Secret Of The Seven Skulls

By Robert Kammen

The sacred place of the Cheyenne Indians known as Seven Skulls was located on ranchland owned by Roan Broderick, who was unaware that it held a secret when discovered that would erupt into violence and death for both Roan and the Cheyenne, and Roan would soon be riding the avenging trail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Longhorn Publishing
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227138316

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A month ago Cray Burris had been trying to elude a band of marauding Cheyenne up in territorial Montana. The Cheyenne had picked up the outlaw's trail just east of the Big Horns, kept after Barrios until he'd managed to lose them in that rugged land around Hanging Woman Creek. That day and the next he'd stayed hidden in a deep-sided ravine thick with underbrush and scrub trees. Once, a stallion bringing its mares through almost spooked Cray Burris into breaking out, but what really raised Barrio’s hackles had been his stumbling upon a giant mastodon skull half-buried in a ravine wall. He came upon other bones and skulls, which led him to believe this was some ancient burial site.

Dawning found the outlaw walking his horse back along the narrow walls of the ravine and out to the creek. With just a silver dollar between him and poverty, and still another poster being put out on him, Cray Burris was in a despondent frame of mind when he sank down beside his horse and began filling his canteen. At first he thought that twinkling light was just the sun reflecting off the stagnant waters of the creed, but then a greedy sparkle widened his eyes as he reached below the surface and came up with a gold nugget. Still another, as he tried again. Now he forgot the Cheyenne, along with shedding his cautionary nature by wading out to find more nuggets of gold settled down on the gravelly creek bottom.

Two days later found the outlaw leaving with both saddlebags holding gold nuggets. Though Cray Burris wasn't much of a thinker, being a man who just murdered ahead, he wasn't about to spend any of his new-found wealth in nearby towns. After reaching the Powder River and crossing it, the outlaw reined his CiX around and studied the land to the west. On his passage away from Hanging Woman Creek, he'd detoured around a ranch, noticed the 7 brand on cattle he encountered. So he knew for a certainty he could find his way back to where he'd found the gold. The problem as he saw it now was to get back in there with the proper equipment. That meant looking up the man who'd started him along the outlaw road, about the only man Cray Burris had ever trusted which to him meant making that long southward trek to St. Louis.

When the riverboat Murders snuggled in against the pilings, the first man to disembark from it was Cray Burris, and this with his saddlebags slung over a shoulder. Back up in the Dakotas he'd boarded the riverboat, kept mostly to himself or watched the gambling action in the saloon. Just to get off now and stretch his legs was a relief. He made his way along the waterfront to Mortar Street and the Paradise Bar, a den frequented by con men and criminals. Sidling up to the bar, Cray Burris unbuttoned his coat to reveal the mortar gun before looking around, after which one of the barkeeps slapped a wet rag down on the chipped bar top and said sullenly, Name your poison.

I'm looking for an old friend.

In here nobody has any friends.

I be Cray Burris, he said impatiently. I was told that Old Annie could help me when I got to town.

And who told you this?

My old partner Jud Murphy.

Be right back, grumbled the barkeep as he swung away and found a back door. He returned a few minutes later trailing behind a rouged and dark-haired woman dolled up in a black shimmering dress, and closer, Burris could see that Old Annie must be in her sixties.

So, Mr. Burris, it's Murphy you're awanting?

It is.

Around here everything has a price. But first, just what does Jud Murphy look like?

Well, said Burris, sort of sandy hair, curly, right handsome, favors fancy clothes and a hideout gun, a knife.

That's Murphy, all right. Her eyes played over Cray Burris, a lanky man with straggly black hair and mustache. For damned certain, you're no John Law. Okay, Mr. Burris, just drop five silver dollars on the bar and I'll tell you where to find your old partner.

Awful steep, he grumbled.

Out in the street, Burris managed to wave down a Hansome cab and told its driver to head for the downtown sector, which took almost half an hour and brought Cray Burris to a large brick building on Lindell Boulevard. He'd been surprised to learn Jud Murphy was a brokerage agent, had gone into honest business. Just as surprising to Cray Burris, when he stepped off the second floor landing was the sight of mountain men and other plainsmen lined up along the corridor. They were a common sight along the riverfront, for St. Louis was a fur trading center, but they seemed out of place in this part of the city. Moving along, he saw a door open and a woman beckon a plainsman into an office, with Cray Burris shouldering in behind.

Sir, you'll have to wait your turn.

Wait my turn for what, Ma'am? I done came here to see Jud Murphy about some important business.

Outside, please.

Hold it, Marie, said Jud Murphy as he stepped into the large office. It seems you're not dead after all, Cray.

Was I supposed to be?

What I'd heard. It'll be late afternoon before I'm done here, Cray.

Jud, what I have to show you won't take more'n a minute. He stepped past the desk and whispered, Found me some gold. Then he followed the other man into the adjoining office and closed the door.

