by John Legg
Rhodes was riding bareback again, with Flake borrowing his saddle. Rhodes did have the sawed-off shotgun and some extra ammunition with him, though, just in case. He ranged out ahead, stopping on every small knoll he encountered to sweep the countryside, alert. He turned the small caravan a little northwestward, so they could avoid going anywhere near Waters’s trading post. Rhodes wasn’t afraid of Waters and his sons, but he could see no reason for trying to start more trouble.
In late afternoon, he spotted four Indians off in the distance. He figured they had spotted him too, since they veered off the course they had been taking in order to head toward him.
Rhodes turned, loped back to the wagons and explained what he saw. The two Mormon men were concerned but not afraid. “What do we do?” Flake asked.
“Best be ready for them.” He began issuing directions. By the time the warriors appeared on the horizon, they had positioned the wagons parallel to each other, each facing in the opposite direction. Ropes ran from the lead mules of each wagon to the back of the other, so the animals could not run off. The enclosure was wide enough to get the three horses and one mule inside. Eliza held the reins to those animals, while Minerva and Sarah took care of the children inside one of the wagons.
It seemed terribly hot as the small group waited to see what the warriors would do. As the Indians neared, it did not seem to the people inside the wagon fort that they were a war party.
The Indians stopped twenty yards or so from the wagons. One of them shouted in his language, which none of the whites could understand.
“I wish we knew what he was saying,” Flake mused.
“One way to find out, I guess,” Rhodes said. He walked the Indian pony out as Flake and Hickman held up the ropes. Rhodes leaped onto the pony’s back and rode slowly toward the Indians. His scattergun lay crossways on the horse, directly in front of Rhodes.
He stopped not far from the Indians. The one who had spoken before held up his right hand, palm outward. Tentatively, Rhodes did the same. Then the Indian rattled off a bunch of words in his own language.
Rhodes shrugged and lifted his hands, palms up.
“Where’d you get the damn pony?” the Indian asked in English. His accent was thick, making it a little hard for Rhodes to understand.
“Who wants to know?” Rhodes asked quietly.
“Me,” the warrior said. He jabbed his chest with his thumb. “I am Yellow Horse, big medicine among the Lakota.”
“Pleased to meet you, Chief,” Rhodes said sarcastically. “I’m Travis Rhodes, big medicine among my people.”
“Where’d you get the damn pony?” Yellow Horse asked again.
“Bought him,” Rhodes said blandly.
“Where?”
Rhodes pointed over his shoulder. “Tradin’ post back thataway.”
The Indian nodded. “No Hair lives there.”
“That’s the one I bought the horse from. He had some others, too, looked a lot like this.”
“It belongs to Bad Arm.”
“His arm all broke up, like it doesn’t work right?” Rhodes asked. He remembered that one of the Indians he had killed had a deformed arm.
Yellow Horse nodded.
“I seen him back on the trail a ways.” He pointed again. “He was killed. Shot up somethin’ fierce. There wasn’t much left of him after the wolves and buzzards got done with him, though enough was left that I could tell he had a bad arm.”
Yellow Horse looked grim and angry. “You kill him?” he demanded.
“Nope. Didn’t kill him nor the other two we found.” Rhodes was concerned. These Indians just might kill him for the hell of it. Especially if they did not believe what he was saying.
“You kill ’em,” Yellow Horse said. This time it wasn’t a question.
“No I didn’t,” Rhodes said evenly. “I think it was No Hair and his men who did it,” he lied blithely.
“That’s probably why they had some other Lakota ponies in the corral.”
Yellow Horse stared hard at Rhodes, who kept the gaze. Finally Yellow Horse turned his pony’s head. The four Lakotas trotted off, heading in the direction of Waters’s trading post.
Rhodes breathed a sigh of relief. That had been a mite too close for him. He turned and rode back to the others. Flake and Hickman were already untying the ropes that held the two wagons in place.
“That was some pack of lies you told those Injuns,” Flake said as he worked.
