by John Legg
“Well, that probably would mean that the army’d come in.” Morgan grinned roguishly. “If someone had plotted this thing in such a way, he never would’ve thought that Washakie’d not go to the army to clear it up. And once the army started rooting around, there’d be all kinds of trouble. Again, the conspirator could quietly turn the people against Chief Washakie.”
“There’s always people like that,” Washakie agreed. “But I don’t think that’s the case here.”
“No?”
The long gray hair swung back and forth as Washakie shook his head. “If such a man existed, I would have known about it long ago.”
Morgan raised his eyebrows, then realized that Washakie was not being arrogant.
“I’ve not led my people for so many winters by bein’ a damn fool, Marshal. As I have enemies, I also have friends. Many, many more friends than enemies. There is at least one who would have heard of such a plot and told me, don’t you think?”
“If you know the ones who are such close friends, then your enemy would know that, too, no?” Morgan countered. “And he would avoid letting his plan reach their ears.”
“When a man has many friends—including some who aren’t his closest friends—it’s pretty damn hard to keep such a complicated scheme quiet, ain’t it?”
“That makes sense,” Morgan said with a nod. “See?” Ashby interjected. “Now don’t you feel like a fool for asking such a stupid thing of someone like Chief Washakie?”
“No,” Morgan said evenly.
“I would’ve asked the same thing,” Washakie said. “Marshal Morgan might have been wrong in that thought, but it shows he’s thinkin’, and it shows his mind is open to the many possibilities.”
“Well, I’ll still keep the thought in mind, Chief,” Morgan said, “though I figure you’re right. That leaves us with the only other possibility—that white men did it. I’m going to ask you again, Chief, why?”
“There could be many reasons,” Washakie said quietly. He stretched out his long legs and plucked idly at a piece of fringe on one of his leggings. “And many of them might not make any sense. But it wouldn’t be unknown for the white man to try to cause trouble between different Indian peoples. They might have some grand motive behind it. Or maybe none at all.”
“Let’s hope it’s not the last,” Morgan said. “If it is, we might not ever be able to catch the bastards—unless we catch them in the act. Let’s say there is some grand plan behind it all. Any thoughts on what that might be?”
Washakie shrugged. “It could be something as simple as wanting to see two tribes killing each other off.”
“That’s a goddamn scary thought,” Ashby said. Washakie nodded. “That would afford many white men a good deal of amusement,” he said. “But more importantly—to them—it could hasten the end of the Shoshoni people. And other people, too, like our hated enemies.”
“It’s like what they’re doin’ with the buffalo,” Morgan said. “Many of the white men in power out east are of a mind that if you kill off the Indians’ commissary—the buffalo—you can bring the Indians to heel.”
“Yes,” Washakie said sadly. “When the buffalo are gone we’ll have to become farmers. I’ve tried to ease my people down the white man’s road, but there’s too much resistance. Still, I can see the slaughter of the buffalo. Soon there’ll be no more. Then the Shoshoni will have to become farmers—or die.”
“And anything the whites can do to hasten that day’ll be looked on favorably in some circles,” Morgan said. He nodded. It was a frightening thought, and one that was entirely too possible. “Yes, if a few whites could stir up trouble here, and the Shoshonis go after the Arapaho, there are those who could point and say that the Shoshoni—and the Arapaho—are still savages; that efforts by honest men like Mr. Ashby here are for naught and the Indians can’t learn the white man’s way. Therefore they don’t deserve any land, even land as poor as this.”
“Bastards,” Ashby muttered, already convinced that such was what was occurring.
“No,” Washakie said. “Not bastards. Just men.”
Silence was allowed to grow then, to expand until it filled the smoky, crowded tepee. A young woman entered, saw the men sitting silently, and quietly made her way to the back of the lodge, where she sat next to the old woman. Her entrance caught Morgan’s attention, and he could not help but keep an eye on her.
The woman was young, maybe twenty, Morgan thought, and quite attractive. She had a tall willowiness about her, which surprised Morgan a little. He had always thought Indians were dumpy and dirty and squat-looking. But Washakie—and now this young woman—had begun to change his opinion.
