Eager to try out his new weapon, Wolf reluctantly waited until they had ridden farther from the Wind River Range where Big Knife felt they were closer to Crow country. On their last evening before reaching Big Knife’s village, Wolf spent half a dozen cartridges to learn the rifle’s tendencies. His marksmanship, with his having never fired the rifle before, was enough to impress his Crow friend. He nodded approvingly and said, “New rifle big medicine.” Had it not been for the fact that the ride back to his village was in actuality a funeral procession for his four Crow brothers, Big Knife would have enjoyed the experience.
Arriving at the village in the afternoon of the third day, the party of two riders and nine horses was met with mourning for the slain warriors. Big Knife’s new friend was well received and treated with gestures of welcome and gratitude for helping Big Knife return safely. Thinking his obligation to the wounded man complete, Wolf planned to return to the mountains the next day. However, Big Knife’s entreaty to stay, as well as that from the rest of the village, was enough to persuade Wolf to prolong his visit for a few days. Those few days evolved into almost five years that taught the young man the ways of the Crow Indians. It was a happy time for Wolf as he became an accomplished hunter and trapper, with both rifle and a more efficient bow that Big Knife helped him make. He learned to steal horses from the Sioux and Blackfeet, and he counted his first coup soon after joining Big Knife’s village when a war party rode west to avenge the four warriors who had lost their lives in the Shoshone fight.
The last traces of the innocence that had remained from his boyhood were destroyed in the twentieth year of his birth when the village was attacked by a large party of Lakota raiders while most of the Crow warriors were away hunting buffalo. The wanton slaughter of women and children was the catalyst that sealed the savage reality of the plains in Wolf’s mind, and shattered his sense of a carefree existence with nature. The single most severe impact upon him was the death of his longtime mentor, Big Knife, who was killed trying to defend his wife and children from the Lakota attack. It was the second devastating loss in Wolf’s life, and served to form a reluctance to let anyone else come that close to him in the future.
When he returned to the village with the other hunters, Wolf, along with most of the hunting party, immediately rode in pursuit of the Lakota. With horses already tired, the Crow party could not close the distance between themselves and the raiders. After two days, they gave up the chase when sign indicated they were getting farther and farther behind. On the morning of the third day, they talked among themselves and decided it was a useless endeavor to continue on into Sioux territory. There was the added concern over the safety of those survivors who remained in their village as well. So they decided to turn around and go back—all except one. So bitter was he over the loss of his friend, Wolf decided to continue on alone, determined to seek revenge for Big Knife’s death. The others tried to persuade him to return with them, but he was confident that he could travel through enemy territory without being seen. He had spent most of his life remaining invisible to Shoshone warriors and hunters before he joined the Crow village, so he parted with his Crow friends on that morning, not realizing at the time that it would be a permanent separation.
As adept at reading sign as any Crow warrior, he followed the trail doggedly up through the Powder River country and into the Big Horn Valley. It was approaching dark when he came upon the Lakota village on the Big Horn River. When still some distance away, he could see the smoke from many campfires, so he left the trail he had been following and circled around a low ridge to the east of the river. Once he got to a point he guessed might be adjacent to the center of the village, he dismounted and left his horse while he climbed to the top of the ridge on foot to get a look at the camp.
From his position at the top, he got a good view of the sizable Lakota camp on the other side of the river, spread among the cottonwoods and brush that lined the banks. A pony herd of maybe twenty-five hundred grazed just beyond the village. Wolf lay there for quite some time, wondering now what vengeance he could take against a village of that size. While he thought about the possibilities, the darkness deepened as night came on. The longer he hesitated, the more rest his horse received, so he purposely lingered on the ridge, thinking it of dire importance to have a fresh horse to make good his escape when his vengeance was taken. How, he wondered, can I find the members of the village who were actually on the raid that took the lives of so many of my friends? His question was answered within the next few minutes when some of the people began to build a great fire in the middle of the village. It occurred to him then. They’re going to have a victory dance. Of course they would celebrate the successful raid against their enemies, the Crows. His plan was simple now, even though limited. Still, it would send a message that their warriors would not escape without casualties.
