by John Legg
“Yes,” Logan hissed. His hand started edging toward the pocket Colt he wore at his waist.
“You bastard,” Hamilton Macmillan screamed. The young man charged at his uncle.
Logan snapped out his pocket Colt and shot his nephew three times. The young man staggered on a few more steps, and then collapsed almost at his uncle’s feet.
As Logan started to turn back toward him, Rhodes snapped his arm up, pistol cocked and ready. He said nothing.
Logan sweated despite the chill air. He dropped the pistol. “I had to defend myself,” he said, a note of whining evident.
Rhodes waited three heartbeats, and then shot Logan Macmillan clean through the forehead.
Another gasp went up from the crowd, and Rhodes could feel the hostility. He shrugged. Dr. Henry Fermin hurried to the fallen Logan Macmillan and knelt there a minute. Then the doctor stood. “He’s dead, all right,” Fermin pronounced. “He also had this up his sleeve.” Fermin held up a .44-caliber, two-shot derringer.
“I’m going home,” Rhodes said. He turned, arm still protectively around Hallie’s shoulders, and began trudging through the crowd toward his house.
THE END
Shoshoni Vengeance
by
John Legg
Copyright © 2015 John Legg
Wolfpack Publishing
48 Rock Creek Road
Clinton, Montana 59825
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62918-337-4
For Jay Watrous, a loyal reader, critic,
and, most importantly, friend.
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter One
Wind River Reservation
Wyoming Territory, April 1874
Orville Ashby, the agent for the Eastern Shoshoni on the huge Wind River Reservation, knelt in the mud next to Fox Head’s body, shaking his head. It was going to be hell explaining this to Washakie. As if the old warrior doesn’t know already, he thought in annoyance.
Ashby pushed to his feet, glancing up as he heard a rumble. It looked like another storm was moving in, but in this country one never could be quite certain. He nodded at the man standing on the other side of the corpse. “All right, Red Hand, take the poor bastard back to his family,” he said sadly. It somehow seemed worse that the corpse had been found here in this pleasant little spot along the north fork of Sage Creek, rather than somewhere out in the desert scrubland.
The short, stocky Indian nodded in agreement. He and another Shoshoni—a massive, friendly-looking warrior named Big Horse—hoisted Fox Head’s corpse and placed it in a blanket, then eased it across a horse.
Red Hand and Big Horse had found the body early that day. While Red Hand had nervously waited with the corpse, Big Horse had ridden to Camp Brown to get Ashby. Lieutenant Dexter Pomeroy, who was commander of the small force at Camp Brown, had wanted to go along, but Ashby would not allow it.
“But, dammit, Orville, this is the third one in the past couple of months.”
“Jesus, Dex, I know that better than you. But you know damn well that Washakie doesn’t want the army meddling in this business.”
“The old bastard’s not real fond of having his people killed off one at a time either.”
Ashby nodded. “Just let it lie for now. I’ll talk to Washakie as soon as I get back. If he wants you to bring the troops in, so be it.”
“He won’t allow it.”
“Neither would I if I was in his position,” Ashby said flatly. “Besides, what the hell can you do anyway?”
“Nothing, I guess,” Pomeroy said sourly.
“Well, much as I hate the idea, I’d better hit the trail. I imagine Red Hand’s crapping in his buckskins out there by himself.”
“With the Arapaho out there killing off his fellow tribesmen, I suppose I don’t blame him.”
“Me neither. I’ll be taking an extra horse for bringing the body back.”
“I suppose Fox Head’s family’s going to want to keep the damn horse.”
“Most likely. But you know Washakie’ll see that it gets replaced.”
“I still don’t like you riding out there by yourself, Orv.”
“Big Horse’ll be with me.”
“That’ll be a big help if a war party of Arapaho comes riding over a ridge on you.”
“If it was Arapaho, I don’t think they’ll be hanging around.”
“You’re being a damn fool, Orv,” Pomeroy said in some annoyance. He hated this duty out here, miles from anywhere. The land for the most part was horrid, protecting the Shoshoni against the Sioux and Crow and Arapaho was demeaning, the weather was atrocious most of the time, and there was no chance whatsoever of being promoted out here. Besides, deep down he didn’t like the Shoshoni—or any other Indians—very much, and it left him almost perpetually crotchety.
“Put that on my tombstone,” Ashby said with a little laugh. With a distinct lack of enthusiasm, he left.
The ride to the foothills of the Wind River Mountains only took two hours. There were a few tense moments as Ashby looked around for Red Hand. Then the Shoshoni emerged from a screen of brush some yards away.
Ashby dismounted and looked around, almost as if avoiding Fox Head’s body. He wasn’t really, or at least not too much. He was hoping to find something that might give him a clue as to who had done this deed—and the two similar ones. He had found nothing, and so had no further reason to avoid the body.
