“That’d be good,” Johnny said. “Always nice to have extra folks with guns to ride along with you through the Powder River country.”
Later, he and Rider accepted Carrington’s invitation to join his company for supper, but only in order to save their own supply of coffee. As Johnny noted, the coffee was the only thing that was fit to eat, so he and Rider passed up the moldy hard bread and bacon for some dried deer jerky they had brought with them. The following morning, they rode out of the fort with a detail of fifteen troopers, bound for Fort Phil Kearney. From that post, they left once more on their own, bypassing Fort Reno and heading straight for Fort Laramie, a trip of almost five days, making their ride from the Big Belt Mountains to Fort Laramie a total of thirteen days. It was good time, considering the weather.
“By God, what they say about a bad penny always showin’ up must be true,” William Bullock sang out when Johnny and Rider walked into the sutler′s store.
“Hello, Bullock,” Johnny replied. “How come Seth ain’t fired you yet?”
Laughing, they shook hands and pounded each other on the shoulder. Bullock graced Johnny’s solemn companion with a friendly smile and acknowledged, “Rider.” Something about the silent man reminded him of a great cat about to strike, and he seemed hardly likely to participate in the friendly joshing that his partner thrived on. Rider nodded in response to his greeting. Turning back to Johnny, Bullock asked, “What brings you back to Laramie? You lookin’ for Two Bulls’ camp?”
“Yep,” Johnny replied, “that’s a fact. You know where he set up his winter camp?”
“Yeah, I do,” Bullock said. “There was a soldier in here last week that said his patrol had run across Two Bulls’ camp on the North Laramie, east of the mountains, just before the river makes that big turn back to the north.”
Johnny thought that over for a moment, tracing the route in his mind. Then he turned to Rider and said, “That’s close to two days’ ride, and damned if we ain’t runnin’ short of supplies.” Turning back to Bullock, he said, “Are you in a tradin’ mood? ’Cause we need a few things, and we’ve got a couple of prime bearskins and some fine-lookin’ deer hides we might could let go if the price was right.”
“You know I’ll always give you a fair price,” Bullock said, “but hides ain’t bringin’ what they once did—bearskins are always good, but every other pelt is down.”
“Damn, Bullock, you say that every time I come in here.”
“Well, you know I’m just bein’ honest with you,” Bullock said. “I ain’t the one sets the price.”
Johnny shook his head and sighed. “I know it. Just do the best you can.”
When the trading was done, Bullock walked outside with them and stood by while they loaded their purchases on the packhorses. When they were finished, Bullock asked, “You boys headin’ up the river right away?”
Johnny glanced up at the sky before answering. “I expect so. We ain’t gonna get very far before dark, though.”
“I’ve never known you to ride out without takin’ a turn at a saloon for a drink of liquor,” Bullock said with a grin. “You might run into some old friends of yours that lit here a few days ago.”
Curious, Johnny asked, “Who might that be?”
“Big ol’ feller said he used to scout with you and Rider here. Bodine, I think he said his name was—couple of other fellows with him. I don’t recall their names.” He chuckled then when he saw the sour expression the news brought to the little man’s face. “Maybe they ain’t close friends of your′n after all.”
“I expect Billy Hyde was one of ’em,” Johnny said, “a kinda scrawny half-breed?”
“I believe that does sound like one of ’em,” Bullock replied.
“I don’t know who the other’n might be,” Johnny said. He grabbed the saddle horn and pulled himself up on his horse. “But I thought somethin’ smelled bad around here when we rode in. Now I know what it was.”
Bullock laughed, then said, “Quincy, that was the other fellow’s name.” He stepped back to the door then and gave them a little wave as they turned their horses away.
There were few occasions when the somber expression ever changed on Rider′s face, but Johnny had lived with the serious young man long enough to detect changes no matter how slight. And he had noticed the slight reaction in his friend’s face when the name Quincy was dropped. When they had ridden a few yards away from the sutler′s, he asked, “You know this feller Quincy?”
