“Fort Laramie,” Frank answered, his voice trembling. “I got a shipment of molasses for the soldiers’ mess,” he lied.
“Molasses, huh?” Quincy replied. He looked at Bodine and smiled. “How long has it been since you had a good drink of molasses?”
Always one to enjoy a game of intimidation, Bodine responded with a wide grin. “It’s been a spell. I could use one right now. How ’bout it, mister? Reckon you could spare a little taste of that molasses?”
Frank figured that he was already a dead man, but he tried to talk his way out of it. “Honest to God, fellers, if this stuff belonged to me, I’d be the first to offer you fellers some. But the army said it had to be delivered with the wire on the taps and the taps unopened.”
“Is that a fact?” Quincy replied. “We wouldn’t wanna get you in any trouble with the army, so I guess we won’t get no molasses, boys.” He jerked his head back around to face Frank again. “You ain’t japing us, are you? That is molasses in them barrels?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Frank said, “I swear it ain’t nothin’ but molasses.”
Tired of the game Quincy and Bodine were amusing themselves with, Billy suddenly drew his .44 and fired at one of the barrels. Frank’s horse bucked, tossing him from the saddle, and the mules tried to rear back. Bodine’s firm hand on the bridle saved the three animals from bolting. “Damn you, Billy,” Quincy yelled. “What’s the matter with you?”
Billy paid him no mind. He and Bodine were both watching the steady stream of whiskey spurting from the bullet hole in the barrel, but only for a second before Billy holstered his pistol and cupped his hands to catch some of the whiskey. “Goddam, that’s good molasses!” he exclaimed, catching as much as he could in his hands and downing it.
“We’re losin’ it, you damn fool,” Quincy roared. “Cut a piece offa that cottonwood switch and plug that hole.” When neither of his partners responded, both more intent upon tasting the free-flowing whiskey, he grabbed a branch off the ground, pulled out his knife, and quickly whittled it to a peg, which he jammed in the hole. “That’ll hold till we make a better one,” he declared. Then he turned to Frank Wooley, who had gotten up on his knees after being thrown. “You lied to us, mister. You know what happens to liars? They go to hell. That’s where you’re fixin’ to go right now.”
To Bodine’s delight, Frank began to beg for his life. “Please don’t kill me, fellers. Take the whiskey and I’ll turn around and head right back the way I came. I won’t say nothin’ to nobody, I swear.”
Quincy smirked as he drew his pistol and Bodine and Billy drew theirs; then the three came to stand over the cowering man. “Oh, dear God,” he whined, “don’t kill me.”
“Damn, lookee yonder,” Billy said, laughing as he pointed to a rapidly spreading wet stain on Frank’s trousers. The three revolvers fired at almost the same instant, putting the terrified man out of his shame.
Lame Pony got to his feet and looked out across the river to watch the riders approaching. They seemed to be following the river. As they came closer, he could identify them as white men, three of them, and they were leading two packhorses loaded with what appeared to be barrels. Curious, he called to Kills With Hand and pointed to the strangers. Kills With Hand stood up and, after following the direction pointed out by Lame Pony with his eyes, came to stand by him. There was no cause for alarm, for the Crows were friends of the white man and the army. They left the pony herd and walked down to the riverbank to meet the white men, who had now spotted them and guided their horses in their direction.
“Howdy, friends,” Bodine called out, and gave a peace sign just in case the two Crows didn’t understand English. When they returned his signal, the white men forded the river, pulled up in front of them, and dismounted. “Speak English?” Bodine asked. When both Indians nodded, he favored them with a wide grin, then turned to wink at his two companions. “Whose village is that?” he asked, pointing beyond the pony herd toward the tipis in the trees.
“Two Bulls,” Lame Pony answered.
“Good,” Bodine said. “We’ve heard of Two Bulls. The great white father in Washington says Two Bulls is his friend, and he sent us to bring his people a gift of firewater.” He turned and pointed to the barrels. “You like to try some firewater?”