Morgan thought he would like to meet the woman, but then realized that such a hope was futile—and foolish. Judging by the way she had entered the lodge, she seemed to belong here, and Morgan figured that she was a young wife of Washakie’s. It would make sense, Morgan thought. With Washakie’s other wife so old, having a strong young woman around the lodge would be a big help to not only Washakie but his old wife as well. With an inward sigh, Morgan tried to push the young woman out of his mind—even if he would not let his sight drift off her too much.
“So, Marshal Morgan,” Washakie finally said, “do you have any thoughts on how you’ll catch these white devils?” He smiled a little to let Morgan know that he did not think of all white men as devils.
“Not yet. I’ll need to do some cogitatin’ on it. And I’d like to get out and see where the last body was found. Is that possible, Chief?”
Washakie nodded.
“We’ll do that tomorrow,” Ashby said. “First thing.”
“There any help I can give you?” Washakie asked.
“Well, it’d probably help a whole hell of a lot if I was to have someone around who knows the country real well.”
“One of the People, you mean?” Washakie asked.
Morgan nodded.
“That can be done.”
“Are your people going to be willing to work with me?” Morgan asked. “After all, if you think whites’re responsible for the murders, they probably think the same. And it’s obvious for all to see that I’m white.”
Washakie nodded. “Some—maybe even most—might be reluctant. But I figure we can find a few who’ll be willin’ to help. I, of course, will lend my authority to the project, which should help a little.” He smiled at the last.
Morgan nodded, accepting it.
Chapter Nine
“Why don’t you join my family and me for supper, Marshal?” Ashby asked as the two men rode back toward the agency.
“I wouldn’t want to impose, Mr. Ashby,” Morgan responded quietly.
“It wouldn’t be an imposition,” Ashby said. Then he laughed. “Besides, your options’re rather limited.”
“How so?”
“Well, you could cook for yourself somewhere. Or you could eat in the soldiers’ mess over at Camp Brown itself. I wouldn’t recommend that,” Ashby added with a laugh. “Or you could ride to Flat Fork, which I don’t think’d be wise either, if you have any taste for food at all. Or see if Washakie can find someone to cook for you.”
“I see,” Morgan said with a chuckle. “Well, since I can’t cook a lick myself, I have little liking for soldiers, I don’t know where this Flat Fork is, and I don’t know Washakie even as much as I do you, I reckon that supper at your house wouldn’t be that unwelcome a thing. If your wife doesn’t mind another mouth—and a big one at that—at the table.”
“She won’t mind,” Ashby said. “If for no other reason than yours is a new face around here. She is, I’m afraid, starved for company.”
“I’d expect such a thing in a place like this. After all, she wouldn’t be expected to consort with the Shoshoni. Are there no other white women at Camp Brown?”
“Three: The wife of Lieutenant Pomeroy, the commander, plus the wives of two enlisted men. They’re laundresses, and low sort of women.”
Morgan nodded. “Speaking of the c
amp,” he said, “is there any more to it than the little I saw on the ride in?”
“Nope. Just that small collection of pitiful stone and adobe buildings you saw. Hell, there’s only about fifty men stationed there.”
“And that’s supposed to protect the Shoshoni?” Morgan asked skeptically.
“As far as the government’s concerned, yes. They seem to be of the opinion out there that all the Indians are afraid of the blue coats, so just a show of a few men is enough to keep them in line. Pure buffalo shit, if you ask me, but no one ever does.”
“The government acts the same no matter who it’s dealin’ with,” Morgan agreed. “Bunch of shit balls back east there.”
Ashby nodded, pleased to have someone of a like mind around for a change.
At Ashby’s small stone house, Ashby and Morgan unsaddled their horses. “You have any grain layin’ about, Mr. Ashby?” Morgan asked.
“No, but they have plenty over at the camp. I’ll send someone to get some here in just a bit.” He gave a cursory grooming to his horse and then went inside the house.
Morgan finished tending to his horse and then hobbled the animal out back of Ashby’s house. He went to the trough and, after taking off his hat and throwing it aside, dunked his head in the water. It was warm water and a little stagnant, but it felt good nonetheless.
