by Shirl Henke
Delilah listened to them and turned to Horace. “Who is this woodhawk, Jeremiah Johnson? Have you heard of him?”
Horace shrugged. “Only vague rumors, probably greatly exaggerated, as are most tales on the Missouri. His name is either Jeremiah or John. Nobody knows which. It’s said he’s killed scores of Crow Indians in revenge for the death of his Flathead wife.”
“And he ate their livers?” she asked, horrified.
“As I said, probably a tall tale,” Horace replied dismissively. Just like Sky’s tale of Lightning Hand’s scalp poles. But she knew her friend would never invent such a terrible story about her beloved brother. Delilah said nothing more to heruncle, only nodded, watching the shoreline as they drew closer.
As the boat stopped, Delilah could see a tall, gaunt man of indeterminate years with a matted beard and thinning, gray, shoulder-length hair standing at the top of the steep embankment. He wore only a filthy red flannel nightshirt that stopped barely at midthigh, revealing long, sinuous, hairy legs. “So that’s the fabled Mr. Johnson. He looks dirty and disheveled, but I’d scarcely say all that dangerous.”
“You are most probably correct, my dear. Nevertheless, I’m going to accompany Clint while he negotiates for wood. You note the unsavory fellow in Mr. Johnson’s shadow? His name is, rather bizarrely, Mr. X. Biedler, a hired killer, apparently of some repute. Because of Mr. Johnson’s, er, exploits among the various Indian tribes in the territory, Biedler’s gun provides protection for Johnson’s wood business.” Horace held his telescopic rifle at his side.
She watched her uncle and Clint stride down the gangplank. The old man at the top of the hill stood like a malevolent sentinel, arms crossed, bare feet firmly planted on the grassy slope, as if defying them to enter his fiefdom. Some instinct made her suddenly uneasy. “Todd, have the crew staying aboard arm themselves and be prepared for trouble,” she said to Spearman.
“Mr. Daniels already done tole us,” Todd replied. “We hear any ruckus, we come on the double.”
Delilah watched intently as Johnson called out to Clint, “Wall, if’n it ain’t the great Pawnee Killer, Lightnin’ Hand, come back from th’ dead. How be ye, white Injun?”
She could not discern Clint’s reply but sensed the tension in his body. He wore buckskin breeches and moccasins as usual, but this morning she’d been surprised to see him without a shirt. Instead he had a sleeveless leather vest laced across his broad chest, making him appear all the more savage. After their breathlessly wondrous interlude last night, his apparel distressed her. She was no closer to understanding him thanshe had been the day she met him. It seemed with each passing mile upriver, he became more Indian, less white. Was this the gentle, teasing man who quoted Shakespeare and made such delicious love to her? Or was he once more Lightning Hand, the white Sioux?
Suddenly, Delilah felt some perverse compulsion to know what was going to happen between the two antagonists. She felt the weight of the Derringer in her pocket, reassuring her as she waited for them to disappear over the embankment into the Liver Eater’s camp. Then she walked down the gangplank. But instead of following them directly to the camp, she walked along the bank a couple of dozen yards upstream, moving around to the side, where she could watch what went on without giving away her presence.
She had slipped from Clint’s cabin near dawn, undiscovered. Other than one last, lingering kiss, he had said nothing, promised nothing to her. But that had been their agreement. She would not settle for this enigma, a man standing between two worlds, yet invading her bed, her thoughts, her very soul. That realization frightened her, and Delilah Raymond resented being frightened. She refused to consider that she had been the one to go to him last night.
Why had he dressed like a savage after such a tender interlude? For this man whom he’d known he would meet today? What was their past history? The awful woodhawk obviously knew Clint from his time with the Ehanktonwon. She crept up the bank and sneaked nearer to the sounds of their voices, braving the prickling thorns of wild blackberry bushes and other low-growing, scratchy prairie grasses, still dry from the last brutal days of winter on the high plains.
When she saw the camp, her breath caught in her throat. She suppressed a scream of revulsion, unable to tear her eyes away from the horror. Delilah swallowed hard, trying not to cry out.
