“Well, I guess nobody’s gonna cry over him,” Staley said.
“Not like they will over Johnny Morgan,” Jones said.
Staley sipped his coffee. Finally he said: “Dave, I made a deal with the general for you and O’Hara to go back to Fort Fetterman with me. I’m quitting, so we’ll go right on to Cheyenne. The general said he’d see you had a horse. We’re leaving about dark.”
At first Allison’s expression didn’t change, then what Staley had said seemed to get through to him. He nodded. “All right, Walt. I’d sign up for another hitch if I thought I could square it for Johnny. But they’d probably send me to Fort Fetterman with the wagon train and then put me out in another hay camp.”
“We’ll hit ’em a lick for Johnny,” Jones said.
“Just one thing, Dave,” Staley said. “We may get into one hell of a tight squeeze before we see Fort Laramie.”
“Good,” Allison said. “I’ll shoot me some Sioux.”
Staley set his tin cup down and rose. “At dark,” he said, and walked off to look for O’Hara.
He found the reporter in Captain Hanson’s tent, scribbling hard.
O’Hara looked up and said cheerfully: “Hello, Walt. I’ll have this story ready by the time you start back for Fetterman.”
“You’ll be carrying it yourself,” Staley said. “You’re going with me and Dave Allison … unless you’re scared. I’ll admit it’s damned dangerous, just three of us out there in the middle of Wyoming with Sioux and Cheyenne hunting parties all around us.” He paused. “Hunting for scalps, that is.”
O’Hara jumped up, his face turning red. “I’m not scared! You know better than that. But I’m not ready to leave here, damn it. This is the worst-run outfit I ever saw. I mean to expose …”
“Patrick,” Staley cut in, “I’ve already made arrangements for you to go with me and Allison.”
O’Hara’s face turned from red to purple. “They can’t shut my mouth about what happened on the Rosebud …”
“Nobody is trying to shut your mouth,” Staley said. “It’s just that some folks are tired of listening to you. We’re leaving at dark. You be ready.”
“Is that an order from the general?”
“Just a suggestion, Patrick. All you have to do is go back to Chicago, expose the hell out of Crook, and then join Custer. Now there’s a man who would never pull back because he ran low on ammunition. You’ll just love it riding with old Yellow Hair. See you, Pat.”
Staley walked off to get some supper and sleep.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Staley, Allison, and O’Hara reached Fort Fetterman early on a morning late in June, having ridden nights and hidden during the days just as Staley had done each time he carried dispatches. There had been no trouble, unless Staley’s irritation with O’Hara could be called trouble, and that had not lasted long.
The first time O’Hara criticized Crook was the last time. It happened about ten minutes after they left the base camp on Goose Creek. Staley said O’Hara had better keep his mouth shut or Staley would pull him out of his saddle and whip him to within one heartbeat of his life.
O’Hara believed him. He sulked for a time, but he got over it by morning. When they reached the North Platte, he was in his usual good humor.
They crossed on the ferryboat, put their horses up the steep slope to the fort, and took the dispatches to the telegraph office. Staley thought that O’Hara would hold his until he had a chance to rewrite his account of the battle, having had time to cool off and look at it with a better perspective, but O’Hara said he couldn’t afford to be scooped. He sent his story out on the wire with the others.
They slept most of the day, not waking until late afternoon. The men at the fort were anxious to hear about the battle. Allison did most of the talking. Staley had not been in the fight, and O’Hara, shooting a glance at Staley, announced that he’d been ordered to keep his mouth shut.
No one at the fort had seen or heard of any small band of Indians in the vicinity. This surprised Staley, who had expected some of the young braves, the Cheyennes at least, to splinter off from the main party and swing south, stealing horses and murdering miners, stage drivers, and passengers on their way to the Black Hills.
The three men bought supplies and rode out of the fort before dark, crossing the river again, and following the north bank. Staley tried to find comfort in the thought that the Indians must have moved north after the battle; if the Fetterman patrols had seen neither Indians nor Indian signs, there shouldn’t be any Indians around here.
