by Jake Logan
He knew the tune well. His mother whored with the soldiers at Fort Lincoln for money enough to feed herself. He had come by there looking for Snake before the Seventh Cav left Lincoln for their final battle. Weeks earlier, down at Fort Robinson, some Sioux women, drunk on Dog’s whiskey, told him that Snake had gone up there to look for work scouting for Custer. But the fucking Crow hated Sioux breeds as much as they hated full-bloods, and the Crow told Custer’s brother Tom not to hire Snake.
Custer might have lived too if he had hired Snake as one of his scouts instead of those lazy Crow. Yellow Legs deserved to die—that pious bastard riding around in buckskins with his long golden hair. After the Little Big Horn, the army said the Sioux had never scalped Custer. Lies for his pretty wife. Three years later, Dog had seen the unmistakable famous yellow scalp in a lodge one night when a drunk Sioux bragged to him how he’d completely skinned all of Custer’s hair for his own prize. He dragged Dog to his lodge to show him the trophy. In the red light of the small tepee fire, the inebriated killer did a loud whirling stomp dance for him, shaking the whole scalp lock over his head.
“Custer, huh?” He shook the scalp in Dog’s face. “You knew him?”
Dog nodded. It was Custer’s all right. Then the next day the hungover Indian ran him down on the trail and offered him two ponies to forget what he’d seen the night before.
“Who would I tell?” Red Dog asked, knowing the ponies were good ones and the man had much to fear if the word got out he was the one that killed the golden boy. There were rich white men in Billings who would have put up a big price on this Indian’s head to have him killed for scalping Custer.
“Oh, we are brothers,” the Sioux moaned. “My wife and children are young. They need me.”
“Cut your thumb,” Red Dog ordered. This day he would have all the satisfaction.
The Sioux checked his hard-breathing horse and blinked at him. “You wish to be my blood brother?”
Hands on his saddle horn, Dog nodded affirmatively. It was one thing to bribe a breed, but a much greater shame to become his blood brother. This individual had become a high-ranking chief since the battle with the slaying of so many other leaders since the Custer fight.
The Sioux indicated the pair of prize paints. “I will give you those two horses.”
“The three,” Red Dog said, and nodded to the one the Sioux rode also. “And then we will become blood brothers to seal the deal.”
The Sioux shook his long braids and acted insulted. He squared his shoulders and turned the bald-faced pony around to leave.
“Is it two days’ ride or three to Billings?” Dog shouted after him.
The Sioux reined up and turned back to frown at him. “Why do you ask?”
“They tell me there is little to eat on the reservation. You can buy a hungry man’s soul for a few coins. If his babies cry in the night, would he not take silver and gold from a white man who wanted Custer’s killer dead?”
“Yes—but your terms are too high.”
“If you were dead, another young buck would fuck your wife as his slave and your children would be turned out for the wolves too.”
The stiff wind came up through the waving grass. It was like the White Buffalo Snow Spirit whispered on the wind to the Sioux about his family’s plight if he did not accept Red Dog’s terms. At last, the Sioux nodded and stepped off his pony. Not because he wanted to did he use his skinning knife to slice his right thumb and hold it up. Not because he wanted to be a blood brother to a breed. But the alternative for him was even worse.
His jubilance restrained, Dog slipped off his pony to stand on his feet. This was a great day in his life. Perhaps his greatest victory. He drew his knife and made a cut from top to bottom of his thumb pad. With his thumb raised high, he pressed it against the Sioux’s, and the older man clasped them hard together.
“Today—and forever, we are brothers,” the Sioux said with authority.
“Yes, forever, we are brothers.” There was no one to share this great event. They were alone on the vast rolling grass plains of South Dakota. Only the wind and a lone red-tailed hawk soaring overhead and screaming the news witnessed Dog’s new standing among his mother’s people.
