by John Legg
Washakie roared with laughter. “I like you, Buck. You’re one funny sumbitch.” The old warrior paused to light his small pipe. “Yes, I talked with Cloud Woman.”
“And...?”
“And she says she will allow the tall, furry-lipped white man to call on her now and then.” He waited for laughter, or anger. He was surprised at the reaction he did get, though.
“I don’t know your ways, Washakie,” Morgan said solemnly, “and I ain’t got time to learn them. Nor do I have time for fartin’ around makin’ chitchat. I need to spend some time with Cloud Woman and get to know her fast and let her get to know me. I don’t have the luxury of time to waste.”
“I understand,” Washakie said with a nod of his gray-haired old head. “There’s one problem, though.”
“What’s that?” Morgan asked, eyes narrowing. “You ain’t the only one wants to get his hands on Cloud Woman. Most of the others’ll leave her be if they know you’re callin’ on her. One won’t, though. Curly Bull.”
“That’s right, white-eyes,” someone said in guttural, accented English behind Morgan.
“You allow people to just come bargin’ into your lodge and insult your guests, Chief Washakie?” Morgan said, never taking his eyes off Washakie’s.
“No,” Washakie said flatly. “Curly Bull, you have no manners. Come sit by the fire here and we will talk as men should.”
“Bah, foolish old man.”
Morgan was about to rise and thump Curly Bull when Washakie rose instead. In harsh, biting terms, he snapped, “You challenge me in my own lodge?” Two Wounds translated for Morgan.
“No,” Curly Bull said hastily. “I meant no offense.”
“Then sit. Take food. We will talk some.”
Curly Bull sat and ate a bowl of stew. His eyes never left Morgan. When he finished the stew he tossed the bowl aside. “Cloud Woman is mine,” he said flatly in poor English. “She won’t go with you, white man.”
“She ain’t told me that, boy,” Morgan responded harshly.
“Cloud Woman has no say in this,” the Shoshoni boasted. “I, Curly Bull, claim her as my own. I’ll give Washakie twenty horses for her. What can you give?” Curly Bull sneered.
“Somethin’ all your goddamn horses can’t give— respect. Respect for Cloud Woman, and respect for Washakie.”
Curly Bull looked as if he had just swallowed a snake. “I challenge you. We will fight for her.”
Morgan looked at Washakie. “That usual?” he asked.
Washakie shrugged. “Not really. But that doesn’t mean he can’t do it.”
“Would it insult you if I was to take him on?” Washakie shook his head.
“It would the other way, though?”
Washakie nodded.
“I don’t mind fightin’ this shit,” Morgan said to Washakie, “but I’d feel some better about it if I knew it was worthwhile.”
“You can’t squirm out of this,” Curly Bull snarled.
Morgan ignored him. “I’d be obliged, Chief, if you’d see what Cloud Woman’s feelings are in all this. If she wants Crazy Bull...”
“Curly Bull,” the Shoshoni snapped.
“Yeah. Whatever you say. Now, as I was sayin’, if she wants shit ball there, I’m not going to waste my time fightin’ him over her. But if she’s willin’ to accept me, well, then that’s a whole ’nother story.”
Washakie called to Cloud Woman, who came forward shyly. He and the woman talked quietly for a few minutes. Then Cloud Woman went back to the rear of the tepee, and Washakie looked at Morgan. “Cloud Woman says she will accept the white lawman if he wins.”
Morgan nodded. “You’re on, Curly Bull,” he said evenly. “When you want to go about this?”
“Now.”
Morgan shrugged. He rose and turned for the flap of the lodge. He had only taken one step when Curly Bull plowed into him from behind. The move pushed the two out of the tepee, pulling the flap loose.
Morgan’s breath whooshed out as he hit the hard ground, belly down, and Curly Bull landed atop his back. But the landing also made them bounce, and Morgan was able to get out of Curly Bull’s grasp.
He rose, warily watching Curly Bull do the same. Then Morgan pulled his two pistols and tossed them toward Two Wounds. “Hold them till I’m done with this fool,” he said cockily. He turned back to face Curly Bull.
