Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  The warrior remained unmoving, silently watching the small patrol as it continued upon its course. Then, evidently satisfied that the soldiers intended to show him no interest, he raised his rifle and fired several shots in their direction before wheeling his pony and galloping away below the brow of the hill. The shots caused no damage, landing harmlessly in the grass some yards short of the column, but they were sufficient to alarm the passengers in the ambulance.

  DiMarco gave a few quick orders to his sergeant, then rode back to the ladies. “Everybody all right back here?” He pulled up alongside. “Just some hostile trying to annoy us,” he said. “I’ve sent a couple of men out to see what he’s up to—and make sure he doesn’t try to get close enough to hit anything.” He wheeled his horse and rode along beside them. “We’ll reach Fort Laramie tomorrow. I don’t think you have to worry about Indians this close to the fort—just some savage showing off,” he assured them.

  Polly watched the two troopers ride out from the column toward the point where the warrior had disappeared. They had almost reached the ridge when suddenly a rider appeared from the low hills to intercept them. At first glance, it looked to be another Indian, but the soldiers pulled up and waited for him. After a brief conversation, the three turned and rode back toward the column. DiMarco, as interested in the sudden turn of events as Polly, stood up in his stirrups to get a better look.

  When the three were halfway back, DiMarco recognized the stranger. “Who is he?” Mary Castle asked.

  “His name’s Jordan Gray,” DiMarco replied.

  Polly watched with interest as the three riders returned to the column. DiMarco rode forward to meet them. The man identified as Jordan Gray ignited a spark of curiosity in her mind. As untamed in appearance as the Sioux warrior she had just seen, he was dressed in animal skins, his face clean shaven like an Indian’s and tan from the spring winds. He sat straight in the saddle on the ugliest horse she had ever seen. He rode with a bearing that conveyed a casual confidence in himself—unsmiling, almost stern. Mary asked a trooper riding close by the question Polly had in mind.

  “Who is Jordan Gray?” she asked. “Is he one of the scouts at the fort?”

  The soldier hesitated, taking a long look at Jordan before answering. “Well, ma’am, he is, and he ain’t. He’s a scout rightly enough when he’s of a mind to be. I don’t know too much about him. To tell you the truth, nobody much does. He’s kind of a loner, stays up in the mountains a lot, but he seems to show up at times when he’s most needed. There are a few folks that know him a little, I guess—Sergeant Grant in M Company, Captain McGarity, and maybe Alton Broom over in the post trader’s store. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  “Some people just aren’t very friendly, I guess,” Mary said.

  “I expect that’s it, ma’am,” the trooper agreed. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t say Gray was unfriendly. He just don’t go outta his way to be friendly.” Warming up to the subject, he offered a bit more information on the buckskin-clad scout. “A year or so back, he was on trial for murderin’ some folks in a Fort Smith bank, but they found him not guilty. There’s talk that he killed some men up in the Black Hills, but there ain’t nobody who knows if that’s just rumors or not. He’s a strange one, all right.”

  Polly listened to the soldier’s appraisal of the man talking with Lieutenant DiMarco and his sergeant. She could not deny a certain element of fascination for the mysterious scout, while at the same time finding it rather odd that the army would employ a man with such a reputation. On this particular day, she and Mary would have been somewhat apprehensive had they been able to hear the conversation between Jordan Gray and Lieutenant DiMarco.

  “What are you doing out this way, Jordan?” DiMarco asked, greeting the scout.

  One of the troopers answered for him. “He says there’s a bunch of Injuns hiding back of those hills, waiting for us to follow that buck that took a shot at us.”

  This captured DiMarco’s interest immediately, and he stole an unconscious glance back at his responsibility in the ambulance before responding. “Is that a fact? How many is a bunch?”

  “A few more than you’d wanna tangle with, seeing how big your escort is,” Jordan replied. “I counted at least twenty back in a gulch beyond those hills, and there may be more that I couldn’t see.” He paused to look at the ambulance, only mildly curious. “They were hopin’ to give you a little surprise party. If I was you, I’d head more to the east, close by that rise you see yonder. I don’t think they’ll come after you out in the open—too risky—but if they do, there’s a little stream below that rise that would be a good place to stand ’em off.”

