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Overview
When old-timer scout Jason Coles ended the rampage of renegade Cheyenne Stone Hand, he quit tracking outlaws for the army for good. Settling down with his wife and newborn baby, Coles plans to spend the rest of his days on his ranch raising horses. But that dream is savagely torn from him as his ranch is burned to the ground, and his family is abducted by the bloodthirsty Cheyenne Little Claw, out to avenge the death of Stone Hand. Now, with the lives of his family at stake, Coles must once again strap on his revolvers to hunt a merciless killer...
“Rarely has an author painted the great American West in strokes so bold, vivid, and true.”—Ralph Compton
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781101662946 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 08/01/1998 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| Sales rank: | 72,838 |
| File size: | 507 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER I
She heard the shrill cry of a hawk as it wheeled high above the valley and she paused in her work to listen. Looking up from the antelope hide she had been scraping, she shielded her eyes with her hand as she gazed toward the ridge that formed the south wall of the valley. She was at once alarmed. Months usually passed between visits from strangers yet this was the second time in two days. And both days Jason was away from the valley. She counted six of them as they descended the slope to the valley floor where they paused and seemed to be considering whether to continue or not.
She had always liked the fact that their little valley was so remote that very few people happened upon it. Jason had scouted these mountains for years before he found it and decided that this was where he would raise his horses. Named Magpie by her father, an Osage chief, she had lived with her sister and her sister’s husband until they were killed by the Cheyenne renegade, Stone Hand. It had been over a year since their deaths and during that time Magpie had come to know that happiness could follow grief, for her love for Jason Coles had blossomed from the first time she saw the tall white scout. And her joy was complete when he asked her to go with him to his valley. Shy and bungling when it came to speaking of love, he never expressed his feelings, but Jason loved her. She was certain of that. He did not have to put it into words. His gentle way with her was reassurance enough.
Jason did not think her name, Magpie, suited her—a thought that always puzzled her—he preferred to call her Lark. She found herself smiling each time she thought about her husband. Jason had assured her that she was indeed his wife, although there had been no ceremony, Indian or white. She remembered his stern indifference to the baby at first. Jason didn’t seem to care much for children and he could hardly be faulted for his attitude toward little Bright Feather. The child wasn’t his. It wasn’t hers, for that matter, but they had adopted it and taken it as their natural son. It amused Lark to see how, during the course of a year, the boy had wormed his way into Jason’s heart although Jason would never admit it. Bright Feather was a good baby, never cried much, and Jason was too softhearted toward helpless little creatures of all species to remain indifferent to their son.
She returned her attention to the six riders across the valley. What did they want? This was Ute country and the Utes knew they were there but they had left them alone until recently. Only the day before, while Jason was away in the mountains hunting, two young Utes had stolen into the valley and tried to run off with their horses. Jason had brought those horses all the way from the Bitterroot country where the Nez Perces had developed a breed like no other. Appaloosas, Jason called them, and he had traded for fourteen, all strong and fast. And these two warriors, no more than boys really, had managed to open the corral and drive them out before she even suspected their presence.
When she heard the horses running, she ran out to see what was wrong. Seeing the two Utes on their ponies, driving Jason’s horses, she ignored any danger to her own frail body and ran in front of the herd, waving her arms and yelling at the top of her lungs. She had managed to turn and scatter most of the herd but the Utes got away with three of them. They didn’t come back for the rest, evidently satisfied to escape with three of the unusual horses.
When Jason returned, he immediately set out after the stolen horses, after rounding up the rest of the scattered herd. That was yesterday and he was still not back.
She watched the six riders as they moved toward the cabin and hesitated at the edge of the stream, cautiously surveying the cabin and the tiny corral. “Jason,” she murmured in a worried whisper, “I wish you were here.” Maybe, she thought, they will do no more than watch at a distance like others have done, and then move on to leave her in peace. She glanced at the cabin where the baby was quietly playing, then back toward the riders. They entered the water and splashed across.
She considered grabbing the baby and running but she knew she would not get far before their ponies would run her down. Maybe this was a bigger raiding party, coming to steal the rest of Jason’s horses. Then her anxiety gave way to anger, for Jason had worked hard to train his horses and she decided, if that’s what they came for, they will pay a price for them. She got up and went to the baby, carried him into the cabin and got the Spencer rifle Jason had taught her to use. Determined to protect her husband’s property, she went outside the cabin and waited for her visitors.
As the six riders approached the cabin, one of them held up his arm in greeting and she relaxed a bit. She now recognized three of the men as Cheyennes from the reservation at Camp Supply. She had often seen them at the agency when she lived there with Raven and Long Foot. Something about one of the other men looked familiar as well, although she did not recognize him at first. He appeared to be the leader of the group and there was a fierceness in his face that made her uneasy.