Once the corpse was tied down to the extra horse, Ashby, Red Hand, and Big Horse headed back toward Camp Brown. Just before getting there, Ashby left the two Shoshonis and kept following Sage Creek. He finally stopped in a small village spread along the creek.
Ashby could tell that word had already spread to the village. Usually the Shoshonis of Washakie’s village ignored him. He was a frequent visitor and so not one to gain attention. But today they were all stopping—or at least pausing—in their work to watch his progress.
Ashby stopped at an ornately painted tepee and dismounted. A boy took his horse away as Ashby called for entrance into the lodge. A strong voice bade him enter.
Ashby went inside and sat, nodding in thanks as a young woman set a willow backrest behind him. Ashby leaned back and accepted the bowl of stew another young woman handed him. He ate a little, knowing Washakie’s eyes were on him the whole time. Finally, he set the bowl aside. “You know?” he asked.
Washakie nodded solemnly. Washakie was in his late sixties or early seventies—no one knew for sure—but was still vigorous. He was tall and strong, and still walked with a straight back. His long hair flowed in a gray stream around his shoulders. He had been chief of the Eastern Shoshoni for more than a quarter century now and showed no sign of giving up the authority he had gained through strength, toughness, and bravery.
“It was Fox Head,” Ash
by said.
“So I was told.”
“I wasn’t able to learn anything more than with the last two,” Ashby said apologetically.
“Something must be done, Orville,” Washakie said. He had learned his first English words from mountain man Jim Bridger almost forty years ago. Bridger and the tall, striking Shoshoni became good friends. Indeed, Bridger had married one of Washakie’s daughters some years later. Washakie could speak English well now, though his accent was still quite thick at times.
“I know that, Washakie,” Ashby said in irritation. “Trouble is, I don’t know what. I can have Lieutenant Pomeroy send troops after the Arapaho.” He held little hope that Washakie would accept that proposal.
“The Arapaho aren’t doing these things.”
“All right, then the Crow, though that doesn’t seem likely, since all three killings took place on the southern side of the Wind.”
“The Crow didn’t do these things either.”
“Then who?” Ashby asked, surprised. He and Washakie had discussed the first two murders, but they had not really addressed the matter of who had committed them. Ashby had just assumed the killers were members of one of the Shoshonis’ rivals, enemies for years. The most likely perpetrators were the Arapaho, but the Crow also would have their reasons based on ages-old enmities. Now that Ashby thought about it, though, Washakie had never mentioned any possibilities.
“These things are the work of white men,” Washakie said quietly.
“White men?” Ashby was incredulous. “Who? Why?”
“I don’t know the answer to either question,” Washakie said simply. “I only know that it’s true.”
“But the mutilations,” Ashby protested. “All three of them had had at least one finger cut off. And both their ears. I know all Indians mutilate bodies. And I know you have your reasons for doing so,” he added hastily, to cut off any possible protest from Washakie. “So how can you think this was done by white men?” Washakie looked askance at Ashby. “You just don’t want to admit your people are just as bad as us savages,” he said matter-of-factly.
Ashby’s face flamed red, and he felt the heat of anger and embarrassment rising. Washakie’s statement had hit too close to home. “Maybe,” he said. It was all he would admit to. “But still, why would a white man—or white men—do it?”
“Who knows why white men do anything?” Washakie said dryly. “But look at it more closely. The Cheyenne are the ones who cut off fingers—or arms. That’s their mark. No Indian people I know cut off ears. Not as a regular thing.”
Ashby nodded, accepting the information. “Still, it doesn’t make sense for white men to do the killing, let alone hacking up the bodies.”
“It does if they want to make others believe our enemies are doing it.”
“That’s a point. But what would whites gain from the murders? Old enemies might be out for revenge, or to drive you off your land. Or any of a number of things. But what would whites gain from such a thing?”
“Though I have always tried to keep the People on friendly terms with the whites, there might have been times when I couldn’t. But maybe the People’s friendship with the white man has brought this about. Such a friendship wouldn’t be good for men who might want this land for some reason.”
Ashby smiled ruefully. “Most of this land isn’t worth shit and you damn well know it. Not many white men’re going to want it.”
“It’s not unknown for white men to hate Indians just for being Indians.”
“No shit. The reverse is true, too. And it means nothing.”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe they are just men who want to see Shoshoni and Arapaho killing each other.”
“That wouldn’t…” Ashby stopped, rather horrified. It was all too possible, he realized with dread. There were such men—red and white—who would love nothing more than to see people killing their “own kind.” Whether they got any direct benefit out of it or not, it would, to some warped mentalities, be a worthwhile thing. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew that the white man was the more likely to stir up such a thing. It was not a matter of this particular piece of land or that particular piece of land; all they wanted was the extermination of the red man. To have two tribes killing each other off would be a rather exquisite irony.
“It’s a damned devilish thought,” Ashby said quietly. “But mighty damned likely.”