  “You heard him, Sergeant,” DiMarco immediately responded. “Head ’em out.” And the column started moving again, veering off to the right of their original path. Jordan rode along beside the lieutenant. Far off to the west, the Sioux warrior on the white pony reappeared at the brow of the hill, and watched the soldiers leave. “I guess he’s disappointed we didn’t come to the party,” DiMarco commented. “Of course, I don’t know for sure that he isn’t the only Indian out there,” he said, obviously joking.

  Jordan smiled. “Well, there’s one way you can find out for sure,” he said.

  “It’s a good thing you showed up when you did,” DiMarco said, taking a more serious vein. “I’ve got women and children back there—the colonel’s daughter, for Chrissakes.”

  “That so?” Jordan responded. “Well, I think you’ll be all right. I don’t think they’ll take a chance on gettin’ some of their warriors picked off chasin’ you out in the open.”

  “How’d you know they were there?” DiMarco asked.

  “I just happened on ’em,” Jordan replied with a shrug. “I’ve been up in the mountains back there, on my way back to Fort Laramie, and I saw that Sioux on the white horse come up outta that ravine. He didn’t act like he was up to anything good, I guess, so I decided to have a look at where he came from. I saw the little party they were plannin’ for you boys, only I didn’t know who the party was for at the time. But the way they were set up for ambush, it was easy to see which direction they expected you to be ridin’. So I took a wide swing around ’em to warn you.”

  “Like I said,” DiMarco commented, “I’m glad you showed up when you did.” Just as he said it, his horse emitted a sudden squeal and bucked, almost unseating the lieutenant. “Dammit!” DiMarco swore, pulling back hard on the reins until the animal settled down again.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Jordan apologized.

  “Some day, somebody’s liable to shoot that damn horse,” DiMarco said, though without malice in his tone. Sweet Pea, Jordan Gray’s horse, was notorious for her inability to get along with other horses, and she would not hesitate to take a nip out of one that ventured close enough. DiMarco, like most everyone else on the post, knew that the man who was foolish enough to shoot the homely horse better be prepared to deal with Jordan—and that would be a hard day’s work.

  They rode on in silence for awhile, keeping an eye on their back trail to make sure the Sioux war party hadn’t decided to come after them. DiMarco, satisfied that he had been spared from leading the colonel’s daughter into an ambush, considered the man riding beside him—now at a safe interval. Jordan Gray was a puzzle not many people had solved. He was not an unfriendly man, far from it. Yet he really had no close friends. Sergeant Hamilton Grant and maybe the clerk at the post trader’s store were the only two people on the post that Jordan talked to. He would disappear for months at a time, only to reappear, usually with news of some movement of hostile camps, or a suspicious assembly of warriors that might bear watching. Then the lieutenant couldn’t help thinking, like today.

  Mary Castle’s escort detail continued unmolested into Fort Laramie, delivering Colonel Bradley’s daughter and grandchildren safe and sound. The post was bustling with activity. There were troops of cavalry and infantry, newly arrived companies of Crook’s command, busily preparing for war against t
he Sioux. There were scores of wagons, driven by ambitious adventurers eager to reach the gold reported in the Black Hills. To Polly, it was an amazing beehive of more people than she had ever seen in one place. At first frightened by all the activity, she quickly rekindled her resolve.

  Lieutenant DiMarco had dispatched one trooper ahead of the column to alert the colonel of their arrival. And he, along with his wife, was waiting when the detail pulled up before the post commander’s residence. Within minutes, the party was joined by Lieutenant Winston Castle. Polly stood back beside the ambulance and watched the joyful reunion. She was especially touched by the tender embrace between Mary and her husband, and how it contrasted with the brutal touch of Bill Pike. She immediately tried to shake thoughts of her late husband from her mind. It struck her then that the quiet scout who had appeared to warn them of the Sioux ambush was no longer with them. She had not noticed that he left the column as soon as it approached the outbuildings of the fort, and headed upriver to his camp.

