They broke camp at dawn and moved south, staying on the west side of the Tongue. They took their time as they headed for a trading post on the river.
“It’s the only trading post for seventy-five miles, Brother,” Two Wolves pointed out. “Bull will probably be there.”
“I know it. But we need supplies and I need to find out what the date is.”
“You have an appointment?” Two Wolves smiled the question.
“We both do,” Bodine said somberly.
“Yes. But only one of us will keep it.”
“We’ll see.”
Two Wolves gave him a curious look and did not immediately respond. They rode on for a few miles in silence.
“What would you do, Bodine, if I decided to ride to the Rosebuds?”
“I’d stop you.”
“You would try.”
“I’d stop you.”
“Very well. But why?”
“Because you don’t belong there. You don’t hate the white man, Sam. Neither does Medicine Horse. You don’t hate the Army. They’re just men following orders . . . and a lot of them don’t like it, either.”
“But my father is by the river, waiting to die with his people.”
“With some of his people, Brother. You admitted that yourself.”
Two Wolves grunted. “Pointless argument. Each of us will do what we think is best.”
“This is truth. Trading post is just up ahead.”
“And Simon Bull is probably waiting for us.”
“Waiting for me, Brother.”
“Us, you jackass!”
“Always meddling.”
“I promised your mother and father I would look after you.”
“When did you see them?”
Two Wolves smiled. “While you were camped on the mountain looking for me, I was enjoying the hospitality of your mother’s cooking and your father’s conversation.”
Bodine called him some very ugly names.
Two Wolves laughed at him.
Chapter 29
The trading post was a big, low, and long building, securely built and fortified against Indian attack. The stables and corral were in the back.
“That’s Simon Bull’s horse,” Two Wolves pointed out. “I recognize it from the fight at Cutter.”
“This should be interesting. Five men with him, at least. If all those horses are from the same bunch.”
“The way your luck runs, they probably are.”
Bodine and Two Wolves stabled their horses and told the boy to give them a bucket of corn. The stable boy gave them odd looks.
“If your name’s Bodine, them hardcases in yonder is waitin’ for you.”
“How many are there?”
“Six.”
Bodine and Two Wolves took their rifles from the saddle boots, levered rounds into the chambers and eased the hammers down.
“You know the date, boy?” Bodine asked.
“June the 18th.”
Bodine nodded and walked out of the stable, Two Wolves by his side.
Custer and his men were headed south, toward the Rosebud Mountains.
The Cheyenne camped along the Little Big Horn were in the midst of their Ghost Dance.
Bodine pushed open the door of the trading post and stepped in, Two Wolves right behind him.
Two of Bull’s men were at the rough plank bar, drinking whiskey. Simon Bull and three of his men were at a table, playing poker with a greasy deck of cards. Bull looked up, a surprised expression on his face. He had not heard Bodine and Two Wolves ride in, and that irritated him.
Bodine and Two Wolves walked to a table, sat down, and told the barkeep to bring them something to eat.
“Venison stew and fresh-baked bread is what we got.”
“That’ll be fine.”
“You boys eat hearty now,” Bull said, a dirty grin creasing his unshaven face. “A man shouldn’t go to meet his maker on no empty stomich.”
“Then you better eat up, Bull,” Bodine told him. “And tell your rabid skunks to do the same.”
Jim Wilson and Pete Terrance, the two men at the bar, stirred at this, but carefully kept their hands away from their guns. Bodine’s Winchester was lying on the table, the muzzle pointed at them. Two Wolves’ Winchester was also on the table, the muzzle pointing in the direction of Simon Bull.
“I thought you boys were all tied up with Thomas and Walker?” Bodine asked.
“Somebody come along and wiped out about half of Thomas’s bunch,” Bull said, a twinkle in his eyes. “Little two-bit town up in Montana. Took the heart right out of the rest of the boys. We decided to drift.”
“Why don’t you keep drifting?”
