Thad took the letter and stared at the seal for a long moment. He didn’t take notice of Jason’s departure, unaware of anything else in the world beyond the neat script that spelled out Lieutenant Thad Anderson. For a few moments he forgot the throbbing headache he suffered with, as well as the two arrow wounds in his back and thigh. It was from her! He was afraid to open it, dreading what it might say. He had already accepted the fact of her rejection. What could she say to him now? . . . In a letter? He continued to stare at the letter and suddenly a feeling of gloom engulfed him. Martha, being a proper and refined lady, had no doubt felt it necessary to write him to apologize for not wanting to marry him and assure him that she would always count him as a friend. At this point in time, Thad did not want to be told that. He realized that he was desperately in love with the girl and doubted if he would ever be able to rid his thoughts of her. He decided it better not to see the words now . . . maybe later on he would feel up to it. He put the letter away inside his tunic.
CHAPTER XVIII
It was time to move on. Jason decided he had a need to shake the dust of Fort Fetterman from his heels . . . Maybe find a place where he could forget about Lark and the boy, Bright Feather. Fleming wanted him to stay on but Jason couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for leading scouting parties out after the occasional group of Indians, sickened enough by reservation life to want to escape to pursue a real existence. He hadn’t made up his mind where he was going, but he was going.
That morning, he had invited himself to breakfast with Wes and Ruth Woodcock to take the opportunity to say good-bye and to see the boy once more. Ruth, as usual, was more than happy to see him. Jason knew she felt she owed him a great deal in spite of his efforts to convince her otherwise. Wes was disappointed to see him go but he fully understood Jason’s need to move on.
After leaving the Woodcocks, Jason settled his account with Harvey Singleton and packed his supplies on White. Satisfied that his horses were ready to travel, he had one last call to make and that would be the infirmary.
“Well, you don’t look like you got it too bad in here,” Jason commented when he entered the hospital tent.
“Hello, Jason,” Thad returned. He had been lying on his cot, staring at the top of the tent when Jason came in. He sat up and threw his legs over on the floor. In answer to Jason’s comment, he said, “One more day of this and I’m going to go crazy.”
“When are you going to be released for duty again?”
Thad shrugged. “The doctor said two more days but I’m getting out of here tomorrow. Anything’s better than lying around here.”
Jason studied his friend’s face for a moment. There was a shroud of melancholia about the usually cheerful young man that Jason suspected was caused by something more than physical wounds. Sergeant Brady had been worried about his lieutenant’s frame of mind and, seeing him here, moping about the hospital tent, he was beginning to believe Thad was never going to get over Martha Lynch. Life in a soldier’s occupation was hard enough without carrying any extra baggage over a love unrequited. He was undecided whether to sympathize with the young man or kick him in the ass and tell him to get over it.
“I hear you’re leaving Fetterman.”
Jason nodded. “Today.”
“Damn, Jason, I hate to see you go. Who’s going to save my bacon when you’re gone?”
Jason laughed. “Just don’t go volunteering for no more foolish missions and you won’t need anybody to save your bacon.”
There was a long silence as neither man spoke. Thad found it difficult to put into words how fortunate he deemed himself to be for the time he rode with the tall scout. For his part, Jason saw no need to express feelings that should be obvious.
“Well, I’ll be going. Take care of yourself, Thad.” Jason extended his hand and Thad shook it.
“Wait, I’ll walk out with you.” He picked up his jacket from a footlocker. As he threw it over his shoulder, something dropped out of the pocket and fell to the floor of the tent. Jason picked it up and started to hand it to him.
“Ain’t this the letter I took across the river for you?” He turned it over. “You ain’t even opened it yet.” He ran his thumb across the seal.
“I don’t want to read it,” Thad said.