  Contrary to Lieutenant DiMarco’s belief that Jordan had no friends on the post beyond Alton Broom and Hamilton Grant, the scout often shared his campfire with two of the Crow scouts, Iron Pony and Otter. He was pulling the saddle off Sweet Pea’s back when the two Indians rode up to greet him.

  “We thought maybe some Sioux warrior finally tied your scalp to his lance,” Iron Pony joked.

  “Not hardly,” Jordan answered with a laugh. “I just had to do a little huntin’—wanted to have something to eat besides the army’s beans and bacon for awhile. I didn’t think I’d be anywhere near any Sioux or Cheyenne war parties, but damned if I didn’t run into one anyway.”

  When he told them of the ambush that Lieutenant DiMarco had managed to avoid, they nodded knowingly. “Sioux raiding parties have been striking white homesteads closer to the fort than before,” Iron Pony said. “I think it is because they have gotten more brave since they whipped General Crook before.”

  “You may be right,” Jordan agreed. He thought back upon the ill-fated campaign Iron Pony referred to. It had been an attempt to strike the Sioux in their winter camps. Crook had set out from Fort Fetterman on the first of March in bitter-cold weather. In Jordan’s mind, it was a stupid endeavor. The soldiers almost froze to death, and when troops under Colonel Reynolds engaged a Cheyenne village on the banks of the Powder River, the Cheyenne sharpshooters hidden in the bluffs made it so hot for the soldiers that they were forced to retreat back to Crook’s command. Reynolds ordered the village burned before withdrawing, thinking the whole time that it had been a Sioux camp they had destroyed. He even reported that it was Crazy Horse’s village. Crook decided to abandon the campaign and return to base. The news was quick to reach Fort Laramie as well as the Sioux reservations. General Crook wasn’t too pleased with Reynolds. He had a reputation as an Indian fighter and Reynolds had sullied it. In fact, Crook was so aggravated that he court-martialed the colonel. Instead of a telling blow against the hostile bands that refused to report to the reservation, the battle served to encourage more reservation Indians to join their hostile brothers.

  It didn’t take a great deal of intelligence to know that the summer was going to bring a serious clash between the army and the still-free bands of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. In the early spring, Jordan had seen numerous trails left by whole villages across the prairie, all heading in the direction of the Powder River Valley. He didn’t know if he would take part in what promised to be a war. It was just as well as far as he was concerned, for he felt no personal animosity toward the Sioux. For a man born with an untamed spirit, he could not really find fault in any man, red or white, who refused to be penned up on a reservation. He would continue to scout for the army, however, at least when it pleased him to do so. He had no other source of income.

  After a few minutes of small talk, Iron Pony and Otter left him to return to the Crow camp close by the fort. A short time later, Jordan had another visitor. Jim Eagle was half Sioux, not particularly well liked by the Sioux scouts, and despised by the Crows. Although currently accepting the army’s pay as a scout, Jim’s allegiance to the Great White Father was somewhat suspect among the other scouts. Iron Pony was convinced that the belligerent breed would deliver a patrol into Sitting Bull’s hands if given the chance. Jordan stood up when the half-breed left the trail and headed toward his campfire.

  Walking his horse slowly, Jim Eagle looked around him as he approached, evaluating the campsite. He spoke not a word of greeting, sitting sullenly in the saddle, his manner contemptuous. Jordan couldn’t help but be curious. The breed had never spoken to him before. He wondered what the occasion was for the dubious honor on this day. As it turned out, the visit was solely to satisfy the stoic scout’s curiosity.

  “Jordan Gray,” Jim pronounced with no emotion. He remained in the saddle while he glanced at Sweet Pea, Jordan’s gear on the ground, then back at Jordan. “You like to camp alone. A man can get his throat cut campin’ alone.”

