“I’d blow that sucker clear to hell if he even looked at my wife!”
“Watch yourself. He’s got away with it a few times. That’s how a man builds a reputation like that.”
Travor left the ranch filled with apprehension. If something had happened to Trell because of him, it sure as hell would be hard to live with. He couldn’t imagine life without Trell. He’d always been there, sturdy as a rock. Hellfire! Without Trell he’d have probably gone off on the outlaw trail with their older half brother. He’d ended up shot in the back near a miner’s shack up near Trinity.
Travor rode cautiously knowing that Hartog and the Mexican had left Sweetwater that morning. The trail was very still; there was no sound but the hoof falls of Mud Pie, a name Travor considered suitable for the gray-and-black horse. Dipping down, the path led into the aspens then up to the highest point. The horse walked, ears pricked, into the stillness on the high plateau.
This was a spooky place. A man could be picked off here in the open. Travor forced the horse to the edge of the bluff so he could look down. The river rushed by fifty or more feet below. Down on the slope were the remains of a calf that scavengers had feasted on. He backed Mud Pie off the ledge and continued on down the trail.
When Travor reached Forest City, he went directly to the post office and was greeted by the postmaster.
“Howdy, McCall. Got mail? Stage leaves in about half an hour.”
“I take it you know Trell McCall.”
The postmaster looked at him as if he’d been eating loco weed.
“’Course, I know him. You’re him, ain’t ya?”
“No, I’m his brother. We’re often mistaken for each other. His horse came home without him and I’m looking for him.”
“By golly, ya sure do look like him.”
“So I’ve been told. When did you see him last?”
“A couple days ago. He was in and posted mail for the teacher at Stoney Creek Indian school.” The worried postmaster rubbed a hand across his mouth. “I ain’t suppose to be tellin’ who posts mail.”
“I’m obliged to you for letting me know he was here. He had a package in his saddlebag. Did he buy something here?”
“A music box. Said it was a wedding present. Said he was heading back after he got a bite to eat.”
“Where would he go to eat?”
Travor went down the street to the restaurant after the postmaster pointed it out. Again he had to explain that he was Trell’s brother and that they were often mistaken for each other. The proprietor told him Trell had eaten an early noon meal and had said that he’d like to give his horse a longer rest but that he needed to get back home.
Travor rode away from Forest City with two sure things in mind. Trell had planned to go straight back home and he had posted letters for the teacher at Stoney Creek. Why would he ride all the way to Forest City when she was going to Sweetwater, a couple of days later and could post them there?
Then a fresh thought hit him. If Trell knew the teacher at Stoney Creek well enough to tote her mail to Forest City, and if they had mistaken him for Trell, which most folks did, Trell was not only missing, he was in deep trouble with the woman at Stoney Creek for snubbing her. He hoped the black-haired girl wasn’t the teacher.
It was dark when Trell approached the Double T. He proceeded cautiously. All was quiet. He whistled a signal he and Trell had used since they were boys. If Trell was there he would answer; if not, maybe he and Joe used the same signal. When the answering whistle came, Travor rode up to the house.
It was a worried Joe who met him.
“Find out anythin’?”
“Nothin’. I’ll get a few hours’ sleep and head out again in the morning.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Grays and Murphys had just finished breakfast when Ike Klein spotted four men riding across the meadow toward the house.
“Havelshell’s men,” he said peering out the window. “I seen one of them afore. Name’s Armstrong.”
“I’ve seen one of ’em before, too. He was one of ’em who came to warn us off the place.” Colleen took her father’s gun belt off the hook beside the door and strapped it around her waist.
Granny stepped to the window, peered out, and then backed away, her eyes dark with worry, her gnarled hands pressed tightly together.
“He wasn’t the murderer. Don’t do anything foolish, child.”
“He was part of it. I’ll not be caught short-handed like Pa was.”
