CHAPTER THREE
MEETING WITH THE SIOUX
“Gosh dang it, Zane!” Cody exclaimed. “I don’t care if we never get to Wyoming!”
The two youngsters were crouched behind a small rise watching for antelope. Both of them were darkly tanned, which made Zane’s light blue eyes seem even lighter. He ran his hand along the gleaming barrel of the Spencer, looked out at the white rag tied to a bush fifty yards off, then back to Cody.
“It beats pickin’ cotton at that,” he remarked. He glanced down at Buck, who was crouched beside Cody, and shook his head. “Cody, if that dog don’t stop growin’, he’s gonna be big as a Texas longhorn time we get to Wyoming!”
“Ain’t he a caution, though?” The big dog had grown amazingly during the drive and never strayed very far from Cody. The boy ran his hand over the dog’s silky chest, then pulled a piece of bacon out of his pocket and poked it into the animal’s large mouth. Buck swallowed it whole, looked hopefully at Cody, and wagged his tail.
“Keep that biscuit-eater quiet, ya hear me, Cody?” Zane warned. He glanced out at the white rag and shook his head. “You reckon Smoky’s pulling one of his tricks on us? This kind of huntin’ don’t make no sense!”
Smoky Jacks had seen the boys leaving camp to go out to hunt and had told them, “You fellers ain’t likely to sneak up on no antelope. What you’d best do is let them come to you.” When Zane had asked how that could happen, Jacks had explained, “Well, them critters is plain curious, Zane. Anything out of the ordinary, they’ll come pokin’ around to see about it. So you just tie a white rag to a bush, then plump yourselves down a good rifle shot away. Keep quiet enough, and them antelope will come to investigate—then you can put meat on the table.”
Zane and Cody had been suspicious of the rider, for he had pulled their legs several times, but he’d assured them that this was the truth. They’d gone two miles from camp and waited for a shot, and now even as Zane spoke his doubts, he broke off to whisper, “Looky, Cody! There he is!”
Cody peered cautiously over the edge of the rise, taking a look. “I can see two of ’em, Zane! Maybe you can get ’em both!”
That was the way it happened, for as soon as the two antelope had come close enough to touch the rag with their inquisitive noses, Zane put a shot through one, which fell dead instantly, then threw another shell into the chamber and knocked the other animal down before it had gone ten feet.
“Apostles and prophets!” Cody yelled, leaping up, his eyes big as silver dollars. “You plugged ’em both, Zane!”
Zane felt inordinately pleased with himself. “With a rifle gun like this, a feller can do some real hunting!” he grinned. “Let’s get these two back to camp.”
As they rode back with the carcasses of the antelope tied behind their saddles, Cody talked incessantly. But as they drew nearer to the camp, he grew quiet. Zane noted his silence and knew what was the matter with the boy. “Don’t let Mr. Malloy get you down, Cody,” he said finally.
Cody gave him a quick glance, then shook his head. “He’s a mean ol’ scudder, ain’t he, Zane?”
The older boy made no answer at first. His eyes were on the hills that rose sharply over to their left, and he studied them carefully. “Cody, keep your eyes goin’ all the time. Smoky said we could run into some Injuns around here, and we don’t want ’em to come up on us sudden like.”
Cody looked around at once, his eyes shaded by the brim of the floppy hat he wore. “Would you shoot ’em if they came at us, Zane?” he demanded.
“Depends on how many there was. This here Spencer only holds seven shots. If they was eight of ’em, I don’t see how we could win—besides, I might miss one of ’em.”
“Naw, you wouldn’t miss none of ’em,” Cody said, with boundless optimism in his tone. He watched the hills carefully until they passed them, then murmured, “I hate that ol’ Malloy.”
Zane glanced at the boy quickly, noting the stubborn set of Cody’s lips and the half-shut eyes. “He’s a mighty hard man, all right, but we gotta get along with him, I reckon.”
“But, Zane, he’s mean to Ma!”
The remark brought a quick streak of anger to Zane, and he thought about the bruises he kept seeing on his sister from time to time. She would put him off whenever he asked about them, claiming that she had run into something, but he knew better. Now he could only say, “Nothing we can do about it, Cody.” He tried to think of something better to say and finally added, “It’s a pretty tough business, bringin’ up a trail herd like this, and he ain’t never done it before. He’s scared of Injuns and that the cattle might get sick or lost in a river. When we get to the ranch and things settle down, he’ll be a mite easier.”