“Oh, I probably will, Bodine. After you and me settle up our differences.”
“I have no quarrel with you, Bull. None at all. Never have.”
“It’s just something that has to be, Bodine. One of those things, I reckon you’d call it.”
“Why?”
“Too damn many people sayin’ you’re the best there is. I can’t have that. You’re good, all right. But not as good as me.”
“Seems like I heard the same thing from Stutterin’ Smith.”
“It do, don’t it?”
Bodine and Two Wolves ate the stew and it was good. When their plates were empty, Bodine and Two Wolves stood up, rifles in hand, their thumbs on the hammers.
“Where you boys think you’re goin’?” Bull asked.
“Back on the trail, Bull. I told you, I don’t have any quarrel with you.”
“Damn you, Bodine! What’s it take to make you stand and fight?”
“Admittedly, not much, Bull. So I guess I’ll just have to even out the odds some.” He thumbed back the hammer on his Winchester and one-handed, pulled the trigger, shooting Bull in the center of the chest, the slug slamming the big man out of the rickety old chair and dropping him to the floor.
Two Wolves put a slug into the belly of Pete Terrance and shifted the muzzle, shooting Jim Wilson in the chest.
Bodine was busy working the lever of his Winchester, clearing the table of gunslicks with .44s at very close range.
The sound was deafening and the room quickly filled with gunsmoke.
Simon Bull crawled to his knees, cursing as he was dying, and pointed a .45 at Bodine. Bodine shot him between the eyes just as a slug burned Bodine’s arm and turned him around, facing the bar.
Terrance was on his knees, both hands filled with guns. Bodine and Two Wolves fired simultaneously, the .44s striking the man in the chest and jarring him back against the bar, dead.
“Holy Christ!” the owner of the trading post said, peering out from behind a barrel of pickles, which had several holes in it, leaking sour pickle juice onto the dirty floor.
“That was good stew,” Bodine told him, shoving .44s into his Winchester. “How much do we owe you?”
“Fifty cents.” The man found the words.
“Take it out of his pockets,” Two Wolves said, pointing to the dead Bull.
“Yes, sir.”
Bodine and Two Wolves ignored the sprawling bodies and walked around the trading post, picking up supplies. The post owner busied himself going through the pockets of the dead men, transferring the contents to his own pockets.
After taking a wad of greenbacks from Simon Bull he rocked back on his heels, grinned, and said, “On second thought, boys, the stew was on the house.”
“That’s so kind of you,” Bodine told him, tossing some money on the plank bar. “Here’s money for the supplies.”
The post owner waved that off without even looking around. “Fine, boys, fine. Come back anytime.” He was busy admiring a pocket watch taken from Pete Terrance. It chimed the hour and he grinned through his tobacco-stained beard.
Bodine and Two Wolves walked out of the death-stinking trading post.
Dawn found them camped on the Tongue, about ten miles from the trading post.
Bodine poured coffee and grinned at Two Wolves.
“Why are you smiling like that? What have you got up your sleeve this time?”
“We better stick together from now on, Brother. Your reputation as a gunslick is fast approaching mine.”
“Reluctantly, I will have to agree. I knew I should never have allowed you to help me from under that pony. Something told me you would bring me much grief over the years.”
Bodine drank his coffee and tossed the grounds away. “You ready to drift?”
“I’m going west, Bodine. It would be best if you don’t ride with me.”
“Oh, I think I’ll tag along, Brother. Somebody has to look after you.”
“My mind is made up, Bodine. I think you knew that several days ago.”
“I saw a change come over you, if that’s what you mean.”
“If my father will have me, I am going to stay with the Cheyenne on the Little Bighorn.”
Bodine slowly nodded his head, then surprised Two Wolves when he said, “All right, Brother. I won’t interfere this time.”
“Your word on that?”
Bodine leaned over and stuck out his hand. Two Wolves took it. “Will you obey your father if he orders you out of the camp?”