“Let it go. I can’t … lose ya—”
“Ya won’t. Don’t worry, Granny.” Colleen put her arm around her grandmother’s shoulders and hugged her.
Jenny was tired this morning, but she forgot her weariness the instant Ike said the men were headed their way. She went to the other room, took the little derringer off a top shelf and put it in her pocket.
Last night she had lain awake for hours, her mind refusing to shut off the unanswered questions that troubled her. Why had Trell McCall gone to Sweetwater? Why, if he was on a mission to betray her trust, had he made no effort to keep them from seeing him? Instead, he had flaunted his presence.
She returned to the kitchen to see the girls and Granny looking out the door. Colleen and Ike had gone outside.
“Girls, stay in the house with Granny until we find out what they want.”
“It’s foolish of you not to let someone teach me how to handle a gun, Virginia.” Cassandra had not spoken a dozen words to any of them since the incident with Trell. “You know how to shoot, don’t you, Granny?”
“If it should ever come to that, darlin’, I’ll load and you shoot. It’s what I did when Colleen was yore age.”
“What were you shooting at?”
“Wolves. It was dead a winter and they was hungry.”
Jenny went out to stand beside Colleen and Ike as the men approached the house. Three of the riders stopped beside the corral. One took off his hat and approached Ike and the women.
“Mornin’, ladies. Howdy, Ike.”
“What’a ya wantin’ here, Armstrong?”
“I figured it fair to tell ya that we come out to put the dam back in—it bein’ agin the law and all fer water to come off Indian land for private use.”
“That is not true! Mr. Havelshell is interpreting the law as he wants it to read.” Jenny’s temper was rising by leaps and bounds.
“I ain’t knowin’ nothin’ ‘bout the law, ma’am, ‘cepts what Mr. Havelshell tells me. He says it’s in the book; ya can’t take water from the reservation.”
“The water has been flowing into Stoney Creek for years. Mr. Havelshell is the one who interfered with nature when he had the source diverted toward the river. He did it, of course, to inconvenience us here at the homestead.”
“I ain’t knowin’ none a that. He said put the dam back in. It’s what we’ll do.”
“I would expect no less from his paid lackeys. It isn’t what’s right or wrong that matters, is it? It’s the money he pays you. What a sad thing it is when a man will sacrifice a principle for the almighty dollar. As long as your principles are up for sale, Mr. Armstrong, I’ll pay half again whatever Havelshell is paying you to go about your business and leave Stoney Creek alone.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am.” Her scorn scorched him. He knew he was no match for her in an argument, so he tipped his hat to leave them.
Colleen’s shrill, angry voice stopped him.
“Hold on, ya murderin’ sonofabitch!” She slapped her hand on the gun that lay against her thigh. “Ya was one of ‘em who shot down my pa in cold blood. He wasn’t armed, but I am. Ya want to take yore chance with me, or do ya want it in the back?”
“Miss, I had nothin’ to do with the killin’ of yore pa.” Armstrong held his hands up and away from the gun at his side.
“I was hopin’ to God, I’d killed all of ya when ya come sneakin’ back in the dark of night.”
“We was sent to warn yore pa off and that’s all. I got plenty a sins
to answer for, but shootin’ down a unarmed man ain’t one of ‘em.”
“Ya did nothin’ to stop it, ya slimy toad!”
“I never give a thought to what Hartog was goin’ to do. And that’s the God’s truth. I broke with him over it. He’s like a wild longhorn on loco weed. There ain’t no knowin’ what he’ll do from one minute to the other.”
“I’ll shoot ‘im when I see him. My pa was a good man who never did harm to anybody.”
“Let Hartog be, ma’am. Ya got him in the back that night. Didn’t do much damage to him, but ya or McCall—yeah I know it was him—damn near kilt the other feller.”
“I was doin’ my best to kill all of ya.”
“And I ain’t blamin’ ya. It’s what I’d a done. It might ease ya some to know that Hartog picked a fight with McCall in the saloon the other night and McCall whipped him. Laid him out cold.”
