The Guns of Vedauwoo (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 6)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  Cash was seated on the front side of the desk, slouched in the comfortable confines of one of two Windsor Armchairs that Penn had available for visitors. A thin cheroot—unlighted in deference to Penn's well-known dislike for tobacco smoke clouding his office—was clenched between his teeth. "We're pretty good at pinchin' off fuses," he replied, almost nonchalantly. "When we can't, we're good at cleanin' up the mess after the explosion goes off."

  Penn looked anguished. "Well, let's hope to hell this is one of those times we can pinch off the fuse. That's why I was relieved to hear you were back in town and why I promptly sent for you. I know you just got in off the trail and rate a well-deserved rest, but I'm afraid I have to ask you to turn around and ride back out again almost immediately."

  "Won't be the first time." Cash shrugged fatalistically. "So how about we quit talkin' in generalities and get to some details—exactly what is this fuse I'm supposed to ride out and pinch off? Or, more importantly I guess, what makes up the potential powder keg it's attached to?"

  Penn leaned back in his chair, emitting a raged sigh. "No doubt you've heard of the Ghost Dance movement that is spreading through several of the Indian tribes?"

  Cash narrowed his eyes and gave a measured nod. "Heard of it. Hard to believe so many are takin' it so serious."

  The Ghost Dance movement—or religion, many were calling it—had first been introduced nearly twenty years ago in the Paiute Nation. In that early incarnation, it amounted to a fairly benign concept of earth renewal and a reintroduction of ancient spiritual teachings. More recently, however, a new messiah, a powerful Northern Paiute medicine man named Wovoka, had introduced a new element to the movement after claiming he'd had a prophetic vision during a solar eclipse. In Wovoka's vision he saw a great awakening of all Indian Nations, including the resurrection of the dead, and the withdrawal of all Whites—if Indians lived righteously and ritualistically performed a circle dance known as the Ghost Dance in a recurring series of 5-day-long gatherings. Originally starting with the Paiutes in Nevada, the revitalized movement had caught on like wild fire and now Ghost Dances were being performed on reservations all across the West by tribes of all Nations.

  "But to my understanding," Cash went on, "the great awakening this Ghost Dance is supposed to bring about will all take place peaceably, without violence or threat."

  Penn nodded. "That was according to Wovoka's original vision and teachings, true enough. But, as the movement spreads, there are signs not everybody sees it quite that way ... Ever hear of a Sioux sub-chief and half-assed holy man named Kicking Bear?"

  "Can't say I have."

  "Well, among other things, he's pretty tight with ol' Sitting Bull over on the Pine Ridge Reservation in Nebraska. They fought at Little Big Horn together. Not so long ago, it seems Sitting Bull sent him out to Nevada to meet with Wovoka, to find out more about the Ghost Dance and bring back what he learned." Penn frowned and gave a disapproving shake of his head that caused the fleshy pouch of his double chin to quiver faintly. "What Kicking Bear came back with, unfortunately, was an interpretation to Wovoka's prophecy that added a new feature—something he's calling a Ghost Shirt, a shirt that has the magical power to turn away the White Man's bullets."

  "Why need something like that if the whole aim of the Dance is peaceful change?"

  "That's exactly what has got a lot of Army brass and the Bureau of Indian Affairs folks so concerned. Part of the Ghost Dance awakening calls for a renewed land where all evil has been purged away. If Kicking Bear's notion about bullet-turning Ghost Shirts starts to spread more widely through all the ceremonies already taking place, you can see where that might add a whole new wrinkle. Cause you to wonder what if some of the followers began seeing that 'purging out evil' part as a call to once again try driving out the White Man, only this time with a magic garment that gives protection against his bullets."

  "An uprising, you mean."

  "Be no other word for it."

  Cash frowned. "Gotta say, that sounds like a bit of a stretch to me. More than I guess it does to you. But, either way, how does it concern the Marshals service? You said the Army and the Bureau of Indian Affairs are already alerted—aren't they the ones who need to stay on top of it?"

  "For that part of the matter, to be sure," Penn answered. "However, you'll recall I also said there were incidents, plural, that factor into this potential powder keg. The one that more directly concerns us has to do with a prison break that occurred down at Castle Rock Prison, south of Denver, two days ago. One of the escapees was a half breed named Vilo Creed. Ever hear of him?"

