Trouble Trail

by J. T. Edson

  ‘What tribe?’ asked an elderly warrior, hefting his powerful war bow and eyeing the rank of soldiers to select a worthwhile target should the fun begin.

  ‘The Tshaoh!’ Pride rang in Resin’s voice as he boomed back the answer.

  ‘The Tshaoh!’ muttered a dozen Indian voices and even at that distance Bigelow could see the warriors on the slope were impressed.

  ‘Who are the Tshaoh?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘The Enemy People, sir,’ replied the lieutenant.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Muldoon confirmed. ‘You’d know ‘em as the Comanche.’

  Tshaoh, Enemy People, Comanche: if a rose by any other name smells just as sweet, those stocky fighting raiders from the Texas plains spelled the same by any name—bone-tough warriors with few peers and no superiors. The Osage might be low men on the Plains Indian totem-pole, but the Comanche stood way up the top. Even the race-proud Cheyenne admitted that and found no shame in so doing.

  Having duly impressed the Cheyenne warriors with his right to ask questions as became a member of a noble, brave-heart tribe contemplating war against an equally brave and honest enemy—and three years among the Comanche made a man part of the tribe—Resin repeated his request for information.

  ‘Ten hands,’ replied the war bonnet chief.

  ‘Which’s a hundred at least, them heathen savages not having learned to count with accuracy, sir,’ Muldoon remarked. ‘And took with that bunch up there, a hundred and fifty no less.’

  ‘Not many against a party this size,’ Bigelow answered.

  Yet more than enough for a surprise assault, especially with a third of the fighting force mingling with the people of the train, lulling their suspicions and ready to change from peaceable traders to savage killers on a signal. A shudder ran through Bigelow as he visualised the scene. The sudden rush from outside the circle, the change among the Indians in the circle. His people would have been demoralised, panic stricken and fallen easy meat to the Cheyenne band.

  And the matter went deeper than that, although Bigelow did not know it. Nothing succeeds like success, even among unlettered savages. Should Sand Runner’s strategy work, he would have loot and coups to flaunt before his more peaceably inclined brothers, living proof that the white man was far from being invincible and that even a large wagon train guarded by soldier-coats fell before Sand Runner’s medicine-inspired thought—no chief dare claim he made up any plan without the divine assistance of the Great Spirit’s medicine.

  ‘How many men have you?’ asked the chief, as Resin knew he would.

  ‘Over seven hands,’ the scout replied. ‘Many of them with repeating rifles.’

  A low mutter ran among the braves and they studied the wagon circle’s condition of readiness to meet any attack. Everything appeared to be prepared in a most unsatisfactory manner from the Indian’s angle. The wagonmaster was no novice at Indian-fighting and knew better than to relax or concentrate all his attention on the bunch which showed themselves. So he did not allow his people to relax and, aided by his blistering tongue, made the men watch their front instead of standing gawking at the conference on the slope and ignoring what went on in other directions. Any attempt at making a sudden rush upon such a ready train would be repulsed with much bloodshed among the rushers, for any hope of surprise had gone.

  An Indian might be brave, but he was no fool and could add up odds with the ease of a professional gambler. One hundred and fifty to seventy meant the Indians possessed a two to one advantage, but the repeating rifles and other firearms owned by the white men reduced those odds and changed them out of the Cheyennes’ favour.

  ‘Can we make talk?’ asked the chief.

  ‘Who?’ asked Resin.

  ‘You, the soldier-coat chief and me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Half-way. On my lodge-oath there will be peace while we talk.’

  When a Cheyenne war-bonnet chief swore on his lodge oath, he aimed to keep his word, even if he had been educated at a mission school and in the face of knowledge of innumerable times when the white man gave peace-words and broke them.

  ‘How about it, Cap’n?’ Resin asked, knowing the above. ‘He’s got something else on his mind. Some tricky lil game Sand Runner thought up in case his idea for sneaking in on us didn’t work.’

  ‘Let’s talk then,’ Bigelow replied. ‘If this is a formal truce, do we remove our weapons?’

  ‘Not less you want to insult him. He’s treating us as men of honour who can be trusted.’

  ‘What’s happening, Calam?’ asked Eileen, watching the scout and captain walk up the slope after the shouted conversation.

