“Maybe you’d better just forget about it,” Bowers said. “He’s already long gone, and you don’t look like you’ll be in shape to ride anytime soon.”
“We’ll see about that,” Lige grunted, pushed Bowers’s hand away, and struggled to get to his feet, only to stagger over to a chair to sit down and wait for the doctor.
Bowers gave his flattened nose a long look before making a sarcastic comment. “I don’t reckon you’ll notice the stink if he comes in here again,” referring to Lige’s original remarks that had caused the altercation. Lige was about to retort when Doc Calley walked in.
“I thought your boy said he was shot,” Doc remarked to Bowers as he went over to examine the injured man. His tone was almost one of disappointment. There were many in town who considered Lige Tolbert a bully the town would be better off without.
“I think it’s broke,” Lige said.
“I think you’re right,” Doc replied sarcastically as he tilted Lige’s head back and peered at the results of Joel’s rifle butt. “He damn sure flattened it.” He continued to study it for a few minutes, then told him there was very little he could do to fix it. “I can push some of the bone back to where it was, but you’re gonna have a flat nose from now on. I’ll try to fix it so you can breathe a little easier through it.”
“Just be quick about it,” Lige said. “I’ve gotta ride.”
“I don’t expect you’ll feel much like riding by the time I’m through,” Doc told him. “You’ve already got a lot of swelling starting up and pretty soon your eyes are gonna puff up like toadstools. But I’ll do what I can.”
“Hurry up, Doc. I ain’t got time to sit around here all day,” Lige said, with as much bluster as he could manage through his aching head. He had a reputation as a bully that he was forced to defend, and he was already aware of the look of amusement in the faces of some of the spectators. “Tommy,” he said to Bowers’s boy, “go down to the stable and tell Buck to saddle my horse. I’m goin’ huntin’ for a damn Rebel.”
“All right,” Doc sighed patiently, and went to work on him. “But my advice is to take it easy and let it heal.” He turned to see Sheriff Jack Suggs coming in the door.
“Took you long enough,” Lige complained.
Suggs was another man Lige didn’t get along with. He was only the acting sheriff, until the elected sheriff came back from Cheyenne, but Lige was still sore over the town’s decision to give Suggs the job instead of him.
“I was eatin’ my dinner,” Suggs said. “Who got shot?”
“Ansil’s carnival glass lamp,” one of the spectators replied with a chuckle.
Suggs turned to him and asked what had happened, and listened while he watched Doc work on Lige’s face. When he had heard what the man had to say about the altercation, and his story was confirmed by the head nodding and agreeing grunts from the other witnesses, Suggs shook his head impatiently at Lige.
“Sounds to me like you stuck that nose into somethin’ that it’da been best kept out of. He flattened the hell out of it, all right.”
Already tired of hearing how flat his nose now was, Lige demanded, “Ain’t you goin’ after him? He cut loose with a damn carbine in here.”
“No, I ain’t,” Suggs said. “From what I hear, it warn’t nothin’ but a barroom brawl and you come out on the bottom. And I ain’t got time to chase after somebody in a bar fight.” Finished with the issue then, he turned to Bowers. “Might as well pour me a drink, long as I’m here.” He walked back to the bar, leaving Lige to seethe, well aware of the injured man’s hatred for him, but smug in his thinking that Lige was helpless to do anything about it. When Bowers poured his drink, Suggs asked, “Who started this thing, Ansil?”
Bowers shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “Lige,” he answered. “He was rawhidin’ a friend of that feller. They were both wearin’ Confederate uniforms.”
“That’s what I figured,” Suggs said, and tossed his drink back. Satisfied that he had an accurate account of the disturbance, he felt there was nothing he should do about it. “Well, I’ll get on back to the office,” he said, cast one more quick glance in Lige’s direction, then walked out.
“Nobody gets away with this,” Lige grumbled. “I’ll get that son of a bitch.”
“Hold still,” Doc told him, “or you’re gonna have this bandage wrapped around your neck.”