Speaking of her, he’d found her earlier in Fort Lincoln in an alley under a drunken private. He’d battered the Polish soldier on the back of the head with a pistol butt and pulled him off her by his collar. She drew up her bare legs and hugged them, huddled in case he struck her too.
“Can you find no better man to screw than that foreigner?”
She shook her head and would not look at him.
“Here is some money—go home to your people.” He threw some gold and silver coins at her.
“I have no people.” She scrambled on her hands and knees to find the coins in the bad light behind the saloon.
“Listen to me!” he shouted in her ear, holding her up by the collar of her filthy leather blouse. She reeked of bad whiskey, horse sweat, and cum. “Go home. You no longer have a breed to suckle you. I am gone from your life. Go home.”
When he dropped her in disgust, she fell on the ground like a hungry sow looking for spilled corn.
“Here,” he said, and used his knife to slit open the soldier’s pockets. More coins jingled out on the ground. Then, in his fierce anger, he straddled the unconscious soldier, turned the body over to expose his gray underwear and dirt-littered privates. Dog was poised to neuter him.
She grasped his knife arm. “No! No! They would blame me.”
He shook loose of her. Then he sheathed his knife and went for his horse. He’d disowned her. His mother was dead.
That bitter night came back to him in a clear vision as he led his three new horses north in the too bright sunshine across the wind-flattened grass. He was blood brother to a great Sioux. His mother was dead.
In a short while, his mind and body were back in the Big Horns looking for Mia. He found the horses on the trail, then saw her standing, trembling and hugging her arms, wrapped in a gray wool blanket.
“All the horses here?” He stepped down in front of her.
She nodded dutifully, head bowed.
“What is wrong with you?”
“I feared they had killed you.”
Stupid bitch. He reached out and took her by the back of her braids, roughly shoving her down to her knees. “Those Sioux have all been taken care of. They ran off—”
He undid his gun belt and let it fall to the ground at his feet, then unbuttoned his pants before her face.
She knew what she must do. Red Dog smiled. Twice he had met his enemies and defeated them. Her warm mouth and hard tongue on his member relaxed his anxious muscles.
9
They made camp in the deep canyon. Slocum did not dare build a fire and attract anyone. He put feed bags with corn in them on the horses and mules. Lilly helped him as he explained they’d have to make sure they drew no attention to themselves.
“We can’t let anyone know we’re here,” he said.
“Who all was at the cabin?”
“A young Shoshone woman named Easter and two cowboys. One was called Cutter and the other Roland. Neither of them were stupid about surviving. It may have been Red Dog and his men.” He shook his head in disgust. “They’re worse than most Indian renegades.”
“You think they are all dead?” she asked as she put on the last feed bag. “The two cowboys and her?”
“Who knows? Come daylight, I’ll scout things and see if there are any bodies.”
“What will we do about…”
Struck hard by the realization of her loss, he caught her shoulder and hugged her tight to his chest. “I’m sorry, Lilly, I know today has been bad enough. You’re a brave woman. We’ll bury them too—in the morning.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine. I simply hope your friends are all right.”
He shook his head and held her tight against his coat. The sight of the burning cabin had told him the chances were not good that anyone ha
d lived through the attack. At daybreak, he’d know for sure and decide what they needed to do. Get her out of the mountains and back to Cross Creek. At the moment in the cold night, that seemed the best plan he could devise.
He felt the worst dread over his responsibility to Easter. Why hadn’t he taken her with him to Cross Creek? Because he’d thought she’d be safe with those two punchers. Damn, he should stop thinking.
“I’m not hungry,” she said when he went to his saddlebag.
He leaned his forearm on Paint, who was busy chomping on the hard corn in the feed bag. “I’m not either, but I figured I could use a good jolt of whiskey.”
“That sounds splendid.”
He laughed and drew out the bottle. He uncorked it and handed it to her. “I have a cup.”
“No.” She raised the bottle in the starlight. “Here’s to a better day tomorrow.” And she took a deep draught of it. The liquor brought a deep cough from her.
