by John Legg
Grace looked up into the big Shoshoni’s eyes, wanting to believe, but too afraid to. Then she nodded. She had no choice anyway, and she knew that. Perhaps things would get better. After all, no one had made any move to hurt her—so far—and the stares of the Shoshoni women and children certainly were understandable. She was as foreign to these people as they were to her.
Leaving Skousen under Big Horse’s watchful eyes, Morgan held the flap open. Cloud Woman entered, followed by Grace, Bonnie, Pearl, and Dusty. Morgan went into the lodge. “Our humble home,” Morgan said quietly, taking his hat off. He twirled it is his hands as he spoke. “There are enough buffalo robes and blankets around for you folks to make yourselves beds. The cooking pot is usually on the fire, but if you’re of a mind to make something different and the ingredients are here, have at it.”
He looked from one pale white face to the next. Grace still looked terrified; Bonnie a little less so. The two younger ones looked interested, as if they were having some great adventure, which to them it was, in a way.
“Cloud Woman doesn’t speak English very well, ma’am, but you can usually understand her. You can make yourself understood, too, by speaking slowly. If you need anything, want anything, whatever, let Cloud Woman know. I’d stay inside mostly, if I was you, at least till things settle down.”
“Have no fear of that, Marshal,” Grace said with a wan smile. “I have no intentions of going anywhere.”
“Good. I wouldn’t think too much of getting a lot of company for a bit, visitors who come and say they need to talk to Cloud Woman. The Shoshonis are very interested in seeing you and touching you. Cloud Woman won’t let them bother you too much. She will have to go out for a little, to tend to my horse, but she’ll be right out behind the lodge.”
Morgan put his hat back on. “Now, ma’am, business calls.” He headed outside.
Morgan and Big Horse, towing a frightened, worried, and wounded Private Lee Skousen, went to Washakie’s lodge. The tepee was crowded, with perhaps two dozen warriors trying to find a little space. The talking stopped as all eyes turned to the new arrivals.
“Sit, shit ball,” Morgan said, pushing on one of Skousen’s shoulders. He squatted on Skousen’s left; Big Horse on Skousen’s right.
“We’re glad you’re here,” Washakie said in Shoshoni. Big Horse translated quietly for Morgan. “These are dark times for the People. And we look to you, Buck, to help us.”
“We don’t need his help,” Curly Bull said. Washakie just glared at the warrior. “What do you have to say?”
“Not much I can say,” Morgan noted. Again Big Horse translated. “We know who’s done all these things, and I even got some of the men who ride with him. But there won’t be any safety on Shoshoni land until they’re caught and dealt with.”
“Are you going to do this?’’ Washakie asked. “Yes.” It was flat, hard. “And the sooner I leave, the better it’ll be.”
“That’s because you’re afraid to stay here,” Curly Bull sneered. He stood and faced Morgan.
The lawman also rose. “I kicked your ass once before, shit ball, and I’ll do it again if you keep pushing me.”
“Enough!” Washakie snapped. “This is no time for friends to be fighting among themselves.”
“He’s no goddamn friend of mine,” Curly Bull snapped.
“Perhaps that’s true,” Washakie went on calmly, “but Marshal Morgan is a friend to the People, and we shouldn’t forget that.”
“What kind of friend is this white man?” Curly Bull demanded, his voice thick with sarcasm. “He comes to help us, or so he says, but what has he done? Nothing. Many of the People have died since he came to bring his strong white man’s medicine to our land.”
“And what have you done, shit ball?” Morgan said calmly. “You have been asked to help, but have turned us down. You do nothing but sit here on your ass and mock other men’s medicine when you have none of your own.”
“Sit down, Curly Bull,” Washakie said harshly. When the young warrior turned his determined face on the old chief, Washakie stood. “I will challenge you,” Washakie said.
“That’s not necessary,” Curly Bull muttered. Then he sat.
Washakie and Morgan also sat again. “How many will go with Morgan?” Washakie asked.
Most of the hands in the tepee went up. Washakie nodded. “It is good.”
“No, it’s not, Washakie,” Morgan said. “Your men will be of more use to the People here. They must stay in the village to protect their families. And others’ families.”
