by Jim Cox
The red-haired man had started toward the front door to leave but paused and said, “Ain’t no way to drive cows through this mountain pass till June gets here. You need to go home and wait it out.”
As soon as the man left, the café woman brought Scar a piece of apple pie and topped off his cup, saying in a low voice, “Better watch the drunk, mister. He’s got a terrible temper…killed a man in here a few weeks back.” She was starting to tell him more, but the drunk came stomping back in, heading toward Scar’s table.
“Are those your mules standing next to my horse out there?” he shouted as he approached Scar. Every head in the room turned toward Scar.
Scar didn’t want to draw more attention, so he answered quietly, “Yes, they’re mine. Are they causing a problem?”
“Don’t you ever let those mules get close to my horse again. If you do, I’ll shoot ’em. They could be carrying a disease or kick my horse, injuring its leg. Mules ain’t got no sense. You need to get yourself a horse. Only a yellow coward rides a mule.” Scar made no reply. The drunk turned and left, with Scar following several feet back. He wanted to make sure the man didn’t take his temper out on Maude or Frankie.
The men in the café watched Scar as he reentered the room and sat back down at his table. He knew the onlookers probably thought he was a pushover. In reality, he had the urge to put the drunk in his place, especially after he said he’d shoot Maude and Frankie. But he needed a few days to do his investigative work before any Indian protocol could be changed by the locals or the Indian agent, and he wanted to remain unidentified.
The woman came back with coffee. After pouring, she sat the pot on his table and unexpectedly joined him. “You sure did put on a good act,” she whispered, putting on a wide grin. It caught Scar off guard.
After a pause, he asked, “What do you mean by that?”
She didn’t reply directly but said, “My name is Abigail, but folks call me Abby. How are Jenny and Mrs. Kaiser at the café doing?” Scar’s mouth nearly dropped open.
“How do you know them, ma’am?” he asked.
“I stopped at Flat Peaks for a few days on my way here a couple months back. I ate at Jenny’s Place every day. The women there spoke a great deal about a man called Scar. A man tall and well-built with black hair and beard. They even explained how you got the scar on your left cheek. They told me how polite you were and how you helped people in need. I was also told about your bravery and fighting skills, so I know you cowed down to the drunk on purpose. I asked Jenny to introduce me to you if you came in, but she said you were gone someplace on an assignment.”
“Thank you, Abby. Those women have a tendency to stretch things a bit,” the big man said, blushing. “You have me pegged. My name is Bart Carter, but I’m known as Scar.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Bart,” she said, pouring more coffee.
After fiddling with his cup for a few seconds, he said in a low voice, “Abby, I may need your help.”
“I’ll help if I can—what do you need?”
Scar was hesitant at first to share his assignment with the woman but decided he must, under the circumstances. “Abby, I’m a state marshal who reports directly to Governor Routt. We received word from President Grant the Indians around here were being mistreated by the Indian agent and some of the local folks. At least the president wrote he’d received word to that effect. I’m here to investigate the matter and report my findings. I hope I can look around a bit before I’m found out.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Abby, if you have knowledge of any wrongdoing, I’d appreciate your help and please don’t tell anyone about me.”“You have my word, Bart. I won’t tell a soul about you. But we need to have more privacy before I explain what I know. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you the time and place to meet.” Scar rose to leave, but Abby called him back. “Do you have a place to spend the night, Bart?”
“Not really,” he said. “I suppose I’ll build some kind of shelter.”
“There’re no hotels around here, but I imagine you could spend the night in the livery. It has a stove that’s normally kept burning all night.”
“Thanks, Abby…sounds like my best option.”
“Talk with Tony. That’s not his real name, but it was pinned on him by the padre some time ago. He’s not the owner, but he runs the place. He’s a breed. His ma was Ute, and his father was white. But he speaks good English.” Scar nodded his thanks and left.
Once outside, he whistled for the mules as he crossed the snow-covered road toward the livery. When Scar was within a few yards of the door, it swung open. A short man wearing a high-crown, black western hat with an eagle feather in its band met him. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties.
“My name’s Bart Carter, and I’m looking for Tony,” he said. “Abby sent me.”
“I’m Tony. What can I do for you?” Abby was right. He spoke good English.
“I’m looking for a place to stay while I’m in Meeker…a place I can board my mules and store my belongings. Abby said you might be able to put me up.”
“Be happy to,” he responded. “It’ll cost you twenty-five cents a night for both mules, and it includes their hay. You’ll have to furnish your own bedding, but you can sleep on the floor close to the stove if you want. There’ll be no charge for that.”
“Thanks. I was hoping I’d find a warm place for the night. It gets mighty cold sleeping under the stars this time of the year. By the way, if you have corn or oats for my mules, I’d be obliged to buy it from you.”
“We don’t have any, Mr. Carter. Sometimes in the warmer months, a few wagons of corn and oats come our way for sale, but it’s not often.”
“That’s okay. They’ll do fine on hay.” Scar paused for a few seconds before asking, “Tony, I’d appreciate being called Bart. I’d like to become your friend and friends refer to one another by their first names. Mr. Carter sounds too formal.”
