Sioux Sunrise

by Ron Schwab

  "That's fine," said Sarah. "Joe's horse is bigger; I'll ride behind him."

  Joe mounted the white gelding. He added no comment, but his wide grin said it all. Then he asked with mock politeness, "Captain, would you like to help the young lady on the horse?"

  Tom reddened noticeably and moved to help Sarah, but she'd already grabbed Joe’s brawny arm, and he was pulling her onto the horse behind him.

  Ill-humoredly, Tom mumbled, "Let's head for home."

  7

  TOM WRIGGLED HIS way out of the tangled blankets heaped in front of the Double C Cattle Company shack. He stretched and rubbed the sore spots on his thighs and shoulders, souvenirs from the night on the rocky ground.

  A quail whistled his friendly "bobwhite" from the brush-filled ravine east of the barn. A meadowlark's throaty warble joined in to form a wilderness duet. A Nebraska sunrise was tough to beat. It was Tom's favorite time of day, and he almost never failed to be enraptured by the early morning bird chorus.

  As he rose from his twisted bedroll, a soft breeze stirred the air around the cabin discernibly to provide the tranquil hilltop with brief, welcome respite from the heat. It was inconceivable to Tom as he beheld the entrancing, undulating waves of prairie grass that this same serene land could beget the savagery and violence that had fallen upon the Kesterson ranch just one sunrise before.

  A few paces away, Joe was lost in deep, untroubled sleep, his head propped at an uncomfortable angle against his worn, Texas-style saddle. He breathed evenly, but heavily, spicing the steady tempo only occasionally with a quick, comical snort.

  It had been nearly dark when they returned from the Kesterson homestead. They had eaten sparingly of some crusty bread and dried beef jerky, washing it down with potent, hot coffee. After supper, Sarah had collapsed, exhausted, on Tom's wobbly cot and was quickly overtaken by sleep. The two men, in unspoken agreement, had put together their bedrolls and moved outside.

  This morning, Tom was ravenous and his stomach growled hungrily in confirmation. Damn, it was his day to cook, so he had better get at it.

  The cabin door creaked open and Sarah stuck her head out. "Tom, do you suppose you could see about some water? And it looks like you have a little smokehouse out back. If there's a ham hanging in there, I'll see if I can scratch up some breakfast."

  "Sure enough." His earlier enthusiasm bounced back, and he set out on the errands.

  Upon returning with a large, smoked ham, Sarah thanked him properly, but somewhat indifferently, and suggested that he tend to his chores outside. As he walked to the barn, he had an uneasy feeling that the young woman had assumed command again.

  Later, as Tom grained the horses, Joe sauntered into the barn. "Morning, Captain. Things look a little brighter today?" he chuckled.

  Until the events of the last twenty-four hours, Joe had never called him Captain, and this was becoming a point of some irritation. “What in the hell’s with this 'Captain' business?" he queried.

  Joe answered mischievously, "Well, I just thought you were entitled to a little respect. And I sure don't think you're going to get it from the little lady in the house."

  Tom's eyes sparked testily, but he said nothing.

  The aroma of fresh biscuits and frying ham drew Tom and Joe back to the cabin. When he stepped into the single room, Tom blinked in wonderment at the transformation that had taken place in a few short hours. Dirty pans and plates had been washed, the floor swept, and even the table scrubbed clean.

  But the biggest change of all was Sarah. She still inhabited the dusty, torn dress she had worn the day before, and raw, inflamed scratch marks decorated her fair cheeks and neck. The ugly lump on her forehead had diminished, leaving a huge blue-black bruise that contrasted sharply with her golden tresses as it extended into her hairline. But now, her soft, shiny hair was brushed out and combed back and tied with a piece of red cloth. Now her skin had a clean, healthy glow, and it seemed to Tom that Sarah's eyes had softened visibly. At this moment, he was very much aware there was a woman in the room.

  Sarah joined the men at the table, and they ate hungrily, devouring the thick slices of ham and hot biscuits quickly. "This is mighty good, Sarah," Joe said. "We don't eat this good very often, especially when my partner here cooks."

  Ignoring Joe's good-humored dig, Tom agreed, "When I was in the army, only generals ate this well, Sarah."