“What brings you this far from the reservation?” she called out to them. Although a rare occurrence, it would not have surprised her to see a group of hunters happen upon Jason’s valley. It was unusual, however, to see reservation Indians from as far away as Oklahoma territory.
They did not answer her question but continued walking their ponies slowly until they were standing before her. Then the fierce one spoke. “Why do you greet us with a rifle in your hand? Have we threatened you?”
“I don’t mean to offend you,” she answered. “I thought at first you might be Utes, coming to steal my husband’s horses.” She put the rifle back inside the cabin door. “If you are hungry, I have some meat that I boiled this morning.”
Without answering, the Cheyenne dismounted. His companions followed his lead, looking around them as they did, as if searching for something instead of looking in idle curiosity. Lark hurried to her cookfire and pulled a large pot from the ashes where the venison was warming. She turned to find the man, who was obviously the leader, standing right behind her. He was a young man, solidly built, with an air of arrogance about him that warned Lark to be cautious even if he was not an enemy of her people, the Osage. As she gazed into the deep piercing eyes of the young warrior, eyes that even now seemed to be measuring her, she recognized him—Black Eagle—the young man who had all but worshiped Stone Hand. It was Black Eagle who had secretly passed a knife to the notorious Cheyenne murderer and effected his escape from the army prison. She was shocked. In one year’s time, he had been transformed from a boy to a fearsome warrior. She warned herself to be cautious and polite and hoped they would eat and then be on their way.
“Where is Coles?” he asked.
“My husband is away,” Lark replied. “He will return soon.”
He turned to his companions who were gathered around the pot of boiled meat. “Coles is not here.” He turned back to face Lark. He was obviously annoyed that the scout was away. “I will deal with Coles later. Now I am in a hurry. Where is the child?”
Lark’s eyes widened with fear and she shook her head indicating she didn’t understand. The Cheyenne had no patience for this. He lashed out at her with his hand, striking her across the cheek. “I have come for the son of Stone Hand! Where is he?”
“He is my baby! Stone Hand is not his father!” she screamed as he raised his hand to strike her again. “You must go now. My husband will be here soon and he will kill you.”
The man sneered at her. “Coles is a dead man. I, Black Eagle, will tie his scalp to my lance.” At that moment, one of his companions came from the cabin, carrying the boy. Black Eagle nodded toward the horses. “Take him on your pony. We will kill Coles after we have taken the son of Stone Hand to Sitting Bull’s camp.”
“No,” Lark screamed and she snatched the child from the hands of the warrior and ran toward the stream.
Black Eagle ran after her and caught up to her before she reached the shallow water. With one mighty blow, he caved the back of her skull in with his war axe. Lark fell, killed instantly, still clutching the child to her bosom. Black Eagle took the screaming child from her arms and handed him to one of his companions. He stood, staring down at the dead woman, for a full minute. Then he took his bow from his shoulder and strung an arrow, drew it back and released it, planting the arrow between the dead woman’s shoulder blades. It would serve as a message to Coles. “Osage bitch,” he sneered, venting his contempt for the woman who had chosen to live with a white man. “Burn the white man’s house,” he ordered while he dipped into the pot of boiled meat.
* * *
Jason Coles was mad as hell. He had traded fair and square for those horses, had traveled all the way to the Bitterroot country to haggle with the Nez Perces for them. He had worked with them to take the wildness out of them, worked too damn hard to let a couple of half-grown Utes run off with them.
Possibly, he allowed, he had gotten too careless since he had enjoyed relatively peaceful times in the little valley he built a cabin in. He was in Ute country but he had been left pretty much at peace since he was one man, alone with wife and baby, and seemed to want nothing more than to be left alone. He hunted for no more than he needed to survive and he hadn’t plowed up the land or tried to fence it in. The Utes had given no indication that they resented his presence.
More than a year had passed since he had left Camp Supply and the business of scouting for the army. Maybe he was losing his edge, he couldn’t say. He was mad as hell but his anger was directed at himself, not at the two young Ute warriors who had run off with three of his best horses. Hell, he thought, that’s what Indians do, steal horses. To them, it’s an honorable thing to do. It just gets my goat that they snookered me . . . three purebred Appaloosas, and they would most likely have gotten the rest if Lark hadn’t scattered them. Poor little Lark, he thought, so upset that she had let three of his horses get away. He had tried to reassure her that there was little she could have done to prevent it. As it was, it was her actions that kept them from getting away with the whole herd. He hated having to leave her and the baby alone but he had to hunt. There was no way to avoid it.
After assuring her that he was not angry with her over the loss of the three horses, he had to take the time to round up the other eleven horses and put them in the corral before he could start out after the stolen ones. They had a few hours start on him but he didn’t have any trouble tracking them . . . two Indians with three extra horses left a pretty wide trail.
