by John Legg
No Blood did not like it, but he knew both Big Horse and Two Wounds were right. With a sigh of annoyance—brought on by the rapidly dying customs of his people—he left. Big Horse and Two Wounds, though, stayed in the lodge.
Snyder examined the wounds. He nearly jumped when Morgan said calmly, “Neither bullet’s still in there, Doctor.”
“You let me determine that, son. That’s my job.” An examination proved that there were, indeed, no bullets in either wound, though a few fragments remained. Snyder removed those, then poured antiseptic in both wounds.
Morgan hissed at the latter, but he said nothing otherwise.
Finally Snyder bandaged Morgan and stood. “We’ll make arrangements to get you to Camp Brown right away, Marshal,” the physician said.
“No thanks, Doctor,” Morgan said flatly.
“Come now, Marshal,” Snyder said condescendingly. “You can’t recuperate properly in such a place. There’s filth all around. Look at this place.”
“This is my home now, Doctor,” Morgan said harshly. “And I’d be obliged if you didn’t denigrate it.”
“Christ, Morgan,” Pomeroy snapped, “come to your senses, man. If you want to poke one of these savage females now and again, there’s no one going to stop you. But to claim that this…this hovel is your home is quite preposterous.”
“Eat shit, Lieutenant,” Morgan said calmly. “Now get the hell out of my home.”
“Enough, Marshal,” Pomeroy said pompously. “You are hereby ordered to return to Camp Brown by whatever means I—and Dr. Snyder—deem appropriate.”
“Order, my ass. Get the hell out of here before I get up and throw you out.”
Pomeroy smirked. “You’d have considerable trouble in your condition. However, not wanting to exceed my bounds, I have brought something for you to see.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his blouse pocket and held it out.
Wondering what trouble this was, Morgan unfolded the sheet and read to himself.
“Well, dammit,” Ashby said, “what does it say?”
“It says I’m placed under the command of Lieutenant Shit Ball there. It supposedly comes from U.S. Marshal Floyd Dayton.”
“I don’t believe it,” Ashby said sharply. He took the paper from Morgan and read it himself. “Oh, my Lord. I would never have expected Floyd to do something like this.”
“He wouldn’t,” Morgan said flatly. “If you’ll notice, that’s a telegrapher’s translation—or what’s supposed to be a translation—of telegraph code. There’s no more proof that this’s real than we’d have if you said you had run from here to the agency in three minutes.”
“You’ll have your proof, damn you,” Pomeroy snarled. “Soon, dammit. But until then, you will obey that wire.”
“In a pig’s ass,” Morgan said with a strong laugh. “I see,” Pomeroy said, fighting to restrain his temper, “you want to do this the hard way. I had planned to allow Dr. Snyder to return here with an ambulance to bring you back to Camp Brown, but since you insist on being troublesome, we’ll take you back now, whichever way we can.”
“You won’t do any goddamn such thing,” Morgan said calmly.
“Oh, is that right? Well, as soon as we are ready to leave, I’ll have my troops in here to pick you up and drag you to Camp Brown if need be.”
“No you won’t,” Big Horse interjected.
“Are you addressing me, you savage?” Pomeroy asked. He was furious.
“As a matter of fact I am, you putrefying bag of wind. And if even one of your soldiers sticks his nose in here, every one of them here—including you and the pustulant doctor there—will die.”
Pomeroy was stunned, not by the threat but by the very refined language. He did not, could not, know that Big Horse had found out about his affinity for languages when he was being educated in Saint Louis. His adopted father, an old trader Washakie had known for years, had brought him to the white man’s city, and for six years Big Horse—or Benny Horse, as he was known there—became educated in the white man’s ways. After the six years he had chucked it all and returned to his people, where he quickly showed as much affinity for the bow and lance as he had for languages.
Despite being stunned, Pomeroy figured that the Shoshoni meant what he had said. He had only six troopers with him against several dozen warriors. “All right, then,” he finally said stiffly, “we’ll leave here for now. But I’m telling you now, for all to hear, Morgan, that I am taking over this case of the Shoshoni murders.”
