by John Legg
“It’s that bad?” Flake asked.
Hale nodded. “Haven’t you heard of the Donners?” When the others shook their heads, Hale went on. “A group left Independence late, just like you folks. They got stuck high in the Sierra Nevada in snow. Wound up eating each other.”
The small party was shocked.
“Heed Bonner’s advice —or mine if you feel more comfortable — but heed it.” He tipped his cap, turned, and walked off.
Chapter Eleven
Bonner appeared again the next day. He just came up, squatted at the fire, set his rifle down, and reached for the coffeepot. He grabbed the nearest tin mug with his left hand and poured himself a cup. Then he eased himself into a sit, legs crossed.
“It’s usual for a guest to ask if he’d be welcome before he starts helping himself to other folks’ victuals,” Rhodes said. He sat on a stool a few feet back from the fire.
“It’s just coffee, boy.”
“Don’t matter.”
“Hell, sonny, them folks ain’t gonna give a shit I take a cup of goddamn coffee.”
“It ain’t theirs, you old coot. It’s mine.”
Bonner shrugged. “It’s still only one goddamn cup of coffee.”
“You go around takin’ other people’s things and you’re liable to get knocked on your ass,” Rhodes commented.
Bonner shrugged again. “Damn, you are one tight-ass chil’, ain’t you?”
“Might be,” Rhodes agreed. “But then again, I don’t go robbin’ folks.”
“You callin’ me a thief, you snotty little bastard?”
Rhodes grinned a little. “I am.”
“Was a time I’d’ve knocked your ass clear over the river there, sonny boy,” Bonner snarled.
“That time’s long past.”
“I could still do it,” Bonner insisted.
“You couldn’t whip your way out of a lodge full of dead rabbits, old man.” Rhodes was trying to remain civil, though it was growing more difficult in the face of Bonner’s obstinacy.
“I’ll show ye, ye goddamn buffler pecker.” Bonner set his coffee down and began pushing himself up.
“Sit down, old man,” Rhodes ordered.
“Like hell,” Bonner puffed.
“You get up, old man, and the next step you take’ll be into your grave.”
Halfway to his feet, Bonner looked at Rhodes. Hate was in the old man’s eyes, but there was a fair measure of pain. It was not a physical pain, just the pain of a once-vigorous man who was suffering too many ailments of age. Where once he was full of energy and the juices of life, now he was simply a dried-out old shell of what he was.
Bonner sat back down, fighting back the tears of frustration and self-disgust. He shakily picked up the coffee.
Rhodes, who had gotten partly up to go help the old mountain man, sat back down. He could see in Bonner’s face that he wanted no help. He still had a lot of pride, and Rhodes figured he could probably still hold his own in many a fight.
“There anyplace near this damn fort where a couple of fellas like us could get us somethin’ a tad stronger’n coffee?” Rhodes asked.
Bonner looked sharply at Rhodes, trying to see if the young man was making fun of him. Rhodes stared back calmly. “There’s an enlisted man’s saloon down yonder,” Bonner said, aiming a thumb over his shoulder. “They usually don’t mind much if a couple civilians have a snort or two.”
“Let’s go on there, then, Mr. Bonner,” Rhodes said, standing.
“You don’t have to go takin’ no pity on me just ’cause I’m an ol’ hoss now, goddammit,” Bonner snapped.
“I’m not pitying you, Mr. Bonner,” Rhodes said evenly.
“Buffler shit,” Bonner snarled, rage engulfing him. It was bad enough, he figured that he couldn’t do much anymore, but to have to sit here and be treated like some old, useless cripple was too much for him. “One minute you was ready to try knockin’ the shit out of me. Now you’re here callin’ me ‘Mister Bonner.’ It ain’t right, goddammit. No, it ain’t.”
“Damn, old man, you always yack this much when a fella says he’d like to buy you a drink?” Rhodes said. His expression of calm earnestness had not changed.
Bonner grinned. His mouth was toothless on the top, and his upper lip fluttered in and out, his mustache looking like a hard-used broom. “Well, hell, boy, ye didn’t say nothin’ about buyin’.”
“Well, I wouldn’t expect an experienced fella like you to do the buyin’.”
