The Savage Trail

by Jory Sherman

  Blue Snake, in another lean-to, stepped out, rifle in hand. Other Cheyenne began to stir, emerging from their lean-tos, some rubbing their eyes, others wandering off into the trees to relieve themselves or drink at the stream that coursed through the camp. There were lean-tos scattered among the trees, their roofs covered with pine and spruce boughs, their upright poles unstripped, the bark still on, so that they blended in with their surroundings.

  “You come,” Red Eagle said to Hobart when he rode up.

  Hobart swung out of the saddle without saying a word. Army glared down at Red Eagle and did not dismount.

  Mist hung like smoke in the trees around the camp. A blue jay hopped around one of the lean-tos, chuckling in its throat. It cocked its head, then began pecking at a chunk of dead-wood,seeking out a morning grub.

  “Red Eagle,” Mandrake said, “you got a sleepy camp here. No guards. We could have been soldiers riding up here.”

  “Me know you come. Scout come. Say he see you.”

  “What scout? I didn’t see no scout,” Army said.

  Red Eagle looked over at a young brave who squatted by the brook, bony legs framing his bronze face. He spoke to the young brave, who stood up and walked over to Red Eagle.

  “This one,” Red Eagle said. “Him called Beaver. Good scout. He see. He come. He tell you come.”

  Beaver signed that he had seen Hobart’s party ride up the canyon. Ollie was surprised that he could understand the “talking hands,” as Mandrake had called this odd form of communication.

  “Good,” Ollie said, satisfied. “Now, call your men together. If you can understand me, I want you to tell them something. Do you understand?”

  “Me hear. Me know you talk.”

  Ollie looked up at Mandrake.

  “Does he understand what I’m saying, Army?”

  “I think he does. I think he knows a lot more English than he lets on.”

  “Get off your horse. I want to get these . . . these men ready to attack those miners up the canyon.”

  Mandrake swung off his horse.

  Red Eagle spoke to Beaver in the Cheyenne tongue. Beaver ran off to the other lean-tos and told all the men to come out and gather where the white faces stood.

  Twenty Cheyenne came to listen to the white faces. Their clothes were tattered and patched, their shoes and moccasins worn, the sleeves of their shirts frayed at the cuffs, their trousers ill-fitting. Hobart looked them over, then turned to Red Eagle.

  “I want you and your men to get their rifles and pistols. Bring all the ammunition you have. We are going to ride down to where the prospectors are and shoot every man jack there. Do you understand?”

  “Me kill heap white faces,” Red Eagle said. He pantomimedholding a rifle to his shoulder and made explosive sounds with his mouth. The Cheyenne gathered there grunted and uttered warlike oaths, speaking in their tongue and pantomimingtaking scalps.

  “Good,” Hobart said. “Kill them all.”

  Mandrake made a sign with his hands.

  “Heap die,” Red Eagle said, grinning with a mouth full of carious teeth.

  “And be quiet when we ride down there,” Hobart said.

  “I don’t know that hand sign,” Mandrake said to him.

  Hobart walked up to Red Eagle, put a hand on his mouth, shook his head.

  “Don’t make a damned bit of noise. No talking,” Hobart said.

  “I know the sign for talking,” Mandrake said.

  Hobart removed his hand from Red Eagle’s mouth. Red Eagle made the sign to his men, most of whom grunted in assent.

  “Let’s go,” Hobart said.

  Red Eagle held up a hand. None of the tribe moved. They all stood there, looking off across the ridge.

  “What the hell?” Hobart said, his voice trailing off.

  “Turtle come,” Red Eagle said.

  Blue Snake made a sign with his hands, two fingers held straight down, moving back and forth, like a man’s legs.

  Hobart looked where Red Eagle was looking. He didn’t see anything. He didn’t hear anything.

  “I don’t . . .” Hobart started to say.

  “Here comes an Injun,” Mandrake said, pointing. A man emerged from the trees. He was lean and lithe, wore moccasins,and carried a rifle in his hand. He had a pistol and holsterstrapped around his waist. His muslin shirt was clogged with dirt and there were fresh pine needles in his hair.

  “Is that Turtle?” Hobart asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Mandrake said. “They all look pretty much alike to me, ’cept for Red Eagle and Blue Snake.”

