Evil Breed

by Charles G. West

  His first thought was to wonder why Malotte hadn’t tried to use the rope. Then he reasoned that he probably would have, but all of his initial effort went toward freeing his leg. Jim wasted no more time on speculation. Untying the rope, he looked overhead, searching for something stout enough to support his weight. His gaze settled upon a couple of saplings, growing together almost on the lip of the gully. They were too tall to try to throw a loop over, so his only option was to try to toss one end of the rope over the saplings near their roots. He looked around for something to use as a weight. There was his ax. He considered that for a moment. If I throw it up there and it gets hung on something, then I’ve thrown away the tool to cut toeholds and handholds. He gave that a moment’s thought. Hell, if it hangs up so tight that I can’t pull it down, then it ought to support my weight.

  Knotting the end of the rope as tightly around the head of the ax as he could, he fed out a good twenty feet of slack. Swinging the ax back and forth to test the weight, he steadied himself with one foot on the saddle and the other on the horse’s rump, gradually increasing the arc of the swing until he finally heaved it upward. His aim was to throw it over the two saplings, some fifteen feet above his head, causing the hatchet to drop down on the other side, pulling the rope back down to him. His toss was a few feet short, and the ax caught on the trunk of one of the trees, just as he had suspected might happen. He gave the rope a couple of hard tugs. The ax was lodged tight. Giving it one more tug, he decided it was secure, so he grabbed Malotte’s rifle by the barrel and threw it as far as he could to clear the top of the gulch. Then he reached up, took a firm hold, and began pulling himself up hand over hand.

  So far, so good, he thought, straining against the rope, his boots trying to find purchase in the hard side of the gully. Halfway up, he felt the rope slipping on the handle of the hatchet. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, and tried to climb faster. It was too late. Suddenly the knot slid down the smooth handle, and at once he was dropped back in the gully, landing once again on the carcass of Johnny Malotte’s horse. “Dammit to hell!” he cursed, and got to his feet, still holding the rope.

  He untied the knot in the end of the rope and looked around for something else to use for a weight. Finding nothing better, he emptied the cartridges from his pistol, pulled the end of the rope through the trigger guard, and knotted it. Hefting it a couple of times, he decided it should be easier to lob over the saplings than the ax had been. The thought proved to be true, but it still took half a dozen attempts before the pistol successfully looped over the trees and dropped back down to him. He knew then he was as good as out. He tied the two ends of the rope together to preclude any danger of losing one end while he pulled himself up. Three minutes later he was out, standing on the edge of the deep slash in the earth. With no time to waste, he looked around to quickly retrieve his ax and the rifle. Then he was off at a trot down the mountain.

  Shunning the trail that wound down the mountain, he hurried straight down the slope, making his way through the brush as fast as he could without losing his balance and breaking his neck. His determination fueled by pure anger, he pushed his body relentlessly. He was afraid it had taken him too long to escape from the gully, and his only hope of catching up to Malotte would be if the horses he had mentioned were so scattered that it would take him some time to round them up.

  Breathing hard, he came to a small meadow no more than fifty yards from the bottom of the slope. Off to his right he could see where the game trail made one more sharp turn before descending to the rolling hills. There was no sign of Johnny Malotte or any horses. He was too late. Dejected, but still determined, he walked across the meadow, trying to give his breath a chance to catch up. He had to decide which direction to take from the base of the mountain. There had to be enough tracks to point the way.

  Just as he left the open meadow and entered the pines that ringed the base of the mountain, he heard voices above him, coming from the trail. Dropping to one knee, he brought the Henry up to rest across his other knee while he listened. It took but a moment to realize that it had to be the Indian war party tracking their stolen horses. There was a decision to be made, and he made it quickly. He was still new to the country, and he didn’t know which Indians might be friendly, and which ones viewed any white man as an enemy. He had to consider the possibility that the Indians might mistakenly take him to be the one who stole their horses. Clay had warned him that even those supposedly friendly to the white man might take a lone man’s scalp if they caught him in the wrong territory. So until he knew them better, he decided to treat them all as hostile. He couldn’t speak in their tongue, anyway. How in hell could he explain he was after the man who stole their horses, the same as they were? Better to keep out of sight, he decided.

