Seeking Delia

Seeking Delia

Story and Cover Illustration by Mike Poppe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Mike Poppe, August 2016

Seeking Delia, is a work of historical fiction.

No resemblance to persons with similar names, is intended.

Other E-Books Written I've Written (In Order of Publishing)

The Sparrows Whisper

Follow The Sun

The Marshal And The Madam

Retribution Unlimited

Return To Ballyickeen

And Then Came Murder

Shakespeare, Mark Twain, and Me

Dear Benjamin

Scarlett Women

Brennan's Way

If By Chance

Half Past Murder

One Bullet

Onward West

Jump For Jump

We The Wicked

McKay's Promise

Stryker

Never Safe

Chapter Book Cover

Chapter Prologue

At 16, Delia Parker, the victim of an abusive father, and a mother who looked the other way, simply couldn't take anymore. For Delia, the breaking point came when she overheard her father agreeing to sell her to the old man down the road, in exchange for a pair of mules. That night, after her parents went to sleep, Delia took down her father's double barrel shotgun, and slipped in two shells

After lighting a candle, she entered her parent's bedroom, set the candle on the nightstand, then woke her mother and father. With the shotgun aimed at her parents, Delia ordered her mother to get out of bed, and stand by the wall.

Her father, so sure of his dominance, sneered at his daughter. What do you think you are doing, Delia? Go put that thing back where it belongs before I get mad and teach you a lesson you'll never forget.

No Pa, you've had your way for the last time, she warned.

His arrogance rising above any fear he might have felt, her father started to climb out of bed and come after her. When his first foot hit the floor, she fired both barrels, sending him straight to hell. Her mother fell back against the wall, screamed, and begged Delia not to kill her too.

I'll not kill you, Ma, Delia answered. Not that you don't deserve it. Now go sit by the fireplace, for I'm leaving, and my brothers too, if they wish.

After packing what they could carry, Delia and her brothers, Ray, Leon, and Tommy, left the house and climbed aboard their horses. Their mother begged, Delia, please don't go. What will I do all alone?

Delia answered, I guess that's up to you, Ma. Where were you, when I needed you? Did you even give a damn? How many times did I beg you to stop him? You turned a blind eye to me. You gave me life, and I returned the favor by not killing you, so I guess we're about even, Ma. Then Delia turned her horse and rode away from home, with her brothers following, as her mother's cries faded in the distance.

After leaving their farm, Delia and her brothers stopped at the cabin of the old man who had made a deal to buy her. When the old man refused to open his door, Delia ordered Ray and Leon to set the cabin on fire. When at last, the smoke and flames drove the crazy old man out the front door, Delia said, My Pa won't be coming. I'm taking your mules to sell. You won't need them because you won't be making any more trades for girls.

Suddenly sensing her intentions, the old man dropped to his knees, and began begging for mercy. Delia's response was, You made a deal with the devil, now you can join him in hell. Then at point blank range, she shot him four times with her pistol. After reloading her weapon, Delia slipped it back in the saddle holster, and spoke to her brothers. Get those mules, and let's ride. We're leaving Kansas.

When the sun came up, they were well on their way to Nebraska. That would be the beginning of a career of crime and evil that would put fear in hearts of women and men alike, when they heard rumors that Delia Parker, and her three ruthless brothers, might be around. Mothers, when stressed with misbehaving children would tell them, If you don't behave, Delia Parker will come and get you.

The fate of Delia's mother remains unknown to this day.

Chapter 01

For a greenhorn traveler, in 1864, the allure of the rolling South Dakota landscape was almost seductive in it's beauty. Twenty Six year old Clay Kilgore, having been raised on the frontier, knew there was more to the enchanting landscape, than met the eye. Experience had taught him that behind any one of those low rolling hills, death, in various forms, could be waiting. When he saw a distant antelope stop grazing, lift his head, then suddenly bolt away from that section of grassland, the frontiersman instinctively pulled his rifle from it's scabbard.

That antelope might well have been scared off when he caught sight of a wolf, or a pack of coyotes, but animals were not the only predators in this part of the country. Many years ago, because they shared the same heavy burden of keeping their people fed, the Shoshone, Cheyenne, and Lakota, had agreed that they would share this area for hunting. While there was an occasional disagreement, occasionally resulting in an isolated skirmish, for the most part, the three tribes had continued to respect the agreement.

Clay Kilgore knew damn well, that he was crossing this land without the protection of any such agreement. Out of self preservation, he had to consider any hunting party he might run across, as being hostile, unless of course, as sometimes happened, they demonstrated otherwise. For that reason, for the next hour, he rode with his rifle in hand, trusting his horse, more than his own eyes and ears, to provide any warning of danger.