  ‘Them Injuns, and that includes Beau Resin, dang his Comanche hide, are smart, Boston, gal,’ Calamity repLied. ‘Happen two different tribes come up against each other they don’t just bust in head down and guns roaring. They talk a mite first, learn how much power the other side’s got and how ready they are for war. Then they figger their chances and happen they don’t like the way the other side stacks up, they allow their medicine’s gone bad on ‘em and pull put. It sure saves a heap of grief.’

  ‘But do they always tell each other the truth?’

  ‘Only Indians I ever seed as liars were the ones we civilised,’ Calamity answered, spitting out the last word. ‘Don’t reckon there’ll be no war today. What’d you tell ole shiny-butt?’

  ‘Oh, a little white lie,’ smiled Eileen. ‘But it worked.’

  On reaching the half-way point between his men and the soldiers, the war-bonnet chief dropped from his horse, strode forward a couple of paces and went into a heel-squat. At a sign from Resin, Bigelow sank on to his haunches and the big scout sat Indian-style. Bigelow knew enough about diplomatic tactics not to open the jackpot, but waited for the Indian to break the ground.

  There appeared to be no hurry to get down to business. Resin took a pipe from his pocket, primed the bowl with thick black Burley shag tobacco. With the bowl full, he handed the bag courteously to the chief and glanced at the officer.

  ‘Got anything to smoke, Cap’n, there’s going to be some time to pass.’

  ‘Will a cigar do?’ asked Bigelow.

  ‘Light her away,’ drawled the scout, rasping a match on his pants seat and firing the tobacco in his pipe.

  For almost five minutes none of the trio spoke, but smoked. in quiet enjoyment. At last the chief removed his pipe, knocked out the remaining embers and doused them in the hard palm of his hand. Although Resin did not move, Bigelow could almost feel the big scout sense in a manner which said, ‘This is it.’

  ‘This is Cheyenne land,’ the chief announced.

  ‘Not by treaty,’ Resin countered. ‘The Cheyenne old man chiefs gave their sacred oath that this area would be left open to passage of white man’s wagons. Are you going against the oath to the Great Spirit?’

  ‘Great Spirit sides man with most warriors,’ answered the chief.

  Bigelow stared as he heard the Great Plains version of Napoleon’s statement that God favoured big battalions. However, the captain did not speak, but left the handling of the matter in Resin’s hands.

  ‘We have the most guns,’ Resin pointed out.

  A pause followed while the chief digested the unpleasant and unpalatable fact that the white men carried superior arms in a long-distance fight. He gave a low grunt, spat reflectively and remarked. ‘Sand Runner war chief, not make any treaty with white brother.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Tshaoh, Sand Runner make fresh treaty with soldier. coat chief here. If he can make-um that is.’

  ‘How about it, Cap’n?’ asked Resin.

  ‘I’m permitted to negotiate temporary terms to ensure the safety of the train.’

  ‘That means “yes” or “no?” ’ asked the Cheyenne.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Bigelow.

  ‘You make-um talk in small words so I know ‘em. Talk best left to Tshaoh, him savvy what Indian understand.’

  ‘What does Sand Ru
nner want?’ asked Resin, hiding the grin which rose inside him and getting down to business.

  ‘Him want tribute from wagon train. Get it, not make trouble, leave ‘em alone all time.’

  ‘That can be arranged. But no guns, powder, bullets or lead.’

  ‘Ugh! Not want-um. Want money.’

  ‘Money!’ grunted Resin, coming as near as Bigelow had seen to showing any emotion.

  ‘Fifty dollars for each wagon,’ replied the chief and went on with a touch of pride, ‘At mission school me learned to count white-man style.’

  ‘We’ve forty-six wagons,’ Bigelow breathed. ‘That would be two thousand, three hundred dollars.’

  ‘Yeah,’ answered the scout. ‘But what in hell does a bunch of Cheyenne want with money?’

  ‘You pay-um?’ asked the chief.

  There was one possible reason why the Cheyenne wanted money, although Resin doubted if it could be. However, a man did not hand over such a vast sum to Indians, or anybody else, without giving the matter plenty of thought.

  ‘We’ll give you blankets, see-yourselves,* some knives, axes, decorations for your women and shoot you forty-six horse-loads of meat,’ Resin said.

  ‘No good. Want money or make-um plenty hell same as teacher feller told us at mission school.’

