by John Legg
Morgan went back to the Green River and once again followed it southwest until he reached Rock Springs, where he once more got a hotel room.
He sat in a saloon that night, pondering what he should do. Since killing the three Cochranes and two of the Spanglers at the cabin near South Pass City, he had spent a little more than a month trying to find the last two Spanglers. And all he had gotten so far was a sore ass and a craw full of annoyance.
Morgan hated the idea of giving up; always did. It was especially true in this case after what this band of outlaws had done. But he knew there was no shortage of outlaws in the territory that needed to be brought to justice. And since he had heard nothing of the Spanglers at all, he thought—or maybe just hoped—that they had headed to another territory to ply their trade there. If that were true, there was always a chance that they would feel safe again one day and head back into Wyoming Territory. If they did, Buck Morgan would be waiting for them.
The next morning he boarded the train and headed east for Cheyenne.
Chapter Seven
Wind River Reservation, Wyoming Territory
April 1874
Orville Ashby looked up from his desk at the man who had entered the office and almost swallowed his tongue. He wished desperately now that he had had the sense to accept Lt. Dexter Pomeroy’s offer of stationing a trooper at the door to his office. “Can I do something for you, mister?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“I’m lookin’ for a Mr. Orville Ashby. That you?” The voice was deep, authoritative, rough.
“I…I…” Ashby suddenly breathed a sigh of relief when the light coming in one of the windows glinted off the star on the man’s chest. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Morgan stuck out a big paw for Ashby to shake. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Morgan. Marshal Floyd Dayton sent me out here to help you some.”
Ashby stood and shook Morgan’s hand, pleased that Morgan did not mention his sweating palm. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said lamely. “Have a seat.”
“Didn’t much look like you were expectin’ me,” Morgan said flatly as he sat.
Ashby laughed self-consciously. “I must admit,” he offered, “that you weren’t quite what I expected.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Ashby said, licking his lips. He began to worry again. This tall, hard-eyed man had a decidedly deadly look about him. “Well, I don’t know. The guns, I guess, maybe. That big knife in your boot there. The look in your...”
“Hell, you didn’t want no pantywaist son of a bitch comin’ out here, did you?” Morgan asked. His voice was not angry. “If you did, you sure didn’t mention it to Floyd, or he’d never have sent a crusty bastard like me.”
Ashby began to relax a little. Morgan might be deadly, but there was nothing threatening about him. At least riot now. Ashby acknowledged in his mind, though, that he would not want Morgan’s cool gray eyes peering too hard at him. Morgan was a man who certainly looked like he knew how to use the two ivory- handled .44-caliber Smith and Wesson revolvers he was wearing.
“No, no, I certainly didn’t expect that. Indeed, now that you’re here, and I know who you are, I’m decidedly relieved. I must admit, though, that you certainly gave me a fright.”
“Ain’t the first time I’ve heard that,” Morgan said with a small smile. “It’s my curse.” He smiled again. “Or maybe my blessing. I’ve learned over the years that a hard look and a hard reputation can save a man like me considerable trouble.”
“I’ve heard Chief Washakie say much the same thing on occasion. I’m afraid I’m just not a man who has either of those attributes. I often wish I did.”
“We can’t help what we are, Mr. Ashby,” Morgan said quietly. “From what I figure, if you’ve kept the Shoshonis from goin’ on the warpath over these recent troubles, you’re a hell of a lot better at your job than many a man is at his own. Hell, if every man did his job as well, this world’d be a hell of a lot better place, to my way of thinkin’.”
“Oh, well, I suppose so.” Ashby did not sound as if he believed any of it.
“You’re a married man, I take it, Mr. Ashby?” Morgan asked quietly.
“Why, yes,” Ashby answered, surprised. “Yes, I am. Is it that obvious?”
Morgan shrugged. “You have kids, too?”
“Three of them. Two girls and a boy. The oldest— Bonnie—-is twelve.”
“And they’re out here with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘Why,’ Marshal?”
