in halting English and Spanish, one for the other, and managed to express a mutual interest. The meeting was going so well, he began to entertain the notion of giving the girl a kiss on the cheek when her father interrupted once again.

“Afuera.” The older man ordered. “Get out of my house now.”

“But, señor….”

“Afuera and stay away from my daughter. She is not for the likes of you.”

He left, but he wasn’t happy about it. He didn’t cotton to anybody, Mexican dueño or not, telling him who he could or could not see. The next day he finagled his way to see María Consuela again, but this time, the older brother joined the father in cutting off his attempts to speak to the girl.

He tried again with the same results on the third day, and that evening he received unwelcome visitors at the bunkhouse where he and several of the enlisted men turned cowboys lived. The girl’s father and the older brother were there, as well as two trail-weath-ered vaqueros.

He was warned a final time to stay away from María Consuela.

“I won’t do it.” He squared up as if to fight with his fists.

“Better back off of this one.” Charlie Jay advised.

“Listen to your friend.” The older brother advised.

“All of you can go to hell.”

“We will see you there.”

“Any time you please.”

“Any time, gringo.”

“You call it, boy.”

“Easy fellas.” Charlie Jay stepped between them. The father also helped break up the confrontation, leading his cursing son away from the gringo interloper.

“Bastards.” Mose called after them.

“You best let this one go.” Charlie Jay advised. “They got different customs down here. I reckon it don’t go well with them, us messing with their women.”

“Nobody’s messing with nobody.”

“I’m just saying.”

The following day, despite all the advice and all that had happened, he managed to see the girl again. This time it got ugly.

The brother was ready and came running at him. They locked up fast and hard, fighting for ten minutes solid in front of the big ranch house. First, he would knock the brother down and then the brother would knock him down. A large crowd, including the girl, gathered round to watch the combatants.

Finally, scraped, dirty, bruised, skinned, and bleeding from several minor cuts and abrasions, the exhausted fighters fell back on their last resort. They drew on each other. The brother fired his pistol, but the shot was off mark. Mose took careful aim with his Navy .36 and was set to fire when no less a personage than General Jo Shelby intervened.

“Whoa, there, soldier.” The general guided the .36 toward the empty sky. “That’s enough of that. We can’t have this kind of thing going on here. These people are our hosts. We’re guests in their country. We have to act according to local custom, respect what’s theirs, what belongs to them.”

“I ain’t done nothing wrong.” Mose holstered the .36. “I was just wanting to....”

“Yes, yes.” Shelby cut him off. “I know. You’re a young man and I understand that, but this is not acceptable. I think you best be moving on, son. It appears you’ve worn out your welcome, and this kind of problem won’t help the rest of us, either.”

Shelby motioned for Charlie Jay, who was standing nearby, to take Mose to the bunkhouse. The girl’s family led her back toward the big house. He and the girl managed a quick exchange of looks, but it would be their last.

The next morning, per Shelby’s instructions, Charlie Jay accompanied Mose away from the Carlota. The general made sure he had a good bedroll for the trip, food for a week’s ride, and a twenty-dollar gold piece for living money. Charlie Jay stayed with him until they crossed the border back into the United States and then gave him directions to San Antonio.

“You go on to San Antone now. Follow this old cattle trail and you can’t go wrong. Up there you can most likely catch on with a drive heading north. You’ll be fine.”

“All right, Charlie. I appreciate what you done, and the general.”

“You take care of this here horse I cut out for you, now. I picked him special. Goes by the name of Buster.”

“He’s a fine lookin’ buckskin.”

“Solid animal, one you can depend on.”

“So long.” He lightly spurred the new horse on.

With a short wave of his right hand, he headed off into the distance, toward San Antonio and who knew what. Waking from the bittersweet recollection of his time on the Hacienda Carlota, he walked down to a small creek near where he had camped to get a drink of cool water and to wash away the cobwebs of sleep and dream-memory. Yet all through breakfast he thought of the lovely María Consuela and how different his life might have been had he been able to stay with her.

It wasn’t until after he had saddled Buster and they were well on their way toward Omaha that the old recollections finally faded from his consciousness and he was able to concentrate again on the task at hand —getting himself to the Dakota Badlands, and finding the yellow gold.

—

HE FIGURED IT WAS late April, first of May before he reached the Badlands. It had been a bit rainy much of the latter part of the trip but was starting to warm up some, yet evenings could still get cold sleeping in a bedroll out in the open air.

More and more people had been popping up on the trails as he neared the Dakotas, almost all of them gold hunters. They talked of nothing else. Were consumed with stories about it. Didn’t seem to care that the Indians were less than happy with this latest invasion of white men on their land.

