by John Legg
Ashby thought about it for a moment, then grinned weakly. “No, I reckon not.”
Chapter Ten
Morgan watched the Shoshoni riding slowly a little ahead of him and Ashby, wondering just what the warrior thought about him. Ashby had introduced Two Wounds to Morgan that morning outside Ashby’s house.
The Shoshoni was taller than Morgan had expected, though not nearly as tall as he. Two Wounds had an impassive dark face and eyes that were flat and almost black. His cheekbones protruded enough to make his cheeks look like they were being sucked inward. Two Wounds wore a fringed buckskin shirt, buckskin leggings, buckskin breechcloth, and moccasins. His hair hung in two long greasy braids wrapped in some kind of fur.
It was not a long ride to their destination, and they dismounted and tied their horses off. Not really knowing what he was looking for, Morgan knelt and looked around where the latest Shoshoni body had been found. He crab-walked around the entire site, eyes peering at the dirt and grass.
All of it seemed for naught, though, as he could discern nothing that might give him a clue. He finally rose, shaking his head in annoyance—at himself for not being able to figure out anything and at whoever had perpetrated these murders. He stood, rubbing his big, square chin, thinking. Then he swallowed some of his pride. “Can you make anything out here that might help, Two Wounds?” he asked hopefully.
The Shoshoni shrugged.
Morgan spit into the dirt. Then he glared at Two Wounds. “I’m here to help your people at Chief Washakie’s request,” Morgan said to the Shoshoni, stretching the truth just a bit, “whether you like it or not. Now I could go to Chief Washakie and tell him what a shit ball you’re bein’, but that wouldn’t serve any purpose, now would it?” He paused, not sure if Two Wounds spoke any English beyond a few simple words.
Two Wounds shook his head ever so slightly.
At least the bastard understands English, Morgan thought. “On the other hand,” he continued, relaxing some, “I could go tell your wife instead. I expect Shoshoni women’re a lot like white women, and if that’s true, I can probably talk her into bendin’ your ear left and right about this. Havin’ a wife naggin’ your ass day in and day out might just set you on the right path.” Two Wounds’s stiff face cracked a bit, and Morgan grinned slightly. Then the lawman pushed ahead, his statements growing a little broader. “Yep, I can see it now—some fat-ass old squaw doggin’ your every step, squallin’ about her useless shit of a husband. Hell, she’ll probably be chasin’ after you with an old skillet, lookin’ to lay it upside your head. And you, runnin’ like a buffalo calf just to get away from that old hag’s constant blowin’ wind, headin’...”
Two Wounds began laughing. “You’re one funny sumbitch,” he said with a chuckle, using English that was heavily accented but understandable.
Morgan shrugged, but he grinned. “Now, are you going to help me?”
Two Wounds stopped laughing and looked somberly at Morgan. He was used to white men, but he had met few like Buck Morgan. The lawman was big and strong and had a dark, deadly look about him. He figured that Morgan would make a good warrior. But Two Wounds had been surprised to see that Morgan had a streak of humor in him, and that would make him a good Shoshoni. As such, Morgan was deserving of help. Two Wounds nodded. He crooked a finger at Morgan as he squatted.
Morgan knelt beside him. Two Wounds used a finger to diagram in the air just above the ground the way he had found the body and what had been done to it. Then he led Morgan to another spot, where a campfire had burned. “Five, maybe six men sat at the fire here,” Two Wounds said.
“Can you tell anything about them?” Morgan asked. He was not shy about asking for help when he was in over his head.
“All are white men.” Two Wounds looked at Morgan to catch the lawman’s reaction.
He was disappointed. Morgan simply nodded and then asked, “How can you tell?”
Two Wounds lightly traced the faint outline of a footprint. “Boot, not moccasin,” he said. “And here. And here.” He pointed out several other spots.
The Shoshoni stood and walked toward a clump of brush. Morgan followed. There, they squatted again. “Horses,” Two Wounds said. “White man’s horses.”
“Because they’re shod?” Morgan asked.
Two Wounds nodded. “Shoshoni ponies don’t have shoes.”
