Paddy sighed. “Aye, but letting that rider live may bring big trouble down on all the Cheyenne . . . and me.”
“How can one rider bring big trouble?”
“Well now, did ye not know, he’s the nephew of Sean Corcoran.” Paddy spat his enemy’s name out with particular venom.
“Sean Corcoran.” Chief Tall Bear said the name in English.
Lone Eagle and the chief conversed, then Lone Eagle explained. “The chief knows Corcoran works for Dodge. Now he knows the rider is the nephew of Corcoran.”
Chief Tall Bear spoke to Lone Eagle again. Lone Eagle interpreted once more. “The chief says Cheyenne will not kill Corcoran’s nephew. That will make the railroad boss mad. That will bring big trouble.”
Paddy sighed. Further protest wasn’t going to gain him anything. He’d have to find another way to take care of Will Braddock—and Corcoran—and the nigger.
“You bring the bullets?” Lone Eagle asked. “You bring the whiskey?”
“Now how would I be doing that? Isn’t it that I rode straight here with ye? Sure, and I’ll have to return to Kavanagh to get the ammunition and whiskey.”
“You bring the bullets and whiskey. Then we will give Kavanagh the horse.”
“Well, Mayor Kavanagh, he don’t want the horse, don’t ye see. Sure, and he gives Chief Tall Bear a gift of the horse.”
Lone Eagle translated and spoke again to Paddy. “Good. Chief keeps the horse. He is a strong racehorse. You can leave now. Chief will wait for the bullets and whiskey.”
The chief stood and waved a hand in dismissal at Paddy.
“Sure, and I will. That’s a promise, ye might say.”
Chief Tall Bear ducked low when he exited to keep from dislodging his eagle feather headdress against the opening in the tepee.
Shortly thereafter, Paddy led his horse toward the edge of the camp. Lone Eagle walked silently beside him. “Humph.” Paddy snorted. They didn’t even trust him to leave by himself. Maybe they thought he’d steal something. He grinned. They were right. If he had half a chance he’d grab something of value just to pay them back for their rudeness.
He walked beyond the circle of tepees with Lone Eagle, where they stopped. They watched a rider approach from the south. Paddy identified him at the same time Lone Eagle apparently did. The rider wasn’t an Indian. It was Will Braddock.
Paddy drew his Navy Colt, but before he could cock it, Lone Eagle grabbed it out of his hand.
“No!” Lone Eagle hissed. He held the revolver out of reach with one hand and gripped Paddy’s shoulder tightly with the other. Paddy winced from Lone Eagle’s strong grip.
“Well now, Chief Tall Bear may’ve ordered ye not to kill that rider,” Paddy said. “But seeing as how I don’t take orders from no Indian chief—”
“You take orders from Chief Tall Bear when you are in his village.”
Lone Eagle released his grip on Paddy’s shoulder. He flicked the percussion cap off each chamber and jammed the disabled revolver into Paddy’s holster. “Mount,” he said. “Ride straight down the creek, Irishman. When you can no longer see tepees, turn south.”
Lone Eagle pushed Paddy toward his horse. Paddy knew he couldn’t overpower the Indian. Even if he had his Bowie knife out, he probably couldn’t take the half-breed. Lone Eagle was taller and stronger. Without a loaded gun Paddy was helpless. He jammed a foot into a stirrup and heaved himself up.
“Leave Will Braddock alone,” Lone Eagle said. “You kill him . . . I will kill you.”
Paddy glared at Lone Eagle. “Someday, half-breed. Someday.” Paddy kicked his boot heels into the flanks of his horse and rode down the creek bed.
CHAPTER 38
* * *
After riding away from Fort Russell the evening before, Will had followed the trail left by the Indians until the diminishing light made tracking impossible. While the light had lasted it’d been easy to identify the hoofprints left by the two shod horses. Had he been tracking the unshod ponies alone, the task would’ve been difficult.
He dismounted by a lone tree on the open grassland, wrapped the reins around a branch, and leaned against the tree. He wadded up his hat to cushion his bandaged head against the rough tree bark and tried to sleep. But the throbbing in his skull, and the horse shuffling around beside him, made for a restless night.
