The black hills, p.1
The Black Hills, page 1
Contents
Cover
A selection of recent titles by M.J. Trow
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
A selection of recent titles by M.J. Trow
The Kit Marlowe series
DARK ENTRY *
SILENT COURT *
WITCH HAMMER *
SCORPIONS’ NEST *
CRIMSON ROSE *
TRAITOR’S STORM *
SECRET WORLD *
ELEVENTH HOUR *
QUEEN’S PROGRESS *
BLACK DEATH *
The Grand & Batchelor series
THE BLUE AND THE GREY *
THE CIRCLE *
THE ANGEL *
THE ISLAND *
THE RING *
THE BLACK HILLS *
The Peter Maxwell series
MAXWELL’S ISLAND
MAXWELL’S CROSSING
MAXWELL’S RETURN
MAXWELL’S ACADEMY
* available from Severn House
THE BLACK HILLS
M.J. Trow
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2019 by
Crème de la Crime an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
First published in the USA 2020 by
Crème de la Crime an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by M.J. Trow and Maryanne Coleman.
The right of M.J. Trow to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-121-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-651-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0350-2 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
This book is dedicated to F Troop, for the laughter and Companies C, L, I, F and E of the Seventh Cavalry, for the tears.
And also to Doris Day, late and lamented; the best Calamity Jane there ever was!
ONE
George Armstrong Custer looked at himself in the mirror. He turned his head to the right, then to the left. Not bad. Not bad. Prince of the Plains, certainly. Major General already. Congressman? The White House? Why not? Why ever not?
John Burkman was fussing around him with razor and scissors, snipping here, trimming there. There had been a time when Libbie had demanded all those golden curls, to be worn in a topknot wig for gala balls. But the wig had gone up in smoke a year ago, along with half of Officers’ Row – one of the perils of frontier life – and no one spoke of the glittering hairpiece again. Burkman stepped back, admiring his handiwork, angling the hand-mirror for Custer’s approval. The General nodded but held up his hand as the orderly reached for a bottle. ‘Easy on the pomade, John,’ he smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to upset Captain Keogh’s chances with the ladies.’
Both men laughed, but the hilarity was brief. There was a knock on the barber shop door and Isaac Dobbs, bugler of Keogh’s I Company stood there, back ramrod straight, arm at the salute.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, General,’ he said. ‘Lieutenant Cooke’s compliments and would you join him on the southwest ramparts, sir. There’s something you should see.’
Custer whipped the cloth from his shoulders and retied the red scarf around his neck. He held out his arms and Burkman slipped on the buckskin jacket, the one with the fringes and the porcupine quill beadwork. Dobbs stepped aside, straightening his braces in the hope that the General hadn’t seen the slip, and he followed the man across the parade ground. Briefly, Custer stopped to watch D Troop going through its paces. Foot sabre drill. The General shook his head. In all his time in command of the Wolverines, all his time in the Wilderness, all his time chasing Black Kettle along the Washita, he had never been called upon to order his men to fight on foot with their swords. But it was in the Drill Manual, so foot sabre drill it had to be.
A knot of brawny sergeants were barking themselves hoarse, screaming at their men to tighten their line, swing harder. When they saw the General, they carried on shouting, but it was noticeable that all profanity had stopped.
At the foot of the stairway, two staghounds loped over to Custer, licking his hands and wagging their tails. ‘Come on, Bleuch,’ he shook the ears of one. ‘Here, Tuck,’ and he bent briefly to kiss the other on the forehead. Two officers stood on the ramparts, one resting his elbow on the timbers of the parapet steadying a telescope, the other peering into the mist. It was still early morning – the General had heard Reveille while Burkman was shaving him and cutting his hair – and the hollows outside Fort Abraham Lincoln were wreathed in grey. It would be an hour or so before the sun climbed over the Black Hills and burned the final wisps away in a wave of gold – it would be a perfect day for Libbie’s picnic on the plains.
Both men straightened at Custer’s arrival.
‘Dubbya Dubbya,’ the General returned the salute. ‘What have we got?’
W.W. Cooke was Custer’s adjutant, a lean Canadian with the longest flowing dundrearies west of the Missouri. He passed his telescope to the General.
‘What am I looking at?’ Custer had to adjust the barrel. He was the best shot in the Seventh but the thick glass of government-regulation telescopes combined with the haze over the plains could confuse the sharpest of sharpshooters.
‘The bluffs above the hog ranches,’ Cooke explained.
