text: When Grit got to the junction of the Belle Fourche River with the Cheyenne, he looked carefully at the map trying to figure which way the deserters would go. He'd long ago given up looking for tracks, believing as he did that the deserters had followed one of the Cheyenne River feeder streams, and he had no way of knowing which one. The Belle Fourche went almost due west while the Cheyenne turned almost due south and into the Black Hills.
  
  According to what he'd learned at the fort, gold had been discovered at French Creek, which was a tributary of the Cheyenne way down in the south part of the Black Hills. He decided he'd go on south, passing through the heart of the Black Hills, one of the many men daring the Sioux to attack and kill them. Only the other travelers were usually smart enough to stay in groups to help fend off the Sioux.
  
  As Grit headed south, he began to see more and more of the ponderosa pines, which from a distance were so dark green, they looked almost black. He could understand why the Sioux called the area the black hills. What he didn't understand was why the Sioux considered the area sacred, but he realized he'd probably never understand much about the tribe.
  
  He moved on south following the river. From the Belle Fourche junction, Grit figured he was about 120 miles more or less from French Creek, where he expected to run into a slew of other miners and probably some of General Custer's soldiers. He figured that eventually the deserters would bring Colleen to where the gold had been panned.
  
  That afternoon, it started to rain, and Grit pulled out the oil cloth slicker he'd bought at the sutler's place. It covered his body and most of his saddle. Over the saddle on the spare horse, he tied a large piece of canvas to cover the saddle, saddlebags and Winchesters. It rained steadily throughout the rest of the day and into the night. Grit kept moving south along the river through the steady downpour, but as night came on, he began to search out a place where he could build a fire and dry out a little.
  
  Over against a bluff, he found an overhang that gave him shelter from the rain. Others must have stayed there because there was ample dry wood to start a fire at one side of the overhang. He unsaddled the horses and brought them out of the rain. From the saddlebags, he took out a bag of oats, and he fed the horses by hand. While he was still wet, he walked out into the high grass and cut bundles of grass for the horses and brought the bundles back under the overhang. After the horses were unsaddled and rubbed down, he took off his own pants and covered himself with a dry blanket.
  
  He did his best for an hour to dry the legs of his pants near the fire as he put on a pot of coffee then ate his last can of beans while he fried some sowbelly. He ate the pork, then used the grease to make hotcakes, which he slathered in syrup and washed down with hot coffee. He sat by the fire in his longjohns, drinking coffee and turning from front to back to dry and warm himself as he went over his weapons, including the two Winchesters he'd gotten from the Sioux, cleaned them as best he could and reloaded them.
  
  When he'd finally dried his socks, he looked over at his steaming pants on the boulder that shielded his fire from any onlookers. He heard the call of coyotes in the far distance but none seemed near. Once he thought he heard the whining growl of a cougar. The fire would keep the animals away, Grit knew, but he had only enough dry wood for about another hour.
  
  Later he pulled on his socks and partially dried pants, settled his blankets around him and slept. He awoke in the chill of the morning, stamped into his boots and staked both horses out to forage in the still-wet grass.
  
  Under the overhang, he turned up enough dry sticks for a small fire, over which he made coffee. After drinking a cup, he opened a can of tomatoes, drank the juice and ate the tomatoes. He had two more cups of coffee, scattered the fire and walked out to saddle the horses.
  
  As he was saddling the bay, he looked off through the ponderosas and saw a trail where somebody had walked through the wet grass. His heart started beating faster knowing he'd left the rifles back under the overhang. He grabbed the bridles of the two horses and led them back to the overhang.
  
  He picked up his Winchester, and kept it ready nearby as he finished saddling both horses, his eyes constantly roving the landscape where men could be hidden by any number of ponderosa pines. He was about ready to climb aboard the dun when he saw a man, obviously an Indian, who stepped out from behind the trunk of one of the ponderosas.
  
  Grit gripped the Winchester, not knowing what to think, but slowly the man raised his hand with his palm out. Stepping away from the horse, Grit lowered the rifle and returned the same signal, whereupon the Indian started walking toward him.
  
  As he approached, he said, "I'm Little Elk of the Absarokee."
  
  "Okay," Grit said. "What do you need?"
  
  "Am scout for Custer," he said. "Sioux found me and Great Bear, kill him but I escape."
  
  Grit knew that Absarokee was the native word for the Crow tribe. "How can I help?"
  
  "I have much hunger."
  
  "Well, let me see what I got," Grit said. From his saddlebags, he removed a handful of venison jerky that he'd bought at the sutler's store and handed it to Little Elk, who took a bite off of a piece and chewed it with a smile.
  
  "Where you go?"
  
  "Down to where they found gold," Grit said.
  
  "Custer gone, but I take to French Creek," Little Elk said as he mounted the bay horse. Grit looked up at him, uncertainty in his face.
  
  "Trust Little Elk. Two days, we be there."
  
  Grit wasn't sure how much to trust the Indian. He took a deep breath, mounted and said, "Okay, Little Elk, lead out. I'll be right behind you all the way."