by R. W. Stone
The Lakota shrugged and mumbled to himself: “If was White Bear’s brother, he shoot man.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Canadian and his guide rode for two more days before White Bear began acting strangely to Donovan’s mind. He started asking the Mountie to ride out ahead while he would hang back on the trail for a couple of hours before he would catch up again. The practice continued into the third day. Each time, when he returned, he would look back, slow down, and rub the back of his neck.
Finally, the Indian stopped, and said to Donovan: “We are being followed.”
The Mountie stopped to look back and study their back trail. “You think they’re the men from Elk Grove? Emerson’s kin?” Lucas asked.
“Don’t know. Who else?” White Bear shrugged. “We must take care. Come.”
White Bear and Lucas rode at a fast gallop for a while before the Lakota finally stopped at a narrow part of the trail.
“If want get to Bannack fast, men must come this way, otherwise lose many days.
Donovan surveyed their surroundings. This part of the trail was a ravine with steep slopes and a stand of trees on either side.
“What do you have in mind?” the Mountie asked.
“Block road. Hide. When men stop, we shoot dead from behind trees,” White Bear suggested.
Lucas considered the plan for a moment before shaking his head. “We can’t do that,” he finally said.
“Why not?” White Bear asked.
“Well, for one thing we aren’t positive it’s Emerson’s kin following us. For another, if it is them, they haven’t done anything that gives us the right to shoot them down. After all, as much as I would like to see those two dead, they are trying to protect their own family. Same as me, really.”
The Lakota grunted. “Emerson kill brother. Make sense kill these Emerson people, too.”
“Maybe so, White Bear, maybe so, but this pony solider won’t kill someone just because they were born with a certain family name. Even if it is a lousy one. That’s why I put them in jail in the first place.”
“What want do?” White Bear asked. He looked back down the trail again. “Not safe to have behind us. You want them go through to warn the man that kill your brother? Maybe Emerson man get away again.”
Donovan nodded, but he was more interested in a runt-like tree toward the top of the slope he had been studying as White Bear spoke. He dismounted and walked down the trail to where it curved sharply to the left. He then remounted and rode back past White Bear. He stopped and turned his horse around to study the trail. “It just might work,” he said aloud.
“What work? What we do?” the Lakota asked.
“Ever snare a rabbit?” Lucas asked.
The Indian nodded. “Bend branch. Catch with string.”
The Mountie grinned. “That’s right, my friend. But we’ll use a rope.” He pointed out the tree he thought they could use to their advantage.
“Here’s what I have in mind,” Donovan explained. “We set up a trap so that when the men ride through here, their horses’ hoofs will hit a trip rope we tie to that runty tree that we’re going to use by bending it over. Once the tied rope is tripped, the tree will then straighten up and pull a second rope, right across the trail, here at the narrowest part.” Lucas pointed out the spot to his companion. “They won’t even see what hit them when the rope tightens across the trail right about level with their neck. It should take them right off their horses.”
White Bear pointed to a different spot. “Why not put rope there? Be easier.”
The Mountie shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. We can’t count on how fast they will be riding. They might spot the rope and stop. What I have in mind is covering the tether with dirt and debris, so they won’t spot it. If we set it right, the second rope will spring tight before they even have a chance to stop.”
“Unless they are walking horses when come to curve,” White Bear pointed out.
“They’re in a hurry to warn Emerson. They won’t be walking their horses, I’m sure of it,” Lucas insisted.
“If riding fast, no need bend tree. Just stretch rope.”
“The glass is always half empty, is it?” Donovan said.
“What glass?” White Bear asked, not sure what the Mountie was asking him.
“Never mind. Let’s just do it my way. Either way, it’s a gamble.”
“No work, then we kill?” the Lakota asked.
Donovan shook his head. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
White Bear looked down the trail, shook his head, even more puzzled than a minute before. “No bridges here to Bannack,” he said.
“Great. Makes it easier then,” Donovan said, grinning. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
The two men worked together to bend the scrawny tree over. They then tethered it down with a rope, which ran low along the trail and had been wrapped around a notched piece of wood they had driven firmly into the ground. A second rope reached from the bent tree over to a larger tree and then back across to a big tree limb located just around the curve.
When they were through, they rode their horses up the slope to a point that, while not visible from the gully, still gave them a good view of the trail below.
White Bear took his rifle from his scabbard and started to walk away.
“Where are you going?” Lucas asked.
“Ahead. If this no work, I kill them for you.”
“I thought you didn’t want to get involved?” Lucas asked.
“Not in town. Too many white eyes. No like—how you say?—odds there. But out here, I not worry. Brother of pony soldier now like brother of White Bear.”
Donovan was deeply touched. “Thank you, my friend. But just wait and see if this works before you pull the trigger on that thing. All right?”
The Indian shrugged. “If you say. But White Bear think pony soldier always do things hard way.”
Donovan grinned. “Oh, trust me. Not always.”
It took two hours of waiting before the three men finally showed up. The Lakota had been right. It was the sheriff and the two trappers, the cousins of Jack Emerson.
