“I hope that wasn’t supper,” Karl said, not really having seen what was going up in flames.
Clint got a glimpse of the material he had been seeing every day, and knew at once the significance of the cremation. Joanna glanced in his direction, but would not meet his gaze lest he saw the redness from crying. “Sit down, Clint,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.” There were so many things troubling her mind, her mother’s death, her captivity, her husband’s desertion, but she was determined to remain strong at this moment. There would be time later, when alone in her bed, when she could succumb to her grief.
Clint watched her closely as she went about preparing a meal for them. It seemed there was a sadness in her face that was not there while the two of them were searching the mountains for the cabin. He felt that it was not entirely due to the shock of finding her husband gone, but also because she was faced with the reality of her mother’s death. During the time when the two of them were concerned with the possibility of being found by another war party, there was little time to dwell on other things. His concern now was the sense of security she and her father might feel just because they were home. In his mind, there was no safety for the two of them in this remote cabin. It was just a matter of time before the next war party found them. Further thought on the matter was interrupted when Joanna set a plate of beans and biscuits before him.
“Sorry, but this is about all I could scare up on short notice,” she said. “It’s not much for grown men, but maybe it’ll keep your stomach warm.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t been thinking much about fresh meat for a while,” Karl apologized.
“I reckon that’s understandable,” Clint said. “That’s one thing I can do for you. I’ll go huntin’ in the mornin’. Lord knows I saw plenty of sign on the way in.”
When supper was finished, Clint and Joanna’s father remained seated at the table drinking coffee while Joanna cleaned up the dishes. After listening to Joanna’s account of the days following her rescue, until they showed up here at the cabin, Karl began to tell Clint about his journey from Germany when Joanna was a baby. And before he wound down, he had taken Clint through every phase of his and his family’s life, from New York to Missouri, to Omaha, and finally to this cabin in the Black Hills. Halfway through, Clint caught Joanna’s gaze, and she rolled her eyes heavenward as a sign of boredom. Clint smiled at her, understanding the old man’s need to talk about the past.
Finished at last, Karl paused to light his pipe, puffing out great clouds of gray smoke. “I guess I’ve been doing all the talking,” he confessed. “I must apologize.”
“Quite all right,” Clint replied.
“What about you, Clint?” Karl asked, settling back in his chair. “Joanna said you were on your way to Montana.”
“That’s a fact,” Clint said.
Hoping for more of a response than that, Karl continued to probe. “Where in Montana?”
“Can’t say for sure. I reckon I’ll know when I find it.”
“You got family?” Karl asked in an effort to get his guest to open up a little. Unnoticed by both men, the question prompted Joanna to pause and listen.
“Nope, just my pa back in Cheyenne,” Clint answered, reluctant to delve any deeper.
“What are you planning on doing when you get to Montana?” Karl pressed.
As interested as her father in the young man’s plans, Joanna, however, perceived the reluctance on Clint’s part. “Papa, for goodness’ sake, let the poor man drink his coffee. You’ll wear him out with your questions.”
Her father jerked his head back with a mock expression of surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosey.” He chuckled and winked at Clint. Then to Joanna he explained, “I had already been thinking about pulling out of here myself, even before those savages ran off with you. I hadn’t said anything to Robert about it, but I was thinking about going on up to the Yellowstone with your uncle Frederick. That’s why I was interested in what part of Montana Clint was heading for. We weren’t scraping enough gold out of that stream to buy salt and flour. And Frederick has always tried to get me to join him up there.” He glanced over at Clint then. “My younger brother went out to Montana with two other families a year ago. They’re farming a strip of land on the lower side of the Yellowstone River where the Tongue River connects with it. I thought if you’re going up Montana way, it might be a good time for us to pull up stakes and go with you—as far as the Yellowstone, anyway. There ain’t a helluva lot of summer left, so I was thinking I’d better get going if we’re going to do it. I think it would be better for Joanna, too, to be around other folks instead of wasting away up here with an old man. Of course, you might not want any company.” He looked at Clint and waited for his response.
