Dead Man's Run: CJ Hand Novels, #3

By C. G. Haberman

For CJ Hand, the corral bathed in the morning sunlight is a false sign of the day to come. Minutes after starting his run along Deadman Road, a dense fog shrouds the canyon. In the thick, gray mist a hushed purr from the road bend behind him forces CJ to take cover in the stand of ponderosa pine and cottonwoods. He waits for the danger to pass. An hour later he stares at a dead man, blood covering the understory of brown pine needles and yellowing cottonwood leaves. The second death lay in front of CJ. The mountain lion is the focus of the first death, but the local County Sheriff realizes something other than a mountain lion lurks in Dead Man's Canyon. CJ Hand and Tom Thies join the county sheriff investigating the deaths. A Black Hills mining geologist who traveled to the Nebraska Pine Ridge is the key. The first dead man might be the answer. What they find hints at far-reaching impacts for the area and the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. G. Haberman
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386958925

Book preview

Dead Man’s Run

A CJ Hand Novel

C. G. Haberman

Text Copyright © 2013 Clark G. Haberman

ISBN-13: 978-1482309522

ISBN-10: 1482309521

Revision 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Custer South Dakota

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chadron Nebraska

List of Characters

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Custer, South Dakota

GERRID SMILEY LOVED August in the Hills—the crisp nights, warm days, and low humidity. The smell of the pine needles evoked a nostalgic memory of his childhood when he first came to Custer. Gerry, as he became known during his teen years, arrived in the Black Hills when he was nine years old. Both of his parents tragically died on a return trip to Stillwater, Oklahoma, when a freight train barreled into the side of their sedan.

Taken in by his uncle, William Pencot—an employee of the Black Hills Precious Metals Company—Gerrid grew up with mining the focus of his life. After earning his Doctorate from South Dakota School of Mines and Technology in Rapid City, he hired on with another mining company in the Hills.

On Saturday, Gerry received a certified packet from a law firm in Reno, Nevada. Inside the parcel was a letter explaining they represented the professor’s estate, and his will stated the letter-sized envelope was to remain sealed and sent to Gerrid upon the professor’s death. Gerry carefully placed the letter on top of the packet, and thoughtfully picked up the slightly yellowed envelope. There were two pages. The first page contained hand-written notes on the Black Hills and Nebraska Pine Ridge geology. The professor had sketched a crude map of the Crawford, Nebraska area on the opposite side. Gerry grinned when he remembered how his former major professor never stopped teaching. The second page consisted of the Periodic Table of Elements with notes the professor scratched in his awkward half writing and half printing. After studying the contents for the second time, he called his boss and requested vacation leave for the coming week.

Gerry decided a stay in the Nebraska Pine Ridge until Friday would be satisfactory to seek out the material mentioned in the letter. His search would start at the upper end of Smiley Canyon—no family connection—and wind up in Dead Man’s Canyon.

The last anyone had seen Gerrid Smiley was Monday, shortly after seven-thirty, on a rapidly warming Monday morning. The waitress at the small cafe located on an off-street in Custer remembered him having his usual breakfast of sausage, eggs, and toast. She told the deputy sheriff Gerry seemed obsessed with some papers. The one in particular she remembered was the Periodic Table of Elements. The young woman told the deputy she recognized the damn table because it frustrated the hell out of her in chemistry class.

Chapter 1

GERRY LABORED LATE Monday morning and into midafternoon trekking Smiley Canyon, seeking a cave—in reality, more of a cavity in the ridge face. Concavities were rare in these sediments deposited millions of years before man appeared in this part of North America. The surviving caves escaped, over the eons, nature’s obliteration by wind and water. The Nebraska Pine Ridge caves were nothing like the ones he often explored in the Hills. The question crossing his mind as Gerry drove from the Canyon: Is this a hoax?

After stopping at the overlook west of Fort Robinson, to eat two energy bars, he drove west on Route 20. At the White River Road junction, he pulled over to recheck his map. The map from his former adviser highlighted the intersection of Corkscrew Road and White River Road. A quick check of the time, and he realized he would lose light before arriving at Deadman Road if he didn’t hustle.