They had left his little valley at a gallop but after clearing the north ridge and picking up a trail by the river, they settled into a leisurely pace, as if unconcerned about being followed. Jason speculated that they were of a mind that figured two to one odds were in their favor, even if the white man did try to come after them. Well, that might be so if the white man wasn’t Jason Coles.
He shifted his position just enough to get off of a root that was threatening to punch a hole in his belly. He eased his rifle up beside him, taking care to avoid raising his head above the rim of the coulee he was lying beside. He checked to make sure he had not dragged the muzzle in the sand when he crawled up to this position. Turning his head to look behind him, he noted the position of the sun. It wouldn’t be long now, maybe another thirty minutes and it would be setting on the hills in the distance. He would wait until it was sitting right on top of them. Then he would move in with the blinding rays at his back.
While he waited, he studied the camp below him. Two braves, they both looked young. They evidently felt they were in little danger, having gotten away with the horses while the white man was up on the ridge, hunting. Jason figured they must have been lying around, watching until they saw him leave. Seated before a small campfire now, they were doing a great deal of talking and laughing. Probably congratulating themselves for being so slick.
He looked back again to check on the sun’s progress, still another fifteen minutes or so, he figured. Nice of them to make an early camp, he thought, permitting him to catch up to them before dark. Long Foot would have argued that it was best to wait until dark, then slip in and kill them while they slept. He might have been right; it might be the easiest way to do it. But Jason couldn’t see the need to murder two young boys for doing what they were born to do. Besides, he preferred to have at least an hour or so of daylight to herd his horses back toward home before having to make camp. Even as familiar as Jason was with the country surrounding his valley, it might be a bit foolish to attempt to negotiate some of the mountain passes in the dark, leading a string of horses.
The thought of Long Foot brought a mental picture of the Osage scout, slumped over in the saddle as he rode, so that he always looked like he was sleeping. He missed Long Foot. Long Foot was gone now, cut to pieces by the Cheyenne renegade, Stone Hand. He died trying to avenge the murder of his wife. Jason’s last job for the army was to track the murdering savage down. He found him and he killed him and stuck his head up on a pole in front of the Cheyenne agency. That didn’t make him any too popular with the sizable faction in the Cheyenne village that had come to regard Stone Hand as something of a spirit. Well, he thought, they sure as hell found out he was as mortal as any other man when they saw his ugly head riding on top of that pole. It was a damn shame, and a helluva price to pay, losing Long Foot and his wife. Killing Stone Hand was something he had to do, but it didn’t take up the slack of losing his friend.
One of the young warriors got to his feet and stretched, said something to his companion and walked a few paces away from the fire to a dead tree lying on the ground. Using the log as a platform, he stepped up on it and, pulling his breechclout aside, squatted to empty his bowels. Jason could see the bright light of the setting sun shining directly in the young man’s face. I don’t reckon there’ll be any better time than right now, Jason thought, while he’s doing his business. I’ll see if I can’t help him move his bowels a little faster.
Jason slowly rose to one knee and raised his Winchester to his shoulder. He brought the front sight down to bear on the bone breastplate of the squatting Indian, hesitating there for a second before lowering the sights to rest on the bark of the log between the man’s feet. As he took a breath and held it, he couldn’t help but smile before squeezing the trigger—if he wasn’t careful, he might make a squaw out of him.
The rotten log exploded under the Indian’s bottom, stinging his behind with pieces of flying bark. At almost the same time, he heard the sharp report of the rifle. As a result, he fell backward, his feet straight up in the air, his arms flailing the wind in an effort to grab something to catch himself. He landed on his back, hard, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Thinking he had been shot in the butt, he lay stunned for a few moments.
Not waiting to see the results of his first shot, Jason turned and placed his second shot in the campfire before the other Indian. Taken by surprise by Jason’s first shot, this young warrior had not had time to get to this feet. Jason’s bullet shattered a burning fagot in the fire, sending hot ashes and sparks in a cloud over the startled young man. Screaming in fright, he rolled away from the fire and tried to get to this feet. In the meantime, Jason scrambled down the side of the coulee, cocking and firing as he ran, tattooing the sand around the Ute, causing him to stumble and fall flat on his face.
“Stop!” Jason roared, his rifle trained on the Ute closest to the fire. The young man sat up and raised his hands in surrender. Jason glanced at his companion by the log, who slowly rolled over on his knees and started to crawl toward a thicket near the stream that cut the center of the coulee. In one quick motion, Jason whirled and fired, cocked, fired again, sending sand flying in front of the Indian’s face. Realizing Jason could kill him long before he reached the cover of the thicket, he turned and raised his arms like his friend.
