Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  Spanner was rapidly losing patience. “Boy, I need to see the sheriff. This is official army business.”

  The boy was unmoved. “Well, sir, I reckon you could go out to the sheriff’s house. I can tell you how to get there.”

  “I reckon you better do that.” Before the boy could begin, Spanner continued, “You had any strangers through town in the last few weeks? I’m looking for a man, a man name of Tom Allred.”

  The lad thought on it for a moment. “Well, there’s always strangers coming through town. I ain’t seen nobody by that name. Why are you looking for him?”

  “He’s wanted by the army for murder. You ain’t seen anybody? A man traveling alone?”

  “No, sir, ’cept maybe a feller named Dakota. But he don’t sound like the feller you’re looking fer.”

  “Is that so? How long has he been in town?”

  The boy scratched his head. “Two or three days, I guess, but he don’t seem like the kind of feller’d murder somebody.”

  “Yeah? Well, this feller I’m lookin’ for might not seem like that either. Where can I find this feller, what was his name, Dakota?”

  “Most anywhere around town, I reckon. He eats at the Cattleman’s, been staying at Pop Turley’s stable down at the end of the street.”

  “I reckon I’ll go down to the stable and have a look before I go to see your sheriff.”

  * * *

  “How you doin’ boy? You getting tired of standing around in here?” Tom held the bag of oats and stroked Billy between his ears while the horse munched eagerly. “You know, you’ve been getting kind of spoiled, sleeping in a warm barn, eating oats. You’ll be so spoiled you won’t be worth a nickel come springtime.” Suddenly, Tom was alert. He couldn’t say he heard something: it was a sixth sense maybe. He couldn’t explain it, but for some reason he sensed danger. Billy’s ears flicked up. The horse sensed it, too, or sensed Tom’s reaction. Tom wasn’t sure which, but it was enough to spook him. He slowly lowered the feed bag to the floor and eased over to the front of the stall where his rifle was leaning up against the wall. Moving very slowly and deliberately, he placed one foot down carefully after the other in the straw, making as little sound as possible. Outside the stall, in the center of the stable, he stopped to listen. Had he heard something? If it was Pop or one of his boys, they would have made a great deal more noise. Maybe he was just jumpy. It was probably a rat in the hayloft, or one of the horses rustling the straw. He listened—nothing. He decided he was just overly edgy.

  “Just throw that rifle down right on the ground there, and put your hands up real high,” a voice said from behind him.

  For an instant Tom froze.

  “I said drop it,” the voice commanded. It was followed by the metallic click of a hammer cocking. Tom let the rifle fall to the floor. “Now, Loootenant, turn around real slow.”

  Spanner! Even in the half-light of the stable, there was no mistaking the tall, rawboned figure of Sergeant Waymon Spanner. Tom felt every muscle in his body tense.

  “Now you just stand right there and keep your hands high where I can see ’em.”

  Tom stood motionless while Spanner struck a match and lit a lantern that Pop kept hanging on a post. The flame glowed bright and illuminated a ragged circle of light in the darkened barn, throwing long shadows across the floor. Spanner set the lantern on top of a feed bin, keeping his long cavalry pistol leveled at Tom while he did so. As Tom watched the sergeant, a feeling like a cold round ball invaded the pit of his stomach. He could not be sure what Spanner might do, but Tom knew he would not be long in enlightening him.

  “Well, now, if it ain’t my favorite officer. You know, I’ve been covering a helluva lot of territory looking for your sorry ass. And here we are, just you and me.” The flickering light from the lantern caused the shadows to dance an eerie pattern across his face, a face that appeared broken and scarred, the result of Tom’s rifle barrel across his nose. Seeing the focus of Tom’s gaze, his lips parted in a sneer and he smiled wickedly. “Admiring your handiwork? How do you like my nose, you son of a bitch?”

  “You brought it on yourself, Spanner,” was Tom’s sober reply.