“Certainly. But the words will have to come from his mouth.”
“I’ll wait at the Rosebud, at the point where it angles south. I’ll go no farther west than that.”
Two Wolves packed up swiftly and swung into the saddle. He looked at Bodine, lying on the ground with his back against a log. Two Wolves lifted his hand and rode toward the west.
Bodine waited several minutes before digging another cup out of his pack and placing it on a rock next to the fire. A war-painted Cheyenne stepped out of the bushes and walked to the fire. He squatted down and poured coffee, declining the bread Bodine offered him.
“Last Bull,” Bodine spoke.
“Do not go past the river, Bodine,” the chief warned him. “Wait there for your brother. Medicine Horse will order him out of the camp.”
“I was wondering if that hunting party took my message back to my adopted father. It’s been several weeks.”
“You have been observed. We have seen the signs you left along your back trail. Medicine Horse thanks you for your concern.”
“He is my brother.”
Last Bull drank his coffee slowly. “You do not hate us, Bodine?”
“No. You’re doing what you think is best.”
“And you did what you thought was best when you rode to warn Yellow Hair.” That was said with a smile and with the dark eyes twinkling.
Bodine knew then that he had been under constant observation from the Cheyenne and the Sioux. He had suspected it all along.
“Yes. I felt it my duty.”
“That is understood in the camps. There are no hard feelings against you for your doing what you thought was best.” Last Bull drained his coffee cup and stood up. “Ride carefully, Bodine. There are many young braves among us who do not know you for what you really are. And Lone Dog has promised you a very long and painful death. He has made this pledge to the spirits, with the dust as your flesh, carried by the winds over the fire.”
“I expected that.”
Bodine rose and the two men gravely shook hands. No more words were spoken between them. Last Bull turned and walked away, quickly disappearing into the thick brush. Bodine did not even hear the sounds of his pony’s hooves as the chief rode away toward the west, toward the Rosebud Mountains and the river called the Little Bighorn. It was the 19th day of June.
Bodine carefully put out his fire and packed his gear. He took his time, allowing Two Wolves plenty of time to put miles between them.
Last Bull had been right. Bodine would have to ride very carefully as he moved west. The Ghost Dancing would have begun for some and be over for others, and for the latter, their blood would be hot and savage, and they would be painted for war.
Bodine stowed his boots and spurs and slipped on high-topped moccasins, tying them securely over his pants’ legs. He changed clothes, dressing all in buckskin except for his hat, then swung into the saddle.
He had not gone two miles before Rowdy’s ears perked up; Bodine could feel the tension in the big stallion’s powerful body.
He moved quickly off the trail and into the brush, dismounting and whispering quietly to Rowdy, as he stroked the nose of the horse.
Bodine watched as four Indians came into view, only a few hundred yards off. They were Crow, on a scouting mission for the Seventh Cavalry, searching for the Sioux and the Cheyenne. Custer and his men would be only a few days’ ride away. Maybe even closer than that, and probably miles farther to the west.
Bodine remained motionless. He was not well-liked by the Crow, since they all knew him, knew he had been adopted into the Cheyenne ways, and the Cheyenne and the Crow were bitter long-time enemies.
Bodine silently cursed his luck as the scouts reined up, swung down, and prepared to rest for a time.
Bodine knew it was only a matter of time before the horses scented each other. It would be best to play this as openly as possible.
He mounted up and rode directly into the Crow camp.
Chapter 30
The Crow scouts looked up, distrust bordering hate in their eyes and their hands full of guns as Bodine approached, riding slowly, with his Winchester across the saddlehorn, the reins in his left hand.
“Cheyenne dog droppings!” one of them said, loud enough for Bodine to hear.
“What a terrible thing to say to someone who means you no harm,” Bodine told him.
“Your mouth speaks the words, but we do not know what is truly in your heart, Bo-dine.”
“My heart is heavy this day. I have lost my brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has gone to join his people.”