Aiming to save as much daylight as he could, Jason didn’t waste much time in securing his captives. After making sure he had taken all their weapons away—two bows, two scalping knives, and two war clubs—he sat them down, back to back, and tied them up with some rawhide rope they had used to hobble the horses. Once the Indian ponies were cut loose from their hobbles, it didn’t take a lot of encouragement from Jason to run them off. That done, he returned to his captives and emptied a hide water bag over the rawhide rope to tighten the knots. Then he took the scalping knives and threw them as far as he could toward the thicket.
“Well,” he finally announced, not concerned if they could understand English or not, “I reckon that’s about all I can do here. I figure two intelligent boys like yourselves can probably manage to work together to find one of them knives and maybe cut yourselves loose before you starve to death . . . or the wolves find you.”
With his string of three Appaloosas behind him, he set out for home. It would take a day and a half in daylight. He hoped to make a couple of hours at least before it got too dark to travel.
* * *
Jason sat down on an outcropping of rock and studied his back trail. From his position, high up on a ridge that ran the width of the mountain pass, he could see the valley he had just come through for a good four or five miles back. There was no sign of anyone trailing him. He didn’t expect there would be but he checked his back trail just the same. He climbed back in the saddle and continued. Half a day and he’d be home. He thought about what would be waiting there and it brought a smile to his face.
Her name was Magpie but Jason called her Lark because of her constant bright and cheerful disposition. He figured she was too pretty to be called Magpie anyway. As he thought back on it, it seemed she was the one who made the decision that they would live together—but he certainly didn’t put up a fight. It had been a good year for him and while it was hard to say whether or not he truly loved her, he was strongly fond of her and she made him a loving wife. One thing that was certain in his mind, when he was away from her he missed her. The baby was almost two years old now and growing like a weed. Even though he was not Jason’s, he began to grow on him until the little beggar had kinda gotten a hold on the scout. He smiled to himself when he thought about how far Jason Coles had come in a year’s time. He had always been a loner, unable to see any woman in his future. Now, here he was, a sure as hell family man, nailed down to one place for the first time in twenty years. The picture in his mind of Lark caused him to nudge his horse with his heels to pick up the pace.
At first he thought it was a thin wisp of a cloud. Then he realized it was smoke, a thin trail of smoke, stretched out by the wind. And as the hawk flies, it was coming from the direction of his cabin. At once he became concerned. There was nothing in that direction but his place. He wasn’t sure what it could mean but he didn’t like the look of it. His valley was still several hours away. He pushed the horses harder, short of a full gallop.
Closer by two hours now, he still had the ridge north of his valley to climb. The smoke was constant though not a heavy dark smoke, like something blazing. Instead, it was a thin, pale column that drifted lazily upward until reaching the winds over the hilltops where it stretched out horizontally.
His horse labored to make his way to the top of the ridge, almost stumbling once before gaining the level terrain. From here, Jason could see the floor of his valley . . . and what he saw sent a bolt of lightning up his spine. The charred remains of his cabin glared at him, a great black sore in the green of the valley floor. A steady stream of brown smoke wafted upward from the still-smoldering timbers.
“Lark!” he roared involuntarily, his heart now pounding on his ribs, and he kicked his horse hard with his heels. Unconcerned with caution, he descended into the valley as fast as the Appaloosa could manage without stumbling. At a full gallop, he crashed through the stream and charged across the remaining hundred yards of grassy bottom. He pulled the Appaloosa up sharply before the smoldering ruins, hitting the ground running before the horse had fully stopped.
“Lark!” he called out desperately while pushing his way into the mass of charred timbers, shoving half-burned beams out of his way in a frantic effort to find what he dreaded to find. She was not there. He prayed this meant she had been abducted and was still alive.
His face and arms black with soot and ashes, he staggered out of the desolate remains of his cabin. He looked toward the corral. The gate poles were thrown aside, his horses gone and no sign of her or the baby. He looked left and right. There was no one in sight in the whole valley. Judging by the smoldering timbers, the cabin had probably been burned the day he left to recover his horses. Was it part of the plan? Had he been deliberately led away from the cabin? Thinking back on the circumstances of the previous two days, he found it hard to believe the two young Ute warriors were up to anything beyond stealing horses. Whose work was this then? Utes? After leaving him in peace for a year, had they decided to drive him out? Maybe they were telling him to leave their country. But why not come after him then instead of the woman and child? He had had very little contact with the Utes, occasionally he would sight a hunting party skirting his valley. Usually they merely paused and watched from the ridge tops before disappearing again. Only twice had anyone actually ridden down to his cabin. They had seemed friendly enough and he had traded some coffee and tobacco with them and they had given him some news of the world outside his valley. Could they have changed their minds about allowing him to remain? Many questions, no answers.
