The Fort Laramie provost marshal was a West Point graduate, newly arrived from Virginia. Unlike the young lieutenant who had investigated the supply-pilfering charges, Captain Van Dyke was not polite, and certainly not friendly. Simon, Zahn, Rosie and Buell stood next to four chairs lined up along their side of a long table. The captain and a sergeant sat on the other side.
“This inquest will determine if capital murder was committed at McCaffrey’s stable on July twenty-second. Toward that end, I am going to compel each of you to testify, under oath, to what you witnessed. You will answer the questions I pose, forthrightly and to the point. I will brook no interference. The sergeant will record my questions, and your answers. You will not be accorded the services of a lawyer, as this is not a civil proceeding. State your full name and occupation when asked by the sergeant, and then be seated.”
The sergeant took all four names, beginning with Simon, and when he was finished, Captain Van Dyke started the questioning. Simon told of the event in detail, starting with the light they saw in the stable. He was telling about Knife’s assault on Rosie and Buell’s reaction, when Captain Van Dyke stood and leaned across the table.
“Did the Indian threaten Mister Mace with the knife you describe?”
“No, but he—”
“Was Mister Mace in danger of being attacked with the knife?”
Simon glanced sideways at the other three. Buell smiled slightly, and Zahn shrugged in resignation. Rosie looked irritated.
“Answer the question, Mister Steele.”
“Yes, he was.”
The captain looked surprised, and then annoyed. “How so?”
“The Indian had the knife and knew how to—”
“The question, Mister—”
“I’m answering. And knew how to use it, as evidenced by him being able to wound Rosie, even while under Buell’s gun.”
The captain’s face started to color and the pitch of his voice rose. “Mister McFarland’s wounding has not been established as yet.”
“What?” Rosie nearly shouted his protest. “I got stuck, Captain.”
“You were not asked—”
“What’n hell you drivin’ at? We been sittin’ here thirty minutes, and I’ll be damned if I couldn’t tell you the whole thing in five.”
“I was questioning Mister Steele.”
“Like hell ya were. You were pokin’ around, lookin’ for something that ain’t there.”
“You will answer when a question is directed at you. Your unsolicited comments will be stricken.” The captain looked at the sergeant, who nodded and made a notation on the page.
Rosie glared at him a moment, and then leaned back in his chair.
“You are obviously well educated, Mister Steele. And as such, you can understand the need for order here on the frontier. But I can see that you people have a peculiar sense of justice, and your own way of expressing it. The same goes for your opinions.” He looked pointedly at Rosie. “That said, I want you to continue, being as succinct as possible. You may proceed.” He sat back down.
Simon described the way Knife had gone for his blade, and how, when Rankin had taken advantage of the commotion and went for his pistol, Buell had shot him. Then, he described Buell’s continued attack on the Indian. Finished, he sat back.
The captain cleared his throat. “Mister Mace asked the Indian to surrender?”
“Yes,” Simon answered.
“He didn’t provoke him?”
“No.”
“Did he provoke Mister Rankin?”
“No.”
The captain leaned back in his chair with a sigh and looked directly at Rosie and then Zahn. “Is there anything either of you two want to add to that?”
Both men shook their heads.
“Please answer yes or no.”
“No,” they answered in unison.
“Very well, Mister Mace. The surgeon’s report says the Indian’s heart was shredded, literally. Why did you see it necessary to shoot the man four more times . . . in the face?”
“I wanted him dead.” Buell’s cold stare met the captain’s.
“You wanted him dead.” The captain shook his head slowly. “You actually saw him as a threat? Prone and bleeding profusely. He was dead, Mister Mace.”
“And rightly so.”
“I think you’re a dangerous man.”
Buell continued to meet his eye, his face passive.
The captain couldn’t hold eye contact and looked at the others. “Very well. I’ll report my findings to Colonel Masters. Should there be charges, you will be notified. This hearing is concluded. You are dis—you may go.” He picked up his leather binder and left, followed by the sergeant.