Before driving from the overlook, he retrieved his small digital voice recorder from the console and dictated cryptic notes. They consisted of the Smiley Canyon trek in his unique geological terms for sedimentary layer descriptions and names. If he lost it, no one other than another geologist would understand what he sought. His voice rumbled in a deep baritone as he played it back. He deposited the recorder under the seat and set off.

Due to the road’s excellent condition, Gerry made up time on White River Road to the Corkscrew Road turnoff. After turning onto Corkscrew Road, he pulled over and studied the map, looked up, and scanned the pine-dotted ridges. Gerry judged his location to be directly south of the Route 20 overlook west of Fort Robinson State Park. He glanced in the outside rearview mirrors for local vehicles plying the backcountry. He felt the Pine Ridge country to be so peaceful and quiet in contrast to the Black Hills tourist hustle and bustle.

Approximately two miles south on Corkscrew, he spotted an area of favorable stratification where caves might be a possibility. He pulled off the road, checked the professor’s notes made years ago, and grabbed his small pick and khaki backpack. A faint breeze tousled the long hair protruding from under his plain blue ball cap.

It took nearly two hours of rugged hiking along the relatively sheer west face of the north-south oriented ridge. He almost missed the cave opening because several dead ponderosa pine branches partly obscured it. Gerrid tossed aside the old boughs, waited patiently for the rodents to disperse, and crawled into the small ridge concavity. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the small opening, dimly lighting the interior. His nostrils flared from the musty odors. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light within the cave interior as he moved about, orienting himself. A small tingle traveled through his fingertips and up to his arm when he felt cloth-like material. It had to be the stash. There were two bags carefully tied and in fair condition for being in the cave for nearly twenty years. He thought, who said polyester had no use.

From his backpack, he retrieved a small headlamp, slipped it on, and directed the beam around the cave interior and onto the bags. Gerrid shifted the homemade sacks between his legs to patiently work free the lace knots. After a few minutes, he finally succeeded untying them. A trickle of sweat inched down his brow and fell on the ancient rocks. The right side of his mouth twitched, and a tiny smile turned into a wide grin. After ten minutes of examining the cuttings, he picked out the most representative, placed them in two plastic bags, and tucked them in the backpack’s small inner pouch. He turned off the lamp and returned it to the pack. Before leaving the cave, he double-checked the backpack pouches to ensure that he tightly zipped each compartment. After retying the sacs, he tucked them back in their original spot.

The selected samples stowed in his backpack were adequate for an accurate assay. Returning for more samples was not a problem if he found that necessary. He shoved the bag out the cave opening, crawled out, stood, brushed off the musty cave soil, and shrugged into the backpack. Along with the dead limbs he earlier set aside, he placed more recently felled boughs over the cave mouth and began the return trek. It took him thirty minutes to backtrack.

While pausing to drink from his water bottle, he glanced back at the ridge. A few of the stately pines securely rooted in the hills faced a new enemy inching its way west—pine needle blight.

Movement close to the cave caught his eye. Gerrid lifted his binoculars from the pickup seat and slowly panned. Holy-moly, he exclaimed. A cougar padded along the same path he followed through the pines to the cave. Movement from behind the beautiful, golden-brown animal made him smile. Three cubs followed mom, most likely learning from her the surrounding prey scents and cougar cunning. A treat for him to catch sight of one of these animals and their offspring during the daylight hours.

He slid into the pickup, drove south on Corkscrew Road, and turned left on West Belmont Road. Gerrid had planned to drive up to Dead Man’s Canyon from 4-Mile Road, but this would work as well, and maybe better. The odometer had registered nearly ten miles by the time he reached the junction of Belmont and Deadman Road. The sun slowly slid behind the towering pine tops as he drove northwest into Dead Man’s Canyon. In the distance, he could see the buff-colored ridge wall where he hoped to find more drill cuttings.

