Bogart looked surprised. “As a matter of fact, he was—a woman and her husband, drivin’ a wagon. Tall feller with light-colored hair, tied Injun-style, ridin’ a paint Injun pony.”
Sloat nodded knowingly. “Yep, that’s the feller, only they didn’t have no wagon, and there wasn’t anybody else but the two of ’em. Ain’t that right, Pearl?” The woman nodded.
“That son of a bitch,” Bogart growled. “He’s already got rid of the husband.” He gave his partner a quick glance. “What’d I tell you, Wylie?”
“You had it right, Bill,” Wylie dutifully replied.
Sloat studied his two guests with a sly gleam in his eye while Pearl set plates of food on the table, amused that Bogart was hesitant about mentioning anything relating to money. “And this poor recently widowed woman was carryin’ a feed sack full of money on a packhorse,” he stated matter-of-factly, confident now that there had to be more incentive for Bogart’s search than the mere satisfaction of a killing. That sack must have carried a great deal of money, more than he had figured, to give Bogart a reason to come this far looking for it. He wondered if that was the reason Kirby and Gopher never came back.
“A sack full of money?” Bogart asked. “She had a sack full of money?”
“Well, I reckon she did,” Sloat said. “I saw her get some money out of it.” Noticing the expression on Bogart’s face, he guessed that this news must have just increased his desire to find the woman. “I’ll tell you a little story that might be bad news for you,” Sloat continued. “I had a couple of fellers in business with me. We had a nice little arrangement, but I reckon they got greedy on me. I sent ’em after your man and the woman, and I ain’t seen ’em since. They mighta beat you to that grain sack, and there was too much in it to wanna give me my cut.”
“That mighta been the way it was,” Bogart said, “or they mighta got shot. This feller’s not an easy man to get the jump on. Hell, he’s half Injun. Ain’t that right, Wylie?”
“That’s a fact,” Wylie answered.
Back to Sloat then, Bogart asked, “So, they stopped here, did they?”
“They did,” Sloat replied. “Bought a sack of coffee beans.”
“Did they say where it was they was headed?”
“They asked where Coulson was.” When Bogart responded with a blank expression, Sloat said, “That’s a new town some folks just set up a few months back.”
“Coulson, huh? How far is that?” Bogart asked, thoroughly pleased to learn that the woman’s relatives on the Yellowstone weren’t the only ones with money.
“Two and a half, three days, dependin’ on how bad you wanna get there,” Sloat said. He could almost see the wheels turning in Bogart’s brain as the big man thought about the man he hunted. “You know, there’s a chance this feller has got what you’re lookin’ for and long gone,” he suggested. “And like I said, I had a nice little arrangement with Kirby and Gopher. We could work the same arrangement together, the three of us.”
Bogart fixed him with a contemptuous stare. “Shit, if you’re thinkin’ about robbin’ and killin’ folks, why don’t you just do it yourself? I ain’t lookin’ to split with anybody.” He paused then to reassure Wylie, “Except you, partner.”
“I’m gettin’ too old for that kind of work,” Sloat complained. “Besides, I couldn’t just start killin’ folks right here at the store. It wouldn’t be long before somebody caught on. I just thought you might be interested if you was in need of some extra money.”
“Hell,” Bogart swore, and nodded toward Pearl. “Why don’t you just let that Injun take care of it? She looks like she would just as soon scalp you as look at you.” Pearl gave no indication that she had heard the remark. “How long ago was it when they passed through here?”
“Three or four days ago, I reckon,” Sloat replied.
“Well, I reckon me and Wylie will be gettin’ along,” Bogart said, and pushed his chair back from the table, but was apparently in no hurry to leave. “That was mighty fine grub, Mrs. Sloat,” he said, and winked at Wylie.
Wylie, thinking it a cue for him to duplicate, said, “That’s a fact.”
Bogart stretched his arms out, then patted his belly contentedly. “Maybe me and Wylie oughta think about your offer to go partners with you. The thing that bothers me, though, is how many folks stop in here that has enough to go after. It don’t sound like much money or goods to split three ways.”