Lige held still, but he was thinking that Doc could show him a little more respect.
Maybe after I track those Rebels down, I might come back and take some of that sass out of you, he thought.
As his mind cleared, he became more inflamed with the desire for vengeance. To add a little incentive to his desire to catch up with the two Rebels, he remembered then that someone who saw the two men leave town said they were leading four horses, two of them with packs. “I can track as good as any Injun,” he boasted. “I’ll find those bastards.”
“I hope you do,” Doc said. “I hope you do. Make us all proud of you.” The sarcasm was lost on the simple being who was Lige Tolbert. It only confused him.
• • •
Approximately twelve miles north of Denver City, Joel and Riley sat by a fire on the bank of a small stream. Unaware that the man bent on tracking them was already in the saddle, even with his face swollen from injury, they were drinking coffee made from the beans they had purchased in Guthrie’s store. Joel had taken his drink of whiskey before changing to coffee, primarily because Riley insisted upon it.
“Weren’t fair that you didn’t get the chance to have a drink back there in the saloon,” he said.
Not sure whether there would be anybody coming after them for the disturbance in the saloon, they had taken precautions to hide their trail. Their path had led them to a river not more than a mile from town, but the water seemed too deep to ride in for any distance upstream or down. So they crossed over and continued on until reaching a wide stream that just served the purpose. Entering the water, they rode upstream, closer to the mountains, for about half a mile before leaving it to head due north again. Feeling it a good bet that they would have lost anyone thinking of tailing them, they relaxed to enjoy the coffee.
“That feller ain’t likely to forget you for a long time,” Riley remarked. He had gotten a brief glimpse of Joel’s encounter with Lige through the open door of the saloon. “Dang, that musta smarted somethin’ fierce. Laid him out cold, I reckon.”
“Well, he didn’t get up,” Joel replied with a shrug.
“I expect we’ve seen the last of him,” Riley said.
He felt very pleased with the situation. He had already known of Joel’s character in a regiment-sized skirmish, and he had wondered how his young partner could handle himself in a barroom fight. Now he knew he could count on him in most any situation.
“I reckon this is as good a time as any to shuck this uniform,” he said. “Much longer and it’d be fallin’ off by itself.” He pulled his boots off in preparation for disrobing.
“I expect you’re right,” Joel said, and started coming out of his uniform as well. “It seems they ain’t much good for anything but startin’ trouble.”
Riley suggested it would be a fitting final ceremony to close the war officially by burning the tattered uniforms. Joel agreed, so they cast the remains onto the fire. The grimy uniforms almost put out the fire, and Riley had to tend them using a stick for a poker until he could feed portions of the heavy cloth little by little. An undesired result of the ceremony was the creation of a black smoke column that rose from their camp.
“That ain’t good,” Riley remarked, and pulled the uniforms from the fire. He and Joel stomped the smoldering material until the flames were extinguished. “Everybody in the whole damn territory will know we’re here.”
“I expect you’re right,” Joel said. “We’d best move on outta here. The horses are rested enough, anyway.”
&
nbsp; Chapter 4
Lame Foot stood at the top of a rocky mesa, barren of all but a few trees.
“There,” he said to his companion, Hunting Owl, and pointed toward a thin black column of smoke drifting up on the western side of a low line of hills.
Hunting Owl climbed up beside him to see. He said nothing for a few moments while he considered the thin column wafting straight up before being sheared off by the breeze drifting across the crown of the hills.
“White man,” he said, for it would be unusual for an Indian to build a fire out of something that would make that much smoke unless he was trying to signal someone. “Wagons, maybe.”
“Let’s go see who it is,” Lame Foot suggested. “It might be soldiers.”
“Should we tell the others first?” Hunting Owl asked. The rest of their hunting party was at least a mile behind the two scouts, on the return to their camp on the South Platte.
“Let’s go see who made the fire. Then we can warn the others if there is danger,” Lame Foot advised.