  “I expect you’d know about that,” Jordan returned, finding it interesting that the half-breed’s thoughts ran along that vein.

  “That’s one damn ugly horse,” Jim said gesturing toward Sweet Pea.

  “It ain’t her job to be pretty,” Jordan replied calmly. It was a remark he had heard a hundred times since he and Sweet Pea had formed their partnership. “Now that you’ve insulted my horse, why don’t you get the hell outta my camp?” He had no idea why the detested half-breed had chosen to visit him, but he had no time to waste on Jim Eagle.

  The breed’s face remained stoic for a few moments before giving way to an evil grin. “A man camping alone out here is askin’ to get his throat cut.” He turned his horse, and walked it slowly back toward the trail.

  Jordan watched the departing belligerent until he was out of sight around the bend of the river. Still puzzled over the reason for the visit, because the two had never had any use for each other, he returned to the business of preparing his supper. He glanced over his shoulder at his horse. “Surely, he didn’t stop just to tell you something you already know,” he said.

  Polly Hatcher was pleased to spend the night as a guest of Colonel Bradley and his wife, although she was obliged to sleep on the settee in the parlor. Mrs. Bradley promised to find her suitable arrangements on the following day. She knew of several possibilities. Sergeant Major Rankin and his wife had an extra bed, and Captain Beard, the post surgeon, had a spare room since his daughter had recently married.

  Colonel Bradley remembered seeing Polly’s aunt Hattie when she was at Fort Laramie. “She came through, all right, driving her own wagon—came with a woman named Maggie Hogg, if I recall correctly. I recall seeing the women, but I didn’t talk to them, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you where they were heading when they left Fort Laramie. Like everybody else, I suppose, they were probably planning to go to the Black Hills to hunt for gold.” He thought for a moment. “You might go talk to Alton Broom at the sutler’s store. They most likely bought supplies there before starting out again.”

  The next day, as soon as she and the colonel’s wife had made arrangements for her to stay with Captain Beard for a day or two, Polly went to seek out one, Alton Broom, at the post trader’s store. It was never difficult to engage Alton in conversation on any subject, and he was delighted to pass on any information he could provide to help the young lady.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I surely do remember your aunt and her friend. As I recollect, them two ladies bought my last barrel of dried apples and a short barrel of flour—figured on bakin’ some apple pies, I reckon.” He laughed at his attempt at humor.

  “Can you tell me where they were heading?” Polly asked.

  “Black Hills,” Alton replied. “Said they were headin’ out to the gold strikes. I give ’em credit for plenty of grit—them two women alone. But if any two women could make it, I’d say it was them.” When Polly told him that she intended to follow them, Alton tried to discourage her. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, bu
t I don’t think you know what you’re sayin’. That’s Injun territory up there, and since the weather warmed up, there’s been all kinds of reports of Sioux and Cheyenne raidin’ parties between here and there. No, ma’am, you don’t wanna even think about goin’ into the Black Hills.”

  She did not take the warning lightly, hesitating for a long moment while she turned it over in her mind. She thought about Bill’s body lying in the mud of the barnyard, and knew she could not go back to Omaha. With no prospects for supporting herself, she could not stay long in Fort Laramie. She saw no option for herself but to find her aunt Hattie. “I guess I’ll go to the Black Hills,” she said softly, reinforcing her resolve.

  Alton guessed as much while watching her worry over the decision. He shook his head slowly in bewilderment. “Ma’am, you’re gonna need a guide.”

  “I know,” she replied, then paused a moment more. “A man named Jordan Gray rode in with the column. Do you think he would take me to the Black Hills?”

  “Jordan?” Alton said, surprised to hear her mention the name. “I didn’t know he was back.” He paused to consider her question. “I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t rightly know. I reckon you’d have to ask him.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Yessum, I can tell you where he usually likes to camp.” He told her to follow the river upstream for about a mile to the point where a narrow stream emptied into the river. “At least, that’s where he’s been campin’ most of the time when he’s back here.” He smiled. “Jordan ain’t much for crowds.”