Dragons Teeth Crichton 2017 (WWT)

uzzed around a half dozen scalped bodies, evidence of Persimmons Bill’s depredations.
“Guess they didn’t hear about the new treaty,” Earp said laconically. “I reckon we won’t be eating
here.”
They proceeded immediately through the canyon. It was a tense journey, slow because they had no
fresh team, but they made it without incident. At the far end of the canyon they followed Hawk Creek
toward Camp Collier, which marked the southern entrance to the Black Hills.
Now, in the morning light, they stopped for an hour to graze the horses, and to breathe a long sigh of
relief. “Not long now, Mr. Johnson,” Earp said, “and you’ll be owing me half those bones.”
Johnson decided it was time to tell him the truth. “Mr. Earp,” he began.
“Yes?”
“I appreciate everything you have done to help me get out of Deadwood, naturally.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“But there’s something I have to tell you.”
Earp frowned. “You’re not backing out on your deal?”
“No, no.” Johnson shook his head. “But I have to tell you, the crates really are just fossil bones.”
“Uh-huh,” Wyatt Earp said.
“They are just bones.”
“I heard you.”
“They are of value only to scientists, to paleontologists.”
“That’s fine with me.”
Johnson smiled wanly. “I only hope you won’t be too disappointed.”
“I’ll try not to be,” Earp said, and winked, and punched him on the shoulder. “You just remember,
boy. Half those bones are mine.”
“He had been a strong friend,” Johnson wrote, “and I suspected he would make a dangerous enemy.
Thus it was with some trepidation that I resumed the journey to Fort Laramie, and the first civilization
I had seen in many months.”