by Ron Schwab
How would Skye and Bear Killer react to his message that the Indian youth would have to be surrendered into the hands of the sheriff? He would have to remind Skye that it had been her idea, the initial reason for their trek to Lame Buffalo’s village.
Damn, she could be fierce when she wanted to be. But gentle and womanly, too. He had seen that side of her. He wondered what surprises she had in store for him next. He would find out soon enough.
Patch whinnied as they neared the corrals, and he was answered by the shrill call of another horse and then another and another. “What in the hell?” Ethan murmured, as he dismounted and led his Appaloosa up to the corral. There were a dozen horses there, including several wild ones Ben had caught and the three Appaloosa mares he had purchased from Nez Perce Indians in the Palouse River country and brought all the way from central Idaho. He smiled broadly. He had almost forgotten about his prized Appaloosas. If he could locate the big stud horse, he would still have the seed stock for his herd.
He led Patch to the north corral where they had left the other horses. Razorback was gone, and so was the paint that Bear Killer had ridden down from the mountains. He unsaddled Patch and turned him loose in the corral and hurried to the house where he found the answer he had anticipated. Skye and Bear Killer were gone. Damn, what was she up to now?
His question was answered by the thunder of hooves outside, and he wheeled and went back out onto the porch. Skye and Bear Killer galloped into the ranch yard in a cloud of dust. Skye waved. “Open the corral gate, Ethan! Hurry, we are having trouble with this stallion.”
Ethan dashed across the yard for the gate and swung it open. Skye and the Indian boy, weaving and cutting their horses expertly, drove in two gray mares and the Appaloosa stallion. Momentarily, they dismounted, and Bear Killer led the horses to the corral.
Ethan, hands jammed in his hip pockets, walked up to Skye who smiled brightly as she brushed wisps of damp, black hair away from her forehead. Gray dust caked her face and her clothes were sweat-soaked, but somehow she still looked very alluring. He shrugged as he came up to her. “I don’t know whether to thank you or cuss,” he said.
“There is no thank you owed,” she said, “but why would you be angry with us? Did you not want your horses back?”
“Damn right I wanted the horses back. I’ve got to have them if I’m going to make it here. You even picked up a few I didn’t have before. I hope they’re not a neighbor’s.”
“There are no brands on them. They are wild ones. . . . Probably from the same herd where you got the other wild horses. They are good ones, though; we let a few of the others go. If you are going to build a herd, you want the best. You require more than the few Appaloosas right now to build this ranch. These are strong and have tremendous stamina. You’ll eventually want more Appaloosas, though. My uncle has stolen many of them from the Nez Perce and the Blackfoot. Very few white men are raising them, but in a short time, when people learn more about these horses, you will have a ready market.”
“I’m glad I have your approval,” he said sardonically. “Skye, I truly am grateful for what you did, but it wasn’t a wise thing to do with circumstances the way they are. . . . The hostility against the Sioux is too great right now. What if someone had seen you? Taken a shot at you or Bear Killer? Or worse yet, killed you? You could run into trouble with people who would normally be friendly, let alone whoever’s been trying to do us in.”
“There was nothing to worry about,” she said nonchalantly. “We did not let anyone see us. We stayed in our cage most of the morning, but it was too much for us to endure. We had to do something, and I knew you had lost your horses. You would not have lost them if you had not agreed to help us, and I was afraid you would increase your fees to purchase new ones.” A smile crossed her lips, and he found it hard to remain cool to the warm sparkle of her eyes.
“All right,” he said, “you win. Why don’t you and Bear Killer go on up to the house? I’ll get some fresh water from the well. You can have a cool drink and wash up if you want.”
“Thank you, Ethan, I would like that. But first, there is something else I thought I might mention.”
“What’s that?”
“I saw cattle with the Lazy R brand in the valley. I assume they are yours.”
“They were Ben’s Longhorns; I guess they’re mine now.”
“Those cattle will not thrive in this country; they are more suited for the plains of Texas and Oklahoma.”