“All you’re going to do is get a lot of people killed. Most of them innocents,” Morgan said.
“I don’t believe that. You have no proof to back up such statements. You never did. It was solely your arrogance. Your arrogance wouldn’t let you allow another man to win at something you had chosen to win for yourself.”
“Lieutenant, your desire for promotion and for getting out of this hellhole is admirable. Yes, indeed, it is. But it don’t mean a damn thing to me. I’m here to get the shit balls who’re killin’ Shoshoni and either arrest them or kill them. It doesn’t make much of a difference. But unlike you, I ain’t lookin’ for glory or medals.”
“You insufferable son of a bitch,” Pomeroy hissed.
“Lieutenant,” Morgan said wearily, “I’m full fed up with you and your bullshit. Now get the hell out of my home before Big Horse throws you out.”
Pomeroy’s face was livid; he looked as if he would explode at any moment. Then he turned on his heel, leaving Snyder and the other officer behind. Those in the lodge could hear him shouting, “Mount up, men! Let’s ride.”
Snyder looked at Morgan. “I could care for you better back at the camp, Marshal,” he said.
“I know. But this is my home, and I feel most comfortable here now.”
“Well, then, this is good-bye, since I certainly do not intend to traipse up here and sit amongst these savages just to treat your wounds.”
“I’ve been shot before, Doctor. I made it through those times and I’ll damn well make it through this one, too. Now you best be on your way before Lieutenant Pomeroy takes you behind the woodshed.”
“Pomeroy was right, Marshal. You are an insufferable son of a bitch,” Snyder said before he left in a huff.
The other officer, who had said not a word, though he had watched all the proceedings with great interest, left, too.
“You best go with him, Orv,” Morgan said to Ashby.
The agent shrugged. “Some of the Shoshoni’ll give me an escort back if need be.”
“Are many white men like that?” Two Wounds asked, pointing toward the flap of the tepee. He was rather in awe of the foolishness of the white men who had just left.
“Too damn many of them,” Big Horse answered. “He’s got that right,” Morgan added. He sighed. “I’m obliged to you two for gettin’ me back here before I died.”
Big Horse squatted next to Morgan. “You would’ve done the same for me or Two Wounds.”
“I probably would have,” Morgan said with a nod. “And then you’d be thankin’ me instead of the other way around.” He suddenly grinned. “Of course, if it’d been you, me and Two Wounds would’ve had a devil of a time gettin’ your fat carcass back here.”
Big Horse laughed, but then turned pensive. “You know, Buck,” he said musingly, “one of the reasons I came back to the People was because I didn’t see what I liked of white men. Not to say that the People are perfect, but white men seem to need hatred and duplicity the same way they need air. Or at least most white men do. You, my friend, are an exception. One hell of an exception. I’m glad to call you my friend.”
“Same here,” Two Wounds piped in. “I don’t know those many fancy-ass words that Big Horse uses, but I think I know what he means, and I agree with him.”
Morgan smiled. “Thanks.” He looked at Ashby. “Who the hell was the other blue coat?” he asked.
“Second Lieutenant Virgil Whitehill. He just arrived a couple of days ago.”
“Know anything
about him?”
Ashby shook his head. “Not much. He seems a reasonable man, but then again, so does Pomeroy on occasion. He’s quiet, but I think he’s noting everything that crosses his path. I think he’s got Pomeroy a little nervous.”
“Why? Pomeroy wants out of here in the worst way.”
“Pomeroy wants out of here in the best way. Being relieved of duty for reassignment with no heroics to his credits will keep him a first lieutenant for another decade, maybe more.”
Morgan nodded. “Well, maybe you best keep an eye on him for a while.”
“I intend to.”
“Now,” Morgan said with a tired sigh, “I best get some shut-eye.”
Big Horse, Two Wounds, and Ashby went outside and stopped to savor the night. It was warm but not oppressively so, and a gentle wind caressed them.
“Do you think that wire Pomeroy showed you was real?” Big Horse asked Ashby.
The agent shook his head. “It’s not read,” he said flatly.