Tony looked puzzled. “Didn’t Abby tell you I was a breed?”
“Yes, she did, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Around here Indians and breeds don’t speak to white people by their first names. We’re not thought to be fit to associate with white people or have them for friends, except through business.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Scar said in a firm tone. “You’re as fit as me or any other man.” After a long pause, Tony fetched the coffee pot from the potbelly stove and poured two cups, handing one to Scar. After a couple of swallows, Scar asked, “Who raised you, Tony? Where did you grow up?”
“My father was a mountain man who came to my mother’s village when she was young. He was well-received by her people, and within weeks Father and Mother were married. She was fifteen. After their marriage, they went to my father’s town to live but were shunned, so they returned to my mother’s village where I was born and raised. When I was twelve, my father went tatanka hunting in the prairie and never came home. Mother told me Father was an honorable man and would never leave us stranded…that he must have been killed. My mother died two years later, leaving me to be raised by my grandparents. I have always thought of myself as an Indian. They call me Yellow Skin.”
“You speak very good English. Who taught you?”
Tony pondered the big stranger’s questions before he answered. It seemed that it was unusual for a white man to speak this way. Bart needed him to believe his words were sincere.
“My father taught me much of the white man’s ways, but the padre taught me the most. Before my mother died, she insisted I attend his class at the church every day. I went for several years. He taught me to speak English…how to read and write, and do numbers.”
“The padre did a good job,” Scar said. Tony offered his thanks with a nod.
When their cups were empty, Tony led the way to the stalls where the mules had been placed. After several forks of hay were thrown into the racks, Scar removed the cargo and saddle from the mules and placed it
in a storage room Tony pointed out.
“I don’t suppose there’s a barber or bathhouse in the area, is there, Tony? I’m getting pretty rank and need a bath.”
“I was wondering if you could smell yourself.” Both men laughed.
“Where do you bathe?” Scar asked.
“I have a tub in my room.”
“Do you mind if I use it? I’d be happy to pay for its use.”
“I filled it last night and took a bath.”
“That’s great,” Scar said. “I can add a few pots of boiling water to warm it up. That is if you let me use it.”
Tony’s black eyes stared back at Scar. He didn’t blink or look away.
“What wrong?” Scar asked. “I promise to dump the dirty water and refill it after my bath.”
Tony’s stare continued. Finally, he said with a furrowed forehead, “Are you willing to bathe in the same water as me?”
“I’d be obliged to you if you’d let me.”
Tony thought on the matter, and then rose to put a bucket of bath water on top of the potbelly stove. Turning to Scar, he said, “I’d be happy to cut your hair and trim your beard if you like. I’ll be extra careful with your scar.” Scar saw a smile beginning to surface on Tony’s face.
“You know who I am…don’t you?” he inquired.
“Yes, I know. You’re Scar, the scarred warrior who saved the great-grandfather Indian chief in the north.”
Scar sat looking at Tony for several seconds and then asked, “Would you like to see the old chief’s necklace? He gave it to me because I gave him food and a horse when he was sick and couldn’t walk during his trip to his summer camp. I seldom take it off.”
Tony nodded.
Scar removed the old chief’s necklace from around his neck and handed it to him.
Tony spread the claws of the necklace in the palm of his hand. There was an eagle claw, a claw from a bear, one from a wolf, and one from a mountain lion. As he took in the sight, it seemed memories of bygone times passed through his mind. Times when the Indians ruled the land…times when food was plentiful and his people were happy. As Tony handed the necklace back, he said, “I’ve seen many necklaces from very important chiefs before, but none like this. The old chief’s fame has spread throughout the Indian world.”
The two men spent the remainder of the morning discussing the past years of the Ute Indians. According to Tony, some years had been good, and some had been bad. They were now in a period of bad.
At noon Scar went to the café for his meal, but Tony made an excuse and remained behind. When Scar returned from the café, he asked, “Tony, I’d like to confide in you…tell you why I’m here. Can you keep a secret?” Tony nodded. Scar proceeded to explain about his being appointed a marshal by the governor, the letter from President Grant concerning the complaint on behalf of the Ute Indians at the Meeker camp, and his assignment to investigate the situation. “Can you offer any information, Tony? Is there a problem here? And if so, who’s behind it?”
Tony stared at Scar for several seconds and then walked to the livery’s barn door and opened it, checking for any possible listeners. There were none. He returned and sat down with his eyes searching for answers. “My people have very little. There are not enough clothes and blankets to keep warm, and the food is very limited. They are starving. There is much sickness because of the lack of these rations. Life is at a low point for them. There is no happiness…no joy.”
“Why is that, Tony? What’s happened to cause this?”
“The white man’s Army has restricted my people to a small settlement which limits their food and animal skins for clothing. They’ve been promised an adequate supply of blankets, clothing, and food in return, but in reality, the amount of food supplied is only half of what is needed, and most of it is rotten…not fit to eat. Much of it is only fit for dogs. The allotment of clothing and blankets is half of what it should be.”
“Have you reported this to the authorities?”