One day, he finally came upon what passed for a town. It was just a bunch of wood buildings hurriedly thrown up to cater to the gold rush men. It didn’t even have a name yet he learned from a tall, scrawny man lounging beside a small mercantile at the southern edge of the boom town.

“Somebody suggested the name Deadwood.” The thin fellow told him. “But it ain’t been decided yet, as far as anybody knows for sure.”

“Where would a fellow go to get started hunting for the gold?”

“You’re a Johnny-Come-Lately for that.”

“How’s that?”

“Most of the rich strikes done been hit, mister. You’ll have to do some working to find anything worthwhile left.”“

I reckon I ain’t afraid of trying to find it, nor of working for it, either.”

“Well, then, if you’re bound to do it, check up the road there at Dakins. They carry everything a body would need, I reckon.”

“Much obliged.”

“Your funeral.”

He gave the man a peculiar look but guided Buster up the street to a series of connected buildings with the name Dakins printed on one of them. It turned out that this Dakins place was not just a mercantile, with miner supplies and such, but the connected buildings were a restaurant and a saloon, also owned by the same man. In the mercantile, he inquired about supplies and if there might be maps to the gold country.

“Shovels, pans, bags, supplies.” The man behind the counter rattled away. “Bacon, beans, flour, matches, whatever you need, we got.”

“Sounds like it. You got maps?”

“No maps. Find your own way.”

“Everthing in the world for finding gold except how to get there.” He nodded to an old prospector who was checking over the store’s supply of sifting pans.

“No maps.” The counterman reiterated. “Follow the crowd. Can’t miss.”

“I generally try to avoid the crowd.”

“A solid approach son.” The old prospector interjected. “Wise philosophy.”

“If I was wise, I probably wouldn’t be here now.”

“Well said.” The old prospector chuckled.

“I’m Mose Traven. Late of the Indian Territory, Arkansas, and other such places.”

“Will Davenport, late of the gold fields.”

“That’s right, young fellow.” The counterman said. “Will here is one of the best in these parts. He can steer you straight.”

“I could use some fair advice.”

“Let’s go over to the restaurant.” Will suggested. “I’m always ready for another panning trip. It ain’t all been taken outta here, yet.”

“I’d be obliged to you, sir.”

“Think nothing of it, son, nothing of it at all.”

—

AFTER EATING A FILLING, but expensive, meal at the Dakins restaurant, they found a back table in the Dakins saloon to have a whiskey or two and discuss gold mining.

“Whatever caused you to get the notion of gold hunting?” Will tossed down a shot.

“An old fella I knew back in Missouri name of Abner Barnett.”

“He not up to coming?”

“He died.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

“He was a decent man.”

“Well, the rest of us have to push on in life.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I tell you, son.” Will paused until the barkeep had left a small bottle of whiskey at their table. “I could use some help these days. I keep my mining simple, but there’s still plenty of hard work to do. Cutting trees, digging dirt and such. I’m getting a bit old to do it all by myself anymore.”

“I can do them things. I ain’t afraid of work.”

“You don’t look like you would be. Do you have much for a grubstake?”

“You mean for supplies and equipment and such?”

“Yep.”

“I got some money. How much would I need?”

“We can outfit ourselves for a hundred and a half. I already got a pack mule.”

“Seventy-five apiece?” Mose did the math.

“About, if we go fifty-fifty.”

“I’d be hard pressed to do that much.”

“What could you do?”

“Maybe fifty.”

“I’d have to go two-thirds to one-third on that.”

“Would it pay?”

“I know some places ain’t been tampered with much yet. Rich ground. One fair run and you could buy into the fifty-fifty. If we get lucky, we could make in a few weeks or a couple of months enough to last a fellow a full year at regular prices back in Missouri or Arkansas. Would that be all right with you?”

“It would. It definitely would.”

“Well, let’s have another drink, then head back to the mercantile to get ourselves set up. We can leave in the morning as far as I’m concerned.”

“Sounds fine to me. I got nowhere particular to be.”

—

BEFORE LEAVING TOWN THE next morning, they delayed their adventure to have one more meal at the Dakins restaurant. The prospect of a couple of months of hard tack, salt bacon and hard beans was enough to convince them that overpriced, overcooked eggs and steak was a last civilized pleasure they didn’t want to forego. While they were eating, a young Army officer dressed in a fine cavalryman’s uniform came in and sat down several tables away.

“Recognize that fellow over there?” Will asked.

“Should I? Looks like any other Bluebelly to me.”