As he went back down the ridge to get his horse, he could hear the people of the village gathering as the flames of the fire leaped higher into the dark sky. Leading the bay, Wolf made his way down to the bank of the river. Walking along the bank, he stopped at a slight rise in the bluffs that gave him an unobstructed view through the trees of the circle of dancers already forming. He decided at once that he was not likely to get a better spot to make his vengeance known, so he stepped up on his horse and gave it his heels. The bay started at once at a gallop. Wolf headed him back toward the ridge, letting him run for fifty yards or more before reining him back to a walk. Then he dismounted and led the horse back to the bank. He wasn’t sure how many shots he would be able to fire before the Lakota realized he was only one man and came after him, but he hoped they would be fooled into following his tracks back toward the ridge.
He was ready now. He checked his rifle to see that the magazine was loaded, then cranked a cartridge into the chamber. Kneeling next to a cottonwood tree to steady himself, he trained his sights on the growing circle of dancers, hesitating for a few seconds while he watched the Lakota warriors sing of their deeds of bravery and victory, most of them holding the fresh scalps taken in the raid. Still, he waited to select his first victim until one warrior, who was more demonstrative in his reenactment of his taking of a woman’s scalp, screamed out his war cry. With his front sight on the warrior’s chest, Wolf squeezed the trigger and sent a .44 slug to slam into the dancer’s breastbone, knocking him backward into the fire.
The initial reaction to the shot was one of startled confusion, with most of the dancers and spectators not sure what had just happened. Wolf took advantage of their confusion, cranking out three more shots while he still had stationary targets. It was only after three more of the dancers fell that the Lakota realized they were under attack, and the crowd scattered, seeking cover, but not until one more warrior was knocked to the ground as he tried to get on the other side of the fire. Moving quickly now to a different position in case his muzzle flashes had been spotted, Wolf searched for targets among the terrified people, passing up women and children, seeking warriors. One more clear shot and he decided he had retaliated in part for the cowardly attack upon his adopted village, and now thought it best to make his escape. Already he could hear sounds of a counterattack organizing. Calmer heads were bound to determine that their attacker was but one man firing a repeating rifle, and a furious mob of warriors would come charging across the river. Wolf did not plan to be there to greet them. He climbed on his horse and urged the bay into the water. Holding his rifle high in one hand, he turned the horse’s head downstream and followed the current away from the Lakota village.
In the darkness behind him, he could hear the warriors as they splashed across the river to the point where his muzzle flashes had been spotted. With the help of a flaming limb from the fire, one of them spotted the fresh tracks of a horse galloping toward the ridge to the east. Without hesitating, the warriors started out after it, never noticing the horse and rider swimming down the river under cover of the dark, moonless night.
The fact that his escape was taking
him deeper into Lakota territory did not cause him to be overly concerned. He felt confident that he could avoid contact with the Lakota Sioux as well as the Blackfeet farther north. With Big Knife and his family gone, he had no real interest in returning to the Crow camp. Maybe he would in time, but for now he felt a stronger pull to the mountains around him, for he had always felt at home in the mountains. Without realizing it, all traces of his carefree, almost boyish enjoyment of life had disappeared, washed away with the flood of cruelty that swept through Big Knife’s village. His game of hide-and-seek with the Shoshone hunters had been no more than that, a boy’s game. The slaughter of innocent Crow women and children was the stark reality of the world in which he lived. He had coolly executed six Lakota warriors and there had been no sense of remorse or regret in his heart. His transformation to unyielding granite was now complete.
The next several years saw a restless odyssey through the mountains of Wyoming and Montana, hunting and trapping to buy the cartridges and supplies he needed, avoiding white settlements as well as most Indian villages. His contact with white men was restricted to the few trading posts he visited. This did not mean that he lived in a world apart from Indian and white man, for he knew where the Indians were, and he knew where the soldiers marched. Those facts were vital to his existence.