  ‘No money!’ Resin said flatly. ‘And that’s final. You can tell Sand Runner I said so.’

  ‘I tell him. Him not like. That plenty good tobacco, Tshaoh.’

  Taking out his tobacco pouch, Resin handed it to the chief. ‘Help yourself. They don’t have it in the Spirit Land and that’s where you and plenty of your men’ll be headed happen you try forcing us.’

  Helping himself to half the tobacco, the chief returned the pouch to its owner. ‘Think well before you refuse and ask no more questions.’

  ‘Which same stops us asking why they want the money, Cap’n,’ drawled Resin. ‘How about Sand Runner’s offer?’

  ‘You already gave my answer.’

  ‘We don’t pay and that’s final.’

  ‘Not think Sand Runner’s plan would work when he made it,’ admitted the chief calmly, and with just a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Sand Runner was a mite too much of the bright-idea Johnny-come-lately to suit his taste apart from the detail about the aspiring Cheyenne war leader. ‘Speak Long to the Comanche Great Spirit, Tshaoh, and make your war medicine. You’ll need it.’

  ‘Ka-Dih favours those with repeating rifles,’ Resin replied, mentioning the Great Spirit of the Comanche. ‘Remember that well, brother.’

  A grin twisted the Indian’s lips. ‘You sure you not full Indian?’ he asked and came to his feet.

  Turning, the chief walked back to his waiting horse and went afork it in a single bound, plucking the buffalo lance from the ground where he had stood it. He gave a wild whoop, whirled the horse in its own length and rode back to his party. Swinging their horses away from the train, the Cheyenne galloped out of sight over the rim.

  Will they tell Sand Runner not to attack?’ asked Bigelow as and Resin walked back towards the waiting soldiers.

  ‘He’d know near on as soon as we did,’ Resin replied. ‘There’d be wolf-scouts watching the camp from the moment the others appeared, only you don’t spot wolf-scouts, that’s their job.’

  ‘Lord!’ Bigelow breathed. ‘And I nearly let them walk into camp. You must think I’m a helluva fool.’

  ‘Nope, just inexperienced. We all make mistakes, that’s why they put them big, burnable mats under spittoons in fancy saloons. You ever figger how me, or young Dave Grade’d make out handling the kind of work you’ve come to do natural—until we learned how to do it?’

  ‘I never thought of it like that.’

  ‘Shucks, making a man captain don’t turn him into an expert on every blasted thing under the sun,’ grinned Resin. ‘Not until he’s been out and learned some about it.’

  ‘Take the men into the circle, Mr. Grade,’ Bigelow ordered. ‘Rendezvous with me at Mr. Killem’s fire after standing them down, and you, Muldoon.’

  ‘Yo!’ Muldoon replied.

  On entering the wagon circle, Bigelow walked to Eileen and smiled at her.

  ‘Thanks for passing on Vint’s knowledge.’

  ‘I’ve a confession to make, Wade,’ Eileen smiled. ‘And take your hand off my arm, Molly’s coming and I don’t want to annoy her, I’ve just lost the marks from the last time.’

  ‘So you and Molly did tangle?’

  ‘Never you mind. Vint never mentions his work, not to any great extent, in his letters, Wade.’

  ‘Then how—?’ Bigelow began.

  ‘Calamity gave me some of her sage-advice and I acted on it. Only I thought that—’

  ‘That I’d be too bow-necked a shiny-butt to take her advice,’

  ‘Something like that,’ Eileen admitted.

  ‘You probably guessed right,’ grinned Bigelow. ‘Anyway, Miss Canary’s sage advice was well worth having. She’s quite a girl—and so are you, Boston. I wonder what Molly would do if I kissed you right in front of her?’

  ‘I don’t know what she’d do,’ Eileen answered. ‘But I know what I’d do. Calamity gave me some sage advice on that, too.’

  oooOooo

  * Mirrors.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MISS CANARY GOES TO WAR

  A COUNCIL of war gathered around Killem’s fire, with the same men attending as had been present before the Indian-alert and augmented by the presence of Muldoon. After serving coffee, Calamity, Eileen and Molly kept tactfully in a woman’s place in the background. Bigelow outlined Sand Runner’s proposals and then awaited his more experienced subordinates’ comments.

