Ride the High Range Page 7

  They started out from Bridger′s Ferry on the Platte early one morning late in June with Colonel Carrington’s headquarters marching in advance, followed by the infantry command and the battalion trains, supply wagons, and mounted troops bringing up the rear. Rider and Johnny Hawk were sent out ahead with the other scouts to act as the eyes of the column. None of the scouts reported seeing any sign of Indians during the first two days of the march, nor were any expected so close to Fort Laramie. The trip to Fort Reno took over a week since the column could only move at the pace set by the wagons. After crossing the Lightning River, there were almost daily reports of Indian sightings, usually small parties that were obviously watching the progress of the column from afar. It was close to midnight when the command finally reached Fort Reno, located on a high plateau on the banks of the Powder River, near the mouth of Dry Fork. The garrison at the fort consisted of two companies of the Fifth Regiment of Volunteers, which Carrington relieved from duty to return to their regiment and replaced them with an officer and men from his command. Upon reaching Reno, he discovered several wagon trains waiting for the protection promised them to continue their journey over the Bozeman Trail.

  Lieutenant Jared Carrington, nephew of Colonel Henry Carrington, walked his horse slowly around the encampment on a routine inspection of the guard posts. It was the first time he had drawn officer of the day since his transfer to his uncle’s command. He stopped to accept a cup of coffee at the campfire of F Company, near that of the scouts’ encampment. Sipping the hot black liquid from the equally hot metal cup, he stood contemplating his luck at having been able to transfer out of Fort Riley to participate in this grand expedition into the Powder River country. As he cast an eye toward the scouts’ camp several dozen yards away, his attention was caught by a tall man dressed in animal skins, standing next to the fire. There was something about the man that seemed familiar, but at that distance, he could not place where he might have seen him before. “Sergeant,” he asked the soldier who had offered the coffee, “do you know who that man is?” He pointed toward the camp. “The tall one close to the fire, you know him?”

  The sergeant turned to follow Carrington’s finger. “Him? No. I don’t think anybody knows much about him. He don’t say very much—name’s Rider. He’s a friend of that little runt Johnny Hawk—everybody knows him.”

  “Johnny Hawk?” Carrington replied, surprised. Assigned to one of the cavalry companies, and always riding in the rear of the column, he had very little contact with any of the civilian scouts. Consequently, he was not even aware that Johnny Hawk was with the column. His first thought upon hearing the news was one of amusement, thinking of Johnny’s declaration that he was through with riding scout for the army. I just might go over and say hello, he thought, and ask him what happened to his plans to go to Montana. The smile on his face turned quickly to a concerned frown when he glanced at the dark figure now turning away from the fire. It struck him then that it was a strange coincidence that Johnny Hawk had reappeared with a friend that Carrington felt sure he had seen somewhere before. Moran, he recalled after a moment’s recall, Jim Moran. Could it be? he wondered. The man he had just been looking at was maybe a bit taller than the boy, and much more filled out, but there was something about the way he carried himself that certainly resembled Moran. I’ve got to satisfy my curiosity, he decided.

  There was no mistaking the officer approaching their campsite as far as Jim was concerned. He was stopped abruptly when he recognized the lieutenant leading his horse toward him. Lieutenant Carrington was the last person he had expected to see on this campaign. In an effort to appear casual, he slowly turned away and walked over to the temporary rope corral to check on his horse. Seated on the ground a few yards from the fire, using his saddle as a backrest, Johnny Hawk glanced up to see where Jim was going. When he did, he also noticed Carrington striding toward their campfire. He immediately scrambled to his feet to intercept the lieutenant. “Well, lookee here,” he said, “if it ain’t Lieutenant Carrington.”

  “Hello, Johnny,” Carrington called out. “I thought you’d surely be in Montana by now. What are you doing here?”

  “Well, you know how it is. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, you wind up doin’ somethin’ you hadn’t really planned on—the same way I wound up in Fort Riley. How did you get hooked up with this little party?”

