As he trudged toward the village, his stomach growled at the aroma of salmon roasting over cooking fires. Children laughed as they chased each other around the lodges. How different from his own upbringing, he thought, one of formal manners and stiff Eton collars, a grim procession of tutors and governesses who rapped his knuckles if he reached for the wrong fork at the dinner table or spoke before spoken to.
Two Feathers plopped next to him and threw him a grin. The Colt glinted temptingly in his waistband in the light of the fire. Ben suspected the young Indian polished the weapon every day. Two Feathers never used it, though. In fact, it was unloaded. It was against the law for whites to sell ammunition to Indians, although occasionally someone could be found who would trade bullets for buffalo tongue.
Two Feathers saw the direction of Ben’s gaze, and his grin grew broader. “You want it back?” he said in Nez Perce.
Ben shrugged. Compared to the decision whether to marry Shining Water and stay with the Nez Perce, or to move on, the pistol faded into relative unimportance. A rifle was more useful in the mountains anyway. The look of disappointment on the adolescent’s features changed his response. “Of course I want it.”
Two Feathers made a show of considering, twisting his mouth and tapping his chin with a brown finger. “Your horse is strong and fast,” he said. “But my appaloosa is faster.”
The young Indian was known for his skill at riding and was particularly proud of his fleet-footed two-year-old stallion, which he had gentled as a colt. Ben’s big bay had fully recovered from the slash of the buffalo’s horns and remained a powerful and reliable steed. Ben considered the implied offer. “You want to race?”
Two Feathers held up the pistol. “The prize. Do you accept?”
“Of course.” Ben thrust out his hand, white-man’s style.
The young Indian looked blankly at it for a split second, then seized it. “Tomorrow, by the river,” he said, grinning.
They found a flat spot good for racing, not far from the riverbank, and agreed an old fallen oak would mark the finish line. Two Feathers removed the pistol from his beaded waistband and ceremoniously placed it on a flat rock to await the winner, then mounted his horse.
He crouched over its withers waiting for Ben to ready his bay, and counted to three. “Go!”
Ben’s military horse was strong, well disciplined, and swift to obey. It took an early lead as Ben hunched low, wind whistling through his now-shoulder-length hair while they whipped past thick-grown shrubs and trees. Just as he thought the race was his, Two Feathers’s two-year-old appaloosa slipped past and won by a nose.
The Indian wheeled his horse around. His chest glinted with perspiration as the suede medicine bag that all the Indian men wore swung from his neck. “Well done!” he shouted. “You nearly had me.”
“Again!” Ben demanded with chagrin.
The boy considered briefly. “Very well. We’ll make it best of three.”
But the bay had exhausted itself in that first, all-out dash. It lost the following races by ever-greater margins, and at the end, Ben admitted defeat. He would give up all claim to the Colt.
Instead of claiming the prize immediately, Two Feathers slid off the lathered appaloosa. Yelling and waving his arms, he drove it toward the river until the animal splashed in and swam toward the center. There it battled the current, rolling its eyes toward the safety of shore but obeying its master’s will.
“What are you doing?” Ben wanted to know.
“Watch!” The Indian youth plunged into the water. With long, powerful strokes, he swam toward the horse, submerged up to its neck and head. Reaching it, Two Feathers clambered onto the slippery body and, clutching the mane, waved at Ben before swimming the animal to shore and urging it up the river bank, obviously pleased with himself. “Now you do the same!” He shook water from his long braids, looking like a centaur. “It will cool you off.”
Ben was reluctant to accept the challenge. The river was deep and swift, and if he slipped and was carried downstream, the current might dash out his brains against a rock. But he couldn’t turn down the direct challenge. Indians despised cowardice.
He began to pull his deerskin shirt over his head, then stopped. Two Feathers was staring at something behind him, and the light-hearted smile had disappeared, leaving the smooth young face expressionless.