The Shoshoni was several inches shorter than Morgan but outweighed him. Curly Bull had a thick neck and bulging, muscular shoulders. His legs were short and powerful. Morgan would not underestimate him.
“You always attack folks from behind?” Morgan asked.
Curly Bull shrugged.
“Chickenshit little bastard, ain’t you?”
Curly Bull charged, shoulder muscles bunched. Morgan had the thought that he would step out of the way and grab the back of Curly Bull’s shirt as the Shoshoni charged by. Then he could fling the Indian down, pounce on him, and end this all.
Trouble was, Curly Bull had a full head of steam and enough weight and bulk to make that difficult, if not impossible. As Morgan stepped aside and reached out, Curly Bull plowed into him, bowling him over in a sprawl of arms, legs, and pain.
“Holy shit,” Morgan murmured as he rolled a few times, unable to stop himself. Despite his silent vow he had gone ahead and thought too lightly of Curly Bull. And now the flames of pain in his chest and side reminded him of his folly.
He got up and drew in a long breath to try to settle the pain. Curly Bull had gotten to his feet and stood watching Morgan. A smirk covered the lower half of the Indian’s face.
Morgan charged this time. He slammed to a stop two feet in front of Curly Bull, swung up both fists, locked them together, and then swung the flesh-and-bone club. Curly Bull’s cheek skin split from the blow. A surprised Curly Bull staggered to the side.
Morgan stepped up before Curly Bull could recover and pounded him several more times with the entwined fists. Each blow hammered Curly Bull down a little more, until he was prostrate. Breathing heavily, Morgan knelt next to the Shoshoni.
“You’ll leave Cloud Woman alone, eh,” he said in a harsh whisper. “At least until she decides she doesn’t want me to come callin’ any more. Yes?”
“Yes,” Curly Bull croaked. His voice was groggy and far away.
Chapter Twelve
“Mr. Morgan,” Two Wounds called frantically. “Buck. Get up.”
Morgan threw off the cover of sleep and sat up. His chest hurt like hell and his eyes felt a little gritty. “What the hell…?”
“Another body’s been found,” Two Wounds said, accent even thicker than usual. He was angry as well as sad.
“Shit.” Morgan kicked off the covers and stood, rubbing his face. “Where?” he asked.
“Along Willow Creek, not far from Crowheart Butte.”
“Crowheart Butte?” Morgan asked.
“It’s a long tale. I’ll tell you sometime,” Two Wounds said.
Night Seeker walked up and handed Morgan a tin cup of coffee. Morgan took it, nodded his thanks, and sipped it. Since it wasn’t too hot, he downed the rest of it in one big swallow.
“We got time for fillin’ our bellies?” Morgan asked.
Two Wounds nodded. “Lame Bear’s not going anywhere,” he said sourly. “But I think Rough Wolf—he found the body—won’t like stayin’ out there by himself.”
“I’ll make it fast.”
Morgan bolted down hunks of buffalo, splashing some coffee after it. By the time he finished and stepped outside into the blistering heat, Two Wounds had saddled Morgan’s horse and his own. Then the two men were off under the hard, resentful eyes of the village.
They moved quickly, but it still allowed Morgan some time to think. After his battle with Curly Bull the day before he had spent the rest of the day with Cloud Woman. He had put off going to the towns, wanting to spend more time with Cloud Woman.
That came back to haunt him a little now. He wondered if Lame Bear would still be alive if Mor
gan had gone to the towns instead of making moon eyes at a beautiful young Shoshoni woman. He pushed those thoughts aside. He knew there would have been little he could have learned in the towns in half a day that could have prevented this.
His thoughts of Cloud Woman confused him all the more. He had never been struck by a woman as much as he was now by the Shoshoni. Not even when he had married.
Ivy Goodell had been an attractive young woman, too, when Morgan had begun courting her. And she had been pleasant and nice to be around. It wasn’t so much that she had become a shrew after their nuptials, but she had changed in ways Morgan could not really understand. She just seemed not to want to be around him anymore. Finally Morgan just up and disappeared one day—after talking with Ivy. He told her that she could do what she wanted, tell people anything she liked. If she wanted a divorce, he told her, she could get one, using abandonment as the grounds, if that would smooth life’s path for her. Morgan had no idea where Ivy was now, or what she was up to. And he really didn’t care.
