“Where are you findin’ all these hides?” Bramble asked as he rubbed the fur on a bear hide that Johnny brought to trade. “This pelt is almost prime and we ain’t but a little way toward a hard winter yet.”
Johnny smiled. “Back in them mountains over yonder, there’s plenty of game if you know how to find it.”
“You still campin’ over in the Big Belt range?” Grover asked. When Johnny nodded, Grover continued. “You better be careful you don’t run into that spirit that roams them mountains.”
“That what?” Johnny asked, puzzled by the comment.
Grover laughed. “I reckon you ain’t seen him yet. There’s a half-breed feller named Sam Brightwater comes in here to trade, maybe two, three times a year. His mama lives in that Blackfoot village on the other side of those mountains you’re campin’ in. He was in here about three weeks ago, and he said all the people in the village are talkin’ about some spirit that wanders over those hills. Several of their hunters claimed they’ve seen him, standing on top of a cliff or somewhere, lookin’ down at ’em.” He paused to allow himself a chuckle over the tale. “Thought maybe you’ve seen him.”
“I’ve seen him, all right,” Johnny replied at once. “I even know his name—Rider, his name’s Rider.” Seeing the surprise in Grover′s face, Johnny was about to explain the sightings when he hesitated to give it some thought. It might be wise to let the Blackfeet believe Rider was a spirit. It could be a lot safer for his friend if they thought he was one. It couldn’t hurt, anyway, he decided.
Grover looked at him expectantly, thinking there was more to the story. “Rider?” he questioned. “How do you know that?”
Becoming evasive then, Johnny shrugged and said, “I just know it, that’s all.”
“Huh,” Grover huffed, not satisfied with the answer. “Sounds like somebody’s made up a tale.”
“Maybe,” Johnny replied, and shrugged again, “but that’s his name.”
Grover might not have believed Johnny’s story whole cloth, but the next time Sam Brightwater came to trade at his store, he passed the information forward, and within a few weeks’ time, the people in the Blackfoot village had a name for their spirit. On his ride back to the mountains, after a brief stop to visit McGowan’s, which was now operating full steam, Johnny broke out with a chuckle every time he thought about it. “Wait’ll I tell Rider the Injuns think he’s a spirit,” he said aloud.
Rider was not particularly amused by Johnny’s ruse with Grover Bramble, but there was nothing he could do to explode the myth unless he made it a point to go into town with Johnny to confirm to the owner of the trading post that he was flesh and blood. And as always, he did not want to go into town. When Johnny recounted his visit to the new store, Rider listened to him, for there was no longer any pain from that quarter. He had healed. He listened with interest when Johnny told him how hard Harvey was working in the store while Tessie was setting up housekeeping in a cabin some distance behind it. Lucy, however, was very much in the thick of the new construction, leaving Ralph to take responsibility for providing a home for them. “There ain’t no doubt about that woman’s ambition,” Johnny remarked. “She’ll be runnin’ that whole damn store in a couple of years—if it takes even that long.”
Rider thought about the picture Johnny painted of the first and only woman he had ever loved, and he shook his head in amazement that he had let her rejection of him hurt him so much, when it seemed so unimportant now. “Are they married yet?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, they’re married,” Johnny replied with a snort. “Lucy—I mean Lucinda—insisted on gettin’ hitched by the justice of the peace.” He chuckled. “Ralph wanted to have a church weddin’—plan a big affair—and he’s old enough to be her daddy.” He paused to express his opinion of that, then said, “Jaybird,” and continued. “That poor man ain’t got sense enough to know that Lucy just wanted to get that Mrs. in front of her name, so she could grab hold of the reins of the marriage.” He paused to stroke his beard thoughtfully. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he is smart enough to know, and he thinks it’s worth it to get to sleep next to that warm young body.” Forming that particular image in his mind was enough to cause Rider a little tinge of pain in spite of his resolve.
