“So, you vahnt to go to California, do you?”
“You’ve been there?”
“Yeah, sure I’ve been zair—and back too.”
“So I see.”
“Long vay.”
“Yes, I gather it is.”
“An old man like me vood need some motivation to go so far. I got everything I need right here.”
As “right here” amounted to a shack that might collapse under the snow of a Montana winter and a pasture of fenced mud, it was apparent that Johannes Fetzer was a man of few needs.
“You’re asking for money,” I said.
“I don’t travel vor my health.”
“Well, given the manner of life to which you’re accustomed, how would a dollar a day suit you?”
“You can double zat, mister. After all, I gotta travel back home—zat’s twice zee journey. Half now; half when we arrive in California—and you’re responsible for all our supplies. Zat darky vork for you?”
I nodded, and he said to Private McCutcheon, “I like my coffee strong, my tobaccy smoky, and my biscuits fried in bacon grease, ja?” He looked at me and added, “Vohn’t charge you for any viskey—I’m dry on the trail, at least most of zee time; and vaht I buy or bring is my own concern.”
“How long’s the journey?”
“Vell, mister, now zat all depends—but for purposes of our negotiations, I’d be villing to settle on forty dollars now and forty dollars ven vee get zair. Forty days and forty nights—has sort of a ring to it, don’t it?”
I suppose it did, though forty days in the company of these two scamps was hardly an inviting prospect. Still, one must make do, and I accepted his offer. I counted out eight coins from my saddle bags.
“Vaht are zese?”
“Gold coins, each worth about five dollars—at least that’s what they say. They’re from the Delingpoole treasure—I imagine you’ve heard of that.”
“I heard stories—never knew it vas true.”
“That gold’s true enough. You can take it to the bank.”
“I reckon so,” he said, holding up a coin to get a better look at it. “Whose face is zat?”
“The man himself—vain as a Roman emperor.”
“Ugly feller, but I reckon you can do anything if you’ve got zee gold.”
“You’ve got yours. Let’s get going.”
“Vell, you know, mister, Californy’s a mighty big place. Vair in California you vant to go?”
“San Francisco, the City of St. Francis, a holy and temperate place, I believe.”
“Ja, I know San Francisco. That’s a helluva place. Once lost a month’s vages in a saloon zair; and you know vaht, I got myself shanghaied and had to serve six months at sea to earn it back. I can take you zair, but I ain’t stayin’ zair, no siree; too dangerous. But zair’s a railroad now, you know—transcontinental. Vee could drop down to Promontory—that’s Utah Territory—and you could pick it up zair. That’s vair zey drove zee golden spike, ja? You’ve heard of zat zing?”
“And how far is that? Surely not forty days’ ride from here?”
“Maybe not, but it’s still a mighty long vay—close to four hundred miles. And zem’s no easy miles either: big mountains, cliffs, hard going. But vhen you hit zee railroad—ja, it’s nothing zhen, like riding a golden chariot straight to San Francisco. You be zair in twenty-four hours, by golly.”
“Well, then, let’s be off.”
“All in good time, young man. First, your darky, he fetches my supplies, and zhen I map out a route, and zhen…”
“And then you get on with it. I believe in action, Herr Fetzer—action that moves us today, not tomorrow. Now snap to attention and see to your duties immediately!”
And so, dearest Libbie, with my admonition ringing in his ears, Johannes and Willie set to work, and soon my pioneering adventure began. Unfortunately, it proved to be more dangerous and deadly than I expected.
On our second day’s ride, I noticed a half dozen mounted Indians following a parallel trail on a high bluff to the east. They would disappear behind the bluff, only to pop up again hours later. They showed no apparent interest in us; we tried to show no apparent interest in them, but of course we were wary. That night in camp, none of us slept, though we heard no Indians, or their signal calls; the night was enlivened only by the most primitive of conversations between Private McCutcheon and Herr Fetzer. They regaled each other with stories such as these:
HERR FETZER: “You know, I vonce killed an Indian mit my bare hands.”
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “Really, old-timer—how’d you do that? You knife him?”
