Death Rides the Black Hills: A Frontier G-Man Novel Page 3

Whoever, it was back there, was still on his trail. For two days, Jack Clayton had noticed the wisps of dust and slight careful movement on his back trail. Now mid morning of the third day with the growing heat of the sun now rising toward its apex before noon, Clayton had reined his big black stallion, Regret, to a halt, dismounted, and led the steed into the shade of a large tree next to the rippling waters of a shallow stream. Here he let the big horse drink his fill as he dipped his canteen into the cool water a little upstream from where the great horse watered.

  Jack stood, drank a little from the canteen, then squatted back down to refill and replenish what he had just used. Again he stood and attached the canteen to his saddle gear. Then, picking up Regret’s trailing reins, he gently pulled the horse away from the water before he drank too much. Regret nickered his disdain, but followed his master obediently away from the stream, as they retreated into denser shade of the tree.

  Here Jack once again dropped the reins. He then loosened the cinch to his saddle and slid the entire rig off the Black’s gleaming back and let it fall to the ground. Regret shook his magnificent mane and neck, his rippling muscles flexing and relaxing as he shook himself with relief .

  Jack pulled handfuls of grass from the shaded turf and rubbed his compadre down, wiping the sweaty body dry. Regret seemed to relish the pampering.

  By the time, Jack had finished, Regret was starting to feel his usual frisky self Jack re-saddled the horse and led him back to the trail. Here, he removed his black flat crowned hat and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his sweaty forehead, then the inside of his hatband. All the while, he was staring back on the trail from whence he had come. The movement back there appeared and disappeared again. Whoever it was had come closer now. Jack’s brief rest had allowed the trailer to close the gap behind him. He was sure now that he was being followed. If it were merely someone traveling the same direction as he, there would not be need for caution and stealth. Often travelers of the trail sought the company of others as they rode along. This was definitely not the case. Clayton in his work as a government agent had been trailed many times and he knew when there was danger.

  But why would he be followed? No one knew where he was going and why. Except for John Randolph, his boss and director of the Western District Justice Department which housed its secret headquarters just outside of St. Joseph, Missouri under the guise of a gentlemanly owned horse ranch. This time, however, Randolph did not have full knowledge of what Jack’s plans were, for Jack had made it clear that he was acting on his own and was not being sent on a mission by Randolph. The political arena being what it was, it was for Randolph’s own good that he not be aware of Jack’s actions.

  Clayton knew from experience, that nothing ever had to make sense in his line of work and information could be leaked and transmitted in all sorts of devious ways and apparently, someone knew what he was up to. Someone was surely on his trail.

  Jack resolutely replaced his hat on his head, climbed into the saddle, and sent Regret forward, continuing on the trail to the north country. “Let the devil catch up,” Jack thought to himself. “Let’s have it out. The sooner, the better,” he thought grimly and rode on.

  As the day wore on, Jack stopped and rested several times. He took a break for lunch and a couple other breaks during the hot afternoon and eventually stopping late afternoon to make a night camp. He had found a cool shady area near a pool. After he had once again seen to Regret’s needs, Jack undressed, neatly stacked his clothes with the rest of his saddle gear and plunged into the cool water of the pool. He splashed around for awhile making no secret of his presence in the water. Whoever was dogging his trail should now believe that Clayton’s guard was down and now at a considerable disadvantage. If ever opportunity was knocking, Jack had left the door wide open.

  After a few moments of splashing and kicking about, Jack seemed to relaxed and float lazily, enjoying the coolness and watching the late afternoon sun lowering in the west. He waited, listening intently to the birds and the slight wisp of breeze. Regret flung his head high and nickered, as if smelling danger in the air. He stamped restlessly at the grassy bank.

  Then as if on cue, the silence of the day was broken by the steady clip clop of a horse’s hooves and the chink of metal shoes on rock Jack readied himself. Although, he seemed to be floating, he in fact was standing on the bottom of the shallow pool. His knees were flexed leaving his head and shoulders above the water with his arms still submerged.