About that time, Ashby wandered around the corner of the house. “Supper’s about ready,” he said as he leaned against the house’s stone edge.
Morgan nodded. “You have any soap? After so long on the trail I figure I’m a mite dirty.”
“Sure.” He returned a minute later with a cake of strong soap and a towel.
Morgan stripped off his shirt and scooped up a pail of water, since he did not want to foul the trough. He wet his chest and arms, then scrubbed them and his face with the soap. Then came a rinse off before he finally began toweling himself dry.
As Morgan was doing so, an eight-year-old boy popped around the corner to stand next to Ashby. “Dusty,” Ashby said to the boy, “this here’s Deputy U.S. Marshal Buck Morgan. Marshal, my son, Dusty.”
Morgan shook the boy’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, son,” he said.
The boy pointed to Morgan’s bare chest. “Those bullet holes?” he asked with a child’s innocence and honesty.
“Dusty!” Ashby said. “I’m sorry, Marshal, I…”
“No problem, Mr. Ashby.” Morgan looked at the boy. “Yes, they are bullet holes, son,” he said quietly. “And this one,” he traced a long ragged scar from the side of his left breast around to just about the navel, “is from a knife.”
“They hurt when you got shot? And stabbed?” Dusty asked.
“They sure as hell did.”
“Did you arrest the men who did it?” Dusty asked guilelessly.
“No,” Morgan answered flatly.
“Then what…?”
“That’s enough questions for now, Dusty,” Ashby said. “The marshal’s had a long journey to get here and he’s hungry. We keep your ma waiting much longer and she’ll be after us with a skillet or something.” He grinned, not meaning it.
Morgan put on his shirt, tucked it in, then added his vest. “Ready, when you are, Mr. Ashby,” he said.
“Call me Orv, Marshal. Everyone else does.”
Morgan nodded. “If you call me Ruck.”
“Deal.”
Inside the house Ashby introduced Morgan to his wife, Grace; his oldest child, Bonnie, and his youngest, Pearl, a golden-haired five-year-old.
Grace Ashby was a plainly attractive woman who was beginning to look worn. Morgan supposed she was close to forty, though she did not look quite that old. Her hair was still a rich, warm brown, though her face had crow’s feet at eyes and mouth.
“Sit, Marshal,” Grace said, indicating a chair with a wave of her hand.
Morgan took a seat, a little uncomfortable in the presence of the children, the younger two of whom were staring unabashedly at him. Still, the meal looked mighty good to him. There was a platter of roasted chicken, a heaping bowl of potatoes, smaller bowls of carrots and peas, a platter of fresh biscuits, a pitcher of milk, and a large pot of coffee.
“Dig in, Marshal,” Grace said with a shy smile.
Morgan did so, restraining himself. With one bite of the chicken and biscuits, though, he laughed a little. “I ain’t had a meal like this in a dog’s age, ma’am,” he said in his quiet rumble of a voice. “And I’m like to eat you out of your house and home, given half a chance.”
Grace smiled and flushed with pleasure. “If I’d known such a hearty appetite was about to set at my supper table, I would’ve made a heap more,” she said, her voice high-pitched but pleasant. “But you take your fill, Marshal. You’ve had a long journey and have much hard work awaiting you, if what Orv says about this awful situation is true.”
“It is that, ma’am, an awful situation indeed,” Morgan responded.
“Do you think you can get to the bottom of all this, Marshal?”
“Don’t know, ma’am. It’ll be difficult, I expect, but I hope I can learn something and put an end to these troubles.”
“You ought to see his bullet holes, Ma,” Dusty piped up.
Grace looked horrified, Bonnie disgusted, Ashby angry, and Pearl bewildered.
Only Morgan had retained his equanimity. “I expect your ma’s not interested in my bullet holes, son,” he said easily. “Nor your sisters. Women don’t generally take an interest in such things. It’s just the way they are, son, and we menfolk should be appreciative that they are the way they are.”
Dusty wasn’t sure he fully understood, but he nodded anyway. If the big hard-looking marshal said it, well, then it must be so.