“You don’t approve?” Rhodes asked, not sure if Flake was chiding him or lauding him.
Flake grinned. It was a worried grin, but a real one just the same. “It goes against God’s wishes,” he intoned. The grin widened a little. “However, God doth move in mysterious ways at times.”
“That he does. But we’d better move in fast ways unless we want another visit with those Injuns.”
“We can beat them,” Hickman said cockily.
“Don’t be a damn fool,” Rhodes snapped, looking down on Hickman from his perch on the Indian horse.
“Well, you took care of those other three easy enough,” Hickman said defensively. “We would’ve done the same, too, though possibly at greater risk.”
“Only reason I was able to send those three devils over the divide was because of surprise,” Rhodes said harshly. “I ain’t prideful enough to figure I’m good enough to kill three hardened warriors in a battle, let alone four of them. Those boys decide to come back here and cause us some devilment, we are going to be in deep trouble.”
“But they are just Lammanites—Indians.”
“You keep thinking that way, and well find your bones bleaching under the sun out here one day. I don’t know much about Indians, Mr. Hickman, but I know they fight well.”
“We have God on our side, Mr. Rhodes,” Hickman said piously.
“That may be so, Phineas, but those Injuns don’t know that.”
“Enough arguing, gentlemen,” Flake said harshly. “We have enough to do and enough troubles without you two having such dissension.”
Hickman and Rhodes nodded. Within minutes, they were moving.
Chapter Ten
Everyone in the small group worked silently so they could get an early start the next morning, when Erastus Flake glanced up. “Look,” he said, pointing.
The others turned to look southeast. They watched for some moments as strings of black smoke spiraled toward the sun.
“I reckon the Lakota have taken care of Mr. Clem Waters and his two damned offspring,” Rhodes said.
The others nodded. “And a well-deserved death it was, too,” Flake said quietly.
Rhodes turned toward the bearded Mormon. “I would’ve thought you’d be horrified at such a thing, seeing as how you’re a God-fearing Christian and all.”
Flake remained deadly serious. “We Saints have been persecuted since Joseph Smith had his revelation, Mr. Rhodes. We know the might of the unholy, and Waters and his sons were among the unholy.”
“Am I?” Rhodes asked. He didn’t care one way or the other; he just wanted to know where he stood.
Flake shook his head and stroked his beard. “No, sir, you are not. You may not be of the faith, but your actions show that you are not of the unholy either. Your morals might be questionable at times, but your heart seems correct, despite that all.”
“Gee, thanks,” Rhodes said dryly.
“You shouldn’t make fun, Mr. Rhodes,” Flake said solemnly. “While we are taught to turn the other cheek, we feel there is a time when one must visit vengeance on our persecutors. Clem Waters was an evil man, and got only what he deserved.” Flake paused, thinking, his eyes watching the lazy spiral of smoke, though he was no longer really seeing it. “I had thought at first, when I saw what you had done to Waters’s two sons that you had overstepped propriety, Travis. But then I realized what kind of man Waters really was. It was evident in the way he treated us, with the disdain he held for us. He was about to rob us. He was not going to use a gun, of course, but it was rob
bery all the same. I also believe he would’ve killed us had he been given a chance.” Flake sighed. “Ah, well,” he said. “These are nothing more than the ramblings of an old man.”
“Don’t say such things, husband,” Eliza said quietly, as she moved alongside him and took his arm in her hands and patted it some. Sarah had moved up on the other side of Flake.
Rhodes watched, wondering about things. Sarah had been introduced as “Aunt Sarah,” but Rhodes had never been able to find out just whose aunt. He wondered if perhaps she was also one of Flake’s wives and was addressed as aunt to hide that fact from outsiders. It mattered to Rhodes only that he wanted to see if she were unencumbered by a husband. If so, he might seek her out to spend time with her. If she had a husband, Rhodes wanted no part of her.
He shrugged and looked away. The smoke was still floating upward. Rhodes went back to saddling his horse. “We best hurry some, folks,” he said. “Those Lakota just might come back looking for us.”
