Matt had to admit that he would, given the circumstances. But then, he was a man prone to wander, anyway. He would most likely have left the Shenandoah sooner or later, even had he not been forced to run for his life.
For now, he was content to relax for a while, unburden his mind of serious thoughts, and let his horses fatten up a little on the rolling grassland. The bay and his big blue roan grazed with the Indian ponies, and Matt thought he could at last see some signs that Blue was learning to live without a constant portion of oats. The bay needed time to heal before Matt was ready to load a pack on him again. The horse had managed to wedge a granite shard inside the edge of its shoe, causing a bruise to develop. It was healing rapidly, but the horse still favored it. Too bad the horse doesn’t heal as fast as Ike, Matt thought. The huge man barely favored his wounded shoulder—testimony, Matt supposed, to either an amazing healing capacity, or a magic touch by Broken Reed. Matt was beginning to enjoy this leisure life as he sat with his back to the cabin wall, soaking up the sun from a clear Oklahoma sky.
“Hi-gi,” Broken Reed interrupted his reverie, and he opened his eyes to see her smiling face. “Hi-gi,” she repeated. “Eat.”
“Let’s eat it before she throws it to the dogs,” Ike said.
Yessir, Matt thought to himself, a man could get plumb spoiled by this kind of treatment. He could understand why Ike chose to live with his Cherokee wife. Broken Reed stepped back to allow the men to precede her, smiling at Matt as he passed by. When Ike followed, she reached out and patted his ample stomach. “Ya-ni-sa,” she teased, and giggled delightedly when the huge man grabbed for her. Too quick for his lunge, she danced away from him.
“I’ll show you who’s a buffalo,” he threatened playfully, and chased her toward the cabin. Matt couldn’t help but grin, watching the youthful antics of his big friend. Their play did, indeed, invoke the image of a buffalo bull chasing after a wolf pup. For a moment, Matt envied his friend. Though only half his age, Broken Reed seemed to glow in Ike’s presence. It was a good marriage.
* * *
Before long, Matt’s contentment with total relaxation waned, and he began to feel the itch to push on to country he had not yet seen. The rolling country around Old Bear’s village had taken on a monotony that prompted him to think about the Rocky Mountains he had heard about. Ike fully understood his young friend’s urge to see the high country. In his earlier years, Ike had succumbed to the same urges. He was just a boy when he followed his uncle out to Montana Territory, to Alder Gulch and many of the other little creeks, searching for gold. Like most of the other prospectors, they enjoyed spotty luck, finding dust here and there, most of which was squandered away by his uncle on strong spirits and card games. “I roamed the wild country for a few years,” Ike said. “Saw a lot of the territory, the Bitterroots, the Wind River Mountains, the Bighorns.” He paused to recollect, a misty look in his eye. “Hell, I reckon I’d still be roamin’ around somewhere out there if I hadn’t rode through Oklahoma Territory about seven years ago, and had Broken Reed throw a halter on me.” He laughed at the thought. “I’ve thought about takin’ her with me and headin’ outta this place, but she’s got relatives here she has to take care of. So I reckon this is where I’ll stay till they put me in the ground.”
“I expect it’s time for me to move on,” Matt stated. “It’s gonna be gettin’ into cold weather pretty soon, and I reckon if I’m gonna head to the high country, I’d best not waste any more time.”
“You sure you don’t wanna light here until spring? It gets mighty damn cold out on the high prairie. A man can freeze to death right quick.”
“I’ll be all right,” Matt assured his friend. “Broken Reed has fixed me up with some dandy winter clothes.” He paused to laugh. “Besides, if I lay around here much longer, I might get as lazy as you.”
Once the seed of adventure had taken root in his mind, it was not long before Matt developed an itch to be on his way. He had no particular destination in mind; he just had an urge to see what lay beyond the horizon. He had always been like that. When his folks were killed, he insisted that Owen should inherit the farm. He had been satisfied with the small parcel down by the river, knowing at the time that he was bound to leave it sooner or later. Had it not been for the war, he probably would have already been west of the high prairie. Now, he reminded himself, there was an additional reason to keep moving: an arrest warrant back east. It was his hope that he had left those who might be searching for him behind.