“Wouldn’t it have been a hell of a lot safer—and more comfortable—to have left them in Ohio or Kentucky or wherever the hell it is back east you come here from?”
“Of course,” Ashby responded, surprised again. “Yet you brought them out here. To this desolate place. To a place where they have no others to socialize with. To a place crawling with Indians, not to mention soldiers. There’s heat, bitter cold, snow to a horse’s eye, dust storms, snakes, grizzlies, all kinds of dangers.”
“So?” Ashby said rather defensively.
“So, you’ve kept them all happy, I suppose. Or at least relatively so. I can see it in your eye when you talk about them. Your wife hasn’t fled back east. Nor have you given up a very difficult and trying job so that you could take them back east yourself and live in relative comfort.”
“Is there a point to all of this, Marshal Morgan?” Ashby asked nervously.
“The point is, Mr. Ashby, that we all have our own talents and such. No, you’re not as hard a man as me.”
“I doubt you’ve ever killed a man...”
“No, I haven’t,” Ashby said flatly. He wasn’t sure if he should be proud of the fact or disgusted with himself because of it.
“Yet you’re every bit as tough as I am. Maybe even tougher. You have to be to do what you do. It’s just a different kind of toughness is all.”
“Are you married, Marshal Morgan?” Ashby asked, feeling a flush of pride in what Morgan had said. He wasn’t sure that he believed it, but it felt good to hear, especially from a man like Buck Morgan.
“No,” Morgan said flatly. “I was once, but it didn’t take. Mostly my fault, I suppose.”
Ashby suddenly wanted to know more about what had happened to drive Morgan and his wife apart, but he had enough sense to see that asking about it would only anger Morgan. The marshal seemed to have drifted off a little. He sighed. Perhaps one day he would be able to get Morgan to open up.
“Would you like a cigar, Marshal?”
Morgan nodded, trying to shake off the melancholy that had come over him.
Ashby came around the desk and handed Morgan a fat cigar. Morgan bit off the end of it and spit it into a convenient cuspidor. He nodded his thanks as Ashby held a match out for him. Ashby went back behind his own desk and lit a cigar for himself. Blowing out a stream of smoke, he asked, “Do you know why you’re here, Marshal?”
“The only thing Floyd told me was that some Shoshonis out here have gotten killed and that I was to get out here and track down the killer or killers.”
Ashby explained what had happened. It didn’t take long. Morgan said nothing during the agent’s discourse.
“We had two more between the time I left here to talk to Marshal Dayton—an old friend of mine, by the way—and your arrival.”
“And is this Chief Washakie you mentioned keeping all his warriors in check?”
Ashby nodded. “He’s a tough old bastard, and there’re few warriors who’ll go against his word, whatever it is. Still, a few more of these murders and there’s going to be hell to pay one way or another.”
“I would expect,” Morgan said dryly. “Well,” he added after a pause, “is it too late to go talk to this Washakie?”
Ashby checked his pocket watch. “No, there’s time.” He stood. “I’ll need a few minutes to get a horse saddled. Is your mount all right?”
“Yeah. I took it easy on him on the way out here.”
Morgan nodded. When Ashby left Morgan got the bottle. Ignoring the glass in the drawer, he pulled the cork on the bottle and took a long, healthy swallow. He recorked the bottle and replaced it.
“It’s a godforsaken place, ain’t it?” Morgan said when he and Ashby were riding slowly toward Washakie’s.
“It has a certain beauty—if one is willing to look for it,” Ashby responded.
“I suppose. But it sure looks like the government gave the Shoshonis a shit piece of real estate for a reservation.”
Ashby glanced sharply at Morgan and realized that the marshal was serious. “Have you ever heard of the government handing out a good piece of real estate to any Indians?”
“Nope. Had I been Washakie, though, I might’ve held out for that out there.” He pointed to the snowcapped Wind River Mountains some miles away.
“I’m sure Washakie did.”