“Anything you can do to prove that?”
“I think so. I’ll look into it as soon as I get back to the agency.”
“You want an escort back now?” Two Wounds asked.
“I suppose so. I’d just as soon stay the night here, but I don’t like leavin’ my wife and kids alone.”
“You never can tell with all those blue coats around,” Big Horse said, tongue in cheek.
“Despite your sarcasm, Big Horse, those’re true words. Well, we better get moving.”
Inside, Morgan slept like the dead for almost a full twenty-four hours. He ate a little and then, since it was night, he went back to sleep.
He felt pretty good the next morning, and he asked Big Horse and Two Wounds to come to see him. When they arrived and settled in Morgan said, “I want you two to go to the agency and tell Orv to watch his ass.
I don’t trust that shit ball Pomeroy, and I’m pretty sure he’ll pull something.”
“It’s already done,” Big Horse said. “He’s smarter than you think.”
“Yeah, I suppose he is. He say anything about that piece of paper?”
“Said he was sure it was phony and that he had an idea for proving it.”
Morgan nodded.
“One other thing, Buck,” Big Horse said. “He asked us to send a couple of men to the agency to watch over his wife and kids. Said he trusted the People more than he did the army.”
“Smart.”
“I thought so.”
“He say why?”
Big Horse nodded. He picked a piece of meat out of the cooking pot and popped it in his mouth. His eyes did a merry little dance when his tongue announced to him just how hot the meat was. It took more than a minute for him to recover.
In the meantime, Two Wounds, laughing, said, “Agent Ashby said he needs to go to some city. A real one, not Flat Fork. I think it has something to do with that paper.”
Morgan nodded. “Who’re you going to ask to go on the watch down there?”
“I thought me and Big Horse,” Two Wounds said.
Morgan shook his head. “I’d feel better knowin’ you were here. I don’t know what Murdock will hear about the ruckus over in Flat Fork the other day, but he might be a little emboldened and try some more raidin’ out here.”
“Good thought,” Big Horse said. “We’ll have Red Hand and Old Belly watch over Mr. Ashby’s family. They’re both friendly enough, and are known to his family.”
“Sounds good.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Morgan recovered quickly, and within a few days he was feeling almost his old self. The bruise remained on his abdomen, but the pain was gone. His shoulder was still very stiff and sore and would be for some time, but after a few days it was well enough to use.
Six days after being brought back to Washakie’s village, Morgan felt the itch to move on. “You heard anything from Orv yet, Two Wounds?” he asked.
The Shoshoni shook his head. It was plain he was worried about the agent.
“Let’s say me, you, and Big Horse mosey on down there and see what’s going on?”
Both Shoshoni nodded.
“Somethin’ doesn’t seem right,” Morgan said as he, Big Horse, and Two Wounds moved slowly toward Ashby’s house.
“Like what?” Big Horse asked.
Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know. Things don’t seem right is all. Those horses over there don’t belong to Orv, nor to Old Belly or Red Hand.” He stopped his horse and sat there, thinking. Then he nodded. “Maybe I’m as crazy as a bedbug, but I’m sure something’s wrong at Orv’s house.”
“So, what do you want to do about it?” Two Wounds asked.
“Big Horse, how about you ride on around back of the house and come on it that way. Two Wounds and I’ll come on the front just like usual.”
“Don’t matter to me,” Big Horse said. He moved off, heading toward his right so that he could come up from the back side of the house, past the small stone cabin Morgan had used ever so briefly when he had arrived here.
“You think there’s trouble, Buck?” Two Wounds asked.
“Hell if I know. I don’t see any sign of trouble, really. I don’t hear any...”
A scream tore through the air. It was faint, since it was coming from inside the house.
Morgan and Two Wounds kicked their horses into a run. Morgan could see that Big Horse had done the same. The two were off their horses before the animals had fully stopped, and they ran for the house. Morgan jerked the door open, and only after he had rushed inside did he realize he could be walking into a bullet. But it was too late to worry now.