The first light snow fell on the mountains and valleys early in the fall, and it seemed to bring a sense of longing over Johnny Hawk. Each new dusting of snow seemed to dampen the spirits of the typically carefree little man. His lack of enthusiasm in preparing for the hard winter finally caused Rider to seek the cause. In a frank confession, Johnny told him that he guessed he missed Morning Flower more than he thought he would. When they had left Fort Laramie, he didn’t plan to return to see her until spring. “But I guess I’m gettin’ old enough that I get to missin’ a warm body to keep my joints from freezin’ up on cold winter nights,” he said.
Rider studied his friend’s face for a moment, thinking how difficult it must have been for one so confident and independent to confess that he needed the company of another. After a few more moments, Rider smiled and said, “Well, you’re sure as hell not gonna cuddle up to this warm body. I reckon the only way to cure your hurtin’ is to pack up and head on back to Two Bulls’ village.” He saw an immediate flicker of excitement in Johnny’s eyes, much like that seen in a child at Christmastime.
“To tell you the truth,” Johnny said, “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout headin’ back down there before real bad weather sets in and closes off these mountains. I figured I’d be goin’ alone, though. I didn’t figure anything could pull you down where there’s people. Hell, you’ve already gone half wild, roamin’ around up here by yourself.” He paused to give his friend a suspicious eye. “You ain’t got to believin’ them tales the Injuns has been spreadin’, have you?”
The question brought a smile to Rider′s usually solemn face. “Maybe you’re startin’ to believe it, and that’s why you wanna split up with me—afraid I’ll turn into a grizzly some night when you’re sleepin’.”
“That might be it,” Johnny said, chuckling.
Pleased to see a hint of renewal of the old sparkle in his partner’s eyes, Rider went on. “There’s nothin’ to hold us here. We’ve got meat laid back and plenty of hides we can trade at Fort Laramie. Everything else we can cache, and it’ll still be here when we come back.” He was thinking that it might be a good thing to sleep in Morning Flower’s warm lodge and visit with Deer Foot and White Fox and his other Crow friends. The thought surprised him, for as recently as a week before, he still had no desire to see civilized man. Maybe he really was healed, although his first reaction to Johnny’s intention to return to Fort Laramie alone was concern for his safety. On his routine visits to the trading post Johnny had heard that the Sioux and Cheyenne were actively raiding any parties attempting to travel the Bozeman Trail in protest to the forts under construction by Colonel Carrington’s expedition. Grover Bramble said he’d heard that all civilian wagon trains were being denied permission to continue past Fort Laramie because the army could not guarantee protection. “The two of us, with Henry repeatin’ rifles, can hold off a pretty good-sized war party,” he said. “If we keep our eyes sharp, maybe we can avoid a big party.”
“That’s a fact,” Johnny replied, his old enthusiasm returning rapidly. “They might jump us, but it’d be like a man tryin’ to grab a yeller jacket—he might catch him, but it’d pain him too much to hold on to him.” Then he got serious for a moment. “I know why you’re really goin’, partner, and I ’preciate it.” His simple thank-you did not express the full appreciation he felt for Rider′s support. He was too vain to admit it, even to Rider, but during the past couple of months he had realized that things in the distance were becoming difficult to see clearly. This was especially so in poor light, and he was afraid that he might need spectacles, something he swore to himself he would never do, even if he knew where to get them. So there was no measuring the relief he felt when Rider volunteered to accompany him home to see his wife.
Two days later, they left their camp early on a chilly morning after carefully checking every access to the place to make sure they had left no clue of its existence. Heading on a trail to the southeast, they planned to strike the Yellowstone at the great bend where the river turned from north to east. It was an easy uneventful two-day ride without pushing the horses too hard. Arriving at the Yellowstone, they made their camp in the bluffs of the river, and set out the next morning, heading east, holding the horses to a spirited pace. It was not until reaching Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone, about forty miles from Fort C. F. Smith, that they caught sight of an Indian war party. They hid the horses in the willows along the side and watched the Indians from the bank of the stream. The hostiles had apparently not spotted the two white men hiding in the brush as they passed at a distance of a little over a hundred yards. “We’re all right,” Rider said as he held his rifle before him, his hand clamped over the brass receiver plate to make sure there was no reflection from the sun. “They ain’t even looked this way.” He glanced at Johnny then. The little man’s face was all scrunched up as he strained to see the warriors more clearly. “Sioux,” Rider said. “Look like Sioux to me.”