Murphy had his coat off and the sleeves of his brown shirt rolled up to his elbows, and he'd loosened his tie. Now he picked up the lighted cigar from the big ashtray and watched as Cray Burris opened a saddlebag and spilled gold nuggets onto his desk. Reaching for a nugget, he hefted it in his hand and murmured in a wondering voice, It's the real McCoy, all right.

In answer to the question dancing in Murphy's eyes, Burris muttered, Up north in Montana and I didn't want to hang around that place too long. But there's more back there, Jud, what we've been looking for all our natural born lives.

Gold, can't believe you stumbled across this?

I swear on my mother's grave I did. Some Cheyenne chased me up thataway or I'd never have found it. Plenty more there, I tell you.

So you came down here looking for me?

Jud, I ain't any miner. Since you worked out in a mine in Colorado once, I figure you'd know what to do.

You know, Cray, he said, Fortune's been smiling on me a lot lately. First this Irish nobleman shows up and hires me on...now this...

That's half of what I brung, bragged Burris. I got the rest in the other saddlebag. I figure enough to buy what we'll need to get at the rest of that gold.

Easing down on the edge of his desk, Jud Murphy brushed the hair back along the side of his head; a thoughtful gesture. He dragged on the cigar, then exhaled smoke and words. As luck would have it, Sir Guy wants to begin his hunt up in Montana. Start out either on the Yellowstone or Missouri Rivers.

Found this gold up near the Powder, which mouths into the Yellowstone.

Look, Cray, we'll hash this over at supper.

Almost suppertime now.

Stepping to a coat rack, Murphy reached for his coat and slipped into it, and grabbing his hat, went back into the outer office. How many do we have left, Marie?

Ten more still waiting to see you.

Hire all of them.

Recalling the words of Sir Guy Kingsley, the sky's the limit when it comes to money. Then send them over to the Piedmont Hotel to get together with the others we've hired to guide this hunting expedition.

Seems to me you've taken on a regular army, Mr. Murphy.

Where we're going, we'll need a lot of guns.

I was under the impression you were staying in St. Louis.

A change of plans, Marie. So I’ll see you in the morning.

Further west on the boulevard, Jud Murphy ushered the outlaw Cray Burris into the barroom at the Calumet Club, but not before they'd checked their hats, and despite Burris's objections, the saddlebags, with a club steward. Settling down at a table, drinks were ordered, with Cray Burris glancing warily about at men wearing expensive suits.

Jud, you've sure changed.

I've picked up a lot of business by hanging out at places like this. It does make me feel more respectable. See that big gent over there? The chief of police. Couple of judges here, too, some lawyers. He laughed softly. It wasn't always this way for me...or you, old pardner. Damn, it's good to see you.

Same here, as all these years I've been riding a string of bad luck, Jud. Now I got me this gold. He pulled a nugget out of his pocket. Half'll be yours if you want to pard up again.

Gentlemen, your drinks. The waiter set down the drinks Murphy had ordered for them on the polished table top. Will you be dining later, Mr. Murphy?

Nodding that he would be, the Irishman picked up his glass and said to Burris, Acquired a taste for this.

Scotch, you said? Burris sipped from his glass and grimaced. Tastes like turpentine to me. This place serve a decent drink, like corn-mash whiskey?

C'mon, Mr. Burris, a man owning a gold mine'll acquire a taste for more than scotch, if you get my drift.

Belly laughing, Cray Burris tipped his glass against Murphy's, and said, Reckon so.

You know, Cray, its providence, you arriving at this time. Sir Guy doesn't plan to leave for another two weeks as he wants to make absolutely certain, in his words, that nothing is left to chance. What I'm about to suggest to Sir Guy when we get together later tonight is that I take some men and go on ahead to scout out where he wants to go hunting.

By some men you mean them was waiting to be hired on?

Nope old pard. Another odd coincidence was running into Red Largo a couple of days ago. Red's looking for some action.

If Largo's here, maybe others we rode the Owlhoot Trail with are around.

Seven or eight men should be enough. When we get up there, Cray, our first order of business is finding out if somebody owns that land where you found the gold or if it's up for grabs.

And if somebody has claimed it?

That's where Red Largo comes in.

After dropping Cray Burris off at the Piedmont Hotel, Jud Murphy set out on foot along the boulevard. This was a city of opportunities, the gateway to the west, the last bastion of civilization as Sir Guy Kingsley would find out, pondered Murphy, once they were out on the plains. Right off he'd sized up Sir Guy as a gambler, and he couldn't help noticing the man had a roving eye for the women of St. Louis. It seemed out of character to Murphy that Kingsley had brought his wife along. As for Lady Danelle Kingsley, though an aloof and beautiful woman, it was Murphy's impression that she was angry at her husband. Perhaps Sir Guy had stepped out on her; but that was no concern of his at the moment.