“It’s fine with me,” Clint replied at once. “I think you’re asking for more trouble if you stay here in these mountains by yourself.” He was actually relieved to know that Joanna would not be at the mercy of any roving Sioux raiding parties that happened upon the isolated cabin. Equally relieved, Joanna smiled her approval.
The next few days were spent in preparation for the journey north. It could have been done more quickly, but for the need for fresh meat. So Clint spent one day hunting in the mountain ridges for deer. As he had noticed before, there was plenty of deer sign close to the cabin, and they were not hard to find. He came upon a small herd drinking from a spring at the bottom of a ravine. Since he planned to smoke the meat to preserve it, he passed up a shot at a ten-point buck in favor of a medium-sized one. He wanted a deer that was in good condition without much fat; the less fat, the better and quicker the meat would dry.
Back at the cabin, he and Karl cut four forked stakes to support the drying frame they fashioned; then the venison was cut in strips to hang from racks made from tree limbs over a fire pit dug in the yard. One whole day was required to properly dry the jerky, but there was enough to last them for the journey to Montana. When all was ready to depart, Karl closed the door to the cabin that had been his family’s home for only eight months. He and Joanna made one last visit to the grave of his late wife before stepping up in the saddle. There were no happy memories left there by him or his daughter as they followed Clint up the side of the ridge, each rider leading a packhorse, loaded with the earthly possessions of all three.
With no real knowledge of the country they had set out to cross, they went back in the general direction Clint and Joanna had come from when he brought her home. Reaching the Belle Fourche, they decided to follow the course that Clint had originally picked before his encounter with Joanna’s abductors. “I figured on holding to a north and slightly west trail, figured I had to hit the Yellowstone somewhere,” Clint said. “Once we strike the Yellowstone, I reckon then we’ll have to figure out which way to go to find your brother’s place.”
Less than a day’s ride found them approaching the banks of another river. Recollecting the planned route that his brother had told him about back in Omaha, Karl speculated that it might be the Powder, and he knew that the place his brother described was at the confluence of the Tongue and the Yellowstone. “If we keep bearing to the west, we’ll reach the Tongue River,” he said. “Then we can follow it north to the Yellowstone.”
“That suits me just fine,” Clint responded. “I ain’t ever seen any of this country before.”
They camped by the river that night and started out on a more westerly course the next morning. A little before the sun was directly overhead they came upon a trail apparently left by an entire village of Indians on the move. The trail led directly from the west, causing Clint and Karl to decide it best to turn a little more north so as not to chance overtaking them. Stopping only long enough to rest the horses, they pushed on until almost nightfall, crossing several other trails of smaller Indian parties heading west. As the sun settled lower in the prairie to the west, they spotted another river by the line of trees in the distance. “I was hoping we’d come up on a stream or river or someth
ing before dark,” Karl said.
“Maybe I’d better ride on ahead and take a look around before we go ridin’ into those trees,” Clint decided. “As much Indian sign as we’ve seen today, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was someone else camping there already.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” Karl concurred. “Joanna and I will stay back here below this ridge till you call us in.”
With his rifle cradled across his arms, Clint held Rowdy to a comfortable lope until he reached the edge of a line of cottonwoods that bordered a river. Walking the buckskin slowly through the brush and trees, he looked the bank over for the best place to camp. He had just about settled upon a spot when he noticed that Rowdy’s ears, seldom still, were now pricked up as if he heard something. Could be he senses something, Clint thought, animal or man. I’d best take a look.
He dismounted, looped Rowdy’s reins over a berry bush, and with his rifle ready, walked farther along the bank. By then the approaching evening dusk had descended upon the riverbank and the daylight faded away, affording him the cover of darkness. He had walked no more than a few dozen yards when he discovered the cause of Rowdy’s concern. Through the trees that skirted the water, he saw the faint flicker of a flame. That’s what I was afraid of, he thought, and cautiously edged his way to get a better look.