Chapter Seventeen
Along corridor stretched from the lip of the hill downward like a throne-room entry hall. Human skulls hung from the poles that lined the sides of the dirt walkway leading to Jeremiah Johnson’s large, crude log house. Some of the bones gleamed, bleached white by the sun, the jaws clamped in a rictus of what looked like obscene laughter. Others were fresher, with bits of rotting flesh and hair still marring what would become a death-white patina. There must have been—her mind shut down, unable to count the number. They swayed in the wind from the river, suspended on long ropes.
It was a savage scene, straight from the fiendish imagination of an utter madman. Delilah remained frozen behind the bushes, unable to turn away. Her uncle stood at the bottom of the slope, observing from a distance, his rifle at the ready. They both watched as Clint walked up the hill through the hideous gauntlet, seemingly oblivious to the demonic horrors surrounding him. She could not envision what a civilized man such as Horace Mathers must think of this barbarity.
She wondered what Clint thought. He knew this insane old murderer, had dealt with him before. Now he approached Johnson, who had retreated to the front of his lair as if to make his visitor walk past his grisly trophies. She could see the crazed light in his rheumy eyes, even smell the incredible stench emanating from his body—or the death heads rotting all around him; it was difficult to tell which. She swallowed down her gorge as Johnson spoke.
“Good ta see ye, Lightnin’. Heerd ye’d gone back ta bein’ white agin, but it don’t much look like it.” He surveyedClint’s buckskins and long hair and then spit a gob of black tobacco near Clint’s moccasins.
Daniels did not move. “I’ve come to buy wood, Johnson. What’s your price for a load?” he asked in a flat voice.
“See ye got ye a fancy stern-wheeler. Come up in th—world, ain—tcha? Think thet makes ye better—n a ole woodhawk?”
“I’m not thinking about anything but loading up and pulling out, Johnson. How much?”
“Now, thet ain’t sociable.” He took a menacing step forward, hands at his sides as if ready to throw a punch. “Ye and me, we be cut from th—same cloth—don’t ye be fergittin’ it. We done th’ same. Tuk vengeance fer our wimmen. Ain’t nothin’ wrong in thet.”
Delilah had watched Clint’s back stiffen during the exchange, his anger palpable. Now he clenched his fists and spoke through gritted teeth. She noted that her uncle had raised his rifle from his side and cradled it in his arms.
“We’re nothing alike, Johnson. I’m no cannibal.”
Johnson laughed, a high-pitched, screeching sound that sent a new shiver down Delilah’s spine.
“Oh, I et me some Crow livers, right ’nough. Tuk their heads ’n made me some real purty de-cor-ations.” He drew out the last word, relishing it as he looked up and down his walk of infamy. “Ye tuk Pawnee scalps. Filled a couply mighty tall lodge poles, way I heerd it. Don’t rightly see whut’s so differ’nt jest ’cause ye didn’t taste ’o their innards. We’re th’ same unner th’ skin.”
The blow landed so swiftly, Delilah scarcely saw Clint move. In an instant, the rangy old giant was flying onto his back in the dirt. The small, swarthy gunman materialized from the side of the cabin, his Remington .45 halfway out of his holster. Horace raised his rifle, but before he could aim it, Clint wheeled around and drew his revolver. The little killer’s black hair bounced in oily ringlets as he shook his head, letting his weapon drop back into its holster.
“No, I got no fight with you, Yankton. You come to buy wood, we’ll sell it. Ole Liver Eater, he’s a mite tetched.” Biedler’s forced grin revealed tobacco-stained teeth as he jabbed the fingers of one r
aised hand against his head to indicate Johnson was crazy.
Clint’s hand remained steady, his Army Colt aimed at the gunman’s heart. Delilah could see his finger whitening on the trigger. She almost cried out, afraid he would shoot the man in cold blood, so great was his rage. Then, ever so slowly, he exhaled and slid the gun back into his holster. Neither he nor the hired gun seemed aware of Horace standing in the distance. Clint deliberately turned his back on Biedler and walked away, daring the killer to try again.
After a dozen paces, he called out, “I’ll send my men for the wood. The goin’ rate, not a penny more.” He pulled a sack of coins from his belt and tossed it over his shoulder.