Jason looked deep into Thad’s eyes for a moment. It wasn’t his nature to attempt to counsel anybody, especially if it involved females. But Thad had the makings of becoming a first-rate cavalry officer and he hated to see him destroying himself, pining his life away over a woman. “Dammit, boy, you’ve got to quit moping around over that girl. Read the damn letter or burn it. Either way, be done with it.”
“I guess I’ll burn it then,” Thad replied.
Jason just looked at him, disgusted, for a long minute. Then he took the letter and broke the seal and read it himself. Thad stared at him in disbelief. Jason read the neatly scripted message, then slowly reread it, his face expressionless. He carefully folded the letter back and looked at Thad.
“Well?” Thad asked, prepared to hear what he had already surmised.
Jason’s stern face suddenly broke into a smile. “Looks like you’re in for more sorrow. She’s on her way back to Laramie and, if I read this letter right, she’s planning on becoming Mrs. Anderson.”
“What?” Thad did not believe what he had just heard. “Give me that letter!”
Jason handed him the letter. “Looks to me like there’s a wedding gonna happen and I don’t want to hang around for that. Weddings make me melancholy.” He left Thad still in shock, reading the letter over and over.
He stepped up into the saddle and turned Black’s head toward the west when he heard his name called. He turned to see Wes Woodcock signaling him from the headquarters building. The sergeant waited for him to pull up before the hitching rail and then handed him a telegram.
“This just came over the wire. I hoped I’d catch you before you pulled out.”
“What is it?” Jason asked and pulled back like he didn’t want to accept it.
“It’s from Colonel Holder. He says it’s important you come to Fort Lincoln as soon as you can get there.”
“What for?”
“It don’t say.”
Jason didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Fort Lincoln . . . hell, that’s way up in Dakota territory . . . northeast. I’m fixin’ to head west.” He looked hard at Wes as if it were Wes’s fault. The sergeant simply shrugged. Jason didn’t say anything else for a long time, then, “What the hell . . .” He turned Black’s head toward the northeast and nudged his ribs gently. The Appaloosa responded immediately.
Sergeant-Major Wes Woodcock stood by the hitching post and watched the scout until he was almost out of sight, loping along, easy in the saddle, the horse and the man moving as one. “Jason Coles,” he said softly to himself and turned to go back in the Orderly Room. He still had tomorrow’s duty roster to make up.
Don’t miss tracker Jason Coles
in his final stirring adventure,
Cheyenne Justice
Coming in 1999 from Signet.
JASON COLES DECIDED it best to climb up the bluffs and work his way upstream so he could search the gullies from above, figuring that whoever was doing the moaning might be watching the river downstream. Working his way carefully past the numerous coulees and cuts, he came upon a narrow gully that descended to a grassy flat, hard by the water’s edge. There, lying among the willows, he discovered the origin of the death song.
The man, a Cheyenne warrior from the look of him, appeared to be alone and, even from his position up on the bluff, Jason could see that he was seriously wounded. Obviously dying, the warrior was too weak to take a defensive position. Instead, he was lying on his back, seemingly indifferent to who or what might happen upon him. This was the reason the antelope was so jumpy. He had no doubt gotten scent of the Indian.
Jason remained on the bluff and watched the stricken man below him for a while. The Indian would lie still for a few minutes and th
en start his death song again until, exhausted, he lay quiet again. Jason looked carefully around, making sure the Indian was indeed alone. He didn’t want to stumble into an ambush. Satisfied that there was no one else hiding in the gullies, Jason finally made his way down to the water, his rifle ready. A bullet from a dying Indian was just as fatal as one from a healthy one.
There was no need for caution. The wounded man made no effort to defend himself when Jason stood over him. In fact Jason wasn’t sure at first if the man was even aware of him. It took but a moment for Jason to realize there was nothing he could do for the man other than possibly ease his discomfort a bit. He was not a young man, a Cheyenne and one respected in his village, judging by the three eagle feathers he wore. Jason surmised the warrior had been wounded in battle before, maybe once for each feather. He had been gut shot and the wound looked bad. His belly was swollen from internal bleeding and there was a smell of gangrene about him. After a moment, he opened his eyes. He registered no surprise when he saw the tall white scout standing over him.
