by John Legg
“So what’s the trouble?” Big Horse asked harshly. “You suddenly get faint of heart with all the blood?”
“You know better than to say something that goddamn stupid, Big Horse.” He sighed. Big Horse could not see it, but Morgan had at least as much desire as Big Horse had to kill Skousen.
“Then why?”
“There’s more to this than is obvious,” Morgan said flatly. “It doesn’t make any sense for anyone—even a shit ball as dumb as Skousen—to try what he and his cronies did here today. There’s got to be a reason. There’s got to be.”
“Suppose there ain’t?” Big Horse demanded. “Then what?”
“Well, if we figure that out, and he had no reason other than he thought to come over here and cause trouble, I’ll give him to you.”
Big Horse nodded, satisfied if not happy.
Morgan walked outside and got a pair of handcuffs from his saddlebags. Back inside, Skousen was showing signs of life. Morgan handcuffed him, hands behind his back. Then he hauled Skousen up into a roughly sitting position.
With a sigh, Morgan reloaded his pistol and then headed out of the room again. He found the Ashbys in the sitting room. “You still all right?” he asked.
Grace nodded. She was pasty and shaken, but Morgan could see in her face that she was not going to give in to all this:
“You know where your husband is?” Morgan asked.
“He said he was going to one of Hogg’s stage stations up the way. Not the one in Flat Fork. That’s all I know.”
Morgan nodded and returned to the dining room, where the gunfight had taken place. Big Horse wasn’t there, but he returned a few minutes later. “Where’ve you been?” Morgan asked.
“Takin’ out the garbage.” He pointed to where Bowen’s body had been.
Morgan nodded. “From the kitchen, too?”
“Yes.” He looked at Skousen, but directed his question at Morgan. “What do we do about him?”
“See if he’d like to chat.”
“I can encourage him.” Big Horse sounded a mite too eager.
“Later.’’ Morgan wandered over to where Skousen was sitting on the floor, back against the wall. A stream of blood meandered down his face from a bloody knot on his head. “Howdy, Private,” Morgan said almost congenially. “Looks like you and your boys were about ready to have yourselves quite a time here.”
“Go shit up a tree, Marshal.”
“Your attitude could use a mite of improvement, shit ball,” Morgan said without the rancor that ate at his insides. “You think up this harebrained scheme yourself? Or did you have someone else help out?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you a damn thing, you skunk-pokin’ son of a bitch. You’ve got no power over me.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, asshole. You just wait till Lieutenant Pomeroy gets wind of this. You’ll be one sorry son of a bitch then.”
“You see that big, mean-looking Indian over there?” Morgan asked in calm, reasoned tones. When Skousen nodded Morgan said, “He’s real eager for me to turn you over to him. Despite his education in white schools back east, he’s still basically a savage at heart. And he would love to carve you into teeny-weeny pieces.”
“He won’t get nothin’ from me,” Skousen said, trying through bravado to impress or worry Morgan.
“You aren’t that tough, shit ball. So quit tryin’ to prove you’re a big man. You’re not. Now, suppose you tell me which one of your idiot friends thought all this up.”
Skousen thought about it for a while. He held no loyalty for anyone and could see no reason not to speak. However, he was absolutely certain that the big mean-looking Shoshoni would kill him as soon as Morgan and the Shoshoni figured they had all the information they could get from him. In addition, if he kept his mouth shut, the army would probably get him out of this predicament.
“I don’t think so, Marshal,” Skousen said, trying to sound sincere. “Principles, you know.” Skousen never saw the knife. He just knew that Morgan had moved very fast and that a moment later blood was streaming down his face and his forehead hurt. He looked at the bloody blade of the big knife Morgan held in his hand.
“How’s that for principles, shit ball?”
Skousen was suddenly very, very frightened. He was sure Morgan was utterly mad. But he still did not want to reveal any secrets. He licked his dry lips. “What’m I gonna get outta all this if I tell you?” he asked.
“I’ll turn you over to the army.” Seeing the look of hope that sprang into Skousen’s eyes, he added. “It might not be to Pomeroy, though. Wherever I turn you over will have to be willing to court-martial you.”