They pulled out as quickly as possible, though not before they were ready. Being unprepared would slow them more in the long run than cutting a few minutes off their departure time in the morning.
They continued along the north bank of the Platte, staying as near to the water as they could, but moving cross country when the bends in the river were too much to follow. They made good time, but often had to wait to stop for the night until it was after dark. Though they were traveling on the north side of the Platte, which was not held in as much favor by those traveling the Oregon Trail, it got enough use so that forage for the horses at the better campsites was hard to find, making the small group push on into the darkness at times. In addition, the better campsites known to travelers also would be known to Indians. They hoped they would not see any more Indians. The ones they had met thus far were more than enough.
Hunting was somewhat easier, though, with large herds of buffalo seen almost every day, and though the Platte was mighty muddy, it still provided more than enough water.
Rhodes continued to ride out a little ways from the two wagons to keep a lookout for trouble. He rarely got out of sight of the wagons, though to the Mormons, he was generally a small speck on the horizon. He also did the hunting, and it was a rare day when he returned empty-handed. Even that was not bad, as the travelers made do with stores they had brought from back in the States.
A week and a half past Waters’s trading post, they saw another. This one was in a little better shape, having been a Pony Express station not too long ago, and so had seen almost constant use. The group did not stop, though. All of them had had enough of isolated trading posts for this journey, and saw no reason to place themselves at the mercy of those often heartless men.
They stopped for a day at Fort McPherson, where the Platte split into north and south branches. The wagons were in good shape and did not need repairs, which was a relief. The animals also were still in good shape, but they, and the humans, needed to rest a bit.
It did them all some good to spend a full day there, and they were in better spirits the morning after, as they all sat to breakfast. When they were finished, Rhodes said, “I believe I’ll be going my own way from here.”
“What?” Flake asked surprised. “Why?”
While he had been riding these past several weeks, Rhodes decided that he would try the gold fields in the forbidding Rocky Mountains. He had little other training, except handling a gun. Before the war he had been a farmer, and he had vowed long ago never to go back to such work. A man could make his fortune just picking up gold from the ground or from where it was clearly visible in fast-rushing, frigid streams. Or so he had heard. He discounted a fair portion of such talk as being dreams, but it was a fact that some men had gotten rich with some hard work—and luck—out there. There was no reason, he figured, that he could not join those ranks.
“I aim to see if Lady Luck will favor me with a kiss in the gold fields,” he said without apology.
“The Good Lord would be more likely to show favor for you if you would but believe,” Flake said. “Rather than depending on luck—which is more the devil’s work, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Rhodes said flatly.
Flake glowered. “There is salvation in hard toil, of building things, of growing things. Good, honest, true work.”
“I’ve done my share of farming, and I ain’t going to do any more of it. And I don’t know how to make things.” He shrugged.
“But we can show you the way, Mr. Rhodes. We—”
“Leave him alone, Brother Flake,” Hickman said. When Flake turned his scowl toward his companions, Hickman said, “Mr. Rhodes is not of our faith, and has indicated no willingness to join it.”
“I know, Brother Hickman, but now is the time to reach him.”
“No, it’s not,” Hickman said flatly. “Mr. Rhodes has given us service far beyond what we’d expect even from Saints. He’s not beholden to us; rather the opposite, and if he wishes to not be preached at, we should respect that. Maybe someday he’ll see the light, but for now...well, I wish we could offer him salvation. But we can’t, so we should let him live as he wishes. We have no right to demand that he follow our ways.”
“Sad, but true, Phineas,” Flake said with a large sigh. “My apologies, Travis. I’ve overstepped my bounds.”
Rhodes shrugged. “We all have our faults, Erastus,” Rhodes said with a small grin.
Flake nodded. “I wish you’d reconsider leaving us, Travis,” he said. “We are still deep in Indian country and as you once told us, there is safety in numbers.” He smiled a little, abashed. “We have enjoyed your company, Mr. Rhodes. Alas, probably more so than you have enjoyed ours.”