“Then he will surely die with the rest of the Sioux and Cheyenne when Yellow Hair attacks.”
“But first you have to find them, don’t you?” Bodine smiled the taunt.
The Crow did not take the bait. “We have already found them, Bo-dine. They are by the Little Bighorn. This news has been sent back to Yellow Hair. So there is nothing you can do to change what will soon be history.”
The Crow did not know how prophetic his words really were.
“I am not here to change anything. I don’t think anything can be changed. It’s too late for that.”
“This is truth. Bo-dine might be considered trustworthy after all. I was told you came to warn Yellow Hair. We were gone at the time.”
“Yes. I felt it my duty to do that.”
The Crow signaled Bodine to dismount and join them. He did so, carefully, never taking his eyes from the scouts. He passed around his tobacco sack and papers and the Crows nodded with approval.
The spokesman said, “We have tried to warn Yellow Hair that he is wrong about the numbers of Cheyenne and Sioux. I do not think he believed us.”
“I did the same some days ago. He did not believe me, either.”
“This is also true. We heard. But it makes no matter. The Army will be victorious.” He shrugged philosophically. “If not this time, then the next time.”
“You are not joining Custer?”
“We have been ordered to Fetterman.”
Bodine slowly rolled a cigarette, licked it and lit up. In his mind, he was choosing his words carefully, wanting to know just how the scouts felt. “That order just might have saved your lives.”
“This is also truth,” the Crow scout spoke the words softly.
* * *
Bodine continued west, riding carefully, staying away from well-defined trails, choosing to make his own trail as he rode toward the Rosebud.
He arrived at the curve of the river on June the 23rd. Two Wolves was waiting for him.
“My father ordered me out of the camp and threatened to disown me if I did not obey.” He looked hard at Bodine. “You knew he would do this, didn’t you?”
“I suspected he would.”
“Custer and his forces are very near. Wolf That Has No Sense told me this; he has seen them. There will be a great battle, Bodine. Tomorrow or the next day.”
“Then we’ll ride closer, Brother. We may be able to help with the wounded.”
Two Wolves looked at him, suspicion and doubt mingling in his eyes.
“On both sides,” Bodine added.
Two Wolves nodded. “Then let us ride.”
* * *
They made a cold camp that night, not wanting to light a fire and give away their position. They chanced a fire just at dawn, for coffee, building the fire under low-hanging branches so the smoke would dissipate. They had cold biscuits with their coffee, and then mounted up, heading west.
“Is this Sunday?” Two Wolves asked.
“Saturday. June the 24th.”
“We have heard no gunfire, so this must not be the day of the battle. So would Yellow Hair attack on a Sunday? On your God’s day?”
“Troops don’t pay much attention to that, Two Wolves. I expect he would attack if it seemed the thing to do.”
“Odd way to worship one’s God,” Two Wolves commented.
About this time Custer’s scouts were reporting to him that a large force of Sioux and Cheyenne were camped in a valley near the Little Bighorn. The scouts did their best to convince the brevet general that the Indians were too large in number.
“We attack in the morning,” Custer told Reno and Benteen.
Major Reno pointed out that the pack train was much slower than the mounted troops and would be at least two hours behind them with much needed food, ammunition, and equipment.
Custer waved that away. He was eager to get into battle. Much too eager, for he had badly misjudged the Indians’ strength and ferocity, for to them, this was no ordinary battle. This was a holy war.
“We attack in the morning. Get some rest and have the men check equipment. We’ll be in the saddle before dawn.”
The Sioux and the Cheyenne were anticipating the battle, and they were more than ready for it. Later in the day, a band of Arapahoes came into the camp. The Cheyenne believed they were scouts from the army and disarmed them, ready to kill them. But Black Wolf and Last Bull intervened, and ordered them taken to the lodge of Medicine Horse. After talking with them, he decided they had come to fight with them and ordered their weapons returned and for them to be fed at his lodge.
Blood Bond Page 21