“I know that,” he said, irritation in his voice, “but there aren’t many other cattle in this part of the country. You take what you can buy. I’ve studied cattle a lot. There’s an English breed—Herefords, they call them—which I think would do well in Wyoming. They’re very hardy and fast-growing. Meatier than a Longhorn. One of my dreams is to import some of those cattle, but that’s a long way off.”
“Have you thought of Durhams?” she asked. “They have many of the qualities of the Hereford cattle.”
“I know a little about them. The ranchers I know call them shorthorns, but I don’t know of any in this part of the country.”
“I know where there are some in Kansas,” she said. “Before I came here, I taught at a Quaker school about fifty miles north of Dodge City. A rancher there was establishing a Durham herd. Three or four years ago, he already had a small purebred herd, and if things went well, he should be selling breeding stock by now. I could provide you with his name and address if you like. A Durham bull with your Longhorn cows would do a great deal to upgrade your herd. If you could get some purebred cows, you might even get a head start on the Durham market in Wyoming.”
If he gave her another week, she would take over the whole damn ranch. But she was right, he admitted to himself. Ethan set aside his pride. “I’d like his name and address. Sounds like a good idea. Where did you learn so much about ranching?”
“My father had a small ranch near Cheyenne. Although we did not live on it, we spent much time there. I love horses and cattle and have read a lot about ranching. Wherever I taught, I always visited the ranches to find out what they were doing. I went to schools in Indiana and Kansas before returning here, so I worked my way back west, so to speak, and had an opportunity to see some of the cattle developments that are taking place in the east. This is truly cattle country, but our ranchers here could learn a great deal from the cattlemen further east if they were predisposed to do so.”
“Well, you’re the last person I expected to be a teacher of agricultural science, but I'm willing to learn about anything you’ve picked up along the way.”
“You are a different man, Ethan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most men I have met would resent a woman offering the suggestions I have made.”
“Why did you offer them if you thought I might resent it?”
“I do not know. Perhaps, I was testing you.”
“Why?”
“I do not know. . . . I will have to think about that.”
15
BEAR KILLER HAD been like a shadow since their first meeting, silent and in the background, yet ever present. It was hard to tell what the boy was thinking. From the time Lame Buffalo had abruptly and unceremoniously surrendered the boy just before their departure from the village, Bear Killer’s solemn face had been set in stone. His black eyes were alert and intelligent, but they revealed nothing of the uncertainty and turmoil that had to be eating away at the boy’s guts. He understood English, for Skye spoke to him constantly in the language, but he always responded with a nod or some other silent gesture . . . at least in Ethan’s presence. Alone with Skye, the boy, no doubt, spoke. He was surprisingly at home in the ranch house, and now they sat at the supper table, quietly eating the beef stew and biscuits Ethan and Skye had prepared together. It occurred to Ethan that Bear Killer must have had some experience in the white man’s world. Although he held his spoon awkwardly, he held it properly, and his table manners were more socially acceptable than those of many
white boys Ethan had encountered on the frontier.
Ethan suspected that in spite of his protests, Lame Buffalo foresaw that a new way of life was inevitable for the Sioux, and that the father was preparing his son to make a place in the new order of things. Ethan had not noticed it before, but the wily Sioux Chief had even employed a lawyer’s trick: he had dressed the client for his performance. Bear Killer, in his pilgrimage from the mountains, had not worn the scanty breech cloth of a savage Indian boy. He had been attired in a buckskin shirt and denim trousers, and, shorn of his shoulder-length hair, he would have looked very civilized indeed.
Sheriff Bridges would be out in the morning to escort Bear Killer back to Lockwood. Before he did, Ethan needed to ask the Indian boy some questions. He was curious about this young man, and perhaps Bear Killer could shed further light on the events that had taken place on the night of the Harper killings.
The sun slipped behind the mountains, and the room darkened as they finished eating. Ethan lit the kerosene lamp and placed it in the center of the table, but set it dim so they would not be easy targets for some bushwhacker outside.