“Court-martial me? For what?”
Morgan reared back and hit Skousen with a big, hard fist. Skousen screamed when he felt the bones around his left eye socket break. The scream, though, seemed to wake Morgan up again. He rose. “Let’s take him back to the village, Big Horse,” he said. “There’s been enough bloodshed here for one day, and I don’t want Orv’s family being subjected to our tryin’ to persuade shit ball here to talk to us.”
Big Horse nodded.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Big Horse was tying Old Belly’s corpse across the back of Old Belly’s horse when he spotted riders heading toward the house. He walked inside to where Morgan was talking with Ashby’s family. “Someone’s coming, Buck.”
“Who?”
Big Horse shrugged. “Blue coats, I suppose.” Morgan nodded and rose. When he turned to head for the door he saw Big Horse standing there with a silly grin on his big, broad face. And the Shoshoni was waving at Ashby’s two youngest children. They were enjoying the performance.
Morgan and Big Horse went outside and stood on the porch, watching the riders, who were close enough now that Morgan could tell that they were soldiers, and that there were only four of them.
Lieutenant Dexter Pomeroy and his three men stopped and dismounted, looking at the three Shoshoni corpses on the ponies. Pomeroy walked up the three porch steps and stopped, eyes on the bodies of the three soldiers.
“What in all that’s holy is this?” he asked, his arm movement encompassing the house and bodies. “Bodies,” Morgan said sarcastically.
Pomeroy’s eyes blazed fire when they looked at Morgan, who was unfazed. “What the hell happened?” Morgan explained it perfunctorily. He finished by saying, “I’m going to recommend to Marshal Dayton that your command at this post be investigated most thoroughly.”
“You bastard,” Pomeroy hissed. “You insufferable, rotten, chicken-poking bastard. The goddamn puking bastard Shoshoni have just started a war by attacking and killing three U.S. soldiers, plus beating another one into unconsciousness, and you have the gall, the goddamn audacity, to tell me that you want me investigated? Jesus goddamn Christ, man, you’re absolutely mad.”
“You got things backward, shit ball,” Morgan said, straining to keep his anger in check. “It was the soldiers who started this war. Old Belly and Red Hand would’ve seen nothing wrong in letting some of your soldiers in the house. And when they did, they were attacked and killed. Then your upstanding troops—scum that they are—tried to rape a woman and a twelve-year-old girl. God knows what they would’ve done to the two littler ones. Then when Two Wounds tried to stop those shit balls from attacking the Ashby women, he was killed, too.”
Morgan realized he was getting almost as carried away as Pomeroy had been, and he reined himself in some. “Now, I don’t know if you had a hand in any of this, but if you did, I swear that I will track you down no matter where you go, no matter how long it takes. Now, you best go on back to your fort before you really piss me off.”
Pomeroy blinked several times, as if not believing anything that was happening around him. Then, in a tight, cracking voice, he said, “You and the savage there”—he pointed to Big Horse—“are under military arrest. You have flaunted army rules and regulations, continually provoked me, and now have killed three of my troops. You’ll be thrown in the g
uardhouse until I can arrange a trial, after which you both will hang. I can’t have savages like you two disrupt the peaceful functioning of Camp Brown. Nor can I allow you to stir up trouble amongst the tribes of savages in the area. I can’t have you getting in the way of things, tracking across the reservation chasing men who’ve done nothing more than try to…help things along, shall we say…aiding my command in the performance of its divine and rightful duties...” He suddenly stopped, knowing he had said too much already.
Pomeroy was almost rabid, so Morgan stepped up and popped him a shot in the face, knocking him off the porch.
Pomeroy scrambled up. “Arrest them!” Pomeroy screeched, his face the color of a ripe tomato. “Kill them! Shoot them down. Now! That’s an order.” Morgan noticed that Lt. Virgil Whitehill had waved a hand, indicating that the two nervous troopers do nothing.
“Do what I say, damn you! Damn you!”
Whitehill moved up to him. “This is not the time for arresting people, Lieutenant,” he said soothingly. “They have friends to take back to their village. We have men who must be buried. There is much to be done. We can worry about the marshal here another time.”