“You’d be surprised,” Sloat replied. “There’s a lot more folks headin’ this way every month to start up places like Coulson, and they’re carryin’ every cent and everything else they own. And the sweet thing about it is there ain’t nobody looking for ’em when they don’t show up at wherever it was they was headed, so there ain’t nobody to miss ’em.”
“So you’re fixed up pretty good here?”
“I sure as hell wouldn’t be here if I had to get by on whatever I was sellin’ legit.”
“Well, now, that’s right interestin’,” Bogart said, and casually reached over to scratch under his left arm. It was a simple move from there to drop his hand on the butt of the pistol riding below, butt-forward. Lem Sloat carried the stunned look of surprise on his face to wherever his next stop was destined to be, most likely hell. The sudden pop of Bogart’s pistol startled Wylie as well, and he went over backward while trying to disentangle himself from his chair. The next moments were an explosion of chaos as the sullen Crow woman attacked Bogart, diving headlong across the table. Not expecting a violent reaction from the woman, he was caught by surprise. The collision of their bodies knocked the pistol from his hand and it was all he could do to pry her fingers from his throat. Walks-With-A-Stick was a big woman and a natural fighter, giving Bogart all he could handle, and strong enough to make his fight a defensive one. While Bogart fought to keep her from scratching his eyes out, Wylie finally freed himself from the chair. Pulling his revolver, he tried to get a shot at the frenzied woman, but could not take a chance on hitting Bogart by mistake. Finally Bogart was able to get both his hands on her throat and force her away to arm’s length. “Shoot her!” he yelled. “Dammit, Wylie, shoot her!” No longer afraid of hitting Bogart, Wylie pulled the trigger, sending two .44 slugs into Pearl’s abdomen. Even though mortally wounded, she continued to struggle against Bogart’s frantic efforts to free himself. Fascinated by the enraged woman’s refusal to die, Wylie stared in disbelief for a few moments more before holding his pistol to her head and firing a bullet into the back of her skull, causing her to finally slump to the floor.
“Damn!” Bogart exhaled, pushing the corpse away from him. He had not escaped the fight without damage, for there were numerous scratches on his face and neck from the clawing Pearl had administered. In addition, he experienced a close call when Wylie’s bullet exited the woman’s skull and zipped by his shoulder, leaving bits of bone and brain on his shirt. Disgusted, he looked around frantically for something with which to clean it off. Pearl’s skirt was the most convenient, so he used that. Still furious at the way a simple killing had mushroomed into such a disgusting mess, he picked up his pistol from the floor and proceeded to pump a couple more slugs into the corpse, just to vent his rage. When that didn’t totally satisfy his anger, he considered shooting Wylie for the mess on his shirt, but managed to restrain himself from taking further retaliation. “Let’s take this place apart,” he ordered. “He’s bound to have somethin’ hid somewhere—in the walls, under the floor—somewhere.”
Not much time was wasted in the tent, since there appeared to be few places to hide anything, so the major portion of their search was in the store. By the time they were ready to give up, they had found very little money, but they helped themselves to basic supplies and ammunition, blankets, tobacco, and several bottles of whiskey, all of which they could surely use. They loaded all their plunder on the two horses in the rough corral behind the tent.
When the horses were fully loaded, Wylie stepped back to gaze upon them. “I swear, Bogart, we got enough possibles to last us six months.”
“Maybe,” Bogart answered as he dabbed the scratches on his neck with some lard he had found in the tent. “The way he was talkin’ about goin’ partners with us, I thought there had to be some money hid somewhere. It was all talk. Hell, he was always all talk. I shoulda known better. You can’t trust a man like that.”
“He sure looked surprised, didn’t he?” Wylie remarked.
“I expect he was,” Bogart replied, and went to the stove in the middle of the room. “See anythin’ else you want, you’d better get it, ’cause I’m fixin’ to burn this place down.”
“Ain’t you gonna take this Injun’s scalp?” Wylie asked.