  Lying flat on his belly behind a rotten log, he waited for the war party to pass by him. Thirteen strong, they filed by—young warriors, painted for the warpath, feathers fluttering in the afternoon breeze, their ponies prancing impatiently as they were held to a walk while several of the riders studied the tracks at the bottom of the slope. Jim could not help but admire the way the warriors, most of them naked from the waist up, sat straight and alert on their ponies. He wondered if they were Sioux, Crow, or Shoshoni. It made him determined to learn to make the distinction for himself.

  He guessed mere had to be a confusion of tracks left by the scattered ponies when they descended the trail unattended. It couldn’t have taken Johnny Malotte long to round them up, however—to be already out of sight driving a herd of horses. He probably got lucky, Jim decided, and found them in a bunch at the bottom of the trail. There was a small branch not far from the base of the hill. The horses were probably drinking when Johnny had arrived on Toby. The image of that stirred Jim’s anger once more, and his hand tightened on the stock of the Henry.

  The warriors didn’t take long in scouting the trail. They looked around carefully, then discussed the sign. In two minutes they agreed on the direction and set off toward a line of lowlying hills to the south. Jim counted the war party as a definite sign of luck for him. He had no doubt that they would track Johnny Malotte down. All he had to do was follow the warriors—if he could keep up. With that thought in mind, he sprang to his feet and gave chase, the Henry rifle in one hand, the coil of rope in the other, and the ax stuck in his belt.

  Although Jim considered himself a strong runner, he soon found that he was going to be hard-pressed to keep the war party in sight. They were moving fast, and he was already gasping for air. Pretty soon he had to stop for a few moments to catch his breath. His heart pounding in his chest, he looked up at the sun. It was getting low. He wondered if Malotte would stop to make camp before dark. There was not much hope that Jim would be able to follow the tracks after dark. He had to keep the Indians in sight. Taking a deep breath, he started out again, this time at a trot. He had not covered a hundred yards before his breathing became labored again. He pushed on, spurred on by his ire at having been gulled by the smiling Johnny Malotte.

  He was breathing so hard that he didn’t hear the hoofbeats behind him until the horse nudged him between the shoulder blades. Startled, he leaped aside, stumbling as he did so, causing him to tumble head over heels and wind up on his back, gazing up into the dark eye of a curious paint pony. Jim lay there for a few moments while the pony sniffed his chest and belly, looking for some sign of recognition. He immediately realized that luck had sent him some transportation when he most sorely needed it. Evidently Malotte could not afford the time to round up all his stolen horses, and this one was obviously following the others.

  “Easy, boy,” Jim cooed, and reached up to stroke the white face of the paint. The pony accepted the affection and made no attempt to retreat when Jim slowly got to his feet. “Easy, boy,” he said again as he stroked the horse’s neck. “I believe you’re somebody’s favorite. You’re as tame as a kitten.” It was a fine horse and obviously well cared for—no doubt by one angry individual riding in the war party ahead
of him. “Well, son, let’s go find your papa.” He fashioned a bridle by cutting off a length of rope and looping a couple of half hitches around the pony’s lower jaw. Then he hopped on its back and set off after the Indians.

  * * *

  Well, looks like you’ve got your ass in a tight spot again, Jim thought as he knelt on one knee, watching the scene below him. There was his old friend Johnny Malotte, tied to a tree trunk, while off to the side a baker’s dozen Indians sat around a fire eating what looked to be deer or possibly antelope. On the other side of a small stream the horses grazed, Toby among them, still saddled. Jim felt a little quiver of relief when he spotted the big horse standing with the smaller Indian ponies. Behind him he heard a low nicker from the paint. Although out of sight behind the hill where Jim knelt, the horse was aware of the other horses across the creek. There was an answering whinny from one of them, but the warriors seated around the fire paid it no mind.