“I’m not askin’ McCall or anybody else to fight my fights.” Colleen shouted the words because Armstrong had motioned to the riders beside the corral and had turned his horse toward the reservation.
“Ike, they have no tools—”
“They ain’t needin’ any, Jenny. They’ll blast.”
“Blast? Use powder? Dynamite?”
“Probably packin’ sticks in their saddlebags.”
“Oh, my goodness! What’ll we do?”
Ike scratched his head. “I ain’t knowin’ if we can do anythin’. I’m thinkin’ it’s not up to us now.”
“No? Then who?”
“Shoshoni ain’t wantin’ ‘em to put the dam back in. Whit couldn’t a took it out ‘less’n the elders said he could. The chief’s up north in the Wind River leavin’ the runnin’ a thin’s to the elders. They know what’s goin’ on even if they don’t come this way hardly a’tall. They’d a took it out even if ya hadn’t come here. Looky yonder.”
Jenny looked toward the school. “Oh, my goodness!”
A group of Indian horsemen came galloping across the school yard, Whit among them, and passed out of sight into the woods.
“They’re goin’ to head Havelshell’s men off. Do you think there’ll be trouble?”
“Yeah, if the fools think they can stand off thirty warriors,” Ike said dryly. “If ya want, I’ll get on old Trouble and take a look-see.”
“I don’t want you hurt.”
“I ain’t gettin’ twix’ ‘em.” Ike threw a halter on his mule and climbed up onto the swayed back. “Ya’ll keep yore eyes peeled. Hear?”
Ike reached the site where Whit and the Indian called Head-Gone-Bad had pried loose the piled rocks that had dammed the small, slow rivulet that formed Stoney Creek.
The shaman in full headdress was offering his thanks to the Great Spirit for the gift of the waters. Ike watched as the shaman said his words and each of the Indians drank from a common gourd filled with water from Stoney Creek. The ceremony took the good part of a half an hour.
Armstrong and his men stood well back from the creek as did Ike. When the shaman, Whit, and all the warriors had drunk, they mounted their ponies and in a group moved to where Armstrong and his men waited. The shaman motioned for Whit to move up beside him. He spoke to him for several minutes. Then Whit translated for him.
“The shaman say go from here. A place where water divides is a sacred place. Do not disturb Mother’s land or Mother’s water or Mother be very angry.”
“What the hell’s he talkin’ ‘bout?” one of the men growled.
Armstrong ignored him.
“Tell him we have blasting sticks and were told by the Indian agent to shut off the water because it belongs to the reservation.”
Whit relayed the message to the shaman. The old man spoke at length in the language of the Shoshoni, and Whit summed up his words.
“He said that water belongs to no man. Many years ago, before the white man came, a brave warrior lay dying on the grassland. Mother caused the earth to rumble, and waters from this place were sent over a bed of stones to the warrior. He lived to lead his people for many years. It was not good that the agent sent men to disturb what Mother has made. Our chief, Washakie, will speak of it to the agent when he comes at the end of summer.”
“Who’s mother’s he blabberin’ ‘bout? One stick’d scatter that ragtail bunch.”
“Mother is the land, ya dumb ass,” another said after Whit finished translating. “This is their land. If they want Stoney Creek to have some of their water, it ain’t no skin off my butt. I had no likin’ fer doin’ this anyhow.”
“Do ya think they’ll fight us?”
“They ain’t carryin’ them weapons to hunt bear.”
“We got the sticks—”
“No! This little old pissin’ creek ain’t worth a body dyin’ for. Why Havelshell don’t forget about it, I ain’t knowin’.”
“I’m thinkin’ Havelshell’s got his sights on this ranch. He’s already got a thousand head a cattle on it.”
“The cattle is for the reservation.”
“Haw! Haw!”
“What’er we goin’ to do, Armstrong? Air we backin’ down?”
