Evil Breed

by Charles G. West

  “Virginia? Virginia?” Johnny repeated in stark amazement. “I ain’t ever been in Virginia in my entire life. I’m telling you, you damn fool, you got the wrong man.” The absurdity of his situation began to further stoke the fires of his anger. “You big dumb son of a bitch, you busted up my nose so I can’t even breathe through it. And I ain’t even the man you’re looking for.” When Slocum merely kept on riding without commenting further, Johnny asked, “What’s his name? The man you’re looking for?”

  “Jim Culver, same as yourn,” Slocum replied. “And I ain’t lookin’ for him no more.”

  “Well, there, now, you see? That’s where you made your mistake,” Johnny quickly retorted. “My name’s Johnny Malotte. Now why don’t you just cut me loose, and I’ll even forget about you bustin’ up my face.”

  “Oh, all right, Mr. Malotte,” he said facetiously. “Sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll just pull up under yonder shade tree on the other side of the bridge and cut you loose. How’s that?”

  “That’ll do fine.” Johnny felt a sense of relief. Things were looking pretty grim for him up to that point. But he promised himself one thing: When this wild-looking giant cut him loose, he would put a bullet in him for busting his nose.

  In silence now, Slocum led the horses across the bridge and guided them up under the shade of a tall cottonwood tree, just as he had said. He dismounted and untied Jim Culver’s Winchester from a strap on his saddle. Walking back to stand by Johnny’s stirrup, he said, “Now, Mr. Malotte, was it?”

  “That’s right. Johnny Malotte.”

  “Right. Well, you see, what throwed me off was you being about the right age, and carrying this here rifle with J.R.C. carved in the stock, and riding that big dun with the star face that I tracked in here from back north a piece. Why, I thought to myself that you must be Jim Culver. Looks like I made a mistake.” He reached up and untied Johnny’s hands, freeing him from the saddle horn.

  Satisfied that he had convinced the seemingly guileless brute, Johnny relaxed in the saddle. “Now, I’ll just take my rifle, and I’ll be on my way,” he said.

  “Shore,” Slocum said. “Here it is.”

  Johnny was not expecting the events that took place in the next few seconds. He sat there unsuspecting for a moment while Slocum took a step forward to transfer all his weight to his lead foot, insuring plenty of leverage when he swung the rifle. Holding it by the barrel, he caught Johnny just below his ear, knocking him out of the saddle. Stunned, Johnny nevertheless tried to scramble to his feet, only to feel the force of the rifle stock against the back of his skull. It would be the last thing he remembered for a while.

  Turning to cast his gaze upon a soldier who had stopped on the bridge to gawk, Slocum glowered at the young trooper until the startled spectator decided that what happened under the shade of the cottonwood was not his affair and quickly went about his business. Slocum shifted his gaze from the bridge back to the buildings of the fort. There were many soldiers, as well as civilians, coming and going, but none close enough to meddle. Satisfied, he reached down and picked Johnny up, grabbing him by his collar and the seat of his pants, and threw him over the saddle. Taking his time, he tied Johnny’s hands under Toby’s belly, then looped the rope over the saddle horn to keep him from sliding upside down. That done, he climbed aboard the gray and started the long ride to Fort Lincoln with his prisoner. “I can’t abide a lying, whining bastard,” he muttered as he passed by the outer buildings of Fort Laramie.

  Chapter 7

  “Ah, I see Dead Man is back from the land of the spirits,” Iron Bow called out cheerfully as he approached Newt Plummer’s lodge, referring to Jim by the Crow name he had given him.

  Newt glanced toward his patient, who was sitting outside the lodge, dozing in the morning sun. “Yes, he’s getting stronger every day. His wound is healing very well, although I wasn’t sure he was going to make it for a while.”

  Jim opened his eyes upon hearing the two men talking. He could not understand what was being said, since they spoke in the Crow tongue, but he turned to greet Iron Bow as the Crow war chief walked over to him. “Good morning,” Jim said.

  “Good morning to you,” Iron Bow returned, now speaking in English. “Red Wing tells me you are getting stronger.” He smiled warmly at Jim. “Soon we will hunt buffalo together.”

  Jim returned Iron Bow’s smile. “You better give me a few more days. I might fall off my horse right now.”