“I can run no more, my strength is gone. You would not have caught me but my wound is bad. I am ready to die.”
Jason was surprised. “I wasn’t chasing you,” he replied, answering in the warrior’s tongue.
“You are not with the soldiers who attacked our camp?”
“No, I’m not with the soldiers. I just happened to stumble on you.” He knelt down for a closer look at the warrior’s wound. “I’ll help you if I can.” Looking at the wound, he knew that he couldn’t.
“Water,” the warrior said.
Seeing an empty water skin laying beside the wounded man, Jason picked it up and went to the edge of the river to fill it. When he returned, the warrior took it eagerly but, with no strength left in his arms, he dropped the skin bag. Jason picked it up and held it to the Cheyenne’s lips. Jason knew that it probably didn’t do the man’s wound any good to give him water but he couldn’t see any sense in denying him some little comfort in his remaining moments. The warrior drank in great gulps until he started to vomit some of it back, mixed with blood.
After retching uncontrollably for a few moments, the warrior seemed to relax. “Thank you,” he gasped weakly.
Jason looked into the man’s face for a long moment, not knowing what to do for him. Finally he told him that he was going to fetch his horses and the antelope he had just killed. Then he would return to make camp there and do what he could for him. The warrior nodded, understanding. Jason got to his feet and walked back down the river. As he told the warrior, he would return and make camp there, but he halfway expected the man to be dead by the time he got back.
To his surprise, the Cheyenne was still alive when he returned and even appeared to be resting more comfortably. The warrior, in turn, was surprised that Jason had returned. He smiled weakly at the scout when he came to check on him.
“I’ll see about building us a fire and then I’ll cut up some of this meat to cook.” He glanced back at the warrior. “Can you eat something?” he asked, knowing that it was not a good idea.
“Yes. I would like to taste some meat before I die.” Jason hurried to skin and butcher the antelope as if afraid he could not get it done before the Indian died. The Cheyenne studied his unlikely benefactor with curiosity. “How are you called?”
“My name’s Jason Coles,” Jason replied as he busied himself with the butchering.
“Coles …” he whispered. “I have heard that name. I am Talking Owl of the Cheyenne.” In weak and halting phrases, he went on to tell Jason how he happened to be there beside the Cheyenne River, dying. He and his wife were in Tall Bull’s village on the Powder, visiting her relatives, when the village was attacked by soldiers. The people tried to fight but they were outnumbered badly and forced to flee for their lives. Talking Owl’s wife was cut down as she ran from their tipi. He was shot in the stomach when he tried to go to her aid. After that, all the people fled into the hills. He managed to catch his pony and escape, hoping to reach Two Moon’s village on the Tongue River.
Some soldiers chased him for a few miles, he said, but they gave up when they realized they were too far from their brothers. His wound became worse and worse and he knew his insides were tom apart. Finally he became too weak to ride and he lay down to rest here by the river. A day passed and he found that he could not summon the strength to get to his feet. He lay there another day. His pony wandered off sometime during the second night and he resigned himself to face death. When he heard Jason’s rifle, he assumed it was some more soldiers who had tracked him and he started to sing his death song.
Jason cut some strips of meat and set them over the fire to cook. While they roasted, he got some water from the river and cleaned Talking Owl’s wound. There was nothing more he could do for it, the damage was all inside and, in Jason’s opinion, a doctor wouldn’t have been able to do anything to save the Indian. The Cheyenne had already accepted the inevitable and seemed to be at peace with it. When the meat was done, Jason propped his saddle pack behind the wounded man so he could sit up a little and, for a little while Talking Owl almost appeared to be getting better. He ate the hot meat eagerly even though it caused him painful spasms and he could only manage a few bites before giving up. He lay back and watched Jason while the white scout ate.