“But what will you do? Go alone?”
“No,” Big Horse said. “He will not go alone. I will go with my friend.”
“No, Big Horse,” Morgan said. “You’re needed here.”
“Two Wounds was my great friend, too, Buck,” Big Horse said simply. “You’re not the only one who wants to avenge his death.”
Morgan could not argue with that, so he just nodded, accepting.
“Take others too,” Washakie said. “At least some.”
Morgan and Big Horse looked at each other and shrugged. Neither knew who should come along and who should stay.
“I want to go,” Rough Wolf said, standing. “I found the body of my friend Lame Bear, and I have a black heart to the men who killed him.”
Big Horse nodded once. “That is all,” he said with authority.
Morgan and Big Horse took Skousen down toward the stream. Morgan unhooked the handcuffs and, with Big Horse’s help, put them on again—this time with Skousen’s arms backward around a tree. Skousen’s legs were straight out ahead of him at a slight angle.
“What the hell’re you doing to me, goddammit?” Skousen roared. “Goddammit, let me go.”
Morgan came around to the front of the tree again and squatted in front of Skousen. The soldier tried to kick Morgan in the groin but could get no leverage, and Morgan’s quick hand flattening Skousen’s leg prevented the maneuver.
“I see you like to hit a man where it hurts, eh, shit ball?” Morgan said in cold tones. He slid the large Bowie knife out of the sheath in his right boot. He idly flipped the knife by the handle. The blade struck into the ground between Skousen’s legs. Skousen could not close his legs, since Morgan was between them. Skousen began to sweat.
Morgan pulled out the knife and flicked it again. This time it stuck quivering in the ground less than half a foot from Skousen’s crotch. He did it once more, a little closer. Then a fourth time. When the knife landed that time, the back of the blade brushed Skousen’s uniform trousers.
Morgan pulled the knife out and flipped it up in the air and caught it on the way down. “Now, Private Shit Ball, there’s quite a bit you have to account for, and right now I’m not really predisposed to haulin’ you all the way back to Cheyenne. However, should you show some willingness to tell me things I want to know, my humor might improve, and then you might even get to Cheyenne.”
“I ain’t tellin’ you shit, you son of a bitch,” Skousen snarled. “I told you that before, you dumb bastard.”
Morgan spit tobacco juice, hitting Skousen in his left eye—the one with the broken orbit. “I do believe you’re showin’ a less-than-helpful attitude, shit ball,” he said. “Now let me tell you a couple of things. One, if you don’t answer my questions, you’ll die. Second, if you die, it will be a long and painful experience for you. Now I don’t think you’re nearly so tough as you like to play pretend at.” Morgan was surprised that the soldier had retained much of his fire despite the broken bones and the knot on his head. Morgan paused and sighed, as if he was dealing with a recalcitrant child. “I suppose you might need a little…shall we say…encouragement to loosen your tongue.”
“Do what you need to, ass wipe. You’re not going to get anything from me.”
Morgan nodded. “If that’s the way you want it.” He thought of jabbing a thumb against the fractured bone around Skousen’s eye, but for reasons even he could not fathom, he decided against that. “Big Horse, plea
se remove shit ball’s boots.” When that was done Morgan said calmly, “Big Horse, you have a choice to make. You either cut off a couple of toes or you can break shit ball’s foot in as many place as you can.”
“Damn, that’s a hard choice,” Big Horse said. He seemed almost cheerful. “How’s about if I do one to one foot and the other to the other?”
“I suppose that’d be all right.”
Skousen sat there, thinking his captors were lunatics. “It’s not going to work, asshole,” he said with bravado. “Neither of you is gonna do any such thing. And I…”
Skousen suddenly screamed. Since he had heard no sound of breaking bones Morgan assumed Big Horse had opted to start with a couple of amputations.
“I only sliced off the three small ones,” Big Horse said. “You want the rest off?”
“That’s up to shit ball here.” He spit tobacco juice again. This time it splashed on the front of Skousen’s cotton army shirt. “Well, shit jail, are you going to talk? Or shall I have Big Horse perform some more surgery?”
Tears were running from Skousen’s eyes and his face was screwed up tight with pain.
