Cheyenne Justice Page 5

  “I know. You’re absolutely right. But I’m afraid the politicians back East aren’t really concerned with the rights of a bunch of savages. The country’s suffering a recession now and a gold strike in the Black Hills would certainly help things.”

  Jason stroked his chin thoughtfully, the results of a gold strike in the Black Hills already painting a picture in his mind of the killing that had to follow. “I don’t know anything about recessions or politics, but there’s still gonna be hell to pay.”

  There was a moment of silence while both men thought about the consequences that might follow Custer’s expedition. Then Colonel Holder continued. “Anyway, that’s the reason we can’t send a troop out to search for Miss Langsforth. Custer’s all primed and ready to march off on another one of his glory-seeking campaigns with his reporters in tow.” Holder, realizing he was letting his bile rise on a subject that was obviously repugnant to him, made a conscious effort to curb his comments. “Well, be that as it may. I’m not sure it would be a good idea to send anything less than a full regiment into the Big Horn country. Our scouts tell us that old Sitting Bull has amassed a sizable force of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho in that area. I’m afraid the hostiles have us outnumbered and, until we are able to reinforce our troop strength out here, we could possibly be embarrassed if we sent a regiment into the Big Horn country.”

  Holder paused for a moment, pressing his fingertips together like a steeple in front of his face. He watched Jason intently as the scout digested the information. “I’ve convinced Sheridan that one man who knew the territory and the Indians has a better chance of finding Miss Langsforth than a regiment of cavalry.”

  “I reckon you’re probably right about that.” He thought about it for a few moments more. “Any idea where she headed when she left here?”

  “None.”

  “Figured. Well, I need to rest my horse. She’s been rode hard for the past few days. All right with you, I’ll start day after tomorrow.”

  “Fine. I’ll issue you a credit at the sutler’s store and you can pick up whatever supplies you need.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Jason, I know what I’m asking you to do is damn dangerous and I appreciate it. General Sheridan will be in your debt as well. He thinks a lot of that young lady.”

  * * *

  Andy Coulter was waiting for him when he returned from his meeting with Colonel Holder. Andy had made himself at home in a small room that was once used to store rope and harness. His bedroll was spread against one wall and the rest of his gear was in a pile in the center of the tiny room. Jason’s nose was assaulted by the strange combination of odors that permeated the room. After a few minutes, he adjusted to the strange bouquet but he didn’t think he would care to tolerate it for longer than the one night he was going to be there. Andy didn’t notice it. The mixture of hemp, leather, smoking tobacco, and sweat seemed to run to his taste.

  “Well, pardner, what did the colonel want?” Andy was anxious to know what had been so important to send all the way to Fort Fetterman.

  “Nothing much—wants me to take a message back to the Indian agency—nothing important.”

  “A message? He called you out here to take a message? What in thunder for? He could have sent somebody from here to take a message.”

  “Like I said,” Jason offered, hoping Andy would let it drop, “I rode for the colonel before. I guess he just likes having people he knows to do his work.”

  “Sounds like he’s a little bit daft to me. Listen, why don’t you go see Colonel Custer with me? He’d sign you on in a wink. Why, hell, we’d have a fine time. You and me and Squint Peterson. You know Squint, don’t you?”

  “I know of him,” Jason allowed.

  “He’s scouting for Captain Benteen. They’re out on a ten-day patrol right now. He’s a helluva scout, damn near as good as I am. Why, Jason, you couldn’t have got here at a better time. We’re fixing to go out on a big expedition to the Black Hills. Colonel Custer is going to scout out that country to see what’s down there. He’s been gathering wagons and mules for weeks.”

  “I noticed. Ain’t that gonna rile the Sioux a little? I thought that was sacred territory to them.”

  Andy smiled. “I s’pose it will, but hell, them hills is already full of miners. I hear they’re striking color in every little trickle of water down there. You know, if that’s true, they ain’t nobody likely to keep folks out of them hills.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He paused. “Although, last I heard, there was a treaty with the Sioux that guaranteed to keep folks out of that territory. Treaties don’t amount to much, I reckon.”

