Shortly thereafter, their conversation had turned to the fur-trapping days of decades past. Curly Means mentioned how a friend of his had once found a cache in a river bank filled with old plews. “They were piled in a dugout with a buffalo hide and a foot of dirt over them. But heavy rains collapsed the dirt.”
Just like that, a gem of a notion hit Brock Alvord like a thunderclap. He slapped down his cards and whooped like a drunken cowboy, and the next morning he lit a shuck for northwest Kansas with his new recruits in tow. They asked what the shovels and picks were for, but he saved his surprise until they came to one of the sites he had come across months before but chalked off as too risky.
Curly and Noonan about had fits when Brock informed them they were to dig away half a hill.
“What the hell for?” the tall Missourian demanded. Shoveling dirt did not suit him one bit.
“I want the world’s biggest dugout,” Brock elaborated. “Big enough for six horses and a two-month supply of hay and feed.”
Curly caught on right away and worked with zeal, laughing at the joke they would play on the law and everyone else.
Covering the dugouts proved the hardest task. Brock tried buffalo hides. He tried canvas. Finally, he used a latticework of branches reinforced with rope, over which blankets were draped. Then grass and weeds were strewn over everything. From a distance it looked like the rest of the prairie.
Eleven more dugouts were constructed, scattered throughout four territories. Some were in the sides of hills. Two were carved out of the walls of remote canyons. One, in the Tetons, was a cave the Hoodoos enlarged.
Another problem confronted Brock. What was he to do about the tracks the stolen horses would make? In the mountains there was plenty of rocky ground to throw pursuers off the scent, but not out on the prairie. He pondered long and hard and came up with the solution: burlap bags. Twenty or more large bags at each dugout were always kept filled with grass and leaves and whatever else grew in the general area. When a new herd was brought in, the Hoodoos took the bags and covered the last quarter mile or so of trail. It wouldn’t fool a skilled tracker, but it would delay pursuers long enough for whoever was on lookout to warn the rest.
All that effort, and it was never put to the test. Brock’s relays worked too well. That, and as he learned early on, the Indians he stole from rarely chased his gang past the boundaries of whichever reservations they lived on. The tribes who didn’t live on a reservation, the wild ones Brock had expected the most trouble from, were reluctant to stir up trouble with the white man and bring the army down on their heads, so they, too, rarely chased the Hoodoos far.
A few tribes, though, didn’t give a damn who stole their stock. They wouldn’t give up short of the grave. Which was why Brock avoided stealing from the Blackfeet, whose fondness for white scalps was well known. Sioux territory was also taboo. Of late the Sioux had been slaying every white they caught and had been brazen enough to attack well-garrisoned forts.
The Crows were another matter. They had a long history of being generally friendly to whites. They also owned some fine horses. The band that Looks With His Ears belonged to was camped along Arrow Creek within hailing distance of the Crow Indian Agency.
Three hidden relays were between Painted Rock and the agency. The Hoodoos stopped at each to change mounts. It was close to midnight of the sixth day when they arrived.
Thanks to Sunset’s detailed directions, Brock led his men right to a rise overlooking a circle of Crow tepees. It lay dark and quiet under the stars. At that time of night even the camp dogs were asleep.
The best horses were picketed in the center of the circle. More had been turned out to graze close by, but Brock was only interested in the horses in the circle.
“Do we ride on down and take ’em?” Curly Means asked. “Or do you want me to raise a ruckus by going after the outlyin’ herds and draw off the bucks?”
“We stick together,” Brock responded. “Big Ben and I will see to the horses. The Kid, Noonan, and you are to make damn sure we don’t take an arrow in the back.”
Kid Falon drew a pearl-handled Colt. “My pleasure. There’s nothin’ I like better than shootin’ Injuns. I’ll cover the tepees to the north.”
Noonan shucked a Winchester and levered a round into the chamber. “I’ll take the ones on the west.”
“I reckon that leaves the rest for me.” Curly chuckled. “The more lodges to watch, the more fun it will be.” He palmed his revolver.
Brock Alvord loosened his rope. “Ready?” he said to Big Ben.
The giant already had his rope in hand. “Are we drivin’ the horses out the same way we came in?”
“No. I want to fight shy of the agency cabins. We’ll swing east for a couple of miles, then turn south. Kid, you and Curly bring up the rear. Noonan, once we’re out of the village, you ride on ahead and take point. Don’t get careless on me. Just because these are Crows doesn’t mean their arrows can’t turn you into pincushions.”
“You’re doin’ wonders for my confidence.” Curly Means grinned.
Brock motioned and spurred his horse down the slope. No sentries had been posted; the Crows felt safe with the agency headquarters so close. He saw a four-legged shape appear out of the inky shadow at the base of a tepee and cursed. He had hoped the camp dogs wouldn’t give the alarm until his men were closer. Even so, they were almost to the bottom when the first dog barked, and in seconds they were in the circle.
John Noonan and Big Ben Brody let out with Rebel yells. Kid Falon whooped and hollered. Curly Means did what Curly always did and laughed for joy. More than any of the others, Curly thrived on the thrill, on the excitement.
Brock’s gaze swept the picketed horses. They were indeed fine animals, just as Sunset had asserted. He counted nearly three dozen.
The racket was enough to raise the dead. It was only a few seconds before a lodge flap parted and a Crow warrior stuck his head out. A shot from the Kid snapped him around, and he scrambled back in.
Falon, Noonan, and Curly were all firing now. Brock reined up and vaulted to the ground to cut a picket rope. He worked swiftly. They had to be out of there before the Crows could get organized.
A warrior armed with a rifle burst from a lodge to the west and was promptly gunned down in his tracks by Noonan.
To the north two warriors charged from the same lodge, only to run full into the blazing Colts of Kid Falon.
Curly was having a grand old time. Cackling and firing, he kept the occupants of the tepees to the east and south pinned inside.
“Hurry!” Brock called to Big Ben, who had just dismounted to cut a rope. Ben had brawn to spare, but he wasn’t particularly quick. His nickname in the Confederate unit he’d belonged to had been “Turtle,” and it fit him like a shell.
Brock slashed another rope, and a third. The horses were nickering and milling. It wouldn’t take much to spook them.
Shouts and screams came from the tepees. Some of the warriors were yelling back and forth. Working out what to do, Brock suspected, a hunch proven right when warriors charged from different tepees at the same time. The Kid and Noonan wounded two and drove the rest back.
Brock didn’t go in for wholesale slaughter. It wasn’t that he was an Indian lover. Far from it. Needless killing would incite the Indians into more determined pursuit. So, long ago, much to the Kid’s displeasure, he had given a running order to the effect that his men were to kill only as a last resort. By and large they abided by his decision. The notable exception was the Kid, who had more last resorts than all the others combined.