Ike interrupted his thoughts. “One of the young boys, Crooked Foot, and some of his friends told Old Bear they saw deer sign aplenty while they was huntin’ over near the Flint Hills. Whaddaya say you hang around a little longer, and we’ll do a little huntin’?” It was obvious to him that Matt was turning the prospect over in his mind, so he was quick to encourage the idea. “Most of the whitetails around here have been scared off. Crooked Foot said it looked like a sizable herd on the move. It’s a little early for the ruttin’ season to start. I expect the bucks ain’t hardly started to claim their does yet. They’ll all be fat and sassy, carryin’ their summer weight. Whaddaya say, Matt? We could use that rifle of your’n—be a good chance to pack in a lot of meat and hides for the village.”
The prospect was tempting. Matt always enjoyed hunting, but the last comment Ike had made convinced him. It would be a good opportunity to help supply the village with meat, and he felt obliged to the people in Old Bear’s camp. They had made him feel welcome, and thanks to Broken Reed’s deft hand, he was now outfitted for the coming winter in warm buckskins. “I reckon,” he finally answered. “Hell, I ain’t on any time schedule.”
Ike’s face immediately lit up with a wide smile. Gazing at the happy reaction from his friend, it struck Matt that he had come to be quite fond of Ike in the short time they had known each other. He was going to miss the man.
* * *
The hunt was quickly organized, with every able male member of the tribe eager to join. Due to the lack of young men in the village, it was a party of old men and boys. They all turned to Ike to lead the party, and with Crooked Foot acting as guide, they started out early the next morning. After taking a final look at Ike’s shoulder wound, Broken Reed nodded her satisfaction with the progress of the healing. She then cast an appraising eye at Matt’s buckskin shirt and trousers, again nodding her satisfaction with the results of her efforts. Though no more than half her husband’s age, Broken Reed tended to fuss over Ike in a fashion more motherly than wifely.
Riding a paint pony, Crooked Foot led them north after crossing over the river, then veered off to a more northwesterly course. According to Eke, if they were to hold that course for a couple of days, it would eventually lead to the Flint Hills and the tail-grass country. The deer Crooked Foot had discovered were far short of that, moving slowly through the hills, feeding on plants and grasses along the many streams, bedding down during the middle of the day in the ravines and dry washes. Once they reached the area where Crooked Foot had first encountered the deer, however, they discovered that the herd had moved farther north. “They ain’t far ahead of us, though,” Ike commented, examining the sign. Crooked Foot nodded in agreement.
Matt had to admire Crooked Foot’s ability to read sign. Only fourteen years of age, the Cherokee boy seemed to know what the deer were thinking just by examining the sharp hoofprints and the droppings. According to Ike, Crooked Foot was born with a deformed ankle bone, causing his right foot to toe in, resulting in a slight limp. His disability failed to hamper him in any activity. In fact, he had come to be admired by both his peers and the elders of the village as a responsible young man.
Confident in his own skills as a tracker, Matt studied a set of tracks that led away from a stream where the deer had stopped to drink. “Looks like they’re splittin’ off into small groups,” he decided. “This looks like a bunch of does, judging by the tracks.” He stood up to scan the terrain ahead. “I’d bet they headed for that patch of woods at the f
oot of those hills.” He pointed out a stand of cottonwoods about a quarter of a mile ahead. Crooked Foot nodded. The deer were seeking shady havens to rest in before looking for food in the cool of the evening.
There were a multitude of tracks near the tiny stream. Crooked Foot had been right in estimating a good-sized herd passing through the area. “Bucks there,” he said, pointing to a set of tracks heading off in a different direction. The hunting party decided to stalk the does, both for the quality of the meat and the softness of the hides. They divided into two groups. The first was led by Crooked Foot, and started out following the tracks heading toward the cottonwoods. Ike and Matt led the remainder of the party in a wide circle toward a low pass about five hundred yards beyond the grove of trees. Crooked Foot and his boys would flush the deer and drive them toward the pass where Matt and Ike would be waiting with their rifles.
