Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  Jonah’s answer left Bill still puzzled. “You mean you’re goin’ there to see the fight?”

  Jonah tried to explain that there were other reasons for his interest in the outcome of General Crook’s campaign to force the Sioux back to the reservation. Jonah had many friends among the Lakota and Oglala bands. His concern was for their welfare, for he knew they would not go peacefully. He had never met General Crook or any of his officers, but they had evidently heard of him, for they had left word at Fort Laramie inviting him to join the company of scouts with the expedition. They had probably been told of his long years living with the Lakota, and figured he would be valuable to the campaign. Jonah was more interested in the fate of his adopted tribe. He was acting upon the general’s invitation simply because he hoped to help prevent undue abuse of the free-roaming Indians.

  “And you ain’t never met any of the officers with the general?” Pike asked.

  “Nope.”

  “They’re willin’ to hire you on, sight unseen? Pay you five dollars a day?” Bill asked. “For doin’ what?”

  “Like I said, scoutin’. Only I ain’t sure I’ll take a job to scout agin my own people.”

  “Hell, they’s Injuns, ain’t they?” Bill’s mind was already working on a possible deal for himself. Five dollars a day for shooting Indians sounded like something he’d be interested in. “How ’bout I ride along with you? I’d like to do a little scoutin’ myself.”

  Jonah was hesitant, not at all enthusiastic about Pike’s proposal. “I don’t know, mister. I generally ride alone.”

  “Hell,” Bill prodded, “you said yourself it ain’t much more than two days from here. And then we can part company.” He paused, waiting for Jonah’s response. When Jonah continued to stall, he pressed. “Come on, old man. You know the way, and I don’t. Just let me ride along with you till we get to the Powder, and then we’ll part company.”

  Jonah shook his head impatiently. “How you gonna scout if you don’t even know how to find Fort Reno?”

  “You just get me there. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “All right,” Jonah finally conceded. “I’ll take you to Fort Reno, but you’re on your own from there.” He didn’t care for the prospect of traveling with Bill Pike, but he figured that if he didn’t take him along, the man would simply follow him. And it might be wise to have him closer just to keep an eye on him.

  They struck camp early the next morning, and headed off in a northwesterly direction. The morning sun lit the tall peaks of the Big Horn Mountains in the distance, causing them to sparkle like polished silver. The tallest in the chain of mountains, Cloud Peak, gleamed white and icy in the clear morning air. It was cold during the early hours, with a light frost on the higher ridges, but by midday, the sun had warmed the prairie to a more springlike comfort.

  The two men rode along in silence. Few words passed between them the entire day until they made camp by the banks of a small trickle Jonah called Crow Creek. As a rule, Jonah talked very little at any time, usually no more than a word here and there to his mule. But his tongue could loosen up on the rare occasion when he had company, like a few days back when he had encountered his friend, Jordan Gray. This dark, bulky man with the scar on his face was of a different breed in Jonah’s judgment, however. And Jonah found little to say to him. Watching the careless way Bill tended his horse, Jonah shook his head in disgust. He was overcome with a sudden nostalgic longing for the old days, when he felt like the only white man between the Belle Fourche and the Wind River Mountains. It’s getting so a man can’t travel a week without running into some fool greenhorn from back east, he thought.

  In contrast to his silent traveling companion, Bill Pike became quite talkative once they made camp. Helping himself to Jonah’s coffee and venison, he bombarded the old man with a flood of questions about the country they were riding into and the Indians who roamed the land there. Jonah reluctantly answered his questions, with no more than a grunt whenever possible.

  “How much farther to Fort Reno?” Bill asked.

  “Half a day,” Jonah grunted.

  “That way?” Bill questioned, pointing west.

  “More or less,” Jonah replied. “Just follow the crick—even you could find it.” He couldn’t resist adding that last barb.

  “Is that so?” Bill responded. A thin smile creased his face. It was the news he wanted to hear. He stood up and gazed down the course of the creek for several long moments as if imprinting the direction on his mind. “Half a day,” he muttered as he continued to gaze. Then he turned back to face the old man. “Like you say, even I could find Fort Reno from here.” He favored Jonah with a wide smile. “I reckon this is where you and me part company, old man.” He pulled his pistol and leveled it at Jonah.