He called out Lark’s name as loud as he could, over and over for several minutes, hoping she might still be hiding in the long grass of the valley. There was no answer but the echo of his voice. In his anxiety, it seemed to be mocking his pathetic cries for the young Indian girl. He felt the emptiness of his valley, a feeling he had never experienced before, even when he had first come here alone. He must find her. He must hurry to switch his saddle to a fresh horse and search for her. But first he needed water to quench the thirst created by the hot ashes of his cabin and to clean some of the soot from his face and arms. Pulling his rifle from the saddle boot, he walked to the stream. There he found her. Just over the edge of the creek bank she lay, facedown. The blood that had been a pool under her head was now dried a crusty black; the back of her head was caved in so that pieces of her skull showed through her black hair, tangled with dried blood. There was one arrow in her back.
Jason fell to his knees, his head spinning. The shock of finding her like this hit him like a blow from the war axe that had killed her. His lungs felt like they were going to explode and he felt the tears start in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Little One,” he moaned. “I’m sorry. I should have been here.”
He started to pick her up but found he couldn’t bring himself to move her. Suddenly drained of all strength, he sat down beside her on the creek bank, staring at her body. He sat there for the better part of an hour, looking off toward the far end of his little valley, then back at the lifeless body beside him. Finally, he forced himself to get a hold on his emotions and see to the business of burying his wife and trailing her murderers.
“The baby!” he blurted, just at that moment realizing he had been so grieved over the death of Lark that he had given no thought to the infant. They must have taken the child!
Painfully he forced himself to regain his composure. Soon his mind began to take in and assimilate the signs left by the raiders. The one arrow left in Lark’s body did not kill her. A war axe did that job. The arrow was left behind purposely so he would know who had taken her life. Someone wanted him to know who killed her. He only had to glance at the markings on the shaft to know it was Southern Cheyenne, probably some of the bunch that had jumped the reservation at Camp Supply. There were enough hot-blooded young warriors there that might want to avenge the death of Stone Hand. Jason could think of no other motive for the senseless killing of the young Osage girl. The loss of Lark was even more bitter because he knew that she had been killed only because he had not been there. They had obviously come for the baby but he knew part of the plan was to kill Jason Coles.
Since it was plain it was not their work, he decided he would ride to the Ute village to see if they could help him. Although they were not at war with the Cheyenne, the Utes were not overly fond of them.
He carefully wrapped Lark in a buffalo robe and stitched it up with some sinew. Close to the ruins of his cabin, on a little rise in the valley floor, he dug a grave and gently laid her in it with her head toward the eastern ridge. He choked a lump down in his throat as he shoveled dirt over her body, a body that seemed even smaller in death. Such a tiny thing, he thought, as he tried to imagine her as he had last seen her alive, her parting words the same every time he left the valley to hunt, “You come back, Jason Coles.” He had to smile . . . as if anything could have kept him from returning to her.
The only thing left standing in the cabin was the fireplace. He loosened some stones from it and covered her grave with them. When he had finished, he stood over the grave for a while until he decided he had done all he could for her. Once again he apologized for not being there when she needed him most. He turned to leave, then hesitated a moment to add, “I’m sorry I never told you I love you.”
The trail was almost three days old by the time he started toward the north pass. They had left his valley in that direction. Since they were driving ten of his own horses, it was hard to determine exactly how many Cheyennes were in the party. He guessed maybe five or six, judging by the tracks, skirting the main trail. After making the climb up the north ridge, he paused for a brief moment to take one last look back at his valley. He knew then he would never come back here. There were too many hard memories attached to the valley now. This was the second time he was leaving to avenge a death and search for the child. The first time had been to track Stone Hand after the savage had slaughtered Long Foot’s wife and abducted the baby. Now, once again, he was on the trail to try to recover the baby from the savages. He turned the Appaloosa’s head north and nudged him with this heels. He had made an honest effort to settle down, worked hard at it, but Jason Coles’s ranching days had spanned less than two years.
CHAPTER II
The trail seemed to head toward the Ute village. He had never been to the Ute camp but he knew where it was. He had been told by a member of one of the two hunting parties that had visited his cabin that their chief, Two Elks, had settled his people on Wild Horse Creek where it bends back on itself. Jason knew the spot, and the trail he had been following for the better part of three days seemed to indicate the Cheyennes were heading straight for it.
As best he could recollect, he figured to be about a half day’s ride from the point where Wild Horse Creek pushed its way out of the mountains and curled around a couple of small foothills, almost meeting itself again. He would have to keep a cautious eye from here on in. With the way the Indian situation had heated up during the past two years, a man could never know for sure what kind of reception he would meet with any of the tribes. His situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he was a lone white man with a string of four Appaloosa ponies. He wouldn’t ride in with such fine-looking horse flesh if it wasn’t necessary. As it was, he couldn’t see that he had any choice if he was to find the baby.