Following a week of riding across what seemed to be an endless grazing land for buffalo and cattle, the terrain had slowly begun to change. Clay was now following a narrow trail used by animals and Indians alike, that lead up into the heavily wooded foot hills, just north of the Black Hills.

If his reason for this trip had been any less urgent, Clay would have turned and rode north for two days, before turning west to reach Wyoming. No more than a few hours ride to the southwest, lay the Black Hills. This large and picturesque range of mountains and hills, belonged to the Lakota tribe, considered by many to be perhaps the fiercest warriors in the Sioux Confederacy.

The Lakota considered the Black Hills to be theirs, but their warriors often rode well beyond the accepted boundaries of their homeland. A young warrior, anxious to boost his standing in the tribe, or to impress a girl, would pay little attention to boundary lines, if he happened to see Clay first. The temptation to ambush him for his horse, weapons and scalp would be strong. For that reason, Clay Kilgore was taking a shorter compromise route through these hills, wishful of reaching Wyoming, without a fight.

Having learned the lessons of frontier life from childhood on up, he knew that only a fool, took unnecessary chances in this country. On the other hand, a certain amount of danger was the price of living on the frontier. When the situation warranted, a man simply had to take risks that he normally would have tried to avoid. Such was the case behind his decision to cross these hills, rather than circle around them, far to the north.

As the trail began to bend to the left around a point covered with Spruce and Aspen, Clay signaled his mount to stop. For a full minute, he listened for any sound that might seem to be out of place. Then, as satisfied with his safety as a man could be in wild country, he dismounted and retrieved his canteen. Pouring water into his hand, he rinsed the dust out of the big Bay's nostrils. Then he poured an inch of water into the crown of his hat, and let the horse drink. Should danger await on the other side of this point, his mount would now be better prepared to endure a taxing run to safety in this difficult terrain. Only after his horse had finished drinking, did Clay lift his canteen to his mouth, and take two small swallows of water.

Nearly two years had passed since he first laid eyes on this horse. The previous owner was Fargo Harris, a long time acquaintance whom Clay knew and trusted. That night, over a jug of home brewed whiskey that Fargo swore had been allowed to age for a full two hours, they negotiated well into the night. When the sun came up the next morning, Fargo Harris was the proud owner of a spirited mustang, a Henry repeating rifle, and one box of .44 ammunition. Fargo's big Bay horse, now belonged to Clay.

Time had proven it to be the best trade Clay had ever made. The color of the horse, faded right into the majority of western landscapes, making moving across the land without being seen, an easier proposition. The Bay had also demonstrated excellent endurance, as well as having demonstrated the ability to keep his head in dangerous situations. In this country, such a horse was worth his weight in gold, for he could be the difference in life or death for his owner.

Much like his horse, Clay Kilgore faded easily into the western landscape. His clothing was old, faded, and worn, all of which served to keep him from standing out while in wild country. Since reaching his full height at sixteen years of age, Clay was aware that regardless of where he traveled, he was normally at least a couple of inches taller than most of the men around him.

People often used the word, lean, to describe Clay Kilgore. The mountain men, and Indians, people who would notice such things, would have laughed at that description, for they took notice of the muscles in his shoulders and his large strong hands. They didn't have to be told that this was a man of far greater strength than most people suspected.

Now weeks from his last visit to a town of any size, Clay's hair and beard had grown long and ragged. His face was tanned from the sun, and chiseled from years of facing the elements. He had several scars, earned both in combat and accidents. Only two were visible when he was dressed. One was a short scar above his left eye, the other, a longer mark on his right arm. If only they would have had the gift of speech, each of his scars had a story to tell. After first meeting Clay Kilgore, most people's first impression came from his eyes. As the situation warranted, Clay's deep hazel eyes could reflect great joy, sincere compassion, or freeze a man in place, with one bone chilling stare, when angered.

Clay's long sleeve shirt had once been a dark blue. Over time, it had badly faded into various shades of color. Much like the shirt, his jeans were old, badly faded, and more than a little threadbare.

His cartridge belt and holster were a good match for his heavily used clothing. The handles on his Colt Navy revolver were worn, but the pistol itself, along with his rifle, remained in excellent working order. With the few exceptions in instances where it simply hadn't been possible, both weapons had always been inspected and cleaned on a daily basis.

Even though he knew his weapons to be in good working order, Clay checked both again, then climbed back into the saddle. Leaning slightly forward, he spoke softly to his Bay mount.

Come on, horse. Let's you and me go find out what's on the other side.

Chapter 02

No more than two hours on down the trail, Clay caught sight of a fast moving stream off to his right. As important as good water was to survival in this country, it served as a magnet to animals and people alike. Some of those people, Indian as well as white, might well be unfriendly. For that reason, Clay normally spent no more time than necessary at a water source, before moving on. In this case, because his horse was tired, and in need of food and water, he decided to stay long