Custer swivelled the telescope. He took in the scrawny dogs, the squaws sitting cross-legged and blanketed in the hollows. He saw Murphy’s Emporium and the bat-wing doors of the Dew Drop Inn. He noted, as his wife and her ladies did most days with tuts of disgust, the harlots already lounging outside the shanty that was My Lady’s Bower. He let the lens trail to the west, to the point where the ground rose up and levelled, topped by a knot of pines. A lone Indian sat his pony there, staring back at Custer as though he was toe to toe with him. He and his mount were so still they could have been carved from one of the trees behind him. He was a big man with a powerful chest and arms, his dark shirt studded with stars and fringed with horsehair. One lock of his black hair was heavily braided, hung with wolf fur and cascading over his left shoulder. A solitary eagle feather stood behind his head, piercing the sky above the pines. The pony was a pinto, descended from the breed the conquistadors had brought from Spain long before the Custer family had left Germany or England – the general told it a different way every time.
‘I wouldn’t bother you with this, General,’ Cooke said, ‘but he’s been there for the past three mornings now, just looking.’
‘He’s counting heads.’ There was another voice at Custer’s shoulder, a soft voice, gentle and knowing. It was Lonesome Charley Reynolds with his restless grey eyes and the shy sobriety of a gentleman.
‘Miniconjou.’ The youngest man on the ramparts thought it was time to assert himself. Autie Reed was the General’s nephew, the greenest of greenhorns. But he had a book on Indian tribes in his quarters, and such wisdom could not be kept to himself.
‘Hunkpapa,’ Cooke corrected him. He may only be the General’s Adjutant rather than his nephew, but mistakes like that on the frontier could cost a man his life.
‘That’s Gall.’ Reynolds was chewing his plug of tobacco, watching the Indian intently. ‘The worst Indian living.’ He caught Custer’s glance. ‘The Bismarck Tribune’s words, General, not mine. Some say he’s a double-dealing, horse-stealing gypsy. Others reckon he’s the Red Man’s Daniel Webster. Take your pick.’
‘I’d rather take yours, Charley,’ the elder Custer said. ‘Why’s he counting heads?’
Reynolds shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, General,’ he said. ‘But I’d say Gall has a score to settle. Arikara scouts killed two of his wives and three of his kids.’
‘Arikara scouts?’
‘Ours,’ Custer said grimly.
‘His old pa called him Red Walker,’ Reynolds went on. ‘The tribe calls him the Man Who Goes in the Middle.’
‘How old would you say he is?’ the General asked.
Reynolds didn’t need Cooke’s telescope to help him. ‘Mid-thirties would be my guess. They arrested him at Fort Berthold but he got away; a gallon of blood, they say, coming out of an army bayonet wound. Man’s got nine lives, General, and he’s only used up one so far.’
‘Keep me posted, Dubbya Dubbya,’ Custer said. ‘If that man so much as breaks wind today, I want to know about it. Autie,’ he turned to his nephew, ‘go see Aunt Libbie. Tell her I’ll explain it later, but there’ll be no picnic today.’
‘Right, Unc,’ the green lieutenant saluted.
‘Time that boy won a bar or two,’ Custer murmured to the already chuckling adjutant. Lonesome Charley wasn’t chuckling. Lonesome Charley never chuckled.
‘Well, now,’ Custer didn’t need Cooke’s telescope either, to witness what was happening along the road to the fort. ‘What have we here?’
A galloper was thrashing his bay through the dust, his horse lathered and wheezing, his hat gone and his spurs ramming into the animal’s flanks.
‘Looks like a telegram, General,’ Cooke mused. ‘Maybe it’s for Gall.’
Custer ignored the man’s quip. Lonesome Charley looked like he never heard it. The General turned to Cooke. ‘Bring whatever that man’s carrying to me. And then put the fear of God into him for lashing that horse.’
‘I’m sorry about the picnic, Libbie.’ The General threw his white hat on to the peg and sat down in the parlour, stretching his legs in front of him. ‘I just don’t think you should take the chance.’
‘I’d have been fine with Myles Keogh,’ his wife smiled, pouring coffee for them both from her silver pot.
He looked sternly at her. ‘No woman is fine with Myles Keogh,’ he said and they burst out laughing.
‘Autie said it was a chief called Gall that concerned you.’
‘I don’t know his exact status.’ Custer manoeuvred the sugar tongs with dexterity born of breaking down and rebuilding his custom-made octagonal shotgun in record time. ‘But Charley Reynolds knows him. There’s talk he killed Bloody Knife’s son and anybody who has a beef with a scout of mine, has a beef with me. The Black Hills are a powder keg as it is. I don’t want to provide any sparks.’
She passed him the cookies that Aunt Mary, her cook, had lovingly baked that morning. ‘George Armstrong Custer,’ she tutted, smiling. ‘Providing sparks? Never!’
‘You’re a wicked woman, Libbie Custer,’ he scolded her with a laugh. ‘Ladies of a cavalry fort should know better. Anyway, we’ve got other problems.’