The Ute camp was right where he had anticipated. Crossing the first bend of the stream, he rode up on top of the first of the two hills it encircled. From the top of the hill he could see the entire encampment. Two Elks had settled his band on a grassy plain, near the edge of the mountains on the western side of the stream. Jason counted thirty-two tipis, all facing east toward the rising sun. He stood there awhile, unobserved by the camp, taking in the entire village. Peaceful, he thought. I wonder how long they’ll be able to live this way before the army comes along to round them all up and send them to the reservation.
Jason didn’t care much for reservations, at least the ones he’d seen. The most recent was Camp Supply in Oklahoma territory, where he was scouting for Colonel Holder, and things were in a sad state there. He had done more than his share to cause Indians to be sentenced to the reservation and he wasn’t particularly proud of it. He had been a scout for the army ever since 1853 and he had seen the Cheyenne and the Comanche and the Sioux at their finest, when they ruled the plains. Many times they were his enemy but that was his job, scouting for the army. Seeing this Ute village before him now reminded him of the way it used to be for the Indians and he couldn’t help but feel guilty for being a part of the forces that were rapidly killing off this wild and free way of life.
He might have sat there a while longer but for the sharp eye of a camp dog that started barking, instigating a chorus of yapping from the rest of the pack. Jason nudged his horse and, taking his time, descended the hill and crossed the western bend of the stream, heading toward the center of the village.
A group of women, working on some skins on the far side of the the creek, paused in their task to look at the stranger. Several warriors, upon spotting the visitor, made their way toward Two Elks’ tipi where it appeared the white man was heading. Children stopped in their play to observe the strange man, sitting tall on the Appaloosa. There was no sense of alarm or hostility, merely curiosity for this rare encounter. The camp felt nothing to fear from one lone white man, driving three extra horses.
Two Elks stepped outside to see what caused the murmur of voices in the camp. At first, when he saw the tall scout riding slowly into his camp leading three horses, he guessed that he might be a trapper, hoping to trade for furs. As the man approached and he could see him more closely, he knew it was the scout called Jason Coles. They had never met but he had heard tales of the respected scout and this man surely fit the description. This was the man who had killed Stone Hand. Two Elks had harbored no warm feelings for the notorious Stone Hand but like most men, he respected the renegade as he would respect a rattlesnake. If this Jason Coles did indeed place Stone Hand’s head on a pole, then he must have big medicine. It would be wise to treat this man with respect. When Jason reined up before his tipi, Two Elks raised his hand in a polite gesture of welcome.
Jason returned the gesture and stepped down. There was a moment of silence while the two men measured each other with their eyes. Jason stood almost a full head taller than the chief, but there was a regal bearing about Two Elks that hinted of a strong backbone and demanded respect. By this time a crowd of men, women, and children had gathered to form a ring around Two Elks and Jason. The quiet reception surprised Jason somewhat. This wasn’t the first time he had ridden into an Indian camp alone. Usually he was met with some show of defiance, even threats. It seemed odd to him that there was a sense of quiet respect evident in the Ute village. It puzzled him.
Two Elks spoke first. “I know you. You are Coles. Why have you come to our camp?”
Jason’s command of the Ute dialect was not as good as his Cheyenne and Lakota but he knew enough words to make rudimentary communication with the help of sign. “I have no quarrel with your people. I’m looking for a party of Cheyennes I trailed to your camp. They killed my woman, burned my cabin, and stole my baby.”
Two Elks studied the face of the white man. There was no fear in the deep blue eyes that were fixed, unblinking, upon his. “I have heard you have killed many of my people. Is it not an unwise thing to come into my camp alone? How do you know you will be permitted to leave?”
Jason’s gaze remained constant, his expression showed no emotion. “I have heard of the great chief Two Elks. It is my belief that a chief so great would not be so cowardly as to attack a man who comes in peace.” He glanced around him at the circle of warriors surrounding him. “What you have heard is true. I have many kills, but I have never made war on the Utes. I have killed none of your people. I have killed no women or children as the cowards I follow did. I have only killed in battle.” He nodded toward two young boys, standing at the edge of the circle. “Ask those two young warriors. They can tell you I have not killed any of your tribe.”
A smile slowly broke through the stern countenance of the Ute chief. He had heard of the ill-fated raid on Jason’s horses when young Lame Deer and Red Shirt came back to camp riding on one pony. “Yes, one of those skillful warriors is my son, Red Shirt.” The smile widened. “He came back without his own horse.”
Jason sensed an easing of the tension in the ring of warriors around him. Evidently the two young men had taken a general ribbing about their encounter with the white scout. He recognized the one called Red Shirt as the unfortunate young man who had been squatting on the log.
Two Elks motioned toward the fire, inviting Jason to sit. “Share some meat with me, Coles. I think we should be friends.” Jason accepted graciously and the two men sat down to eat and talk. When they had eaten their fill from a pot of boiled venison, Two Elks told Jason what he came to find out.