“Except the ones you’ve stolen from whites,” Morgan said flatly.
Two Wounds glared at him a moment, then decided Morgan was having a little fun at his expense. “Yes,” he said with a nod.
“Still, with those boot prints over yonder, I expect these horses were used by white men.” He rose and looked around. The site was in the foothills of the Wind River Mountains, and it was beautiful. Clumps of brush, plus tall pine trees and thick cottonwoods. Wind rustled leaves and branches, and the rippling of a little stream nearby gave one a feeling of peace. It was at pity, Morgan thought, that such a gruesome act had marred such serenity and beauty.
“There anything else you can tell me, Two Wounds?”
The Shoshoni shook his head. “It’s been too long to learn much more.”
Morgan nodded. “Though it’s been even longer since the others were killed, I’d still like to see those places, Two Wounds, and see if we—you—can learn anything there.”
“I can take you to those places.”
“Let’s go, then,” Morgan said.
“I’m going to be off, if you don’t mind, Buck,” Ashby said. “I’ve got a heaping pile of paperwork to wade through. It’s the worst damn thing about this job—you have to write a report every time one of your charges takes a shit.”
Morgan laughed. “Same with my job.” He winked. “That’s why I’d rather shoot ’em and bring ’em in dead than arrest ’em.”
Ashby looked up at this, shock flickering in his eyes. Then he saw the twinkle in Morgan’s eyes, and he laughed. “I wish I could do something like that myself.” He pulled himself into the saddle. “Well, I should be in the office, or near it, all day. I’d be obliged if you were to fill me in on what you’ve learned today when you get back, Buck.”
Morgan nodded. “Will do—when I get back.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ashby asked, surprised.
“Nothin’ sinister. I just might have to stay out here somewhere while I look for the shit balls who’ve committed these murders.”
Ashby nodded, relieved, and then rode off.
Morgan and Two Wounds spent the rest of the day looking over the sites of the murders. They learned little from the murder sites, other than that white men had been at two of them. The other sites held no clues; rain, wind, and animals had blurred whatever information they might have contained.
Morgan was silent as he and Two Wounds rode slowly toward Washakie’s village that afternoon. He was mulling over what he had seen and learned, but no answers presented themselves. Finally, they stopped at Washakie’s lodge and went inside. Morgan explained what he and Two Wounds had been up to. Some of his frustration showed through.
“Don’t take it to heart, my friend,” Washakie said, surprising Morgan, not only at the general tone of the words, but at the “my friend” appellation. “Things will work out.”
“I’m not so sure, Chief,” Morgan said with a sigh. He smiled just a little when the young woman he had seen in the lodge the last time handed him a bowl of stew. He watched her as she moved around the lodge.
“My great-granddaughter,” Washakie said with a smile at Morgan.
“Not one of your wives?” Morgan asked, surprised once again. His heart suddenly seemed to be pounding harder and faster.
“No,” Washakie said with a laugh. “It is good to have a young wife, it’s true. And I have one. They are good for an old man. Yes. They make an old-timer like me feel like a ruttin’ bull in the robes. But one that young would surely be the death of me.”
The bowl of stew in Morgan’s hands was forgotten now. Eyes burning with desire, he asked,
“You mind if I was to come courtin’ her?”
It was Washakie’s turn to be surprised. Not so much that Morgan desired Cloud Woman; that had been obvious in Morgan’s eyes. What did surprise Washakie was that Morgan had so formally and so stiffly asked to court the young woman. It was unlike most of the whites Washakie had met. Most of them simply wanted to buy a young woman, thinking that was the Shoshoni way or something. Buck Morgan acted more like the men in the old days, men like Blanket Chief Jim Bridger, who had married one of Washakie’s daughters. He wondered where Bridger was, if he was alive, and how his daughter was.
Washakie sighed. So much thinking of the past always made him melancholy. True, he had already outlived all the friends of his youth and several wives. But he still had much to give him joy. He shook off the gloom. “You may court Cloud Woman,” he said. “What a delightful name,” Morgan said. He rolled it around his tongue a few times and decided he liked the way it felt.
