Slater's Way

by Charles G. West

  Concerned anew for his mother’s safety, Slater pressed. “Tell me how to find that claim.”

  “Follow that crick right up the mountain for about half a mile, till you come to a cabin settin’ on a rocky ledge above it,” Ike said. “That’s it.”

  “Much obliged,” Slater said, and went immediately to his horses. Before stepping up into the saddle, he went to his packhorse, opened one of the packs, and took out a sack. “I ain’t got many of these left,” he said, “but I’ll share what I have.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “Take off your hat.” When Ike did, Slater poured half of his dwindling supply of coffee beans into the hat.

  The heavy gray beard opened again, this time even wider than before. “Why, God bless you, partner. I ’preciate that—a whole bunch.”

  He stood back then, holding his gift in his two hands and watching Slater ride off up the mountain.

  * * *

  Leona opened the cabin door after another long and troubled night, anxiously listening for any sound that might mean Henry had returned from Helena. He had taken all four horses with him, his and Jim’s two. His reasoning was that it would look less tempting to any would-be outlaw. That way, he would look like a typical trapper. It would be safer than leading one heavily packed horse, as he carried all their fortune to the bank to be assayed. She stared long and hard for as far as she could down the creek, hoping to see his horse suddenly appear. Like every day before, however, there was nothing.

  At first, when he hadn’t returned, she thought he was simply celebrating his newfound riches and when he finally sobered up, he would make his way back home—just as he had promised her. There was no way for her to know if he had been attacked or suffered an accident. She couldn’t face the thought that he had left her behind, so she waited, barely able to survive, day after day.

  In her anguish, she sat down on the ground in front of the cabin to continue to watch the trail leading up from below—praying he would appear, at the same time, fearing it would be a stranger.

  Without invitation, a stray thought of her son entered her despair, and she cried out silently, Oh, Jace, now I’m lost, too. She hung her head and sobbed uncontrollably.

  Suddenly she paused and listened, much as would a frightened rabbit. She thought she heard something down the mountain and she strained to hear it more clearly. There! She heard it again, closer, like horses coming up the trail beside the creek. He came back! she thought. But what if it was not him, but some drifter or claim jumper? She ran back into the cabin and sank on her knees to peek out the one window.

  In a few minutes, she saw him, a tall man riding a paint horse and leading a packhorse. She could barely breathe as her heart began to pound with fear. Dressed in animal skins, he looked to be an Indian, and he stopped to look at the cabin. She trembled uncontrollably and almost gasped aloud when he urged his horse into the water and started across.

  Oh, God, please help me, she prayed silently. He rode up from the water to stop his horse before the ledge, staring at the cabin above him, as if trying to determine if the cabin was empty. He’s looking for a place to take over, she thought.

  Helpless to defend herself, no weapons except a shotgun with no shells and a small kitchen knife, she decided her only hope was to bluff him.

  “This cabin ain’t available,” she cried out as forcefully as she could manage. “I’ve got a rifle aimed at you right now, so you’d best just move on before my husband gets back. And he’ll be back any minute now.”

  Slater was shocked for a moment. It had been so many years, yet he recognized his mother’s voice. “Mama, it’s me, Jace!” he called back. “I’ve come to get you.” There was no answer from within the cabin, so he called out again, “Ma, it’s Jace. Did you hear me?”

  There was still no answer. He stepped down from his horse, then paused when he saw the cabin door open a few inches. He climbed up the layers of rock that served as steps and approached the door, stopping a few feet from it so she could look at him. The door opened wider, and a withered gray-haired woman stood, holding the latch.

  “Jace?” she asked weakly, not trusting her eyes as she studied his face. “Is that really you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s me,” he said.

  Suddenly she was overcome with the magnitude of the moment. The sight of him after so many years was almost too much for her. He quickly stepped up and caught her as her knees began to fail her, lifted her up in his arms, and carried her back inside the cabin.

  Inside, he looked around him for a bed. There was none. In fact, the cabin was little more than a rough shack, this hovel that Weed had described as a fine cabin. The air in the shack was heavy and foul-smelling, so much so that he decided she would be better off outside. So he carried her back out of the cabin and laid her gently down beside the creek. She was so thin and emaciated that it was more as if he had carried a child in his arms.

  He went back inside and pulled some blankets out of the cabin. Using them to make a mattress, he spread them on the ground, then wrapped her in one he carried in his packs before placing her on the mattress.

  After checking again to make sure she was breathing, he went about building a fire to keep her warm. The next item was to cook something for her to eat, because it was apparent that she hadn’t had anything for some time. He had what was left of his coffee beans and plenty of smoked venison, so he put that on the fire to give her something right away. When he came looking for her, he hadn’t thought about the possibility that she might be approaching starvation.

  In a few minutes, she regained consciousness, and her eyes opened wide, staring at him as if expecting him to suddenly disappear, not sure if she was dreaming or not.

  When his image failed to fade away, she saw that he was real, and she began to sob uncontrollably, realizing that her prayers had been answered. She was not going to die in this wilderness.