  The rider came slowly and steadily around a bend in the trail. The rider was a tall thin man, wearing a black hat and black riding duster. The afternoon sun behind him silhouetted him as a dark shadow, hiding his features. The streaming rays of the sun emanated like spires around his form. Jack watched coolly as the man led his dark brown mustang up onto the bank of the pool and drew rein. The rider sat back in his saddle and pushed his hat higher to the back of his head. “How do?” The stranger smiled, his face now revealed. Black curly hair fell across his seamed forehead. Black stubble of beard was almost long enough to blend into his think mustache. Dark piercing eyes glinted with a taunting sneer. “Look’s like you found a way to cool off, friend.”

  “Waters fine,” Jack returned nonchalantly. “There’s enough to go around if you want to join me.”

  The man smiled, saying nothing at first, then, “No, my friend. I think I’ll pass.” He chuckled. “You see friend, being there in the water, without clothes, without guns, puts a man at a very bad disadvantage.” He drew his pistol from the holster at his right side and leveled it across the pommel of his saddle.

  Clayton stiffened, staring at the gaping big black bore of the pistol muzzle. He said nothing, waited. He heard the click of the hammer earing back. The man laughed, “So long, G-Man.” His knuckle whitened as he squeezed the trigger.

  The silence of the afternoon erupted into exploding thunder and flame as the pistol roared. The dark man’s face twisted in surprise and agony as he realized what had happened. His bullet went skyward as he felt the impact of a bullet heavy against his chest, almost toppling him from the saddle. He fought to bring his weapon to bear once again on his target, but his hand was no longer steady, his mount floundering, and through his blurry eyes, he could see Clayton standing out of the water now, a rifle wrapped in his waterproof slicker was in his hands. Steaming smoke protruded from the gaping hole where the bullet had exited. Clayton grimaced, gritted his teeth and fired again. This time the man fell from his saddle to lie sprawled on his back, glassy lifeless eyes staring up at the waning sun, a black purplish hole smoldered between his eyes.

  “Wonder what made him think I was his friend.” Jack mused to himself, wading out of the pool and onto the grassy bank.

  Jack quickly dried off and dressed before examining the body of his assailant. The man carried no identification on him as Jack would have expected from a professional assassin. He did have a hundred dollars in his pocket and another five hundred in crisp one hundred dollar bills in an envelope in his saddle bags. A handwritten note accompanied the money. It read simply:

  Clayton First!

  L.

  Jack nodded acknowledgement of its grim meaning.

  Also in the envelope was a steamship ticket for boarding the Union Belle on the Missouri, leaving Marysville for Bismarck, North Dakota at 7:00 P.M. June 7.

  Jack turned the ticket over. Written in the same handwriting:

  Lower deck C12.

  After giving the situation some thought, Jack made his decision. He was going to Fort Lincoln, outside of Bismarck, North Dakota anyways. He would be in Marysville tomorrow about this time and tomorrow was June 7, so why not use this ticket, take the steamship, and see what happens. “How about it, old hoss,” Jack said patting Regret’s gleaming black neck. “How about a vacation from the trail. You get to ride for a change. I’ll bet you get lot’s of hay and grain on one of those ships.” Regret shook his mane and whinnied as if he understood.

  “Well, I’d bet
ter clean up around here. It’s best we find another camp for tonight. Wouldn’t want to get caught around here with a dead man. It might cause us a problem. Besides we still have daylight. It’s still way too early to quit for today anyways.” Regret snorted and shook his head as if in protest.

  Jack turned his attention to the dead man’s horse. He stripped the saddle gear off and then rubbed the horse down with tufts of grass. He then led the horse to water and let him drink his fill. Then he led him up onto the bank and removed his bridle. With a slap on the rump he sent the horse off to run free.

  Now to get rid of the body. Jack piled the saddle gear, except for the man’s rain slicker, which Jack could now use after having a blown a hole in his own, onto the man’s body and lashed it to him with his lariat. He then dragged the body and equipment to the pool and dumped them in. The weight was enough to sink them below the surface of the pool, leaving no trace that a body was hidden there.

  Jack climbed into his saddle, spoke quietly to Regret and urged him forward into a trot as they rode off into the setting sun.

  ****

  Chapter Three

  Riverboat Danger