A cloud passed across Bonner’s face. “Why’re you doin’ this, boy?” he asked, voice trembling a little.
“I want to pump you for information.”
“What kind of information?” Bonner asked warily.
“About the land to the southwest of here. About the best way to get there and to stay alive.”
“I been all over that goddamn land, boy,” Bonner said almost dreamily.
“I expected you had.” Rhodes paused. “So, how about it, old man?”
Rhodes grinned. “It ain’t every day you’re going to get an offer like this—somebody buying you all the rotgut you can drink in a couple hours, plus letting you run off at the mouth.” Rhodes stepped around the fire, hand out.
“Come to think on it,” Bonner said with another flapping grin, “it does seem like my idea of paradise.” He held out his hand tentatively. To him, it was asking for help, but he realized there was no insult in it.
When Bonner was standing, Rhodes bent and picked up the old man’s rifle and looked at it. “This here’s a real Hawken gun, ain’t it?” Rhodes asked.
“Sure as goddamn hell it is, boy,” Bonner said proudly, taking the gun back. “Made personal by ol’ Jake Hawken in Saint Louis, back in ’35, I believe it was. Ol’ Blackfoot Killer here’s stood me in good stead over a good many years.”
“I bet it has, Mr. Bonner.” He grinned. “Now let’s get on over there and cut the dry, unless you were planning to just sit here and tell me tales?”
Bonner laughed. “I can do both with the best of ’em, sonny boy, but I always tell better tales when I got a cup in hand.”
They strolled off, Rhodes slowing his pace to match that of the shuffling Joe Bonner. In minutes, they were bellying up to the small bar in the enlisted men’s saloon in one of the stone buildings.
Bonner was full of details about the mountains, and he never slowed down in his talking. Rhodes was content to listen, letting the information filter in, where it was sifted. Rhodes figured a fair portion of the talk was either exaggeration or outright lies, but he knew there was some valuable data like gold nuggets scattered throughout the ore of the stories.
Rhodes had no idea really of how much time had passed, but he was still enjoying himself when a soldier said loudly from somewhere behind him and Bonner, “Ain’t that old fart ever gonna shut the hell up? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but he’s a goddamn windbag.”
“He stinks like hell, too,” someone else offered.
Bonner began to turn, and Rhodes asked in a whisper, “You all right, Joe? You ain’t had too much tanglefoot?”
“I’m fine, sonny boy.” He turned. “Who’s the chicken-humpin’ son of a bitch who’s so goddamn mouthy?” he demanded.
“I am, you dried-up old bag of shit,” one soldier said. He stood, pushing the wood chair away. It landed on its back with a clack. “You fixin’ to do anything about it?” he sneered.
The soldier was maybe six-foot-two and went close to two hundred pounds, Rhodes figured. He was certain Bonner would have no chance against the man. He wanted to step in and fight the soldier himself, but he knew that would enrage Bonner.
“Damn right I am, Murphy,” Bonner said. He took a step forward, leaving his rifle leaning against the bar.
The soldier rubbed his hands in delight, as others hurriedly stood and shoved tables and chairs out of the way. Murphy rolled up his sleeves, making a great show of it. Then he spit into one palm and rubbed his two palms together.
“Hell, b
oy, if I known you was gonna primp for so long, I’d’ve had me another snort,” Bonner said.
“Just hold your horses, old man,” Murphy said. “Unless you’re in a hurry to be pounded into the ground.”
“I’ll be dead of old age before you get around to comin’ at me. Now either shit or get off the pot, sonny.”
Murphy hitched up his pants and made a little circle, his hands in the air, as most of the other soldiers clapped and cheered. He had just completed the circuit when Bonner slammed into him. “Damn!” Murphy exclaimed as he went down in a tangle of arms, legs, and table parts.
Rhodes rested both elbows on the bar and watched. He was ready—as were his pistols—if Murphy seemed to be getting the upper hand. Rhodes vowed he would not interfere before that point.
It seemed like it was going to be unnecessary, though. Bonner was savaging Murphy, pummeling the soldier, biting, kicking, and roaring as they rolled around on the sawdust-covered floor.