As the road began a steep decline past a ranch house, he rolled down the window. The temperature had markedly dropped with the altitude change. Direct sunlight rapidly faded on the west-facing ridges. He checked his time, figuring an hour of moderately good light remained; after that, it would be futile and hazardous exploring what appeared at first glance as a problematic ridge.

A sudden, cougar scream caused his skin to crawl. He had heard these cougar cries in the Hills east of Custer, but never this close. Gerrid’s pupils dilated from the dimming light and gnawing concern with the cougar being so close. On a rutted side road, he parked and used his penlight to check the one-page map. Comfortable that he arrived at the right place, he heaved a sigh of relief and crawled out of the pickup. He folded and slid the papers into his rear pocket and patted them securely in place.

Gerrid tucked the penlight back in his pocket, grabbed his backpack, and locked the old gray Ford. With the geology hammer fastened to his belt, he set off at a rapid clip. At the base of the ridge, he stopped to scan the stratified layers above him, trying to determine the area for best cave survival. It took a few minutes moving about below the buff-colored ridge face to assess his safest place of ascent. To his left, a safe climb up the ridge face appeared promising. It would be challenging, but not impossible. The deciduous grove in which he meandered was slightly more than two hundred feet from the steep rise. What the hell he thought, it was now or never. He pondered, carrying the backpack and decided to tuck it in a pile of dead leaves near a fallen cottonwood.

One hundred feet into his climb, he found a solid ledge, stopped to catch his breath, and looked down at the dimming valley light. Damn, he felt his back pocket to check for the letter and map. A satisfied sigh blew through his lips; he patted the pocket again, making sure he wouldn't lose the papers as he moved about on the ledge. His fingers traced and toyed with the flaking ancient sediment layer crumbling onto the ledge. Gerrid breathed deeply, a scent of decay lingering with the pine-needle and earthy odors.

He stood, scanning his immediate surroundings. The closeness of the earlier cougar scream left him a bit wary. He knew they did not attack humans, usually. Gerrid caught a glimpse of a turkey flock rapidly racing down the valley. They suddenly scattered, flying into the trees a hundred feet from where Gerrid previously stood. A young cougar followed. A small frown creased his face. It seemed strange the cat was hunting this early, but the turkeys would be at roost later. The frown disappeared. Knowing the cat’s whereabouts caused him to breathe a sigh of relief, he could more freely move about without always stopping to check behind him.

Straight ahead, the ledge widened. Gerrid cautiously inched along the naturally occurring path toward an area where pine branches nearly touched the walkway. The limbs flared from towering pines growing below on a stable outcrop. A point straight ahead held his attention. Gerrid stopped at the widest spot to rest, check the time, and again survey his surroundings. When he checked the ledge walkway, he noticed cougar tracks—not just any old paw prints—these were huge. They belonged to one hellishly big cat. He frowned as he followed the tracks to sturdy pine boughs nearly touching the ledge. The tracks were not fresh, maybe three to five days old, and disappeared near a branch plenty strong to hold the big feline.

Moving slowly ahead, he became acutely aware of the change in the strata. Then he saw it. This cave was extensive, appearing partially human-altered rather than a natural sedimentary formation like the last one. Gerrid pulled the pick from his belt and prepared to sample a geologically unique layer beside the cave mouth. The opening was nearly four feet high and three feet wide, hidden from the road by dense pine tree growth from below.

He picked at the ancient layers separated by the opening, knelt to study the sediment, and bent to peer into the cave mouth. A powerful and excruciatingly painful blow hit him near the base of his neck, slamming him against the cave-wall opening.

Chapter 2

DEPUTY SHERIFF RON Olson arrived at Carissa Carzen’s home fifteen minutes after the dispatcher notified him of her call at eight on Wednesday morning. He parked in the drive next to the granite, step-stone walk leading to the small porch. Someone had constructed a Z-shaped ramp to the front porch so Carissa could avoid steps leading to the front door.

On exiting his patrol car, Deputy Olson shifted his belt, so the semi-automatic Glock rested more comfortably on his right hip. He knocked and waited. The small white curtain covering the elongated window next to the door parted.

