Evil Breed Read online

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  For the sake of his immediate health, Johnny Malotte deemed it of utmost importance to first put some distance between himself and Slocum. He had no intention of simply running from the loathsome brute, for he had promised himself restitution for the cruel beatings he had absorbed from the not-so-gentle hands of Slocum. But before he reversed the roles to become the stalker instead of the prey, he needed a good head start on the big man. Battered, broke, and hungry, he turned Toby toward Bismarck, six miles to the north, confident that Slocum would follow him. He checked the Winchester and determined that it was fully loaded. It would have been more satisfying to simply kill Slocum right then, but they were in the midst of several hundred soldiers. And he was smart enough to know that he would most likely come off second-best in a showdown with Slocum at this point. Bushwhacking was more Johnny’s style. I’ll have my chance, he promised himself as he kicked his heels into Toby’s flanks, leaving the post at a gallop.

  Slocum watched as Johnny galloped away. “Run, you bastard; it won’t do you no good,” he muttered under his breath. Settling for a more leisurely gait, he started out after Malotte. Slocum had no intention of coming up empty-handed after hauling Johnny Malotte all the way from Fort Laramie. He considered the horse and the Winchester his property and just payment for the trouble he had been put to. He would not stop until he regained them. In addition to his desire for these material possessions, he had developed a burning hatred for Johnny Malotte, primarily for not being Jim Culver. He had cost Slocum a lot of time and ultimately his rightfully earned money.

  After pushing Toby hard for almost a mile, Johnny let up on the big Morgan. Looking back over his shoulder toward the buildings of Fort Lincoln, he couldn’t see any sign of Slocum on the trail behind him. He’ll be coming, he told himself, and began looking around him for a suitable ambush site. The flat, endless prairie offered little in the way of concealment for a man and a horse; the many gullies and washes by the river were the most promising. He rode on for another mile before sighting a treeless ravine a short distance off the wagon road, and deep enough to conceal the horse. The grass along the rim of the ravine grew high and thick, enough cover to hide him as he lay in wait for the big bounty hunter.

  After another look over the wide expanse of prairie behind him to make sure Slocum was not close, he guided Toby down into the bottom of the ravine. Stepping down from the saddle, he staggered slightly, his knee almost buckling, and he realized he was even weaker than he had thought. He was suddenly feeling the results of the days on the trip from Laramie, when Slocum denied him food beyond a few beans strewn on the ground, and those only occasionally. Adding to his extreme hunger was the fact that he had been unable to sleep at night, due to having been trussed up like a hog to market.

  He steadied himself with his hand on the saddle horn for a few minutes until he felt he had his feet under him again. Then he drew the Winchester and started back up the side of the ravine, grunting with the effort. Reaching the rim, he dropped down in the grass and waited. It would not be a long wait.

  * * *

  Slocum was good at his craft, in part because he prided himself on being able to think like the cutthroats he stalked. He figured Malotte knew he would be coming after him. And knowing the kind of man Johnny was, Slocum could pretty much bet on an ambush. With that in mind, Slocum had no intention of following Johnny along the wagon track to Bismarck. Instead he guided his horse off the road and worked his way north along the riverbank. It was slower, but he was confident Johnny would wait for him.

  Come on, you big bastard, Johnny pleaded. It was getting late in the afternoon, although this time of year there was plenty of daylight left. Lying in the tall grass, the rifle resting on the ground before him, he was almost of a mind to give it up. The constant gnawing in his empty stomach pleaded with him to forget his revenge for the time being. If it were not for the vivid memory of the brutal beatings administered by Slocum, he might have given in to his hunger and gone immediately into the town of Bismarck. He’ll come.

  Slocum might have passed right by the ravine where Johnny lay in ambush, had he not been warned by his horse. The iron gray and Toby had traveled together from Fort Laramie, and when Toby recognized the familiar smell of the gray, he nickered a greeting. The gray returned the greeting, causing both men to react immediately. Realizing Slocum had gotten behind him, Johnny rolled over on his back, blindly firing his rifle as rapidly as he could. His shots ricocheted off the rocks on the side of the ravine, whining and whistling as they spent themselves harmlessly. By far the cooler head, Slocum backed his horse around a protruding rock formation and quickly dismounted. Pulling his pistol, he scrambled up the bank to the rim of the ravine and circled around to approach from the direction Johnny had been watching until the horses nickered. As he suspected, Johnny was crouching halfway down the side, his back to him as he watched the mouth of the gulch.