  "Thank you," she responded. "You're both very kind." A trace of a smile formed on her lips.

  Savoring another cup of steaming coffee as they sat leisurely at the table, Joe and Tom made small talk, carefully avoiding any reference to the events of the previous day. Sarah had seemed distant and preoccupied throughout breakfast, and Tom was reluctant to broach the subject of her future.

  Abruptly, Sarah announced matter-of-factly, "I'll be leaving to go after Billy this afternoon. I could use some help rounding up horses and supplies."

  The men exchanged startled glances. Joe shrugged and poured another cup of coffee. Tom protested, "Sarah, we can't just let you run off after your brother like that. I'm sorry—I don't want to be callous—but we don't even know if your brother's alive. And if he is, the renegades are already miles ahead. One of us will ride into Fairbury and tell the county sheriff what's happened. He'll get word to the army and other authorities. That's your only hope. The best thing we can do is to help you get situated with some friends or family and—“

  Sarah interrupted, indignation flashing in her eyes. "Listen, Mr. Carnes. Don't talk to me in that damned patronizing tone. I know what kind of country this is. In the last twenty-four hours, my parents have been murdered, I've been raped, and my brother's been dragged off to God-knows-where. Friends or family? Billy is my family, and I'm going to find him and bring him home where he belongs."

  Tom was stunned momentarily. This young woman, who had been so domestic and feminine a few moments before, had unashamedly confirmed the worst of his suspicions and defiantly proclaimed her independence.

  Joe cast his eyes downward and toyed casually with his coffee cup. Tom's annoyance increased when he caught the outline of a smile on Joe's lips. His face flushed, and he stood to leave the table.

  "Well, dammit, you'll do it without any help from us. If there's one thing I learned in the army—“

  "Mr. Carnes," she said icily, "I don't give a damn what you learned in the army. . . . And I haven't seen any signs so far that it could have been very much." She paused and untied her apron, tossing it to Tom who snagged it reflexively. "I hope you learned to do dishes in the army," she said.

  Their eyes locked, each meeting the other's angry glare; each refusing to back off and walk away.

  Joe broke the impasse, speaking softly. "Sarah, I've got a feeling you already have a list of the provisions you'll need. If you'll give it to me, I'll get over to the general store in Steele City and pick up supplies. I have a tough old black gelding I'll lend you for the trip."

  Sarah, scorning Tom willfully, moved gracefully to her bundle of personal belongings already assembled on Tom's cot. She whisked out a ragged piece of brown paper and handed it to Joe. "The trousers and shirts on the list are for me, Joe. You'll just have to do the best you can for size. The boots I brought from home should be okay, but I could use a hat. We have a good herd of range cows with calves at side—the Indians didn't get them. Do you suppose you could make a deal with the storekeeper to sell twenty of the cows and calves? I'll take half in cash, and he can deduct the supplies from the balance and hold what's left till I get back. He'll have to find somebody to cut out his share of the cows. . . . Maybe he could even get somebody to ride over and check things out every few days."

  Miffed at his obvious exclusion from the proceedings, Tom sat back down at the table and glowered coldly at Sarah. Her eyes met his again briefly, but they were dismissive and expressionless. It was just as if he weren't in the room. Damn, stubborn woman.

  Joe said, "There's an old Pawnee who hangs around the livery stable in Steele City most o
f the time. We're going to need a top-notch tracker real bad, Sarah, and I've ridden with the old bird before. He'd be mighty handy to have around in a pinch. I'll see what it takes to get him to go with us. Not much, I'll bet."

  Surprised and riled again, Tom interjected, "What do you mean 'we'?"

  Joe countered, "Well, I thought maybe I'd just take a little vacation." Then turning to Sarah he added, "That is if the lady doesn't mind."

  "The lady would be most grateful," Sarah said with noticeable relief.

  Joe looked resolutely at Tom. “I’ll be riding out with her. I’d take it real kindly if you’d look after the place while we’re on the trail. Any orders, Captain."

  Sighing and shaking his head in surrender, Tom said, "Yeah. Make arrangements for someone to look after our damn cows, too. . . . And add supplies for another man." He got up and stomped out the door.

  8

  JOE RODE IN from Steele City shortly after midday leading two sturdy pack horses loaded with supplies. He was followed by a squat, gnome-like man astride a sleepy eyed paint.