Lame Pony looked at Kills With Hand, undecided as to what he should answer. He knew about the white man’s firewater, although he had never tasted it. Two Bulls had counseled his people to let the white man have his firewater; it was not for his people to drink. Yet Lame Pony knew that Little Thunder seemed to need the strange water that appeared to make him happy.
When he saw the Indians’ indecision, Quincy dismounted and stepped over to one of the mules. Drawing a cupful from the bullet hole, he walked over to Lame Pony, took a long swallow of the whiskey, then extended the cup toward the young Crow, smacking his lips as he did so. “This stuff burns real good,” he said, smiling. “Did ol’ Two Bulls tell you not to drink firewater?” When both Indians nodded at the same time, Quincy laughed. “You know why? It’s because drinking firewater makes you happy and smarter, and the chief don’t want you to be smarter than him.” When the two were still hesitant, Quincy said, “You can just try a little bit, and ol’ Two Bulls won’t never know about it.”
While Quincy was busy persuading the Indians to give in to the temptation, Bodine and Billy made a show of helping themselves to some of the whiskey and obviously enjoying it. Finally Kills With Hand said, “I try.” Quincy was quick to oblige, handing the coffee cup, still almost full, to him. Kills With Hand took a big gulp of the fiery liquid and quickly swallowed it. Then he shook his head violently like a dog trying to swallow a yellow jacket.
They all laughed at his antics as he tried to cool his burning throat. “Good!” Bodine chortled. “Make you strong.” He took another drink to show how he could handle the firewater. “The more you drink, the stronger you get.”
Kills With Hand wasn’t sure about that. He held the cup out to Lame Pony, motioning for him to try it. Lame Pony hesitated for only a moment before succumbing, but his reluctance to let Kills With Hand be the only one to experience the white man’s firewater was the deciding factor. His first drink produced similar results to those of his friend. Quincy was very persuasive, and before long, they were all drinking and enjoying themselves. At least it seemed that way to the two Indians, and they giggled foolishly at each other when they could no longer walk without staggering. It was not long after that when both of them lay down on the riverbank and went to sleep.
Looking at the two sleeping Indians, Billy Hyde commented, “Well, now what are we gonna do? These two bastards is passed out on us. How we gonna trade anythin’ with ’em?”
“The trouble with you,” Quincy answered, “is you ain’t got the patience to make money. We get these heathens hooked on whiskey and they’ll trade everythin’ they got to get some more.”
“Well, why don’t we just ride on in to the village and put it up for sale?” Billy wanted to know.
“’Cause Two Bulls is liable to run us outta there before we sell a cupful,” Quincy replied. “These boys here are gonna feel like hell when they wake up, so we gotta give ’em some hair of the dog that bit ’em. They’ll feel better again and think it’s big medicine. They’ll want more. Then we’ll just set up shop right here and let them bring our customers to us. This stuff makes Injuns crazy.”
Quincy’s predictions worked almost to the letter. After the two Crows were recovered from their first drunk and feeling happy again, he told them that he wanted to trade for horses and hides, and sent them back to their village to bring more of their friends to trade for the magic firewater. They traded on into the night without any of the village’s elders aware of the chicanery. It took another white man to discover the evil influence that had descended the village’s young men.
Little Thunder walked out of the tipi, facing the sun, and stretched his stiff back. Something had poked him in the back during the night, o
r he had slept on something under his bed that shouldn’t have been there—he didn’t know which—or maybe it was nothing but the fact that his bones were getting old. Anyway, a cup of hot coffee would fix it up. He had started to turn around and go back inside when his eye caught sight of a body lying on the ground near the back of a tipi several dozen yards away. He immediately looked all around him, alert for a sneak attack of some sort, but all seemed peaceful in the camp.
He hurried over to investigate. It was Lame Deer, lying facedown in the frozen snow, and by the smell of alcohol, Johnny knew at once that he was dead drunk. Knowing he would likely freeze to death if he didn’t get him up, he rolled him over and shook his head in disgust when he saw the frozen contents of the young man’s stomach crusted all over his shirt. “Damned if you ain’t tied a good one on,” he said as he tried to wake him, pulling him up to a sitting position and gently slapping his face back and forth. The rude procedure finally resulted in bringing Lame Deer back to reality—unfortunately a reality that he cared little for, because he was sick again with a throbbing head and queasy stomach. “Come on, boy, we got to get you up and get you some coffee. You’re gonna feel like hell for a while.”