  “Turtle heap good scout,” Red Eagle said.

  The clouds still hung low, but some of the mist was wafting off in gauzy tatters from the creek. Turtle stopped in front of Red Eagle. He did not seem winded at all, even though the air was thin at that altitude.

  He spoke to Red Eagle, his speech full of hisses and titteringsounds. His hands moved slow and deliberately as he describedwhat he had seen. Ollie watched him, fascinated, trying to decipher the sign language.

  “You know what he’s sayin’, Army? With his hands, I mean.”

  “I see him measurin’ distance and something about three men. Two redskins and a white man, near as I can figure.”

  “How long we going to be here?” Fry asked from a few feet away. “My butt’s turning to wood just sitting here like this.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Fry,” Ollie said. “Let’s hear what this buck has to say.”

  Finally, Turtle stopped talking and his hands stopped moving. He walked to the creek, squatted down, scooped up water in his cupped hands, and drank with noisy slurps.

  Red Eagle turned to Hobart.

  “Turtle him say three men ride this way. One Lakota, one Tsistsistas, one white-face soldier. Soldier throw white-man clothes away. Him wear buckskins now. Him Ogallala. Lakota. Come to camp.” He pointed to the ground.

  Fry rode up, dismounted.

  “He must be talking about Major Cresswell,” Fry said. “He was captured by the Ogallaly Sioux when he was a boy. I think he robbed the armory with some renegade Cheyenne. But there was more than two Injuns got away with rifles and cartridges.He coming up here?”

  “That’s what Red Eagle said.” Hobart shifted his weight. Mandrake could see that he was getting uneasy.

  “I wonder where the other Cheyenne are,” Fry said.

  “Maybe Cresswell’s comin’ to join up with us,” Mandrake said. “He’s one of those I paid off to steal them rifles.”

  “Ask Red Eagle what he thinks,” Hobart said to Mandrake. “Why is Cresswell comin’ up here?”

  “I’ll try,” Mandrake said.

  From far away, they all heard the raucous screech of blue jays. The sound was faint, but it jarred the silence.

  Red Eagle spoke to Blue Snake and then all of the other braves trotted to their lean-tos.

  “Come quick,” Red Eagle said.

  “Is this white man going to fight with us?” Ollie said. “You savvy?”

  “Me savvy. No. White face want braves go with him. North.” He made a sign with one arm, pointing north. “Many brave. Heap guns. North.”

  “I don’t like it,” Ollie said to Mandrake. “Get those horses out of sight. Rosa, take cover. Dick, you and Fry come with Army and me.”

  “What are you goin’ to do, Ollie?” Mandrake said.

  “We’ll just find out what that damned turncoat Cresswell is doin’ up here. He stole rifles meant for this bunch and those missing Injuns. I don’t like it none. The bastard.”

  He turned to Red Eagle.

  “Keep all your bucks in the trees, Red Eagle,” he said. “Out of sight. Savvy?”

  To his surprise, Ollie was using his hands, gesturing towardthe trees.

  Fry started leading his horse toward the trees. Rosa and Tanner rode up and followed Army and Ollie to a hiding place among the pines and spruce.

  The jays down the ridge grew louder with their invective. Soon, the clearing was empty. Ollie
stood next to a pine, his rifle in hand, the muzzle pointing to the ground.

  Mandrake hunkered down behind a juniper bush a few feet away. He jacked a cartridge into the chamber of his Winchester.Fry drew his pistol. Rosa sat down, a pine at her back. Dick Tanner came back from tying up the horses and took a position behind a small fir tree, his rifle at the ready.

  “Damn,” Ollie muttered to Mandrake. “How far up the canyon are them prospectors? Will they hear us if we shoot?”

  “About two miles, I reckon. But the canyon twists some. They might not hear a shot or two.”

  “Shit,” said Ollie.

  The gold wasn’t going to go anywhere, he knew. But he was thirsting for blood. And he didn’t like being double-crossedby that damned Cresswell.

  He felt the blood pulse in his neck as his anger swelled within him. He fingered the trigger of his rifle, sighted it as he held the barrel against the tree.