Delilah watched Clint’s face. His eyes looked cold, dead as the Liver Eater’s hideous trophies that surrounded him. He stared straight ahead toward the river and never looked back. He passed Horace without acknowledgment, half walking, half sliding down the bank. Fleeing memories so terrible he cannot bear them.
Johnson got to his feet as Biedler picked up the money from where Clint had thrown it. The giant shook his grizzled head and rubbed his jaw. She half expected him to yell out after Clint, but he held his peace. The two men conferred for a moment. Then Biedler disappeared inside the cabin. Johnson shambled toward the huge woodpile in the clearing on the other side of his cabin to wait for the roosters.
Delilah worried that Clint might notice she had left the boat, but when she came around the bank from her hiding place he was nowhere in sight. Todd informed her that he had ordered the men to load up the wood, then gone directly to his cabin. Wilted with relief, she went to her own cabin and sat down on rubbery legs. She knew he would be furious if he ever found out she had eavesdropped on his exchange with Johnson—heard the Liver Eater’s accusation that they were brothers under the skin.
“His guilt must eat at him like a cancer,” she murmured, torn between wanting to go to him and offer comfort…and her own revulsion at what he had been, had done. An educated white man had no excuse to behave so barbarously. But then, as she turned the whole ghastly episode over in her mind, she realized that it was unfair to judge Clint as harshly as Johnson.
Sky had explained how her brother had buried his trophies and spent days in silence, grieving for what he had done. This confrontation explained why his Ehanktonwon family knew he could not stay with them. She had seen how his reckless disregard for his own life had grown the farther upriver they traveled. Some part of him wanted to die. Delilah knew that her friend Sky expected her to redeem him.
If only she knew how.
Clint never left his cabin until they reached Fort Benton. On the three-day journey from Johnson’s camp to their final destination, he had his meals and a bottle of whiskey left outside the door. He consumed the whiskey but left the food mostly untouched. Delilah made several overtures, but he refused to say anything except to order her to leave. At first she worried and paced the floor nights, fearful about what he would do when they arrived. But by the time the flat, muddy expanse of riverbank dotted with hastily erected clapboard buildings appeared, Delilah was angry. How dare he hide from her and shirk his responsibilities?
She looked at the desolate waterfront where half a dozen other stern-wheelers were busily disgorging their cargoes. Teamsters goaded stolid oxen or sturdy mules through the muck with curses and bullwhips, awaiting their turn to pick up the bales, boxes, barrels and crates filled with goods for the gold camps. Local merchants haggled prices with steamer captains, and warehouse owners dickered storage rates for consignments already spoken for by gold-camp traders not yet present to accept shipments.
Here and there, the denizens of the local saloons lining the waterfront spilled out to observe and comment upon the latest arrivals. Some were newly returned from the camps, laden with gold dust and eager to drink up their hard-earned profits. Others had struck out at panning for gold and hung on the periphery like vultures, waiting to rob or cheat their drunken compatriots. Slick, hard-eyed card sharks and even harder-looking saloon floozies trolled for customers. The stink of gold and the corruption that accompanied it hung in the air.
“We require Clint’s assistance, I do believe, my dear,” Horace said to his niece. “Perhaps if I spoke with him—”
“No. He forced us to take him on as a partner. He can damn well sober up and do his job!” Delilah stomped down the deck to Clint’s door and pounded on it.
Clint had awakened at dawn long before the captain stopped the Nymph’s engines. Todd Spearman had fetched him the hot water he’d requested, as well as a large pot of coffee. When he heard the ruckus on the riverfront he knew they were in Benton. He grimaced at his appearance in the mirror. He had not shaved in days. A thick, dark stubble of beard combined with bloodshot eyes and shaggy, unkempt hair made him look as bad a customer as any hanging out at the rowdy saloons in town. He set to work making himself as presentable as possible before disembarking.
When he heard the click of her high-heeled slippers approaching, he knew it was Delilah. Mad as a scalded hen. He couldn’t blame her. Wiping the last traces of shaving soap from his face, he slipped on a shirt while she pounded on the door. After tucking it in the waistband of his buckskins, he opened the door, amused to see her small fist raised in midblow. Her lips rounded in a surprised O when she looked at him.