Cody was staring down at his hands and muttered, “I don’t think he will. If a man’s mean, he’ll be mean anyplace.”
They were close enough to see the smoke of Ozzie’s fire now, and Zane warned, “Don’t give him no trouble, Cody. We’ll make out all right.”
When they rode into camp, Hope and Ozzie both stopped their work and came over to admire the antelope. Hope gave the boys a hug, saying, “I guess we don’t have to worry about a square meal around here, do we? Not with hunters like you two!”
Ozzie was pleased, but too contrary to show it. “You don’t expect me to clean them things, I hope?” he asked pugnaciously.
“No, I’ll do it,” Zane grinned. “Can we have ’em tonight?”
“Naw, you cain’t. We’re having something better’n a stringy old antelope tonight,” the crusty cook grumbled. The closest thing to a smile that ever appeared on his lips showed itself briefly, and he added, “Tonight you’re gonna git something better’n you ever had before—my own special stew.”
“What’s it called, Ozzie?” Hope asked curiously.
Og gave her a crafty look. “It ain’t fittin’ to say its name, not with women and young’uns around,” he announced. He stalked off, leaving them mystified, and Zane whispered to Cody, “Must be a pretty bad name, huh?”
Og was, in a way, an artist—when it came to preparing decent food for the crew. A young steer had broken its leg, so Ozzie butchered it at once before Malloy had a chance to notice. Malloy was so stingy with his cattle that the crew had lived on game and hardtack for weeks. Og himself was heartily sick of it and had determined to have a meal fit for a king. He cut up the beef liver and heart into one-inch cubes, then sliced the marrow gut into small parts. He placed this into a Dutch oven and after covering it with water let it simmer for three hours. He then added salt, pepper, and hot sauce as carefully as a scientist doing an experiment. The main stew he cooked in a larger pot; then an hour before supper, he took the sweetbreads and brains, cut them into small pieces, and added them to the stew.
He timed his meal well, for Malloy and the two hands had come in when the finished stew had been simmering for an hour.
“Is it all right to leave the cattle all alone?” Zane asked Malloy.
“Not for long,” Malloy grunted. “You and Gibson go watch ’em after supper.”
Smoky pulled off his hat and wiped his forehead. “They ain’t going no place,” he remarked. “Not with that good grass and water.”
“Maybe they ain’t going anyplace,” Malloy snapped. “But they could get stolen mighty easy.” He was in a surly mood and trudged over to take one of the tin plates Hope had set out. He helped himself to a large portion of the stew, then walked off and sat down by himself, eating in silence.
Smoky waited until Hope, the boys, then Gibson had gotten their stew before taking a plate. But as soon as he had filled his own plate and taken a bite, he looked across at Og, chuckling with undisguised admiration. “Ozzie, you old bandit! This is—!”
Og glared at him. “Shut your mouth, Jacks! It ain’t polite to say the name of this here stew in front of a lady!”
Jacks looked surprised. “Well, that’s its name, ain’t it? I never heard it called nothing else.”
“Don’t make no nevermind
,” Og snapped. “Jist eat it and don’t call it nothing!”
The cook’s attitude amused Jacks. He looked over at Hope and said, “I’m just an ignorant cowboy without no fine manners. But from now on I’ll call this fine stew something real genteel. How ’bout—jelly bean soup?” He rolled his eyes toward Og. “That fancy enough for you, Ozzie?”
Both Cody and Zane were grinning widely, and Hope herself smiled. “Well, it doesn’t have any jelly beans in it, Smoky,” Og fumed.
“Don’t matter, as long as it sounds nice,” Jacks said. “Ozzie here, he’s used to fine company, you see. Guess I’ll have to quit chewing tobacco in his presence. Don’t do to offend the cook on a drive.”
For the next three days things went well, and Hope commented to Smoky as the cowboy rode in, weary and dusty from a long day’s trailing the herd, “It looks like we’re going to make it without any trouble.”