  Jonah acted instantaneously. Diving across the fire, he lunged at his adversary, drawing his knife as he rolled on the ground.

  Startled by the old man’s sudden reaction, Bill was nevertheless nimble enough to quickly step out of the way. At point blank range, he squeezed the trigger and took another step back as the bullet smacked hard into Jonah’s chest. The old trapper continued to charge, a look of savage fury gripping his face. While constantly backpedaling, Bill pumped three more slugs into him before he finally crumpled to the ground.

  After a few moments to make sure Jonah was finished, Bill stepped closer to gaze down into his face. Although faint, there was a spark of life still burning in the old man’s eyes. “You caused me to waste a helluva lot of lead, you old fart.” He stood over him for a few moments more before leaving him to die while he returned to the fire to finish his supper.

  He checked on the old man once more before bedding down for the night. “You’re a damn stubborn ol’ cuss,” he complained when he discovered movement in Jonah’s eyes. Not willing to risk a miracle recovery during the night, he clamped his hands tightly over Jonah’s nose and mouth, and held them there until the old man finally cashed in. Jonah was so far down death’s dark avenue that he made no effort to resist. Sitting on his heels, his hands clamped over the old man’s face, Bill could not help but think about his father’s death. “Maybe you’ll meet up with my old man in hell,” he said.

  Satisfied that he would not be disturbed by a resurrection of Jonah Parsons during the night, he settled down by the fire to sleep. In the morning, he would sort through Jonah’s possessions, taking what might prove useful, discarding the rest. He decided he would cut the mule loose, and take Jonah’s packhorse. Pleased with the way things had worked out, he rolled over on his side and pulled his blanket over his shoulders. It’s been a good day, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  Colonel Thaddeus Stanton, commander of the company of scouts, studied the face of the man before him. He had to admit that the man standing in a confident slouch at the entrance of his tent presented nothing akin to the picture he had formed in his mind. When Colonel Bradley had suggested sending for Jonah Parsons, it seemed to Stanton that Bradley had referred to Parsons as an old scout. This man, with a gaze that could only be described as insolent, looked to be too young to have had all the experience he was said to possess. The colonel shook his head, dismissing his doubts. He had been wrong in his judgment of half the company of cutthroats who passed as scouts for General Crook—this one should fit right in. Stanton had come to rely upon the few good scouts he had already: Frank Grouard, Ben Clarke, Louis Richaud, “Big Bat” Pourier, and “Little Bat” Gaunier. These men had proven to be good dependable scouts, but they should benefit from Jonah Parson’s many years living with the Sioux.

  “All right, then, Mr. Parsons,” Stanton said, signaling the interview’s end. “I’ll have the clerk add your name to the roster.” He got up from the campstool he had been seated upon. “We’ll be moving out in the morning, heading up the Powder. Reports we’ve been getting tell us that there are plenty of Indians camped along the Rosebud. The general thinks it may be the main camp.”

  Bill grinned and nodded. Then he turn
ed and walked away, pleased with his successful charade. He hadn’t the slightest notion where the Rosebud was, but he felt sure he could tag along with someone who did.

  Chapter 11

  It had been an erratic trail since leaving the old path at the south end of Wolf Valley. The tracks almost seemed to be leading in a great circle, and Toby wondered if the man he followed might be traveling a lot at night. There appeared to have been no effort to cover his trail. At first, Toby was convinced that Pike was heading for Fort Laramie, but then the tracks crossed the trail that led south and continued toward the west. Wherever they led, however, Toby was bound to follow.