  “Reckon not. So, whaddaya say? Want to go see Colonel Custer?”

  Jason shook his head. “I guess not, Andy. Like I said, I’ve got a job to do for Colonel Holder. I guess I’ll be riding out day after tomorrow.” The prospect of taking part in a campaign of such proportions held no appeal for Jason. He had always preferred working alone when possible, and the Black Hills expedition sounded more like a circus to him.

  Andy was clearly disappointed. “Damn. I’d tell Holder to find him a damn Injun to carry his message…. But that’s me. I reckon you’ll do what you want.”

  “I reckon.”

  * * *

  He and Andy ate at the army’s mess tent that night and again at breakfast the following morning. After that they parted. Andy had some business to take care of and Jason went to the sutler’s to pick up the things he needed for his trip into hostile territory. Afterward, he checked White over thoroughly to make sure she showed no signs of fatigue. He checked her hooves carefully for any cracking or other damage, then made sure she was showing no swollen legs. He had to admire her condition. White was a stout horse and she had almost turned civil since becoming the only horse he rode. He almost hated picking another horse to carry his packs, but it was going to be a long trip and he couldn’t load White down with the supplies he would need. He decided right away that he had better let her in on the decision making.

  After handing his written authorization to the sergeant in charge of the horse herd, he went about the business of selecting his packhorse. In his opinion, there were not a lot to choose from, but he managed to find two horses he deemed suitable—one a shaggy-looking bay mare, the other a roan stallion. Both horses were broad chested and sturdy. With the sergeant’s help, Jason cut the two out of the herd and tied them to a tree. Then he led White over, dismounted, and dropped her reins. She stood there for a few minutes, bobbing her head and grunting at the two horses, causing both mounts to stamp nervously. The decision didn’t take long, for after another minute or two, she walked over and took a bite out of the stallion’s hind leg, causing him to kick and jump sideways. She followed after and tried to take another nip. The stallion sidestepped around to the other side of the tree and White remained standing next to the mare. “Well, I reckon she’s made her choice,” Jason said to the sergeant. “I’ll take the mare.”

  When he had seen to his horses and his supplies, Jason rode over to the small area of tents where some of Custer’s Sioux scouts were camped. All Colonel Holder had given him to go on was a name, Nathan White Horse, and he knew there was a better than even chance some of the Sioux scouts could tell him where the half-breed headed when he left Lincoln.

  Several scouts were sitting in front of one of the tents when Jason rode into the camp. Conversation stopped as they paused to consider this tall white man stepping down from the saddle. One of the group, older than the others, stood up to meet Jason as he approached. Jason greeted him in the Lakota tongue and the man responded politely. His companions nodded their heads in greeting and waited to hear the purpose of the stranger’s visit.

  “I am called Jason Coles and I come to ask for your help.”

  The older Sioux nodded and replied, “I am called Black Elk. What is it you want?”

  Jason sat down with the men and told them that he wanted to find Nathan White Horse and the white woman he had with him. The me
n were cooperative, but Jason sensed a general attitude of contempt for the half-breed son of an Oglala woman and an unknown soldier. Black Elk was the most vocal.

  “The woman was crazy to go anywhere with Nathan White Horse. You will be lucky to find her alive.” The others nodded in agreement.

  “She paid him to take her to see Sitting Bull. Can you tell me where he is?”

  Black Elk answered, “I can’t say for sure. I have heard Sitting Bull’s band has been camped on the Rosebud for the last two weeks. I don’t know if he is still there.”

  “That’s a lot of territory. Where on the Rosebud?”

  “I don’t know, but one of his favorite camps is a few miles above the place where the Elk River forks off from the Rosebud. Perhaps he is there.”

  Good a place as any to start looking, Jason thought when it became apparent he wasn’t going to get much more out of the Lakota scout. “How can I know this Nathan White Horse? What does he look like?”