  “Jace?” she asked again to be sure.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered. She took the strip of roasted meat he offered, and began to chew on it gratefully. “I’ll have you a little coffee in a minute or two,” he said.

  * * *

  He stayed close by her side for the rest of that day. She seemed to need him close, afraid that if she closed her eyes, he might be gone when she opened them again. Gradually she regained some strength, and by the time nightfall descended upon the mountain, she drifted off into a sound sleep.

  The next morning, she was secure in the knowledge that her lost son had come to save her, and her long ordeal with Henry Weed was at last over. After another day and night, she felt she was strong enough to ride, so Slater made a saddle for her, Indian-style, with blankets and straps from his packsaddle. They descended the mountain to stop at Ike Bacon’s store, where Slater bought dried beans, bacon, flour, salt, and sugar, in order to provide his mother with something other than jerky to eat. Ike was very generous in his prices and even tried to return Slater’s coffee beans.

  “If I’da knowed you was still up there in that camp, I’da sure come up there to help you,” he claimed.

  “I’m sure you woulda,” Slater said as he turned the paint’s head toward the valley.

  They began a journey that would take four days to reach the only place he could think of where his mother could be cared for, and he might escape an army patrol.

  * * *

  “It’s Slater!” Little Wren exclaimed excitedly.

  Red Basket turned to look in the direction Little Wren indicated. It was Slater. That much she could tell by the paint pony and the way he sat the saddle. There was someone behind him on the red sorrel. It looked like a woman, and as they came a little closer, she could clearly confirm it.

  Without thinking, she turned to look at Little Wren, whose joyful face had turned into a frown. A few minutes later, when the riders approached the outer ring of tipis, the young girl’s face relaxed into a smile again whe
n it was clearly an older woman riding the sorrel. By then, others in the village saw the riders and came to greet them.

  As Slater had anticipated, his mother was warmly welcomed by the Crow camp, especially Red Basket, for she saw it as a sign that Slater would be even more closely bound to the village.

  “Leona,” she repeated when Slater introduced his mother. “You are welcome here. I think you will make this your home.” She turned and smiled at Slater. “While you have been away, I have been helping Little Wren build her tipi. I think she has decided it is time to prepare her lodge for her husband.”

  The news caused Slater to look quickly at Little Wren, an expression of distress displacing his usual stoic demeanor. He felt himself a fool for being too occupied with so many other issues that he’d let her slip away. There was no one to blame but himself, but even if he had made his feelings known, he might have misinterpreted her regard for him. He looked at the lovely young maiden smiling so warmly at him and made an effort not to show his disappointment.

  “Who’s the lucky man?” he asked, knowing the answer would be Running Fox.

  “You,” she said, still smiling. “Red Basket told me you want me for your wife. You just don’t know how to ask.” She poked her lips out in a pretend pout. “I’m tired of waiting. You ask me now.”

  He was totally stunned, not certain this was really happening, but he knew if he missed this opportunity, there would probably not be a second chance. So he blurted, “Will you be my wife?”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, and giggled delightedly while the small crowd that had gathered around them burst into laughter. “You have to talk to my father.”

  Broken Ax beamed proudly.

  * * *

  It was supposed to be a happy time for the man who simply called himself Slater, and in many important ways, it was. There were still problems that plagued his mind, however, issues that had not been resolved—the desire to extract vengeance from Henry Weed for what he had done to his mother—and the threat that any day a cavalry patrol might show up in the village. Red Basket had extended an invitation to his mother—insisted, in fact—that she move into her lodge.

  “I need the company of a woman closer to my age,” she said.

  Slater was happy that his mother was obviously very pleased to be received so warmly by the village. Still, these other things troubled his mind.

  Then one day, a rider was spotted approaching the village. He was leading a string of three heavily loaded packhorses.

  “Sawyer,” Slater murmured softly, and put the bridle he had been repairing aside. He rose to his feet and walked to the center of the village to greet his friend.

  “I figured you’d eventually make your way back here to Lame Elk’s village,” Sawyer said when Slater walked forth to meet him. He dismounted and looked around him. “Thought you might appreciate it if I brought all this meat you been curin’. Figured you warn’t expectin’ me to eat it.”

  “I was thinkin’ you might show up here one day,” Slater said. He looked over the string of packhorses, already drawing the interest of the others in the village. “This’ll sure help with the meat these folks have cured so far.”

  “Some of the other villages are havin’ a hard time of it this winter, and they’re movin’ in closer to the Crow Agency where they can get a little help from the government,” Sawyer said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I hear,” Slater said. “Lame Elk and the elders have been talkin’ about that, even though they had a decent buffalo hunt this past summer. Course, that don’t set too well with me, seein’ as how the agency is so close to Fort Ellis.”

  “That might not be as big a problem as you think,” Sawyer said. “Colonel Brackett sent me to find you.”

  “That so?” Slater replied, immediately wary.