He took the bottle and frowned in concern at her.
She put her hand on his chest. “I’ll—I’ll be—just fine.”
“Good,” he said, and tried the whiskey himself. It ran down his throat like a hot fire and warmed his eyes and ears, but when he paused before another swallow, he decided there was some relief in his tight muscles.
“I’ll get what we have left to sleep under,” she said, and started off before he could stop her.
He had been overgenerous in using two of their blankets on the dead men. He and Lilly would have to sleep together again or freeze.
“I never did that on purpose.” He popped the cork back tight in the bottle with his palm and put it away.
“Yes, yes,” she said, carrying the armload past him. “I figured that you did it on purpose.”
“I never—”
She nudged him in the gut with an elbow while going by him. “I was only kidding.”
He began to snicker, then he began to laugh. It wasn’t the whiskey. It wasn’t that funny. It was more like the laughter had been pent up in him all day and had to escape. Out of nowhere, she rushed over, tackled him around the waist, and forced him on his back on the ground.
Pinning his arms down, she struggled to hold him with some resolve. “I’ve wanted to do this all day.”
“Why?” he asked, halfheartedly trying to escape her determined effort to pin him down.
“Why?” He raised his head to look at her.
“’Cause in some of the worst hours of our life I did this to Josh—” She fell on top of him and began to sob. “It always helped before—”
He held her tight, rocking her back and forth with the twigs poking him through the jumper. The worst hours of her life were being shared in a dark canyon with another man holding her like a bundled-up bear. Damn, things were in a big mess.
Before dawn he awoke, his arm over her, holding her against his body as he was curled around her. There was no way to disengage and not wake her. At least they had not frozen in the night, dressed in all their clothing under the remaining blankets. It was beginning to feel natural to sleep with her—something he needed to think hard about—she needed to be on a stage to Cheyenne. For sure not up in the Big Horns with killer outlaws and renegade Indians making life tough on everyone.
She raised her arm and pressed back against him. “You’re like a big stove to sleep with.” Then she raised up and looked at him. “That sounds bad.”
“Not to me, and I’m the only one heard it.”
She raised her blue eyes to the stars and then shook her head. She threw the blankets back and was getting ready to pull on her boots. “I guess I can tell all my friends in Texas I slept under the stars with the warmest fella I ever knew.”
He was straining to get on his right boot while seated beside her. “They won’t believe you.”
She put on her second boot and elbowed him. “Why?”
“Not enough experience. I’m only the second fella you ever slept with.”
“Hmm,” she snorted. “Anyway, I won’t tell them a damn thing about it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” On his feet, he jerked her up by one arm.
She put her hand on her lower back and winced. “You ever wake up sore from sleeping on the ground?”
“Every morning,” he said, taking a Winchester out of the scabbard and filling his jumper pockets with .44/40 cartridges.
“I’m not staying here with the mules,” she announced.
“Oh?”
“You go,” she said, pointing to the slope above them, “I go.”
“Grab some jerky. I’m fixing to head for the cabin.”
She nodded as if satisfied. “Figured you’d argue with me.”
He shook his head. “I’ll know where you are this way.”
“Oh, well,” she said, and drew out some stiff jerky. “Is this really dried beef?”
“Supposed to be, but—”
She cut him off. “I don’t want that answer. I’m ready.”
At daybreak, they squatted on the ridge above the cabin and chewed the peppery jerky. Slocum saw nothing but the traces of smoke coming from the ruins. No sign of any of the other horses in the basin. No doubt they too had been taken in the raid.
Ready to start out, he reached over and clapped her on the leg. “There’s some snow left on this side of the hill. Don’t slip on it.”
“I’ll be careful.” She wiped the corners of her mouth with a small kerchief. “Maybe I could tell all my Texas friends about the lovely food you serve.”
“Oh, yes, they need to come up and eat off all my fancy dishes,” he said over his shoulder as he started down.