‘Oh?’ Libbie Custer didn’t hear that sort of line often from her husband. He was the son of a blacksmith who had courted her, the daughter of a circuit judge. He was a West Pointer who had always ridden towards the sound of the guns; always charged even when there was strictly no need. He had whipped the bejasus out of Jeb Stuart, the best cavalryman in the world, according to many. And he had defeated Black Kettle’s murdering Cheyennes along the Washita. Oh, and he’d also, because she’d asked him to, given up the booze and the bad language and the gambling. She didn’t care that he had no chin to speak of and a nose four sizes too big for his face. If he cared, he didn’t show it, being possibly the vainest man in the whole country. But men like George Custer didn’t have problems; they had solutions.
‘I got a letter from Washington this morning,’ he told her, waving the piece of paper the galloper had brought. ‘There’s talk of a court martial if I don’t comply.’
She paused with her coffee cup close to her lips. ‘Belknap,’ she said, putting it down.
‘The Secretary of State for War himself,’ Custer said. ‘I guess if you tread on a rattler, he’s going to try to bite you. I’ve been called to the capital.’
She looked at him, trying to read what lay behind those ice-blue eyes, the solemn face. ‘Then I’m going with you,’ she said.
‘Now, Libbie …’ he held up his hand.
‘Or,’ she cut him off at the pass, ‘you can leave me in the hands of Chief Gall and Myles Keogh.’
Custer laughed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You win. Pack a few things. We’ll leave tomorrow. You’d be all right with Gall, I’m sure. It’s Keogh I worry about.’
She looked at him, but her husband wasn’t smiling.
‘It will be all right, won’t it?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Yes, it will. But just in case, I’m going to send a letter to Matthew Grand.’
‘Who?’
Mrs Rackstraw was quite tired of turning out breakfasts for two men who spent the whole time it was on the table hidden behind newspapers or letters. Kidneys, when all was said and done, did not griddle themselves. She could work her fingers to the bone, grilling sausages to golden, sizzling perfection, without so much as a grunt. She watched the toast like a hawk to snatch it from the fire just as the outermost crust reached its peak of slightly charred but still delicious crispness. She curled butter into iced water. She double-sieved the milk so that no cow hair or rat turd disturbed the perfection of her table. And yet, all of that being a given, still they shoved it into their mouths unheeding. Next time, she promised herself darkly, next time, she would give them lumpy porridge and burned bacon. See how they liked them apples. She glowered at them from the doorway and finally flounced back to the kitchen in disgust.
Without lifting his eyes, Matthew Grand muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Has she gone?’
James Batchelor didn’t lower the Telegraph by so much as an inch. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In high dudgeon, if I am any judge. We shouldn’t really tease her like this, Matthew.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Grand said, slitting open the next letter with a butter knife wiped hastily on his napkin. ‘But she’d only preen if we let her know how delicious her black pudding is. Oh.’ He had unfolded the thin paper and was looking at it in amazement.
‘A case?’ Batchelor did lower the paper now. They were busy enough, he knew. They were even thinking of taking on a boy to watch the office while they were out. Possibly even a typewriter, for the letters, though he had heard that such women were often no better than they should be. But a case that made Matthew Grand say ‘Oh’ in quite that tone promised well.
‘Hmm … not as such,’ Grand said.
That let out anything family. He had been expecting to hear that his sister Martha was having another baby at any minute. She seemed the kind of woman who would be popping out children every year until her husband called time. Obviously, the letter was nothing to do with Grand’s parents – they would warrant a little more than an ‘Oh’. There was nothing left but to ask.
‘Well … what is it, then?’
‘It’s a letter from an idiot I was at West Point with. Needs our help, he says, though it’s hard to see what we can do.’
‘Is he in England, then?’ It seemed a little unlikely.
‘No, that’s the thing. He will be in Washington by now.’ Grand turned the page back to check the date. ‘Or back out West, even.’ He carried on reading, to Batchelor’s mounting frustration.
‘Out West?’ Batchelor was totally in thrall to stories of the West. ‘You mean, the Wild West?’
Grand blinked. He had never really thought of it that way. Stories he had heard had made it sound hot, dry, unpleasant, yes. But wild? Who knew? ‘I suppose so. He … that is, General Custer … has got himself into a bit of trouble. No surprises there. He’s got to give evidence in a Congressional Hearing. Some fraud or another.’
Batchelor had seen the name of Custer in the Press so was surprised to hear that. ‘He doesn’t seem the kind of chap who would perpetrate fraud.’
‘No, he’s just a witness.’ Grand frowned at the letter. ‘At least, I think that’s what this letter says. He isn’t the brightest apple in the barrel. He was last in his class at West Point in ’61. His spelling is appalling and his writing is worse. He is just asking me to go and be his … well, I don’t know. His soldier’s friend, I suppose.’