“But,” Washakie cautioned, “I won’t allow it if Cloud Woman doesn’t want your attentions.”
That gave Morgan a moment’s pause. Then he nodded. “I’d not want it any other way,” he said honestly. “I ain’t a man to force my attentions on any woman.” Washakie nodded, pleased. He had trusted Morgan right from the start; that had seemed the right thing to do. It appeared now as if his original assessment of Morgan was justified. “I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow,” he said.
Their talk turned to more general things, and before much longer Washakie said with a grin, “Night comes early for an old bastard like me. You can stay the night here, Buck, if you want.”
“Does Cloud Woman live here with you?” Morgan asked.
Washakie nodded.
“Then I’ll pass. I think it’d be too hard for me to lay there knowin’ she was just across the lodge.”
“I know what’d be too hard,” Two Wounds suddenly said with a raucous laugh.
Morgan flamed red, but he laughed, too, accepting the jibe in the friendly nature in which it had been intended. “Guess I’ll head back to Ashby’s.”
“Stay in my lodge,” Two Wounds said, laughter finally stopping.
“You sure? I don’t want to put you out any.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, then,” Morgan said as he stood, “I’ll say good night, Chief Washakie.” He followed Two Wounds to his lodge. He was surprised, though he was not sure why, when he met Night Seeker, the wife of Two Wounds. Night Seeker was in her mid-twenties and quite attractive, if a little darker of skin than Morgan liked. She also seemed to be quite a pleasant young woman.
“Nice old hag, eh?” Two Wounds said with a laugh.
“Nice old hag,” Morgan agreed.
Morgan and Two Wounds spent the next two days just riding around the reservation, trying to find some clues. They stayed the night out in the open. Trying to keep his mind off the possibility of courting Cloud Woman, Morgan mulled over the murders in his mind. He had found nothing to help him in his search for the outlaws.
The next day, he and Two Wounds went back to the first site they had visited. “Can you follow those tracks out of here, Two Wounds?” he asked.
Two Wounds shrugged. “It’s been a while. But we won’t know till we try.”
The effort had proved inconclusive. There had been too much travel, too many antelope and deer, too much rain and wind for the track to stay visible. Two Wounds lost it after less than half an hour. He spent the next two hours trying to pick it up again but couldn’t.
“Don’t worry about it, Two Wounds,” Morgan said as they headed back to. Washakie’s village that night. He was every bit as frustrated by the so far futile search as was Two Wounds, but he was managing to keep it under control.
Shortly before they reached the village, Morgan stopped. “I reckon I’ll head back to Ashby’s,” he announced. “He’s probably pullin’ his hair out wonderin’ where I am and what I’ve found out.”
Two Wounds suddenly grinned. “Like hell,” he said. “You just don’t want to go back to the village ’cause you figure Cloud Woman don’t want nothin’ to do with you.”
“Shit,” Morgan muttered, but he grinned. “I’ll go back to the village just to show you.”
Chapter Eleven
Morgan awoke in a pretty good mood. Not that anyone else could really tell, with his generally stern face. Two Wounds grinned at him, still in his robes. Night Seeker grinned, too, from where she was lying half atop Two Wounds.
“I didn’t know you folks was so lazy,” Morgan commented drolly. “What with layin’ about half the day.”
“You’re just jealous,” Two Wounds said with a laugh.
“That I am,” Morgan responded agreeably. “I’ll be outside for a spell—’til you’re done here.”
“It won’t be long.”
“I didn’t expect it would.” Laughing, Morgan poured himself some coffee and headed outside. Tin cup in hand, he wandered around the village, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the unfamiliar place. In his two earlier trips here he had never really had a chance to look around. He made up for that lack now.
In some ways the Shoshoni village was utterly foreign to him. But upon closer inspection he realized that maybe it wasn’t, all that much different from what he was used to. There were children playing and laughing, running naked through the lodges. Dogs barked and snapped and lay in the morning sun. Smoke from cook fires drifted lazily toward the sky. The village came awake much as did a white man’s town, with people scurrying about. There were more women outside doing more things than he was used to, but still the general theme of new morning held true.