  Before noon on the second day, he came upon a campsite on the banks of the Belle Fourche. The tracks told him that Pike had joined up with someone there. The tracks combined, and three horses left the campsite together, heading northwest. Toby gave no more than a moment’s thought to the dangers of riding deeper into Sioux country. He had to speculate upon the meaning of the other two horses, however. Was it a chance meeting? Or had Pike planned to meet someone all along? Toby could only know for sure that he now tracked three horses—either three men, or two men and a packhorse—he didn’t know which. A new thought came to trouble him. Now that Pike was riding with someone, could he be sure which one was Pike? Thinking back, Toby realized that it had been dark when he had seen Polly’s killer. Unknown to him, for no one had thought to mention it, Pike could have been identified by a scar on the left side of his face. He shook his head to free his concerns. There were too many questions to think about. He told himself that he would know which one was Pike when he caught up with them.

  He saw the buzzards circling when still a mile away. The sight served to remind him that he was riding deeper and deeper into Sioux country. Although he had never been there, he knew that he could not be more than a day, maybe less, from Fort Reno, the abandoned army post on the Powder River. The trail he had followed from the Belle Fourche now seemed to be leading straight for the spot where the buzzards were circling. He stood up in the stirrups and looked all around him, suddenly feeling uneasy. The stark and silent Big Horn Mountains stood forbiddingly to the west, seeming to remind him that he was trespassing upon Sioux lands. He looked back across the broken prairie from whence he had come. Blank and empty, it stared back at him, and thoughts of being one man—alone in a hostile country—began to steal into his mind. He promptly scolded himself for wavering in his commitment, and tried to recreate the image of Polly in his mind. But the picture was vague and uncertain. That served to worry him, for he had thought the vivid image of Polly Hatcher would burn in his brain for all eternity. No more than a few days had passed and already he was straining his imagination to recapture the lines of her face. But then he brought to mind the dark shadowy figure of Bill Pike, riding hard on the Wolf Valley trail, and his resolve was strengthened once again.

  As Toby approached the circle of buzzards, he became even more cautious, searching the prairie around him constantly. The object that attracted the great birds appeared to be in a ravine that led down to a small stream. He urged his horse forward and dismounted at the head of the ravine. Drawing his Henry rifle from the saddle sling, he moved cautiously down the defile, leading his horse.

  The object that had attracted the attention of the grisly scavengers turned out to be a man’s corpse. It was not the body of Bill Pike. Of that Toby was certain. This was quite obviously a much older man. He had been shot four times in the chest, and his face was frozen in his final display of rage. It was not a pretty sight, for the body was already bloated, swollen, and swarming with flies. Toby glanced up at the buzzards above him. They were getting closer and closer to the ground. “Man oughta have a decent burial,” he mumbled. It was already in the shank of the afternoon, but he decided he would still take the time to bury the unfortunate man. He didn’t doubt for a minute that this was more of Bill Pike’s work, and was no doubt the unlucky man he had met at the Belle Fourche.

  Using a short spade he carried tied to his saddle pack, he started scratching out a shallow grave. He tried to make a start in the hard rocky ground several times before he found a spot that accepted his shovel. Then he set to the task with a will, working hard to fashion a grave.

  “I expect you’d be Toby Blessings.”

  The sudden utterance, though soft and nonthreatening, was enough to startle the boy so that he stumbled over the edge of the grave in his panic. Already off balance, he lunged backward in an effort to reach his rifle, only to trip over his shovel and land on the seat of his pants in the pile of freshly shoveled dirt. Still trying to gain a defensive posture, he rolled off the pile, and settled in a sitting position. Completely flustered, he looked up at the lone rider sitting his horse casually above him on the rim of the ravine. He knew without asking that it was Jordan Gray.

  “I didn’t mean to spook you,” Jordan said when Toby got to his feet and dusted off his trousers.

  Somewhat shamefaced and feeling foolish after having shown such panic, Toby said, “Well, you scared the hell outta me.” He reached down and picked up his spade. Looking hard at the stranger, he asked, “You’re Jordan Gray, ain’t you?”

  “I am. How’d you know that?”

  “I just figured,” Toby replied. Then he added, “And that ugly-ass horse.” Maggie, Hattie, and even Polly had talked enough about the broad-shouldered army scout and his ungainly horse to give Toby a fair idea of Jordan’s appearance. He had to admit that, at times, Polly’s talk about Jordan had caused him to feel a slight bit of jealousy.

