Realizing that he wasn’t going to get anything more from his prisoner, Ike instructed him to sit down, crosslegged, beside the berry bushes. Once he was settled, Ike came out from behind the buckskin, and with the rifle still trained on Ben, he walked a few paces back to grab the reins of his horse and led it back to stop before Ben. He pulled a pair of manacles from his saddlebag and tossed them to Ben. “Here,” he said, “put these on.” As soon as they were secured and locked on his wrists, he told Ben to get on his feet and turn around. Moving around behind Ben’s back, he locked a set of leg irons around his boots. “I need a little time to think about what I’m gonna do with you,” he stated. “We’re a lot closer to Deadwood than we are to Cheyenne. I expect I’ll go ahead and take you back there, but first we’re gonna eat. That feller you shot—what did you say his name was? Cheney?—well, he left a good supply of fresh meat back downstream, some of it still cookin’ on the fire. That is, if you ain’t in any particular hurry.”
Ben didn’t reply, but he thought back about the treatment he had received while in the custody of Graham Barrett. It was a sharp contrast to the style of Ike Gibbs. So far, he hastened to remind himself. He shuffled along in his leg irons back downstream where Cheney had been busy butchering his antelope. Ike walked along behind him, leading the two horses, with Cheney’s horse following at a distance of around forty yards, apparently undecided about joining the party. As if reading Ben’s thoughts, Ike volunteered, “I expect I’ll catch that other feller’s horse and see if it ain’t a little better than this damn sorrel I just bought to come after you. He ain’t that bad a horse, but he’s got an irritatin’ habit of tryin’ to take a nip outta your leg when he thinks you ain’t payin’ attention. It’s already cost him a couple of lumps on his head.”
“I swear, that’s good eatin’, ain’t it?” Ike remarked. “That ol’ boy shot a nice tender young doe. I wonder if he got a taste of it before you came along.” When Ben made no reply, Ike continued to ramble on. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna take the time to pack all this meat with us, so you might as well eat till you can’t. I’d rather have you with your belly full and sleepy, anyway. Keeps you from gettin’ too many ideas ’bout runnin’.” He was still making up his mind about Ben Cutler. Thinking back to recall the way the folks of Crooked Fork had talked about him, one would think they’d elect him mayor, instead of hanging him for murder. He studied the brutally scarred face as Ben sat across the fire from him, chewing on a strip of antelope. “Accordin’ to what that sheriff in Crooked Fork said, his deputy—the one you shot down in the saloon—done that to your face with a sawed-off sword. Is that a fact? Is that the reason you shot him?”
Ben stopped chewing and looked Ike straight in the eye. “I shot him because he murdered my wife and my son, left me for dead, and burned my house down. Ain’t that reason enough?”
“Well, maybe,” Ike replied. “Course you coulda let the law handle it.”
“He was the law,” Ben said.
Ike didn’t reply to that, but he took a moment to think about it, still remembering Sheriff Jubal Creed’s failure to support his late deputy, Eli Gentry. Maybe I’m getting soft in the head, he thought, concerned that he was being taken in by Cutler’s story. It would be easier to believe the man was no more than a victim of circumstance if he didn’t look so damn capable of thoughtless murder. He continued to dig. “And you still say you didn’t kill Barrett. Some Injuns done it, you said.”
“That’s right,” Ben said.
Ike cocked his head to one side and frowned. “See, that’s where your story turns to gristle. There ain’t no way to prove that one way or the other, and that’s what’s gonna cause a judge to hang you.” He watched Ben’s face closely for his reaction, but there was none. “Here, let’s finish this pot of coffee,” he said. “Then we’ll mount up and get goin’.” He filled the two cups and poured the last few drops on the fire. “You know, we’re just talkin’ here, but I’d take it as a favor if you’d tell me how Barrett got killed.” Ben shrugged indifferently. Aside from the fact that his hands and feet were in chains, there was almost a casual air about his arrest. So he related the incident, including the fact that he had used Barrett’s body for cover while firing at the Sioux warriors. “Well,” Ike commented when he had finished, “I believe the part about Barrett slammin’ you in the head with his rifle. I’ve seen him do that to other prisoners. I’d like to believe the whole story, but I’d have to see Barrett’s body before I could. Yes, sir, I’d sure like to see ol’ Barrett’s body.”
