by Chuck Tyrell
“Ho,” Stryker said, pitching his voice to carry across the camp. “I seek the man called Hawk Nose.”
The children scattered, and in moments were nowhere to be seen.
“Hawk Nose. I would speak to you.”
The camp was still as death. Nothing moved.”
“I bring meat,” Stryker said.
One woman came from a teepee. Another. And another. Until a half circle of women stood in front of Stryker. “Meat?” One said.
“I would speak with Hawk Nose.”
“He sleeps.”
“I am awake.” A man exited the nearest teepee. “The firewater is gone. I am here,” he said.
“I brought meat for my Shoshone brothers,” Stryker said. “I would ask one favor in return.”
Hawk Nose’s upper lip raised in scorn. “Brothers. You say.”
Woman reached for the venison and Stryker handed it to them. In moments, only Hawk Nose remained.
“The women like your meat, white man.”
“A brother should come to camp with meat.”
The sneer reappeared. “Brother, you say.”
“Gewagan of the north Shoshone is my blood brother. I shared Walks’ teepee with him.”
The sneer stayed on Hawk Nose’s face. “Gewagan? He cannot be Shoshone now. He baptized. He gold plate Mormon. Pshaw.” Hawk Nose spat a glob into the dust.
“His teepees stand tall. His women and children smile. He does not drink firewater. He is my brother.”
Hawk Nose had nothing to say.
“Is this how Hawk Nose greets a brother who comes with meat?”
The Shoshone studied his worn moccasins.
“What must I do, then?”
Hawk Nose pouted.
“I would ask one favor, chief.”
Hawk Nose searched Stryker’s face, perhaps looking for sign of duplicity. He shrugged. “What is this thing?”
“A man to ride.”
“Where?”
To Gewagan’s camp. To tell my brother I need him.”
“I can do it. I will help Gewagan’s brother.”
“I wait for Gewagan. Can you send a rider for him? Or must I go back on my own.”
Hawk Nose shook his head as if he thought Stryker was simpleminded. He shouted. A younger man answered. He gave the youngster a torrent of Shoshone, of which Stryker understood only a word here and there.
“I go for Gewagan,” the young man said in English.
“Thank you,” Stryker said. “I wait.”
The young man left at a fast trot.
“No horse?”
“Run faster.”
Stryker held out his hand. “Hawk Nose. You are my brother. My thanks to you.”
“Brother,” Hawk Nose said. “Bring meat.”
Stryker nodded. He’d already decided to spend the next day hunting.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cat went without shoes, mostly, and without clothes often. Why did she need clothing? She had no humans to worry about and Sam and the wolves and the rabbit pelt blanket and the gunnysacks of feathers and the fallen leaves beneath the carpet of saddle blankets kept her warm at night.
Until the snows came, Cat had not taken the time to go through Swayback John’s things. Now, with the glen covered with snow, she decided to see what to keep and what to throw away. Somehow her life in the cavern was the happiest she’d ever experienced. She enjoyed her total freedom, even if she did depend on Sam and the very pregnant she wolf, which she had named Suzanne, to being her fresh meat.
First Cat took care of the weapons. Swayback had a box of gun-cleaning supplies so Cat set about cleaning and burnishing the Winchester ’73 .44-40 rifle, then the Colt M1876 Army six-shooter, also chambered for .44-40 slugs. Cleaned and loaded, the guns went into their scabbards and were placed at the very back of her lean-to. Done.
Now, the big pack. Cat had never opened the big pack. Nor had she ever seen Swayback open it. When they left Black Eagle’s camp, Swayback’s saddlebags had bulged but were never as big or as heavy as the main pannier on the packsaddle. Tall for a woman at five foot seven, Cat still had to set herself just right to get that pannier off Mule when they first came to the cavern.
But now snow covered the ground and Cat realized that the cavern would be her protection and home at least until spring, if she could live that long.
She had the supplies sorted and placed around the cavern, mostly on high shelves in the rock walls, out of reach of varmits, maybe.
The pannier waited. In the low light inside the cavern, it seemed to crouch. Cat wondered why, what it had to protect.