Before he knew it, the rays of the rising sun streamed into his eyes. The eastern sky was devoid of clouds. If stormy weather were to develop, it would come later in the day from the west, from over the Rocky Mountains. Time to get started.
Will rose and adjusted the bandage that had drifted askew from rubbing against the tree. He touched the lump behind his ear and winced. Shaking the wrinkles out of his slouch hat he eased it down over the bandage.
He picked up the trail of the horses and ponies easily in the daylight and followed it northwest, keeping the Laramie Range off to the left. By visualizing General Dodge’s map, he felt fairly certain he was on the right path. He stopped every hour to rest the horse and nibble on the hardtack he’d found in Homer’s saddlebags. Homer had also left a revolver and a canteen in the bags.
Mid-afternoon the undulating prairie abruptly gave way to a steep decline into a wide basin carved over thousands of years by the erosion of a meandering stream. A mile ahead lay Lodge-pole Creek. The lush vegetation along the water course etched a dark-green swath through the broad valley, contrasting sharply with the lighter green of the short grass that stretched away on either side. On the far bank of the creek, a cluster of tepees fanned out in a large semicircle. He’d found the Cheyenne village.
He rode down the slope and across the basin. He watched a mounted man with a bowler hat ride east away from the camp along the north bank of the creek. “Humph,” Will snorted. “Paddy O’Hannigan, dang your hide.”
On the opposite bank of the stream, outside the ring of tepees, a solitary figure stood with his arms folded over his bare chest. A single eagle feather hung from a beaded head band.
Will urged the horse through the shallow water and reined to a halt in front of Lone Eagle. “You didn’t have to come out to meet me.” Will chuckled and then winced when his attempt at a joke caused his head to throb.
“Head hurt?”
“Yes.” Will touched the sore spot behind his ear. “Thanks for saving my life.”
“We are even now. A life for a life.”
Will nodded. Homer was right.
Lone Eagle stared at him. “You are either one brave fellow, or one dumb one. Why do you come here alone?”
“I came to get my horse back.”
“Buck?”
“You remember his name. I’m impressed. You and those other braves, along with that no-account Paddy O’Hannigan, stole him from me.”
“You ride into a Cheyenne camp unarmed?”
“I have a revolver in the saddlebags.”
Lone Eagle grunted. “Do you a lot of good in the saddlebags.”
“I thought it best to ride in without a weapon. Show I come in peace.”
Lone Eagle shook his head, turned and walked into the village. Will followed on horseback.
They passed through the outer edge of a double ring of tepees. The flapped openings on all of the lodges faced east, no matter where the tepee was pitched in the circle. The broad opening in the ring of tepees also faced east. The Cheyenne obviously paid homage to the rising sun.
Children ran alongside and swatted at Will’s legs with switches. Dogs nipped at the horse’s heels. Lone Eagle spoke harshly in the Cheyenne tongue and the children backed away, but the dogs continued their yapping.
Will looked straight ahead and guided his horse behind Lone Eagle. From the corner of his eye he spotted the warrior who had clubbed him with the tomahawk. He turned his head to stare at the warrior with the blackened face. A scalp of tangled red hair hung from his belt. At least Will thought it was a scalp. He’d never seen one before. The warrior returned Will’s stare.
Will turned his atten
tion back to following Lone Eagle. In an open area in the midst of the central ring of tepees, Lone Eagle stopped. Will reined in.
A stately, elderly Indian approached riding Buck. His warbonnet trailed eagle feathers from two red bands that flowed down his back and touched the ground on either side of the horse. The Indian drew up in front of Will. Buck whickered and tossed his head, letting Will know he recognized him.
Lone Eagle spoke in Cheyenne to the mounted Indian, then spoke to Will. “This is Chief Tall Bear, my grandfather. My mother, Star Dancer, was his daughter.”
Will dropped his head as a sign of respect, but kept his eyes on the chief.
“Chief Tall Bear knows your uncle,” Lone Eagle said. “Now he knows you. Tell him why you have come.”
Will sat straight and cleared his throat. “Chief,” he said. He swept his right index finger in a long arching loop in front of him to indicate that the chief was above all others. “Tall.” He raised his right arm to its full extent above his shoulder. “Bear.” He placed both hands alongside his forehead with his palms open and quickly clasped his fingers together into the shape of claws.