  * * *

  Jim’s recovery took a good deal longer than a few days, but once it started, he began to regain strength rapidly. Having lost everything he owned except the clothes he was found in, he owed a great deal to the charity of Newt Plummer and the people of Iron Bow’s village. Iron Bow made him a gift of the horse that had transported him back on the travois, and Wounded Leg’s wife sewed a fine deerskin shirt for him to replace his that had been torn away to treat his wounds. In the days that followed his initial recovery, Newt showed him how to make an Indian saddle. Before long Jim was taking short rides up and down the river. The people of the camp would smile and nod as he passed them in their daily routine—the women working with animal hides or harvesting roots and berries, the men on their way to or from their hunting. It seemed a peaceful way of life, and one that Jim could easily have adopted. But he had some unfinished business to take care of, so he knew his stay in the Crow camp would not be extensive. The biggest problem facing him was the fact that he had no weapons. And a man without weapons was no man at all in this country.

  Since there was no way to acquire a rifle, Jim determined that he was going to learn to use a bow. Newt offered to help him make one, but he suggested that Jim should ask Wounded Leg to help him. “I reckon I could show you how the Crows make one, but I ain’t never tried to make one myself. Now, Wounded Leg would most likely be glad to help you, and ain’t nobody in the village can make a better bow than Wounded Leg.”

  When Jim approached Wounded Leg with his request for help, the Crow warrior enthusiastically agreed, humbly flattered that his help had been sought. So, for the next few days, the making of the bow became Jim’s obsession. He climbed on his Indian pony, and he and Wounded Leg rode up into the hills to find a suitable piece of wood. Wounded Leg was not easily satisfied, so they scoured the trees until a young mountain ash was deemed the perfect candidate.

  Jim watched closely as Wounded Leg showed him how to shape his bow from a three-foot section of the wood, strengthening it with sinew on the back and fashioning a grip made of strips of hide wrapped around the center. More buffalo sinew was employed as the bowstring. Arrows were formed from shoots of the same ash, the shafts shaped by continuous passing of the wood through a hole drilled in a piece of horn, then rubbed smooth between two grooved stones. Through the use of sign language and a few fundamental words repeated often, Wounded Leg explained each step of the process.

  It was a simple weapon when finished, almost harmless-looking, like a child’s toy. But Jim was amazed by the power of the bow when he took it out to practice with it. Wild at first, he soon became fairly proficient with his primitive weapon. Having been blessed with a sharp eye and a steady hand, he progressed each day until his percentage of hits versus misses became quite respectable. His first kill with his new bow was a sage hen, with a shot of approximately twenty yards’ distance. He was as pleased as when he killed his first deer at age thirteen near the banks of the Rapidan River. Sitting around the fire with his Crow friends that night he was subjected to a great deal of good-natured teasing about his kill. He didn’t care, and laughed with them. He felt, in time, he could become quite accurate with the weapon.

  There were other things he needed before he could consider leaving his Crow friends and going in search of the man who stole his horse and rifle and left him for dead. Basic supplies for staying alive had been lost along with his horse—little things like flint and steel, extra clothes, salt, coffee—things that contributed to the simple pleasures and necessities, a razor and a wh
etstone. He needed money to acquire many of these things. Since money was impossible in his situation, his only opportunity was trade, and the most lucrative item to barter with were buffalo hides. Consequently, when scouts came back to camp with news that a large herd of buffalo had been sighted moving through the upper part of the valley near the Yellowstone, he was anxious to join the hunt.

  Jim was not so naïve as to imagine he was skilled enough with his new bow to go into the hunt with that weapon. He needed a rifle, and one became available to him when Newt decided to stay in the village. Newt offered to let Jim use the rifle in exchange for a share of the meat. Jim quickly agreed. He was interested mainly in the hides. So early the next morning, Jim set out with most of the men of the village toward the Yellowstone, Newt’s early-model Henry rifle resting across his thighs.