  Unaware of her uncomplimentary reputation, Sweet Pea pranced regally as she descended the slope of the ravine and halted obediently when Jordan dropped the reins and dismounted. With no more than a cursory nod to the boy, he walked over to take a look at the corpse. Although the bloated condition of the body made identification difficult, he recognized it at first glance. Poor devil, he thought, shaking his head sadly. Sorry luck to cross paths with that murdering dog.

  Watching Jordan’s reaction to the body, Toby asked, “You knew him?”

  Jordan continued to stare at the corpse for a moment longer before turning away to face Toby. “Jonah Parsons was his name, and it was a sorry day when he met up with the likes of Bill Pike.” He looked up at the ring of buzzards swooping just above the tops of the willows that lined the stream. “Let’s finish that grave, and get him into the ground.”

  Together they finished burying Jonah amid a stream of raucous complaints from the disappointed buzzards rotating above them. When it was done, Toby looked expectantly toward Jordan. “Reckon we should say some words over him?”

  Already walking toward his horse, Jordan replied, “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Toby said, “Words of comfort, somethin’ from the Bible maybe.”

  Jordan stepped up in the saddle. “Suit yourself. Words ain’t gonna do Jonah much good now. Judging by the way that body was bloated, I’d say he has already met up with his Maker. And the longer I wait around here, the farther Bill Pike gets ahead of me.” He wheeled Sweet Pea toward the stream, preparing to depart.

  “Wait!” Toby exclaimed, running to his horse. “I’m goin’ with you.”

  Jordan checked Sweet Pea for a few seconds while he thought it over. Maggie had said Toby was a decent kid, hard working and honest. But Jordan preferred working alone. Still, the boy had seen Pike, if only in a poor light. That was more than he could say for himself. Maybe it would be helpful to have him along. “All right, then,” he said, “but let’s get movin’. There ain’t much daylight left.”

  They followed the trail left by Pike’s horse and Jonah’s packhorse for a distance of about two miles before Jordan decided Pike was headed for Fort Reno on the Powder River. After that, he was less concerned about tracking, and more interested in making better time. Sweet Pea set a steady pace that Toby’s roan was hard pressed to match. At the end of the day, both rider and horse were more than ready to rest.

  “Couple of hours in
the morning and we oughta make Fort Reno,” Jordan said as he pulled the saddle off Sweet Pea. It was only the second thing Toby had heard from Jordan since they left Jonah Parsons’ grave. The first was “He’s headin’ for Fort Reno.”

  Toby had had plenty of time to speculate on the silent figure riding before him. He had heard people talk about Jordan Gray and, depending upon who was doing the talking, the scout was either a treacherous murderer or an honest avenger. Toby tended to put more stock in Maggie Hogg’s and Hattie Moon’s version of Jordan Gray. According to the two partners of The Trough, Jordan was a man to entrust with your life. Still, it didn’t pay to put blind trust in anyone you just met in the middle of the prairie. Toby was careful to keep a cautious eye on his traveling companion. He rolled into his blanket that night with his pistol handy.

  Although it was past the first of June, there was a light frost covering the ground when Toby opened his eyes a little after sunup the next morning. Looking at once toward the other side of the campfire, he was puzzled to find Jordan gone. Fearing something was wrong, he threw his blanket aside and sat up. His pistol in hand, he looked left and right expecting to find the worst.

  “Don’t get excited and shoot that damn pistol.”

  The voice came from the trees beside the stream, several yards behind him. Dammit, Toby thought, why is that man always popping up behind me? “What is it?” he blurted, still sensing that something was not right. Then he saw them—a dozen or more Indians, and they were heading toward them. Toby scrambled to his feet, and reached for his rifle.

  “Take it easy,” Jordan said. “They’re Crow.” He had watched them approach right at first light, and had positioned himself with his rifle in the trees by the stream. Relieved when he could see them well enough to identify them as Crow, he then was curious as to why they were riding away from the soldiers. He recognized two of the party right away, and knew that they were part of a company of scouts for the army.