He walked Lame Deer back to Morning Flower′s tipi and called for his wife. “Morning Flower, bring me some coffee out here.” It took a little while before they were able to bring the young man back to life; then gradually the story of where he obtained the alcohol unfolded. “Those sons of bitches,” Johnny swore when told of the three white men with the whiskey barrels. He went at once to inform Two Bulls of the trouble; then they, with a party of mostly elders, went to see if the white whiskey peddlers were still by the river. Rider, with most of the warriors, was gone to hunt a herd of buffalo reported to have been seen near the South Platte, but they shouldn’t be needed to rout three white men.
They were still there, evidently hoping to continue trading with the Indians. Johnny and Two Bulls had no trouble finding their camp, for a good portion of the camp’s horse herd was picketed on several ropes tied in the trees on the riverbank. The three men were seated around their campfire, and it was not until they discovered the delegation approaching and got to their feet that Johnny recognized two of them. “Bodine and Hyde,” he said, the words dropping from his lips like something foul and evil-tasting.
“You know these men?” Two Bulls asked.
“I do,” Johnny responded, “at least two of ’em, and they are no-good trash.”
“Uh-oh, here comes trouble,” Bodine uttered when he saw the stumpy little scout leading the party of Indians.
“You know the little half-pint?” Quincy asked.
“Yeah,” Bodine answered, “I know the little son of a bitch, and if he didn’t have all his Injun friends backin’ him up, I’d shoot the bastard where he stands.” He waited then until the party from the village came up to face them. “Well, well, if it ain’t my old friend, Johnny Hawk, come down to say hello. Where’s your sidekick, Rider?”
Johnny waited for the chief to speak. Two Bulls held up his hand and pointed across the river. “Go from our village. You are not welcome here with your firewater that is already burning the insides of many of our young men.”
“We came in peace,” Quincy said, “to trade with your people.”
“You have nothing to trade with us,” Two Bulls replied. “Get on your horses and leave us.”
“All right, we don’t want no trouble. We’ll take our horses and leave.” He turned to Billy and said, “Go take up them picket lines and we’ll herd our ponies across the river with what whiskey we got left.”
“No,” Two Bulls said, slowly shaking his head. “The ponies stay here. You will take the horses you rode.”
“I’ll be damned!” Bodine flared up. “We traded fair and square for them horses. They’re ours now. Them young bucks of your′n drank up half our whiskey.”
Silent to this point, since he felt it was the chief′s place to speak for his village, Johnny could hold his tongue no longer. “You heard what he said, Bodine. You ain’t give them Injuns nothin’ for their ponies but a headache and a sick stomach, so get on your horse and get the hell outta here before Two Bulls decides to shoot you. Where’d you steal that whiskey, anyway? I know damn well you ain’t come by it honestly.”
“You sawed-off little bastard,” Bodine fumed, “where I got it ain’t none of your business, and I’ll trade it with whoever the hell I want.”
His patience gone, Johnny pulled his rifle up and pumped three rounds apiece in each of the barrels, tearing gaping holes that released the whiskey to spurt out on the ground. His sudden action caused all parties to come to an immediate state of alertness. Bodine started to react, but the sight of the party of Crows bringing their weapons up ready to fire was enough to discourage him.
“Hold steady now,” Quincy warned his two partners. “There’s too many of ’em. We’ll just back away and get our horses.”
They backed slowly to their horses and climbed into the saddles. Wheeling his horse to cross back over the river, Bodine uttered a threat, “I’ll be seein’ you, runt.”
“Kiss my ass,” Johnny replied.