  "Creed the Breed," Cash muttered. "Sounds like the villain out of some cheap penny dreadful. But no, I never heard of anybody by that name in real life."

  Penn grunted. "By all accounts, Creed is certainly a villain. And the crimes that put him behind bars were surely dreadful enough. It's unfortunate he's not merely a work of fiction." The chief marshal reached out and tapped a pudgy forefinger down onto a sheaf of papers that lay on the desktop. "There are details on Creed's background in here, telegraphed to me by the Colorado authroities. Along with those of another man named Harley Boyd."

  "I take it the Colorado authorities have reason to think those boys are headed our way?"

  "Only Creed. Boyd might've started out this way, since he was part of the prison break, too. But he didn't make it far. The prison posse who rode out in pursuit found what was left of him on the trail. He'd been savagely beaten and sliced up with a knife. Tortured. Whoever did it left him for dead. But he wasn't. Not quite. He lived long enough to wheeze out three words after the posse came upon him. 'Creed ... guns ... Vedauwoo' ... That's all he had left in him before he succumbed."

  "So Creed was the one who tortured him."

  "Not much doubt."

  "Okay. That explains why he included Creed in his final words. And I know where Vedauwoo is, so that must be where Boyd figures Creed is headed for ... But how does mention of guns fit in?"

  Penn tapped the sheaf of papers again. "You got to back up to Boyd's history. He went to prison in 1875 for killing a Denver businessman over a watch. But before that he'd long been suspected of running guns to the Indians. Only nobody could ever gather enough proof to bring charges.

  "Less than two months before his arrest for the Denver murder, Boyd was again suspected of being part of a gang—maybe the leader—who robbed a shipment of arms bound for Fort Collins. They got away with one hundred Springfield Model 1873 carbines. But again, nothing could be proven against Boyd. Several other men who were also suspected of being part of the gang ended up dead in only a matter of days after the robbery—two died shooting it out with authorities attempting to bring them in for questioning; three others were found murdered without apparent motive."

  "Boyd cleaning house," Cash said. "Making sure no one was left who might cave and spill his name as part of the deal."

  "That was the general belief. But, once more, no proof. What's more, there's no evidence of the stolen guns ever having been delivered to any of the Indian tribes who were raising so much hell during that time. No delivery to the Indians, no delivery anywhere else—at least not as far as anybody has ever been able to determine."

  "So Boyd stashed 'em somewhere while the heat was turned up high, while he was clearing the slate of anybody who could point back to him. But then, before he could haul the rifles out again in order to try and make his sale, he was stupid enough to get in a fight over a watch and end up convicted for murder."

  "His luck finally ran out."

  Cash shook his head. "Had nothing to do with luck. Like I said, he was stupid."

  Penn shrugged indifferently. "Okay, I'll concede you that. But when he got crossways of Creed, that sure as hell turned out to be bad luck for Boyd."

  "How does Creed figure in on the gun angle?"

  "He was Boyd's cellmate for the past two months," Penn explained. "Stubborn damn Boyd would never admit a peep about having anything to do with that arms robbery,
not even when the prison board offered him a deal on his murder sentence if he'd cooperate and turn over the guns ... But with Creed, his cellmate who was scheduled for a trip to the gallows, he apparently talked more freely."

  "Was Creed the one behind the prison break?"

  "They're still trying to figure that out. About twenty prisoners made it free. They scattered into a half dozen different groups once they were out and, as far as anyone can tell so far, there's no link between the different groups. Last I heard—and I'm getting telegram updates daily—all the prison authorities can say right now is that some kind of explosive charge was set at one of the side gates and a food delivery wagon somehow set it off when it tried to pass through. All hell broke loose and the twenty escapees used the chaos and confusion to make their break."

  "I take it Creed and Boyd were one of the 'groups' who split away once they were out. Just the two of 'em?"

  "The way it looks."