Ben turned to see a burly prospector who had emerged from the bushes and was pointing a battered rifle directly at the Indian’s bare torso. A frizzled red beard nearly hid a sunburned nose and cheeks topped by a wide-brimmed hat. The stranger’s canvas pants, held up by leather suspenders, were soil-caked and full of holes.
“Git off that horse, Injun.” The deep voice was even rougher than the miner’s appearance.
Two Feathers’s black eyes flashed, and Ben feared he would do something rash. He raised his chin arrogantly. “What you want?” he said in English.
“That’s my horse you got there.” The prospector spat into the dirt, then drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “You stole it from me last night, while I was camped across this stream.”
“Horse is mine,” Two Feathers said coldly. “This land mine too. You leave.”
Ben took a step toward the stranger to try to reason with him. A white man’s words would carry more weight with the prospector than those of the Indian youth. Perhaps he could smooth over the misunderstanding before—
The rifle spit fire. Two Feathers slid off the horse and sprawled on the ground. It had happened so quickly, Ben had not had time to say a word.
He broke into a run and knelt by the boy. In disbelief, he stared at the blood that trickled from a small hole in the boy’s chest surrounded by black gunpowder.
The stranger wasted no time trying to heave himself onto the appaloosa, but again and again he slipped off the river-slick back. Abandoning the attempt, the assailant grabbed his rifle and whirled on Ben.
“Don’t fire!” Ben shouted, still crouching over Two Feathers, a sick anger rising in him. “I’m a white man, you fool!”
The stranger looked more closely at Ben, but did not lower the weapon. “You’re white?” The prospector suspiciously eyed Ben’s fringed buckskins and tanned, hairless face.
“Listen to my voice. Do I sound like an Indian to you?” Ben held up his hands to show he was unarmed. From the corner of his eye he saw the Colt still lying on the flat rock, out of reach. Even though it was empty, he could have used the weapon to bluff the red-bearded man into leaving, but everything had happened so fast. He hadn’t expected the man to shoot without a warning.
“The boy was telling the truth. The horse is his.” Two Feathers’s face was pale, his chest motionless. Ben bent closer and, with a tug of hope, felt a faint breath from the youth’s nostrils. Even so, he knew Two Feathers’s chances of surviving were slim.
This was worse than Yellow Wolf’s death, Ben thought, innards tightening in anger. That killing had been retribution for a crime, but this was murder.
“Don’t waste your sympathy on him.” The prospector was looking suspiciously at Ben’s shoulder-length dark hair. Something made him decide Ben was telling the truth and he shrugged, nudging the still body on the ground with the toe of his muddy boot. “He wasn’t nothin’ but a two-bit Injun thief.”
“The boy is no thief.” Ben’s tight throat made it difficult to get the words out. “I’ve never seen him ride any horse but this. He raised it from a colt.”
“Oh?” The man studied the handsome appaloosa, which was prancing restively, spooked by the rifle’s explosion and its master’s fall. The ruddy face screwed up as if thinking, an activity that appeared to tax its owner’s faculties to the utmost. “Well, whaddaya know. That horse looks just like mine … same spots, black mane and tail. But come to think of it, mine had a black sock on the rear left leg.” He shrugged, lowering the rifle. “Well, you can’t blame a man for an honest mistake.”
“A mistake?” Rage spurred Ben to his feet. “You shoot an
innocent man without warning, and you call it a ‘mistake’?”
The man raised his hand placatingly. “What’s one Injun, more or less? I’ve rid the world of a varmint, haven’t I?”
Ben couldn’t even respond to that. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said through gritted teeth. “This is Indian territory.”
“You’re white too, mister—if you ain’t lying. What are you doing here? Struck gold?” The man’s eyes shifted toward the river, and an avaricious glint lit their depths. “Trying to keep it all for yourself, huh?”
“I’m no prospector. I’m here by permission of the Nez Perce tribe.” Ben was shaking with anger. “Make no mistake, if this boy dies I will see you hang for murder.”
The other’s eyes narrowed. He scratched his beard. “Will you now?” he said mildly. “I ain’t never heard of a white man hanged for killing an Injun. Have you?”