  “Is that so?” Spanner spit back at him. “Well, that’s what I’m gonna tell the provost marshal when I get back to Lincoln—he brought it on hisself. You might be thinkin’ I’m taking you back for trial, but I ain’t ’cause you’re gonna try to escape. Too bad the rest of the detail is in the Cattleman’s having a drink, ain’t it? Nobody but me and you, and you gittin’ ready to try to escape.” He raised the pistol and took aim at Tom’s chest. “You know something, Loootenant? I’m gonna really enjoy this.”

  Tom didn’t wait for the bullet to come. He dove into the stall, rolling over and over, grabbing his rifle as he did. The roar of the revolver split the silence of the stable at almost the same time. Tom heard the splintering of wood as a bullet ripped into the side of the stall. It was followed almost immediately by a second shot that buried itself in the post where Tom’s head had been a split second earlier. In the confusion that followed, he was not clear on the chain of events. He was aware of the horses screaming and stamping, and he remembered rolling over and over until he crashed up against the back of the stall. He did not remember cocking his rifle or even pulling the trigger. In the blur of the moment, he remembered seeing Spanner’s image standing in the open end of the stall and the look of shock on his face when he was almost cut in half by three shots from Tom’s rifle. The shots were fired in such rapid succession that he didn’t recall cocking the lever between each shot. The most vivid image he retained of the incident was the last brass cartridge shell as it flew, end over end, up against the side wall of the stall, and the surprise on Spanner’s face as he seemed to be staring at its flight.

  Tom didn’t move from his position, sitting with his back against the hard boards of the stall, for what seemed like a long time. It was as if he were paralyzed, oblivious to the screaming of the stamping horses around him. He wanted to get up, but his legs felt drained of strength, so he simply sat and stared at the lifeless body of Sergeant Spanner. He might have sat there until the sheriff or the rest of the soldiers came had he not glanced toward the hayloft and encountered a pair of terrified eyes peering over the edge of the loft. He had forgotten that Pop’s youngest boy, Jimmy, was still around the stable. The sight of him served to shake Tom from his trance, and he scrambled to his feet and attempted to calm Billy down. His sense of reasoning having returned, he knew what he must do.

  “Jimmy!” he yelled. “Get down here and help me with these horses!”

  While the boy slid down the ladder from the hayloft and went from stall to stall, quieting the nervous horses, Tom saddled Billy and rolled up everything he owned in his buffalo robe. He strapped on his saddle pack and led Billy out of his stall. Before mounting, he reloaded his rifle and shoved it into the boot. Pausing for a moment, he said, “Tell Pop I’m leaving ten dollars to pay for what I owe him. I’m taking this sack of oats to boot.”

  Jimmy just stood there, staring wide-eyed at the body lying at his feet, the straw underneath it darkening with blood.

  “You hear me?” He thrust the money into the boy’s hand.

  “Yessir,” the boy choked out, “I’ll tell him.”

  Chapter VIII

  Tom pointed Billy’s nose across the Yellowstone until the lantern glow of Miles City faded away. Then he crossed the river again and headed northwest. About midnight, a light snow began to fall. Good, he thought, they’ll play hell trying to pick up my trail now. Still he pushed on, wanting the security of knowing there was plenty of distance between him and whoever might be following. The snow stopped before daylight, and he was pleased to note that a blanket of at least a couple of inches had settled over the prairie. At sunup, he pulled up in a stand of trees that offered some protection from the wind and made camp. Knowing there was little danger of someone spotting his smoke in the early morning sunshine, he built a fire and spread out his
buffalo robe for a few hours’ sleep.

  Rested, he started out again in bright sunlight that promised a better day than the one before. The snow had not amounted to much, being no more than a squall and merely a rehearsal for what would soon be coming. It crossed his mind that he had sworn not to spend another winter holed up by himself under a mountain. But here he was, on the run and as alone as a man can get. Maybe he could winter with the crew at the Broken-T. He considered the possibility for a while. Eli Cruze was a man of principles, and Tom was a wanted man. How would he feel about having a fugitive from the law on his crew? The more Tom thought about it, the more he discounted the likelihood of being welcome at the Broken-T. Other ranchers might not be so concerned, but Eli was a man of principles. He dismissed thoughts of wintering with his former companions. Still, he could pick up his money and push on until he found a town far enough away to be out of Fort Lincoln’s or Fort Keogh’s jurisdiction. There were dozens of little mining towns buried back in the hills where civilization was but a glimmer on hope’s horizon. Maybe his brother, Little Wolf, and Squint Peterson were somewhere far off to the west. He was as much an outlaw as his brother, maybe even more so. If he could find them, he might be welcome there…or he might not.