In a short time, the ambushing party was in position. There was little doubt that the two white men would account for the major harvest of meat, but the old men and boys that lay in wait with them would take a respectable share with nothing more than bows. They had all barely gotten set when they heard the whoops and yells of Crooked Foot’s party. “East or west?” Matt asked casually as he cranked a cartridge into the chamber.
“East,” Ike replied, equally casual, and shifted his rifle around to sight along the left side of the pass.
Ike had already developed a fondness for this quiet young man from the Shenandoah Valley. He was soon to discover Matt’s proficiency with a Henry repeating rifle. With both men concentrating on the narrow pass, the deer suddenly appeared. There were seven, all does, and they burst through the opening, darting this way and that, but generally bolting up the western slope out of the pass. Matt rose to one knee and took aim. Methodically, with no waste of time between shots, he knocked down four of the deer—all kill shots—before the rest of the frightened animals disappeared into the trees on the slope. The waiting hunters immediately gave chase. Matt and Ike remained.
“Damn,” Ike remarked, still marveling at the show of marksmanship, easing back on the hammer of his rifle, the barrel still cool. “You don’t need no help a’tall, do ya?”
“They broke on the western side,” Matt replied contritely, thinking Ike was complaining that he didn’t get a shot.
Ike laughed and got to his feet. “That was some shootin’, partner,” he said, shaking his head in awe.
Crooked Foot and the others ran two of the remaining three does to ground, killing them with their bows. Later in the afternoon, the hunters flushed another bunch from a pocket of oaks farther along the line of hills, taking three young bucks. With a harvest of nine deer, the small hunting party decided it was time to call an end to the hunt, and get about the business of skinning and butchering. The final score was five killed with arrows and four by Matt’s rifle. Ike had not fired a shot. Although he made a show of unconcern, he could not totally hide his aggravation. Crooked Foot seemed especially amused by Ike’s lack of success, and could not help but tease his white friend.
“Next time, maybe we try to catch an old buck, and tie him to a tree. Then you can shoot him.”
Ike laughed, taking the teasing good-naturedly. He knew Crooked Foot actually held him in high esteem. In fact, the boy looked upon the older white man much like an uncle. Still, it bothered him more than he would ever admit that he had not killed a deer. His chance for redemption came unexpectedly, however, and almost as a gift. Riding back to the four does, Ike caught a flicker of movement in the trees on the western slope. Realizing that no one else had noticed it, he kept an eye on the clearing below the trees, and quietly cocked his rifle. Sure enough, the surviving doe of the original seven emerged from the foliage. Frightened and confused, the doe had evidently been chased in circles by the Cherokee hunters. The sharp crack of Ike’s rifle dropped the unfortunate doe at the edge of the clearing, bringing the total kill to an even ten.
“Most times you’ll get more meat if you keep your eyes open instead of your mouth,” Ike told Crooked Foot, with a wink for Matt.
Now the real work began as the hunters began the skinning and quartering. Soon all ten carcasses were hanging from tree limbs, gutted. When most of the blood had been drained, they were cut down and quartered, and readied for the trip back to the village. This time of year it was especially important to dry the meat as soon as possible to preserve it, so the hunters wasted little time in starting back. They had ridden a meandering trail while tracking the deer. On the trip back, it would be a shorter, more direct route.
* * *
Some nine miles away, Broken Reed paused for a few moments to listen. She had suddenly felt a sense of foreboding—something she could not explain, as if aware of an approaching storm. She put a half-finished basket aside and got to her feet. Outside, the sky was crystal blue, with no sign of a cloud. Looking back toward the other lodges and huts, she saw nothing amiss in the tiny village. The women were getting ready for a busy time when the hunters returned. Still, the sense of apprehension would not leave her mind, so she walked down by the river and stood for several minutes, looking toward the hills to the west. She wished that Ike would return soon. The hunters had been gone for two days now. She hoped that they had not had to trail the deer for too long, and might be back before another day had passed.