“Where’re you planning to stay, Marshal?” Grace asked after some silence while they all concentrated on their food.
“Hadn’t really thought about it,” Morgan said as he reached for another chicken leg. “Any ideas, Orv?”
“Well, I think you’re stuck for that as well as for eating. You have the same basic choices—Flat Fork, Camp Brown, with Washakie, on your own. Or here.”
“I couldn’t stay here,” Morgan said. “That’d be too big an imposition on you all. It’s bad enough you’ve stuck your wife with having to feed a hungry old bear like me. But to sleep here? No, sir, that won’t do at all.”
“That wouldn’t put us out, Marshal,” Grace said. “You could share Dusty’s room. Or, if that was inconvenient for you, we could move Dusty in with us for a time and you could have his room.”
“No, ma’am, but I’m obliged for the offer. Reckon I’ll just try to find myself a place to set up a camp.”
“Tell you what, Buck,” Ashby said. “You saw that old stone shed out back?”
Morgan nodded.
“You could stay there. I’ll have a couple of soldiers come over and clean it out and put in a bunk. We’ve got a few other pieces of furniture stored in there that you could use.”
“You sure I wouldn’t be in the way?” Morgan asked.
“Not at all.”
“You, ma’am?”
“We’d be delighted to have you stay there.”
“Then that’s where I’ll hang my hat.”
After supper Ashby said, “Dusty, run on over to Lieutenant Pomeroy’s and tell him I need a couple of men to clean out the shed. Tell him to have them bring a bunk—with a ticking mattress—with them. And some grain for the marshal’s horse,” he added.
“Yessir.” Smiling, Dusty hurried out the door. He always liked it when his father entrusted him with an important task.
The Ashby house had five rooms, a rarity in a desolate place like the Wind River Reservation. Three were bedrooms—one for Ashby and Grace, one for the two girls, and the third for Dusty. The other two rooms were the kitchen and a sitting room.
After sending Dusty on the errand Ashby led Morgan into the sitting room. He produced a cigar for himself and one for Morgan.
Grace came into the
room. “More coffee, Marshal?” she asked. “Or would you prefer something stronger?”
“Coffee’ll be fine, ma’am.”
“Orv?”
“Coffee’ll do for me, too.”
They were sipping, their coffee, silently puffing on the cigars, when two soldiers were escorted in. “You’ve got a chore for us, Mr. Ashby?” one asked. He did not look at all happy about being there, but he was a little afraid of angering the Indian agent. If he did, he knew that Ashby would report the disrespect to Lieutenant Pomeroy, and then he’d be pulling extra duty.
“Yes, Private,” Ashby said as he rose. He looked at Morgan. “I’ll be back in a few moments, Marshal.” Then he left with the two soldiers.
Ashby returned before long. Morgan looked at him as he sat. “All the blue coats that eager to do your bidding?” he asked with a grin.
“Some even more so,” Ashby answered. He laughed.
It was well past dark when the soldiers returned. They were covered with dirt, sweat, and dust, and were puffing. “All done, Mr. Ashby,” one said. He looked at Morgan. “I put a bucket of grain out back for your horse, Marshal.”
“Thank you, boys,” Ashby said, dismissing them. Morgan stood. “One minute there, boys,” he said quietly. When the two troopers turned to face into the room again Morgan pulled two five-dollar coins from a vest pocket and held them out. “For your efforts,” he said.
The two soldiers’ eyes widened as they took the proffered cash. “Thank you, sir!” both stammered as they headed out of the room.
“That was uncalled for, Marshal,” Ashby said coldly when the soldiers had left. “It sets a bad precedent.”
“How much do those boys make from the army? Ten, twelve dollars a month? Hell, that ain’t even enough to get drunk on once. A man works hard, he deserves to get paid some. You ain’t in the army, so you shouldn’t be able to have them do private chores for you. But a word from you and their asses’ll be in big trouble with their officers. That ain’t fair.”
“But that’ll set...”
“The work they did was for me, not you,” Morgan said, in tones even icier than Ashby’s had been. “And I paid them out of my pocket. You still want to give me a hard time about it?”