  Jim focused his attention upon the hapless horse thief bound hand and foot to the cottonwood. Johnny’s head was hanging, his chin almost touching his chest, but Jim could still see streaks of drying blood across his face, glistening as they reflected the glow of the firelight. It gave him the eerie appearance of a painted warrior. Judging by the man’s sagging body, Jim could guess that Malotte had been severely beaten. It surprised him that he was still alive. As angry as he was at Johnny, he couldn’t help but feel a modicum of sympathy for him. It’s his own damn fault, he told himself. He dug his own grave. Serves him right.

  Jim gave the situation a great deal of thought. If he went down there to try to reclaim his horse and rifle, there was a pretty good possibility he might wind up tied to the tree next to Johnny. But he knew without doubt that he was damn sure going down there to get his horse.

  There was another option. He checked the magazine of Johnny’s Henry rifle again. It was loaded. So he had sixteen cartridges, and there weren’t but thirteen Indians. The odds were in his favor that he could maybe cut half of them down before they had a chance to protect themselves. But after that he would have a hell of a battle on his hands, one in which he would be outnumbered as much as six to one. Then, too, he really had no reason to attack the Indians. They had done him no harm. They were merely dealing with a horse thief. It was hard to say what method of execution they planned for Johnny, but Jim was certain it wasn’t going to be pleasant. But, hell, it ain’t none of my affair. He squatted on his heels for a long minute, trying to decide the best way to approach the group of Indians. “Hell,” he finally concluded, “I aim to get my horse and rifle back.”

  * * *

  Iron Bow held up his hand to silence his comrades. The conversation around the campfire ceased immediately, and the warriors turned to see what had captured the war chief’s attention. In a few moments they all saw what had caused him to gesture. As one, they all started to spring for their weapons, but Iron Bow calmed them again with no more than a silent signal. “Wait,” he said. “It is only one man.” With moonlight bathing the clearing before the camp, it was apparent that it was a lone rider approaching the camp. Seeing no threat from one man, the warriors waited, watching with curiosity, their weapons ready nonetheless.

  Determined to take back that which belonged to him, Jim sat ramrod straight as he walked the paint Indian pony slowly toward the middle of the camp. He held Johnny Malotte’s rifle up over his head, his red bandanna tied around the barrel. He had nothing white to use as a flag of peace, but in the light of the moon it was difficult to determine the color, anyway. “I come in peace,” he called out, hoping they understood English. There was no verbal response, just a puzzled exchange of looks and murmured comments among the warriors standing there.

  As Jim entered the circle of firelight, one of the warriors suddenly grabbed a rifle and started toward him. Iron Bow quickly stopped him. The warrior protested. “That is my pony!”

  “I see that,” Iron Bow replied, never taking his eyes off the white man now practically in their midst. He was fascinated by Jim’s boldness against such overwhelming odds and was curious to see what the white man intended to do. “We can easily kill him. Let’s see what this white fool is going to do.” Wounded Leg obediently stepped back and silently watched with the others.

  Without knowing the language, Jim didn’t know what had been said, but it was clear to him that Iron Bow was the leader. His bluff had paid off to this point. By boldly riding into camp, he had piqued the warriors’ curiosity, and they had not immediately set upon him. He knew what they knew: They could kill him anytime they took a notion. He only hoped that his brazen attitude would gain him enough respect to bluff his way out of there with his horse and rifle.

  Barely glancing at the warriors now closing in on either side of him, he pulled the paint up before Iron Bow and dismounted. With exaggerated gestures, he motioned for Iron Bow to follow him, and started walking toward the horses across the stream, leading Wounded Leg’s paint behind him. They all followed. Jim didn’t even glance at the sagging body of Johnny Malotte as he walked past the tree where he was tied.