“I know a Quincy,” Rider replied. “A man named Quincy rode with Henry Butcher’s gang. He was on the raid on that farm where I got shot. He was one of the ones that got away.”
Johnny nodded solemnly. “Maybe this ain’t the same Quincy.”
“Maybe,” Rider replied, “but if he’s ridin’ with Bodine and Hyde, it doesn’t make much difference if he’s the same one or not. He’s up to no good.”
“Well, we ain’t likely to run into the bastards, anyway. Let’s get on outta here and head toward Two Bulls’ camp.”
They rode out of Fort Laramie and picked up a well-traveled trail along the bank of the North Laramie River. They would make only a little over six miles before darkness threatened, so they made camp there by the river. Rider took care of the horses while Johnny built a fire and used some of the coffee beans they had just bought. Rider could not help noticing the lifting of the stumpy little man’s spirits, and he recalled the first time the two of them had gone in search of Two Bulls’ village, and the eagerness he exhibited on that occasion—like a child anticipating a birthday party. He was tempted to tease him. “What are you gonna do if Morning Flower has decided to take up with another buck after you left her all summer?”
“Never happen,” Johnny replied confidently. “She knows I’m comin’ back.” He grinned real big then. “She’ll wait for ol’ Little Thunder ’cause she knows I ain’t short all over.”
Rider had to laugh. “I expect the biggest thing about you is your talk.”
Another day and a half brought them to the bend in the river and they spotted the Crow horse herd just shy of it, pawing and scratching the light covering of snow to get to the grass. Beyond the herd, back in the shelter of the hills, they could see the smoke trails from the tipis snaking up through the cold gray sky. Accustomed to a big arrival whenever he approached the village after a long absence, Johnny drew his revolver and fired several shots in the air to let everybody know he was coming. His announcement got the results he desired and he turned to flash Rider a quick grin as the people poured out of their tipis.
The greeting was certainly equal to the first one Rider had experienced with Johnny, and maybe even greater, for Rider Twelve Horses was welcomed as warmly as Little Thunder, with one exception. Giggling like a small child, Morning Flower ran out to meet them and caught Johnny in her arms as he dismounted. Caught in her powerful embrace, the little man barely reached the ground with his tiptoes, causing the people to laugh delightedly. As they crowded around the two, everyone wanted to touch them and welcome them. Deer Foot and White Fox pounded Rider on the shoulders, all smiles as they expressed their pleasure in seeing him again. This time it was a genuine homecoming for the quiet man, and he felt that he was truly a member of the village. Appropriately, Two Bulls called for a dance to celebrate the return of the two white Crows.
The dance went on until the wee hours of the morning. Rider tried to remain awake till the end, but sleep overtook him shortly before dawn and he lay down close to one of the fires with only his saddle blanket for a bed. Little Thunder, on the other hand, not only stayed awake, but participated in the dancing, delighting the people with his comical kicks and bounds. Gradually the crowd retired to their lodges until finally there was no one left to dance. Exhausted to the point of staggering, Johnny and Morning Flower paused before the sleeping form of Rider Twelve Horses. Johnny studied the situation for a few seconds before deciding to leave him where he was. “If he can sleep like that, might as well leave him be,” he said. �
��He’s too big to carry, anyway.” They wandered off to bed and left him huddled up like a baby on the saddle blanket. A little while later, when the camp was quiet, a slight young girl came from one of the lodges and spread a blanket over him, put some more wood on the fire, then paused to watch him for a few moments before slipping back to her tipi.