Even for a man with Wolf’s disdain for civilization, however, the notion to travel back to a place in time could tempt him after a while to return to see what had become of those he once knew in better circumstances. This was what prompted him to travel back to the Sweetwater and the Powder to find Big Knife’s old village. So he now sat, gazing into a campfire, earnestly regretting the decision. If he had not gone looking for the Crow village, he would not now be saddled with the responsibility of guiding three whores to Fort Laramie.
Deputy Marshal Ned Bull turned the red roan he rode toward the jail in Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. Riding along behind him on a lead rope sat the sullen murderer Arlo Taggart, his hands tied behind him. The Cheyenne jail was a welcome sight to Ned’s eyes. He couldn’t turn his prisoner over to the sheriff soon enough to suit him. Arlo was one of three brothers who had raised enough hell down in the Nations to warrant a posse of U.S. deputy marshals to chase them out of Indian Territory into Texas, where they had seemingly disappeared for the better part of a year. A month ago, Arlo, the middle brother, surfaced again, this time in Ned’s jurisdiction when he robbed the Cheyenne bank, pistol-whipped one of the tellers, and shot the manager down when he bolted for the door. Although Arlo was alone on the bank job, Ned figured Beau and Mace were in the vicinity as well, but there was no way to tell for sure, because Arlo claimed they were still in Texas. If that was the case, then it would be the first time the boys worked on their own, so Ned felt sure the other two were close by. He was inclined to hunt for them, but the witnesses to the shooting said Arlo was alone, and when Ned trailed him to Clem Russell’s trading post on the North Platte River, he didn’t see any choice but to take him back to Cheyenne. The arrest was relatively simple, since he caught Arlo in bed with Clem’s Indian wife, Jewel, who practiced the ancient profession of prostitution. Arlo had a knot on his head and his hands cuffed before he knew what happened.
Ned pulled up to the hitching post in front of the jail and stepped down from the saddle. “Well, here you are, Arlo,” he said as he pulled the brooding outlaw from his horse, “safe and sound. I’ll see if we can find you a nice room with a view.”
“You go to hell,” Arlo snarled. “I ain’t gonna be in no jail for long.”
The big lawman smiled patiently at his prisoner. “I expect you’re right,” he said. “They’ll most likely hang you pretty quick.”
Arlo sneered. “I feel sorry for you, Marshal. When my brothers find out about this, your life won’t be worth two cents.”
“Why, I swear, that sure ’nough hurts my feelin’s. I thought you and me was gettin’ along just fine.” It was not the first time in a long career that the deputy marshal had been threatened. “Now, step up on the stoop there, and let’s check you into the sheriff’s hotel.” He gave Arlo a nudge between the shoulder blades with the muzzle of his Winchester ’73.
The door opened just as Arlo stepped up on the narrow stoop. Acting sheriff J. R. Richardson stood framed in the doorway. “Marshal,” J.R. greeted Ned. “I see you caught up with the murderin’ son of a bitch.”
“Yep,” Ned replied cheerfully. “And as much as I’ll miss his delightful company, I’ll gladly turn him over to you.”
“Well…” J.R. hesitated. “There’s been a little change in plan. We got a wire from Omaha yesterday and they want you to take your prisoner to Fort Laramie and turn him over to the provost marshal there.”
This was not welcome news to Ned. “What in hell for?” he responded. “He robbed the bank here. Why ain’t you folks gonna try him and hang him right here?”
“Seems like Arlo and his brothers are wanted on federal charges in Oklahoma Territory and Texas. So they figure the army can hold him till the other two are rounded up. They’ll probably give ’em a big trial and then hang ’em.” He looked at a snarling Arlo Taggart and smiled. Returning his gaze to Ned then, he said, “I expect it’s later than you’d wanna start out again today, so you can leave him in my jail overnight.”
Ned answered with a grimace as he digested the sheriff’s statement. He had been looking forward to parting company with the conscienceless killer and enjoying a day or two of relaxation in the hotel. Ned enjoyed staying in hotels, especially those with a fine dining room. “Dammit, J.R., I’ve been nursemaidin’ this piece of dung for a hundred and forty miles. I’ve had about all of his company one man can stand.” He fumed for a few moments more, only to be met with a shrug from the sheriff. “Hell,” he finally replied, “orders are orders, I reckon. I’ll take you up on entertainin’ my prisoner for the night.”