“I reckon so. I can understand, too, how some Indians ain’t willing to give up quietly. I’d probably be one of those renegade sons of bitches who fight until death rather than submit.”
“I probably would’ve done exactly what Chief Washakie has done,” Ashby said quietly.
Morgan laughed softly. “There’s our differences again. Both strong-willed and thinkin’ we’re right, but going about it in completely different ways. Trouble is, it wouldn’t mean a damn thing. The ones who fight’re going to be dead long before the others, but those others’re going to have a slow, suffocating death. Damn, it’s a poor thing when a man—when a whole people—have got to decide whether they want to be wiped out slow or fast.”
Ashby knew that Morgan had spoken the truth. He also knew that there was nothing more to say, so he said nothing. They rode on in silence.
An hour later they rode into Washakie’s small village. Morgan took a good look around as he rode in and was surprised. There didn’t seem to be a lot of destitution evident. The tepees were in good condition; the people seemed well-fed and reasonably happy. Morgan could see plenty of horses grazing to the northwest. Dogs barked, children laughed and cried and played. Unperturbed talk and bursts of laughter rang out. Morgan wondered how anyone could be happy in such a barren setting. Then again, he wondered how anyone could be happy in a teeming, foul place like New York, which he had visited once.
They stopped in front of a large painted tepee and dismounted. Two boys, each about eleven years old, ran up and took the reins to the horses. Ashby smiled. “Hello, Yellow Wing. And to you, Rabbit Tail.”
Morgan had been a little reluctant for either of the boys to take his horse, but then he realized it would be all right. As he turned, Ashby was already calling for entrance into the tepee.
Morgan wasn’t sure what to expect inside. He had never been inside an Indian lodge before. It smelled funny—not bad funny, just odd to him—and there were all kinds of things he had no clue as to what they were. At Ashby’s direction he sat and leaned against some kind of backrest. Ashby did the same. Morgan kept his mouth shut, waiting to find out what would happen. He didn’t figure it was his place to break the silence.
An old woman brought Morgan and Ashby bowls. Morgan lifted the horn spoon and brought it toward his mouth. He had no idea what was in the watery stew, but he’d be damned if he’d show any weakness, even if the dish was foul. To his surprise he found it wasn’t bad. After a few tastes he realized it was buffalo stew. He could have used more chunks of meat in it, though.
When they finished the stew a young warrior brought out a pipe, which he handed to Washakie. The old chief took it, and the young warrior lit it. Washakie puffed for a little, blowing the smoke every which way. When the pipe was passed to Morgan, he tried to emulate Washakie, though he had no idea if he even came close. Then he handed the pipe to Ashby.
After puffing on the pipe Ashby gave it to the young warrior. Then he said, “Chief Washakie, this is Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Morgan. Marshal, Chief Washakie.”
The two men nodded and sized each other up. If Ashby had not told him, Morgan would never have believed that Washakie was somewhere around seventy years old. The Shoshoni chief was tall, or so Morgan thought, and his back was straight. He had long hair, gray now, but still full. His face was lined some, but still had a strong, determined cast to it. He had a high forehead and piercing dark eyes.
For his part, Washakie was fairly impressed with the marshal. He saw a man who was tall, strong, and rugged. Washakie thought Morgan had an honest face, and would be a man of his word. Had Morgan been born a Shoshoni, Washakie thought, he would have made a good warrior. Only time would tell, though, the old chief knew, if his initial assessment was correct.
Chapter Eight
“Are you related to Charley Morgan?” Washakie asked in accented English.
Morgan was surprised, both at the question and the fact that Washakie spoke English well. He nodded. “My father’s name is Charley,” he said quietly.
“I thought so,” Washakie said. “I knew Charley Morgan some years ago. He was a good man. You favor him in looks.”
“It’s an honor,” Morgan said sincerely. “How’d you know him, though?”
“He was a trader among us. One of the few damn honest traders I ever knew. Most traders would steal their mother’s teeth for a pinch of gold.” Then Washakie laughed.
