Crackaway's Quest

by Will DuRey

  His willingness to repress the spirit of the insurgents produced a rise in his worth to Agent Archer and he soon became his right-hand man. Accordingly, rewards followed, small privileges progressed to additional payments and choice goods from the supplies that were intended for the bereft western Sioux. It was a situation that he was anxious to maintain. One threat to it had been dashed by the message he’d carried to John Lord regarding the old wasicun, but now the threat was renewed by the arrival of Wiyaka Wakan. His interference could spark resistance among the new arrivals.

  Lame Dog was disappointed when Wes Gray didn’t veer on to the uphill trail. He had assumed that the scout’s destination was Palmersville and that he would come within range of his rifle before he was ever aware that he was in a gunman’s sights. Now, he could only watch with frustration as the white man raced past the fork on the trail below. An unsuccessful shot would not only be a forewarning of the threat to his life but also point to the Agency as the source of his danger. Lame Dog lowered his rifle, returned it to its scabbard and pressed his heels against the flanks of his pony. The message would have to be delivered and the task of killing Wiyaka Wakan undertaken by white men in Palmersville.

  Five hundred head of cattle had been hustled out of the Spearpoint pens early that morning, had then been chivvied around the outskirts of the town and led on to the wide expanse of plain that was the first stage of the journey to the Missouri. The weather was good and the way ahead free of hazards. The seven men in the crew of which Tad Carter was leader, would ease the cattle along to preserve their good condition. Even so, they expected to cover fifteen miles before sundown, the intention being to bed them down close to the funnel that led into the gap between the first high mounds of the grassy uplands.

  For a man who’d endured the hardships of the Goodnight-Loving trail, this current undertaking was no challenge. Tad Carter, riding at the head of the herd, would get the cattle to their destination without breaking a sweat. His mind was occupied with a more troubling problem. He’d ridden with Clem Oates for several years and knew him to be as tough as any range rider he’d ever come across, but last night, when he’d shown up at the Yellow Mountain saloon in Spearpoint, he’d been a frightened man. With wide, staring eyes, he’d described the effort to bushwhack Wes Gray which had resulted in the cruel deaths of Tom Petit and Texas Pete. He’d shot him, Clem had assured Tad, probably dead, but he hadn’t gone back to make sure of the kill and Tad wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth. The only thing he knew for certain was that Clem was gripped by fear; had lost his nerve. He’d watched as his companion had poured rotgut from a bottle and thrown it down his throat like so much water, impervious, it seemed, to its harshness and foul taste.

  Tad recalled the fight in the saloon at Palmersville, remembered the stony expression on the face above him as he was pinned against a table with the point of a wicked hunting knife at his throat. It was the face of a man who had killed and would kill again when necessary. He could believe Clem’s description of Texas Pete hanging from a tree and the gutting of Tom Petit with that same knife. An unexpected sensation that death was close at hand swept over Tad and he shouted an angry order at a trail-hand just to shake away the uncomfortable feeling. He hoped Wes Gray was dead. If he wasn’t he would kill him on sight; he couldn’t afford to give him any opportunity to shoot first.

  From a high grassy dome, Wes Gray could see the dust of the herd as it made its slow progress in his direction. In front, perhaps a mile ahead so that the only dust they had to eat was their own, was a string of high-sided wagons pulled by six-horse teams. Spare horses were tied to the tail-rail of some of the wagons in case of accidents along the trail, but a full remuda for the short drive to the Indian reservation and a wrangler or two to keep them on course had been deemed unnecessary. One of the wagons, Wes decided, would belong to Rafe Leeward. He would like to inspect the goods in those wagons, find out what was being delivered to the people of the Cheyenne River Agency. To satisfy his curiosity he nudged the pinto forward then let it pick its own way down the hillside to the grassy meadow below.

  Rafe Leeward was three wagons back in the ten-long string and he’d recognized the pinto when it was some distance away. When they were within hailing distance he greeted Wes. The scout pulled his mount around in order to ride alongside the wagon. He wanted to know when they would reach the Agency.