Rhodes winced a couple of times when he heard Bonner connect with a particularly good lick. He had not thought the old man would still be so hard and tough.
The two were still rolling around on the floor, and Bonner still had the advantage, when several other troopers darted toward the combatants. Rhodes thought for a few moments that they were just going to separate the two fighters, but it became apparent within a moment that they were interested only in helping their companion.
Rhodes figured that if Murphy had help, then Joe Bonner should have some help, too. Rhodes strode up and grabbed two soldiers—one in each hand—by the back of their uniform blouses and jerked them up and away, flinging them to the ground.
Bonner kicked another under the chin and whooped when he heard the man’s jaw crack. At the same time, Rhodes grabbed one man in a bear hug and squeezed. He let the man drop after he heard ribs snapping. He wasn’t out to kill anyone; he just wanted to keep it a fair fight between Bonner and Murphy.
Things got a little blurry then for Rhodes, as soldiers slammed into him from all sides. He fought like a wounded grizzly, kicking, punching, elbowing. He head-butted at least two men, broke another’s arm, and smashed one soldier’s nose flat. Someone grabbed him in a bear hug, and Rhodes lurched backward, slamming the man’s back against the edge of the bar.
Then it seemed as if an entire company of bluecoats swamped over him. He went down, but not out—until someone hammered the back of his head with something hard and blunt.
Rhodes woke up in a dark cell. He eased up into a sitting position, taking his time at it to keep his head from pounding some. When he made it, he felt the back of his head. There was a fair-sized lump on the back of his head, and his thick hair was matted with blood.
“Waugh!” he heard someone say. “Goddamn if you didn’t make those bastards come now. Goddamn!”
Rhodes realized it was Bonner when he heard the old man’s cackling laugh. “Jesus, Joe,” Rhodes complained softly, “can’t you shut up for a few goddamn minutes.”
“Headache?” Bonner asked with another raucous laugh.
“I don’t know as if that describes it properly, but in place of another term, yes, I have a goddamn headache.” He paused and leaned back against the outside wall. “How long was I out?”
“Half an hour or so, best I can figure,” Bonner said. He smiled. “It took six of ’em to take you down, boy,” he added, respect for Rhodes in his voice for the first time.
Rhodes grinned, too. It did no good to worry about the pain now. It was there, and he would have to live with it. He pushed gingerly to his feet and paced the cell some.
From the cell right next to him, Bonner said, “Best set, boy. You don’t want to make yourself too dizzy.”
Rhodes looked at the old man for a moment, then nodded. That set his head to hurting all the more. He lay down on the hard bunk in the cell. He was drifting back into the calmness of sleep when he heard Bonner say, “You would’ve made a hell of a mountain man, boy. A hell of one, I tell you. Waugh!”
Chapter Twelve
It was the next morning before Rhodes and Bonner saw daylight again. A small contingent of armed soldiers came to the cells just after the two inmates had eaten breakfast, and marched Rhodes and Bonner outside, across the parade ground to the commanding officer’s office. The soldiers went in and smartly snapped to attention. The two prisoners strode in proudly, some might even say arrogantly.
Colonel Wesley Balfour stood behind his desk, arms folded across his chest. He was tall and had a fiery mane of wavy hair. Long, thick sideburns of the same hue cascaded off the corners of his square chin.
“Dammit, Joe,” Balfour said harshly, “how many goddamn times do I have to tell you to keep your nose out of trouble?”
Bonner shrugged and grinned. “It’s got a habit of findin’ me.”
“Yeah, bullshit. You cause more goddamn trouble than a whole goddamn company causes. Dammit all.” He turned his square, angry face toward Rhodes. “And, you, whoever the hell you are, have no place helping that goddamn idiot”—he pointed at Bonner—“start a ruckus with my men.”
“Your boys were the ones started it,” Rhodes said easily.
“Oh, really?” Balfour asked sarcastically.
“Yessir. Joe and I were in the saloon mindin’ our own business when that big, tall bag of shit Murphy started sassin’ Joe.”
“You watch your tone and your language around me, boy,” Balfour warned.
“Beggin’ your leave, Colonel, but go to hell,” Rhodes said, still calmly.