  ‘That’s the first time I ever heard of a free Indian asking for money, sir,’ said Lieutenant Grade with all the wisdom of twenty-three years of age at his back.

  ‘Or me,’ Muldoon agreed. ‘Happen they was tamed Injuns on a reservation I’d like it some better.’

  ‘Reckon you refused, Cap’n?’ asked Killem, idly whittling a stick, which was a sure sign to those who knew him that he regarded the situation as being grave.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So we’ll likely be having fighting soon, sir?’ asked Muldoon.

  ‘Possibly, Sergeant.’

  ‘Then could I make so bold as to suggest we start wearing our campaign hats, sir? ‘Tis shady to the eyes they are when doing fine sighting along the barrel of a carbine.’

  ‘You’re officer of the day, Mr. Grade,’ Bigelow said with a wry smile. ‘Make whatever dress arrangements you feel are needed.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ answered Grade eagerly. Wearing official blouse and kepi might look smart and formally soldier-like, but they were sure hell to fight in under the hot plains sun.

  ‘What do you think Sand Runner will do now, Beau?’ asked Bigelow.

  After relaxing his stand on the subject of Dress Regulations, Bigelow figured he might as well go the whole hog and adopt a less formal attitude towards the big scout; whose knowledge and aid might prove invaluable.

  ‘Fight!’ came the one word but encyclopaedic reply.

  ‘Right now?’ asked the captain, looking around the camp and noting its condition of readiness.

  ‘Nope. Night’s too near on us. Most Injuns don’t fight in the dark, figure a man gets killed at night might not be able to find his way to the Spirit Land. ‘Sides, it’ll be long gone dark afore they whomp up another mess of war-medicine, us having spoiled their last boiling.’

  ‘Sand Runner may not be able to persuade the others that his medicine holds good after his failure to get into the circle, sir,’ Grade remarked.

  At that moment the men heard a distant crackle of shots, the deep booming of a Dragoon Colt and the sharper crack of a carbine, the Dragoon’s roar sounding again after the carbine’s shot. Silence dropped on the men and Bigelow remembered that none of the party he had spoke with carried firearms. His eyes went to Resin and the scout gave a low grunt.

  ‘Happen all I h
eard’s true,’ Resin drawled, ‘Sand Runner’s just done some persuading. They do say that he uses an old Colt Dragoon that throws flame like a cannon.’

  ‘Who is this Sand Runner?’ asked Bigelow.

  Slowly Resin filled his pipe and lit it, while none of the others offered to make any reply. Sucking in a lungful of air, he breathed it out again and then answered the captain’s question, without helping any.

  ‘Don’t ask me. I’ve never seen him. Nor have any of the scouts at the fort.’

  ‘That’s true enough, sir,’ Grade admitted. ‘We know most of the Cheyenne war leaders: Wooden Leg, Two Moons, Iron Thunder, Wolf Voice. But not Sand Runner. He came into prominence two years ago when he led a bunch that wiped out a company of infantry up along the Rosebud. Since then his name’s grown bigger every month, but he never shows at any of the peace meetings.’

  ‘He’s always in the background and out of sight when white men are about, sir,’ Muldoon went on. ‘I was with the colonel when he went to talk with the old man chiefs. We’d orders to try and speak with him, but the others allowed it was his medicine not be seen by white folks. Far as I know, every white who’s seen him wound up dead.

  ‘Won’t the Cheyenne talk about him?’ asked Bigelow.

  ‘Not if it’s medicine business,’ Resin replied. ‘They take their religion a damned sight more serious than most white folks do.’

  ‘And what was the shooting about?’

  ‘Likely somebody reckoned Sand Runner’s medicine’d gone bad on him,’ Resin guessed. ‘Which’d be the same’s calling a real proud gun-fighter a liar; fast and deadly. From the sound, Sand Runner done made his point.’

  ‘So he’s still their leader?’ asked Bigelow.

  ‘I’d say that,’ agreed the scout.

  ‘Then he’ll attack us.’

  ‘Likely.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Dawn, maybe. That’s a favourite time for Injuns to attack, when folk’s good and slowed down from just waking,’ Resin replied. ‘It all depends on how many Sand Runner has to convince his medicine’s still strong. Only that Sand Runner’s a smart cuss, he’ll likely have something slick up his sleeve.’