They had not ridden far before the bickering began. Quincy was the first to complain. “By God, that was a fine piece of work. I told you last night that we shoulda left there as soon as it started gettin’ dark. It cost us twenty-nine horses and the two barrels of whiskey we had left to wait around here till mornin’. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”
“I don’t remember you cryin’ about leavin’ last night,” Bodine said, “so just keep your trap shut about it.” He was in no mood to take a scolding from anyone. Once again he had come out on the losing end of a confrontation with Johnny Hawk, and it was eating away at him something fierce. As if to remind him of the first time, he could feel an irritating itch beside his ear where there was still a scarred patch left by the burning of a flaming limb. True, it was not Johnny Hawk who laid him out with two blows of the limb, but it was the little man who caused his tall friend to do it. “That little bastard,” he muttered, “I’ll get to him one of these times when he ain’t got no help with him, and when I do, I’m gonna take my knife and carve him up proper.”
“What did you say?” Billy Hyde asked, unable to understand the huge man’s mumbling.
“Nothin’,” Bodine snapped. They rode about a mile farther while he was thinking about the incident just behind them, his mind working on his lust for revenge. “I’m goin’ back,” he suddenly announced. “That little bastard has crossed my trail too many times.”
All three pulled up to a stop. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Quincy wanted to know. He was as frustrated and angry as Bodine over losing all they had gained by murdering Frank Wooley, but he wasn’t ready to go to war against a whole village of Crow warriors. “You think you can walk right in that Crow camp and kill him and won’t nobody lift a finger to stop you?”
“I’ll pick me a spot to watch that camp,” Bodine said, making his plan as he talked. “There’s gotta be some time when he’s by hisself, and when that time comes, I’ll be waitin’ for him. You two just go on ahead. I don’t need no help.”
“I’ll go with you,” Billy piped up. He had been following Bodine’s lead for so long that he wouldn’t know what to do on his own. And they hadn’t been riding with Quincy long enough to trust him.
“You’re both loco,” Quincy said. “You ain’t likely to ever catch him by himself.” He was tempted to leave them then, but until he hooked up with somebody better, he needed the two of them. It was a hard decision to make because of the danger that could be involved if Bodine went off half-cocked. “Ah, shit,” he finally said. “I’ll go with you, but if you start thinkin’ about takin’ some crazy chances, I’m cuttin’ out.”
It took a while in the gathering darkness to find a spot that all three found suitable, but they decided on a small hill from which they could see the edge of the river and the backside of the cam
p. There was a clear escape route down a ravine into a canyon if they had to make a hasty retreat. They tied the horses there and left them saddled. Then they waited, with Quincy reminding the other two periodically that it was a damn fool thing to do, and Bodine telling him he could leave at any time.
“When Rider Twelve Horses come back?” Morning Flower asked.
“Well, that’s hard to say,” Johnny answered. “Depends on whether or not that tale about seein’ buffalo is true or not, and if they find buffalo, I don’t expect they’ll be back for a week or more.”
The big woman nodded. “I make him new shirt,” she said, holding her hands apart to indicate. “Bigger.” Then her expression turned serious. “Who is bad white man? Why he come here?”
“Bodine’s his name,” Johnny said. “It was just bad luck he came to our village. If he’da knowed I was here, he might not’a come,” he boasted. He reached over and stroked her hair. “I expect one of these days I’ll have to settle Bodine’s hash. If he shows up here again, I just might do it.”
She shook her head as if perplexed. She was accustomed to his bluster. “I go to fill water skins now,” she said.
“Hell, I’ll go with you,” he said. “I’m gettin’ tired of lyin’ around here. I shoulda gone huntin’ with Rider, I reckon.” He got up and followed her out the flap of the tipi.
“We been lyin’ around on this damn hill all day,” Quincy complained. “You ain’t gonna see that son of a bitch by himself. I think we’ve waited here long enough. I’m headin’ to Fort Laramie.”
He started toward his horse, when Bodine suddenly stopped him. “Wait! There he is! Yonder by the river. I told you!”
Billy and Quincy both crowded up behind Bodine to get a look. “Damned if it ain’t,” Billy said, “and with the biggest Injun squaw I’ve ever seen, but he’s pretty far away to get a decent shot.”
Ride the High Range Page 15