The Black Hills roads were bad, necessitating slow travel. Drop-offs were precipitous, and the fact that the coach swayed ominously near the crumbling edge under its load of bones did not reassure them. Several creeks—the Bear Butte, Elk, and Boxelder—were transformed from the recent snows into swollen, raging rivers. The fact that the coach was so heavily laden made the crossings especially dangerous.
As Tiny explained it, “This item gets stuck in the quicksand, middle of the river, we don’t go anywheres less we ride back for an extra team, pull this item out, and that’s a fact.”
And along with the difficulties, they lived under the continuous threat of attack at any moment. The tension was nerve-racking, for the smallest impediment could be dangerous.
Around noon, the coach stopped. Johnson looked out. “Why are we stopping?”
“Keep your head in,” Earp snapped, “if you don’t want to lose it. Fallen tree up ahead.”
“So?”
Morgan Earp peered over from the top of the coach. “Miss Emily? I’d be much obliged, ma’am, if you would get yourself low and stay there until we’re moving again.”
“It’s just a fallen tree,” Johnson said. Soil was thin in many places in the Black Hills, and trees often fell across the road.
“Maybe so,” Earp said. “Maybe not.” He pointed out that high hills surrounded the road on all sides. The trees came right to the road, providing good close cover. “If they’re going for us, this’d be a good place.”
Tiny Tim got down off the box and went forward to inspect the fallen tree. Johnson heard the sharp clash-clack of shotguns being cocked.
“Is there really danger?” Miss Emily asked. She did not seem the least anxious.
“I guess there is,” Johnson said. He withdrew his pistol, looked down the barrel, spun the chambers.
Beside him, Miss Emily gave a little shiver of excitement.
But the tree was a small one, fallen by natural causes. Tiny moved it, and they drove on. An hour later, near Silver Peak and Pactola, they came upon a rockslide and repeated the procedure, but again, they had no trouble.
“When the attack finally came,” Johnson wrote, “it was almost a relief.”
Wyatt Earp shouted, “You below! Heads in!” and his shotgun roared.
It was answered by gunfire from behind them.
They were at the bottom of Sand Creek Gulch. The road ran straight here, with room on both sides for horsemen to keep up and discharge their guns into the open coach.
They heard Morgan Earp, directly above them, scraping over the roof of the coach, and they felt it sway as he took a position near the back. There was more firing. Wyatt called distinctly, “Get down, Morg, I’m shooting.” There was more firing. Tiny whipped the horses, cursed them.
Bullets thunked into the wood of the coach; Johnson and Emily ducked down, but the crates of fossils, precariously strapped to the seat above, threatened to tumble down on them. Johnson got up on his knees and tried to cinch them tighter. A horseman rode alongside the coach, aimed at Johnson—and in a sudden explosion disappeared from the horse.
Astonished, Johnson looked out.
“Foggy! Get your head in! I’m shooting!”
Johnson ducked back in, and Earp’s shotgun blasted past the open window. More gunshots from riders outside splintered the doorposts of the carriage; there was a scream.
Cursing and shouting, Tiny whipped the horses; the coach rocked and jolted over the rough road; inside the carriage, Johnson and Miss Emily collided and bounced against each other “in a manner which would be embarrassing were circumstances not so exigent,” Johnson later wrote. “The next period—it seemed hours, though it was probably a minute or two—was a nervous blend of whining bullets, galloping horses, shouts and screams, jolts and gunshots—until finally our coach rounded a bend, and we were out of Sand Creek Gulch, and the shooting died off, and we were safely on our way once more.
“We had survived the attack of the notorious Curry gang!”
“Only a damn fool would think so,” Wyatt said when they stopped to rest and change horses at the Tigerville coach station.
“Why, wasn’t that the Curry gang attacking us? And didn’t we get away?”
“Look, boy,” Wyatt said. “I know you’re from back East, but nobody’s that stupid.” He reloaded his shotguns as he spoke.
Johnson didn’t understand, so Morgan Earp explained. “Black Dick wants you pretty bad, and he wouldn’t risk all in such an ill-made attack.”
Johnson, who had found the attack terrifying, said, “Why was it ill-made?”
“Riskiest attack there is, on horseback,” Morgan said. “Riders can’t shoot worth a damn, the coach is always moving, and unless they can shoot one of the horses in the team, it’s very likely to get away, just as we did. There’s no certainty in a horseback attack.”
“Then why’d they try one?”
“To put us at our ease,” Wyatt said. “To put us off our guard. You mark my words, they know we have to stop and change teams at Tigerville. Right now they’re riding like hell to set up again.”
“Set up where?”
“If I knew that,” Wyatt said, “I wouldn’t be worried. What do you think, Morg?”
“Somewhere between here and Sheridan, I figure,” Morgan Earp said.
“That’s what I figure, too,” Wyatt Earp said, cracking his shotgun closed. “And the next time, they’ll really mean business.”
The Second Attack
Half an hour farther on, they halted at the edge of the pinewoods, before the sandy banks of Spring Creek. The meandering water was deceptively low, and more than a hundred yards wide. The late-afternoon sun glowed off the slow, peaceful ripples. On the far bank, the pinewoods were thick and dark.
They watched the river silently for several minutes. Finally, Johnson poked his head out to ask why they were waiting. Morgan Earp, on top of the stage, leaned over and tapped him on the head, and held his finger to his lips, to be silent.
Johnson sat back in the coach, rubbed his head, and looked questioningly at Miss Emily.
Miss Emily shrugged, and slapped a mosquito.
Several minutes passed before Wyatt Earp said to Tiny, “How’s it look to you?”
“Dunno,” Tiny said.
Earp peered at the tracks on the sandy riverbank. “Lot of horses passed here recently.”
“That’s usual,” Tiny said. “Sheridan’s just a couple of miles south on the other side.”
They fell silent again, waiting, listening to the quiet gurgle of the water, the wind in the pines.
“You know, there’s usually birds hereabouts at Spring Creek,” Tiny said finally.
“Too quiet?” Earp said.
“I’d say too quiet.”
“How’s the bottom?” Earp asked, looking at the river.
“Never know till you get there. You want to make a play?”
“I guess I do,” Earp said. He swung down off the box, walked back, and looked into the coach at Johnson and Miss Emily.
“We’re going to try to cross the creek,” he said quietly. “If we get across, fine. If we get trouble, you stay down, no matter what you see or hear. Morg knows what to do. Let him handle things. Okay?”
They nodded. Johnson’s throat was dry. “You think it’s a trap?”
Earp shrugged. “It’s a good place for one.”