“I think you are a good man, Jason Coles. I’m sorry we could not have fought on the same side.” He studied the scout’s face for a long time, making up his mind before he spoke again. His decision made, he continued. “There is a bundle under me, under the robe I lie on.” With a weak gesture of his hand he indicated the left side of the deer hide he had made his bed upon.
Jason reached under the edge of the robe and got the bundle. There were four arrows, with stone heads, wrapped in a strip of fur. He looked at them for a moment, wondering, and then it came to him. Four arrows, wrapped in fur … from the back of a coyote he’d bet. The shafts were expertly fashioned and decorated. These were the tribe’s Medicine Arrows … Talking Owl was the Keeper of the Medicine Arrows, and consequently, a very respected man in his village. He glanced up at the Cheyenne warrior and found the Indian studying his face intently
“You know what they are.” It was a statement for Talking Owl had read the reaction in Jason’s face.
“Yes,” Jason answered. “They are the Medicine Arrows.”
Owl Speaks nodded solemnly “If you know this, then you know how sacred they are to my village.” Jason nodded. “They must be carried safely to Two Moon’s camp and returned to my people.”
Jason could see the desperation written in Talking Owl’s face. He knew the importance the Cheyenne people placed upon the Medicine Arrows. They, along with the Medicine Hat, were the two most important symbols in their religion. Without the sacred arrows, they would not usually go to war. They were so sacred that the women of the tribe were not permitted to even look at them. Yes, he knew the importance of the arrows and he also knew what Talking Owl was going to ask him to do.
“I am dying, Jason Coles. For the sake of my people, will you take the arrows to Two Moon’s camp?”
Jason didn’t know what to say. It was no small request, asking him to ride deep into hostile territory, right into a hornet’s nest of angry Cheyennes. Most likely they’d skin him alive for even having the arrows in his possession. He gazed directly into Talking Owl’s eyes when he answered. “I thought it would destroy the medicine if an enemy touched the sacred arrows. I have fought the Cheyenne. Two Moon would see me as an enemy.”
“The medicine cannot be destroyed as long as the arrows are returned to the people. There is no other way. I am going under. You are the only way.” Talking Owl’s eyes gleamed in the reflection of the campfire as he pleaded with Jason. “The arrows must not be lost!”
“I understand the importance of returning the arrows but I don’t like my chances of coming back with my scalp if I do what you ask.”
“You will not be harmed for returning the arrows,” Talking Owl stated.
Jason was not convinced. “How will they know I didn’t steal them . . . killed you and took ’em off you?”
“They will know your heart is good because you will bring the arrows back to the people. They will also know that we are brothers. They will not harm you.”
Jason began to wish he had taken another trail to Fort Lincoln. He didn’t like the odds of riding into a Cheyenne camp with the present state of hostilities between the army and the Indians. But, looking into the desperate eyes of the Keeper of the Medicine Arrows, he couldn’t refuse the dying man’s request. Damn, he thought, it won’t be the first damn fool thing I’ve done. To Talking Owl he nodded and said, “All right, I’ll take them back for you.”
Talking Owl smiled and sank back against the saddle pack. “I knew I had read your heart correctly. Give me your knife.” Jason pulled his skinning knife and placed it in Talking Owl’s hand. The Indian drew the blade across his wrist, bringing blood. He handed the knife back to Jason and nodded his head toward Jason’s wrist. Jason understood. He drew the blade across his own wrist and pressed it tightly against Talking Owl’s wrist. “Now we are brothers, Jason Coles. You are not an enemy of the Cheyenne people. You must tell Two Moon this.”
That done, Talking Owl sank back again and sighed. It had all happened so quickly that Jason was almost stunned. He looked at his wrist in disbelief. Talking Owl was quiet then and closed his eyes to sleep. Jason turned back to the meat roasting over the fire. When he turned again to Talking Owl, the Cheyenne was dead.
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