HERR FETZER: “No, I haff told you—mit mein bare hands; mit my pet bear Hans. Very loyal zat bear. He scalp zee Indian before zee Indian scalp me.”
Or:
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “You know Dutchy, I’s actually grown right fond of takin’ orders again—gives a man a purpose, don’t it?”
HERR FETZER: “You zink zo? Maybe you should reenlist zhen.”
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “Well, that might be difficult, given circumstances.”
HERR FETZER: “Zo vaht you like about zee Army? Zee marching? Zee uniforms?”
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “Well you get three square meals a day—no worries there. Pay’s guaranteed too.”
HERR FETZER: “Ja, vell, Villie, personally, I like my freedom, ja?
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “Dontchya ever get lonesome?”
HERR FETZER: “Pshaw.”
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “I mean, in the Army you always got things to do, and in the barracks there’s always a card game.”
HERR FETZER: Card game? You take my advice, Villie; don’t do zee zings I done. No card games in San Francisco, ja? Especially at zee House of zee Rising Sun. Dangerous place, by golly. You vahnt some entertainment—you get yourself a bear. Oh, my pet bear Hans, ach du lieber, he could dance. Vaht a bear—as if trained in Vienna.”
Or:
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “I just don’t get it. I mean, why do Indians love torturin’ people? It ain’t natural. It’s kinda disgustin’. Who likes torturin’? Except for Sergeants, of course, but they got a reason—and limits.”
HERR FETZER: “You’re a married man, ja?”
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “Yeah, I guess right enough—it’s what you might call a common law marriage. Ain’t no preacher involved or nothin’.”
HERR FETZER: “Zee preacher is immaterial; your wife is an Indian, is she not?”
PRIVATE MCCUTCHEON: “Yeah, she’s an Indian.”
HERR FETZER: “Vell zhen, your answer: vimmin, Indians—torturers. All zee same. In scalping, you lose your hair; in marriage, you lose your life. That’s how I see it, Villie. You should get a common law divorce. No woman is as loyal as vas my pet bear Hans.”
Such was the philosophy of Herr Fetzer. I need hardly say, dearest Libbie, that I learned little of interest and nothing of profit, and I was content to doze until night gave way to glorious day and I could breathe in, yet again, the wonders of the vast Western landscape, which I do so love. If a Cheyenne raiding party had captured me at a suitable age and raised me as an Indian, I would have been perfectly happy—save for the absence of you, of course, darling Libbie. But putting you aside for a moment, what could be better than a life of riding, hunting, and fighting?
Private McCutcheon prepared a marvelous breakfast, and any worries about Indians and any fatigue we felt from our lack of sleep were quickly dispelled by the crisp air, a gentle breeze, the purposeful sway of the horses beneath us—and, most delightful of all, the absence of any visible Indian scouting party. Our spirits soared.
After our long day’s ride we slept the sleep of the just. When I woke the next morning, though, I was surprised to find myself alone. Our horses were all picketed, but there was no fire, no boiling coffee, no biscuits and bacon. I assumed Herr Fetzer and Private McCutcheon had gone to fetch firewood or find a stream to fill our canteens. It was unlikely they would be bathing. I set off in search of the
m, bidding Bad Boy to stay and watch over the camp.
We had camped on a small plateau set above a brake of thick brush and briar penetrated by thin deer paths. I made my way down and examined the weaving trails nearest me. The signs were ambiguous, but I thought I saw tell-tale boot tracks and trampled vines on the narrow, overgrown trace that led right, so that’s the way I went, moving cautiously so as not to get my sleeves and pant legs caught on the briars.
It was a winding, downhill passage. After what seemed like a half-mile’s descent it opened into a glade. The sun was shining, the meadow was beautiful, but thirty yards into it was not beauty but brutality: staked to the ground, unspeakably mutilated, and unmistakably dead—his head severed from his body and planted in his chest—was poor Willie McCutcheon.
“Vatch out, Marshal, Indians!” It was less a shout than a croak, and I spun to see Herr Fetzer, pinioned to a tree—crucified by spears. His head lolled. He spat. A horrible red slimy spittle stuck to his chin. His shirt was bright crimson, blood streamed down his face, his lips sputtered, and he gasped an epitaph: “I am nothing vizout Hans.”