Inside the dim house, he almost tripped over two bodies. He jammed to a stop and knelt. “Shit,” he breathed.
“Who is it?” Two Wounds asked, looming over Morgan.
“Old Belly,” he said flatly. “I’d wager the other’s Red Hand.”
Another scream pierced the air, coming from a side room. Morgan and Two Wounds charged through the door to the room. Without stopping, Morgan drew one of his pistols and slapped it hard against Private Lee Skousen’s head. Skousen moaned once and slumped sideways, then fell, freeing twelve-year-old Bonnie Ashby, whom he had pinned to the tabletop with his body.
As Morgan was hitting Skousen, Private Vic Bowen looked up from where he was attempting to ravish Grace Ashby. “Bastards,” he snarled as he went for his pistol.
Two Wounds released a shrill, short war cry, and then jumped toward Bowen. The Shoshoni had dropped his pistol when he ran into the room, so he pulled his knife as he charged at Bowen. The soldier got his revolver out and fired twice. Two Wounds jerked with the impact of the bullets, but he continued forward until he ran into Bowen. The soldier fired again, with the muzzle of his Colt against Two Wounds’s shirt.
Two Wounds made a feeble swipe at Bowen with his knife and barely nicked Bowen’s neck before he fell.
“Goddamn savage,” Bowen muttered as he pumped another slug into the back of the prone Two Wound’s head. He began turning toward his friend, saying, “Hey, Lee, look at what I…”
After whacking Skousen on the head Morgan had taken a couple of seconds to make sure Skousen was out, and then to see that Bonnie Ashby was all right. He heard two gunshots and he rose fast, swinging around in time to see Bowen fire the coup de grace into Two Wound’s head.
Morgan’s eyes bulged as a burst of rage assaulted his veins, making it hard to see for a moment. Then Bowen began turning, calling to his friend. Morgan fired.
Two bullets in the brain, within half an inch of each other, put a swift end to Bowen.
Morgan stood there for a moment, almost shaking in his fury. Grace and Bonnie moved tentatively, straightening their clothing. They were afraid of Morgan while at the same time knowing that he was the only reason they were alive and unsullied. Still, one look at the absolute rage stamped on Morgan’s face and one thought of the bloody efficiency of Morgan’s killing, and the woman and the girl became afraid.
Morgan be
gan to return to normal. The rage was not gone, nor was the grief. The two emotions entwined inside him, sitting there, letting Morgan work through his anger and grief while at the same time letting him do what needed to be done.
He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “You two all right?” he asked.
Grace and Bonnie looked at each other and then nodded. “Yes, Marshal,” Grace said with considerable dignity. “Thanks to you.”
Morgan shrugged. “Where’s the two youngsters?” he suddenly asked.
“I don’t know,” Grace said, worry for her children overriding the mortification at the way she looked.
“They’re here,” Big Horse said in his quiet, booming voice as he shepherded Dusty and Pearl Ashby ahead of him. He spotted the bodies and swung the children around. “Wait outside, little ones,” he said. The only sign of his rage was the darkening of his eyes. Otherwise, he seemed as jovial as he had been a moment ago.
“See to your children, ma’am,” Morgan said to Grace. “Go. We’ll clean up in here.”
When the Ashbys were gone Big Horse said, “What happened?”
Morgan explained it in a flat, deadly voice.
While Morgan talked, Big Horse went to look at Two Wounds. Then he was back to stand next to Morgan.
When Morgan finished his narration he asked, “Where were the youngsters?”
“A couple of blue coats were holding them in the kitchen,” he said nonchalantly.
Morgan looked sharply at his big friend. “And these blue coats no longer live, is that it?”
“They bled well,” Big Horse said with a shrug. “But they died poorly.”
Skousen groaned. Big Horse looked at him, the light of expectation in his eyes. He pulled his knife. With a small but vicious smile on his lips, he moved toward Skousen.
Morgan grabbed one of Big Horse’s arms. “No,” he said quietly.
“What?” Big Horse asked, stopping and looking angrily at Morgan.
“I want him alive.”
“He deserves to die.”
“No doubt about that.”