“Yeah,” Johnny replied, “they look like Sioux, all right. Wonder where they’re headin’. It’s a day’s ride from here to Fort Smith. How many do you see?”
Rider paused while he counted. “Twenty-one is what I count,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s what I get,” Johnny lied. “Must be a village back south. The way they’re headin’, they ain’t goin’ to Fort Smith.”
After the Sioux warriors had disappeared over the hills toward the Bear Tooth Mountains, they decided that it was too late to continue that day, so they set up their camp there at Clark’s Fork. The night was passed without any visitors, and they were in the saddle again under a leaden sky promising snow before noon. They were within five miles of the fort when they sighted the war party again. “Yonder,” Rider said, pointing to the south. “Looks like that same bunch we saw yesterday.”
“Damn, they musta doubled back on us. Maybe they ain’t seen us,” Johnny said.
“They’ve seen us,” Rider replied. “We’d better see if we can beat ’em to the fort. Come on!” He kicked the buckskin sharply and the race was on. It was Rider’s guess that the Sioux had spotted Johnny and him some distance back and were now angling across in hopes of intercepting them before they could reach the safety of the fort.
Over the rough terrain their horses raced, oblivious of the possibility of a headlong tumble in the snow-frosted grass, side by side, until the broad-chested buckskin gradually began to pull away from the spotted gray carrying Johnny. The race soon went to the Sioux, however, owing to the fatigue of the white men’s packhorses. “No good!” Johnny shouted when they were within sight of the fort. “They’re gonna cut us off. Look for a place.”
“There!” Rider shouted, and pointed to a shallow ravine that was just deep enough to provide cover. He jerked his reins over and the buckskin veered off toward the ravine with Johnny right behind, the packhorses bumping together as all four horses entered the narrow defile at once. The hostiles responded immediately, wheeling their ponies toward them, knowing they had succeeded in cutting them off from the fort. The first shots rang out while the two scouts were still pulling their horses to the deepest part of the ravine for cover.
“If we can keep these boys occupied for a few minutes, maybe the army will send out some help,” Johnny said as he and Rider scrambled to positions on either side of the ravine.
The fact that they were within a mile of the fort was not lost on the Sioux war party, so they wasted no time in charging upon the two white men, hoping to overwhelm them quickly and retreat before soldiers were sent out to rescue them. It was to be, however, that they were destined to experience the firepower of two marksmen with repeating rifles. With hostile fire kicking up dirt all along the edge of the ravine, the two scouts took steady aim and one by one began a deadly toll on the advancing Sioux. In a matter of minutes, seven of their number had fallen, causing the others to wheel away to scatter in retreat. “By God!” Johnny shouted. “That’ll give ’em somethin’ to think about.” He rose on one knee to get a better look. “They’re bunching up again to talk it over and decide if they want some more.” The decision was made for them, however, in the form of a cavalry detachment charging from the fort at full speed.
As the hostiles fled, Johnny and Rider led their horses up from the ravine to meet their reinforcements. “That’s a pretty sight, ain’t it, partner? Johnny remarked while reloading his rifle. “The cavalry ridin’ to the rescue.”
Rider didn’t answer. His eyes sharper than his older partner′s, he was looking at the lieutenant leading the column. When he was positive, he spat and muttered, “Carrington.” Why, he wondered, did it seem that he was destined to run into the troublesome lieutenant no matter where he went?
Carrington was equally surprised when he realized who the two white men were. Pulling up before them, he hesitated before deciding whether or not to chase after the war party. “Hawk,” he finally blurted, but his focus was on the mysterious scout called Rider, “what are you doing back here? I thought you two had gone to Virginia City.” Before Johnny had time to answer, a corporal interrupted to ask the lieutenant if they were going to chase after the hostiles. “No,” Carrington replied, “let them go.”