  A slow grin began to creep across the grizzled features of the bounty hunter as he stepped up to the rim of the ravine. He paused to enjoy his advantage while Johnny nervously craned his neck, watching for some movement from the direction of the river. “You’re wasting a helluva lot of ammunition,” Slocum said.

  Johnny tried to whirl around, but he made it only halfway before two .45 slugs from Slocum’s pistol ripped into his side. He yelped like a dog hit with a stone, as much in surprise as in pain. Dropping to his knees, Johnny tried to maintain his balance, but could not, the impact of the two slugs causing him to fall over on his side. Slocum followed his victim down the side of the ravine as Johnny rolled over and over until coming to rest facedown at the bottom. Slocum stooped to pick up the rifle Johnny had dropped on his way down. When he reached the mortally wounded man, he rolled him over with his toe and stood over him for a few moments, silently watching him for signs of life.

  Johnny’s eyes fluttered open, and he grimaced in pain. His hands, clutched tightly over his wounds, could not stop the flow of blood that oozed through his fingers and covered his wrists. “You killed me, you son of a bitch,” he forced out between clenched lips.

  Slocum smiled. “Looks that way, don’t it?”

  “God damn you.” Johnny groaned, clutching his side even tighter in an effort to stop the pain. “I’m gut-shot,” he moaned. He could feel the blood filling his stomach, and the pain was becoming unbearable. Looking up at the hulking brute standing over him, he pleaded for mercy. “You’ve killed me. Go ahead and finish it.”

  Slocum slowly shook his head as if sympathizing with the suffering man. “Like you said, you’re dying. Don’t make no sense to waste ammunition when you’re dying anyway.” He reached down and unbuckled Johnny’s gun belt, then unceremoniously pulled it from under him, causing Johnny to yell out in pain. “It ain’t gonna help you none to cry like a baby,” Slocum chided. “You can’t last much longer, so you might as well be quiet about it.” He threw Johnny’s gun belt over his shoulder and straightened up while he looked his victim over carefully. “I’ve been admiring those fancy boots of yourn ever since we left Laramie. Too bad they ain’t a bigger size. Might be worth somethin’, though.” He grabbed Johnny by his heel and started tugging on his boot. Johnny was helpless to stop him, and when he strained to pull his foot away, the effort caused his throat to fill with blood from his stomach. He was forced to lie writhing with the pain while Slocum methodically robbed him of everything that might be of value. Indifferent to Johnny’s suffering, Slocum loaded his plunder on Toby and prepared to take his leave.

  “Don’t leave me like this,” Johnny pleaded. “I can’t stand this pain—just one bullet—please!”

  About to step up into the saddle, Slocum paused to consider the dying man’s request. Without another word, he withdrew his foot from the stirrup and walked back to stand over Johnny once more. Then very deliberately he pulled his skinning knife from his belt, grabbed a handful of Johnny’s hair, pulled his head back, and cut his throat. Amused by the look of shock in Johnny’s eye
s, he stepped back and watched his final convulsions. Stepping up in the saddle then, he took one last look at the now-still corpse and muttered, “I can’t abide a whimpering man.”