Smoky lowered his coffee cup and considered the sight of the cattle a few hundred yards to his left. “Well, it might be so. But a drive ain’t over till it’s over.”
“Aw, don’t be so blasted gloomy, Smoky!” Amos said. “God’s watched over us all this way. We’ll be on the ranch in a week, Willis says. And we’ve enjoyed Ozzie’s jelly bean soup.”
“Yeah, I reckon,” Jacks said reluctantly. “Got to admit it’s been an easy drive.” He drank the rest of his coffee, stood up, then said blandly, “Well, if the cattle don’t stampede, or get drowned in a river—and if they don’t get tick fever, and if the Sioux don’t raid us, or if we don’t have a hail storm—”
“Aw, git out of here, Jacks!” Og snapped. “We don’t need none of your palaverin’!”
Jacks left, grinning at the cook and winking at Hope. “Jest funnin’ ya, Miz Malloy. I reckon we’ll make it fine.”
That night Hope tried to be especially nice to Willis, but he shook his head in a surly fashion, ignoring her efforts. When he left to go back to the herd, she sat in front of the fire, poking it with a stick from time to time, watching the sparks fly up in myriad showers of miniature stars. She was very tired and also depressed, though she concealed this as well as she could from the others. The two months on the trail had been physically wearing, but it was her marriage that threw a dark cloud over her spirit.
She had known that Willis Malloy was not a gentle man before she married him, but somehow she had conceived the hope that beneath the rough exterior lurked something finer. Her brief and unpleasant honeymoon, and now the two months with him on the trail, had completely extinguished all such hope. He had shown nothing except a callous selfishness. She felt degraded, for he used her as he used his horses, cruelly and with a vicious temper. At first she had hoped that their marriage would be some sort of union that went beyond sex, but he had never once inquired as to her needs as a woman. She had food and a place to sleep—what more could she want? This insensitivity, along with his physical brutality, had crushed the lightness of Hope’s spirit. She lived now with the certain knowledge that there was nothing better to expect in the days and years to come.
“You sorry we came?”
Hope started, turning to find her father standing beside her. She brushed her hair back, saying, “No. It’s been hard, but when we get to the ranch things will be easier.” She reached up, took his hand, and pulled him down to sit beside her. “How do you feel tonight?”
“Tolerable,” Amos said quietly. He was, in fact, feeling very weak, but he never complained. Now he sat there, looking up at the stars gathered overhead, and uttered reverently, “The heavens declare the glory of God.” He put his hand over hers, saying gently, “The stars have glory, but we have to live in a pretty grubby world, don’t we, Hope?”
She glanced at him quickly. It wasn’t like him to be despondent. Since her marriage, he had been different, and she knew he blamed himself for forcing her into it. “Why, Pa, it’s a beautiful world! Think of the people having to live in tiny, dirty places in the city! And we have space and the big blue sky and rivers!”
Amos Jenson sat there, listening to Hope, and was proud of her. He knew the terrible sacrifice she had made, and it grieved him to the heart that this delicate, fine daughter of his was yoked to a brute who abused her.
“The boys are doing well,” he said. “Both of them love it out here. It’ll be a better life for them than back on that wore-out farm in Arkansas.”
“But you miss it, don’t you, Pa?”
“Well, a man gets used to a place, sure enough. But this is a good country, Daughter.” He longed to say more but couldn’t find the right words. He slowly stood to his feet and sighed. “Guess I’ll turn in. Willis said we’d be at the ranch in a week, huh?”
“That’s what he said. I’ll be glad to get there. Maybe there’ll be a church close enough for us to get to. You could preach a revival meeting.” Hope tried to smile, but the effort was a failure. “Don’t worry about me, Pa,” she said quietly. “I’m all right.”
The next day was cloudy, and Smoky observed to Fred Gibson, “Looks like we got a little weather comin’, Fred. Don’t like the looks of them clouds.”
He proved to be correct, for a drenching rain swept across the plain two hours later, accompanied by a lightning storm. It was brief, but the jagged bolts and the resounding peals of thunder terrified the cattle, which broke into a blind run. Zane pulled his horse up as the animals tried to bolt, and Smoky yelled as he went sailing by, “Zane, I’m gonna try to turn ’em! Stay on the flank!”