He awoke with the sun shining directly in his face. Unable to remember at once where he was, he sat up and looked around him before recalling how he happened to be in the center of the Crow village. Feeling a little foolish, he quickly got to his feet, just then noticing the blanket that he had been sleeping under. He had no idea how it got there, but he folded it carefully while looking around for the best place to empty his bladder. When he decided upon a likely place in a thick stand of pines near the base of the hill, he placed the blanket on his saddle and went to take care of his morning business. He had seen no sign of anyone else up and about, and he had no desire to wake everyone in Morning Flower′s tipi, so he decided he’d build up the smoldering fire and try to revive himself without coffee. He returned from his morning call in time to glimpse a slender Crow girl as she picked up the blanket and hurried toward the circle of tipis. He thought to thank her, but she was already too far for him to call out to her, so he took his time walking back to the fire. There were plenty of half-burned sticks of wood left around the ashes of the large fire that the dancers had circled, so he built up his smaller fire using these. When he had a strong flame going, he sat down on the saddle blanket, warming himself and wishing that he had his coffeepot and coffee beans from the packs in Morning Flower′s lodge.
He had not sat there long when he saw the slender girl again, coming toward him, carrying a parfleche. When he was sure she was coming to him, he got to his feet to greet her. Using the sign language he had learned when living with her people before, he thanked her for the blanket.
She smiled at him and said, “I afraid you get cold.”
“You speak English,” he said, surprised.
“Little bit,” she replied. “I bring you food.” She opened the parfleche she was carrying and offered it to him. Inside, he found cakes of pemmican, a food staple of almost all Indian tribes. He had learned to like it when he spent the previous winter with the Crows. It was an excellent way to preserve meat to have when fresh game was not available. Sun-dried buffalo or deer pounded fine with a maul was mixed with melted fat and sometimes marrow. To give it flavor, a paste of crushed wild cherries was added. The result was a surprisingly pleasant tasting cake that provided nourishment as well, and they couldn’t have come at a better time. He was hungry.
“That’s a lot of pemmican,” he said.
“You big man. I don’t know how much you eat.”
He smiled at her and said, “I don’t eat that much.” He took what he wanted and closed the parfleche. “Here, you take the rest back to your tipi—and thank you.” She smiled and took it from him, her eyes averted to avoid his gaze. “And thank you for bringin’ that blanket.”
“Deer Foot tell me to bring blanket,” she said.
“Deer Foot? Are you Deer Foot’s wife?”
She placed her hand over her mouth to hide her giggle. “No wife,” she said, then paused while she sought to remember the English word she searched for.
“Sister? Are you Deer Foot’s sister?”
She nodded vigorously, still laughing. “Yes,” she said, “sister.”
“Well, it’s plain to see who got all the looks in the family,” he said, causing her to look puzzled, and he realized that she didn’t understand what he meant. So he told her in words she could understand. “You are a very pretty girl,” he said, then told her again in sign language, to be sure she got it. She did, for she blushed and promptly turned on her heel and fled back to her lodge. “Well, what in the hell got into her?” he questioned aloud.
Later, when the camp came fully alive again, Johnny came looking for him. Beaming openly, he apologized for leaving him lying by the fire all night. “You was sleepin’ so peaceful-like I didn’t wanna roust you out. Besides, I had some urgent business I had to tend to.”
He winked mischievously. “Come on back to Morning Flower′s lodge. I know you. I bet you’d give a big toe for a cup of fresh coffee, wouldn’t you?”
“As a matter of fact,” Rider replied, “I reckon I’da starved to death if Deer Foot’s little sister hadn’t brought me a sack of pemmican this mornin’ while you were still snorin’.”
This captured Johnny’s attention right away. “What? Deer Foot’s sister brought you food?”
“Yeah, and she covered me with a blanket last night,” Rider replied.
“Hot damn!” Johnny exclaimed. “Sounds to me like that little Injun gal is takin’ a shine to you.”
Rider had to give that some thought. He had assumed that the girl’s actions were no more than a show of kindness to welcome him back to the village and nothing more. He expressed as much to Johnny. “It was Deer Foot’s doin’,” he said. “She said he sent her with the blanket.”
“I swear,” Johnny replied, perplexed by the naïveté of his young friend. “Ain’t you learned nothin’ about Injuns? Course Deer Foot sent her. It’d be an honor to him to have you in the family.” He grinned at his astonished partner. “It might not be the last little gal that gets paraded by you. Might be a good time to take a wife.”