“Never saw such a pile of horseshit in all my life,” Rosie said. “He was lookin’ to hang Buell, pure and simple.”
“I think he was doing his job as he saw it,” Zahn said.
“What! You takin’ his side?”
“Eventually, people like Knife and Rankin will be handled by the law. But no, I’m not takin’ his side. I’m simply saying, I can understand why he did this.”
“You might think diff’rent if it was you, and Lori had got jumped in the night,” Buell said, staring at Zahn.
“You’re probably right, but—”
“No buts about it. Unless—” Buell stopped in mid sentence, his eyes narrowed in a look of disdain.
“Unless what?” Zahn said. He glared at Buell.
“We’re done here,” Simon said. “Let’s go back to the saloon.”
Buell sniffed, then scooted his chair back. “I’m gonna go get some tobacco. I’ll see ya later.” He snatched his hat off the table and left.
“What was he gettin’ at?” Zahn asked, irritated.
“Let it go, Zahn,” Simon said. The incident by the river came flooding back, and he knew what Buell had in mind to say: unless you couldn’t do it yourself. “Let’s get back to the ranch.”
The three men rode back to McCaffrey’s in silence.
The bad taste of the provost marshal’s interrogation still lingered after four days. Unable to concentrate, Simon sat in the still, suffocating air of his office, doing absolutely nothing. He had just resolved to leave when Buell stepped into the room and pulled the door shut.
“Bein’ around you the last few days ain’t been no fun,” Buell said as he slumped into a chair. “You’re like a badger with a bellyache. What’n hell’s got up your ass?”
Simon couldn’t meet his eyes. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Buell.”
“Well, I do. And I’m here.” Buell eased to the edge of the chair. “Ya ain’t never had any trouble before tellin’ me how wrong I am.”
“I’m having a hard time getting that night in the barn out of my head.”
“And I’m havin’ a hard time understandin’ what yer problem is. What choice did I have?”
Simon was quiet, not wanting to say what he thought.
“Well, gawdammit, what choice did I have?”
“That’s part of what’s botherin’ me, Buell. I get the feeling you didn’t want a choice.”
“Meanin’ what?”
“I don’t want to fight about this. Just let it go, and I’ll sort it out.”
“Same every time. You don’t wanta face it.”
“And that’s the rest of the problem, Buell.”
“What?”
“You said it. The same every time. You’ve killed four men Buell, and maimed one, and we’re barely over twenty-one. That ain’t natural.” Simon’s breath drew in sharply.
Buell’s face darkened and he slowly stood. “Ain’t natural? What’re you sayin’, Simon?” He stepped closer to the desk.
“I . . .” Simon’s heart raced and his mouth went dry.
“Rankin wasn’t goin’ to shoot me, Simon. He was lookin’ to get out the door. And guess who was standin’ in his way?”
Simon’s mind flashed back to the killing.
“Uh-huh. Ya remember
now, don’tcha?” Buell leaned across the desk, his eyes ablaze. “So whose biscuit got saved from the dog? Again!” He turned, jerked open the door and stormed out.
Simon struggled to calm his emotions, his mind swirling around what he knew to be true and what he wanted to believe. He had to talk to someone.
An hour later Simon rode his horse up to Walks Fast’s tepee. A moment later the old Indian’s wife pushed back the flap and came out. She pointed toward the hills. “Taylor,” she said and reentered the tepee.
Simon found the Indian sitting on the ground in the shade of the trees, his eyes closed, apparently asleep. His hands were folded in his lap, his legs crossed under him. Simon dismounted and tied his horse to a corral pole. As he approached, the Indian looked up, and with his hand to his mouth, indicated silence.
“Sit and listen,” he whispered, then closed his eyes again.
Simon sat beside him and waited. The old man breathed slowly and deeply, his face relaxed. After several minutes he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.
“Simon has trouble. I have gone with Simon’s spirit on a truth search for many nights. You have a worry for what white men call soul. And the worry is not for your own.”
“Somehow I knew you’d know.”