It was a nightmarish experience, and Zane fought down his fear. The churning hooves of the stampeding cattle would cut a man to pieces in a minute, he knew, but he did as Jacks had instructed him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the wagons were not in the path of the herd and was grateful for that. The cattle, though angular and ungainly to look at, ran with surprising speed, their hooves pounding as they thundered along. A steaming heat rose from the herd as they ran wildly, the thin light reflecting on their horns and tails.
Zane saw that Jacks had reached the front of the stampede. The puncher began firing his revolver in the air, and when that was empty he yanked his slicker off and began flailing it in the faces of the leaders. It was a daring business, for one slip and Jacks would be down under the thundering hooves. Even though Zane was terrified as he watched, he thought, I wish I had the nerve to do that!
He saw a couple of the leaders dodge and some of them went down, but gradually the herd turned to the right, in Zane’s direction. He gave way to let them come. As the huge animals tired, they could no longer maintain their speed, and the mad run finally gave way to a loping gallop, then slowed to a walk.
Malloy came charging from the rear, crying out, “Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” But there was no need, for the lightning had faded and the cattle moved with their heads down, bawling but no longer in a running mood.
The men rode around the herd for an hour, ready to contain another outburst, but finally Malloy said, “Guess they’re all right. I’m goin’ back and see how many we lost.”
Zane gave him a hard look. “Be nice if you’d say a word to Smoky,” he said in a spare tone. “If it wasn’t for him, they wouldn’t have stopped.”
Malloy wiped the rain from his face, gave Zane a hard look, then snarled, “That’s what he gets paid for,” and galloped off.
Shaking his head in disgust, Zane moved to where Jacks was trying to roll a cigarette and said, “Wish I could do a thing like that, Smoky—stoppin’ the herd, I mean.”
Jacks grinned at him. Strain drew his mouth tight and there was a slight tick in his right eye, but he said, “Why, boy, that weren’t nothin’. Once when I was over in New Mexico—” He began to spin a tall tale about a drive he’d once made, and Zane listened, wishing he’d done some of the things Jacks had done.
They continued to watch the herd carefully, but the run had taken all the starch out of the cattle. When Smoky and Zane were relieved by Gibson, they rode to the chuck wagon and downed a hot meal—antelope steaks and sp
icy baked beans. Zane was telling Cody and Hope about how Jacks had stopped the herd when suddenly Malloy leaped to his feet, yelling, “Look out—!”
All of them looked up, and Cody’s heart seemed to stop as he turned to see a small band of Indians standing no more than fifty feet away. He and his mother moved closer to Zane, who had gotten to his feet and was gripping the Spencer in his right hand.
“Careful, Boss!” Smoky warned as Malloy put his hand on his revolver. “These are Sioux, Malloy. I ain’t sure we got the best hand in this game.”
Malloy asked tersely, “You speak their lingo, Jacks?”
“Not a whole lot of it—but I’ll give it a shot.” Jacks walked away from the chuck wagon, stopping in front of the line of warriors and lifting his hand, palm upward. He spoke a few words in a guttural tone, then waited.
One of the Indians immediately got down off his horse. He came forward carrying a rifle, his eyes opaque. “Me White Wolf.” He studied the whites, then declared boldly, “Hungry—want cows.”
At once Malloy stepped forward saying, “No—!” but as he did, several of the Sioux lifted rifles. Two of them fitted arrows to bowstrings.
Jacks said sharply to Malloy, “Ain’t no choice here, Malloy. It’s your wife and family we got to think about. I’ll make the best deal I can.” He turned to White Wolf and began talking trade. Even though Hope could not understand much of the dickering, which was carried on mostly in Sioux and sign language, she understood that the Indian wanted too much. He kept raising his rifle as a bargaining power, but Jacks kept shaking his head.
Jacks had argued the chief down to four cows, telling Malloy they could take the two killed in the stampede. Finally it seemed to be settled, but then White Wolf nodded toward Buck, who was standing beside Cody, and added, “Dog—go with White Wolf!”
Cody cried out, “No! You ain’t takin’ Buck!”
For some reason the Indian had made up his mind to have the dog, perhaps as a matter of pride. White Wolf raised his rifle over his head and the others followed suit. “Give dog—or we fight!”
House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman Page 4