“You’re crazy,” Rider said good-naturedly. “She ain’t much more’n a child.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Johnny replied. “I ain’t got a look at her yet, but she was a sight more’n a child when we was here last winter. You sure you took a good look?”
In fact, he hadn’t. Thoughts of women and prospective wives had never entered his mind since his unpleasant experience with Lucy Taylor. That episode had all but closed that door in his brain. Deer Foot’s sister might have caused it to drift ajar.
Chapter 8
Life had meaning again for Rider Twelve Horses—beyond the solitary need he had felt the winter before when he had known a sickness that only the lonely peaks of the mountains could cure. He hunted for deer and antelope with his two Crow friends, Deer Foot and White Fox, in the Laramie Mountains and the mountains beyond—ranging often as far south as the Medicine Bow and north along the Lightning River, where they happened upon a small herd of buffalo. Rider’s prowess as a hunter only grew—and he did take notice of Yellow Bird, Deer Foot’s sister, although he did not mention it to anyone. Most of all, he denied it to Little Thunder, who would have ridden him mercilessly if he knew the lithesome maiden had captured Rider’s eye. Gone entirely were the troubling thoughts of Lucy Taylor McGowan, just as Johnny Hawk had predicted during his darker days.
All in all, it was a happy time for Johnny and Rider. There was some regret, however, for Johnny’s eyesight was failing rapidly, so much so that he was forced to admit it to Rider, but he was well taken care of by his ever-faithful Morning Flower, who was happy that he didn’t take to the mountains to hunt with his friend.
The peace was not to last, however, for there was no Eden in this savage land west of the Missouri. It came in the form of three white miscreants and two packhorses loaded with four barrels of rye whiskey. The Union Pacific Railroad’s track reached Cheyenne, Wyoming, on November thirteenth. And on the first train to reach that town were four barrels to be picked up by Frank Wooley to be delivered by mule to a saloon five miles outside the post area at Fort Laramie. On his way to Fort Laramie, Frank Wooley had the misfortune to meet up with three road agents who were waiting to rob the stagecoach from Cheyenne to the army post.
“Somebody’s comin’,” Billy Hyde called back to the others, “but it ain’t the stage.”
“Lemme see,” Bodine said as he moved up beside him and peered over the bank of the creek. After a minute or two, he asked, “What the hell is that? Reckon what he’s totin’? Looks like barrels on them two mules.”
“That’s what it is, all right,” Quincy said, having moved up b
ehind them to have a look for himself. “And I’m bettin’ those barrels are full of whiskey.” Being somewhat more of a thinker than his two companions, he knew right away that, if he was right, and it was whiskey the lone rider was transporting, it was probably of more value than what they might have gotten from the stage.
“Whiskey!” Billy exclaimed. “That’ud be enough to last us for a month.”
“Hell, you damn fool,” Quincy said, “it don’t make no sense to drink it all up when we could sell it and make some good money on it.”
“Quincy’s right,” Bodine said. “We can sell it to the Injuns—sell it to the soldiers cheaper′n they can get it at the saloon.”
“All right, then,” Quincy said, “let’s get ready for him when he crosses the creek.”
They had picked this particular place to waylay the stage where the trail led to a natural ford of the shallow creek. From the old tracks around the banks, it appeared that the stage usually stopped there to water their horses before moving on. It would work equally well for a whiskey peddler. With their horses out of sight in the trees, the three outlaws took positions on either side of the trail and waited. In about fifteen minutes, Frank Wooley reached the south bank of the creek and guided his horse down into the water. Just as the stagecoach drivers did, he stopped in the middle to let his animals drink. When they finished, he nudged his horse and started up the other side, only to rein back suddenly when the formidable form of Bodine stepped out of the brush beside the trail. Almost immediately, the startled peddler was confronted by the other two. It was too late to run, for Bodine took hold of his horse’s bridle.
“Afternoon, neighbor,” Quincy greeted Wooley, who already feared for his safety. “Where you headed?”
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