Before moving any closer, he paused to check the wind, concerned that a horse might announce his presence. He determined that he was downwind, so he kept moving forward until he reached a large cottonwood that afforded ample cover while giving him a better look at the camp. He was immediately relieved to see only two horses and apparently one man sleeping on the other side of a small campfire. From the look of things, he wasn’t sure whether he was an Indian or not.
He considered whether he should hail the camp or go back and get his horse and then ride in. Even if he was a white man, Clint had no way of knowing what manner of man would be traveling through Indian country alone. Maybe, he thought, it might be wiser to go back for Karl and Joanna, then move downriver a mile or so, and let this traveler be. Probably the smartest, he decided, and turned to retrace his steps.
Making his way through the darkened trees, he returned to his horse to find Rowdy still fidgeting nervously. “It’s just me, boy,” Clint said in an effort to calm the horse. “Looks like a peaceful traveler. We’ll just let him be.”
“I’m right glad to hear that, friend.” Clint whirled at once, his rifle before him, searching for the source of the words. “Take her easy, there,” the voice came again, “you ain’t got nothin’ to fear from me.”
Although he still couldn’t tell which tree the man was behind, Clint relaxed his defensive stance. He figured if whoever it was intended to shoot him, he would already have done so. As soon as he did, a gnarled little knot of a man stepped out from behind a tree, dressed head to foot in buckskins. He carried a Remington Rolling Block rifle, and when he rested the butt on the ground, the muzzle of the long heavy barrel was even with his shoulder. As speechless as if a gnome or a forest spirit had suddenly materialized from the darkness, Clint stood gaping at the little man.
“I seen you when you was ridin’ across that ridge back yonder,” the man said. “These days, it’s a good idea to check on who’s checkin’ on you, so I circled back around here while you were takin’ a look at my camp.”
Clint couldn’t help but chuckle, even though he’d been outfoxed by the harmless-looking little man. “I reckon that’s fair enough,” he allowed.
“What in tarnation are you doin’ out here? Ain’t you heard about Little Big Horn?”
“No. What about it?”
The elfish little man explained that there had been a terrible battle on the Little Big Horn, and that Colonel George Custer had suffered a massacre. Though mildly shocked by the news, Clint figured there was nothing he could do about it now. “My name’s Clint Conner,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of friends back yonder behind that last ridge, a man and his daughter. We were fixin’ to make camp, on our way to Yellowstone country,”
“Billy Turnipseed,” the little man replied, stepping forward to shake Clint’s hand. “Go on back and get your friends, and you’re welcome at my campfire. I done et, but I’d be proud to boil you some coffee—if I had some coffee beans. You ain’t got some by any chance, have you?”
Clint laughed again. “Yeah, we’ve got some coffee. I’ll go fetch my friends.” He slipped his rifle back in the saddle sling and stepped up on Rowdy.
Billy backed away to give him room to turn the horse. “I’m thinkin’ you might be the feller that shot them Injuns over near the Belle Fourche. I heard that Red Hand said that man rode a buckskin horse like this one, and had a woman with him.” Clint checked the big horse momentarily, wondering whether that might change things. Billy grinned and said, “They said he had a Spirit Gun that didn’t miss.” He turned to go to his camp. “Go get your folks, and we’ll drink some coffee. I ain’t had no coffee in a long time.”
When Clint led Karl and Joanna into the little clearing by the riverbank, Billy Turnipseed had recharged his fire and moved his saddle back away from it. After the introductions were made, Clint and Karl took care of the horses while Joanna ground some coffee beans, and soon the coffeepot was boiling away. Although Billy had already eaten, he reconsidered and accepted Joanna’s offer to share their supper. She made a thick soup by boiling some of the deer jerky with dried beans, thickened with a small amount of flour. It was good eatin’, Billy testified.
