by W. R. Benton
“What now?”
“I mount and we keep moving. I ought to kill this bastard.” Lew said, and then gave Dog a series of hard kicks to his ribs. It seemed the more he thought about what the breeds tried to do last night, the madder he became.
“Mr. Stoner, either kill the man or leave him alone. I will not sit here and watch you beat on a man who cannot defend himself.”
“Filthy trash.” Lew said, and then walked inside the trading post.
Minutes passed and finally he returned, mounted and they started moving south by slightly east, toward Kansas City. They'd covered a couple hundred feet when a loud explosion filled the air and when Susan looked back at the trading post, a fireball was rolling inside the first fireball. Then another explosion, much larger than the first, sent debris in all directions.
“What in the world was that?” she asked.
“I think the first explosion was his whiskey going up and the second was his gun-powder. I'll not have any man enter my camp intending to hurt me or mine and not make him pay. His trading post is now history and he'll have to start over again.”
“If the blast didn't kill him, he may be able to start over. You're a rough man for a fellow who says he was once an preacher, don't you think?”
“As the scripture says, 'I can do everything through Him who gives me strength.'”
“God had nothing to do with you almost beating that man to death and then blowing up his business. That was John Stoner, the sinner, who did that. What kind of man are you?”
“I don't know what kind of man I am these days. I reach a point at times where I just explode with violence and I know it comes from how my family died. I lost all I ever wanted and loved.”
“You're not the first person to lose everything, and if you think I'm going to feel sorry for you, it won't happen. You seem to forget, I've lost two husbands in my life and all that I called family on that wagon train. All I have left of me in the world is little Billy. So, don't preach to me about poor you , because I don't want to hear another word.”
For hours they rode in silence and finally, a couple of hours before dusk, they pulled into a dry gully for the night. As Susan cooked a supper of smoked ham and beans, Lew picked up buffalo patties for the fire.
Light was fading fast when two riders neared and one called out, “We're both white and friendly, can we share your fire?”
“Hold your long guns in your left hands when you ride near the fire. When you dismount, I want nothing between you and me, got it?” Lew called out.
“You ain't very trusting, now are you?”
“Nope, I don't trust well at all. Those are the rules, so play by them or keep riding.”
“We're coming.”
Soon Dutch and Sam rode into the camp, holding their rifles overhead, and then dismounted. Once they were near the fire, Lew said, “Lay the rifles where you are and then move to the other side of the fire. Susan, you keep them covered with the shotgun as I collect their guns.” He then moved to each man and pulled his pistols from their holsters.
Moving to the other side of the flames, he said, “Now, howdy-do. I'm John Stoner, and the woman is Susan. I'll hand your guns back when I reckon I can trust y'all.”
“I'm Dutch and this is Sam. We're on our way to Kansas City from Omaha. We were working for the railroad, only there was too much cost in staying on the job.”
“Cost? How could it cost you, if you had a job?” Susan asked.
“Tin cup by the fire and coffee is done, if you want some.” Lew said.
As he poured coffee, Dutch said, “We'd work all day and then return to camp. Now as soon as the railroad stopped for a spell, a town would spring up overnight. We called these places Hell Towns and they surely were, too. You've never seen so much sin and evil in one place in all your life. They had everything from whiskey to whor—, soiled doves, I mean, for a man, but the prices were insane. Beer was a dollar a glass and we were only makin' ten dollars a day.”
“Ten dollars a day!” Lew said, “That's as much as some men make in a month of backbreaking hard labor.”
“We didn't spend much though, did we, Dutch?” Sam stated as if trying to justify the almost $40,000 he had in his saddlebags.
“We were too tired at night to spend much money. Me and Sam here slept under some canvas and cooked our own meals. We saved our money, because they charged three dollars for a plate of beans and five dollars a night just to sleep in a tent.”
“I don't think I'd be riding around telling folks I had money on me.” Lew said and then shook his head at their stupidity.
“We don't have but a little on us. We, uh, we wired the rest to Kansas City and can pick it up once we get there.”
“I'd still keep quiet. A bad man might make you pick up the money in the big city, then slit your throats. I never discuss religion, politics or money when traveling.” Lew said, and then reached for the coffee pot.
“Where ya folks headin'?” Sam asked.
“Omaha. I'm after some prison escapees that killed my whole family. They raped my wife and little girls, then killed all of them, including my boys. I returned home to nothing, because they burnt my place to the ground. Even the outhouse was in ashes.”
“That's terrible.” Dutch said as he met the eyes of Sam.
“Lawdy, ain't that some shit?” Sam said, and then took a nervous gulp of his coffee.
“I'll bet you'd love to get your hands on them about now.” Dutch said.
“I've already killed a few, but not all. I'm on a mission for God, and I'll not rest until I kill every single man that had anything to do with the killing of my family.”
Dutch suddenly pulled a small derringer and said, “Don't move.”
Chapter 14
BARKING DOG awoke to the smell of something burning and feeling intense heat. When he finally opened his eyes, he discovered his trading post in flames and his long johns were so hot they were smoking. He quickly crab crawled away from the flaming structure and tried to remember what had happened. It took him many long minutes, but he finally remembered Lew's visit and being knocked out, only he had no idea how the fire started.