  Iron Bow told Jim that this would not be like the grand-scale hunts that would take place later on, when provisions were made for the winter. Later in the summer the whole village would follow the herds—women, children, everyone. On those hunts, there would be much planning in order to trap as many of the huge animals as possible, usually by stampeding them over a cliff, or into a box canyon, where they could be slaughtered. This time the hunters would descend upon the herd, killing individual animals on the run. It was a time when the young men competed to exhibit their skill and daring, darting in and out of the mass of thundering beasts on their nimble ponies, most with bows only. The hunt would not last long, Iron Bow explained, because they were very close to the land of their enemies the Blackfeet. This suited Jim just fine. He was in a hurry himself.

  * * *

  Just as the scouts predicted, the herd was sighted, moving slowly through a wide, grassy draw. It was an awesome sight to young Jim Culver. The dark current of moving bodies flowed along the length of the draw for as far as he could see. Iron Bow shook his head sadly as he told Jim that a herd this size was as nothing when compared to the herds of several years ago. “The buffalo used to cover the land, but the white man has come and slaughtered them for the hides, leaving the meat to rot on the prairie.”

  Hearing Iron Bow’s lament, Jim felt a tinge of conscience, because he knew he had come on the hunt for exactly that reason. The difference, he convinced himself, was that the meat would not be wasted, as well as the horns, hooves, and other useful parts of the animals. They would all be packed back to the Crow village, along with the hides he planned to take.

  The band of Crow hunters rode along the ridge above the draw after deciding to cut into the moving mass as it turned into the narrow end. Jim pulled a cartridge into the chamber of the Henry. He had brought no extra cartridges, satisfied that the fully loaded magazine would be sufficient for his purposes. Cartridges were precious to Newt, so Jim took no more than he thought he needed. He was confident enough in his expertise with a rifle—any rifle—to know he wasn’t going to miss a target as big as a buffalo. Having never fired the Henry before, he might be a little off with the first shot, but he would adjust on the second. Newt said it had a tendency to shoot low, but Jim would have to see for himself. Sometimes a jerky trigger finger caused a rifle to pull down slightly. Maybe Newt wasn’t as smooth on the trigger as he should be.

  When Iron Bow gave the signal, the hunt was on, and the riders plunged down the side of the ridge, straight into the sea of bobbing humps. The first buffalo cow dropped within seconds. Jim held his pony back while the others charged after the leaders. He had no intention of wasting even one cartridge, so he watched the first animals to fall, especially those felled by an arrow to see where the shots were placed. Behind the last rib—a lung shot. Jim knew Newt’s rifle was not a real buffalo gun. Like the Indians with their bows, he would have to place his shots strategically in order to fell each buffalo with just one cartridge. Ready now, he released his restraint on the reins, and the buckskin bolted into action.

  Racing along at full speed, the buckskin provided an almost steady shooting platform. Jim put his first shot right behind the last rib of a large bull. It was a couple of inches lower than he had aimed. Newt was right, he thought as the bull dropped to its knees and then tumbled head over heels. Jim adjusted his aim on the next target, then methodically squeezed off fifteen more rounds, dropping fifteen more buffalo. His rifle empty, he pulled off to the side while the hunt continued up the draw, the hunters shouting and whooping at the beleaguered animals, a long cloud of dust lying over the herd like a brown shroud.

  He looked behind him as the tail end of the stampeding herd passed through the grassy draw, grunting with the effort of their flight, swerving in their path to avoid the fallen carcasses. Among the random humps he could determine his kill, strung out in a neat, almost straight line. Sixteen carcasses—that should be enough to barter for the supplies he needed.

  As the last few stragglers passed the point where he sat on the buckskin, he was struck with a question. Could he take a buffalo down with his bow? There’s an easy way to find out, he thought, and slung the rifle on a loop of rope on his saddle. Taking his bow from the hide case on his back, he notched an arrow and urged his pony to give chase once more. The buckskin reacted immediately to his command and was soon racing down beside a large buffalo cow. Right behind the last rib, Jim reminded himself as he drew the bowstring fully. He released the arrow, oblivious to the sting of the sinew bowstring as it slapped his bare arm. His arrow sailed under the belly of the cow, only to ricochet harmlessly off the grass and land under the hoof of an old bull some twenty yards distant. Jim watched, disgusted, as the huge beast broke the arrow shaft in pieces. Then he looked around to see if any of the other hunters had witnessed his lack of proficiency with his bow. They were too far away to have seen him, all except one. Even at a distance, he could see the broad smile on Iron Bow’s face as the war chief gazed in his direction. “Damn,” Jim uttered.