The corporal looked around at the bodies of the slain Indians and remarked, “Looks to me like you two didn’t need no help. We shoulda waited a few minutes and you woulda cleaned up the whole war party.”
“We’re just as glad you didn’t,” Johnny said. “Cartridges are expensive.”
Carrington continued to study the quiet scout, although he directed his question to Johnny. The more he puzzled over the resemblance to the boy Jim Moran, the more convinced he became that they were one and the same, but he couldn’t prove it. So he held his thoughts on the matter until he could find proof, even though it was especially galling to think that they might be playing him for a fool. “So, what are you doing here at Fort Smith?” he asked Johnny again.
“Just passin’ through on our way back to Fort Laramie,” Johnny replied. “Thought maybe we’d visit with the army here tonight, then head on in the mornin’.” He climbed back on his horse. “What’s the Injun talk between here and Bridger′s Ferry? Much trouble since the weather′s gettin’ cold?”
“We’re still getting attacks on our woodcutting details and any small patrols,” Carrington replied. “The word we get from Fort Phil Kearney is that they’re seeing fewer attacks. We haven’t gotten any reports of major attacks, and of course all civilian traffic has been halted since the end of the summer.” He raised an eyebrow and remarked, “I guess a couple of former army scouts can risk it if they want to.”
“I expect we will,” Johnny said. “It’s a good week’s ride from here to Fort Laramie, providin’ the weather don’t go bad on us.” He nudged the spotted gray to follow along behind Rider and the soldiers, who had already started back to the fort.
Carrington fell in beside him and they rode in silence for a few minutes until the lieutenant said, “Well, you and your silent partner up there can eat with the company tonight.”
“Much obliged, Lieutenant,” Johnny said.
Carrington raised his voice and called out, “That would be all right, wouldn’t it, Moran?” When there was no response from the broad-shouldered man riding the buckskin before him, he called out again, “Moran, Jim Moran!”
Again there was no response from the silent scout ahead, and no indication that he had even heard the lieutenant. Johnny, however, reacted with an expression of contrived puzzlement, looking ahead as if expecting one of the troopers to respond. He must think Rider’s dumb as a stump, he thought.
Although he made not even a slight hitch when the lieutenant called, Rider heard it, all right, and he could not help feeling a tightening in the pit of his stomach. It
appeared that Carrington had decided never to forget Jim Moran and just let the issue die with the end of the war.
“Who’d you call?” Johnny asked, looking ahead again.
“Nobody,” Carrington answered, and quickly changed the subject. “Why are you going back to Fort Laramie?”
Johnny grinned sheepishly. “I got a little woman back there in Two Bulls’ camp that’s waitin’ to keep me warm this winter. Course Rider′s a member of that village, and he’s just goin’ home to wait the winter out and visit his old friends. Then I expect we’ll be back up Helena way come spring if we don’t run into somethin’ more interestin’ somewhere else.”
It was difficult for Carrington to take his mind off the broad-shouldered man in buckskins ahead of him, and he was bound to express it. “There’s an uncanny resemblance between your friend Rider and that boy Jim Moran,” he blurted, “don’t you think?”
“You think so?” Johnny replied. “I hadn’t really noticed it, myself. There’s a helluva difference between Rider Twelve Horses and that young boy you captured back on the Solomon.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Carrington said, but he was still not convinced. Since there was nothing he could do about it now, he decided to let the matter rest for the time being. But don’t think I’ll quit until I find out the truth of this thing, he silently promised. He had to admit that he had become obsessed with solving this mystery if only for his own satisfaction. He had even persuaded his uncle to order Wanted posters printed for information on the whereabouts of Jim Moran. Maybe, if this Rider person didn’t remind him so much of the boy he had let escape, he could put it aside for good. Letting it go for the moment, he remarked to Johnny, “There’s a dispatch detail going to Fort Phil Kearney in the morning. You and your friend might want to ride with them.”
Ride the High Range Page 13