“It’s the sensible thin’, ‘less yo’re hell-bent on dyin’.”
“Jeez! We got the sticks, ain’t we? What’er they but a bunch a piss-poor Indians with a dozen rifles?”
“Goddammit! We ain’t usin’ no dynamite!”
“Boss ain’t goin’ to like it.”
“Then to hell with ‘im. He can do it hisself.”
Armstrong kneed his horse, and the animal moved closer to where Whit waited beside the shaman.
“Tell him that we’re leavin’. But more men may come. This will have to be settled with the agent.”
“I will tell him. It is good that you go. The shaman know some English and know that one of your men want to use the blasting sticks. It would not do for that man to come this way alone.”
“That bad, huh?”
Whit shrugged. “We have pride. We respect the Mother Earth and despise those who would destroy her.”
Jenny, waiting for the sound of the blast or rifle fire, was relieved to see Armstrong and his men riding across the meadow toward the trail that led to town. Shortly after, the Indians pulled their ponies to a halt in front of the school. She hurried to meet them. Whit sat proudly on his pony beside a handsomely dressed man in a beaded tunic. He had weathered features and gray-streaked hair.
“The shaman wish to see where you will teach the young.”
Jenny looked into the flat black eyes of the old man and smiled.
“Welcome.” She waved her hand toward the door.
He slid from the back of the pony and followed her inside the school. Whit trailed after them. Jenny was grateful for his presence. She was unsure what to say to the dignified old man until he spoke.
“What this?” He indicated the map she had hung on the wall.
“This is a picture of the world.” She spread her arms. “All the land, all the water. Our land is here.” She put her forefinger on the place that was America. “I will tell the children about other lands and their own wonderful land.”
He said nothing and she wondered if he understood. Desperate to make an impression, she picked up a slate and drew a letter W.
“I will teach them to read and write. I’ll teach them the good ways of the white man and warn them about the bad ways. I am not a missionary. I will not try to convert them to Christianity. My job is to teach, not preach.”
“That is good. We will send all the children.” To Jenny’s amazement, he spoke in perfect English.
Jenny looked quickly at Whit. His expression was stoic.
“All the children? I agree that all the children should learn, but it is difficult to teach many children at one time. It would be better if I start with this many.” She held up ten fingers. “Then these could help me teach the others.”
The shaman appeared to pay scant attention to what she said. He looked at everything in the room; from the table with the checked cloth to
the glass jar filled with wild flowers she had picked along Stoney Creek. He paused at the picture of George Washington.
“Who this?”
“George Washington. The first president of our country.”
“Where he live?”
“He has been dead for a long time.”
“That is good.”
Jenny didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She also didn’t know if she should tell him about ciphering or geography. She waited for a signal from Whit, but none was forthcoming. When the shaman took a last look around and walked out the door, the only thing that had been settled was that he would send all the children. She had visions of two hundred children appearing on the doorstep.
After speaking with Whit, the shaman mounted and the Indians rode away. Whit tied his pony to a bush and came to where Jenny stood beside the door.
“Did he like the school? How many children will he send?”
“So many questions. He say you good teacher. Yes and ten.”
“What do you mean? Yes and ten?”
“Yes, he like school. He send ten children.”
“Counting you?”
“I am not children. I will come help teacher.”
“And learn, too. I want to start preparing you for college.”
“My father talked of it.”
“When will the children come?”
“He say soon. He say I watch school. Head-Gone-Bad watch to see if men with sticks come back.”
“That’s comforting to know.” Jenny smiled with relief. “We’ll bring you food from the house. I’ve sent a letter to the Bureau of Indian Affairs to complain about Mr. Havelshell and his strict orders that you or any other Shoshoni not leave the reservation land. I’m hoping that order will be modified or canceled altogether.”
“Sneaking Weasel no longer spy on school. He look for Moonrock who went back to her father.”
“The young girl who was at the store? Why did she leave?”
“She say Havelshell try to violate her chastity.”
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