He was as much a curiosity to the Shoshoni as they were to him. Some of the Indians watched askance, others boldly. Most faces were either friendly or composed; only a few showed any real hostility, and those were young warriors who considered Morgan a potential competitor for the affections of the young women.
Two Wounds found Morgan after a little while. “You hungry?” the Shoshoni asked.
“Yep.”
The two walked back to Two Wounds’s lodge and were served food by a glowing Night Seeker. “You treat her well, my friend,” Morgan said quietly to Two Wounds when Night Seeker was out of earshot.
“She’s a good woman,” Two Wounds agreed. When they had finished eating Two Wounds asked, “What you got in mind for today?”
Morgan shrugged. He hadn’t given it much thought. He gnawed on the edges of his mustache as he pondered his next move. Finally, he asked, “How many towns are there around the reservation?”
Two Wounds seemed to be caught unawares by the question, and he had to take a little time to think about his answer. “Only two I know of. Flat Fork’s closest to here. It’s on the Popo Agie River, close up by the Wind River Mountains. It’s a shithole, is that what you call it? It ought to be up on Badwater Creek or Poison Creek. The only other place is some miles northwest, up on the other side of Wind River Canyon. Bubbling Water.”
“A hot spring?” Morgan asked.
Two Wounds nodded. “Real big one. Town’s not much. A few traders and such tryin’ to make some money off the People, Arapaho and Crow who use it regularly.” He paused. “Why are you interested in them places?”
“Well, since Washakie thinks white men are killin’ your people, I’ll have to look into that. Hell, you said yourself yesterday that white men were at most, if not all, the sites where Shoshoni were killed.”
“You think they’re ridin’ here from one of the towns?”
Morgan nodded. “If they were stayin’ on the reservation, someone would’ve seen them already. Only other whites are the soldiers. They could be the ones doin’ it, and I’ll keep that thought in mind, but I don’t think it’s them.”
“Why not?” Two Wounds sounded skeptical, figuring that Morgan was turning out like all the rest of the whites—a liar. He would protect his own, and nothing more would be said about dead Shoshoni.
Morgan shrugged. “Just a h
unch. It seems likely to me that if some of them were responsible, Ashby would’ve heard about it. Unless he’s in on it, which I can’t believe.”
“No, Scratches Paper wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be his way.”
“Scratches Paper?” Morgan asked with a laugh. “It’s fitting, don’t you think?”
“Apt as hell.” Morgan stretched. “Well, reckon I’d best head off to one of those towns and see if I can find out anything.”
Two Wounds laughed. “You just want to go there and hump some poor old woman.”
“If there’re any women in those towns at all, they’re probably so ugly and used up I’d rather have a go with a buffalo.”
“Ain’t you gonna go see Washakie first?” Two Wounds asked innocently.
Morgan saw the sparkle in Two Wounds’s eyes. “And just what would I go and do that for?”
“See if Cloud Woman wants to allow you to get your big white paws on her fine dark flesh.”
“You’re one crude son of a bitch, ain’t you?” Morgan said with a laugh. He paused. “Well, he did say he’d talk to her yesterday, but I don’t know as if he meant it.”
“One way to find out.”
Morgan knew Two Wounds was right. So he went to Washakie’s lodge. After a few perfunctory spoonfuls of the food Washakie’s old wife gave him and Two Wounds, Morgan asked bluntly, “You talked with Cloud Woman yet?”
“You’re too impatient, son,” Washakie said.
“I expect I am. But I’ve got a heap of things to do, most of them somewhere else.”
Washakie nodded. “Yes, a man like you would have many things to do. I’m old and foolish to forget that.”
“Don’t give me any of that poor-ol’-me shit, Washakie,’’ Morgan said roughly, but he grinned. “Found me out as a fraud, did you?”
Morgan nodded. “Really, Chief Washakie,” he said earnestly, “I’ve got to go checking on the white man’s towns just off your land, and it’s going to take a heap of ridin’ and jawin’ to try to learn anything. I’d like to know I had a reason to come back here—other than to look at your ugly old puss again.”