“The men you followed were here but they left yesterday. They go to join their brothers with Sitting Bull and the Lakotas. They said the Great White Father in Washington does not keep his word. The people at the reservation are starving and dying of white man’s sickness. There is no game to hunt. The land is a dead land where nothing can live. They will go back to the old ways and if there is war with the soldiers, then so be it.”
Before continuing, Two Elks packed a clay pipe with tobacco and lit it. After taking several deep breaths from it, he passed it to Jason who, in turn, took several draws. The significance of this gesture by the chief was not lost on Jason.
“It is true,” Two Elks went on. “The Cheyennes had a baby with them but they said the child was the son of the Cheyenne, Stone Hand, and it was right that he be returned to his people.”
In his ragged Ute, Jason told Two Elks how he had come to have the baby. A white woman had been brutally raped by the renegade, Stone Hand. Nine months later, the woman gave birth to a baby boy. Wrongly thinking it the product of the assault by Stone Hand, the woman gave the baby to an Osage woman. Jason and the Osage woman came to his valley with the baby to raise as their own. The Cheyennes had no claim on the child.
Two Elks understood and sympathized with Jason’s plight. He freely gave Jason any information he could. He told him there were six Cheyenne warriors, and a woman from his village went with them to care for the child. It was thought that the Lakota chief, Sitting Bull, was camped in the Yellowstone country. The Cheyennes were on their way there to join him. He further warned Jason that the leader of the Cheyenne party was a brave named Black Eagle and that Black Eagle had sworn to kill Jason. He had expressed deep disappointment that Jason had been away from the cabin when they had come for the baby. When Jason asked why this particular Cheyenne had sworn to kill him, Two Elks explained that the man held Stone Hand as a spirit and Jason had killed him. To avenge Stone Hand, Black Eagle must kill Jason. The news concerned Jason but not enough to worry him. He had been threatened before.
After they had talked, Two Elks invited Jason to stay in his camp and rest before starting out after the Cheyennes but Jason was anxious to get under way. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy trying to catch up with them, what with the head start they already had. The whole trip would be through Indian territory and other tribes were not likely to be as hospitable as the Utes.
It was still early afternoon when he said good-bye to Two Elks. He thanked him for his hospitality and, as a gesture of his appreciation, he left the chief with two of his four Appaloosas, one as a gift to him and one to replace his son’s pony. The gesture pleased the chief greatly. Jason had no real use for four horses now. He had to travel fast, and four horses were too much trouble to manage. His horse-breeding days were over anyway, he was back in the scouting business.
* * *
Figuring the Cheyennes would start out toward the east to strike the plateau country before turning north if they were heading for the Yellowstone, Jason scouted up and down the valley in order to pick up the trail. It was easily identified by the prints of that many horses and, when he struck it, he asked the Appaloosa for a little more speed. He had some catching up to do. They had at least a full day’s start on him.
Jason held the Appaloosa to a steady pace for most of the day, stopping every two hours to rest the horses. There was plenty of opportunity to give them water. Even though many of the numerous streams he crossed dried up in the summer, there were plenty more that offered at least a trickle. He came to the first of their campsites before noon on the second day. Driving on until nearly dark, he came upon their next campsite and decided to make his camp there that night.
As was his custom, when operating in hostile country, he made up a dummy bedroll by the edge of the firelight. For himself, he took a buffalo robe Two Elks had given him, rolled up in it, and bedded down by his horses well away from the firelight. If he happened to be attacked, it would most likely be by a hunting party that stumbled on him by chance. He didn’t figure the party of Cheyennes knew they were being trailed.
As he settled himself in for the night, he thought about Henry. Henry was the best horse he had ever owned. No more than a common Indian pony, he had a stouter heart than any horse Jason had ever seen, before or since. Jason had made it a habit to throw his bedroll under Henry and sleep, knowing that the horse would let him know pretty quick if he had company. In the years that Jason and Henry were partners, Henry never once stepped on him. Jason was a little reluctant to try that trick with either of the two Appaloosas. He smiled when he thought about a remark that Sergeant-Major Max Kennedy made about Henry. He said that since Jason rode the ugliest horse in the western territory, he didn’t have to worry with horse thieves. Max may have been right, Henry wasn’t much to look at but he would sure as hell still be going long after the army’s mounts were foundered. It was a sorrowful day for him when Henry was shot out from under him, another thing he could credit to Stone Hand.
As he had guessed, Black Eagle and his friends struck a trail straight north after they came out of the hills and onto the broad rolling prairie. During the course of the day, he came across several trails, some east and west, but most north and south. They told Jason that there were more than a few hostiles going to join the Sioux leader. He wondered if the generals in Washington had any idea what a hornets’ nest they were going to stir up when they tried to put Sitting Bull on the reservation.