“No,” Bogart replied. “Take it if you want it.” He raised his boot and gave the stove a solid kick, knocking it over to spill hot coals on the earthen floor. Then the two of them gathered up anything that looked as if it would burn and threw it on the coals. Before very long the shack was too hot to remain inside. “That oughta do it,” Bogart said. “Now let’s get on down to . . .” He paused. “What was the name of it?”
“Coulson,” Wylie replied as he gazed at the long clump of hair he had removed from Pearl’s head.
“Right, let’s go to Coulson. I got a yellow-headed Injun I’m needin’ to see. I might take that scalp.” The recent bloodletting of one who was supposed to be a friend had served to nourish his feeling of power. The sensation was tempered slightly by the stinging scratches on his neck and face.
With their newly acquired packhorses, they headed up the path to the river road as black clouds of smoke billowed out of the two small windows of Lem Sloat’s trading post. After about an hour’s ride from the burning store, they approached a wide creek. Wylie called ahead to his partner, “Bogart, look yonder.” When Bogart looked back at him, Wylie pointed toward the treetops farther up the creek and a small circle of three buzzards overhead.
“Somethin’s dead up that creek,” Bogart commented, and studied the birds a few seconds before suggesting, “Let’s go see what it is.” They turned off the trail and advanced no more than one hundred yards before coming upon the remains of two men, their bones picked almost clean. “I expect that’s ol’ Sloat’s two partners,” Bogart said. “I ain’t surprised. I told him Luke Sunday mighta got them instead of the other way around.”
Gazing thoughtfully at the three buzzards now picking away at the bones, Wylie remarked, “Looks like them three has got to the party late. I bet there was a helluva lot more of them birds when the meat was fresh.”
“Let’s go,” Bogart said. “We got plenty of daylight left.” The image of the sandy-haired devil that had twice humiliated him came back to his mind to taunt him and he realized that he wanted to kill Luke Sunday worse than any amount of gold and silver the woman with him might have in that sack of grain.
* * *
The yellow-haired man that bedeviled Bogart’s mind was, at that particular time, kneeling in the midst of a clump of large service berry shrubs on the bank of the river. His attention was captured by a party of perhaps twenty lodges of Indians crossing the river some fifty yards farther upstream. From that closeness, he was able to identify the party as Cheyenne. He would have preferred to remain hidden until the Indians had passed through, but there was a problem that might effectively prohibit that choice. His camp was on the other side of the river, only a few dozen yards from where the Cheyenne were now crossing. Behind him, in the trees, his paint pony waited quietly. However, he had left the spotted gray and his packs in his camp. Watching now, he could see the Cheyenne scouts riding close in to their people as the women guided the packhorses and travois across to the west bank. If luck was with him, his camp would not be discovered and they would never know he was there. Unless, he thought, the gray decides to say hello. So far, the horse had not done so.
Approximately thirty-five miles up Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone, Luke had come upon a sizable herd of deer, which was now two short of its original number. Both animals were shot at close range with his bow, a practice he always adhered to whenever possible to save precious cartridges. On this day he was glad that he had been faithful to that practice, for the Cheyenne party had appeared at the river no more than half an hour after he had shot the second deer and followed it into the berry bushes he was kneeling in at present. Now, as he watched the last of the Indians leaving the water and ascending the west bank, it appeared that he might escape detection, and he thought about the choices he would have had to choose between. He had been raised in a Cheyenne camp, by a Cheyenne woman, but he had scouted for the army with a group of Crow warriors. He had thought to be a friend to the Cheyenne people, but they had joined with the Sioux in a war against the army. He considered the Sioux his enemy, because they had killed his white parents. He might have had to fight these Cheyenne, or lose his supplies and the gray pony if he had chosen to run. He was thankful that the Indians had not been aware of his presence.