When Hunting Owl agreed, the two Arapaho warriors jumped on their ponies and rode down from the mesa, then galloped across the narrow valley to the line of hills beyond. Leaving the horses on the side of the hill, they crawled to the top, making their way to a spot where they could see the camp by a stream. The camp, which was almost completely hidden by a bank of willows, might have been overlooked had it not been for the smoke drifting up through the tops of the trees.
“It is hard to tell,” Lame Foot said, “but I think it is only one or two men. I can see part of one horse between the willows and the stream.”
“That is good,” Hunting Owl said. “That means they can’t see us if we move up on the other side of the willows.”
Both warriors were surprised to find a party of only one or two white men in this Arapaho and Cheyenne territory. These were troubled times between white man and Indian since the cowardly attack at Sand Creek by Colorado volunteers, and consequently, white people seldom passed through unless they were heavily guarded. This bit of luck might result in the acquisition of guns, and that was very much on their minds as they decided how best to approach the camp.
“Maybe we should split up. You can sneak up from downstream,” Lame Foot suggested. “And I will approach from upstream and make them think I am alone and come in peace.”
“They may shoot at you,” Hunting Owl said.
“I’ll be careful. If they start to aim their guns at me, I’ll escape into the trees. I think there’s a good chance they will want me to come closer, and you can slip up behind them with your bow.”
Hunting Owl nodded in agreement. It was a good plan. Lame Foot was older than he and was wise in the ways of combat.
“Give me a little time,” he said, for he would have a greater distance to go to be in position. They split up then and descended the hill, one angling downstream, one upstream.
When Lame Foot reached the willows by the stream, he was about forty yards from the camp. He could see two horses in the trees between him and the camp. He could also clearly see one white man, sitting by the fire.
Is there another one? Maybe in the bushes relieving his bowels, he thought.
He edged a few yards closer. There was still no sign of another man. He could see the white man clearly now. He had a strange look about him that puzzled Lame Foot for a moment. Then he realized there was a bandage wrapped around the man’s face.
He has been wounded. Maybe he is running from a battle. Lame Foot decided then that the man was probably alone, so he stepped out of the shadows of the trees and called to him.
“Hey, white man, I come in peace.”
His shout caused the white man to scramble to his knees and reach for his rifle.
Ah, Lame Foot thought, recognizing the Henry, he has the medicine gun that shoots many times.
Knowing he must be careful not to make the white man shoot, he called out again, “No need to worry. I come in peace. I am hungry. I saw your fire and I think maybe you share some food.”
Wary, the white man finally spotted his visitor. “Yeah,” he called back, “come on in. I’ll give you some food.”
Come on in a little bit closer, he thought, and I’ll give you some lead to eat.
He got up from his knees then and stood watching the Indian approach, his rifle held casually across his thighs.
When Lame Foot advanced to within fifteen yards, the white man sneered. “You come in peace, huh? Well, there ain’t no peace between me and a damn begger-ass Injun.”
He brought his rifle up to his shoulder, but before he had time to aim, he was stunned by the solid impact of an arrow in his back. He turned to face his assailant only to be staggered by another arrow. The air was split then by the war cries of both warriors, and he was struck by two more arrows. Staring in horror at the thin shafts driven deep into his stomach, he dropped to his knees and fumbled with his rifle, which suddenly seemed foreign to his hands. He remained in that position for a few moments until Lame Foot walked up and kicked him over on his side.
Lige Tolbert, his broken face sagging even more after his scalp had been taken, lived for thirty additional minutes of pain before death decided to have mercy on him. Left on the bank of a nameless stream, a meal for buzzards, or wolves, whichever found him first, he would not be missed in Denver City, although his name might come up occasionally when there was a discussion of sons of bitches at the Miner’s Rest.
• • •
Their plan was simple, keep riding north along the base of the mountains until reaching South Pass, where Riley was certain he knew the way to Idaho from there. After they’d left the stream north of Denver City, two days of steady riding brought them to a wide creek that caused a spark in Riley’s memory.