“I reckon that would be kinda difficult,” Ben said. “With wolves, coyotes, buzzards, and everythin’ else, I doubt it’s still there.”
“You know where it happened, though. Right?”
“Well“—Ben hesitated—“not exactly. I might know the place if I rode through that part of the country again.” He was trying to recall the events leading up to the attack by the Sioux warriors. “We were somewhere just south of the Niobrara; then we turned almost due west, and that’s when they hit us, after we made camp. I can’t tell you much more than that. It was my first time in that part of the country.”
Ike thought about it for a moment, trying to pinpoint the general area. “He was takin’ you to Fort Laramie,” he decided.
“Maybe,” Ben said. “I couldn’t say. He didn’t mention where he was takin’ me, just that it was a day’s ride to get there.”
Ike found himself wanting to believe Ben’s story—a situation that could prove fatal for him, he cautioned. This was no time to get careless, but he realized that he wanted to try to find Barrett’s remains to somehow prove Ben’s version of the deputy’s death. It was perplexing to him, for he had never faced this predicament before in all his years of service. Possibly, it was inspired by a desire to prove Graham Barrett wrong for once. Maybe, and more likely, he was reluctant to send Ben to prison, or the gallows, for the crime of being unlucky. He thought about Ben’s comment that it was unlikely Barrett’s body was still there, and he couldn’t agree more. But damn it, he thought, if I could find that body with just one arrow sticking in it, I might begin to believe this fellow is telling the truth. His boss back in Topeka would be mad as a hornet if he knew the decision he was about to make, but Ike decided he was going to take a hell of a chance. “I wanna see that place where the Injuns jumped you and Barrett,” he announced. “That is, if you ain’t in any particular hurry to get to jail. But that’s an awful lot of territory to look in if all you know is you were south of the Niobrara. God knows how long that river is.”
Giving it more thought now, Ben tried to picture the country in his mind, eager to help since it would give him more opportunity to escape. “All I can tell you is we camped on the river near two big hills that Cleve said was full of bones of old Indians and animals.”
The comment caused a gleam of discovery in Ike’s eyes. “A day’s ride from Laramie,” he exclaimed. “Hell, I know the place.” His brain was already working on the direction and the approximate distance from where they now stood, even as he battled his better senses over what he was about to do. “That place on the river where you saw them two hills is about a day and a half’s ride from here, so maybe we oughta pack up a little bit more of this meat, after all. It’ll keep for a day or two, cold as it is.” He studied Ben’s face for a few moments more before he made his final decision. “We’re goin’ to see if we can find Barrett’s remains. Just so you know, you ain’t no better off than you were thirty minutes ago. You’re still under arrest, and I’ll still put a bullet in your head if I see the first sign of trouble outta you. Are you clear on that?”
“I reckon,” Ben answered.
“I don’t trust you no farther than the end of my rifle barrel,” Ike said, “and I’ll be keepin’ a sharp eye on you all the time.” And I hope I ain’t making the biggest mistake of my life, he thought.
Chapter 16
Ike’s estimate of the distance to the spot where Ben had seen the two lone hills was
accurate within a few hours’ ride at just under a full day and a half. In spite of the fact that he made the trip with his hands cuffed the whole time, and his legs shackled when not in the saddle, Ben could not complain about his treatment. It was late in the morning when they reached the banks of the Niobrara, and they rested the horses while Ben looked around to determine where he and Barrett had crossed, heading south. He was not certain of the exact spot, and to make matters more difficult, there were many tracks along the riverbank, most of them new, and all of them from unshod horses. “Lot of Injun activity,” Ike commented, not at all happy about it. “We’d best keep a sharp eye.”