“They must be old plates you found in an abandoned trunk. Have you ever been to San Antonio?”
He glanced back. “I would have been there right now if I hadn’t run into Red Dog and his bunch. That detoured my return. Then a grizzly and a Shoshone maiden further held up my leaving.”
“Oh,” she said, stopping herself from falling by grabbing a lodgepole trunk. “Where do you stay when you’re in San Antonio?”
He looked pained at her. “Not the same hotel you use, I am certain.”
Holding the tree to regain her balance, she giggled. “I know where you must stay. Molly Michaels’ Cat House?”
“Usually Ruby Sanchez’s Cantina.”
“Do they have clean sheets there?”
He paused and studied things again across the narrow basin. The big grizzly hide Easter had been tanning was gone from the stakeout on the south-facing slope. He held up a hand at the edge of the timber to stop Lilly.
“You better stay here till I look around.”
“I’m lots tougher than I was yesterday.”
He shrugged, not wishing to argue. So he waved her on, looking up and down the valley’s trough as they hurried down across the small stream on rock islands and up the sharp bank to the cabin. Out of breath, they stood and recovered some a few yards away from the ashes and the stark blackened logs remaining.
He saw two forms on the floor under the collapsed remains of the roof. With care, he crossed the remains of the wall and went to the first one. When he bent down and rolled the blackened form over, he knew the first charred body belonged to Roland. He drew a deep breath; cooked flesh and clothing did not have a pleasant smell. Holding the kerchief to his nose, he moved over and squatted beside the second form. The remains of the plaid woolen shirt on the charred form belonged to Cutter. Slocum rose, sick to his stomach, and hurried to escape the acrid smoke and bitter fumes. Coughing hard, he came out like a blind man, stumbling away from the building, trying to regain his breathing and not puke.
She stiff-armed him to a stop on the edge of the steep slope to the creek. “Those men and her in there?”
“She ain’t. They are—” He fell into a fit of coughing, and pushed her behind him as the surge of vomit erupted up his throat. The force bent him over and he vomited three times until he was at last having the dry heaves. Then he realized her hip was wedged against his, a
nd the arm steadying him belonged to her as well.
“Can you sit down?” she asked. “I’ll go get you some water.”
He nodded and eased himself down to the ground on his butt. “I’d never have left them. I figured Red Dog hadn’t followed me down here and those young bucks were only out for a vision.”
“Vision?”
He nodded. “They come of age, they’re supposed to go out in the wilderness on their own or with others their age and fast and find a vision that will help them through life.”
“Who did this? Them?”
“I don’t know. If I did, I’d feel better than I do right now.”
“How is that?”
He started to stand and she kept him seated. “There is no rush. You get your stomach settled some. Then you can go look around for sign. I’ll go get the horses and mules.”
“What if you fall and break your leg going back?”
She looked around. “Since there is only you and me here,” she pointed out, “then you will come up there and carry me down.”
“Don’t fall.”
She rose and shook her head at him. “Great men at times need mentors. You are not a damn bit different than Josh was. I’ll be back with the horses and mules in an hour.”
He started to say something as she rushed down the slope on her boot heels. Instead, he waved her on. She looked back and shook her head as she crossed the small stream on rocks. He had to admit she was an attractive proper Southern woman. She looked like if she was ever tossed in the air, she’d always land on her feet like a cat.
He rose and went to find a shovel. There were some barefoot pony tracks around the yard and a moccasin print or two. But the arrows in everything told him enough. It was the bear wounders who had raided the cabin, killed the two cowboys, and kidnapped Easter—or whatever they’d done to the poor girl.
He kicked apart a pile of firewood at what had been the east end of the cabin and discovered a small shovel spared from the fire. Determined, he started to dig the first grave on the rise twenty yards west of the foundation. Earth never gave up many scoops of dirt without backbreaking labor. This ground did not disappoint him.