Whitehill winked at Morgan when he said the latter, surprising Morgan. But the lawman nodded once. “Come on now, Lieutenant,” Whitehill said again. Pomeroy nodded and allowed himself to be turned. Suddenly, he stopped and spun back. “Where’s Private Skousen, you son of a bitch?”
“Inside. He’s under arrest.”
“You have no authority to arrest a soldier.”
“Yes, I do.” Actually, Morgan wasn’t nearly as sure of that as he sounded, but he was not about to give up his prisoner.
“Where’re you going to keep him?” Pomeroy said, growing cocky again. “We have the only jail in the whole of the reservation.”
“I’ve got a better one at my disposal. A place where you and your shit balls can’t get to him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Pomeroy said in disbelief. “And where is this wondrous guardhouse?”
“Washakie’s village.”
Pomeroy’s eyes widened. “No. Absolutely not. The army won’t permit it. I won’t permit it, goddammit!”
“I don’t recall askin’ your permission,” Morgan said flatly. “Nor the army’s. You don’t like it, tough shit. Now, I’d advise you to get the hell out of my sight before you join Skousen in chains under the watchful eyes of the Shoshonis.”
“You haven’t seen or heard the last of me, Marshal, you bastard. I’ll get you for this humiliation. You mark my words good, you smug son of a bitch. I’ll have your balls in a bottle.”
“Be the first pair you ever had,” Morgan said.
Big Horse laughed uproariously, his joy heightened by the look of choler on Pomeroy’s face.
Pomeroy turned and walked stiffly to his horse. He mounted and jerked the animal’s head around viciously. Then he stabbed his spurs deep into the horse’s side and galloped. His two troopers followed him.
Whitehill hung back a moment. “I didn’t mean most of that crap I said there, Marshal,” he said in a melodious voice, one that was almost too pretty for a man. “I don’t know just what the hell’s going on around here, but until I find out, I don’t aim to take sides.” Morgan nodded. “A small word of advice. Until you do take a side, I’d watch my back when I was around Pomeroy.”
“I’ve been doing that since the day I arrived here. By the way, Marshal, what’s your name? I never did learn it last week out in the Shoshoni village.”
“Buck Morgan.”
“Lieutenant Virgil Whitehill.”
Morgan nodded. “You ever need information about what’s going on around here, come to me. Or anybody but Pomeroy and the men under his command.”
“I’ll do that.” He nodded and turned, then raced off after Pomeroy and the two soldiers.
As he and Morgan watched the soldiers, Big Horse said, “We’ve got a problem, Buck. We can’t trust Pomeroy as far as I could throw this house. So I think it unwise to leave the Ashbys here unattended. Not while Orv is gone.”
“I’ve been wonderin’ what to do with them myself. I’ve got an idea, though I don’t know if it’s a good one or not.”
“What is it?”
“Come on inside.”
Grace Ashby and her children were in the kitchen now that Big Horse had dragged the two bodies out and cleaned up most of the blood. Mother and daughter were making a pie, and Morgan figured it was as good a way as any to work out of their terror and shame.
“If I might have a few words with you, ma’am,” Morgan said quietly.
Grace stopped what she was doing and nervously wiped her hands on her apron. Her eyes gave away her fear, but she was doing quite well at keeping her upset from her children. “All right,” she said quietly. “Children, Marshal Morgan and I will be in the sitting room. You two young ones listen to Bonnie.”
A few minutes later, Grace was seated in the parlor. She burst into tears almost immediately. As she dabbed at them with the hem of her apron, she said, “I’m sorry, Marshal. All this sobbing and such. It’s not like me.
“It’s perfectly understandable, ma’am,” Morgan said calmly. “You’ve been through a real rough time here. There’s no shame in letting out some of your worries and such.”
“Thank you, Marshal,” Grace said, gaining control of herself. “Now, what was it you needed to see me about?” She was all business now, composed if not serene.
“I think you and the youngsters’ll be a lot safer in Washakie’s village.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” she said. “I couldn’t leave my home. Besides, I’m sure we’ll be safe here now. The soldiers won’t bother us anymore.”