  The work of skinning and dressing would take the rest of the afternoon, even with the men working as rapidly as possible. Since the Crows were well into enemy territory, Iron Bow sent scouts out to make sure the hunting party was not surprised by a Blackfoot war party. After the hunters had butchered and packed their kills, they set to work helping Jim.

  Iron Bow was truly impressed with Jim’s marksmanship, using a rifle he had never fired before. “You are very good with a rifle,” he said, astounded by shooting so rapid that it was no more than a quarter of a mile from the first kill to number sixteen. He nodded his head in admiration, then gave Jim a little wink. “I think you must practice a little more with your bow.” The other men seemed puzzled by the remark, but Iron Bow did not offer an explanation. Instead he said, “The packhorses cannot carry all the meat. We will have to make travois.”

  * * *

  Jim’s problems were only partially solved when the hunters returned to camp. The hides he had taken would buy him most of the basic things he needed, but he was going to need a packhorse to carry the hides. And while they might do well to outfit him with new possibles, like blankets, a frying pan, coffee and sugar and such, they were not enough to replace his precious Winchester .73 and Colt .45. The only way to do that, in his mind, was to find Johnny Malotte, and that was what he was determined to do, if it took the rest of his life. Iron Bow was right. I’d better go back to practicing with my bow.

  He kept only a small portion of the meat he had brought back, all that he could really handle. After giving Newt his share, there was still plenty to be divided among the people. His gesture was well received. A large feast was held on the first night the hunting party was back in the village, and great quantities of buffalo hump were roasted over the cook fires. It was a jubilant banquet that lasted until the early-morning hours, with many tellings of Jim’s expertise with a rifle.

  Jim’s quest soon became common knowledge among the people of the Crow village, and there was genuine approval of his desire to find the man who had left him for dead and then stolen his possessions. Many of the men offered encouragement; among them Iron Bow’s son, Wolf Paw, s
eemed to take the most interest in the young white man. Jim’s grasp of the Crow language was expanding daily, until he became able to converse with the people of the village without interpretation from Newt or Iron Bow. Had his determination to have his revenge not been so powerful, Jim might have considered lingering in the Crow village for a time. Newt had a warm, roomy lodge he was happy to share. The women of the village took great delight in helping him scrape and dry his buffalo hides. And when it became obvious to everyone that his one pair of trousers was wearing thin, Wounded Leg’s wife sewed him a new pair from softened deerskin. He began to develop an appreciation for his brother Clay’s embrace of the Shoshoni way of life. It was going to be hard to leave his Crow friends.

  In the days that followed the buffalo hunt, Jim practiced with his ash bow until he became competent enough to hunt game larger than rabbits and prairie chickens. Before long he advanced beyond mere competency to become deadly in his ability to place a powerfully launched arrow where he aimed. And all the time he worked at honing his skill with the primitive weapon, he thought about Johnny Malotte sitting on Toby’s back, cradling his Winchester.

  Sometimes at night, when lying awake listening to the steady drone of Newt Plummer’s snoring, Jim thought of someone other than Johnny Malotte. It was during the deep hours, after Newt turned on his side and the snoring subsided—when the camp was still, with nothing to break the silence but occasional nickers and whinnies from the pony herd, when she came to his mind. As he lay there in the darkness of the tipi, he would try to see her face, but it appeared in his mind’s eye as if seeing her reflection in the rippling waters of a stream, her features vague and constantly changing.

  There had been a long period of time when he had not consciously thought of Lettie—when he was recovering from his wounds, suspended between the living world and the land of dreams. He even thought at one time that he was already forgetting the troubled feelings he had had for the slight young girl. He was not unaware of the shy glances he received from some of the young Crow maidens as he rode in from the hunt with an antelope carcass across his saddle. And he had to admit that he gave some serious thought in that direction. But as he regained his strength, she came to him more and more. Soon he was forced to tuck thoughts of her away in order to concentrate on his preparations to search for Johnny Malotte, bringing them out again at night in the darkness. He knew he was going to have to make a decision about his feelings for Lettie, but he told himself it would have to wait. Johnny Malotte came first.