Still, it gave him pause. He wasn’t sure he wanted to give his heart to another. Not after what had happened the last time. On the other hand, he thought with a touch of sarcasm, maybe Cloud Woman would want nothing to do with him. She had been quite reserved around him yesterday. He wasn’t sure if that was because she had had second thoughts about him courting her, or if it was just that she was naturally shy.
He finally tried to ignore the thoughts and take in the landscape. He and Two Wounds were angling northwest a little, heading for the line of cottonwoods that marked the course of the Wind River. Once they reached that they followed the big river as the Wind River Valley began to narrow.
Before long, they reached the badlands, which seemed to change at every few hundred yards. While similar, they were yet different. Most were of red rock, some looking like burnt bricks. Others were flat brown, or a dusty tan.
“That Crowheart Butte out there?” Morgan asked, pointing to a low, flat chunk of light tan rock on the horizon.
“Yes,” Two Wounds said.
“Tell me about it.”
“What do you want to know?” Two Wounds responded, feeling a need to be contrary at the moment.
“How’d it get its name, for one thing?” Morgan said. He could understand Two Wounds’s desire to not want to deal with things much at the moment. Not when the weighty matter of dead Shoshoni was at hand. “The way you sounded back in the village made it seem like there was some interestin’ story behind it.” Two Wounds nodded, recovering some of his normal humor and pleasantness. “You sure you want to hear another story about Washakie’s prowess?” he asked with a grin.
“I sort of suspected that old coot was mixed up in this somehow. What happened?”
“It was maybe eight winters ago. Yeah, 1866, the year after you crazy white men stopped fightin’ between yourselves. It was in the month you call March. The damn Crow had been given this land—our goddamn land—in 1851 with the Fort Laramie Treaty. Trouble was, none of us knew they had gotten a fair piece of our land. Goddamn white-eyes anyway.” Morgan glanced at him and grinned. He knew Two Wounds was just spouting off, and even had reason to.
“Once we found out that our land had been stolen from us we made a point of gettin’ it back when we signed a treaty in 1863 over at Fort Bridger. Well, most of the people made a trip up there in ’66, and what do we find but every goddamn Crow in the world. Campin’ on our land! Bastards.”
Two Wounds had to take a few moments to calm himself down some. Then he finally went on. “We weren’t about to just up and leave, dammit, not because of the damn Crow. Washakie went to talk to one of their big chiefs.” Sarcasm dripped from the latter word. “A dumb bastard named Big Robber. The damn name tells you what kind of man he was.”
Two Wounds looked over at Morgan. “You sure you want to hear all this?” he asked.
Morgan nodded.
“Well, talkin’ to those damn Crow didn’t do us no good whatsoever, so we took to fightin’ them. One hell of a fight it was, too. Four goddamn days! And after all that what we ended up with was a goddamn standoff. We were in no better position than when we started. No worse, either, but we should’ve been able to rout those damn Crow after four days.”
“One would think so, yes,” Morgan said dryly. He grinned at the nasty look Two Wounds gave him.
“After all that Washakie and Big Robber called a truce and talked things over. What they came up with was to meet one on one, just the two of them.” Two Wounds sounded as if he thought both chiefs were crazy.
“The two of them met on horseback at the foot of the butte there. After the first charge, though, their damn horses decided they wanted no part of such a damn-fool thing. Actually,” Two Wounds added with a laugh, “when they charged each other they knocked each other off his pony. That’s when the ponies decided to run like hell.”
Two Wounds laughed a little, and Morgan joined him, enjoying the tale.
“Well, Washakie and Big Robber took after each other on foot, using their shields and war clubs. Took a couple of hours, or so it seemed at the time, but Washakie finally killed Big Robber. Then that crusty old bastard cut out Big Robber’s heart and ate the damn thing.”
“You had me believin’ until the very last there, Two Wounds,” Morgan said with a laugh. “You really did.”
“It’s true, every damn word of it. I swear.”