Skye got up and retrieved the huge, black coffee pot from its perch above the fireplace. “More coffee, Ethan?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply, she filled his tin cup before she filled her own. Then she sat down and touched her lips gingerly to the steaming cup. “Hot,” she remarked, after taking a sip.
“Yes, it is,” he replied, stroking his own cup absent-mindedly.
“Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to tell us what happened in town today? I thought I might have received a report from my lawyer by now. If you had good news, I think you would have said something.”
“We’ve been too busy to talk ever since I got back. Somebody rounded up my horses and got this ranch back in business, remember?” He hesitated. “But you’re correct; I have been putting it off. I’ll give you the important news first.”
“What is that?”
Ethan turned to Bear Killer. “Sheriff Bridges wants to take Bear Killer into custody. He’s coming out in the morning to ride into town with us.”
The boy’s face was expressionless. “Did you expect otherwise?” Skye asked.
“No, but I hoped otherwise. Bear Killer,” Ethan said, turning to the boy, “we haven’t had a chance to talk. If I’m going to help you, I need to know more about you, and I need to ask some questions.”
The boy looked at Skye who smiled faintly and nodded reassuringly. His eyes met Ethan’s unflinchingly. “I will speak with you,” he said softly in clear, precise English.
“You have spent time among the white man. . . . Tell me about it.”
“There is little to tell. As a small child, I made many visits to Cheyenne to stay in the lodge of my aunt, Singing Lark. Although I did not want to, my cousin, Sky-in-the-Morning, made me learn the white man’s tongue.”
“He can read English, too,” Skye interjected with obvious pride. “Very well. He is probably the only boy in the whole Sioux nation who keeps books wrapped in his buffalo robe.”
“Does your father approve?” Ethan asked.
“No, I think not,” the boy said. “He wishes me to be a great warrior.”
“I think you are wrong,” Skye said, “He has encouraged your education. It was he who asked if you might spend the winter at the Quaker school last year. He wishes for his son not only to be a great warrior, but for his son to be a great chief, one who can lead his people in the world that is coming. That will require knowledge beyond what you can acquire living in your father’s village. He knows this, believe me, but he cannot openly admit it, for his people are not ready to accept it. He is preparing you to lead. Remember, that is what leaders do—they lead. They must go first and break the trail.”
Bear Killer seemed not to hear Skye’s words. “Do not judge all Sioux women by my cousin, Mr. Ramsey. My father says she does not know her place. But he says when she succeeds in capturing the Puma, he will quickly plant his seed and put her to the woman’s work of raising cubs.”
Taken aback and suddenly ill at ease, Ethan cast a glance at Skye whose dark eyes flashed with anger.
“That . . . that is a stupid thing to say,” Skye snapped, obviously embarrassed and flustered. “What would Lame Buffalo say if he knew that his son spoke with a forked tongue?”
The boy grinned broadly, evidently pleased that he had riled Skye. Ethan did not know what to say and decided it was best to say nothing and let the two antagonists settle their dispute in their own way.
“My father would say I speak the truth, my cousin. You do not know why I am here? It is because my father went to the place of dreams the night you entered our village. He did not want me to go with you, but he had a vision—”
“Vision,” Skye scoffed, “Everybody has visions. We call them dreams. White men call bad ones nightmares; they have nothing to do with real life.”
Ethan thought that Skye’s disavowal lacked conviction.
“That is not true,” Bear Killer insisted, “and you know it is not. The part of you that is Sioux believes in dreams and cannot deny them. You are afraid to hear of my father’s vision,” he taunted.
“Tell me your vision, papoose.”
Bear Killer looked smug. “My father waited in the place of dreams, but nothing came but the sounds of the night and the wind from the mountains. The stars began to fade from the skies and my father feared the Great Spirit had been called to other work and would not help him in his time of trial. Then a coyote he-dog called to his mate from the far end of the valley, and the she-dog answered from somewhere above the cave where my father sat. My father’s eyes closed and the vision came.”