“Quiet, boy,” Lucas said to his dog, who began to whimper softly at the sight of the trio. “Easy, Red, just let them come on in.”
The men were riding at a fast lope and hit the trip line just as Donovan had hoped. When the skinny tree straightened, it pulled the slack from the main rope, tugging it tight. The whole thing worked as if it had been rigged to a pulley, and before the men knew what had hit them, their shoulders collided with the rope line. All three men were catapulted backward, almost somersaulting off their horses, and hitting the ground hard. The trapper with his arm in a sling let off with a flurry of oaths.
“That must have hurt,” the Mountie said, laughing while patting his dog on the head and watching the trio’s horses gallop off.
White Bear stayed hidden up on the slope with his rifle aimed at the three men as Donovan made his way down onto the trail. When he reached the bottom of the slope, his pistol was out and trained on the riders, and he ordered them to drop their holsters. The man with the injured arm fumbled awkwardly for a moment, but finally got it off.
“Got out of jail faster than I expected, Sheriff,” Donovan addressed Jefferson.
“No thanks to you. We was lucky the town doc came by and saw the sign. He knew it was a lie. Him being the only one allowed to quarantine someone in that kind of situation.”
The Mountie laughed again. “I’ll bet it still took some explaining,” he said, as he glanced at the trapper with his arm in a sling. “The doc showing up worked out well for you, I see,” he said to the man.
“All because of you and your damned mutt,” the man grumbled.
“What are you going to do with us now?” the trapper asked angrily.
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br /> “I should kill you, so you can’t stop me from finding Jack Emerson,” Donovan replied.
The sheriff shook his head. “You’re a Mountie. Your office won’t allow it.”
“Oh, I’d dare all right. But, at least for now, I won’t.” He used his Webley pistol to point with. “Stand together over there. Move!” he ordered, his distaste for these men growing.
Donovan intended they have their backs to him, so he could safely search them for other weapons, but before he could herd them all together, the sheriff spun around and pulled out a hidden pocket pistol from under his coat.
A shot rang out and the sheriff was pitched backward. White Bear had fired from his cover. Almost simultaneously, however, the man with the sling turned and rammed into Lucas with his shoulder, which made him curse loudly upon impact.
Donovan was thrown sideways by the rush, and his pistol was knocked from his grip. Emerson’s cousin watched the gun slide and there was no doubt that he intended to dive for it, despite his bad arm. Turns out, attacking Lucas Donovan was the last mistake he would ever make. The big malamute jumped into action, and the man went down with Red’s teeth clamped down on his throat. He wasn’t even able to scream, as the dog’s teeth punctured his neck in several places.
With a desperate look on his face, the remaining trapper pulled a knife from his right boot. Lucas knew that trying to recover his pistol at that distance would be futile. Charlie Two Knives had taught the Donovan boys well. When going up, unarmed, against a man with a knife, expect to get cut. You must accept that and forget your fear. Keep your distance until your attacker commits. For all his fancy moves, he cannot cut you until you are inside a circle that represents the length of his arm plus the blade. If you are forced to back up, it is more likely you will stumble and fall, and that will be fatal. So, never fight in a straight line. Always circle. Remember, it is the blade that cuts or kills, but it is the hand that holds the knife. Since you can’t attack cold steel, you must try to attack the hand and the arm that holds it.
Lucas would try to defang the snake, as Charlie had called it.
The trapper lunged with his dagger, and Lucas pivoted back with his right foot. He was now sideways to the thrusting attack, so that he was facing the outer side of the trapper’s arm.
Still more of Charlie’s words about knife fights came back to Donovan. Stun the mind and the body collapses. Take the attacker’s mind off his plan and make him refocus on his own pain. Remember, there are certain points on the body where a blow will cause such discomfort that the brain will forget everything else, even if only for a moment, and in a knife fight, a moment is a lifetime. The eyeball is such a point, as is the front of the throat where the windpipe is.
Some years ago, he had bashed his shin into a bed frame one night, and the pain was excruciating. His recollection of hopping around his dark bedroom reminded him that the shin was one of these points of pain.
This time, as the trapper’s thrusting arm passed uncomfortably close to Donovan’s chest, the Mountie deflected the knife arm away, using his left hand, while simultaneously using a sideways savate kick to the front midpoint of the man’s right shin.
The shock and pain caused by the Mountie’s boot hitting the attacker’s shin was so great that it temporarily relaxed the muscles in the man’s knife arm, thus allowing Lucas to use his right hand to grab and twist the man’s wrist. He pushed out on his opponent’s elbow with his left hand, while with his right he bent the man’s wrist inward, directing the knife back toward the attacker’s own chest. He was dead before his body hit the ground—from the bullet the Lakota had fired.
As Donovan stool there, looking at the three men, White Bear descended from the slope.
“Men all dead,” White Bear said.
“Yes. They are,” Lucas said, shaking his head. He walked over to his pack horse and retrieved the ax. “And now I have to bury them.”
“Why not leave here? Animals take away.”
“I can’t do that,” Lucas explained. “It’s not my way.”