  "Okay, but I still don't—" Cash hesitated for a moment, looking thoughtful. He removed the cheroot from the corner of his mouth. When he spoke again his words came in less of a rush. "I was about to say I didn't see why anybody would be in a hurry to get their hands on those stolen Springfields after all this time, considerin' how outdated they are and how the Indian wars are over and all. Can't think of a ready buyer unless maybe you hauled 'em all the way down to Mexico ... But with this Ghost Shirt business coming to a simmer practically in our back yard, the sudden availability of that many rifles just might be all it'd take to bring the pot to a boil. That what you're thinkin'?"

  "You got it. And here's the clincher: Creed's Indian bloodline is Lakota Sioux. Same as Kicking Bear. Sitting Bull, too, for that matter—but the old chief doesn't seem to figure into any of this except for finding the whole Ghost Dance thing an amusing way to annoy the White Man.

  "At any rate, Creed's been heard to brag he's shirttail kin to Kicking Bear. Probably not something Kicking Bear'd be likely to brag about in return, even if it was true. Not before, anyway, not with Creed's low reputation. But now, if Kicking Bear was to all of a sudden learn he had a mixed blood cousin who could hand over a hundred rifles right at the time he was stirring up a bunch of hot bloods with his Ghost Shirt interpretation of the new Indian Nation awakening ... "

  "Outside news spreads amazingly fast through a prison," Cash mused, "especially news about something that's giving fits to the authorities. Not much doubt that Creed, Boyd, and the other inmates would have heard about the whole Ghost Dance-Ghost Shirt thing."

  "You see what I mean about a powder keg forming if these individual pieces start falling together?"

  "Sure do," Cash said in a low voice. "If Boyd stashed the stolen guns in Vedauwoo, like his final words imply, then Creed is on his way there to claim 'em after torturing Boyd to get their exact location out of him. That means somebody needs to beat Creed there and stop him before he digs 'em up and fans the flames of an uprising even more by making 'em available to Kicking Bear and the Ghost Shirt hot bloods."

  "You know Vedauwoo as well or better than any man I've got. The timing of you returning to town when you did could hardly have been better."

  "Yeah. Lucky me," Cash said dryly.

  "There's no telling how quickly Creed will try to make it there. He may go straightaway, he may take time to try and round up some others to accompany him. The prison break was two days ago, as I said. It seems likely Creed would need at least a little while to gather some supplies and a wagon or pack horses to bring out the guns. But if he made a beeline straight for it, he could already be there."

  "We can't take the chance. I need to head for Vedauwoo right away."

  "I've already got men out on a train robbery that took place up north night before last, and others assigned to a bloody range war farther west. I'm sorry I don't have anybody else available to send with you."

  "Not the first time for that, either," Cash said resignedly. He rose up out of his chair and reached for the sheaf of papers Penn had prepared for him.

  "I won't have any way to stay in contact with you in case anything changes," Penn said. "Like I told you, I'm getting regular updates from the Colorado authorities. There's always the chance—a slim one, I'm afraid—they might catch up with Creed before he even makes it up here to our neck of the woods ... We'll give it a week. If he hasn't shown up in Vedauwoo by then, I want you to hightail it back here and we'll re-assess how things stand."

  "A week should do it," Cash agreed.

  "You watch your ass out there," Penn said. He pointed toward the papers Cash had picked up. "You scan through those, you'll see quick enough what a nasty bastard this Creed is ... Stay extra sharp when it comes to him, you hear?"

  -THREE-

  Once again mounted on Paint, his tall pinto stallion, and leading a buckskin pack horse, Cash rode out the next day at first light.

  The pack horse had been supplied and provisioned by Chief Marshal Penn, who took care of all arrangements the previous evening in order to allow Cash a measure of free time to see to his own affairs. Cash used the opportunity to fit in the bath and hot meal he'd been looking forward to, as well as an enjoyable dalliance with Lenora. None of it was as completely satisfying as it might have been, however, not with the specter of Vilo Creed and the looming threat of a potential Indian uprising weighing on his mind throughout. Nevertheless, he'd managed a stretch of restful sleep during the overnight hours and woke feeling refreshed and resolved to the task ahead.

  Now, out in the crisp morning air, the breath from himself and the horses streaming out in vapor trails caught by the brilliant wash of the new day, he was glad to be underway. His destination lay due west across a span of rolling, mostly treeless terrain. Clumps of yucca and sage dotted the rise and fall of stubborn, brownish-green grass, broken occasionally by ragged rock outcroppings and now and then a low, flat mesa. As he rode, Cash was always in sight of hazy humps off to his left, the northern reaches of the Colorado Rockies; ahead, from the higher slopes, he could also see the purplish ridges of the Laramies and the Snowy Range in the distance.