  Maybe, he thought, I won’t even give that bastard Cresswellthe benefit of the doubt.

  He smiled.

  He was beginning to feel better already.

  27

  John descended the trail, which coursed the side of the ridge at an angle. Ben rode right behind him, followed by Herzogand the two sergeants.

  He had seen a number of such trails along the ridge, but this one led straight down to the canyon floor, while the others had strayed off in all directions like a spider’s web.

  Just beyond the trail he had seen a high bluff, rimrock, and knew this would be the easiest path. They had made good time and had seen nothing on the opposite ridge: no riders, no sign of Cresswell and what he figured were two Indians.

  “Game trail?” he asked Herzog when they reached the canyon floor.

  “Sheep trail. Basque sheepherders used to graze their sheep up here in the summers. They stopped coming here when they saw the dead horses.”

  “Dead horses?”

  “Just up ahead. The bones are still there.”

  They rode up the canyon. Just below the massive rock outcropping, the sheer bluff that resembled some ancient architectural structure, the ground was littered with bones and horse skulls. John looked up to the top of the sheer bluff.

  “They fell from up there?” John asked Herzog.

  “I guess so. Legend says a bunch of Utes rode up here, chased by Arapahos. When they were cornered and knew they were going to die, the Utes supposedly jumped their horses off that cliff.”

  “Christ,” Ben exclaimed.

  John examined the bones more closely. There were human skulls mingled with the horse bones. He shuddered. All of the human skulls had been smashed. There were large holes in the top such as might have been made by a stone war club or a rock. Some of the horse skulls showed signs of having once been painted. There were faded symbols, colored red and green and blue. John wondered if the Arapaho had ridden down to make sure the Utes were all dead and maybe take their scalps for proof and for bragging. And maybe they had painted the story on the horse skulls, daubed on pictographs for their enemies to read.

  “It’s only a legend,” Herzog said. “Happened a long time ago. Look at how bleached all those bones are.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Ben said. “How far is it to that mining camp, Lieutenant?”

  “Couple of miles. Canyon twists a lot from here on in, so it’s hard to tell. Used to be a river run down here, but the Basques dammed it off to form a lake up top. Now there’s just seepage when it rains or the snow melts in the spring.”

  “This place gives me the creepy crawlies,” Ben said. “Any chance of that dam breakin’ while we’re ridin’ up it?”

  Herzog laughed and looked at Sergeant Will Crisp.

  “I been up there,” Crisp said. “That dam is solid rock and dirt and the beavers did what the dynamiters might have missed. That dam ain’t never goin’ to break, less’n there be a quake. Ain’t that right, Daryl?”

  Freeman nodded. “Big old lake up there, like it’s in a hole. Looks mighty deep and green as jade when the sun’s just right. Me’n Will wanted to take a swim there when we rode up, but you get in it, you ain’t getting out.”

  “That makes these old bones feel a lot better,” Ben said.

  John was silent, studying the trail up the canyon. It was ruttedwith wagon tracks, but there had been no water to soften the soil since spring, he figured. The horse and wagon tracks were at least three weeks old. The miners must be about ready to go into Fort Laramie for supplies in a week or so.

  “Rolf,” he said, “do they have a head man up there at the camp? Somebody I can talk to?”

  “Kind of,” Herzog said. “Several of them come to the fort fairly often, wanting one thing or another, besides grub and tools. One of them seems to speak for the bunch. A man named Luther Randolph.”

  “Know him pretty well, do you?” John asked.

  “Pretty well. I’ve had dealings with him. Fact is, he’s about the only one who does any talking. These prospectors are a tight-lipped bunch. They don’t say much.”

  “Think I could get along with him?” John asked, looking up at the right ridge every so often. The canyon took a sharp twist to the left and he stared ahead. He saw that the trail was even more crooked. From the exposed rocks, he could see signs that raging rivers had once coursed down the canyon. The water had eaten away at the rock and soil and there were stones and boulders lining both sides of the trail. The canyon was wide enough, however, so that it might not fill up for hundreds of years.

  “Yeah, I think you and Luther would get along. You don’t talk much, either, and from what I hear, you know a little something about prospecting. Fact is, Randolph may have heard of you.”