That’s Miles Keogh, one of George Custer’s boys. Must be traveling somewhere.”

“I remember hearing about Custer.”

“He led an expedition out here last year. Hundreds of wagons. It was really something. You know, they say that Custer is rash and unpredictable, but gallant and brave without peer.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Mose concentrated on finishing his meal.

“This Keogh is gallant and brave, too, it’s said, without being rash or unpredictable. What you need to be an Indian fighter.”

“Has there been Indian trouble up here?”

“Not if you stay clear of them.”

“Yeah, well, that’ld be the trick now, wouldn’t it?”

“Certainly would, certainly would.”

On their way out of the restaurant, they passed by Captain Keogh at his table. He looked up at them as they went by.

“Good day to you, sir.” Will saluted the officer.

“And you, sir.” The handsome young cavalryman responded politely, formally. Mose simply nodded.

“Seems like a nice enough young feller.” Will noted, as they checked their animals and gear outside.

“He did speak to us. At least he did that.”

—

THEY TRAVELED FOUR DAYS into the Black Hills before reaching a little stream forking off the Belle Fourche River that Will believed had not been mined out.

"This is it?” Mose wondered. “This little creek?”

“Flat Creek, it’s called. There ain’t been nary a soul up this way yet or they didn’t know what they was looking for.”

“Is there gold?”

“Looks like mighty good soil to me. See how the creek runs shallow and quick and there’s quite a bit of thick, soft dirt by the banks and at the turns. We’ll find out soon enough if it has any.”

“You can spot it that easy?”

“Not spot it, dig it, pan it. We’ll be finding flakes here not nuggets, not some of that silly stuff you probably heard about just picking up chunks of gold on the ground. We’ll have to work for this, but if I’m right it’ll pay well for the labor of it.”

“When do we get started?”

“As soon as we set up camp. Let’s put our stuff just behind the brush and tree line there on the west side of the creek. Keep our gear and things out of sight while we work. Good wind break, too.”

“Let’s get to it, then. I’m ready for finding me some gold.”

“I see that you are. But take it easy. We won’t get rich overnight. Could take us months up here to find a fair amount. You’ll need to be patient.”

“I can do that. I can be patient.”

—

THE BROWN SOIL OF Flat Creek did in fact contain gold. After a few days of panning, they built a small sluice to speed up the process of collecting it. Within a couple of weeks Will measured out enough of Mose’s take to make them fifty-fifty partners and not much more than a month of steady working had brought them a fair-sized amount of the precious mineral.

“How are we doing, Will?” Mose asked one evening after they had finished their day’s work. “Are we getting a good stash?”

“We are, son. It might even be time to go back to town and get it assayed. Get some money for what we’ve got so far.”

“How much you think we’ve made?” Will held up two heavy cloth bags he’d been storing the gold flakes in. One was nearly full, the other better than half so.

“I gotta think we easy got five hundred.”

“Dollars?”

“Oh, sure, gold is going for twenty dollars an ounce these days.”

“Boy, half of that would get me a way down the road.”

“Maybe get you started with a small cattle ranch? Settle down. Find you a gal. That kind of thing?”

“Never thought of it before. Never thought that far ahead.”

“Well, you can probably start now if you wanted. Everybody has to have a dream of some kind.”

“I reckon. Never put much stock in dreaming before.”

"This is your chance. You want to go in tomorrow and get it assayed or let me?”

“You do that. I don’t know nothing about it.”

“You trust me with the gold and money and to come back?”

“I do and you’d come back because this ground ain’t played out yet. We can surely double what we done so far, can’t we?”

“I believe we can. It’s good soil.”

“Then I believe you will be back.”

“I will, son. You can count on it.”

“I know I can. I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll get us more supplies, too. Maybe bring back a home-made pie or something to celebrate.”

“Sounds mighty fine to me. Mighty fine indeed.”

—

ON THE THIRD DAY after Will left to get more supplies and to have their gold assayed and turned into spending money, Mose decided to reconnoiter the area a bit to see if there might be gold in any other nearby streams.

Leaving Buster to fend for himself in the rich grasses near Flat Creek, he took off walking in a northeasterly direction. Working along the banks of the stream, he went nice and slow. There was no sense of hurry or urgency. About fifty yards out from camp the terrain got rocky and the shrubs and small trees denser. He strayed a little further to the west for better footing.P

aying more attention to where he stepped than where he was going, he didn’t notice a small stand of trees just above him that were sporadically littered with feathers and strings of beads and bones. Not until he turned back down toward the creek, thinking he saw golden flashes in the muddy soil beside the water, did he notice the things hanging in the trees—and then only because he ran head on into one of the bone strings.