  “The colonel’s my uncle,” Carrington replied, “and he requested my transfer to his unit.”

  “Well, like they say, it’s a small world, ain’t it?” In an effort to avert any suspicions the officer might have, Johnny asked, “Whatever happened to that young boy you caught on the Solomon? Did the army hang him?”

  The question served to cast some doubt in Carrington’s mind. “No. As a matter of fact, he got away somehow during the night.” He went on then to relate the story to Johnny, and the little man displayed the proper reaction of surprise and amazement.

  “And he even stole a horse with a dead body on it?” Johnny asked incredulously. “That do beat all.”

  “As I recall,” Carrington said, recovering a bit of his suspicion, “you argued pretty hard for that boy’s innocence.”

  “Ah, well,” Johnny scoffed, “I was just feelin’ sorry for him. You know, being young as he was and all. But you was probably right in arrestin’ him.” Attempting then to change the subject, he blurted, “So, the colonel is your uncle—I wondered if there was any kin there.”

  Ignoring the attempted switch in conversation, Carrington pointed to the tall figure standing at the rope, stroking the buckskin’s face and neck. “Who is that man there? I’m told he’s a friend of yours.”

  “Who, him?” Johnny replied, trying to maintain an indifferent air. “He’s just one of the scouts—name’s Rider. He was livin’ with Two Bulls’ village. That’s where I met him. My wife lives in that village. I think he was some big medicine with the Crows. They call him Rider Twelve Horses. That’s all I know about him.”

  Carrington considered Johnny’s comments for a few moments. He was still not satisfied. If he could believe the grizzled little scout, he was just imagining a strong resemblance between the boy he had captured and the man at whom he now continued to stare. But something else told him that Johnny Hawk could lie with the best of liars. “I think I’d like to talk to him,” he decided. Johnny shrugged as if it was immaterial to him, but he watched with great concern as the lieutenant walked over to the corral.

  “Evening,” Carrington said as he walked up to Jim. Jim turned to face him and nodded, looking him straight in the eye. “That’s a fine-looking buckskin,” the lieutenant continued. “Yours?” Again Jim nodded. Carrington searched the face and the cold expressionless eyes as he tried to recall the horse that Henry Butcher′s body had been loaded upon, but he could not be sure if it happened to be a buckskin or not. Looking at the powerful shoulders that filled the antelope-skin shirt, he wondered if it was even possible for the lanky boy he remembered to grow into a man in that short time. “Johnny Hawk said your name is Rider.” There was no response, not even a nod. Carrington began to get flustered; it was like talking to an Indian who had no knowledge of the English language. “You don’t talk a helluva lot, do you?” Again, there was no response, so he attempted a question that could not be answered with a simple nod. “How long have you known Johnny Hawk?”

  “Not long,” Jim answered.

  “So you do talk, after all,” Carrington said. He studied the blank stare for a few moments more before giving up, undecided. “Rider sounds like an Indian name. What’s your real name?”

  “Rider,” Jim answered stoically.

  “I think you’ve been living with the Indians too long,” he said, and turned to leave, impatient with himself for asking such a stupid question. If he was Jim Moran, he would hardly admit it.

  Jim waited until the lieutenant climbed back in the saddle and rode away before returning to the campfire. Johnny was waiting expectantly. “Hadn’t counted
on that,” he said. “What did he say to you?”

  “Nothin’ much,” Jim replied, “and I didn’t say much to him.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me that,” Johnny quipped. “I think he smells somethin’ funny, but I don’t believe he’s sure a’tall. You have changed a helluva lot since that day.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully while he speculated upon it. “I expect he’ll just go on about his business and forget about it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Jim said. He picked up his rifle and blew a grain of sand from the brass receiver plate. “I ain’t goin’ to jail,” he declared as he cradled the nine-and-a-half-pound weapon across his arms.