Ben fell silent. As Grizzly Robe had sorrowfully informed him, Federal laws created to protect Indians were rarely enforced, although the reverse was true: Indians suspected of crimes against whites were inevitably hanged, usually without so much as a trial.
He clenched his fists. “I will go to Lewiston and demand a trial. As an American citizen, they will listen to me.”
“Maybe, if you get there.” The man leveled his rifle at Ben’s midsection threateningly. Then he lowered it. A row of crooked yellow teeth appeared in the center of the beard and a croaking laugh emerged. “Go ahead, I won’t stop you. The judge might just clap you in jail for disturbing the peace. He might figure you’re one of the dirty varmints yourself, dressed like that.”
Ben glanced at the Colt, still lying on the stump. If only the weapon was loaded. Under the wave of anger, though, he was aware that killing this outlaw would only bring retribution on the tribe. Any real justice would have to be sought in a court of law.
Ben hated to admit it, but the would-be killer was probably right. Courts didn’t care about Indians. A fair outcome in a trial was unlikely. His fist clenched helplessly as he stared at Two Feathers’s nearly motionless form. His chest was still moving, but barely. Not dead yet, but any moment could be the boy’s last.
“Go ahead,” the man taunted as if reading Ben’s thoughts. Shouldering the rifle, he picked up the appaloosa’s reins, trimmed with beads and feathers. He laughed full-throatedly as he led the horse away, red beard quivering. “Ain’t no law against killing Injuns. No sirree, ain’t no law against killing Injuns. And I guess that one won’t be needing this horse no more.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chance
Western Idaho
Summer, 1866
After their narrow escape, following the bank robbery in Moose City, Chance listened grimly to his companion’s excited exclamations.
“Woo-hoo! We done got away with it, Chance! Forty-three dollars richer, an’ not so much as a bullet through my hat to remember it by!” Walter took off his hat and proudly waved it in the air.
“Forty-three dollars ain’t even close to what I hoped for,” Chance growled. “I’ve been thinking, Walt—”
Walter kept talking as if he hadn’t heard, sitting cross-legged on the ground in the cave that Chance had earmarked for himself, spooning beans onto his metal plate. “I always said you’ve got brains, Chance, and I was right. Next time, you’ll figure out how to do even better. Forty-three bucks this time, four hundred the next.”
“I dunno, Walt. Like I was saying—”
“And on our very first try! I bet next time we’ll just sail into the bank and out, smooth as flapjacks! You’ll figure it out, Chance. Best thing I ever done, tryin’ to hold up a smart fellow like you.”
Chance found himself wavering as his partner gloated. He’d already thought of how to avoid mistakes next time. An image floated back of his farm that had been stolen from him and of his mother’s lonely grave far away. The banks had hardly had a taste of Chance McInnes yet.
Maybe it was too soon to give up, he thought, glancing at the paltry treasure, which sat with a rock on top to keep the banknotes from blowing away. Walter was right. They’d surely do a sight better the second time around. On the other hand …
As if blown by the winds of fate, a yellowed newspaper flew past the cave’s entrance, blown by the same wind that set tumbleweeds rolling and necessitated the rock to hold down the banknotes. Chance chased the broadsheet downhill and trapped it.
It was a copy of the latest Moose City Tribune. His glee quickly turned to dismay. It contained a lurid account of the bank robbery that could have come out of the penny dreadful the young bank clerk had been reading. “A yellow-bearded giant of a man stomped into the bank like a crazed bear, brandished a gigantic pair of matching pistols, and bellowed in a menacing voice like that of death itself, ‘The entire wad of cash, youngster, and make it quick or I’ll blow out your brains like a bowl of mush!’”
Walter peered over his shoulder. His eyes widened at the headline splashed across the top, the bold black letters several inches high: “Yellowbeard Bandit Strikes Moose City! Empties Bank Safe! Clerk Terrorized at Gunpoint!”