It was bad reasoning. Staley knew he was fooling himself, but he was not a man to do it for long. A dozen small bands could have passed without being seen. They wouldn’t be looking for a fight with the soldiers, so they would make a wide swing around the fort.
As the night wore on, a sick worry grew in Staley. He should have taken Tally away from the Barrone Ranch. If she were dead—if her brothers had handed her over to Big Elk, she had probably killed herself by now—Staley would blame himself the rest of his life.
After dawn, they stopped in a grove of cottonwoods and built a small fire of dry driftwood and cooked breakfast. Another hard night ride would take them to Fort Laramie. But Staley knew he could not hide here all day. They were ten miles, maybe more, from the Barrone Ranch. He had to see Tally, even if it meant fighting her father and brothers.
When he finished eating, Staley moved out of the trees into the open, his gaze sweeping the ridge top to the north. The problem was what to say to Allison and O’Hara. They should be safe if they hid until dark. By following the river, they could reach Fort Laramie sometime tomorrow morning. Tally was his problem, not theirs. He had no right to take them into a fight, and that was exactly what he’d have when he rode into the Barrone Ranch.
He started to turn back to tell them about it. Then he heard something flutter in the sagebrush downstream. He walked cautiously downstream, not sure what had attracted his attention. Probably some ravens had taken alarm and flown off, but he had to make sure.
He found the body of a soldier, his scalp torn off, his face dark and pecked at by the birds. He strode back to camp. O’Hara and Allison were lying on their backs, heads on their saddles.
“There’s a dead man below us a piece,” Staley said. “Hard to tell who he is, the shape he’s in, but it might be Pete Risdon.”
Both men jumped up. Staley said: “Better not go, Pat. He ain’t pretty to look at.”
“I’m not that soft,” O’Hara said, and trotted after Allison.
He was softer than he thought. He took one look at the dead man’s face, then staggered away and vomited. When Staley reached him, he ran his sleeve across his mouth, shuddering. He took off his derby and wiped his forehead.
“My God, Walt, that’s an awful sight.”
Staley nodded. “It is for a fact.” He saw that Allison was on his knees beside the body, studying the arms. Staley scouted in a circle and returned to find Allison on his feet, O’Hara standing behind him, and staring in the opposite direction.
“If I read the sign right,” Staley said, “there was about a dozen of ’em, maybe more. They didn’t hang around here very long. They took his hair and his horse and rifle and headed east.”
“It’s Pete, all right,” Allison said. “Not enough face left to be sure, but he’s the right size and he’s an infantryman. Besides, he’s tattooed on both arms. A heart with an arrow through it on one and initials on the other.”
“What were the initials?” O’Hara asked hoarsely.
“E. N.,” Allison said.
“He murdered his wife,” O’Hara said. “Or was accused of it. Her name was Edna Noyes before he married her.”
“He killed her,” Allison said.
“How’d you know?” O’Hara demanded, turning to stare at Allison.
“He told me,” Alliso
n said. “He came home and found her in bed with a man he thought was his friend and he went out of his head. He said he was going to kill you, but I told him not to. I said he might beat the murder charge, but it was the finish for him if he murdered you on top of what he’d done in Chicago.”
O’Hara took off his derby again because he had begun to sweat again. “Finding him was one of the things I was supposed to do, but I didn’t think it would work this way.” He shot a quick glance at the dead man and turned his back again. “Hell, I should have let him alone. Crook didn’t seem to care whether there was a murder charge against him or not. I don’t see why he deserted. He must have known this would happen.”
“He was afraid of hanging,” Allison said. “I guess he was more afraid of that than he was of the Indians.”
“We can’t dig much of a grave for him,” Staley said, “but we can’t leave him out here. We can scoop out a sort of a grave in the sand.”