“When trouble is big enough, every night walker sees it. It can’t be a secret.”
“Do you mean others can see what I dream about?” The thought made Simon uncomfortable for some reason.
“Not see, like see with our eyes. We see like we are in the dream with you.”
“Do you understand what I see in my dreams?”
“No. Your dreams belong to you, but my spirit can talk to your spirit.”
“Then how do you know I’m worried about Buell?”
“Because I worry about him too.”
Both men sat silent for a few minutes as Simon thought about what he had just heard. “Does he want to kill people?” Simon finally asked. He hated the question as much as he feared the answer and bowed his head.
“We are born with all kinds of spirits inside. When a man grows, a good family will push out the bad ones. Buell didn’t have a whole family. Is this true?”
“His mother died when he was born.”
“The spirit of the Devil Bear is strong in him. Devil Bear is a crazy spirit. Sometimes he will bite his own leg in anger.”
“What’s a Devil Bear? A grizzly?”
“No. It’s a small animal, but very strong, and it smells very bad. It does not know fear and lives alone in the mountains.”
Simon recalled the times Buell had confronted others older and bigger than himself, apparently unafraid and cocksure. “How can he get away from this thing?”
“That might not happen.”
“Then he’ll always look for a fight?”
“He does not look for a fight, but he will not turn his face away either. Devil Bear fights without seeing. Buell fights like the Devil Bear.”
“Do you mean he doesn’t really know what he’s doing?”
Walks Fast didn’t answer immediately, his expression one of a man in deep thought. Sadness shadowed his gaze when he looked at Simon. “I think maybe the Devil Bear closes Buell’s eyes to many things.”
Simon sensed that Walks Fast had said all he wanted to say but pressed on. “What can I do to help? He’s more than my friend, he’s like a brother.”
“Then treat him like a brother.” Again Walks Fast paused as though weighing something. “Trust him like a brother.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowed.
“Can he ever be rid of this devil?”
“You must find his Devil Bear and kill it. Then its spirit will leave Buell.”
“And how do we find it? How do we kill the thing?”
“Walks Fast does not know that.” A look of pain strained the Indian’s calm demeanor. “The Devil Bear does not like you, and I think it will find you one day.” The Indian’s eyes lost focus and then slowly closed.
Soon the old man was breathing slowly and deeply again. Simon sat for a minute or so, then got up and went to his horse. He looked back as he rode away and was startled to see a shaft of sunlight pierce the trees and bathe the Indian in bright light. For a moment the stoic figure seemed to float in the air.
CHAPTER 16
The air had a clarity that made the distances across the rolling hills shrink by half. Simon breathed deeply of the cool air as he stood on the porch. Spud, as usual, took off toward the river, his bounding gait soon carrying him out of sight. Simon could hear his harassing bark when he found something to chase. The oppressive heat of August had finally given way to this, the first cool morning in September, and the road in front of the saloon was deserted, something it hadn’t been since midweek. And the last four days had been particularly chaotic.
Four English gentlemen, with their dogs, and an entourage of eleven handlers, helpers and assistants, had descended on McCaffrey’s for a week of hunting. Up at the crack of dawn, the noisy group, oblivious to the desires and needs of the other guests, clamored to get out on the prairie and ride in pursuit of some unfortunate wolf. Returning late in the afternoon, they demanded baths, meals, and every imaginable special consideration. By the end of the third day, Lori, Twiggs, and the ladies had had their fill of them, despite the enormous sums of money the foreigners were willing to spend.
Then, relief came in a form that only nature and circumstance can provide. Simon could only guess at what really transpired based on the after-the-fact argument that ensued. Walks Fast explained that for the event to make sense, he had to understand two facts: dogs will pursue anything that runs, and a prairie coyote is the most intelligent animal living on the plains.