He walked into his rawhide looking barn and pulled a bottle of rye whiskey out of a metal bucket. Pulling the cork, he took a long drink and then shook his head. This wasn't the first time he'd been burned out of business; the last time the Sioux did it because his cheap whiskey had killed a couple of warriors. Hell, he didn't know too much kerosene added to the drink would kill a man, but it had, and his business had gone up in flames.
I sure pissed off the wrong feller this time, and now momma Cook is shy two boys. That damned Stoner is just plain mean. I ought to leave his ass alone, but I won't. I can just see Charging Bear's expression if I had Stoner's scalp to stick in his face. That'd keep the red sumbitch off my ass for the rest of my life, Dog thought. I'm gonna need a few things, then I'm goin' to hunt and kill me a white man. I'll keep that little woman of his and give the boy to the tribe to raise. Best watch your ass, John Stoner, I'm comin' fer ya.
Two hours later, in the Omaha village, Charging Bear neared the fire of Dog and sat. After a few minutes he asked, “I hear you are going to kill the white warrior I gave the pony, but I cannot believe this is true. You do not have the magic to kill the man, or have you had a dream?”
“I have had no dream, uncle, but I will kill him all the same.”
Charging Bear laughed and said, “I think it is you who will die, not the white man. That man is no normal man and has been blessed by the Great Father of all things. No, you may fight him, but it is you who will die.”
“Then I will die as an Omaha warrior, in battle against my enemy.”
“You are no warrior, but you could have been. It was the love of the white man's things and his firewater that made you turn your back on your real people. I have been told your lodge of trading has gone away and is no more. Is this true?”
“The white man I will kill burned it to the ground
, after he took all he wanted.”
“I understand.”
Silence, except for the snaps and pops from the damp wood as it burned.
After almost ten minutes, Charging Bear asked, “If this white man was in your hands once, why did you not kill him then? Why did you wait for him to destroy your lodge of trading before making him your enemy? I have been told by White Fawn Cook that both of her sons died last night while trying to steal horses. Did these horses belong to the same white man? Did you anger the white man first?”
“I did. What Omaha warrior would pass up two fine ponies, a beautiful woman, and a man child?”
“I am warning you as your uncle, this is no normal white man you have angered, and he is blessed by the Creator of All Things. If you leave him alone, he will eventually take his family and leave our lands. Once he has gone, your life will continue, as before. If you go for him, my sister will soon be grieving the loss of her only son.”
“I will gather up my warriors and be gone by the time the sun goes to sleep.”
“Barking Dog, you were foolish many times as a young man, but I think your foolish days are about to end. I have had a dream and in my dream you are killed by your own people. I do not know if your killer will be white or Omaha. You can ride knowing I will see you buried in the ways of your real people, the Omaha.” Charging Bear stood and walked away, the conversation ended.
Two days later a scout returned and said, “The one you are seeking is near. When do you plan to attack this man?”
“Soon. Is he alone or still with his woman and son?”
“He is with two other white men and his family.”
“Are you sure there are other men with him? Maybe they have come to visit.”
“I saw one hand of white people. Three fingers are men, another is a woman, and the last one is a man-child. Their saddles are off and the horses have been cared for. They are staying for at least one night.”
“When I fought this man there were no others.”
“What are two more white men? I can kill three white men alone.” a large full blooded Omaha warrior called Broken Spear said.
“Then you, my friend, can open the attack on the white men. Show me you are brave when the time comes.” Dog said, knowing well the man would be killed in a few heartbeats. That was a problem he had with his mother's people, they seemed to have an illusion that they could not be hurt or die. Each wore a medicine pouch around their neck that consisted of this and that, but mostly trash as far as Dog was concerned. The contents of the pouch was to keep the wearer safe at all times, but yet Omaha warriors died in battles and accidents. Dog placed no importance on the pouch, even though he wore one too.
“Sit and let us eat. Then, after eating, we can talk of killing the white men. All the spoils of war will go to you, my warriors, for joining me in my fight against those who want to steal our lands. The white man speaks with two tongues; one for his white and another for his red friends. He is truthful with his white friends, but lies to his red ones. Let us eat and then we will speak much of this coming battle.” Dog said, and then smiled. Simply by reminding his braves the lying white man wanted Omaha lands was enough to start their anger.
As meat was cut into chunks and skewered onto sharpened sticks, very little speaking was done. The end of the stick was stuck into the ground and the meat allowed to lean over the hot coals. At times a warrior would rotate the meat so it cooked evenly. Mostly the meat was cooked until burnt on the outside and rare on the inside. More than one warrior was seen eating as blood ran from his mouth, down his chin, to fall on his chest. After each warrior ate about five pounds of meat, the sticks were packed, and a lighted pipe was passed around. Each warrior motioned to the four corners of the earth and then raised and lowered the pipe to signify the heavens and earth. Once the pipe had completed the circle, Dog knocked the hot ash into his palm and then sprinkled the tobacco into the flames of the fire.