  Black Elk shrugged. Evidently the half-breed had no distinguishing features that set him apart from other men. After a moment’s thought, he said, “You will know him by his horse. He rides a paint with black feet.”

  Jason thanked the group and rode back to the headquarters building. After one more meeting with Colonel Holder, he took White and the packhorse out to graze with the army’s horses. He would bed down there that night instead of returning to the post and Andy’s stale little room. He wanted a clear head when he started the next day before sunup.

  Chapter IV

  At the bottom of a deep ravine, some distance southwest of Fort Lincoln, in the dark hills of Dakota Territory, two men guided their horses carefully along a rushing stream. A couple hundred yards away, in a stand of pines, a rough shack could be seen. The two riders stopped within hailing distance of the cabin. Looking from the cabin back to the creek, they could see two miners hard at work by a sluice box constructed in the stream.

  “Hello thar!” One of the men called out and immediately the two miners scrambled out of the stream and grabbed rifles that had been propped close by. “Hello thar!” he repeated and the two riders waved their arms in the air. The greeting was met with a wary silence as the miners watched them from behind a huge boulder beside the stream. “We’re friends…just passing through,” he called out again.

  “Well, come on in, friend. Just take it real slow so we can see your hands.”

  “No need to get all riled up,” the rider who had called out said. “My name’s Pike. We got a claim back up the creek a-ways. Just thought we’d get to know our neighbors.” His companion rode silently behind him.

  The miners remained behind cover until the two strangers had come within fifty yards or so. When it was clear that it was two white men and not Indians dressed in white men’s clothes, the two miners stood up and lowered their rifles.

  “No offense,” Pike said. “Can’t be too careful in these parts.”

  One of the miners answered. “Mister, that’s the God’s truth.” He walked out to meet the visitors. “Seen any Injuns?”

  “Nah. They ain’t no Injuns nowhere around here. We’d’a seen ’em if they was.” Still he did not dismount. Nodding toward his companion, he continued. “Me and my partner figured we got all the dust we need. We’re heading out. How ’bout you fellers? You doing any good?”

  The man’s partner stepped out from behind the boulder then and hastened to answer. “Hell, you don’t never git as much as you need. I reckon we’ll have to look a little harder.”

  “I bet you got a little bit, though, didn’t you?” When both men looked a little uncomfortable with the question, he immediately added. “No matter. That’s none of my business.”

  A few steps more and the second miner was out in the open with his partner. He looked puzzled when the two riders slowly began backing their horses away, while still grinning broadly at him. When they finally became suspicious, it was too late. In the next instant, the narrow valley was filled with gunfire from the rocks behind them and the miners crumpled and fell, both facedown in the edge of the rocky stream.

  Pike’s horse reared slightly and he pulled back harshly on the reins to steady him. The miners were still alive while Pike and his partner turned their pockets inside out. “Where’d you hide the dust? Come on, it ain’t no good to you now. Might as well save me the trouble of hunting it.”

  “You go to hell,” the dying man managed to stammer with his last breath.

  Pike picked up a large rock and bashed the helpless man’s head in. “What about him, Selvey?”

  He was answered by a scream as Selvey’s skinning knife lifted the other man’s scalp. “Nah, he didn’t say nothing. We’ll have to look for it.”

  A moment later they were joined by seven Sioux warriors, whooping excitedly around the bodies of the miners. Pike looked up at them, anger in his voice. “Next time you hold your horses till we get a little further away. You damn nigh hit us.” He glanced at Selvey. “They ain’t the best damn shots I ever seed, anyway.” Turning back to the Sioux warrior, he said, “We’ve got to find the yellow dust. They got it hid around here someplace.”

  “Yellow dust is worthless. We will burn the shack and leave this place.”

  “No—hell, no,” Pike retorted. “You can’t burn the damn shack. We’ve got to hunt for that gold.”