The hunting party was east of Fort Laramie in the vicinity of a cattle ranch owned by a Scotsman named Connery. Mister Connery’s pride and joy was a small herd of shorthorn cattle, a breed not necessarily suited to the harsh winters of the area. But the determined Mister Connery pampered and coddled his herd, convinced they were the future of the Wyoming beef industry. And today, as was often the case, four armed cowboys rode protection over the cattle, shooting wolf, bear, rustler, or Indian as they were identified.
A pack of coursing hounds ranged well ahead of the mounted English hunters, the occasional deep booming bay of the lead dog kept the men, usually out of sight, in touch with the dogs. And then, the sound of the dog’s voice changed to one long howl, and the entire group took up the chorus. The hunting dogs had their prey in sight.
Over a mile farther east, Mister Connery’s cattle grazed. “What’n hell’s that?” the first herder shouted across to the second.
“Them gawdamn huntin’ dogs.” The second puckered his lips and issued a long shrill whistle.
In a minute, two riders came charging over a low ridge and joined the first two.
“Ya hear that?” the first herder, obviously the boss, asked the newly arrived pair.
“Yep. Huntin’ dogs. Heard ’em once before.”
“They bother cows?” the boss asked.
“Don’t rightly know.”
“Well, we better be ready. I go back to the ranch and tell Mister Connery we us got a chewed-on cow, all hell will cut loose, right along with our jobs. Drag out them rifles.”
As the cowboys were discussing what they’d heard, a hungry coyote, nearly half a mile away, scrounged around for something, anything, dead or alive, to eat. He flushed a small rodent from a tumbleweed heap and chased it into another one, twenty yards away. Nose down, having sniffed out the trail of his potential breakfast, he stood, staring intently at his meal. Suddenly, his hackles rose at the sound of the dogs. He turned to look just as the pack crested a ridge a quarter mile away. He, too, heard the long raying howl as the leader spotted him, and he knew he had a problem. He headed east.
As fast as a coyote is, he picks his route carefully, putting hill, tree, brush or whatever he can find, between himself and his pursuer, but always moving away. Unfortunately, compared to a cour
sing hound, a coyote is a small animal, and the gap between them was soon reduced to a couple hundred yards. But what he lacked in strength and size, nature had made up in intelligence. He turned sharply left, shot up the hill, in plain view of the pursuing hounds, and disappeared out of sight.
The effect on the hounds became instantly clear to everyone listening. The chorus of blood-curdling howls carried back to the hunters, who shouted and urged their horses forward.
The cowboys also heard it. “My gawd, they’re comin’ right at us,” shouted the boss. “Git on the ground.”
All four men scrambled off their fidgety mounts, and faced the unnerving sound of the unseen pack. Four levers, on four rifles, loaded four .44-caliber cartridges.
The coyote knew of the herd. He also knew men stood watch over them, and had deliberately stayed well away from them. But he needed a place to hide, and he needed it now. The milling mass of legs seemed just the place. Straight into the herd he ran.
Out of sight, but not out of scent, the lead dog followed the distinct airborne trail of the coyote. Over the crest of the hill and down he charged, howling like he was wounded, oblivious to everything but the smell of the coyote ahead of him.
The first rifle spit out the herder’s objection, followed in an instant by three more. Three dogs, including the leader, piled up and lay still. Well-oiled machinery worked to carry four fresh rounds to the ready. Four more shots split the air in near unison and four more dogs died. The herders then watched as the two remaining animals slid to a stop in a tangle of heavy feet and taut haunches. Terrified by the sudden thunder of gunfire, and the agonized howl of their dying pack mates, they turned and bolted back the way they’d come.
“Good shootin’ boys. Now mount up and git these cows settled down.” Without a glance at the dead dogs, they hurried their horses to encircle the herd.
“Lookit that,” the boss shouted, and pointed at the moving cattle. “Gawdamn coyote right in the middle of ’em. Jist ambling along with the herd. I’ll be damned.”
The hunters heard the first sharp crack of the rifle. The following seven shots, in the space of five seconds, snapped their heads around as they looked questions at each other. They urged their horses toward the sound and crested the ridge, just as the herders had gotten themselves positioned around the small herd.
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