Will glanced at Lone Eagle, who smiled and nodded his approval.
Will turned back to the chief. “I.” He pointed to his own chest with the thumb of his right hand. “Take.” He pointed his right index finger at Buck and repeatedly hooked his finger back toward himself. “Horse.” He held his left hand before him with his fingers pressed together and placed the index and middle finger of his right hand atop his left to signify a person sitting astride a horse.
The chief laughed and spoke to Lone Eagle.
“Chief Tall Bear admires your sign language.” Lone Eagle translated. “But you will not take the horse. It is his now.”
Will’s shoulders slumped. He wasn’t sure what else he expected riding alone into the Cheyenne camp. He certainly had no authority over Chief Tall Bear. He could call him a horse thief he supposed. But he knew it was considered an honor among Indians to steal horses from other tribes. Why should they care about a white man’s law that arrested horse thieves?
The chief spoke at length to Lone Eagle, then turned Buck to the side and rode away. Will slid off his horse and stood beside Lone Eagle.
“Chief says you are a brave fellow. He says you can live. He knows your uncle surveys for Long Eye Dodge.”
“Long Eye Dodge?”
“White men call him General Dodge. Cheyenne call him Long Eye Dodge. When he surveyed our mountains many years ago he looked through a transit. Is that right . . . transit?”
“Yes.”
“Cheyenne knew that Long Eye Dodge could see a long way through the transit.”
Will doubted he would ever call the general Long Eye Dodge. He wondered if Dodge knew the Indians called him that?
“The chief says he is glad you were not afraid to come here alone. He says you should eat before you walk.”
“Walk?”
“He keeps your horse. You walk back.”
Will followed Lone Eagle through the camp leading his horse. They stopped near the creek’s edge, outside the circle of tepees, and added Will’s horse to a herd of a dozen others that were corralled behind rawhide rope strung around several trees.
“Chief Tall Bear keeps his horses here near the village. The special horses . . . racehorses. The warriors’ ponies are out on the prairie, to graze.” Lone Eagle motioned to the north of the camp.
Will counted a half dozen young boys watching the horses. Obviously their job was to ensure the horses didn’t stray. Buck was in the herd and trotted up to Will.
“Hello, Buck.” Will reached across the rope and stroked the horse’s forehead. Buck whickered and nuzzled Will’s cheek.
“I’ll get you out of here,” he whispered. “I promise.”
“Come,” Lone Eagle said. “We will eat.”
Lone Eagle led Will to a tepee in the outer ring. He motioned Will to join him on a log in front of a cook fire. Will removed his hat and laid it on the ground, revealing the white bandage wound around his scalp.
Lone Eagle raised his eyebrows and grinned. “You need an eagle feather in that bandage and you will be Indian.”
“Maybe a turkey feather. To show how gullible I am in thinking I could walk in here and get Buck back.”
An old woman hunched over an iron pot that rested on a bed of coals in the fire pit in front of Lone Eagle and Will. She stirred the pot’s contents with a long-handled wooden spoon.
“Lone Eagle,” Will said. “When I rode in I saw the brave that hit me the other night . . . the one whose lower face is black. Was that a scalp tied to his belt?”
“Yes. That is Black Wolf . . . leader of the Crooked Lances. I want to join the Crooked Lances someday.”
“Crooked Lances? What’s that?”
“White men call it a military society.”
“Like the Dog Soldiers? The ones that burned Julesburg?”
“Yes.”
A young girl skipped up to the old woman and handed her two hollowed-out gourds, then turned and raced away. She wore a pair of black, high-button shoes. Before Will could say anything about the girl’s unusual footwear, the woman handed each of them a gourd filled with a gruel of some unidentifiable nature.
“Eat,” Lone Eagle said.
Will forced himself to eat the strange-smelling stew. It’d been more than a day since he’d eaten anything other than hardtack. If he was going to walk back to Cheyenne, he needed nourishment. His plan hadn’t included a long walk. He wasn’t sure he ever had a plan.
CHAPTER 39
* * *
Paddy sat across the desk from Mort Kavanagh. Sally Whit-worth stood beside Kavanagh’s swivel chair, her hand on his shoulder.
“Twice I could’ve killed him,” Paddy said. “Twice. Sure, and both times that half-breed Lone Eagle stopped me.”