“Now, look at that!” Walter marveled. “You done made us famous!”
The former hatter didn’t realize their new fame was proof of incompetence, Chance thought bitterly, folding up the paper. Why on earth had he chosen to rob a town that had its own newspaper, virtually guaranteeing publicity of their heist? Worse, the clerk had painted him as a flamboyant, murderous thug. Chance’s hatred of banks reared up again, stronger than ever. He crumpled up the newspaper and hurled it away.
“Wait! Don’tcha want to keep it as a souvenir?” Walter asked.
Chance only growled.
A few weeks later, the two partners rode a hundred miles from their hideout in western Oregon to the town of Paradise, Idaho. Despite its name, the town was no more than a muddy main street flanked by tin shacks with crudely hand-lettered signs advertising hot baths and a Chinese laundry. A pair of tall, skinny men wearing frayed miner’s clothes leaned against a wall, hats pulled low, watching them pass by.
While he was tying up Sally in front of a saloon, a tattered poster of a fearsome desperado caught Chance’s eye, and he took an instinctive step backward when, with shock, he realized the hand-drawn picture was of himself. There was the sandy beard, thick eyebrows, broad brow, and high cheekbones of the Moose City Bandit.
Chance glanced at Walter, who was heading into the saloon, then back at the poster. The artist had given him a sneering smirk, slitted eyes, and a beard that bristled like a tumbleweed. The offered reward was three hundred dollars. The new sheriff of Moose City obviously took his duties seriously.
He took off his hat and bemusedly scratched his tangled hair. Was that really how he looked from the other side of a bank counter? Worse, he was wanted, and there was a reward on his head.
Chance was tempted to ride back to the hideout in the cliffs before anyone identified him as the man on the poster. But the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself the portrait really didn’t look much like him after all. There must be dozens of young men with big, bushy blond beards wandering around these parts. Besides, his throat was dry, Walter was already inside the saloon, and it was a long way back to the caves without refreshment.
Glancing surreptitiously this way and that, he ripped down the poster, crumpled it, and shoved it into his pocket before slipping into the dusky interior. To his relief, the smattering of patrons didn’t look up from their drinks or desultory card games. Nursing a drink at the bar, he was still brooding over the wanted poster and wondering what to do when a stronger-than-usual odor of unwashed bodies permeated the room. The smell grew nauseating as a pair of tall, lanky men simultaneously took the barstools flanking him.
Chance quickly drained his glass, slapped a couple of coins on the counter, and began to get up.
A bony hand landed on his shoulder. “Not so fast,” said a nasally voice. “Barkeep, another of the same for our frien
d here and whiskeys for both of us.”
The bartender wordlessly refilled the drink, plopped two more down on the splintered plank that served as a counter, and moved off to serve other customers. Chance curled his fingers unwillingly around his glass, sizing up his companions. Tall, skeletal, with eyes the color of dirty water, they could have been identical twins except one was slightly taller and more cadaverous than the other. “Thanks,” Chance said gruffly. “What’s the occasion?”
“I’ll get right to the point, mister. We want to be part of your outfit.” The taller man’s jutting cheekbones drew the skin across his homely face like a bedsheet pulled too tight. The fellow would have cut a fine figure as a gravedigger, Chance thought. It was not a comforting image.
“What outfit?” he asked, sipping his drink. “I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
The shorter one grinned, revealing yellow-brown teeth, and pulled out a newspaper whose masthead Chance recognized all too well. “The bank clerk in Moose City described how you and your followers rode in with guns blazing, tied him up in his own suspenders, and left him locked in the safe. Was a miracle the fellow managed to free himself before suffocating.” The lanky newcomer stuffed the newspaper back into his pocket. “How much did you and your gang clear out of that place? Five hunnert? A thousand?”
Chance ignored the stranger’s question in his amazement at the rest of what the fellow had said. “The clerk said he freed himself from a locked safe and you believed it?”
The man thought for a minute. “Okay, maybe the fella exaggerated that part.”
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