“Many times, but nothing changes. My people have given up all hope. Some of our elderly and children have already died, and undoubtedly many more will die before spring. Our women are grieving. Our young men are considering an uprising.”
“Who’s responsible for this bad treatment?” Scar asked.
“I have an opinion, but I’m not sure and don’t want to speculate.”
There was a long pause, and then Scar asked, “Tony, would you assist me in speaking with the natives? You could interpret for me?”
Tony nodded.
Chapter Nine
Scar woke a little before five the next morning. He threw a few pieces of wood on the burning embers in the stove, blew the fire back to life, and then splashed water on his face and finger-combed his hair. After feeding Maude and Frankie, he went to the livery barn door to leave. Before pulling the door open, he raised his coat collar and drew his hat down tight. The howling, snow-filled wind quickly grabbed the door and swung it back on its hinges. Scar stepped outside with one hand on his hat and the other on the door’s latch. As he leaned forward into the wind, he pulled the door closed, making sure it latched. It only took a few long strides for him to reach the café door.
“You’re here awfully early,” Abby said as she hustled about, readying herself for the morning rush. “I’ve only been here fifteen minutes myself. The fire’s already going, and the coffee beans are about through roasting. Won’t take me long to grind ’em. It’ll warm up in a few minutes. Have a seat…I’ll bring you coffee when it’s ready.”
“Thanks, Abby. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’m okay for now, but you might help me keep an eye on the coffee pot. The men will be getting here late this morning because of the weather and more than likely stay longer than normal drinking coffee. Don’t want it to boil dry.”
He nodded his agreement.
The aroma of potatoes and bacon frying had reached Scar when Abby came from the kitchen with the freshly ground coffee. After dumping several heaping spoons into the pot of boiling water, she sat down at the table with him. “Did you sleep in the livery last night, Bart?”
“Yes, I did. I met Tony, and we spent the afternoon together. He’s a good man. He’ll be a big aid helping me gather information concerning the Indian problem. He’s going with me to their settlement…show me around and do some translating.”
“Bart, why don’t we meet at the church at three o’clock this afternoon? There’s normally a lull in business about that time, and my helper can take over for thirty minutes or so.” Just then the front door opened and two men entered. Abby rose, gave Scar a slight nod, and reached for the coffee pot. It wasn’t long before coffee was poured and a large breakfast sat before the patrons.
Scar arrived at the church a few minutes before the scheduled time. Leaving Maude standing at the hitching rail, he went inside. It was a small church with pews that would seat twenty or so people. Figurines of Catholic saints were positioned carefully, and several paintings hung on the walls. Abby hadn’t arrived yet, so he went to the front and sat on a pew close to a burning fireplace. It wasn’t long before a short, slumped-over old man came out from a side door. His head was shaved, and he wore a brown wool robe with a rope tied around his waist. He was obviously the padre. As he approached, Scar stood and said, “Good afternoon, Padre. My name is Bart Carter, and I’m here to meet Abby.”
“Please be seated, Mr. Carter. I’ll wait with you.”
“Are you the padre who has schooled Tony over the years?”
“Yes, I am. He’s one of the most intelligent students I’ve ever taught and has grown into an honorable man of God. I’m very proud of him.”
There was a long pause before he continued, “You’re new to this area. Are you the person we’ve been waiting for? The one the government officials said would be coming?”
Scar looked surprised. It was obvious from the padre’s comment he had been the one who had asked the president for help with the Indian pro
blem. The church door opened and Abby entered.
“I see you’ve already met Father John,” Abby said as she walked toward them.
“Yes, we’ve met,” Scar responded. “I’ve been here a few minutes. The padre was telling me that he’s been expecting me…someone from the government.”
Father John smiled as he said, “I wrote to the president about the misconduct of our Indian assistance here at Meeker. I received word back that he’d be sending someone to look into the matter.” Scar spent the next few minutes explaining how he became a Colorado marshal and how the president had contacted Governor Routt, asking him to investigate the situation.
“Padre, could you give me an overview of what’s happening around here concerning the misappropriation of the Indian rations?”
“I’m not absolutely certain what’s happening,” the padre answered, “but I can explain what I think is going on. Abby may have some ideas, too.” Scar nodded and asked them to share their thoughts with him.
“There’re normally three wagons full of blankets, clothing, and food delivered to the Indian agent’s headquarters the first week of the month.”
Scar interrupted. “It sounds like a lot of goods to me. How many people are involved?”
“There’s a little over two hundred plus the children,” the padre responded.
“There doesn’t appear to be that many Indians around,” Scar said with a furrowed brow.
“Most live in a valley a mile north of here.”
“Aren’t three wagons of supplies adequate?”
“It was in the beginning. The natives seemed to be well-clothed and nourished. They were happy. But two years ago things seemed to go wrong. I started hearing complaints some weren’t receiving clothing or enough food, and most of the food they did receive was unfit to eat.”
“What’s changed? Are there fewer wagons coming? Maybe the wagons aren’t as full as they used to be,” the big man offered.
“No. That’s not it. According to Nathan, there’re still three wagons coming in, and they’re full,” the padre answered.