“You fixin’ to knock on me or the door?” he asked with a shaky grin.
“If I was —fixin— to knock on you, I would’ve brought a hammer. Your skull is harder than the door.” She lowered her fist. “Your eyes look dreadful, like two burned holes in a bed-sheet,” she blurted out.
“You should see them from the inside,” he replied, reaching for his gun belt.
She stood in the doorway of his room, feeling awkward, her eyes sweeping past him as he fastened the weapon around his narrow hips. She could see the bed where they’d made love. He’d been a different man then…or had he? She honestly did not know, but this was not the time to consider personal matters. There was business to conduct. “Are you ready to begin unloading? You’re in charge since Mr. Iversen’s gone,” she said, blotting the perspiration on her forehead with her handkerchief.
Clint noted the freckles dotting her nose and touched the tip of it. “Looks like a sprinklin’ of gold dust.”
“Let’s just see about getting some real gold dust. It’s worth more,” she replied, backing away from him. “The town is filled with miners spending like drunken sailors.”
“Always the mercenary little soul, aren’t you, darlin’?” he drawled, trying to get her into a better mood.
She ignored him. “We need to collect return passage money from them before they whore, drink and gamble it away. You are in charge of disposing of that illegal whiskey before any of the soldiers from the fort learn of it.”
“I’ll handle the whiskey deal. The captain knows a couple of merchants who’ll give top dollar for it.”
“Which will have to be handled in the dark of night?” she asked.
“You can count the proceeds by lamplight,” he replied dryly.
“Just as long as we don’t end up in an army prison cell.” She turned and headed for the stairs on the hurricane deck.
He walked beside her. “I’ll never spend another day in a bluebelly prison.”
His grim tone made her pause at the top of the steps and look at him. “I know you were a galvanized Yankee during the war—and the reason why. Don’t permit your dislike of the army to lead you to any irrational acts,” she said, placing her hand on his arm.
He gazed at her for a moment, then smiled his old sharkish grin. “I wouldn’t say I dislike the bluebellies. More like I hate ’em, but don’t fret, I never let my feelings interfere with business.”
“Splendid,” she said sourly, not at all certain she could trust him. “But I believe I’ll handle any dealings we have with the army. You just oversee the whiskey sale and the unloading of the rest of the cargo while I tally.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, giving
her a mock salute. “You do own 51 percent, after all.”
By the end of the day, the captain had arranged a meeting with several bidders interested in purchasing the whiskey. No one appeared to be much troubled by an army detachment that knew damned well whiskey was being habitually shipped to the miners. Clint posted a notice for an auction of their legal cargo, inviting all the local merchants and drummers serving the gold camps. It would take the best part of the week to assemble enough competitors to get top dollar for everything. The roosters unloaded about half the goods onto the wide, muddy riverbank and were securing it against inclement weather by lashing it down with waterproof sailcloth.
“We’ll need to post armed guards for our cargo, I do believe,” Horace said to Daniels as they both surveyed hard-eyed frontiersmen ambling along the riverbank, armed to the teeth.
“I’ve handpicked the most trustworthy men, those the captain can vouch for. I figure you and I can take turns supervising them. After Lew Flowers, we can’t afford any more mistakes.”
Horace nodded. “Indeed. Let us hope he was the last of Riley’s ruffians.” He turned back to the boat and looked at the group of passengers waiting their turn at the table Delilah had set up forward of the now idle boilers. Each paid in advance for the return journey when the Nymph had finished selling all her cargo. The downriver trip would be far swifter, months transformed into days because they would be moving with the current. He chuckled. “With fares up to two hundred dollars apiece, my niece has been delighted with the passenger money.”
Clint grinned. “I can imagine. There’ll be lots of others once word reaches the camps. Then more miners who’ve struck paydirt’ll drift in.”
“How long do you imagine we will be here?” Horace asked.
Clint shrugged. “Hard to say. Longer we wait, the better the profits. Now, I reckon I’ll head over to the Nugget and see a couple of men about our whiskey. Once the captain and I collect six or seven hundred a barrel for it, I think Deelie’s snit over carryin’ it will plumb vanish.”