A moment later, he realized that he had given thanks too soon, for suddenly there appeared to be a disturbance at the peaceful river crossing, and the Cheyenne outriders wheeled their ponies to respond to the outcry. Raising himself a little to see more clearly between the branches of the bushes, he saw the cause for the village’s sudden display of alarm. One of the scouts had circled wide to the left of the others and had discovered Luke’s horse and his camp. There was no time to spend on his decision. He could simply withdraw from the berry bushes, return to his horse, and ride away, but he was not willing to lose the packhorse and everything he had just bought in Coulson.
As quickly as he could, he backed out of the clump of service berries, dragging the deer’s carcass with him. As soon as he reached a place in the bank where he could step down, he knelt and pulled the carcass to a point where he could get his shoulder under it, then stood up with the deer across his shoulders. Hurrying to his horse, he hefted the carcass across the paint’s withers in front of his saddle, then climbed up himself.
Warriors searched the trees and bushes cautiously around the campsite, alert for any attack, while others examined the horse and supplies they found near the remains of a recent fire. Above the buzz of curious conversation, one of the Indians exclaimed suddenly, and when the others turned to see why he had shouted an alarm, they saw him pointing toward the river. To their surprise, a man dressed in animal skins forded the river, riding a paint pony, with the carcass of a deer draped across in front of the saddle. As he came closer, they realized that he was a white man, and the warriors quickly readied their weapons.
Luke held up his hands in a sign of peace, and called out to them in their native tongue, “You look like you have traveled hard and fast. I think you might want to stop at my camp and eat this fresh-killed deer to give you strength to continue your journey.” He continued to approach the astonished village with no sign of caution. “There is enough. I have killed another deer on the other side of the river, in the trees. You can send some of the younger boys to get it.”
While the others simply stood staring at the unexpected visitor, one warrior spoke out. “This white man is a fool. We will kill him and take his horses and his deer.” His remarks were followed by a general scattering of grunts of support.
“No, wait,” one of the Indians said. An elderly man who had come with them from the Little Big Horn after being separated from his village in the fighting there. “This man is not our enemy. His name is Dead Man, and he came to warn us when the soldiers attacked Two Moons’s village on the Powder River.” Old Bear made his way through the people crowded around Luke’s camp to greet him. “Welcome, Dead Man,” he called out. “Your gift is most welcome, too, for we have seen very little game in the last two days.”
Luke wondered if his immediate sigh of relief could be heard by the mob of Indians staring at
him. His expression, however, conveyed no uncertainty. “Good to see you, Old Bear,” he said. “I was not there, but I have heard about the fight with the soldiers at Little Big Horn. I am glad to see that you are still well.”
The general tone of the people gathered around changed at once with the thought of roasting a couple of deer when seconds before they were preparing to fight. Luke slid the carcass off into the waiting hands of several women. Then he dismounted and led the paint over to his packhorse. A young man, who had been holding the gray’s reins, handed them to Luke, smiling as he stepped away. Luke nodded in return, thinking that his gamble had saved his belongings as well as his scalp, but he was not sure it would have worked if Old Bear had not been there.
The carcass of Luke’s other kill was retrieved, and they were both prepared for roasting. The Cheyenne party decided to make camp there for the night to enjoy the feast, and Luke talked long into the night with Old Bear and some of the other men. He learned of the battle at the Little Big Horn. Old Bear told him that they had been in a big camp with the Lakota villages of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. The soldiers were foolish to attack them, he said, for they were heavily outnumbered. “Where do you go now?” Luke asked.
“We know that the soldiers will come now in great numbers, too many for us to fight. Too many of our people, both Lakota and Cheyenne, have gone to the reservations to live on the white man’s scraps instead of joining us in this fight. So we left the camp on the Little Big Horn and scattered so the soldiers can’t chase us all.” To answer Luke’s question, Old Bear told him they were heading north to Canada, planning to cross the Yellowstone at a place Luke knew as Canyon Creek. “We do not wish to fight any white men,” Old Bear said. “We will pass in peace if they will let us.”
The next morning as the Cheyenne were preparing to leave, two of the women came to Luke with the two deer hides rolled into a bundle. “You keep them,” he told them. “You will need them.” They thanked him and returned to their packing.
A Man Called Sunday Page 19