  “Oh? Why so?” John asked.

  “The news of that massacre down in Colorado got way up here. Randolph asked Ward a lot of questions, knowing the colonel’s son was one of those who got killed. You ever heard of Luther Randolph, you or Ben?”

  “Not me,” Ben said.

  “No,” John said. “I never heard his name before. Where’s he from?”

  “That’s something you’re not likely to find out from any of the miners up here. Like I said, they’re a tight-lipped bunch.”

  “So were we,” Ben said. “Sure as hell didn’t help much.”

  “With no river running here, these must be hard-rock miners,” John said to Herzog.

  “Yeah. They buy a lot of lumber and dynamite, blasting caps. I asked Luther once if they had stumbled onto the mother lode.”

  “What did he say?” John asked.

  “He just laughed. Didn’t really answer me.”

  Just then, they heard a muffled explosion. Then it was quiet. John figured it came from at least two miles away.

  “Must be deep into it,” Ben said. “And they probably used a half stick.”

  Herzog looked at him, partly in surprise, partly in admiration.

  “Sounds right,” John said.

  They were met at the edge of the settlement by two men carrying rifles.

  “Halt,” one of them shouted.

  John reined up. So did the others.

  “Who be ye?” said the other man.

  “Friends,” Herzog replied. “We came to talk to Luther. I’m Lieutenant Herzog from Fort Laramie.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so, Lieutenant. Who you got with ye?” said the first man.

  “Miners from the massacre in Colorado,” Herzog said, thinking fast.

  Dust hung in the air from the blast deep in the mine. It had taken a long time to make its way from the shaft out into the air.

  The first man waved them on and Herzog waved to both men as they passed.

  Ben was taking it all in, gazing at the scaffolding that had been erected on the side of one tall ridge. Broken rocks lay everywhere, talus was strewn along the base of the mountain; shale and iron-streaked rocks lay in jumbled piles, as well. He saw wheelbarrows and pickaxes, coiled ropes, tents, cooking irons, pots and pans, kegs of nails, boxes of dynamiteu
nder small lean-tos. Men looked up from their dry rockers. Some stood with picks or shovels in their hands. A couple were smoking pipes, another a cigarette. A few of the men wore no shirts. Others wore grimy shirts, ragged, patched trousers, battered, crumpled hats. Horses and mules were in separate pole corrals. Smoke rose from a fire over which hung a blackened kettle.

  “They got ’em some digs here, all right,” Ben said, his voice almost a whisper. “Kind of gets your blood workin’, don’t it, Johnny?”

  “Brings back some memories, all right,” John said.

  “Hello the camp,” Herzog called, cupping both hands around his mouth. “Luther, you here?”

  “He’s right over yonder,” one of the men said, pointing to a big, brawny man who was working a dry rocker next to the old streambed. He and another man set the rocker down and stood up.

  “Rolf? That you?” Randolph yelled.

  “Want to talk to you, Luther. Have you meet a couple of friends.”

  “Well, light down, all of you,” Randolph said, walking over to them. “We done et our breakfast vittles, but we can scare up some coffee. Pot’s always on.”

  Rolf introduced Ben and John to Randolph, explained who they were and why they were there.

  “We might not have much time,” John said. “Can you have your men grab rifles and pistols and listen to what I have to say?”

  “There going to be a fight?” Luther said.

  “I think a bunch of renegade Cheyenne and some of the men who killed my family and our friends are going to swarm all over here to try and steal your gold.”

  “Hell, it’s all pretty much ore. Assays out pretty good, though.”

  “Can you and your men defend themselves? We might be going up against twenty or thirty rifles,” John said.

  “Oh, we can give a good account of ourselves, I reckon.” Randolph whistled and all of the men stood up and some started walking their way. Some heads peeked out of the mines above them. Two men were walking down from the dam, carryingwooden pails full of water.

  John sized Randolph up. He was a rugged-looking man with a florid face, a full beard, grime rings around his neck, arms that were all sinew, muscle, and hard bone.

  “I’ll strap on my Colt Walker and grab my rifle,” Randolph said. To the man next to him, he said, “Kelly, tell everybody to grab a rifle and strap on their pistols. We might be fightin’ off Injuns.”