  ‘Two days,’ Rafe told him. ‘We’ll cross the river tomorrow then it’s a straight run after that.’

  ‘What are you carrying?’ Wes had allowed his eyes to roam over the stock in the back of the cart. There were boxes and kegs and soft bundles as well as bags and sacks which were piled high at the rear.

  ‘Foodstuffs, tools and clothing. Regular commodities.’

  ‘I hope it’s better quality than the last shipment. The people over there are starving.’

  ‘You’ve been on the reservation?’ Rafe was clearly surprised by the other’s freedom of movement.

  ‘I’ve been,’ he said, ‘and they need those supplies as soon as possible.’

  Rafe’s mind suddenly caught up with Wes Gray’s previous words. ‘What do you mean, better quality? We take what we get. It all comes from the government stores in Cincinnati.’

  Wes had seen some sacks at the back of the wagon that were marked with the now familiar red government stamp. He hoisted himself on to the back of the wagon straight from the saddle. Rafe Leeward shouted in protest and a rider from the head of the column swung his horse around so that he could investigate the commotion.

  ‘Hey you,’ he yelled. ‘Get down from there.’

  Wes ignored him and hauled one of the sacks forward. Something about it had excited his interest. It had been sewn along the top but not with any precision. Wes’s immediate impression was that the sack had been opened and hastily re-stitched.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the man on horseback. ‘What are you doing on that wagon?’

  Wes ignored him. ‘What’s in here?’ he asked Rafe.

  ‘Grain,’ was the answer then immediately, Rafe spoke to the other man. ‘This is Wes Gray, Hugo, the man they call Medicine Feather.’

  The fame of the frontiersman didn’t appease Hugo, who was the leader of the supply train. ‘That’s government property you’re interfering with. I’d advise you to get off that wagon now.’

  Wes barely threw the man a glance. ‘I don’t think I’m the first to have interfered with it,’ he declared, showing the uneven line of stitches. With unexpected swiftness he pulled his knife from its embroidered sheath and prepared to slice across the top of the sack.

  Yells of outrage issued from both Rafe and Hugo. A pistol appeared in the latter’s hand pointed directly at Wes Gray’s chest. ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘that sack has a government stamp on it and it’s my job to get it and everything else in these wagons to their destination. I’ll shoot you like a common road-agent if you put the smallest nick in it.’

  Wes Gray didn’t like people pointing guns at him; he felt the weight of the knife in his hand and considered the possibility of hurling it into Hugo’s chest more quickly than the other could pull the trigger. But he refrained from violence – it was possible that the man was innocent of any plot to cheat the Sioux of their rightful goods.

  ‘Does the government know that these sacks have been opened?’ Wes asked.

  ‘Not by me or any of these drivers,’ Hugo replied. ‘We just deliver what arrives.’

  ‘But you supervise the loading of the wagons?’

  ‘No. That’s done in Palmersville. I don’t see them until the cattle arrive and we’re ready to leave.’

  ‘So you don’t know the condition of the goods you’re transporting.’

  ‘No need to know. My job is just to get them there.’

  ‘The Sioux are starving because they are receiving fouled goods. I want to know if this cargo, too, has been spoiled.’

  ‘Not my business to interfere.’ Hugo had consignment notes that had been
duly completed. Any discrepancy or complaint concerning the items delivered was a matter between the Cheyenne River Agent and the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and Wes Gray had no authority to stop the wagons nor to examine the cargo. They had a few more miles to complete before sundown and couldn’t afford to delay any longer. ‘The cattle are getting closer,’ he added, ‘the drovers will be wondering why we’ve stopped.’

  He was right. Rafe, standing to look back across the meadow, pointed at a rider bustling forward, the hoofs of his galloping bronco kicking up dust and stones as it advanced.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ the cowboy asked as he reined in beside Hugo. ‘Tad wants to know why you’ve stopped. He says we can cover another mile or two before bedding them down for the night.’

