At the second and third shots, she scurried out to the porch. In the gulch, below the safety of Forest Hill, she could hear horse hooves thunder. Fern was in her arms. Quintin trotted out and clutched her skirt. The June evening air was still mild, but a shock of chill slid down her back. Her hands trembled as she rocked the baby back and forth. Fern whimpered. “It’s all right, Darlin’ . . . it’s all right . . .” The words rolled off her lips like a chant by a scared kid walking through the cemetery. It was not the first dark Dakota night when gunshots had been heard in Deadwood. If the ground-shaking rumble of stamp mills in Lead were the bass section of the Black Hills orchestra, gunshots in Deadwood were the trumpet section, often carrying the tune. Rebekah had heard shouting, screams, and curses before. That was the frontier. Gold towns.