Allison helped him carry the body to the sandy bank of the river. O’Hara stayed where he was. When they finished digging a shallow grave in the loose sand, they lowered the body into it and covered it, then piled brush on top.
Staley turned to look at O’Hara. The little Irishman had not moved. He was still staring at the distant ridge line, the hot morning sunlight pouring down on him.
“Come on, Pat,” Staley said. “Catch up on your sleep and quit blaming yourself.”
O’Hara walked toward the horses. He watched Staley pick up his saddle and lift it to the back of his buckskin. Then he woke up.
“Walt, what the hell are you doing?”
“I figured I’d let you two sleep today while I call on Tally. If I ain’t back by night, you light out for Fort Laramie and I’ll meet you …”
“By God, Walt,” Allison broke in. “I didn’t think you’d sneak out on us. We’re into it together, all three of us. I know what you may find when you get to Barrone’s. You’re going to need our help … and I’ll need your help when I take Christine out of that hog ranch. I don’t want to go on to the fort unless I’ve got her with me.”
Staley took a long breath. He should have known he couldn’t get away with it. He said: “That band of Indians rode east. They’re headed for Barrone’s place. And unless we move fast they’re gonna get there ahead of us.”
They saddled their horses. They rode out of the trees and headed east.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Staley held a stiff pace, but he rode with caution.
Twice, when they crossed shallow streams, Staley told Allison and O’Hara to dismount and stretch their legs while he rode downstream, and then upstream, looking for signs. The first time he found nothing. The second time he saw tracks about fifty yards below where Allison and O’Hara stood with their horses.
Staley left his buckskin in the sagebrush above the wet ground that held the hoof prints of unshod ponies. He kneeled and studied them. Yes, there were at least a dozen braves in the band. The tracks had been made early that morning, perhaps four or five hours ago.
The Barrone Ranch was on the other side of the ridge that lay to the south, about half an hour’s ride from here. Staley mounted and waved an arm at Allison and O’Hara to meet him on up the slope.
He reined up to wait for Allison and O’Hara. When they reached him, he said: “The Indians crossed where you saw me get off my horse.” He jerked a hand to the south. “That’s the direction they went. The Barrone Ranch is yonder just over the ridge.”
O’Hara stared at him, not entirely following his thinking, but Allison knew what he was getting at.
“You think they’re at the ranch now, Walt?”
“I don’t know,” Staley said. “Big Elk is after Tally, but it’s my guess his braves want horses and scalps a lot more’n they want to steal a girl for him. They may be tired and hungry, so there’s a good chance they stopped long enough to fill their bellies. Nobody’s chasing ’em as far as they know. It would be like ’em to stay there and sleep it off.”
“Well then,” O’Hara said, “let’s ride down there and find out.”
“We’ll look first,” Staley said, “and then decide. The trouble is, there’s no cover going down the slope above the house. If they’ve got a guard out, they’ll spot us.”
“That’s a chance we’ve got to take,” Allison said.
Staley shook his head. “If they’ve got Tally, and we push ’em, they’ll kill her. So we’ve got some figuring to do.”
He swung his buckskin around and started up the slope toward the crest of the ridge. Just short of the top he reined up and motioned for Allison and O’Hara to do the same.
“Stay here,” he said, “till I give you a sign.”
He dismounted and handed Allison the reins. He ran toward the crest of the ridge, stooping, and then dropping belly flat and worming his way upward until he reached a place where he could look down on the buildings. He lay there a good five minutes, trying to make sense out of nothing.
There was simply no trace of life anywhere around the place. No smoke from the house, no one moving in the yard, not even a horse in the corral. This bothered him more than anything else. Louie Barrone always kept more horses in the corral than he needed. Even if he and the boys were out on the range, Louie would have extra horses in the corral.
Then, suddenly, he knew what had happened.