The morning of the third day, Jason saddled the other horse and shifted the pack to the one he had been riding. He didn’t favor either horse as yet and he thought it a good idea to keep both mounts accustomed to the saddle. The one he started out on was black all over except for a spotted rump and neck. The one he rode that morning was more white, with black stockings and neck. He had not bothered to name them, referring to them merely as Black andWhite.
He stayed in the saddle all day, doggedly following the trail that never veered far from its northerly course. He had hoped to pick up more ground on them but they seemed bent on making as good time as they could in their efforts to join Sitting Bull. And too, Jason could appreciate the irony of knowing they were as well mounted as he was, riding his Appaloosas. The fourth day passed without appreciable gain.
In the afternoon of the sixth day, he came to the north fork of the Platte and another of Black Eagle’s campsites. For the first time in several days, he felt as if he might be gaining on the renegades. He pushed on, following the trail that now crossed many other older trails. Jason had expected this because he was now just east of Fort Laramie. Black Eagle gave the fort a wide berth, holding to a trail that led almost always to the north, a trail that would take him east of the site of Fort Fetterman.
Living on jerky and coffee, he was tempted to kill some fresh meat when he came upon two deer, north of the Platte. They were Black Tails, good-sized deer that didn’t seem to love water as much as their White Tail cousins, so it wasn’t unusual to find them roaming away from easy watering holes. Unsure of the lead Black Eagle had on him, he was reluctant to take a shot for fear it might be heard. He tipped his hat to the two bucks, standing stone still now to stare at the lone white man. He held to the pace he had set.
Along about midday, after almost two weeks of trailing, he came upon another campsite and he knew for sure he was gaining on them. Judging by the bones and a few scant remains, it appeared they had taken some time to hunt, antelope by the look of it. It afforded him the opportunity to narrow the gap between them. Jason dug into the ashes of their campfire. They were still warm. If he could keep up his present pace, he might catch up to them before another day. Black Eagle was not pushing it too hard but he was making reasonably good time. Jason figured they were now no more than maybe half a day ahead.
Under a full moon, the prairie seemed almost as light as day so Jason decided to make up some more time. The careless trail left by Black Eagle and his party was easy enough to follow across the rolling land. He pushed on for several hours before stopping to bed down for the night by a narrow stream that wandered down through a stand of cottonwoods. His sense of caution was sharply intensified that night for he could feel he was closing in on the party of Cheyennes. He would sleep light, for he was deep in hostile territory.
* * *
The sun was warm on his shoulders as he followed the trail toward a line of low hills on the near horizon. He had switched his saddle back to Black that morning and he was beginning to believe that of the two horses, he favored Black. He had passed Black Eagle’s last campfire early in the day and was again making good time. He could feel his senses awakening to the danger surrounding him. This land was still roamed by bands of Arapaho and Shoshoni, by Cheyenne and Sioux. He was the intruder here, yet he felt as one with the land. Even with the promise of impending danger, he knew he was back where he belonged. He had been foolish to think he could have settled down on his ranch in the little valley he had staked out. That thought made him think of his Osage wife, little Lark, and he immediately felt a tinge of guilt. He felt guilty for not being there to protect her, but more than that, he felt guilty because he knew now he could not have stayed on the ranch very long before he would be itching to get back in the saddle. He would fetch the baby back if he could and he would even the score with Mr. Black Eagle. That much he could do for her now.
He drew back on Black hard, causing the horse to dig his front hooves in the dirt. Almost in the same motion, he pulled Black’s head around so abruptly, the horse almost fell sideways. A hunting party was passing on the opposite side of the hill and Jason’s thoughts of Lark had almost caused him to blunder right over the crest of the hill, almost on top of them. As quickly as he could, he dismounted and led the horses down the slope until he found a bush to tie them to. Then he grabbed his rifle and scrambled back to the top of the rise, crawling the last few feet on his belly.
There were eight of them, Arapaho by the look of it. Apparently they had not heard him, for they showed no sense of caution. Instead, they seemed to be in good spirits, laughing and talking among themselves, unaware of the white scout no more than forty yards away. Jason could see the reason for their good humor. They had had a good hunt. Their packhorses were laden with fresh meat. He couldn’t help but think of their brothers who had come in to the reservation, waiting for the rations promised by the government but always in short supply. There was nothing much left for them but to hunt for themselves. It was a bitter pill for a people to swallow when they had taken care of themselves for as long as they could remember. He recalled the defeat and desperation he had seen in the faces at the agency at Camp Supply and he knew where he would be if he were a Cheyenne brave. He’d be out here with the so-called hostiles. Damned if I’d rot away on the reservation, he thought. It ain’t right but President Grant don’t come to me for advice so I guess it ain’t none of my affair.
He lay there on the hilltop, watching, until the hunting party had disappeared around a rise in the prairie. “Well,” he muttered. “You were lucky that time, Mr. Coles. Maybe next time you can just fire your rifle up in the air four or five times so they’ll know you’re here.”