They rode slowly along the river while Ben searched for the crossing. Finally, he came to a wide gully leading down to the water with many tracks, both horses and deer, and he remembered it as the place where Barrett had led him down into the water. “This is it,” he said, looking toward the other side. “We stopped right under that bank yonder while the horses drank.”
Once across, Ben had a general idea of the direction they had set out on from that point on, but he had to admit that he could be off by a few degrees either way. Ike dismounted to look for tracks that could narrow it down. As on the other side, there were many tracks, most of them unshod. After a close search, he was rewarded by the discovery of a hoofprint from a shod horse. “Climb down off that horse,” he said, “and help me find another print.” With both of them searching the ground leading away from the water’s edge, it was still another twenty minutes before a second shod print was distinguished from the multitude of unshod. “That way,” Ike declared after sighting a line that ran through both prints. “And you say you rode on this line until you stopped to make camp, and that was where the Injuns jumped you?”
“That’s right,” Ben replied, as things began to look familiar, and details of the ride came back to remind him. “Couple hours’ ride,” he said. “Then look for a tree where there ought not be one—a big cottonwood by a little stream.” He recalled every detail then, and just as anxious to find the campsite as Ike now, he pointed toward a line of ridges more to the west than their present course. “Toward that notch,” he said, pointing. “There’s a little valley on the far side of those ridges with a stream, and one tree.”
“You sound mighty sure,” Ike said as he set his horse’s nose on the notch in the distant hills. “But I reckon you oughta know.” He had already seen enough to believe that Ben wanted to find Barrett’s body as much as he, hoping to prove his innocence.
It was as Ben had remembered it. Once they passed through the notch in the ridge line, they discovered a shallow valley below them with a stream flowing freely down through the center. About a quarter of a mile from where they struck the stream, the tall cottonwood was easily seen, a lone sentinel against a cloudless sky, looking remarkably out of place. As the two riders reached the cottonwood, Ike looked all around him at the rough terrain. “Damned if I don’t believe I coulda picked a better place to camp,” he said, noticing the many gullies that offered concealment to anyone with a notion to sneak up on an unsuspecting camp. “Especially with all the damn hostile raidin’ parties in this part of the territory this year,” he added.
“He didn’t seem to be worried about it,” Ben said with a shrug. “Turned out, he shoulda been, I reckon.” Following Ike’s orders, he did his best to reset the scene accurately. “I was here by the fire when he hit me with his rifle. I don’t remember if I went down the first time or not, but I went flat on my face the next time. That’s when he got hit with the first arrow.” Ben went on to recount the entire episode while Ike listened with intense interest.
When he had finished, Ike stood silently while his mind replayed the entire incident. Then he began examining the ground around the ashes of the fire for some evidence to substantiate Ben’s story. There was very little to be found in the grassy bank of the stream, but eventually he came across some scuff marks in one of the bare gullies that could have been made by a heavy object being dragged across it. Barrett’s body was a heavy object, Ike reasoned. Ben said he’d left the body lying where Barrett fell, but maybe the Indians came back afterward and moved the body. It was easy to imagine the Indians dragging Barrett’s body behind a horse to desecrate and defile it, probably after scalping him. “We’ll start making circles around this spot,” Ike said. “Maybe we can turn up somethin’. I’ll ride and lead your horse and the other’n, and you can walk—just in case you get the urge to leave without me.”
It was later in the afternoon when Ben sang out, “Here’s what you’re lookin’ for!” Standing on a knoll in grass knee-deep, he waited for Ike to come to him. “Here’s what’s left of him.” He gestured toward a skeleton, partially covered with ragged pieces of material, all that the scavengers left of the deputy marshal. Ike got down from his horse to examine the bones more carefully. There was a prominent crack in the skull and there were bones broken in many places, especially the ribs and pelvis, which Ben attributed to the many rounds pumped into the body when he was using it for cover.