  “Don’t go gettin’ edgy now, partner. If Carrington looks like he’s gonna cause you any trouble, we’ll just take off and get on up to Montana. This damn column is gonna take the whole summer, anyway, and we’ll find ourselves up there trying to camp in the snow.”

  Johnny had been wrong when he predicted that Carrington would forget the whole matter. While he had not suffered even a reprimand for the mysterious escape of his prisoner and the loss of one of his patrol after the action at Thompson’s farm on the Solomon, it had been the source of some embarrassment for him among his fellow officers. A man killed in a skirmish was to be expected, but to permit a wounded prisoner to escape showed negligence on the officer’s part. The thought of the possibility of further embarrassment if it turned out that the boy who had escaped him had actually ridden to the Yellowstone with him was enough to cause him to pursue his suspicions. The problem facing him was the fact that there was no way he could prove that the man Rider was the boy Jim Moran—other than a confession from Rider, himself, or confirmation from Johnny Hawk. It was a frustrating situation to a young officer who liked all i′s dotted and all t′s crossed. He promised himself that he would not permit the possibility of a hoax at his professional expense. He decided to take his suspicions to his uncle.

  It was not a good time to bother the colonel with suspicions that he could not prove and accusations based on nothing more than a slight resemblance to a fugitive. Added to all the preparations to be made upon arriving at the post, Colonel Carrington was concerned with a report that Indians had run off the stock of the sutler, a man named Leighton, that very morning. On another day, the colonel would most likely have been receptive to his nephew’s problem, but on this occasion he suggested that the young officer should talk to Jim Bridger, since Rider was one of his scouts. Feeling that he was being rather rudely handed off to the chief scout, Carrington decided to let the matter drop for the time being and return to his duties. There would be time later, he decided, after the column had settled in at the post.

  “Let’s go, partner,” Johnny Hawk called out as he returned to the campfire where Rider was waiting. “Some Injuns run off the sutler’s mules, and they’re sendin’ out a detachment to go after ’em. Bridger wants you and me to go with ’em.”

  It was welcome news to Jim. He was not comfortable sitting around the fort in the presence of so many Yankee soldiers. He had accepted the fact that the war was over, but there was still a lingering loyalty to the South. He had been more at ease at Fort Laramie when he and Johnny had actually lived with the Crows. There was little time wasted in saddling the buckskin and checking his new Henry rifle.

  The detachment of ninety mounted infantry was commanded by Captain Howard Marks with three lieutenants as adjutants and four civilian scouts. Since the troops did not leave the fort until early afternoon, Johnny didn’t see much hope for success. “Hell,” he said, “they’ve had time to eat a couple of them mules and ride to hell and gone with the rest of ’em.” There was no problem following the trail left by the raiders until reaching Crazy Woman Creek just before dark. While the detachment went into camp, Johnny Hawk and Rider crossed over to the other side of the creek to see if they could pick up the trail where the Sioux came out. The other two scouts seemed to show no interest in anything beyond the cook fires. Even in the growing twilight, it was easy enough to find. “I was wonderin’ when this was gonna happen,” Johnny said as they stood on the creek bank, for the raiders had scattered in at least three different directions. From what they could determine in the fading light, it appeared that each of the three parties had driven some of Leighton’s stock with them. “We might as well go tell Captain Marks he’s got a decision to make,” Johnny said.

  As they expected, Marks was not happy to hear Johnny’s report. He had already ridden close to thirty miles chasing the Indians. Now he must decide whether or not to split his command and continue the hunt in the morning. Marks was not new to Indian warfare and was consequently reluctant to divide his troops into three patrols, aware as he was of the Sioux penchant for setting up ambushes. “I’ll have a look in the morning,” he said. “Then I’ll decide whether it’s feasible to continue.”

  Johnny and Jim took their horses to water, then fed them oats supplied by the army. “You’re gonna get spoiled,” Jim told the buckskin. “I don’t want you to get too used to eatin’ these oats.” Like the Crow ponies in Two Bulls’ camp, the horse had learned to live off grass, and Jim hoped to keep him that way.