“I’ve enjoyed your companionship, Erastus.” He laughed. “It’s your preachin’ I find tedious.”
Flake laughed, too. “Then I must prepare my sermons better if I am to reach the wanderers.” He paused. “So, what do you say, Travis? Will you keep on the trail with us?”
“I’m obliged for your offer, Erastus, but I really think I should be movin’ on.”
Flake smiled. “In a hurry to get nowhere?” Rhodes chuckled. “Does sound kind of foolish when it’s put like that.” He sipped some coffee as he thought about it.
“How about you go with us as far as Fort Laramie?” Hickman said. “You can head south into the Colorado Territory from there, if that’s your wish.”
Rhodes nodded. “Reckon that’d be all right.” Despite the piousness, which was sometimes a little overwhelming, Rhodes had come to like the Mormons. Or at least this small group of them. They were interesting, well-educated, and full of chatter. That a good dose of the chatter was based on their Book of Mormon lessened their appeal only a little. Besides, it would be safer riding along with them than going by himself.
“Good,” Flake said with a great grin. “Very good.” They all stood and headed to their chores.
A week and a half of fairly easy traveling later, they pulled to a stop at Fort Laramie. They were allowed to make a small camp down near the Laramie River not far from the commissary.
While they were setting it up, an old man, dressed in buckskins and carrying an old muzzle- loading rifle in hand, wandered up. “I’m Joe Bonner,” the man said, spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice into the grass.
Flake introduced Hickman and Rhodes. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bonner?” Flake asked.
“You folks heading on?” he asked.
Flake nodded. “Yes, we’re expected in Deseret.”
“Nice place,” he commented. “But you’d be wise to sit out the winter here.”
“So we’ve been told. What’s your interest in this?” Flake asked, a little irritated.
“My interest is in findin’ work. I’m available for guidin’. Best damn mountain guide in all the goddamn Rockies.”
“We might be able to talk business then,” Flake said. “Will you be available in the next few days?”
“Hell,” Bonner said, spitting again. He swip
ed the back of his left hand across his mouth. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere in the next few days. Nor in the next few months either. No, this ol’ chil’s fixin’ to set out the winter right here.” He shrugged. “Actually, I’ll be spending the winter a few miles from here. I got me a Cheyenne wife. Helps me keep warm of a winter.”
“You’re afraid of heading west?” Flake asked gruffly.
“Hell, such things don’t shine with this ol’ hoss,” Bonner grumbled. “There was a time I’d cut your goddamn heart out and then eat the damn thing for sayin’ that to me.” He paused to spit. “But I’m not so spunky anymore.”
“Good thing, too,” Rhodes said quietly. When Bonner looked at him, Rhodes added, “I’d hate like hell to have to drop an old fart like you.”
“Cocky little bastard, ain’t you?” Bonner said.
Rhodes shrugged. “You got any more business here?” he asked.
Bonner spit again and glanced from one man to the other. “Reckon not,” he said. He turned and shuffled away.
“You were mighty hard on him, Travis,” Flake said. “He’s just an old man who needs a job.”
“I expect,” someone interjected.
The three men turned to face the newcomer, who stuck out his hand. “Lieutenant George Hale. Bonner’s a pest, but we let him hang around ’cause we feel sorry for him. He was one of the best of the mountain men, but that was thirty, forty years ago. Same with being a guide. He can still do it—when he isn’t drunk. These days, about all he does is hang around here, looking for a handout.”
“Is that what he wanted from us?” Flake asked. He was not averse to giving money for a good cause.
Hale nodded. “Yeah, he’d promise to come back in the spring to guide you, but ask for some money to tide him over. Then he’d buy some whiskey and head back to the Cheyenne village. It’s a sad case, but he can really try a man’s patience.” Flake nodded, glad that he had not given Bonner anything.
“He was right about one thing, though,” Hale added. “You folks’d be a lot better off if you would stick out the winter here, or some other place.”