  Toby raised his head and whinnied softly when Jim crossed over the narrow stream and stopped before him. Jim turned to Iron Bow. He pointed to Toby and then back to himself, pounding his chest with his finger. The Indians dutifully followed his every motion. Jim then pointed beyond them to Johnny Malotte and then back to Toby. He tried to make riding motions to convey to them that Malotte had ridden off with his horse. He could see the puzzled expressions on their faces, so he tried to exaggerate the motions, swinging his hips back and forth in rhythm. This only seemed to confuse them more. Finally Iron Bow’s curiosity got the best of him.

  “Are you trying to say that man mated with the horse?” Iron Bow asked in almost perfect English.

  “No!” Jim shot back. “No. What I’m saying is that man stole my horse. I wish I’d known you spoke American. I coulda told you straight out.” He nodded his head toward the paint. “This horse belongs to you. I brought him back to trade for my horse. He stole my rifle.” He held up the Henry. “This rifle for my rifle.” He looked Iron Bow in the eyes. “Give me the things that belong to me, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Iron Bow was truly fascinated by the brash young man. He turned to relay what Jim had said to his warriors. Jim couldn’t tell from their reactions whether he was in deep trouble or not. There was a great deal of discussion among them, and after some earnest conversation between Iron Bow and one of the warriors, the warrior stepped forward and held out Jim’s Winchester. Jim wasted no time taking it, at the same time handing the warrior Johnny’s Henry. Looking around him now, he met smiling faces, and he realized that there was going to be no trouble over reclaiming his possessions.

  “How are you called?” Iron Bow asked.

  “Jim, Jim Culver,” he responded.

  “I am Iron Bow of the Crows. You must camp here and eat with us tonight. Then you can go on your way in the morning.”

  Jim accepted graciously. He might have preferred to move on immediately, but he figured he might insult Iron Bow if he refused his hospitality.

  Across the stream, Johnny Malotte raised his chin slightly. Having heard the exchange between the Indian and the white man, he prayed there might be hope for him.

  “What do you intend to do with him?” Jim asked, gesturing toward Malotte.

  “Him?” Iron Bow echoed with an uninterested shrug of his shoulders. “He is a horse thief. We will kill him in the morning.”

  Jim didn’t reply. He turned and took a hard look at the man bound to the tree. He wondered why the Indians hadn’t already killed Malotte—not so much for stealing horses, but merely because he was a white man. Probably want to let him think about it all night. It ain’t my business. Johnny Malotte dug his own grave. Death was a pretty severe penalty for stealing horses, especially among Indians, who customarily stole horses whenever the opportunity presented itself. Horse thieves were commonly hung by the supposedly civilized whites, but to an
Indian it was the natural thing to do. He shrugged. It wasn’t his business, he reminded himself.

  * * *

  Iron Bow turned out to be a gracious host. He and his warriors were happy to share their food with Jim. Wounded Leg was especially grateful for the return of his favorite war pony. He had trained the animal from a colt, and he had been crestfallen to discover the paint missing when they caught up with Malotte and the other stolen horses.

  Iron Bow told Jim that he and several of the others in his small band had often served as scouts for the soldiers at Fort Laramie. “The Crows have long been friends to the soldiers,” he said. When Jim said that his brother sometimes scouted for the soldiers at Fort Laramie as well, Iron Bow asked his brother’s name.

  “Culver,” Jim replied, “Clay Culver.”

  Iron Bow’s eyes lit up. “Ahh, Ghost Wind,” he said, nodding his head approvingly. “I have ridden with your brother. He is a mighty warrior.”

  “Ghost Wind?” Jim asked.

  Iron Bow smiled. “That is the name given him by the Crow scouts. When the Hush Wings flies—that is the bird the white man calls an owl—it flies silently, making no sound with its wings. It is said that if you hear the sound of the Hush Wings’ flight, it is a Ghost Wind. Your brother moves silently like the Hush Wings. Those who hear him hear the Ghost Wind.