“Pony soldier not want to kill men like White Bear say, but now all dead anyway,” the Lakota remarked.
“Well, I tried,” Lucas replied, looking up at his companion. “So, what’s your point?”
“White Bear still think pony soldier do things hard way.”
Donovan headed off the trail with the ax, hoping to keep the graves out of the sight of passersby. He jabbed the ax into the hard ground, pushing down on it to drive it deeper. As he labored, he couldn’t help thinking: Maybe you are right, my Lakota friend. Maybe you are right after all.
Chapter Twenty
Two days later, the Mountie and his guide arrived at the outskirts of the town of Bannack. Lucas was growing comfortable around White Bear, as was Red, in spite of the Sioux’s reticent personality.
“You saved my life back there, you know,” Lucas said, the town coming into view.
White Bear merely shrugged. “No have choice. Took money to get you here. Like you say … was contract. You no live, you no make it here, then White Bear no deserve money.”
Donovan laughed. “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. Well, rest easy, my friend. You are an honest man and you clearly earned your pay.”
They had found the horses of the two trappers and the sheriff on the trail and had tied one to each of their three horses. Outside Bannack, Lucas untied the lead rope attached to the brass ring on his saddle and the one attached to the pack horse and handed them to While Bear.
“Take the three extra horses and all that comes with them, White Bear. You earned it all.”
The Lakota looked surprised. “You no keep?”
“Nope. I won’t be needing them.” Lucas nodded his head back in the direction of the trail. “And those three back there on the trail certainly won’t be needing them, either.”
White Bear stuck out his hand and clasped Donovan’s forearm firmly.
“Pony soldier good man. White Bear remember always.”
“And I, you. Sure you won’t change your mind and come into town with me? Might get us a good meal and some cold beer.”
White Bear shook his head. “Think best to get the horses out of this area. White Bear move on now. Beer taste good, but remember, pony soldier, what happen in bar in Elk Grove.”
“I guess you’re right, White Bear. In fact, you might not want to go back the way we came. Someone might recognize the horses and ask a few too many questions.”
White Bear shook his head and looked around. “Go north, look for my people. Maybe go up to your country.”
“If you ever do, be sure to look me up at Fort Macleod. I owe you much, my friend.” White Bear took hold of the lead ropes of the horses and turned his mount. “May the Great Spirit be with you always, Donovan,” he said as he glanced back one last time before riding off.
The Mountie breathed deeply. He would miss White Bear, but as he expelled his breath, it was what lay ahead that was on his mind. He looked back to catch a fleeting glimpse of the Lakota.
* * * * *
As he rode into Bannack, Donovan straightened in his saddle. A shiver, like a warning, traveled up his spine. That Jack Emerson had warned his relatives to be on the lookout for someone following him convinced Donovan the outlaw would have more people helping him in his home town.
Lucas was well aware that his skills at reading sign would never be as good as that of his brother or of White Bear. If he had any advantage, it was Red who was always alert to trouble. So far on this journey, the dog had saved him more times than he could count; a few times his presence alone had made the difference.
The sound of ringing hammers penetrated deep into Donovan’s ears as he moved through the town that was clearly drawing in new settlers and businesses. Still, it had many of the signs of a primitive frontier mining town. Stores set up in large open-front tents stood
right alongside new wood-framed ones. Large freight wagons made their way down the dirt streets, and men with various tools shuffled down the plank walkways, which were being extended to the entrances of the new construction.
Donovan made his way down the dirt street to its far end, where a large stable and a corral were located. A sign made from an old battered piece of wood painted white read: pop ryan, liveryman.
Here, Lucas dismounted and extended his hand to an aging bald man, standing outside. The man scratched his head as he assessed the Mountie.
“Take it you’re Pop,” said Donovan. “Got room to put up my horses for a few days?” he asked.
“No problem,” replied the older man as he shifted his porkpie hat. “It’ll be fifty cents a day, full or part time, but that includes grain. Ain’t no box stalls yet, just standin’ stalls, but they’s kept real clean, mister.”
Donovan’s quick but observant glance around revealed the man’s pride was justified. There weren’t too many flies buzzing around, which was uncommon for a stable, and the manure pile was kept a decent distance from the stalls. There were large clean bins for the grain, and the hay appeared fresh, with no evidence of mold. The nails had been countersunk during construction, so there were none sticking out to cut the horses.
“Sounds fair to me,” Lucas said, nodding his approval. “Can you recommend a place to stay around here? Maybe some place I can clean up?”
“Head down that ways a bit. A good hotel’s right around the corner.” He pointed back the way Lucas had come. “They got real clean rooms. They’s a barbershop next door where you can shave and take a bath. Cost you a buck.” The liveryman removed his hat again and wiped his head with a kerchief he pulled from his pocket. “Funny. Horses is bigger and take longer to bathe, but men cost more fer some reason.”
“Thanks for your help.” Lucas pulled his saddle bags and bedroll from the pack horse.
“Say, that’s one of them Canadian trooper saddles, ain’t it?” Pop Ryan asked, noticing the split seat and the cross bars underneath.