“What the …?” He untangled the string from his hair.

When he pushed it away, he noticed the other strands and feathers spread throughout the nearby trees.

“Uh-oh.”

He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up —more intensely than he’d ever felt it during his Missouri raider days. He reached down quickly, felt for the Navy .36 at his hip. It was then the first arrow struck him. Hit him in the back of his right thigh, high up, causing him to fall face forward into the woods.

He came up scrambling, limping toward the creek with the .36 in hand, when the second arrow pierced his side. He felt the projectile penetrate his body and wedge between his ribs, the sharp metal tip breaching a lung. The pierced lung collapsed but he managed to choke out a painful breath.

He tried to stand and face his attackers but as he did a third arrow struck him between the shoulders, going deep enough to find his heart. As he fell to the ground, he saw with his fading eyesight four Indians on horseback watching him from directly across the creek.

He lay face first near the gravelly shore of the creek, the life blood draining from his body. He could feel his strength fading, the ebbing of spirit and soul. His eyes grew dim and the world closed around him. He could hear as if far away the cheers and chatter of the Indian raiding party celebrating their victory. Briefly, he imagined he saw his mother and father on the family farm back in Carthage. Back before they had been split up, back before the war.

The sound of nearby steps softly moving through the woods roused him from his dying reverie. He felt for the .36. It was in his hand under his body. He lay still, hoping to save what strength was left. Suddenly, a hand grasped him violently by the hair and pulled him over. He was face to face with the Indian sent to scalp him.

The Indian grimaced, growled, and reached forward with a huge hunting knife to complete his bloody task. He did not see Mose lift the .36 until it was right between his eyes.

“Uh.” He grunted, trying to pull back.

It was too late.

Mose fired the .36 at point blank range, blowing a chunk from the top of the Indian’s head completely off. The dead warrior fell backward, his lifeless body thudding in the underbrush. The last sound Mose heard was the crying of the rest of the war party as they watched the man they believed dead shoot and kill their leader. Terrified by such powerful medicine, they rode away wildly, leaving their dead compatriot beside the dead man.

—

RETURNING FROM THE SUPPLY trip several days later with a pile of folding money in his bags, Will didn’t sense trouble until he found the original panning site empty. He immediately rode on in search of his young partner. Climbing over a small incline along the creek, he brought his horse up short. There were Indian signs in the trees.

“Oh, my, burial land.”

Spurring his horse, while making sure they stayed clear of the feathers and bead and bone strings dangling from the trees, he soon located Mose. Buster stood near the body, grazing on the short sweet grass just above the creek. “Lord a mighty.” Will let go of his pack mule and dropped from his horse. Looking around and listening for sounds of the war party that had done this killing, he slowly knelt beside his partner. The dead man’s vacant eyes were open, and he still held the Navy .36 in his hand, now almost locked with the onset of rigor mortis.

“I think I see why they didn’t scalp you.” Will pried the pistol away.

He collected all Mose’s things and put the personal items, pistols and such, in the saddle bags on Buster. What money and supplies he found, he simply added to his own larder. It was the way things were done.

After pulling the arrows out of the body, Will dug a shallow grave and laid Mose in it. He threw dirt and mud on top to cover the body and then stacked rocks all over the grave to keep the animals from an easy, pilfered meal. When he was done, he stood over the grave to say a few final words.

“Well, son, you’re free of this world now. Your race is run. God rest your soul.”

He moved on then. Death was always bad luck to a miner, and he wanted nothing more to do with it. There still might be some gold left in the creek there, but he wasn’t about to jinx himself. Hard work was how you beat bad luck. Leastways as long as you were able to do it. With a final salute for Mose, Will headed out for a safer, better mining area. There was nothing else to be done.

J.B. HOGAN is an award-winning author, poet, and local historian. A veteran of the U. S. Air Force Security Service and Tactical Air Command, he holds a Ph.D. in English Literature from Arizona State University (1979). For many years he worked as a technical writer in Arizona and Colorado. To date, he has published over 270 stories and poems, as well as ten books—Angels in the Ozarks, Bar Harbor, Time and Time Again, Mexican Skies, Tin Hollow, Fallen, The Rubicon, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, and Fallen. J. B. has served as chair and a member of the Fayetteville (AR) Historic District Commission. He also has served as president and board member of the Washington County (AR) Historical Society, which in October 2019 honored him with its Distinguished Citizen Award. He spends much of his time researching, writing, and giving tours and lecturing. He also plays upright bass in the family band East of Zion, who play an eclectic mix of bluegrass-tinged Americana music.