“I expect that’s Barrett, all right,” Ike allowed. “Be pretty unlikely it was anybody else.” A few black feathers lying in the grass testified to the squabble among the buzzards attending the banquet, vying for the choice parts. Of particular interest were the two broken arrow shafts lying among the ribs, no doubt dislodged when the flesh and sinew that held them firm had been eaten. They were sufficient evidence for Ike to again feel a strong inclination to believe Ben’s claims of innocence, not only of Barrett’s murder, but of the prior charges before that. Still, it was difficult for him to make a decision that would go against his strong belief that his job was not to judge guilt or innocence, only to bring the accused in to trial. As he continued to stare down at the skull of his onetime partner, Barrett seemed to mock him for his softness. You go to hell, he thought, if you ain’t there already. Suddenly struck with a feeling of urgency, he looked up to tell Ben it was time to get out of this place, but it was already too late. The look of alarm on the scarred face told him that Ben had the same sudden feeling he was experiencing. They had both ignored the whinnying of two of the horses. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” Ike exclaimed.
Ben took a running jump for the stirrup and galloped after Ike, amid a swarm of arrows, as the Sioux warriors rose from the tall grass at the base of the knoll. They had been caught with their senses down, allowing a half dozen Lakota hostiles to advance on foot to within range of their bows. Holding on to the saddle horn with both hands, since Ike was still leading his horse as well as the sorrel, Ben bent low in the saddle. Coming off the knoll, they saw several more warriors on horses, riding to cut them off. Ike swung his horse around and headed for the first cover he could see, a deep depression that looked to be an old buffalo trap. With the first shots from the warriors’ rifles flying around them, they rode down into the basin and came out of the saddle. “Lead ’em down to the bottom!” Ike yelled. The defile was not deep enough to give the horses complete cover. He figured the Indians would not purposely shoot the horses, but he wanted to take away the risk of an accidental shooting.
“Get me loose!” Ben exclaimed, holding his cuffed wrists up. “Hurry up, damn it!” he complained when Ike fumbled in his pocket for the key. When Ike finally produced the key, and Ben was free, he took the horses’ reins and led them to the end of the defile. Then drawing his Winchester from the saddle sling, he ran back to take a position opposite Ike at the edge of the basin. He was not a moment too soon, sliding to a stop against the lip as the hostiles charged down upon them. With no choice but to ignore the bullets kicking up dirt around him, he took careful aim and knocked one of them off his pony. Taking care not to rush his shots and waste cartridges, he methodically ejected the shell and repeated the procedure, separating another warrior from his pony. Ike accounted for two of his own, and the immediate loss of four of the warriors was enough to call for a change in strategy on the part of their assailants.
“They’re fal
lin’ back!” Ike said. “They’ve gotta think twice ’bout chargin’ us.”
“I figure they’re gonna wait for the rest of ’em that were hidin’ in the grass back there,” Ben replied. “Then I guess they’re gonna try to surround us and see if they can get lucky with a couple of shots.”
“Yeah,” Ike said, “and they can wait us out till we’re out of water, but I don’t think they’ll have that much patience.” He ducked behind the edge of the basin when a couple of shots kicked up dirt between them. “That’s just to let us know they’re still there.”
Ben looked back over his shoulder at the sun settling down close to the distant horizon. “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I’m thinkin’ that when it gets good and dark, that bunch could pour in this hole and settle our bacon before we got more than one or two of them.”
“I’m thinkin’ the same thing,” Ike said. “So the only chance we’ve got is to make a run for it as soon as that sun sets. If we’re lucky, maybe we can outrun ’em, and get to Fort Laramie. It ain’t but about thirty miles from here—that way,” he added and pointed slightly southwest, remembering that Ben said he didn’t know the country. “Course, if we get separated, I’ll expect you to report to prison on your own,” he joked.
“You can count on it,” Ben said, facetiously. They settled down to wait, watching for any sign of movement that would suggest another attack.
The time ticked slowly by as the sun seemed reluctant to drop below the horizon. Straining to see in the gentle glow of evening, they sat back to back a few yards apart with rifles ready. “You know,” Ike said, “it occurred to me that you could shoot me in the back and make a run for it on your own.”
“Yeah,” Ben replied, “it occurred to me, too.”
“You still say you didn’t shoot ol’ Barrett?”
Left Hand of the Law Page 23