The day outside was clear and bright, and the sun reflected from the snow with double the intensity of days when the trees had leaves and the grass was green.
Cat unbuckled the pannier and lifted its hard leather lid.
The contents of the pannier showed Cat a different Swayback John Williams.
One finely made wooden box held a sextant. Another, a finely calibrated compass. Surveyor’s tools, perhaps. Yet another box carried glass bottles of acid. A pouch slumped in the corner of the pannier. Cat plucked it from its place and knew immediately what it was. Raw gold. A pound? Two pounds? Cat had nowhere to spend it anyway. She tucked it back into its place in the pannier. The rest of the implements were obviously prospecting paraphernalia, and after all, Swayback John had outfitted them for prospecting around Bodie.
Cat missed Swayback John. He knew she was only an animal to be used by Absaroka men and boys and he still bought her from her captors and gave her a bath and bought human clothes for her and treated her with honor. But there was no other way to describe how Swayback treated her. Only Swayback and Matt Stryker treated her as an equal. And Swayback was gone.
Cat stared at the pannier. Why had it been so heavy? Two pounds of raw gold was not enough, even if the instruments were added in. Why in the world was it so heavy?
She opened the pannier again. Nothing had changed inside. Before they got to Fort Hall, there had been no pannier. Only Swayback John’s bulging saddlebags. She’d not had to lift them, so she had no idea if they’d been heavy. She pulled on the hard leather side of the pannier, causing it to bulge outward. Wait. Can noticed a gap between the bottom and the side of the pannier, but there was no light showing in the bottom. She ran her fingers along the seam on the outside. No gap.
She pulled hard on the side of the pannier once more. She took the instruments and the bag of gold from the pannier. She stood and lifted the pannier by the handles on each end. Not as heavy as before, but heavier than an empty leather box should be.
Cat worked her fingers into the gap between the side and the bottom and pulled upward. Nothing happened. She shifted her fingers and pulled again. No movement. Merde.
She pulled the opposite side outward. A gap showed at the bottom. What held that false bottom—Cat had decided the bottom was false, but what held it in?
Wait. Four patches sewn to the bottom slightly inward from the corners. She pried one edge of a patch to reveal a toggle. She twisted it a quarter turn, aligning it with a slot in the leather of the false bottom. She smiled. “You did it, Catherine,” she said aloud. “Now, what is inside?”
She turned the other toggles and lifted the false bottom out of the pannier. Small sacks of something fit in the bottom compartment. Cat picked one up. Its contents clinked. She undid the drawstring and dug into the sack with a finger. Coins. She upended the sack so its contents emptied onto the leather false bottom.
Even in the dim light of the cavern, the coins that tumbled from the sack seemed to glow. Double eagles, Gat had heard them called. She counted them. Merci mon dieu. Sixteen coins. Three hundred twenty dollars. She counted the bags in the pannier. Eleven. She drew the figures in the dirt. 320 x 12. The product of her multiplication was three thousand eight hundred forty dollars.
Where in the world had Swayback John Williams gotten such a fortune? And why was some in gold dust and the remainder in double eagles
?
No matter. She was at home with Sam and Susanne and the children. She put the pannier back together, the sacks of gold coins in their place beneath the false bottom, which was once more toggled down. The equipment and gold dust were back in their proper places. She added two chunks of wood to the fire.
~*~
Old Fort Hall’s only place to get a drink was a long lean-to off to one side of the sutler’s store. Still, where booze flowed, talk flowed, and there was always a chance of picking up valuable nuggets of information from that talk. After sending for Gewagan, Stryker shouldered his way through the crowd of men at the saloon. The sign outside said O’Grady’s and Whiskey. At the bar, Stryker saw that whiskey was served from a barrel, ladled into cloudy glasses. The man behind the bar got two bits per drink, and none of the men crowded into the place seemed to mind.
“What’ll it be, mister?”
“Beer. If you’ve got any.”
The bartender laughed. “Does this look like some swanky bar in Chicago? We got our very own whiskey, and it’s the best in Fort Hall ... well, the only in Fort Hall, too. Like a shot?”