  Sawyer couldn’t help chuckling at his friend’s reaction. “Yeah, that’s so. He thought maybe you’re ready to surrender.” Then before Slater could respond, he went on. “I’m just joshin’ you, partner. Fact is, Lieutenant Russell finally got somethin’ done with those folks over in Virginia City. You didn’t kill nobody. That feller, Tucker, is still alive and kickin’, although he’s got a big scar next to his belly. The reason there warn’t no sheriff or deputy marshal lookin’ for you is because of what the barber told ’em. He said he drank too much, made him sick, and he sat down outside the side door of the saloon to get some fresh air. He was drunk, he said, but sober enough to see that Tucker drew on you and you shot in self-defense.” He paused then to let Slater absorb what he had just told him.

  Slater was speechless. It was almost too incredible to believe. He looked at once to Little Wren, then found his voice.

  “I won’t have to run, or hide, anymore.” He felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his soul, and he could now live as a free man. There remained only the thought of Henry Weed that would not let his mind rest completely.

  “That’s a fact, partner,” Sawyer went on. “And Colonel Brackett sent me to find you to tell you that. He also said he’d sure like to have you back as a scout come spring. So that’ll give you somethin’ to think about.” A thought struck him then. “Come to think of it, if Lame Elk does move the village in close to the agency, it’d make it a lot easier for you to ride with the cavalry from time to time.” He was aware of the pretty young Crow girl who had moved up close beside Slater.

  “Tell you one more thing that might interest you,” Sawyer continued. “That feller that caused all the trouble in the first place, that Henry Weed, well, he passed away last week.”

  “What?” Slater recoiled, startled. He looked immediately to his mother standing nearby. Her expression told him that she had heard Sawyer.

  There was a definite twinkle in Sawyer’s eye when he explained, “Seems he’d been actin’ loco ever since he got knocked in the head. Maybe a horse kicked him, or somethin’, I don’t really know. Anyway, that lady partner of his—you remember Lola—she found him in his room, lyin’ on the floor, with the side of his head blowed away, and a pistol in his right hand. Clear case of suicide, everybody said. Anyway, I thought you’d be interested.”

  Slater thought about it for a few moments. Sawyer said the pistol was in his right hand, which was kind of unusual, since Henry Weed was left-handed. It didn’t take much imagination to conclude that Lola took care of the Henry Weed problem for him and got Weed’s half of the business as well.

  He looked around to see his mother’s smiling face as she stood next to Red Basket. The only one missing now was Teddy Lightfoot, but Slater had a feeling Teddy was happy that all his troubles were over—all except one. He put his arm around Little Wren and gave her a big squeeze.

  “Come on, Sawyer,” he said with a wide smile, “and meet my wife and my mother, and then we’ll have us a feast of some of that meat you brought. I ain’t ever felt this good before.”

  Gazing happily at the smile on Slater’s face, Red Basket nodded contentedly. Speaking in her heart, she thought, See, Teddy, he has finally learned to smile. It looks good on him.

  Read on for a preview of another thrilling adventure from Charles G. West

  WRATH OF THE SAVAGE

  Available now from Signet in print and e-book.

  Second Lieutenant Bret Hollister swallowed the last of his coffee and got to his feet. He took a few seconds to stretch his long, lean body before walking unhurriedly over to the water’s edge, where he knelt down to rinse out his cup. When he stood up again, he glanced over to catch the question in Sergeant Johnny Duncan’s expression. Knowing what the sergeant was silently asking, Hollister said, “Let’s get ’em mounted, Sergeant. We need to find this fellow before nightfall.”

  “Yes, sir,” Duncan answered, anticipating the order and turning to address the troopers who were taking their ease beside the stream. “All right, boys, you heard the lieutenant. Mount up.”

 
He stood there, holding his horse’s reins, and watched while the eight-man detail reluctantly climbed back into the saddle. When the last of the green recruits was mounted, Duncan climbed aboard and looked to the lieutenant to give the order to march. A sore-assed bunch of recruits, he thought, although not without a modicum of sympathy for their discomfort. Not one of the eight men had ever ridden a horse before being assigned to the Second Cavalry just three months before. Duncan knew that the reason they had been assigned to this detail today was primarily because of their greenness. He also knew that the reason he had caught the assignment was that Captain Greer felt confident he could nursemaid the raw troopers, and maybe the lieutenant in charge of the patrol as well.

  Bret Hollister might make a good officer one day, Duncan speculated, depending upon whether or not he stayed alive long enough to wear off some of the polish associated with all new lieutenants coming out of West Point. He had only been with the regiment a year and a half, right out of the academy, and as far as Duncan knew, he hadn’t distinguished himself one way or the other. This rescue detail would be the first time the sergeant would report directly to Hollister, so in all fairness he supposed he should give the young officer a chance to prove himself.

  Hollister had been posted to Fort Ellis in time to participate in the three-prong campaign to run Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse to ground. That campaign resulted in the annihilation of General George Custer’s Seventh Cavalry at the Little Big Horn. By the time the four hundred troopers from Fort Ellis made the two-hundred-mile march to the Little Big Horn, they were too late to reinforce General Custer. So the only combat experience Lieutenant Bret Hollister had was in the burying of slaughtered troopers of the Seventh and relief of the survivors under Major Marcus Reno. It was hardly enough to test the steel in the young officer.