  It would take the better part of a day's ride to reach Vedauwoo.

  The Vedauwoo Rocks—called Skull Rocks by some—were a spectacular concentration of hills and rock outcropping that thrust abruptly up out of the high plains landscape almost like an abbreviated mountain range in their own right. Steep granite peaks reached hundreds of feet into the sky, some ending in jagged fingers, others blunted and broken, leaving massive tumbled boulders strewn across the inter-mingled hills overgrown with fir and aspen and cut by streams and sharp, narrow canyons. It was a distinctly beautiful area that Cash had warm personal memories of and always enjoyed returning to ... at least, he always had in the past.

  Raised from infancy to the age of twelve by a band of Arapaho under the leadership of Lightning Cloud, his adoptive father, Cash had hunted the trails and fished the streams of Vedauwoo throughout much of his boyhood. He had killed his first elk and had first met the challenge of a cougar there. From their village to the north and east, his tribe's hunting parties often sought out the bounty of Vedauwoo's myriad wildlife to supplement the buffalo of the open prairie. And each spring it was home to spiritual ceremonies of great significance. The name Vedauwoo, in fact, was derived from the old-tongue "bito'o'wu", meaning "earth-born", and had long been recognized by the Arapaho as a special place, one to be revered.

  After the death of his Arapaho mother, Elina, Cash's tribe made the decision to migrate north to Canada, away from the rapidly advancing tide of America's western expansion and the changes it was forcing on the native people in its path. The time had also been right for Cash to part ways with the Arapaho and seek his path in the White World, to which he'd initially been born. Without the loving, patient hand of Elina to steady him and to balance his oft-times contentious relationship with Lightning Cloud, life in the tribe would have been difficult if not impossible.

  It had been Elina who'd taken him in, a mere infant pluc
ked from the gunsmoke-shrouded Fall Creek battlefield after his white birth parents had been killed in a crossfire between Arapaho and Cavalry combatants. It had been Elina who'd nursed and nurtured him and then, as he grew, insisted he be accepted as part of the tribe; Lightning Cloud had gone along with her wishes—had even done his part in teaching the boy the ways of a man and a warrior, bestowing upon him the Arapaho name White Deer—because of his love and devotion to his wife. With Elina gone, however, it was clear that White Deer's future lay elsewhere.

  Cash couldn't help thinking of these things now, as he rode once more toward Vedauwoo. His hand involuntarily touched the arrowhead hanging about his neck, a parting gift from his dying mother. In his mind's eye he could clearly see her lovely face and hear her final soft words and he once again felt a pang of the emptiness that had been a part of him ever since her passing. But, for the most part, when he thought back on his time with the Arapaho, he seldom allowed himself to dwell on the sadder, harsher aspects of those years. He'd long ago put that part of his life in proper perspective, taking away only the positives—the unconditional love he'd received from Elina, the strengths and skills he had learned from Lightning Cloud.

  Besides, he reminded himself now, what he needed to stay focused on at the moment was the pending potential confrontation with Vilo Creed. He'd read through the papers Penn had furnished him—consisting of past wanted posters the chief marshal had dug out of the files, along with additional newer details supplied via telegram updates from the authorities down in Colorado—and it was quickly obvious that Creed was a cold-blooded, merciless, unpredictable, thoroughly dangerous individual. Murder, rape, armed robbery, blackmail, arson, kidnapping ... there wasn't much in the way of violent crime his name hadn't been linked to. Too seldom, unfortunately (same as had been the case for his cellmate Harley Boyd), accompanied by enough proof to put him behind bars except for brief stints. What had finally landed him in prison awaiting his turn on the gallows was the slaughter of five prostitutes and three of their customers—everyone who'd been present in the brothel where Creed went crazy from an over indulgence of too-green alcohol that sent him on a demon-vision killing spree followed by an attempt to burn down the establishment in the aftermath. The clincher had been the fact that one of the victims left in his wake had been the son of a prominent politician.