The Indians had come and gone. They had stolen the horses. They had killed Louie Barrone and taken Tally. Staley jumped to his feet and made a sweeping signal with his arm. He started running through the sagebrush toward the ranch, then realized there was no sense to this and stopped. He stood there, blowing hard, blood pounding in his temples, until Allison came with the buckskin. He took the reins and swung into the saddle. Digging in the steel, he rocketed down the slope.
He pulled up in front of the barn and swung down. The corral gate and the barn door were both open. He ran toward the barn.
He stopped in the runway ten feet from the door.
Louie Barrone lay on his back in the litter of the second stall, his head beaten into a jellied mass of flesh and bone and skin. A singletree lay in the straw a few feet from him, one end covered with dried blood and matted hair.
The old man had been beaten long after the last breath of life had left him, beaten until whoever had used the singletree had worn himself out. It must have been one of his sons, Staley thought, reverting to complete savagery as he took revenge for the brutal beatings his father had given him.
Allison and O’Hara stopped in the runway behind Staley. Staley whirled to face them. “Take a look in the rest of the barn. I’m going into the house.”
He ran across the yard. The back door was open. He went on into the kitchen. The pantry shelves were empty. Flour and sugar sanded the floor. All kinds of litter lay scattered from one end of the kitchen to the other—pots and pans and silverware and broken dishes, stuff the Indians had knocked off the shelves and decided they couldn’t use.
In the front room Staley saw that the guns were gone. The furniture had been turned over, much of it slashed by knives. He peered into the bedrooms. The same senseless acts of vandalism had been committed in each of them. And Tally was not in the house.
He stumbled outside. Maybe she was hiding in the willows below the house where he had camped the previous summer and fall.
“Tally!” he shouted. “Where are you, Tally?”
No answer. Of course there wouldn’t be. They would have searched the willows. He stood with his back to the wall, head bowed, his last bit of hope gone. Then rage took him.
“I’ll kill ’em!” he shouted, lifting his head and shaking his fist at the sky. “I’ll kill Big Elk and every red bastard in his outfit! I’ll chase them to hell and back! I’ll …”
From what seemed to be a great distance, O’Hara said: “You’re crazy. You’re throwing your l
ife away. Start using your head. There must be some place where she could go. Isn’t there another ranch where she would be safe?”
Allison put his hand on Staley’s shoulder.
“That’s right, Walt. We don’t know how much time she had. If she had a few hours’ start, she might have got away. Maybe she made it to the fort.”
“It’s too far,” Staley said. “There ain’t nothing this side of Fort Laramie except the hog ranch.”
“The hog ranch,” Allison whispered. “My God, I never thought of it. And Christine’s there.” He shook Staley with all his strength. “Come on, Walt … let’s ride!”
They ran to their horses.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Allison rode in the middle, with Staley far to his right and O’Hara far to his left. In this manner they covered a wide swath of prairie, the idea being that if Tally had escaped and was hiding in a buffalo wallow or a thicket of willows or a depression in the sage-covered ground, they would be more likely to see her than if they rode close together.
As he rode, Allison listened for the sound of gunfire. Fifi had often bragged that she had plenty of guns and ammunition, and any damned Indians that showed up would be sorry. But Fifi had more than her share of wind and he didn’t really believe her.
Allison often forged ahead of the others, with Staley calling to him to slow down or he’d kill his horse. But it seemed to Allison that the miles stretched on and on and on, that they were no closer to the hog ranch than they had been at noon when they left Barrone’s.
The sun had swung well over to the west when Allison saw the ugly, square house directly ahead. The horrible possibility that it had been burned and the women murdered had been in his mind all afternoon. But it was intact, with no Indians in sight.
Suddenly, magically a slim figure rose from the prairie in front of the three riders.
Staley yelled, “Tally!” in a shout that could have been heard all the way to the hog ranch. He swung his horse toward Tally and dug in the steel. He hit the ground running, and swept her into his arms and hugged her and kissed her, their two bodies pressed so tightly together that they seemed to be one.
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