“There are three hands of Omaha warriors here and only three white men. In the morning, once light, we will strike them hard and fast. I only want the woman and the boy, the rest belongs to my warriors.”
“Do you not wish to kill the man who has dishonored you?” Strong Bow asked.
“If it can be done, yes, but in battle someone else may kill him first. As long as he dies, his dishonor dies with him.”
“Yes,” Strong Bow said, “but can you not call this white man out and fight him alone?”
“It cannot be done with white men, because they are cowards and hide behind their guns that shoot many times or in great numbers of men. If I challenged a white man, he would shoot me when I stood to fight him.” Dog said, allowing his white blood to speak as if he knew of all things about the white race. While in fact, he was much more Omaha than white and had only been to a city once, to Kansas City with his old father to see a white shaman. His father had sores and wetness between his legs, on his manhood, and his vision was failing him. The white shaman told him he had French Pox and would soon die of the illness. His father had died, twenty years later and half insane, but that was a part of Dog's life he never thought about. His father was an abusive drunk, who had burned to death in his cabin after knocking over a lamp. So, in the end, the white shaman had been wrong, because fire had killed his father, not the French Pox.
“Barking Dog? I think your mind has traveled.”
“My mind traveled back to the days of my father and his father.” Dog said and then added, “Bloody Hand, I want you and Kills Many to return to the camp of this white man and watch him over night. If he leaves, one of you return for us while the other remains to watch.”
“Will you still attack him with the birth of a new sun?” Bloody Hand asked.
“Yes, but first we need to make much medicine.” Dog said, gave a big smile, and then pulled out a gallon jug of trading alcohol. He raised the bottle and took a long deep drink.
When he handed the jug to Strong Bow the warrior said, “I do not drink firewater. It steals my thoughts and mind, making me ill the next morning. I have sworn to the Great Creator that I will never taste it again.”
“Who has not made such a promise to the Creator of All things?” Only one other warrior, Kills Many, would not drink the rough amber colored alcohol, and Dog knew this when he assigned them the job of watching the white men. With a quick nod of his head, he sent them on their way. After a few quick sips of the drink, he stood and moved to his blankets, where he kept the smoother bottles of Kentucky bourbon.
Kills Many watched the white men for hours, from the surrounding darkness, and he understood much of what they did. Unlike most white men, these didn't sit around a large fire sipping whiskey and talking in loud voices or yelling. Instead, they kept their flames small, voices were low, and there was no drinking of firewater. When they pulled guard, the man moved back into the darkness, away from the red coals of the dying campfire and watched. The horses were all pulled in close and the guard could see all from his location.
He'd heard stories in the past about men like this, who used to travel over Omaha lands to take the One Who Swims. His grandfather spoke of them being true men and how difficult their hair was to take, because they fought like real warriors. One white man in those seasons might take three or more warriors with him when he passed over to the other side. Very rarely did the men who took the One Who Swims die alone.
He also remembered a cold snowy night in his lodge as a young man listening to grandfather speak of such white men. His grandfather, called Sharp Talons, was a respected man who had countless coups and his headdress would drag on the ground unless he was mounted. He lay on his robe beside the fire and spoke of a time white men came to their village. Many were sick and more than just a few had passed over.
“The white men were tall men, much taller than most Omaha warriors, and were nothing but muscle. They were smart men as well, but I was to learn they were also honorable men. In those days, white men kept their word and traded fairly, unlike today
. At some point over many seasons, honor among white men, as a people, died, as it has with some of our people. Now they lie and steal, and can no longer be trusted. But, let me return to my story.
We were all ill with a disease the takers of the One Who Swims called 'measles.' They spoke of it being a child's sickness among the whites, except it killed many of our young and old. They grew so hot, even willow bark would not bring their fevers down, thus they died. Red sores covered their bodies and the sores itched, driving an ill person almost insane with the desire to scratch. If you have ever seen big green blowflies so thick around a horse the animal almost goes insane, then you have an idea of how we felt. Many funerals took place. I remember . . .”
'Talon?' the mountain man asked in my own Omaha tongue.
'Y . . . yes? I felt so tired and sore. I had just become a real man, with one coup and a horse when I turned ill. I found out later I got the disease from the white man I'd killed. I also learned that I had brought the illness to my people and also the Sioux, which we called the Cut Throats at the time.
You must try to eat if you can. I have given you water and whiskey, but you need nourishment or you will die.
You . . . you are Ty Fisher? i You are One Who Speaks?
Yes, I am One Who Speaks. The man smiled warmly at me. He understood my sickness well.
Is Walks . . . Proudly with you?
Yes, Jarel Wade is here, too. We are caring for the ill and burying the dead, only there are many. Many burial scaffolds now stand, where yesterday there were none.
Where is the . . . shaman and his helper? They . . . should be caring for the sick and those who die. The illness made my thinking difficult and I could not remember much due to high fevers.
They have passed over to the other side and are no more. One Who Speaks raised my head and allowed some meat broth to enter my mouth. Swallowing brought me much pain.