“Any choice?”
The barman grinned. “None.”
“One shot, then.”
“Coming up.” The barman ladled a healthy portion of what he called whiskey into a glass he took from a stack on the back counter. “Two bits,” he said, and slid the glass of rotgut across the bar.
Stryker put two dimes and a half-dime on the bar.
“Coins, eh. Good deal. Really hate dealing drinks for gold dust.”
“Ain’t seen none of that for more than a day or two,” Stryker said.
“Ever once in a while. Got a few prospectors around.”
Stryker sipped at the whiskey. Tears came to his eyes as the fiery booze clawed its way down his throat and into his stomach. “P-p-prime,” he said, suppressing a cough.
“Like hell it is.”
“Whew. Takes a minute for a man to get his breath back.” He took another small sip.
The barman nodded in appreciation. “Grows on ye, don’t it?”
“I’ll be Matt Stryker. Mind if I know your moniker?”
The barman gave him a sharp look. “Matt Stryker, are ya?”
“I am.”
“The same Matt Stryker who fought Yankees at Sailor Creek about the end of the war?”
“I was there. Not a proud thing, but yes, I was there.”
“I’ll be Al Ferguson. And I’d like to thank you personal for saving my little brother’s life.”
“You’re kin to Buck Ferguson, then?”
“Brother. A year older.”
“Was you at Sailor Creek?”
“Nope. I was with Mosby.”
Stryker stuck out a hand. “Proud to know you, Al Ferguson. Your brother was a top notch trooper. Glad he’s still alive.”
Ferguson took Stryker’s hand. “He is. Got to California, he did, and I’ll be going to visit him one of these days.”
“Hey, barman. Set us up with some of that rotgut.”
“Coming up.” Ferguson moved away to serve the newcomers, who took standing space at the bar near Stryker. Four men. Four drinks. One silver dollar on the bar. The men took up their glasses, knocked back the firewater without grimace or cough, and ordered another round. Another silver dollar.
With their second drink in hand, the four men ignored the ebb and flow of drinking men around them.
“She’s the one. No mistake.”
“How c’n ya be so sure?”
“When she was with the Crow Injuns, she lived with the dogs. No clothes, no nothing, and any man with balls could do her, any time. The Crow called her ‘Dog.’ Got to where the dogs wouldn’t let no one close. She was naked as a jaybird but the dogs looked after her. Then along comes Swayback John Williams and buys her.”
“Even if it’s her, she gonna have the gold?”
“Where else would it be?”
“Wells Fargo. Cached somewhere. Anyplace.”
“OK. Where’s she at?”
“Out there. Down around the twin falls somewhere. Hiding out, maybe.”
The men shrugged down the second glass of whiskey and bought one more. Stryker didn’t stick around to listen. He had to find Cat before those rowdies could find her and kill her ... or worse. He raised a hand in farewell to Al Ferguson and left the ramshackle saloon.
Stryker went over everything he knew about Cat, everything he learned since she was carried off by Lean Bear and the warriors who followed him. He knew only that she’d gone from being Lean Bear’s prisoner to becoming a “dog” in Black Eagle’s village. The Crow had treated her like ... he could not think of a word that could describe what the Crows, the people whose warriors scouted for Col. Miles, had done to her and used her for. They used her so much that she lost value. So the misshapen wanderer everyone knew as Swayback John probably bought her for a song and a dance. Now Swayback had horses, mule, supplies, weapons ... and if those drunks were to be believed ... gold.
Where was Goose Creek?
Whereever it was, it was the place to start looking. And it’d be the place those rowdies would begin their search, too. Unless they knew something else.
Old Fort Hall had no hotel and the nearest one was in a town called Loring Cantonment about ten miles east along the Snake. Stryker didn’t want to fall behind the drinkers that wanted Swayback’s gold, if there was any. He headed back to the livery.
“Hank?” Stryker hollered as he entered the livery barn.
“I hear ya, Cap’n. No need to scream like that.” Hank Gibbons spoke from the stall nearest the door. “I’m getting ready to shut things up, but what would you be wanting?”