I should have had a revolver or a Bowie knife in my hand, but before I could think of either, a fearsome blow struck me on the head, and I felt brute fingers seizing at my scalp and gripping my throat; others seized my arms, yanking them behind me, ripping my sleeves in the process. My gun belt and knife were stripped from me. I was forced to kneel—but only for a moment. I mustered every pound of muscle, every ounce of sinew, and exploded to my feet, threw off their holds, and twisted from their clutches. They held my torn sleeves, but not me. I was undaunted—even though my scalp was bleeding, and I was dizzy, and my eyes were blurred. I confronted my assailants—five hardened braves—and they suddenly stepped back, affrighted: Good lord, did they recognize me?
One of them grunted and pointed to my exposed right arm. I looked down and was reminded of the evil Indian tattooist who had affixed your image there, Libbie, and beneath your tattooed portrait, my Cavalryman’s motto, “Born to Ride.”
The braves’ guttural exclamations sounded like a Sioux dialect. They talked animatedly amongst themselves, and though I couldn’t make out what was said, I reckoned no good could come of it. Still, I was on my feet—and my attackers were unnerved. One of them eructed an authoritative grunt, ending their palaver. He looked at me, raised his hands, showing that he was unarmed; a sign of peace, I assumed—though Private McCutcheon and Herr Fetzer were bloody contradictions. The brave pushed his hands slightly forward as if asking me to sit down.
“I’d rather stand.”
He called out a command. Three more Indians bounded from the brake and charged me. I crouched, bracing for the impact. I got in one punch before crashing to the ground with all three of them. We thrashed around wrestling like caged weasels. At one point a savage hand, as big as a bear’s, grabbed the back of my head and shoved my face into the dirt. I managed to spin away, caught a glimpse of white clouds and blue sky, then a huge fist, red and menacing, shot up like the head of a giant cobra. It struck, and all was darkness.
CHAPTER TWO In Which I Experience a Reunion
When I awoke it was still dark—because I was blindfolded. I was astride an Indian pony, with no saddle, and my wrists were bound before me (which was considerate—behind me would have been much more painful). I sensed Indian guards riding to either side. If any man could ride a horse blind—even unconscious—and keep his seat, it is of course your beloved Autie; the Indians must have been impressed.
As the days passed, the blindfold never came off; my hands were never unbound; the sun and wind blistered my face and neck; my wrists chafed at their restraints. When it was time to feed and water me—and my captors weren’t generous with either food or drink—I felt a wooden spoon pressed against my parched lips.
Then something of a miracle happened. Behind us, faint but insistent, was the excited barking of a dog. The Indian outriders grunted and hissed. They seized my arms and wrenched off the blindfold. They nudged my horse to make a 180-degree turn. I blinked, my eyes unaccustomed to the glare of the sun. In the distance I saw Bad Boy, speeding towards us like a greyhound. Riding placidly in his wake was my Indian scout from Bloody Gulch, Billy Jack, astride an Indian pony and leading my horses Marshal Ney and Edward. He had an extraordinary companion riding side-saddle on a horse beside him: a nun. Surrounding them was a screen of mounted Indian braves.
Bad Boy was first to meet me. I was in no position to lean over and pet him, but I nodded him a salute. He took a sentry position beside my pony and acted as though the Indians were friendly; perhaps I had taught him too well.
Billy Jack rode up and saluted: “Reporting for duty, sir.”
“Your first duty, Sergeant, is to untie me. Thank goodness you’ve come.”
“Was not voluntary; these Indians brought us here—and they are not Crow. They are Meahtuah Sioux, cousins of the Boyanama Sioux. They recognized the markings on your arm—Boyanama work—and they know about her,” he nodded to the nun.
“Howdy, Marshal Armstrong, surprised to see me?” And I saw that hidden beneath that nun’s habit was the raven-haired villainess of my last adventure, Rachel, looking more wickedly attractive than ever. “I found out from your Indian that a religious vow can’t be taken by force. But I liked your idea of becoming a nun—not the vows, but the costume. I figured a disguise like this might come in handy—easy to make and gives me a free pass. No one connects a nun with a dead Indian trader like Larsen.”