  ‘We’re moving on now,’ Hugo assured him. ‘Mr Busybody here,’ he indicated Wes in the back of the high wagon, ‘has taken an interest in the goods we’re carrying. But it’s time for him to go.’ He looked up at Wes and spoke to him. ‘Like I say, Mr Gray, you’ve got no authority to interfere with goods we’re carrying so I suggest you get back on your horse and don’t interfere with government property again.’

  Wes didn’t want to get into any kind of ruckus with the teamsters, they were simply doing a job of work, but he was sure that if they were opened he would find the sacks had been plundered of half their contents and topped up with dirt to make up the lost weight. He was keen to inspect all the goods in the wagon, find out if the other foodstuffs had been tampered with in some way and if the remainder of the cargo was suitable for its purpose. If the government was sincere in its efforts to convert the Sioux into farmers then the tools it was sending on to the reservation needed to be suitable for the job. He clambered on to the pinto from the back of the wagon.

  The cow-herder was watching him closely. Wes Gray’s name had been on everyone’s lips since the beginning of the trip and, noting the frontiersman’s buckskin clothing and the long eagle feather attached to his hat band, quickly deduced that that was the identity of the man now astride the pinto. The fight in the Palmersville saloon had been a major topic of conversation over the past couple of days, although not while Tad Carter was in the vicinity. Still, he had no doubt that Tad would be interested in the news that the man who had got the best of him and Clem Oates was the cause of the current delay and showing great interest in the goods that were being transported to the reservation. ‘I’ll tell Tad you’re pushing on,’ he said to Hugo then, with a lingering look at Wes Gray, turned his horse and raced back towards the herd that was more than half a mile distant.

  The man’s interest in him hadn’t escaped Wes Gray and he knew his presence would be reported to those riding with the cattle. The man had dropped the name Tad when speaking with Hugo so Wes assumed that Tad Carter was with the trailing herd. It seemed likely that one day there would be a reckoning between them. It had almost occurred at the cemetery gates but Jenny Trantor’s arrival had put a halt to that. Perhaps when the cowboy reported back Tad would come looking for him, but according to Bob Best, that wasn’t Tad’s style. John Lord’s man preferred to be the possessor of an unfair advantage. For the moment, it suited Wes to avoid a conflict. His main purpose was to find someone with the authority to check those wagons before they got across the Missouri. He wasn’t sure such a person existed but he had to try. He took his leave of Rafe Leeward and cut away up the hillside.

  Once over the brow of the hill and beyond the sight of those below he reined to a halt, his intention to investigate the contents of the sacks simply delayed, not abandoned. He dismounted, removed his hat to lessen the possibility of being spotted from the plain below and crouched in the grass to observe the scene. If, when he got the cowboy’s report, Tad sent out men to hunt for him, he wanted to know about it. However, his observations put an end to that possibility. There were only seven men with the herd so until they were bedded down for the night everyone was needed to keep the herd together and moving. One man, probably Tad Carter, led the way forty or fifty yards ahead of the herd. Two men rode drag to hustle the stragglers and there was a point and swing rider at either side to keep the herd tight. Nothing in the way the cattle moved suggested to Wes that they were anything but A1 beef, but from his high point and with a view obscured by high rising dust, it was hard to be certain. He needed to get closer but for that he had to wait for darkness. Tad Carter would be on the lookout for him now that he was aware of his interest in the wagons.

  Wes Gray had long since learned the lesson of patience, that it paid to wait for favourable conditions before committing to action and although, on this occasion, the delay was eating into the time he had to spare before reaching Council Bluffs, he didn’t allow it to become a consideration that affected his decision. He waited on the hillside and watched as those below settled down for a night camp. The herd was halted four hundred yards short of where the wagons had been arranged in a long oval. By the time darkness came, fires had been lit, a meal prepared and night guards posted. Despite Rafe Leeward’s declaration that the wagons and cattle travelled together to ward off robbers, Wes knew that the major task of the night herders was to keep the cattle settled. They were nervous critters, easily spooked by the scent of a wolf or the grumble of a grizzly bear. The herders themselves would be more asleep than awake in the saddle as they made an occasional circle of the herd.