  He let Billy choose an easy pace as he rode over the rolling hills of buffalo grass. If he had estimated his location accurately, and he was pretty sure he had, he should be able to make the Broken-T by early the next day. His mind was occupied with thoughts of the friends he had left behind at the Broken-T when Billy suddenly stopped and threw his nose up in the air, snorting the wind. Tom’s first thought was Horses! There must be another horse nearby. Then he glanced down and noticed the obvious trail left by a travois and two horses crossing his own trail. His mind had been so preoccupied that he would have missed the tracks if Billy had not stopped. “A good way to lose your hair,” he scolded. After a quick look around him, to make sure he was not about to be attacked, he studied the trail. It led off across a hill toward a deep draw. The trail was still fresh. They could not be far away, and they were Indians for sure. The ponies were unshod, and, after examining the tracks more closely, he figured there were maybe three or four of them, one pulling a travois. It seemed an odd time of year for a small party to be traveling the plains. They should be on a reservation or in winter camp by now. He decided it might be a good idea to have a look for himself.

  The trail was easy enough to follow through the small patches of snow left by the previous night’s storm. There seemed to be no attempt to disguise the tracks. He decided to circle and pick up the trail on the far side of the draw. There was no use taking a chance on riding into an ambush since he wasn’t sure the Indians hadn’t spotted him. He pressed Billy into a gallop and rode to the east for a half mile or so before cutting back north to pick up the trail at the far end of the draw. When he got there, however, there was no trail to pick up. He scouted back and forth for a while before deciding the Indians he followed were still in the draw. He considered forgetting about them and pushing on toward the Broken-T as he looked at the lined sides of the ravine where the Indians must surely be. The best thing he could do might be to leave well enough alone. But his curiosity was too greatly aroused at this point, and he decided he would at least take a look from the hill on the downwind side of the draw, if for no other reason than to eliminate his worry about them.

  There were three of them, two women and what appeared to be either a sick or wounded man. Tom could not be sure from that distance. Though early in the day, the women appeared to be making camp. Their horses were tethered among a stand of cottonwoods. Tom assumed that meant the man’s condition was too critical to travel farther. It was obvious the three Indians posed no threat to him, but still, he was curious enough to want a closer look. He hesitated for a long time, deciding. Finally, he crawled over the crest of the hill and worked his way down behind a dead tree from which he had a better vantage point. He lay there for perhaps a quarter of an hour, watching the activities of the three Indians. He could not see the man but he was sure that the women were Cheyenne. Tom found it odd that they should be traveling alone, and almost in Blackfoot territory at that. As he watched, he struggled with another decision. These miserable-looking hostiles meant nothing to him. They had once been his enemies. He had fought them, along with the Sioux. They were supposed to be on a reservation anyway. The government had declared that any Cheyennes or Sioux not on the reservation were considered to be hostile. But, he reminded himself, he was not in the army now. It was no longer his job to kill Indians. These three human beings were obviously in need of help, and he found it difficult to turn his back on them. “Ah, what the hell,” he muttered and rose to his feet.

  He was almost upon them before his presence was detected, which he found strange in itself. In fact, when he thought about it, it was damn unusual he had even been able to watch them from back there on the hill without their knowing it. The horses discovered him first, causing the women to look up from their task of building a fire. When they saw him, their first impulse was to take flight and both women started to run but they were held by the wounded man on the travois. Not knowing what to do, and obviously unwilling to abandon the man, they stood helpless, shifting from one foot to the other as if in a resolute death chant. Their eyes were wide with fright as they stared at the menacing form of the white man.