“Yes. Mighty damn likely.”
“So what’re we going to do about it, Washakie? I expect that if what we think is true, they won’t stop until you’ve gone to war with the Arapaho. Or the Crow. And we can’t have you doing that. Nor can we allow any more of the Shoshoni to be killed by those savages.”
“That would not be good, no.”
“And I sure as hell can’t have you out making war on the whites, no matter what they’ve done. At least until we could prove it, which we can’t. But if you were to attack any white men at all, there’d be hell to pay.”
“I know,” Washakie said softly.
Ashby looked at Washakie sharply. In the several years he had known the Shoshoni chief, he had never known him to be a coward. He did not see cowardice in Washakie’s eyes now, but he did notice a strong dose of fatalism. “Why not go to the army and tell them what we suspect? Hell, that’s why they’re here—to protect you.”
“From the Arapaho and the Sioux. Not from the white man himself.”
“Still, they are charged with protecting your people, especially here on your own damn land.”
“I can’t say why, but I know that bringing the army into this will lead only to more of my people getting killed.”
Ashby was sure Washakie was right. “Maybe we should seek help from another quarter.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re dead set against working with any white men?” Ashby countered. “Or just the army?”
“Depends on the white man,” Washakie said reasonably. “Do you have someone in mind?”
Ashby nodded. “An old friend of mine is the U.S. marshal for Wyoming Territory. His headquarters is in Cheyenne. I could go to him for help.”
“Do you trust him?”
“As much as I can anyone, I suppose.”
Washakie nodded.
Chapter Two
Antelope Hills, Wyoming Territory
April 1874
Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Morgan stood behind a large, fragrant sagebrush, looking down the slope at the cabin in the little gully. The several horses in a makeshift corral around one side of the cabin and a thin stream of smoke from a tin pipe on the cabin’s roof were the only signs that the forlorn place was occupied.
Morgan had hoped to find the entire Spangler-Cochrane gang here, but it was beginning to look as if only some of them were in the cabin. He supposed the others were in South Pass City or Atlantic City, even though both cities were but pale imitations of their former booming selves.
Only a few years ago both cities had been roaring. South Pass City was the most populous city in the territory, and there even had been talk of making it the territorial capital. Cheyenne had won out in that, which probably was a good thing, seeing as how only a couple of years later South Pass City’s population was now less than a third of what it had been at the height of its gold-mining boom. There were still a few stores, saloons, and a brothel or two there. It was the same in Atlantic City. Enough to give a traveler a place to stop for some supplies, a few days’ rest, or a little amusement.
The Spangler-Cochrane gang—Kevin, Jess, Avery, and Manny Spangler and Ronny, Rob, and Roger Cochrane—had had their criminal beginnings in South Pass City and Atlantic City, and they still liked to come back to the area to lay low. The dwindling of the gold mining had sent the gang farther afield in the past two years.
Morgan had been on the trail for more than a month, and he was getting tired of it. The seven outlaws always seemed to be just ahead of him. He had pushed himself and his horse hard the past two days, trying to make up time, and
it finally seemed he had—only to find that the gang had split up, even if only temporarily.
It was late afternoon, and thunderheads were swirling above, as they seemed to almost every day at this time of year. Morgan hoped it wouldn’t rain again. He was almost as sick of that as he was of chasing this batch of outlaws.
Morgan went back to his horse and unsaddled it. After hobbling the horse, he got some jerky and his canteen, went back to the large sagebrush, and sat. He chewed on jerky and washed the leathery meat down with swallows of water, all the while keeping watch on the cabin, as well as the surrounding countryside. He sure as hell didn’t want to get caught out here in the open by several returning outlaws.
Besides, he was also trying to figure out a way to approach the cabin. The land here did not offer much in the way of cover, though. It, like much of the territory he roamed on the job, was close to desert. The wheatgrass, grama grass, and needle-and-thread grass covering the small, barren Antelope Hills southeast of South Pass City were short and often brown. With all the rain of late, it was considerably greener than usual. Still, it offered no cover, since all there was to hide behind were large sagebrushes, like the one where he was sitting.
Morgan was not fond of this land. He preferred a place where there was water and decent grass, and trees. Tall, green trees that smelled good after a nice hard rain; ones that offered shade and wood and some security. But he was here now, and he would have to deal with it. He figured he would wait until dark, then just walk on down there to the cabin and do whatever needed doing.
That was usually his way, in any case. He gave little thought to danger or his own safety. He had been told before that he was utterly fearless, and he supposed that was true. It was just the way he was. He didn’t go out looking to get killed, but he rarely, if ever, backed down from a dangerous situation.
Morgan waited patiently until the sun sank over the hills to the west, and then he stood. It took a lot of standing for Morgan to reach his full six-foot-four. He checked the two .44-caliber Smith and Wessons he carried in cross-draw holsters. Then he stretched. He wanted to wait just a few more minutes for more darkness.