“’Preciate it if you’d let an old soldier sleep in your hay loft. Gotta be outta here come dawn.”
“Welcome. No charge. Where ’bouts you headed, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
Stryker hesitated, then decided Hang Gibbons was on his side. “You’re a Mosby Ranger, Hank. So I’ll tell you. I’m going to find that lady Swayback John had with him. I reckon I’ll start looking across the Snake from Goose Creek.”
“You’ll wanna take the Ross ferry across the Snake, Cap’n. Then go southwest until you hit Malado Gorge. That’s easy to find, and when you come up on it, turn south and when you hit the Snake, Goose Creek will be right across the river.”
“You’ve been through that country?”
“A time or two.”
“Do you know the place where Swayback John was found, then?”
“Not exact, but they said across from where Goose Creek comes in from the south.”
As they talked, Stryker started saddling Walker.
“No sleep?” Hank said.
“Sooner I get there, the quicker I’ll find Catherine.”
“It’ll snow afore morning.”
“Yeah.” Stryker got Mule from the corral, fitted the packsaddle on his back and loaded it. “Winter’s coming on, sure as death, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m thanking you, Hank Gibson, and I’ll be pushing on.” Stryker held out a hand, and Hank Gibson shook it.
“Too bad we didn’t have more officers like you, Cap’n Stryker. In the late war, I mean.”
“The Union had a lot more men than us, Hank, and a lot more factories. We gave the bluebellies a good run for their money. No reason to feel sorry for ourselves.”
Stryker climbed aboard Walker and took up Mule’s lead rope. “I’ll be going, then.”
“Hang on just a minute, Cap’n.” Hank trotted to the livery tack room and came back with a large furry bundle. “Buffler robe,” he said. “Help keep you warm, maybe.”
“I’ll take it on loan,” Stryker said. “Bring it back to you soon as I can.”
“When ya can’s good, Cap’n. Just fine.”
Matt Stryker touched a finger to the brim of his hat in salute to Hank, and road away from Fort Hall. Early next morning, after ferrying across the Snake, Stryker sent up his first s
moke.
Chapter Eighteen
The horses and the mule came into Cat’s cavern when they wanted to get out of the weather. Otherwise, they scrounged around the edges of the glen’s meadow, pawing away snow to get at the long brown grass beneath.
Sam and Suzanne and the now-nearly grown pups stayed in the cavern, mostly, sleeping and crowding around Cat to add her to the pack.
Still, the horses and mule had to leave the glen for water, and sometimes they spent hours in the gorge, cropping at the brown foliage at the stream’s edge. Cat melted snow and ice for most of her water. It even tasted like the forest when she drank it, often hot, but without any coffee beans or tea leaves. Every two or three days, Cat cleaned Swayback’s Colt Army and his Winchester rifle. She didn’t know if danger would come stalking her, but wanted to be always ready if something or someone came.
But no one came.
The snow gradually piled up, but the animals kept the way to the cavern clear. Cat practiced her Savate moves every morning and every night. Sam and the wolves watched. They didn’t hunt as much now that everything was covered with snow. Still, the days passed clear and bright, each one causing a little snowmelt that froze solid during the night. The trail the horses and mule beat to the stream for water stood out from the surroundings, a dark brown strip on a field of dingy white.
Suzanne’s belly hung and she spent most of the time sleeping in Cat’s shelter. Whenever Sam or a cub brought a varmit, Cat made sure Suzanne got a goodly portion. She’d gotten quite adept at using Swayback’s Bowie, and she always chopped open each animal’s head to save its brains for tanning the pelt.
Cat had no desire to return to human civilization, if that was the proper word to describe the bloody state of humankind. She felt no stress being surrounded by canines and equines. They were much more trustworthy than any human she knew, except, maybe, Matthew Stryker.
Sam stood at the entrance of the cavern and growled. The hair on his hackles rose. Whatever approached, Sam did not like it. The young wolves went to stand beside him, all facing the entrance, hackles raised. Sam growled again, and threw a glance over his shoulder at Cat as if to say, “Arm yourself and come.”