“You haven’t answered me yet, shit ball,” Morgan said quietly, calmly.
“Wait,” Skousen said, whispered. He suspected that if he talked too loudly, his other toes would fall off. “I’ll talk.” He groaned. “Jesus, my foot. Goddammit.”
“You get to talkin’, the sooner you’ll be gettin’ that foot treated.”
“What…What the hell do you wanna know, for Christ’s sake?” Some shock was setting in, and to Skousen it seemed as if the pain—all the pain—had lessened a little. He began breathing a little more comfortably.
“I asked you before who came up with that harebrained scheme to take unwelcome actions with Mrs. Ashby and her daughter. I’d still like an answer.”
“Lieutenant Pomeroy.” For some reason Morgan was not surprised.
“Why? What the hell would that accomplish?”
“I ain’t sure, since I wasn’t privy to all the lieutenant’s secrets, of course.”
“Don’t go pushin’ your luck with me, shit ball,” Morgan warned.
“Well, dammit, it’s true. A lieutenant in the U.S. Army just don’t confide in low-class enlisted men. He might pick us for some dirty work, but he sure as shit ain’t gonna explain his grand scheme.”
“And you didn’t ask him what this was all about?” Skousen shook his head. “Nope. He says I got a job for you, I go do the job. I get some extra money and maybe some extra privileges, and that keeps me happy.”
That was plausible enough. If Pomeroy had come up with some kind of scheme, he most likely wouldn’t reveal it all. Still, Morgan was certain that Skousen knew more than he was telling. “You mean he just told you to go up to Ashby’s place, kill the two Indians, and then rape the mother and the oldest daughter? And he gave you no explanation at all? I find that a tad hard to believe, shit ball.”
Skousen looked into Morgan’s cold, hard gray eyes, and he shivered. “I don’t know everything, you understand,” Skousen stammered. “But he told me a little.”
“Then suppose you tell me and Big Horse before the three of us’re too goddamn old to do anything about it.”
“Well, he said that we should go up there and kill the two savages...” He screamed again as Big Horse whacked off another toe.
“You best watch your mouth, white man,” Big Horse said evenly.
Skousen had to sit rigid, unspeaking, for a few minutes, until the new flames of pain were down to embers. “We were supposed to kill the two Shoshonis, then do what we wanted with the old lady. Vic, he decided to add to things a little by gettin’ that little bitch into things.”
“Nice to know he could at least pretend to think,” Morgan said dryly. Then he asked, “But if it was his idea, why was it you tryin’ to soil that little girl?” His voice had taken on a hard edge.
Skousen gulped. “I paid him for the privilege,” he admitted defensively.
Morgan shook his head in disgust. “Then what?” he asked, fighting back his anger again.
“Then we was supposed to kill the old lady and leave the body there in the house. It was supposed to look like either friends of those two red…Shoshonis or a war party from an unfriendly tribe had been there. It was supposed to look like the others killed the two men you sent there.”
“Why would Shoshonis kill other Shoshonis?” Morgan asked. “It doesn’t make any sense at all that Pomeroy’d set it up that way. Of course, there’s been no proof that I know of that he’s sane anyway.”
“He said something about how he’d see how much ruckus was kicked up before he decided which story to tell. I gather that he figured the Shoshonis’d be mad because of all the killings and that they might be angry when two of them were forced into standing guard over a white family while their own families were in trouble.”
“That makes at least a little sense.” He paused. “What about the kids?”
“We were supposed to take the three of ’em out somewhere and kill ’em. Then we were to cut ’em up a little.”
“Yeah, so it looked like Shoshonis or Arapahos did it,” Big Horse interjected.
“Yeah. Then Vic got him the notion to sink our pizzles in that little...”
Morgan smashed Skousen in the face, breaking his nose and splattering blood all over the front of Skousen’s uniform. “Whatever filth you shit balls devised is best left unsaid,” he said icily.
Skousen moaned. He thought he could feel the broken bones in his face shifting painfully. “Yeah, sure, sorry.” He did not sound sincere. “Anyway, he got the notion to take her, and then leave her there with the old lady.”