Ms. Carzen’s face and auburn hair filled the mullioned window’s upper layer. Carissa smiled at the deputy, let the curtain drop into place, and opened the door.

Deputy Olson, I didn’t expect anyone so soon.

Hello Carissa, may I come in?

She hobbled back as she opened the door.

The house smelled of toast and coffee. The sparsely furnished living room contained two chairs, a sizeable blue-plaid couch, a coffee table, and a small television.

Would you like coffee, Deputy?

I would, thank you. He looked at the pictures on the wall, mostly of her deceased parents and Gerrid Smiley. That Gerrid and Carissa were more than close friends was no secret in this small town.

You’re doing well, Carissa. What, you’ve come from crutches to a cane?

Seems like forever, Carissa said. I started on disability and rehabilitation leave over a year ago after suffering the stroke. It’s been a challenge. She maneuvered her leg with a swinging motion, balancing with the cane. Carissa cautiously walked into the kitchen.

A white, metal cart sat beside the counter next to a small table covered with several newspapers.

Can I help, Carissa?

Ron remembered the stroke paralyzed Carissa on most of her lower left side, leaving her with a lame leg, which finally showed some improvement. There remained lingering difficultly with her memory, speech, and muscular coordination.

That would be nice, thank you.

He detected a slight lisp. Ron took two cups from her and placed them on the small cart. I never did hear how your ... accident happened.

She carefully lifted the glass container from the coffeemaker, swung around, and poured the dark-brown liquid into a small insulated carafe. Let’s wheel the cart into the living room, Ron.

I’ll do that, he said and gently rolled the cart away from the counter and into the living room. He stopped at the coffee table. Right spot?

Carissa nodded and said, Perfect. She placed the mugs on the magazine-covered walnut table, motioned him to sit on the couch, and filled each coffee cup. Her chair sat at a right angle to him.

He waited until she stiffly sat and balanced her cane beside the rocker/recliner. Fill me in, Carissa. Dispatch said you reported Gerry missing. She took the mug he held out for her and slowly sipped at the steaming coffee, studying him with her bright blue-green eyes.

Gerry calls me ... every day since I-I came home. I’ve not heard from him since Sunday evening, which is highly unusual. She stopped, a thought seemingly stuck in her mind. Sometimes, I can’t get the words out without stuttering. It takes a little time to put my brain in sync with my mouth. She lopsidedly grinned at him. He checks daily to make sure I’m doing okay.

They know what caused the stroke?

Carissa stared at him. You haven’t heard?

He shook his head.

I fell and broke my hip while hiking and climbing in the Needles. She stopped to sip at her coffee. I suffered an anoxic stroke from my hip pinning. She noticed the confused look on his face. Sorry, Ron, I didn’t make myself clear. The anesthesia was the cause, probably kept me under for too long, or something else happened while I was under.

Damn, Carissa, I’m sorry.

Don’t be. Ron, I’m more fortunate than others. Gerry and I researched the brain damage issue and found that anesthesia issues cause nearly thirty-three percent of all brain damage.

He placed his mug on the coffee table beside a National Geographic Magazine. You’re pretty sure Gerry’s missing?

I know, Gerry. He calls daily to check on me. I’m sorry I think I just said that. Ron smiled and nodded. I’m anxious about him. Gerry and I worked at Waterman Mining Company, where I-I was the office manager’s administrative assistant. I know his habits, and he is so reliable.

She hesitated, again mildly struggling to find the words and the motor control to speak. Gerry seemed preoccupied with something a couple of days before he left ... he said for a short vacation.

Did he say where?

You know, that’s what I find rather odd.

Why?

He always told me exactly where he was going. This time, he was vague; said to the south Hills, maybe drop south to the Nebraska Pine Ridge.

Does Gerry have family around Custer?

No, his adopted parents both died last year. They lived on a small acreage in the Bighorn Mountains foothills near Sheridan, Wyoming. They were the only relatives.

Is there anyone else who might know where he went?

As long as I’ve known Gerry, he never mentioned anyone as being close ... anyone he would confide in. Ron noticed a faint blush on her cheeks. "Gerry and I became close over the