Balfour’s eyes bugged out as choler swept across his face. “Why you impertinent—”
“Christ, Colonel, back off before you bust a gut.” Rhodes paused to allow Balfour to calm himself a little. “Joe and I are civilians, and there’s not much you can do to us, short of shootin’ us. Now, I know that’s a distinct possibility, but on the other hand, would it be worth the trouble?”
“You’re digging your grave a little deeper with each word, son,” Balfour said. He had regained his composure. “And before we proceed, what’s your name?”
“Travis Rhodes.”
Balfour looked puzzled. “That name sounds familiar. You ever been stationed here?” He had a suspicion that this man might be a deserter.
“No, sir, but I was a member of the Fourth Pennsylvania for most of three years during the war.”
“One of my men?” Balfour asked, surprised.
“Yessir, though I never had call to meet you personally.”
“What rank were you, son?”
“First Sergeant.”
“You still have a sergeant’s carriage.”
Rhodes shrugged. “It ain’t been that long since hostilities stopped, sir.”
Balfour nodded. “Too true.” He paused, still suspicious. “Who was your commander?”
“Cap’n Carstairs and above him, Major Langtry.”
“Good men, both of them. I was in West Point with Wesley. How is the major?”
“He was killed at Five Forks, sir,” Rhodes said sadly. He had liked his commanding officer.
Balfour nodded, and was silent. The sounds of drilling men punctuated by sharp commands broke the silence in the room. Finally Balfour nodded. “Much as I hate to do it to an old comrade in arms, I’m going to have to ask you to leave Fort Laramie, Mr. Rhodes.” He paused. “You, too, Joe. I can’t have you two hanging around causing trouble.”
“What about Murphy and the seven, eight sons of bitches it took to bring me’n ol’ Travis down?” Bonner asked.
“I’ll deal with Private Murphy. That big, ugly son of a bitch has been a thorn in my side long enough. But things’ll go easier with you two gone.”
Rhodes nodded. He had no plans to stay here long anyway. Still, he needed a little time to prepare. “When you want me gone, Colonel?”
“Soon as possible, son. Think it’ll take you long to get ready?”
“No, sir. I’m travelin’ light these days.” Rhodes grinned a little.
�
��As are many of the boys who fought so well.” He sighed. “On both sides.” He looked at Bonner. “You need more time, Joe?”
“Nah. I’ll be gone by mornin’. Maybe before.”
Balfour nodded. “Sergeant Weems,” he said to the man standing next to the desk. The man wore the three chevrons of a first sergeant. “Return these men’s belongings, and then leave them to do what they need. Just keep Murphy and whoever else was involved in that fracas away from these two. If Murphy had any goddamn brains he’d stay away from them on his own account, since from what I heard, old man Joe here was whaling the shit out of him”
“Yessir,” Weems said smartly.
A quarter of an hour later, the two men were sitting at the Mormons’ fire, recounting their adventures. A considerable amount of chuckling accompanied the narration, until the end. Rhodes sighed and said flatly, “The commanding officer is throwing us out of the fort. We need to be gone by morning.”
“Where will you go?” Flake asked.
Rhodes shrugged. “I still plan to head for the gold fields down in Colorado Territory. I expect Joe here’ll go back to his Indian friends.”
“This chil’s gettin’ a mite weary of livin’ with savages.”
“Don’t you have an Indian wife?” Flake asked.
Bonner shrugged. “Don’t mean much most times. It ain’t like a preacher hooked us up, ya know. It’s about time this ol’ chil’ settled down where there was some white folks.” He looked over at Rhodes, leathery skin crinkling as he grinned and peered through shuttered eyes. “You mind some company, son?” Rhodes had begun to like the old man. Sure, he had his faults, but so did everyone, when it came right down to it. Bonner had few habits Rhodes could really argue about. “Don’t mind at all,” he said. Then he laughed. “Just bring your own bedroll and grub. I ain’t sharing no blankets with the likes of you.”
“I’m gonna have to teach you some manners along the trail, sonny boy,” Bonner said, not meaning a word of it.
“I’d learn better manners from a hog.”
They all laughed, then Bonner looked at Flake. “What’re you folks plannin’?” he asked.