“You’ll never get me to Fort Laramie,” Arlo snarled. “You’re as good as dead.”
Ned cocked his head to give J.R. a mock look of concern. “Did you hear that, Sheriff? Threatenin’ an officer of the law, and right in front of a witness.” He nudged Arlo with a hard jab of his rifle, causing him to step forward to keep from falling. “He’s just funnin’. He ain’t really threatenin’ nobody. Are you, Arlo?”
“You go to hell,” Arlo spat.
Ned chuckled. “Ain’t he a pure delight? Come on, Sheriff, I’ll help you put him away, and I’ll pick him up in the mornin’.”
It was well after sunup by the time Ned walked into the stable to saddle his and Arlo Taggart’s horses. He picked up the packhorse he had left in the stable while he had tracked Arlo, a decision he had regretted, for he had figured on catching the outlaw a helluva lot sooner, and a helluva lot closer to Cheyenne. As a result, he had run critically short of supplies, prompting plenty of complaints from his prisoner. The thought made him smile as he led the three horses up to the jail to pick up his prisoner. With Arlo on board, he started out for Fort Laramie, a trip he figured on making in two days’ time, barring any trouble, planning to camp at Horse Creek that night.
By the time they reached Lodgepole Creek, not quite halfway, Arlo began complaining that his arms were paining him from so long with his hands behind his back. “It ain’t that I don’t feel sorry for you, Arlo,” Ned told him, “’cause I do. I really want you to be comfortable on our little ride together. But I know you wouldn’t respect me much if I was dumb enough to let you have your hands free. In about another twenty miles, we’ll stop for the night, and I’ll let you loosen up for a bit. In the meantime, just think about somethin’ besides your arms. Think about what a nice day we’ve got for a ride to Fort Laramie.”
“You go to hell,” Arlo snorted.
Ned chuckled. “You know, Arlo, you oughta spend some of your time on your vocabulary while you’re waitin’ to be hanged.”
“You go to hell,” Arlo repeated, not sure what his vocabulary was, causing Ned to chuckle again.
Ned Bu
ll was a cautious man, but not without compassion, even in the case of a cold-blooded murderer like Arlo Taggart. So when they reached Horse Creek, he helped Arlo off his horse and let him put his stiffened arms in front of him to answer nature’s call. Arlo complained that he couldn’t get his business done with his hands still tied together. “I reckon you’re gonna have to figure a way to do it,” Ned told him, “’cause I don’t plan on untyin’ you. If you can’t manage it, then I expect you’ll just have to let her fly in your britches, ’cause I sure as hell ain’t gonna do it for you.” He took a few steps back and kept his rifle trained on the belligerent prisoner.
“Bastard,” Arlo muttered as he unbuttoned his trousers with very little awkwardness, even with his hands bound together.
After feeding Arlo, Ned selected a cottonwood of suitable size and sat his prisoner down, facing the tree trunk, with his hands and feet tied around it. Arlo had spent three nights hugging a tree trunk till morning on the ride into Cheyenne. No amount of complaining had any effect on Ned. “You’re gonna have plenty of time to sleep in the hoosegow,” Ned told him.
Morning came earlier than Ned had planned, owing to the constant complaining coming from Arlo. Well aware that most of it was just to keep him from sleeping, Ned finally rolled out of his blanket and stirred up the fire. “Hey, get me to hell off this damn tree,” Arlo yelled.
“Why, certainly, Arlo, but I think it’s best if you stay right where you are while I’m fixin’ us some coffee and bacon. I don’t wanna have to keep an eye on you. I might burn the bacon.” When he finished cooking the bacon, he divided it evenly and placed Arlo’s portion on a tin plate. Then he poured him a cup of coffee and placed it beside the plate next to the tree.
“Hey, how ’bout untyin’ my hands?” Arlo complained. “How the hell can I eat wrapped around this tree?”
Day of the Wolf Page 3