  He made his move when he figured that all but the two cattle guards were in their blankets. After he picketed the pinto in a grove of trees he descended the hillside on foot. Having accompanied the warriors of his Arapaho village on raids against the Crow and Shoshone, he was able to approach the cattle herd undetected. He paused in a patch of long grass while one of the herders rode past with his head slumped forward on his chest. Perhaps because it caught Wes’s scent as it passed within a handful of strides, the horse snorted and startled its rider into wakefulness. He stopped, cast his eyes over the sleeping cattle then, content that all was well, moved on again. Wes figured he had thirty minutes to check out the herd before the far rider had circled around to this point.

  Crouching, Wes moved silently among the sleeping beasts. It didn’t take him long to decide that they were prime beef animals. He wasn’t an expert on cattle but he suspected that these were a cross-breed with Herefords in their lineage. They were full-bodied, as Sheriff Johnson in Palmersville had told him. Good stock, not the old, skinny, perhaps infected cattle, he confessed, that he’d expected to find. He knew he should be pleased that the Sioux would soon have meat for their pots but he couldn’t shake away the images he carried of the suffering people at the Cheyenne River Agency. He determined to investigate the wagons; perhaps he would find something there that would produce evidence to support the Sioux claims of false dealing from the government.

  Under cover of darkness, the distance to the wagons was easily covered. Wes’s long-legged lope devoured the distance and robbed him of little energy. He kept his eyes open for the positions of the circling night herders but they neither saw nor heard him. For added security, to lessen the possibility of a chance sighting by either of the horsemen, Wes worked his way to the farthest end of the oval before selecting a wagon to investigate. Men were sleeping under some of the wagons but he could see many forms settled around the remnants of the two fires that had been the focal point for the night-time meals, card games and discussions. Wes hoped that no one had chosen to sleep in the wagon he selected.

  It was a good choice. Like Rafe Leeward’s it contained a variety of goods and although there was little light to aid his search he was soon convinced that the sacks in this wagon had, like those in Rafe’s, been opened and re-stitched. But it was when he moved aside a bundle of blankets that he made his major discovery. A row of small kegs were jammed against the wagon’s front board and under the driver’s seat. The harsh smell of cheap whiskey assailed Wes’s sensitive nostrils. The sale of whiskey to Indians was strictly prohibited and its transportation on to reservation land as part of approved government suppl
ies would not be condoned. Clearly, the goods that were being delivered were not those designated by the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

  For Wes, the discovery simplified matters. If he could get a message to a military post then the army would intercept the wagons before the goods were delivered to the Agency, and John Lord would have a lot of questions to answer. He was about to slip back over the side of the wagon when the sound of a fast approaching horse carried to him.

  A voice shouted from somewhere within the camp. ‘Rider coming. Rider coming.’

  Men were stirring all around. Two torches were quickly lit from the embers of the dying fires and held aloft to cast a light for the incoming horseman. They positioned themselves at the gap between the next wagons from the one in which Wes still waited. He lay flat and still, hoping that the dancing flames wouldn’t choose some ill moment to illuminate him.

  Tad Carter was flanked by two armed men when he reached the spot where the horseman had halted. Although gruff in his acknowledgement of the new arrival, it seemed to Wes that the visitor wasn’t unexpected. If Carter was annoyed by the interruption to his sleep, his words didn’t betray it.

  ‘Where’s Clem?’

  ‘He sent me instead.’ There was a hint of anger in his voice, as though he should be sleeping at this hour, not riding across the open range in moonlight.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Tad asked.

  ‘Apart from Clem jumping at every sound and movement. Something’s got him as nervous as a new colt.’

  ‘It’s that squaw man and Clem might have reason to be worried. He was hanging around the wagons a couple of hours ago. He’s gone now, probably to Palmersville. Tell Clem to give that place a wide berth for a while.’