“You speak much and say little,” Skye chided.
Bear Killer ignored her and continued. “In his dream, my father saw a river, the flat water—the Platte, the white man calls it. On one side stood warriors of our village painted for war and armed for battle. On the other, were the blue-coated yellow-legs. They, too, were prepared for war. My father raised his arm to signal his warriors to attack, when from among the yellow-legs appeared the Puma. He waded into the shallow flat water and crossed it to where our people stood. Standing before my father, he held out his arm and cut his own wrist with his knife. The blood flowed like milk from the tits of a nursing mare, so my father said. And then, as if from nowhere, you, my cousin, Sky-in-the-Morning, appeared beside the Puma. You took his knife, cut your arm and pressed your bleeding flesh against his, and your blood mixed. And when my father looked again across the river, the yellow-legs were turning their horses away from this place that had been chosen for battle. Then the Puma took my cousin’s hand and led her to the water, and they walked away to follow his people. My father turned to the Brule, and said, ‘Return to your lodges; we shall fight the white man no more.’”
Ethan could see at the conclusion of his story that the boy was tense, wet with cold sweat, in as emotional a state as he had ever seen a Sioux male. The boy had not invented the story for the purpose of annoying Skye. Bear Killer believed in this dream, and he believed in the message it carried. Ethan shivered involuntarily; he did not know what to believe, but the boy’s story was unsettling as hell.
Skye, too, was visibly shaken by what the boy had related. She got up from her chair and with trembling hands began to remove the plates and utensils from the table. An awkward silence consumed the room. It was as though a spell had been cast upon them, and no one dared break it.
This was not a tongue-tied boy as he had originally suspected. This was an eloquent young man, as intelligent as any he had seen among any people. Among the whites, he would have been tagged as a future politician. There was no doubt in Ethan’s mind that Bear Killer had the soul of a great statesman. And this was a boy whom he was to deliver into the hands of a sheriff who, try as he may, might not be able to ward off fanatical, irrational whites who had a taste for Sioux blood. Any Sioux blood.
Was he surrendering a young Lincoln or budding Jefferson for slaughter? His task had been much easier, less conscience-rending, before he had so abruptly come to know and sense the spirit of the boy.
Ethan tensed as he heard the door squeak behind him. Reflexively, his hand darted for his pistol, and he wheeled. Then he saw Skye was leaving the house, and he relaxed.
The spell broken, Ethan spoke. “Bear Killer, if you wish, I will return you to the village of your father. You don’t have to go with Sheriff Bridges tomorrow. We can leave for your village tonight.”
“No,” the boy said. “My father says we must settle this in the white man’s way. It was you who told him this. Have you acquired some new wisdom that would change your mind? No, my head tells me this is what we must do.” He clenched his fist to his chest, “But my heart does not want to.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety, Bear Killer. I may have promised too much to your father.”
“I will go. My father says that the Puma, the lawyer, is sent by the Great Spirit to speak for our people in the councils of the white eyes, and that I am to be a symbol of our trust in your wisdom. He came to know this on the night of the coyote.”
Ethan shook his head in disbelief. “That’s a mighty big load you just put on my shoulders, Bear Killer. But yes, I think we’d better ride in with Sheriff Bridges tomorrow. Now, before we call it a day, I have some questions about the night Jake Harper and his daughter were killed.”
“If I can answer, my cousin, I shall.”
Crazy damn kid. This was all moving too fast. He already had him in the family. He hated like hell to disillusion the boy right now with all he had to face these next few days, but marriage to Skye dePaul would be like being married to two women—she’d put you to bed with a prayer, and wake you up with a scalping knife. Besides, beautiful as she was, he could not see Skye dePaul as the marrying kind. On the other hand, before tonight, he had never thought of himself as the marrying kind. He didn’t want to think about Skye dePaul at all right now.