  Stone Dog, who had been nicknamed Stony by farmers and ranchers in the Steele City area, was a walnut-brown Pawnee. His disproportionately large head was set on a stubby, pot-bellied body, and long, straggly, black hair splashed with white dropped over his narrow shoulders. The thick, red eyelid of his left eye opened to reveal a scarred, corrugated eyeball completely devoid of its iris. This, coupled with his wrinkled, prune-like face, gave the Indian a strangely grotesque appearance. He wore denim trousers, faded to a pale blue, and, in spite of the heat, a heavy, plaid flannel shirt. Deerskin moccasins covered his feet and a single feather was set in the battered, dusty black hat that concealed most of his forehead.

  Joe announced, "Sarah . . . Tom . . . this is Stone Dog. We scouted together for the U.P. When I told him we were going after some Sioux, he jumped at the chance to come along."

  Tom, who was sullenly filling his saddle bags, paused and nodded his greeting. The old devil must be a hundred. Well, they already had to drag along a sharp-tongued female, a doddering, old Indian ought to just about round out the ticket.

  Sarah rushed eagerly over to the old Indian, extending her hand. Startled at her openness, the Pawnee almost tumbled off the paint. He accepted her hand, and as she squeezed his warmly, the corners of his mouth moved upward and a few drops of chewing tobacco slipped down his chin. Tilting her head upward to meet the Indian's steady gaze, Sarah smiled gratefully. "I can't tell you how happy I am you're coming with us."

  Tom saw the Indian nod in obvious satisfaction. Well, she had won the Indian over. He was sure as hell going to be outvoted on this trip. It would be a hell of a note if women ran for public office. Damned if she would get his vote, though.

  Dismounting, Joe reported, "I've got your things, Sarah," and ambling over to one of the pack horses, he removed several bulky, paper-wrapped bundles. Sarah took the packages from Joe and nodded approvingly.

  "I'll be ready in half an hour," she said and withdrew into the shack.

  While they waited for Sarah, Joe and Tom finished saddling and packing the horses. The old Indian waited stoically on his spotted pony.

  Joe assured Tom that the venerable Pawnee wasn't as old as he looked—and a hell of a lot smarter. Moreover, Sarah and the Indian shared a common tragedy. Stone Dog's wife and only son had been murdered by the Sioux, and a Sioux warrior was somehow responsible for his sightless eye. The Indian's hatred for the Sioux made him an eager ally, and his native instincts and intelligence would make him invaluable on the trail, Joe insisted. Tom glanced doubtfully again at the silent Indian.

  Joe also had learned that the man called Bear was more than likely Elijah Jenkins, an adopted member of an Oglala Sioux band. He lived with a Sioux woman and raided with a band of scavengers who barely had respectability in the eyes of their own people. They terrorized isolated areas throughout northern Kansas, Nebraska, and South Dakota, always returning in the fall to the tribe's main camp in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Jenkins was said to be a crude, brutal, unfeeling man. Tom thought the latter observation was unnecessary.

  Horses saddled and packed, Tom thrust his carbine in its saddle loop. Then, almost tenderly, he picked up a long, gleaming saber and wrapped its wicked blade with rawhide, leaving only the shiny, gold-colored hilt exposed, and lashed the weapon to the bedroll behind his saddle. He was pretty handy with the cavalry officer's saber, and it had seen him through a few rough scrapes during his duty at Fort Laramie. Tom was just superstitious enough that he wasn't going to embark on this wild goose chase without it, as out of place as it might seem.

  Shortly, Sarah emerged from the shack, shotgun cradled in her arms, and the Sioux hunting knife suspended in a stiff, new sheath on her belt. Beneath her yellow straw hat, you could see that her golden hair had been sheared below her neck and ears. The tight-fitting denim pants and shirt could not deny her ample feminine figure, however, and Tom averted his eyes from her quizzical look as he realized he had been staring at her. Damn, why did this woman make him feel so incompetent and childish?

  "Sarah, you are some beautiful lady." Joe grinned.

  Blushing, Sarah's eyes softened, and her tough shell cracked for just a moment. She smiled warmly, "Thank you, Mr. Carnes, you've made my day," and curtsied teasingly.