“I swear,” he exclaimed, “I’ve been here before. I know this place—Crow Creek. I tracked a deer down this stream from the South Platte, back in ’forty-nine.” He gave Joel a self-satisfied grin. “I told you I knew this part of Dakota Territory. Hell, I kilt buffalo not too far from here.”
“I wish we’d see some buffalo now,” Joel said. “I’d like to skin one and make a buffalo robe.”
The days were already getting colder, and he was beginning to think the coat he had traded for in Denver City wasn’t going to be enough when the real winter hit. The last couple of days, while they had held to a steady northern track, with the Rocky Mountains to the west of them, seemed to see the temperature drop with each mile gained.
“We ain’t even past summer good,” Riley said. “What month you reckon it is?”
Joel paused to think for a moment. “I’m not sure—end of September, maybe first of November.” He gazed over to his left at the mountains, and the mantle of snow covering the tallest peaks. “I’ll bet it’s pretty damn cold up there.”
“You’re right about that,” Riley quickly agreed. “Wait till you get to my age. When your bones get older, winter gets in ’em a whole lot quicker, and it takes longer to warm ’em up in the spring.”
They decided to follow a fairly used trail along Crow Creek, thinking to follow it to its confluence with the South Platte. They had not ridden more than a few miles when they came upon a log cabin built close beside the water. Thinking it a homesteader at first, they then realized it was a trading post of sorts, although it seemed a lonely spot to have one.
“You reckon he might have some whiskey?” Riley wondered, having long since finished the bottle they had bought at Denver City.
“I’d sure as hell be surprised,” Joel replied. “I’m wonderin’ if he might have some coffee beans.”
They still had a supply of coffee beans, but he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to buy some more if they were available. Based on the remoteness of the country they had been traveling, he wasn’t sure they’d see another town anytime soon, and he knew he’d miss his coffee a lot more tha
n whiskey.
When they were within fifty yards of the log structure, they saw an Indian woman step out from behind a porch post and go inside the building. She had evidently been watching their approach for some time.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to make sure that carbine is settin’ nice and loose in your scabbard,” Riley cautioned.
In a couple of minutes, however, a man came out the door and walked into the clearing in front of the cabin. Joel and Riley continued their approach. As they neared the cabin, the man suddenly threw up his hand and yelled, “Welcome, strangers! Come on in.”
They could see that he was a white man, although from a distance he might easily be mistaken for an Indian. He was dressed in animal skins and wore his long hair pulled back in a braid, Indian-style, and he was clean shaven. They acknowledged his wave with one of their own and rode on in.
“I swear, Little Robe said it was two white men, but I didn’t believe it till I saw you with my own eyes.” He craned his neck, taking inventory of his visitors and their possessions, trying to determine what manner of men they were to be traveling alone in Indian country. “I don’t see many white men out this way,” he went on. “The name’s Seth Burns. This here’s my store, but most of my trade is with the Arapahos.”
He motioned toward a short hitching rail beside the porch.
“Joel McAllister,” Joel said as he stepped down, “and my partner here is Riley Tarver. I reckon we’re as surprised to see you as you are to see us. We could use a few things if you happen to have ’em.” He looped Will’s reins over the rail. “Would you happen to have any grain for the horses?”
“No, I ain’t,” Seth replied. “I sure ain’t.” He craned his neck to look at the horses again. “Them two horses in the back look like Injun ponies. They do better on grass than them others. I can see your other horses are needin’ the grain, all right. I’m right sorry I can’t fix you up with some.” He shrugged and announced, “I can fix you up with some other things, though, like beans, flour, coffee, things like that. You got here at the right time. I just got back from Fort Laramie with a wagonload of supplies last week.” He walked around to their packhorses to take a closer look. “Seems like you fellers are packin’ a pretty good load. Is that for tradin’, or you thinkin’ about cash or dust?”
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