  “You ever name that horse?” Johnny asked.

  “Nope,” Jim replied. “Reckon I oughta, though. I just never gave it much thought.”

  “I expect you oughta, ’cause you spoiled him so much he thinks he’s one of the family.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Jim said, since he had no inspiration at the moment.

  When the horses had been taken care of, they led them back to the bivouac and hobbled them. Then they went about finding wood for a fire and having a little supper. Johnny put a pot of coffee on to boil; then they dined mainly on some deer jerky they had brought with them. This they supplemented with some hard bread the army issued, although it was of poor quality with considerable mold. It was enough to satisfy, however, and they relaxed by the fire to finish the coffee. Their leisure was to be disturbed, however, in the form of visitors.

  The other two civilian scouts were two prime examples of the “sorry-looking” scouts that Jim Bridger had spoken of. It didn’t take long to see the two were hardly earning their pay and would never voluntarily venture far from the column of soldiers. Jim and Johnny had no patience for the two and that was the reason they made their camp apart from them. They had very little else in common and preferred to leave them to their own. It was plain to the other two scouts that they were being avoided by the stumpy little man and his tall friend, and it was a cause of resentment on their part. “Looks like we got visitors,” Johnny muttered when he saw them approaching.

  Jim glanced up to see the two men as they swaggered over to the fire. In the lead, a big surly brute of a man called Bodine grinned maliciously as he came to stand over Johnny Hawk. “Well, we thought we’d make a social call on you two birds,” he said. He looked over at his partner, Billy Hyde, a thin, weasel-faced half-breed. “Lookee here, Billy, two birds, a hawk and a raven. Maybe you’d better make that a half a hawk,” he added with a contemptuous chuckle.

  “What the hell do you want, Bodine?” Johnny asked.

  “We just wanted to set down with you boys and maybe have a cup of coffee or somethin’. You know, be sociable, since we’re all doin’ the same job on this little shindig.”

  “Sorry. You fellers are out of luck,” Johnny said. “Me and Rider just finished the pot—maybe some other time—like next time it snows.”

  “Now, that ain’t no way to talk to a friend,” the bully replied. “Me and Billy was just tryin’ to be neighborly. Warn’t we, Billy?”

  “That’s a fact,” Billy replied. He had been trying to think of some clever insult to add to Bodine’s remark about birds, and when Rider casually got to his feet, it occurred to him. “Maybe they ain’t two birds—more like a tree and a stump,” he said, grinning at his partner.

  “Bodine,” Johnny stated flatly, ignoring Billy’s attempt at sarcasm, “in the first place, you ain’t no friend of
mine, so why don’t you take your weasel friend and get on back to your own business?”

  Bodine was clearly irritated then; his contemptuous grin turned into an undisguised sneer as he continued to study the obstinate little man, still lolling against his saddle. He glanced briefly at Rider, standing quietly close to the fire, and made the mistake of reading his failure to speak as a sign that he chose not to be involved. Encouraged, he turned his attention back to the man on the ground. “You know somethin’, you little runt. It’s time somebody taught you some manners, so you can start out by sayin’ ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Bodine.’ ”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Johnny replied. “We oughta kiss and make up. You can start it off by kissin’ my ass.”

  “Have it your way, you sawed-off little son of a bitch. I gave you a chance. Now you’re gonna get a lesson the hard way.” He bent down, reaching for Johnny’s ankle, fully unprepared for what happened in the next instant. The flaming limb that struck him beside his head caught him off balance, causing him to stagger several feet, trying to keep from crashing to the ground. Still stunned, he tried to regain his stability, but was knocked to his knees by a second blow, this one a solid strike to the back of his head. Still without having uttered a word, Rider stood waiting to see if the bully was going to retaliate, but Bodine was too dazed to offer combat. Rider glanced at Billy Hyde, whose hand was lingering over his revolver.