  Tom held up his hand in a sign of peace and advanced slowly toward them. The women’s unblinking gaze fixed on him, their pitiful swaying now accompanied by a soft guttural moaning. They were preparing to die. Tom made sign language to tell them he came in friendship. It served to halt their death chant, but still the women stared at him in obvious fear. When he was close enough to talk, he attempted to tell them in sign language and the few words he knew in Cheyenne, that he was there to help and meant them no harm. Both women relaxed somewhat. At least they seemed to accept the obvious: they had little choice but to trust the white man’s words. They were in no position to resist. He looked at the two young women. These people were obviously starving. Their weary unblinking eyes, peering at him from the deep hollows of their gaunt faces, told him why they had been unaware of his presence—they were too weak to care. He turned his attention to the man on the travois.

  He was a Cheyenne Dog Soldier by the look of his weapons—a bow and lance, now lying impotent beside him on the travois. He was wounded, a thick mud-and-leaf poultice covering an area the size of Tom’s hand on the warrior’s chest. He was not fully conscious, yet Tom could see a faint spark of life in his eyes as he removed the poultice to get a look at the wound. When he removed it, he almost gagged. It was a bullet wound apparently, and it had festered, the scarlet rays of spreading infection radiating out from the center of it.

  “Damn!” he muttered. Then in Cheyenne he asked one of the women, “How long?”

  She answered in sign, “Nine days.”

  He had seen wounds like this in battle when they didn’t receive medical treatment right away. Sometimes, the most insignificant of wounds were mortal when they became infected. It depended on the constitution of the man. Tom had to cut the bullet out and cauterize the wound in hopes that would stop the spreading infection. That was the only thing he knew to do, and there was a definite risk he might kill his patient with the treatment, but he was damn sure going to die without it. But first, he told himself, he had to get them something to eat or he was going to have three dead Indians on his hands.

  Something in his manner must have conveyed his intent to the two women, for they seemed to accept his instructions eagerly. He was sure they had been at their wits’ end as the man got progressively worse and they went longer and longer without food. First he helped them gather up more wood to liven up their small campfire. They watched in amazement as he put his two little fingers in his mouth and whistled two shrill blasts. In a moment, Billy came trotting over the crest of the hill, his reins dragging along the ground. From his saddlebag, he got two strips of jerky and gave th
em to the women. They took them eagerly and immediately started chewing the tough meat. From the looks of the wounded man, Tom figured it was useless to try to feed him jerky. He needed some strong broth, and the only way he was going to get it was if Tom could find some game. So, once the women were warm and their hunger temporarily satisfied, he told them he was leaving, but he would be back as soon as he found some meat. They nodded, but he could see in their eyes that they never expected to see this white man again. After trying his best to reassure them, Tom climbed up on Billy and rode out of the draw toward the open prairie.

  It was late in the year for hunting on the prairie. It would be pure luck if he found anything other than a rabbit or some small game scurrying from a hole. His best bet, he figured, was to ride toward a line of small hills he could see on the horizon. They were partially covered with trees, which indicated there might be a stream there. If there was any game around, it would most likely be there. If he had minded his own business, he thought, he knew he would be no more than a day’s ride from the Broken-T. He immediately reprimanded himself for his selfishness and returned his attention to the business at hand, to find some food for three starving people.

  It took the better part of two hours to reach the hills. When he reached the shelter of the trees, he encouraged Billy with a slight pressure of his heels and the horse labored momentarily to scale a steep slope that guarded a small, shallow stream. He reined Billy up to an abrupt stop. Something, some slight movement, caught Tom’s eye and he froze. Below him, on the other side of the stream in a patch of scrub, a branch wiggled. The scrub was too thick to see what had caused the movement. He glanced quickly from side to side before riveting his gaze on the branch. As he watched, he slowly drew his rifle from the saddle boot. The bush shook. Whatever it was was moving now. He raised the rifle and took aim on the scrub, following the shaking branches as they progressed toward an open space. Come on out of there, he thought. Let’s see if you’re man or meat. He waited. The shaking stopped, and he thought for a moment that whatever it was had turned and gone the other way. Then it appeared. He started to squeeze the trigger then stopped. It was a calf! He hesitated for only a moment more before pronouncing, “You’re meat.”