  Just as quickly, the businesslike Sarah returned. "Before we go, I think we should all have an understanding. Somebody's got to be in charge—give the orders, have the final say-so." Her eyes jumped from one man to the other.

  Tom mumbled sarcastically to himself, "Oh, hell! Now she's got to have a title, too." He leaned against his horse and squeezed the saddle-horn until his knuckles turned white, kicking impatiently at the dirt.

  Sarah looked directly at Tom. "I think it's only logical that Tom be the leader. He was an officer at Fort Laramie and Joe says he was a darned good one."

  Tom straightened, and, taken by surprise, reddened slightly. Stone Dog grunted his approval; Joe, mockingly, came to attention.

  "What are your orders, Captain?"

  Sarah moved closer and offered her hand. Hesitating momentarily, Tom took it, and for the first time, saw genuine warmth in her eyes. "Truce?" she asked.

  "Truce," he replied. He released her hand reluctantly. "Okay, saddle up."

  9

  AS THEY RODE away from the Double C Ranch, Tom looked over his strange patrol. It was an unlikely, incongruous band that circumstances had brought together. Of course, he'd let Joe cover his back any time. What about the Pawnee? Well, he still had to be convinced. Sarah was a mystery. She was so utterly different from any woman he'd ever encountered, and he felt almost overwhelmed by the ambivalence of his emotions about her. She was a disturbing force to say the least.

  As they drew farther away from the ranch, Tom queried the Indian, "Stone Dog, you're the scout. Where do we start?"

  "Kesterson ranch," he answered.

  An hour later, the four riders entered the clearing. The charred remains of the barn were still smoldering and the air reeked of death and decay. It was the hottest time of day, and the atmosphere was suffocating.

  "Well, it hasn't gotten any prettier," Joe said.

  Stone Dog slipped from his horse with an agility that belied his physique. Bounding from place to place, eyes and nose almost touching the ground at times, he reminded Tom of a nervous Virginia foxhound trying to pick up a scent.

  While they waited for the Indian to finish his probing search of the premises, Tom and Joe watered the horses. Sarah, her face masked and emotionless, followed Stone Dog about the homestead, deliberately maintaining her silence. She eyed the Pawnee curiously when he would stop from time to time and kneel to sift through some apparently significant sign.

  As Sarah and the Pawnee headed back to the horses, Sarah revealed the first crack in her confident demeanor. "Stone Dog," she implored softly, "I want to know the truth. What are the chances that Billy's still alive?"

  "If brother's smart like go
lden lady, he lives," Stone Dog answered impassively, in his rasping, gravel voice. It was the longest statement any of his companions had heard the wizened, brown man utter. He climbed on his paint and grunted, "This way." He reined the pony northwest, and as his horse trotted away from the clearing, the others fell in behind.

  They rode until nearly sunset, stopping only intermittently for water or for Stone Dog to scrutinize the trail. They left the rolling, grassy hills of southern Jefferson County behind and traveled into the dense, thickly wooded bottomlands of the Little Blue River. They followed the clear, sandy-bottomed river upstream along its winding, westerly course. Soon, Stone Dog dismounted again, scouring the damp river bank where other tracks had obviously joined those of the pursued.

  "Now they are ten," he said.

  Joe observed, "They must have split off into several raiding parties and now they're getting back together. That's not good."

  Tom said, "I think we've gone far enough for tonight. It'll be dark soon. We'll camp here."

  Sarah opened her mouth to protest and then, catching herself, in reluctant agreement, slid off her horse.

  They made their camp beneath the green ash and gigantic cottonwoods that flourished in the moist, black silt along the bottomlands. Wood was plentiful, and Joe and Sarah built a small cooking fire while Tom tended to the horses. Stone Dog had left the camp but came back shortly with two plump jack rabbits. Later, a hush fell over the camp as the orange, glowing fire crackled hypnotically, and they silently devoured roasted rabbit and left-over biscuits.

  Tom studied Sarah's face furtively. It seemed detached, almost imperturbable, but her clear, blue eyes betrayed a deep melancholy and depression. Inexplicably, he was deeply disturbed and troubled by the young woman's sadness and was frustrated by his inability to cope with it. He was driven by an urge to gather her into his arms and hold her and comfort her tenderly.