Chapter Selection: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

3.

I awoke from my dream with a start. Beads of sweat were pouring from my forehead but inside I was shaking like a leaf. I looked up at the sky and saw that the blue velvet of the night still held sway over the heavens. As I rose from my blankets, I saw that the drifter was sitting by the fire smoking a cigarette and poking the flames with a glowing stick. I joined him there as I realised that I still didn't know the strangers name. Before I could ask, he looked up from the fire and said, quietly so as not to disturb the others who were still sleeping soundly, "Come out of yer dream, then?"
"Was I talkin' in my sleep?" I asked. "Yeah. Couldn't make out what you were tryin' ta say though. Must have been a peach of a dream the way ye were tossin' and turnin'. Suprised ye didn't wake the others."

I poured myself a coffee from the fresh brew that the drifter had obviously just prepared before I replied with, "It was a strange one alright. Funny how tings play on yer mind when yer snorin'." "Indeed." Was all he said as he finished his smoke and poured himself a coffee. He went on, "You thought anymore about what you're goin' to do tomorrow - I mean, are ye headed back south or ya goin' west?"
It was a loaded question and he seemed to know it. The dream had disturbed me and I had to question myself all over again as to whether or not I was going to go back to El Paso or head up north to Wyoming with this stranger and Oregon Bill.
Bill's violent words of cowardice and failure came back to me. My common sense told me to high tail it back to the dirty, little border town of El Paso, but something unexplainable was telling me to go on the Wyoming. I had to prove myself as a man and as a man that would defy all the odds. I had never been a gambling man but I felt that this was one gamble I had to play; and the odds couldn't of been any higher. I was playing with my own life.

I had never felt this way before. I surmised that it was fate dealing me a hand and I had the gut feeling that it was a winning hand to boot. Fate can be a bitch but I knew that I was doing the right thing going north with Bill and the drifter. I looked up at the sky just as Mother Nature was starting to wash the eastern sky with her blood red paint. Standing up from the fire, I turned to face the drifter head on and with strength in my voice born from right, I said, evenly, "Reckin it be north…"

If anything, the faces around the breakfast fire were even grimmer than they had been around the supper fire the previous evening. I had let the others know of my decision and Big Joe, Johnny Sixsmith, One Armed Jack and young Danny were not best pleased. The look on their faces told me that but they did not say anything all throughout the morning meal of bacon and bread, copious amounts of strong coffee with black molasses and tinned peaches.

After the first smoke of the new day, it was time to break the camp and store the stuff away on the wagons. With hardly a word, Bill and I loaded our belongings on to one of the wagons and Johnny, Joe, Jack and Danny did likewise with their high-sided hauler. As the sun came full up and bathed the earth with it's life-giving rays, the time had finally arrived to bid our fond farewells.

It was Danny that came over and grabbed my proffered hand.
"I…I'll see y…you soon, Poncho. T…take care, old Tillicum. God's speed ta ye and m…may the Good Lord watch o'er ye." I was quite touched by his sentiment especially as I had never realised that he was of the Christian persuasion.
"Yeah, and the same ta you, Danny." Was all that I could think of by way of a reply.
Johnny, Jack and Joe said no words of any meaning as they climbed aboard their high-side and rolled out of the camp with Danny mounted on his horse behind them heading south.

Oregon Bill Munroe was the sort of fellow that enjoyed the sound of his own booming, ironclad voice. He talked and talked as we set off through Dakota Territory and started to skirt our way carefully around the Black Hills.

It was July 12th. 1876.

The Sioux and Cheyenne were still celebrating their victory over Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer and his immediate command at Little Big Horn, Montana.
We were terribly aware that we were open to attack at any moment from hostiles that had been encouraged by Sitting Bulls stunning victory over the white-eyes.
Dakota was tinder dry and waiting for a Lucifer.