  The warrior shrugged. “We go, then. You stay.” After he and his friends had searched through the miners’ belongings and taken what they wanted, they jumped on their ponies and left. Pike and Selvey remained to seek out the hiding places that they were certain they would discover.

  “Damn fool Injuns want to burn everything.” He grinned at Selvey. “Besides, this little rattrap might catch another little mouse. Huh, Selvey?” His partner answered with a foolish grin. “These two was easy. Them last two, up that narrow canyon, got too suspicious and took off. I thought we was gonna have to smoke ’em off of that there ledge behind the shack.”

  * * *

  The morning he left Fort Lincoln it was cloudy and gray, and a light rain began to fall before the buildings of the fort were out of sight behind him. Jason didn’t mind the rain. It had been awfully dry for a while and the rain felt cool and fresh on his face as he headed once more toward the west. He figured to take eight or ten days before striking the Rosebud south of its confluence with the Yellowstone. It was a long ride and, even then, he would just be at the place to start looking for this foolish woman. He figured the odds favored his mission as useless. Too much time for too many things to happen to the young lady, and most of them were bad.

  He looked back at the bay mare following along obediently behind him. At least it appeared she had been trained to follow on a lead line and she didn’t seem to mind her role as subordinate to White. The horse possessed one unique trait that was less than endearing. Jason didn’t pay much attention to it the first day, figuring that her unsocialized behavior was due to the fact the army relied on grain to feed their horses. He had owned horses before that were unusually windy. His old friend Shorty Boyd used to say, “A fartin’ horse is a working horse.” After several days with no change in the mare’s social graces, Jason resigned himself to the fact that he had picked a gasbag for a packhorse. Sometimes she would go half a mile, keeping time with the cadence, sounding like she was walking through a field full of frogs. He hadn’t bothered to name her at that point, so it seemed only natural to call her “Thunder.” White, for her part, seemed glad to leave the army’s horse herd behind and head out on the open range again, and Thunder’s expressive behind seemed not to bother her.

  By the time he reached the Little Missouri, the rain had stopped and he rode on the next day under dry but cloudy skies. It was unusual weather for July and the gray overcast seemed to dull the outline of the horizon as he kept to a steady course to the west. At least the cloudy sky provided relief from the hot summer sun. He allowed White to set her own pace and he rode easy in the saddle as he crossed a rolling, endless sea of gra
ss. He saw no other human being—not even signs that there had ever been other human beings. The only other living creatures he saw were occasional herds of antelopes and black-tail deer. It was as if he were the only person left in the world, and Jason liked it that way. Sometimes he wished it were true and he realized that these were the times when he was most content.

  The morning of the fourth day out of Fort Lincoln was sunny and clear and the prairie grass took on a brown sheen that had been missing for the past few days. When the wind swirled across the long grass it brought to mind the way a thick beaver pelt looks when you stroke it with your hand.

  Two days more found Jason on the Yellowstone where the Tongue River forked off. He was at the base of the Big Horn Mountains and still he had seen no sign of hunting parties. He figured another two days riding should take him to the valley of the Rosebud, where Black Elk said he might find Sitting Bull’s camp. When he made his camp that night, he was extra careful about his fire, building it in a gully so that it could not be seen. His natural instincts told him that he may not have seen any Indians but they were damn sure close around. He took even more precautions the following night after following the river all day. If Sitting Bull’s camp was where Black Elk said it might be, he was close enough to stumble onto a hunting party from any direction.

  If his memory served him, he could be no more than six or seven miles above the junction with the Elk River and he knew the village had to be close. He guided White into the bluffs that bordered the Rosebud and carefully made his way along the gullies until he came upon a narrow valley, covered with grass. It was easy to understand the origin of the name for the river, for the entire valley was sprinkled with wild rosebushes and they were all in full bloom. But he took no more than a few moments to appreciate the natural beauty of the valley—fragrant and lovely, it could be just as deadly as it was pretty if a Lakota scout spotted him.