“What was the purpose of all this?” Morgan asked. Skousen shrugged. “I don’t know. I really don’t. The lieutenant only told us as much as he thought we needed to know, and no more.”
“I have a theory, Buck,” Big Horse said quietly. When he sensed he had Morgan’s attention—seeing as how he was behind Morgan—he continued, “I think he planned it so that it looked like an Indian raid. Didn’t matter to him much which tribes or tribes. All he wanted was to be able to report that the agency was under Indian attack, that a number of white people had been killed, women ravished, children taken off into the night by ‘savages’ bent on all manner of deviltry. Then he could take to the field with colors flying.
“It’d help, too, I suppose, that all the other murders and mutilations had been reported. He most likely has reported them as Arapaho depredations rather than the work of white men. Once he was in the field, he could legally lay waste to any Indians he found, friendly or not. He’d get promoted and moved to better duty as a goddamn hero.”
Morgan had been watching Skousen’s face while Big Horse had been expounding his theory. He saw signs—one of the few kinds of signs he could read—that Skousen believed what Big Horse was saying was true. It seemed the way he looked that Skousen did have knowledge of all this from Pomeroy.
Still, something bothered Morgan. It all fit pretty well, except for…and that was the trouble; he didn’t know what didn’t fit. “You know why the killings have stepped up lately, shit ball?” he asked as something squirmed around in his mind, trying to coalesce.
“I ain’t sure, but I think it’s got something to do with that new lieutenant,” Skousen said softly, trying not to jostle his fractured facial bones.
“Whitehill?”
“Yeah. Lieutenant Pomeroy didn’t tell me this, but I’ve thought about it some and it seems logical.”
“What is it?’’ Morgan asked. Only the overall grimness of the conversation had kept him from laughing at Skousen’s last statement.
“I figured Lieutenant Pomeroy had this whole thing concocted for quite a spell.”
That made another little bell go off in Morgan’s brain, but he left it alone for now, wanting it to grow into something substantial.
“Then Lieutenant Whitehill showed up. I think his orders were to t
ake command of Camp Brown soon.”
“That’s good from Pomeroy’s standpoint,” Big Horse said. “It’s what he wanted all along.”
“But he wants to go out a hero,” Morgan said. “He doesn’t want to go out as a first lieutenant with three, four years here and nothin’ to show for it. So I think he pushed things, ordered more killings, came up with the scheme about Ashby’s family and all. Since he was still in command and the boiling point had almost been reached, he’d have an excuse to go into the field, like you said. And in doing it, he’d have Lieutenant Whitehill along with him to report his prowess to higher-ups. It wouldn’t have to be just his word for it.”
“Lovely feller,” Big Horse commented.
Something still tugged at Morgan’s brain. He rose and paced a little, absentmindedly slapping the blade of his knife against his thigh. Finally, he stopped and whirled on Skousen. “Is Pomeroy behind the depredations of Murdock and his murderous band?” he asked.
Skousen looked shocked. “Why do you ask that?” he countered.
“Couple of reasons. One is something he said the other day when we were at the agency. Damn, what were the words?” He paced again in thought. “Yeah, that’s it,” he finally said. “He said something about not allowing me and Big Horse—but me in particular—to get in the way of things. He said he didn’t want me roaming the reservation chasing men who were trying to help. Something about them helping his command in its rightful duties or something like that.”
“So?” Skousen asked.
“So, that sounds to me like he’s behind the Murdock raids. He has to be. It’s the only goddamn thing that fits. Especially since you said a few minutes ago that you thought Pomeroy had this larger scheme in motion for some time.” Morgan glared at Skousen. “So, shit ball, did I hit it right?”
Skousen could only gulp and nod. And then whistle in pain.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Morgan, Big Horse, and Rough Wolf rode out the next morning. The two Shoshoni were painted and had on their best war shirts. Each carried a lance and a shield; a bow and a quiver of arrows was slung across each man’s back, almost resting on his pony’s rump. Each also carried two six-guns and had a Winchester in a saddle scabbard. Morgan had his two Smith and Wessons, as well as his Winchester rifle and the shotgun he had taken from Foster’s saloon in Flat Fork. That seemed like such a long time ago, Morgan thought.