“Most merchants I know of are the same way,” Morgan said, joining in the laughter. He realized he had been very tense since entering the village. The laughter had served to relax him.
Washakie finally grew serious. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, looking at Morgan.
The marshal nodded. “Mr. Ashby explained it to me before. He told me you suspect that a white man or white men is behind the murders. Why would you think such a thing?”
Washakie shrugged. “Who can know the mind of such men?” he said flatly.
Morgan let the words sit in the air for some moments as he rolled them around in his mind. Then he nodded. “I’ll accept that—for now. Mr. Ashby told me all the bodies were mutilated.”
“Yes,” Washakie said stonily.
“They all had at least one finger and both ears cut off, right?” Morgan pressed. “Some also were disemboweled or had limbs hacked off?”
“Yes.” Washakie’s voice was colder even than before.
“And you figure that white men committed the murders and mutilated the bodies to make it look like other Indians did it? That it?” Morgan asked. Washakie nodded.
“How do you figure it was whites that did it?” Morgan asked. “Don’t your people and most other Indians do such things as a matter of course?”
“I’ve explained all of this to you, Marshal. I…” Ashby started. He stopped in a real hurry when Morgan turned a hard, unforgiving glance at him.
“I know what the hell you told me,” Morgan said harshly. “But I want to hear it from Chief Washakie. I need all the information I can get if I’m going to catch the bastards who’re doing this.”
Ashby’s face flamed red, but he said nothing. Morgan looked back at Washakie. “Well, Chief?”
“Our enemies have no reason to cut off fingers and ears. Once in a while, maybe, just for the hell of it. But on five Shoshoni? No goddamn reason.”
“I thought you did such things so that your enemies wouldn’t be whole in the next world.”
“This is true somewhat,” Washakie said after some thought. “But the ears signify nothing. A man can still hear all right in the afterworld if he has no damn ears. A man can still fight even if he’s missin’ a few damn fingers.”
Morgan nodded. “Let me ask you this, Chief—you got any enemies? Personal enemies, I mean. Folks that’d just as soon see you kicked out as chief.”<
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Ashby gasped. “What kind of question is…”
“If you’re going to be such a pain in my ass, Mr. Ashby,” Morgan said icily, “then I’ll just head on back to Cheyenne. I’ve got other work that needs doin’. So you either shut the hell up or you go outside and pace while me and Chief Washakie try to figure out what the hell’s going on here.”
“But...”
“Mr. Ashby,” Washakie said quietly, “Marshal Morgan’s right. If he’s to find out who’s killing my people, he’s gonna have to ask some questions I might not like. If so, tough shit. If I didn’t care who was killin’ my people, I’d refuse to answer.”
“Sorry,” Ashby mumbled in embarrassment.
“So, Chief, you have any enemies?”
“Very few.” A small smile slid across Washakie’s face. “I’ve either killed them or outlived them, for the most part. Why?”
Morgan shrugged. “There’s always the possibility that it’s one of your own people.”
“That’s preposterous!” Ashby said.
“Is it?” Morgan countered. “Say he’s got some warrior who wants to be chief somethin’ awful. He kills a few of Washakie’s supporters and makes it look like Arapaho did it. Even if Washakie comes up with the idea—as he has—that white men are responsible for the murders, it puts Washakie in a terribly vulnerable position.”
“How?” Ashby asked, interest rising.
“Well, if Washakie figures the Arapaho did it, he’s got two choices—do nothing or go to war. If he does nothing, sooner or later this enemy will quietly foment an insurrection among the Shoshoni people and Washakie’ll get ousted. If he declares war on the Arapaho, Washakie’d be almost duty-bound to lead the war party, bringing about a good chance that he’ll get killed. Hell, a cunning enemy might even kill Washakie himself out there. Then he could still become the chief while praising Washakie’s name to the high heavens.
Washakie grinned.
“But what if Washakie blamed it on the white man, as he’s done?” Ashby asked.