“Ma’am,” Morgan said urgently, “you’re in more danger now than you were when those four showed up today. Lieutenant Pomeroy has, I think, gone ’round the bend, and can’t be trusted.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound like Lieutenant Pomeroy. He’s a gentleman.”
“Mrs. Ashby, Lieutenant Pomeroy is livin’ close to mania. There’s no tellin’ what he’ll do.” He paused. “I’m not advocating that you live in the village forever, just till Orv gets back. Then you and he can figure out what you want to do.”
“But I don’t want to put the Indians out any,” she said guilelessly.
Morgan had been squatting in front of Grace’s chair. Now he stood. “Why don’t you see how the youngsters’re doin’, Big Horse?” he said.
Big Horse looked at him skeptically. Then he nodded. It had taken him only a moment to realize that Grace Ashby simply did not want to live with the Shoshoni; that despite her several years of living on the reservation she did not know the People and thought them below her. Oh, not consciously, of course, but it was there all the same. She accepted Old Belly and Red Hand as guards for her and her children, but to live among them, eat with them—that was too much for a patronizing person.
Big Horse figured that Morgan would have to have her air some of that to get her to agree. And it would be better for all concerned if Big Horse—one of the people who would be discussed—were not there.
“Ma’am,” Morgan said as Big Horse left the room, “I know what you’re feeling about this. I really do. I’d never been in an Indian village before I got here. Now, by golly, I’m married to one of them.” He smiled, but her shocked look wiped the grin off in a hurry.
“Let me try this one more time, Mrs. Ashby. I don’t give a hoot how patronizing you feel about those people, or how much better than them you think you are. With Orv gone, it seems to be my responsibility to keep you safe. And I think that right now the only way I can do that is to take you out to Washakie’s.”
“I’ve not been so insulted, Marshal Morgan,” Grace said stiffly. “1’m not patronizing toward those people. And I don’t think them below me.”
“Yes, you do. It’s most likely not purposeful, but it’s a fact nonetheless. You see them as either savages or as children of a kind. You can’t see the wisdom, their abi
lities, their humor, and their love. They are much like any other people. They love each other and sometimes fight each other. They love their children and want what’s best for them.”
“No, they don’t,” Grace interrupted. “We have offered them every opportunity for education, to learn to become farmers, to have churches and schools built. But they will have nothing to do with it.”
Morgan smiled a little. “That’s what you think is best for them. Not what they think is best for them.” He sighed. “Put the Shoshonis out of your mind a minute. Think back an hour or so ago. About those soldiers. You’ve been around soldiers long enough to know that a good many are scum dredged up in the slums of big cities in the east. Or just come off the boats from Europe. They’re not saints. Neither are the Shoshonis, but at least you can deal with them.”
“I can’t be sure of that, Marshal.” Still, she thought back to the attack. She could still feel Bowen’s hand clawing at her bodice and running up inside her dress to touch her most private flesh. She could still smell the soldier’s foul breath and see the several blackened teeth leering over her. She could feel his hard insistence pressing against her. And she could hear the other soldier fairly slavering over her daughter. She felt a new rush of the shame, fear, and disgust she had felt then.
“But I’ll give it a try,” she said firmly.
“Good.”
“When will we leave?”
“Soon’s we get ready. I suggest you leave a note for Orv so he knows where we are. Don’t make it too long, and don’t tell him what went on here today. You can tell him that face to face.”
“Oh, I could never do that, Marshal,” Grace whispered. “I just couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can, and you will—when the time is right. Orv is a better man than you’re givin’ him credit for bein’.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The ride back to Washakie’s village had never seemed longer to Morgan, mainly because it gave him too much time to think. And those thoughts generally were on the Shoshoni.
It was still startling to him that he had taken so easily to the Shoshoni. Granted, they were a generally open and friendly lot, but the reason he was here could have turned the Shoshoni against him right from the beginning. But that had not happened. They had accepted him first off, though he thought at the time that he could see some reserve in them. That was understandable. But as their acceptance of him grew, he in turn came to like and admire the Shoshoni more.