“No, I suspect not.”
“And no white man bothers a nun with an Indian. He’d be afraid of getting roped into mission work.”
“I suppose, but what about the Indians?”
“The only Indians that matter are the Sioux—and to them I’m the widow of Bearstalker, daughter-in-law to Chief Linewalker. That merits honor, not trouble. It even merits an Indian escort. So,” said Rachel with a bewitching smile, “it seems that you’re at my mercy once again, Marshal Armstrong.”
“You know these Indians?”
“Like your scout says, the Meahtuah are kin to the Boyanama, so they know me. And I have a good reputation—despite knowing you.”
“I rescued you, Rachel. And you repaid me by conspiring with Larsen.”
“That’s in the past, Marshal—and both of us have plenty to regret. You need me now. These Indians will do what I say. As far as they know, you’re still my slave…”
“Your what?”
“… awarded to me by Chief Linewalker.”
“For goodness sakes, woman.”
“I stand between you and a scalping. You had a black scout, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Private Willie McCutcheon. He was butchered.”
“His wife was avenged; he wronged her; these are her people. Your fate is in my hands. They think you kidnapped me from the Boyanama Sioux: I am to decide whether you live or die.”
“But we escaped together.”
“If you behave yourself, we might again. I’ll have them untie you. They say there’s a small stream-fed lake down yonder. You can wash. I like my slaves clean. And we have new clothes for you. I thought ahead; I made a collection for indigent miners. Consider yourself one, because I think you just had a lucky strike.”
The minx actually winked at me. I was speechless. She said something to the Indians, the cords that bound my hands were cut, and I was yanked from the Indian pony. After days riding a bareback horse, grass under my boots felt good. Three braves escorted me to the river. I took the Indian medicine pouch that hung from a thong around my neck. It held my foldable toothbrush and a small supply of salt with which to brush my teeth. I completed my dental ablutions, and then gladly discarded my filthy clothes for the bracing cold of the lake. The water was clear and wonderfully reviving. Small fish darted about my feet; I was enlivened enough to try to catch them. Then I saw Billy Jack sitting on his haunches regarding me from the shoreline. He had a saddlebag over his shoulder and a hat box in his hands.
“Training?” he said.
“Training?”
“Yes, in Spanish, entrenando para una pelea; in French, entraînement pour un combat. You work speed of hand, yes?”
“Speed of hand—yes.”
“I brought you clothing: fresh, clean, donated by worthy Christians. I have Christian undergarments, shirts, trousers, socks—even a new Stetson hat. You will be well-dressed Marshal. You still have the star?”
“Yes, I still have the star.”
“Good. Think we may need it. Sister Rachel believes you head to San Francisco.”
“How the devil does she know that?”
“Nuns know many things.”
“She’s not a nun, Billy Jack.”
“I read somewhere, ‘Clothes maketh the man.’ Perhaps sanctity comes with costume.”
“If she’s a nun, then I’m a.…”
“Marshal—and General,” he said, and not for the first time, I wondered how much Billy Jack knew about me; more than I knew about him, I reckoned. He slid the saddlebag from his shoulder, unlatched it, and reached inside. “I even have a towel for after washing.”
“Well, throw it here, you…” I almost said “heathen,” but caught myself: “… you papist.”
“Ah yes, praise God.” He threw me the towel. “Hail Mary.”
I will say this: Rachel was an exceedingly clever woman—a woman of daring, dash, and plans, as you remember from my previous adventure, but also a good eye for clothes. She had managed to find me buckskins that fit as though they had been expertly tailored to my broad shoulders, barrel chest, narrow waist, and limber legs. I tilted the white Stetson onto my head and wished I had a mirror.
I had to rely on Billy Jack, who spouted, “Muy magnífico; in French, très magnifique; in Latin, valde magnificus; in Italian, molto magnifico.”
I affixed my badge to my buckskins and strode boldly to where “Sister” Rachel awaited me. It will not surprise you, dearest Libbie, that when I reappeared, Rachel gasped and clutched at her heart.
“Why, Marshal, those buckskins do you proud.”
“I’m obliged to you ma’am.”
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 2