  Riding up from the ravine, leading Toby, Slocum continued on toward Bismarck. He could cross the river there and head back to Indian territory. The anger that had consumed him at Fort Lincoln had been only partially satisfied. And at the root of that anger was Jim Culver. As Slocum saw it, all the time he had wasted, the money he had been promised and then denied, was all the fault of Jim Culver. Malotte had claimed at one time that he had killed Culver, then denied it when questioned by Captain Boyd. The more Slocum thought about it, the more he was convinced that Culver was still alive. More than likely Malotte had stolen the horse and rifle. He thought back over the trail he had followed from Canyon Creek. He had no idea where Johnny Malotte had come into the picture; maybe he had been riding with the Indian war party. But since it was Malotte who had left that little stream at the foot of the hill, headed for Fort Laramie, instead of Culver, then it was likely that Culver was with the party of Indians that had headed north toward the Crow agency. Stroking his chin whiskers thoughtfully, he thought, Seems to me I recall hearing about a new trading post some fellows built on the Yellowstone. It was supposed to be near the place where the Bighorn forked off, and that wasn’t too far from the Crow agency. That was as good a place as any to start looking for Jim Culver, he decided. If he’s alive, I’ll find him. Slocum had been cheated, and he would not rest easy until he found Culver and watched him die.

  Chapter 9

  Jim crawled up beside Wolf Paw and lay flat on his belly. The rock outcropping they lay upon was still warm from the sun, even though it was late in the afternoon. It went unnoticed by Jim. His mind was on the line of Indian warriors filing by silently near the river below them. “Sioux,” Wolf Paw said softly, “Lakota Sioux.”

  Jim counted seventeen riders, all warriors, wearing paint. “They’re a little out of their usual territory, aren’t they?” He knew the Sioux and Crows were natural enemies.

  Newt Plummer crawled up behind them in time to hear Jim’s question. “Here lately they’ve been sending out scouting parties damn near ever’where,” he said. They watched in silence for a while, until the war party moved on down the valley. “I wonder where the hell they’re goin’,” Newt muttered. “They’re mighty damn close to Iron Bow’s camp. Might be they’re thinkin’ about stealin’ some Crow ponies. Maybe we oughta warn Iron Bow.”

  While they watched, Newt explained the volatile situation to Jim. “The army’s been threatening to go to war agin’ the Sioux for over a year now. They told all the Sioux to go back to the reservation and stay there. Some of ’em are staying. But a helluva lot of ’em ain’t about to give up their way of life to go rot on a reservation. Sittin’ Bull and his bunch, and Crazy Horse and his crowd, they ain’t signed no treaties with anybody, and they’re staying out. Our scouts say that Sittin’ Bull is calling for the reservation Injuns to come join him—not only the Sioux, but the Cheyenne and Arapahos too. I’d be surprised if the army really knows just how many warriors they’re gonna have to fight.” He scratched his head, considering his own words. “Trouble is, the Crows is been friends with the army for as long as I can remember, and they might catch some hell from the damn Sioux, too.”

  “You think we should go back to warn Iron Bow?” Jim asked, concerned now for his new friends in the Crow camp.

  Newt scratched his head again, thinking. “Well, seventeen ain’t enough to worry about if they’ve got fightin’ on their mind. But they might be planning to go after the horses. Maybe I oughta go on back. I’m just going with you because I’ve got a cravin’ for a drink of whiskey. But there ain’t no need for you to come back with me. Go on and trade your hides.”

  “I’ll go,” Leads His Horses volunteered. “I can follow them until they make camp. Then I’ll go around them and alert the village.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Wolf Paw said.

  The issue decided, Jim and Newt continued on toward the Yellowstone while their two Crow friends followed the Sioux war party.

  * * *

  “Well, lookee here what the cat drug in,” the man sitting by the short step of the storeroom called out in a halfhearted attempt to sound cordial. “I was wondering when you’d pay us another visit.” He got up from his seat on a three-legged stool and took a few steps forward to greet the visitors. A man known only by the name Chambers, he was one of the original company of men who had built the trading post.

  “I see you fellers ain’t been run off yet by the Injuns,” Newt replied, grinning.

  “Why, hell, no,” Chambers responded. “We’re doing business with all of ’em—Crow, Sioux, Blackfoot.” He craned his neck to look around Newt. “I see you brought somebody with you. You fellers step down, and let’s have a look at them hides you got there.” He nodded briefly at the tall young man, dressed in buckskins with a bow strapped on his back, and walked past him to examine the buffalo hides on the packhorse.

  “This here’s Jim Culver,” Newt said. “Them hides is his. I’ve just got a few plews I’m lookin’ to trade for some of your rotgut firewater.”