“Now I think you’re full of buffalo shit.”
Two Wounds looked offended for a moment, then grinned. “It is all true except the last. No one knows for sure, but it seemed like Washakie ate—well, just took a bite of—that Crow’s heart. Then he paraded around with it on his lance for a spell.”
“That sounds a heap more plausible.” He paused. “You know, just at a glance, Washakie don’t look like he could do most of the things attributed to him.”
“That’s where a lot of men get in trouble with Washakie, that wily old bastard.”
“I expect so, since there’s not too many men going to look deep into Washakie’s eyes and soul. I’m used to doin’ such a thing, and I did it. And I saw the truth of those wild claims in his eyes.”
“Maybe all white men ain’t so bad after all,” Two Wounds said. “Or maybe I should say that maybe all white men ain’t so stupid after all.”
“You don’t like white men much, do you, Two Wounds?”
“Should I?” More bitterness than he had wanted crept into his voice.
Morgan shrugged. “I suppose not. Hell, there’s many a white man who hates Indians—any Indians— just for bein’ Indians. Guess it stands to reason that there’re Indians who hate whites just for bein’ whites.”
“That’s not what I meant, dammit,” Two Wounds snapped. “And you know it.” He paused. “Most whites haven’t given the People much reason to like ’em. A few have—men like Orv Ashby. You. Not a hell of a lot more, though.”
Morgan nodded. “Makes sense. At least you keep your eyes open to see how a man is before you condemn him.”
Two Wounds’s dark eyes flashed angrily. “You make fan of me,” he snapped, struggling with his English. “That ain’t good.”
“I ain’t makin’ fun of you, Two Wounds. I’m speakin’ the truth. There’re plenty of men—red and white—who wouldn’t take the time to get to know one another.”
Two Wounds stopped, his anger dissipating somewhat. Then he nodded. “Yes, too many men see only a man’s skin and not what kind of man he really is.”
They began riding again. “So what do you think of Cloud Woman?” Two Wounds asked slyly.
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” Morgan said rather stiffly.
“Oh, so the big white warrior is afraid of one little woman, eh?” Two Wounds said with a friendly smirk.
“You saw what I did to Curly Bull,” Morgan growled. “I’d be happy to oblige you with the same, you keep on talking like that.”
Two Wounds laughed. “You’d have to get some help. I’m
not a young fool like Curly Bull.”
“I’d have no trouble gettin’ help,” Morgan responded, fighting back a grin. “I figure Night Seeker’ll be glad for the excuse to thump on a useless thing like you. I’ll tell you, though, Two Wounds, I don’t know why in hell a pretty young thing like Night Seeker sticks with you.”
“That’s easy to answer,” Two Wounds said. He grabbed his crotch and almost fell off the horse, he was laughing so hard.
Morgan could think of no way to top that one, so he said nothing, though he did join in Two Wounds’s laughter.
They continued riding, weaving through ragged little canyons and past jagged rock formations. The heat was stifling and the air humid and filled with mosquitoes and gnats. The rugged badlands through which they were passing and the heat and pesky insects quickly brought a halt to the two travelers’ humor.
“How much farther we got to go?” Morgan asked after a while.
“An hour. Maybe a little more or a little less.”
Morgan nodded, wishing there were a faster—and easier—way of getting around in this vast, desolate land. Finally, though, Two Wounds turned them southwest, and before long they came to a rushing little stream. Morgan and Two Wounds halted to let the horses drink. Then Morgan pitched his hat aside and dunked his head in the water.
“Whoo,” he shouted, coming up for air, “that feels good.”
“You need to get used to livin’ in the desert,” Two Wounds said.
“You get used to it,” Morgan said, a little irritated.
“I prefer a place that’s got water all the year, and trees and such. Not this godforsaken piece of hell.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lame Bear’s body was stiff in death, blood clotted on the stumps of both hands where five of the ten fingers had been cut off. Coagulated blood also decorated both sides of Lame Bear’s head, where his ears once were. He had been disemboweled, crudely and messily, the results tossed in a haphazard pile a few feet from the corpse. It was an altogether unpleasant sight.