Broken Reed felt safe from all danger when Ike was at home. Standing now on the bank of the river, she pictured the great hulk of a man with his almost ever-present smile all but hidden in his bushy beard. She knew that Ike was born with an incurable wanderlust, and when he took her for his wife, she expected that one day she would turn and find him gone. But she discovered after seven years of marriage that the huge man possessed a faithful soul. And while the urge to wander sometimes overcame him, he always returned, usually with presents for her and her father. After a moment, she shrugged, shaking the feeling of dread from her mind. Ike and his new friend would soon be back, she told herself. Then she turned and retraced her steps to the cabin, unaware of the gathering evil that was about to strike her peaceful little village.
* * *
“It ain’t much of a village.” Nate Simmons remarked as Brance rode up beside him to take a look.
The two were soon joined by the rest of the gang, and the seven outlaws formed a line on the low ridge overlooking the valley. Brance studied the modest cluster of tipis and log cabins. Then he looked at the few ponies grazing on the far side of the river. “It’s a sorry lookin’ village all right,” he finally commented. This was the third village they had discovered after having followed the Illinois for over twenty miles. At first glance, they all looked about the same, devoid of any sign of prosperity. Brance was beginning to lose interest in his search for revenge. Each little Indian village they came to offered nothing to compensate for their long ride through the Cherokee Nation. The rest of the men were already grumbling among themselves, complaining about the tedious journey with no opportunity for reward—all but one.
Tyler gave his horse a sharp kick, and the animal started down the ridge. “We ain’t gonna find the bastard settin’ up here lookin’,” he snarled.
The others made no move to follow his lead, hanging back to complain. After waiting until the violent man was out of earshot, Church voiced the complaint that was on everyone’s mind. “Dammit, Brance, this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere. There shore as hell ain’t nothin’ in the whole damn Injun Territory worth stealin’. How long are we gonna follow that mad dog? Them two we’re lookin’ for might not’ve headed back here, a’tall. For all we know, they mighta headed on north to St. Louie, and right now they’re settin’ in a saloon somewhere while we’re out here eatin’ dust.”
His comments were met with mumbled echoes of agreement. Eli nodded thoughtfully and turned to his longtime partner. “Church is right, Brance. We sure as hell could be doin’ somethin’ a whole lot less wearisome.”
Brance gave it some thought. Although his passion to settle with the young fe
llow called Shannon was admittedly cooling somewhat, Brance still felt some reluctance to let him get away. What Church said was true—Shannon and the man he took up with might not have ridden this way at all. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. We’ve rode a helluva long way to give up now.” He nodded toward Tyler, already halfway down the ridge. “Tyler sure as hell ain’t thinkin’ about turnin’ back.”
“Hell,” Spit chimed in, “let Tyler do whatever the hell he wants.” He spat to punctuate his remarks. “That crazy son of a bitch might keep ridin’ till he hits the Pacific Ocean.”
Sensing that he might be seeing signs of dissension among his men, Brance glanced at his lieutenant. Seeing Eli’s nod, he made a decision. “All right,” he said, “we’ll ride on down and look this little village over. If Shannon ain’t hidin’ out here, we’ll say to hell with it, and head toward Missouri.” That seemed to meet with everyone’s approval, so they started down the ridge after Tyler.
Surprised to see riders approaching their village, the people walked forward to see what manner of white men would have reason to be in this part of the Cherokee Nation. Past experience had taught them to be wary of whites traveling the territory, so it was with a somewhat guarded posture that Old Bear greeted Brance’s gang. Reading the eyes of the foremost rider, Old Bear sensed a need for caution. The man had the look of a hunter of men.
“Hey, old man,” Tyler demanded, “you speak white man’s talk?”
“Some,” Old Bear replied.
“We’re lookin’ for two white men that maybe come ridin’ through here. You see any white men in the last week or so?”
Outlaw Page 11