Jud Murphy's purpose in going to the Grand Hotel was because Cray Burris' unexpected appearance had changed everything. If indeed Burris had come across a mother lode in far off Montana, it would make the pair of them rich men. First of all, they had to lay claim to that land, a notion which carried Murphy past a doorman and bounding up the marble steps of the Grand Hotel.

This was one of the city's finest hostelries, a marble and brick edifice seven stories in height, its huge lobby dazzling Murphy's eyes with its glittering chandeliers and arched entryways. He felt out of place here, something that gold would change. As he found the staircase, the Irishman adjusted his string tie and brushed a bit of lint from his coat collar. Sir Guy had commandeered most of the rooms on the third floor, having brought with him from Ireland twenty-five servants, along with at least two wagon-loads of fishing tackle and a skilled fly maker, around a hundred rifles, shotguns and pistols, all bearing the names of famous makers. And there were items such as a linen tent and brass bedstead, which Sir Guy intended to take on the hunting expedition. It was happenstance that had brought agents of Kingsley to Murphy's brokerage office, though he suspected the fact he was Irish had something to do with it. Later, when Sir Guy and his entourage arrived, all arrangements were handled by Kingsley's secretary, dour and fortyish, Claude Regan. Passing along the west wing of the third floor, Murphy let his eyes play over a passing chambermaid as he turned the corner into an alcove to find that the door to Regan's suite stood ajar. The reedy voice of Claude Regan filtered out to him. Murphy eased up to the door and peered inside, to find that the woman with Regan was Lady Danelle Kingsley. She seemed to Murphy like a character in one of those English novels, a beautiful and desirable woman with auburn hair and a full figure. All he'd known were whores or bar girls, but with that gold almost within his grasp anything was possible.

I don't understand, she said, why he brought me here.

M'lady, surely Sir Guy wouldn't leave you alone at Coltishire.

Surely, Claude, he should have fetched along that woman he's seeing. I... I can fight something like that. The point is, he's borrowed too much money. We could lose everything. This hunting trip is sheer madness!

Perhaps I shouldn't have brought this to your attention. And I trust this will remain between us, M'lady?

He'll not hear it from me. Now he's off gambling someplace. Or... with another woman.

And outside in the alcove Jud Murphy uttered softly, So there's trouble amongst the landed gentry? Here was the wedge that he needed. But when it came to the temperamental Sir Guy Kingsley, he would have to tread cautiously. His eyes flicked to Lady Danelle again and the low neckline of her silky dress musing how lucky some men were to have women such as Danelle Kingsley. Long ago Murphy's father, who'd been an English teacher, had spared neither whip nor books in teaching his children the rudiments of learning, something Jud Murphy was grateful for now as he remembered the words of Francis Bacon: Wives are young men's mistresses, companions for middle age, and old men's nurses."

Doffing his hat, Murphy's rapping on the door brought Claude Regan over to open it to say icily, More complications, Mr. Murphy?

There are matters to discuss.

At the moment I'm terribly busy.

Claude, please let the gentleman come in.

Yes, M'lady, he said, and gesturing the brokerage agent into the suite, he added, I trust we'll hear about more unexpected expenses.

Murphy smiled at Lady Danelle. Sir Guy was expecting me.

Unfortunately, he's out at the moment.

Closing the door, Claude Regan crossed to the table he was using as a desk. Attached to one wall was a large map detailing the Northwest Territories. One of Sir Guy's expensive rifles lay on a davenport. Packing cases holding some of the supplies to be used on the hunting expedition were strewn about. Through the open windows came a sultry breeze and night sounds of the city. Regan was a tall man, looking somewhat haggard and cross. He always wore black clothing and boiled white shirts. Behind the bifocals, narrowed eyes revealed a cold disdain for someone he considered an inferior. As personal secretary for Sir Guy Kingsley, the task of handling all of the many details for the hunting expedition had been unceremoniously dropped upon his thin shoulders. Quickly he'd learned that St. Louis merchants were not above padding their bills, and were hardly any better than the heavy-handed Jud Murphy.

We have enough guides for the hunt, Murphy announced.

Searching through the papers on the table, Regan picked up a sheet of paper and studied it. "Probably more than we need. I cannot believe those running that riverboat want so much money. Or could it be, Murphy, the captain of the Delta Queen and you have made a deal?"

I have my expenses to consider, he said resentfully. Passage upriver doesn't come cheap, Mr. Regan. Especially when you consider just how many people Sir Guy plans to take along.

Nevertheless, Sir, this is outrageous.

Flatboats are a hell of a lot cheaper, replied Murphy.

Please, gentlemen, cut in Lady Danelle, corners can always be cut. Tell me, Mr. Murphy, just how dangerous is it up there? I've heard about the Indian problem, of course; that we will be infringing upon land they claim is theirs.

"There's the Crow and Cheyenne, the Blackfeet