“Forget about killing Will Braddock,” Kavanagh said. “That wasn’t what was important. Stealing General Rawlins’s horse was the objective, and you finally managed to pull that off. Maybe now General Grant will get the message that pushing the construction of the railroad too fast is not a good idea.”
“Sure, and I’ll be avenging my pa someday by killing that surveyor’s nephew.” A night seldom passed that Paddy didn’t wake from the recurring dream of his father dying from Sean Corcoran’s saber thrust. Paddy ran his fingers along the scar on his cheek. “Aye, I’ll get that boy someday, and that’s the truth of it.”
Sally sneered. “Why do you call him a boy? You’re not much older than he is.”
“Humph,” Paddy snorted. “Maybe not age-wise, but I grew up fast after my pa died. That be four years ago, Sally, my sweet.” He flashed his rotten-toothed grin at her.
Sally wrinkled her nose. “I’m not your sweet! I’m not your anything and don’t you forget it.”
“Enough bickering,” Kavanagh said. “Tell us more about this white girl that’s captive in the Cheyenne camp.”
“Aye, pretty she is,” Paddy said. “A real bonny lassie. But a scared one, for sure. Said her name was McNabb, Jenny McNabb.”
“McNabb. McNabb.” Kavanagh repeated the name, reaching for a newspaper on his desk. “That sounds familiar.” He shook open the Cheyenne Gazette and scanned the columns. “Here it is. That’s the name of the family the cavalry brought into Fort Sanders after their wagon had been ambushed. It says here that Alistair McNabb, a former one-armed Confederate cavalry officer, his daughter Elspeth, and son Duncan survived the attack. Another daughter was captured . . . Jenny McNabb.”
“I think I know that family, Mort,” Sally said. “Ben Abrams said he sold the ribbon I wanted to buy to a girl accompanied by her one-armed father. That was the day I met Will Braddock in Julesburg.”
Kavanagh read more of the article. “Says a Percy Robillard was killed and scalped.”
“Well now, sure, and that’d be the fresh scalp I seen sported ’round by Black Wolf,” Paddy said. “A redheaded scalp, it was
.”
“What are the Cheyenne doing with this white girl?” Kavanagh asked.
“Well, such a charming girl, don’t ye know. She’s a slave to the chief’s old wife, Small Duck. Least ways that be what she told me. The bonny lassie asked me to help her escape. I told her that’d be mighty dangerous and would get me skinned alive if I tried, to be sure. I said I’d try to get you to buy her from the chief if she’d agree to come work for you. She said she might as well be a slave to the Cheyenne.”
“It’s not like the Cheyenne to keep a slave,” Kavanagh said. “They usually sell them to the Blackfoot or the Sioux.”
“Well, do ye see, this Small Duck leads the lassie about with a leather thong tied ’round her neck. Makes her do the cooking and scrubbing, she does.”
“Ben Abrams described the girl who bought the ribbon as pretty,” Sally said. “He may be just an old Jewish merchant, but if she was pretty enough to impress him, then she must be a beauty. We could use another girl. Maybe you could buy this Jenny McNabb from the chief.”
“If the old chief’s wife has her doing chores,” Kavanagh said, “she’s not likely to part with her. But this other girl. There’s a possibility. The newspaper says this Alistair McNabb plans to spend the winter in Fort Sanders in the hopes he can locate his missing daughter.”
Mort laid the newspaper on the desk. “Railroad won’t get to Fort Sanders until spring. It’s going to be a boring winter for a girl stuck there in the meantime. I’ve been meaning to ride over and scout out a place for moving Hell on Wheels after the tracks cross the Laramie Mountains. I bet I can entice this Elspeth McNabb into joining our establishment, Sally.”
Sally stroked the back of Mort’s hair. “That’d be a welcome addition. I could teach her the business and she could take some of the pressure off me so I could spend more time with you, dear Mort.”
“Phew,” Paddy snorted. “Sure, and ye don’t do nothing now, sweetheart.”
Sally launched herself around the end of the desk at Paddy. She slapped him across the face. “How many times do I have to tell you, that I’m not your sweetheart, you slimy Mick. And I do a lot more work around here than you do!”
Eagle Talons (The Iron Horse Chronicles: Book One) Page 18