While they sat around the fire, finishing the coffee, Billy told them how he happened to be a lone trapper and hunter in the midst of several Indian tribes that were growing more and more hostile. “I’ve rode the Powder River valley, up and down, back and forth, for over fifteen years by my calculations—at least as nigh as I remember. I’ve trapped over as far as Three Forks, up the Milk and the Musselshell, and the Missouri as far as Fort Benton. But mostly, I’ve been after buffalo for the last few years.”
“How is it you don’t have any trouble with the Indians?” Karl asked.
“I get along fine with the Injuns,” Billy said as he wiped the remains of his soup from his whiskers and licked his fingers. “Lived with ’em for a few years—old Angry Bear’s Lakotas. They even give me a name, Sung ma< he tu.”
“What’s it mean?” Karl asked.
Billy giggled. “Coyote,” he said. “Old Angry Bear said I weren’t much bigger than a coyote, but I could take a buffalo down just the same.”
Clint found the spry little man entertaining, with his shaggy beard draped across his wrinkled face from ear to ear like a tablecloth spread over a knotty oak table. “Don’t the Sioux resent you killin’ buffalo?” he asked.
“Nah, not me. They know I just kill what I need to get by. I ain’t doin’ it to sell the hides.” He winked at Joanna and said, “Ever’ once in a while, though, I take a couple of extra hides to swap for coffee and tobacco.”
“Which way are you headin’?” Clint asked when there was a lull in the conversation.
“South,” Billy answered, “goin’ to Fort Laramie. Maybe trade them hides you seen under my blanket.”
Clint laughed. He explained to Karl and Joanna that Billy had placed his blanket over a bundle of hides to make it look like a man sleeping while he circled around to Clint’s horse. “Well, I didn’t know how friendly you folks were,” Billy confessed.
“Maybe you can give us a little help,” Clint said. “None of us know the country we’re ridin’ through. We camped last night on a river, took us all day to get here. Is this the Powder?”
“You really don’t know where in the bejesus you are, do you?” Billy replied patiently. “No, son, this ain’t the Powder. This is the Little Powder. That river you camped on last night I expect is the Little Missouri. You say you’re tryin’ to get to the Yellowstone?”
Clint nodded and said, “Where it meets the Tongue.”
“Whaddaya wanna go there for?”
“My brother
and some other families are farming some land near there,” Karl said.
Billy grimaced at the mention of farmers, but offered his advice. “You’d best follow this river north. It’ll take you about two days before you come to the fork where this meets up with the Powder. You can cut across northwest from there, ’cause you wanna strike the Tongue and follow that on in. I oughta tell you, though, after you leave the fork at the Powder, you’ll strike a fair-sized creek in about half a day. You might wanna follow that creek for another half a day or so before you go west again to strike the Tongue. There’s a lot of Injun goin’s-on in that country right now. There’s whole villages of Injuns scatterin’ in all directions since the fight at the Little Horn. You folks best keep a sharp eye where you’re goin’ ’cause they ain’t too friendly to white folks.” He cocked an eye in Clint’s direction. “Especially one that’s killed four of Red Hand’s warriors. I expect Red Hand’s already lookin’ for you. I noticed the lady rode in settin’ an Injun saddle, and I’d guess three of them horses is Injun ponies. They ain’t wearin’ no shoes.” He turned his head to talk directly to Clint then. “So you keep your eyes open, son, and keep that Winchester you’re totin’ ready to use.”
With the dawning of a new day, they bid farewell to Billy “Coyote” Turnipseed and followed the Little Powder north. The strange little man left, happily carrying a small sack of coffee beans given him by Joanna after warning Clint once again to be careful. Heeding Billy’s advice, Clint kept an observant eye out as they made their way north. They rode close by the river, since it was the quickest cover available in case of an encounter with hostiles, but they saw no sign of Indian activity all day long. At the end of the day they rode into the trees to make camp.
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