  Chambers stopped short and took a closer look at the stranger still seated in the Indian saddle. “Damn,” he exclaimed apologetically. “I’m sorry, young feller. I took you for one of Newt’s Crow friends. Jim Culver, is it?” He extended his hand, which Jim reached down to accept. “My name’s Chambers. Always glad to see a new face, especially with a load of hides like these. Looks like you come to do a heap of trading. If the ones on the bottom look as prime as those on top, you could buy a helluva lot of whiskey.”

  “I need a new outfit,” Jim said. “I don’t need any whiskey.”

  Chambers looked surprised. “Well, come on in the store. I expect we’ve got most anything you need. Like I said, those hides look in fair shape.” He glanced at the two bundles of fox and beaver pelts slung over Newt’s saddle. “Them plews you got, Newt, ain’t worth much more than a couple of jugs of whiskey, but I reckon it’ll be enough to scald your gizzard.”

  Jim looked around him in the small stockade. There were perhaps a dozen white men engaged in various activities. Two of them were stacking wood against the side of the store. Beyond them, toward the open end of the fort, a blacksmith was busy shoeing a horse while his partner brought up another from the corral. One of the others was involved in an animated discussion with several wildly gesturing Indians as they argued over the value of a couple of buffalo robes. The rest seemed to be busy with nothing more than taking their ease in the morning sun. All paused to take an inquisitive glance at the two new customers.

  After Chambers inspected Jim’s hides, he set a price on the lot, then led Jim and Newt into the store, where Jim went about selecting items to replace those lost to Johnny Malotte. After his basic supplies, he had plenty left to buy a good skinning knife, as well as a .45 single-action pistol and ammunition. But the only rifles Chambers had to offer were some late-model flintlocks and one single-shot Springfield. Jim decided to save his money, still determined to recover his own Winchester from Johnny Malotte. Satisfied that he had done the best he could for himself, he figured he was ready to start back down the Bighorn. He hadn’t figured on Newt’s thirst for firewater.

  Before Jim got into serious trading with Chambers, Newt cashed his plews in for two jugs of whiskey. He watched the dickering between Chambers and Jim for only a few minutes before retiring to take a seat on a large sack of coffee beans, and began the long-awaited reacquaintance with what he lovingly referred to as Fort Pease panther piss. What Jim was to learn, and Chambers already knew, was that Newt was good-natured and entertaining after a few drinks of the prairie poison Chambers sold. Unfortunately, Newt was never content to limit himself to those few mellowing drinks. Larger doses of whiskey would tend to gradually transform the easygoing old trapper until, by degrees, he would become every tavern owner’s nightmare.


  With each additional drink, Newt’s view of his world narrowed to focus upon nothing but the bitter reflections of every rotten deal life had dealt him—from the final days of the rendezvous when beaver had lost its shine and once-hospitable Indian tribes came to look upon the white man as competition for the very land they hunted upon, to the evil sickness that had taken his Crow wife from him. Lost from his mind’s eye were the simple joys of his life with Iron Bow’s people and the honored position he enjoyed as a medicine man. There reached a point, usually after more than half a jug had been consumed, where the bitterness became a galling serpent in the pit of his belly. And each additional drink taken to drown it only intensified the misery it caused. It was a battle over which Newt had no control. To Chambers and his men at Fort Pease, he was simply a mean drunk.

  Knowing what to expect, Chambers gently suggested to Jim that it might be best for him and his friend to take their trade goods and ride on down the river. “If you ain’t of a mind to start back home before morning,” he suggested, “there’s a good place to camp about four miles south on the east side of the river.”

  At first Jim didn’t understand. Chambers seemed like a friendly enough fellow. Why, he wondered, was the trader inclined to withdraw the welcome mat he had so cordially spread earlier? He glanced over at Newt, still perched on the sack of coffee beans. The old trapper’s face was strangely devoid of expression. His eyes narrowed and he stared unblinking at the jug, now empty, at his feet. Jim glanced back at Chambers, who smiled and slowly nodded. It was Newt, then, that Chambers would have depart. But why? Surely Chambers could not expect to sell a man whiskey and not expect him to drink it? In the next instant, Newt himself answered the question.