Ride the High Range Read online

  “Pull it and you’re dead, Billy,” Johnny Hawk warned, his .44 aimed at Bodine’s hesitant sidekick. Billy immediately put his hands out to the side, away from his weapon. “Now, you get that piece of horseshit on back to your own camp and mind your own business.”

  Billy did as he was told, helping Bodine to his feet. Still dazed, the lumbering brute made no effort to resist when his partner led him away from the resolute man holding the smoking limb in his hand. The altercation did not go unnoticed as several nearby soldiers witnessed the brief explosion of fury by the silent scout. The word reached Captain Marks and resulted in a personal investigation of the incident that very night. Calling an assembly of the four, he laid down the law that he would not tolerate fighting among his scouts. Bodine, his head and one side of his face bleeding and covered with smut, had regained his bluster and threatened to avenge his blindsided attack. Marks threatened to put him in chains if he did not stay away from Rider and Johnny Hawk. Bodine grudgingly agreed to let the matter drop, but his eyes conveyed an unmistakable message that told this would not be forgotten.

  After the respective antagonists had withdrawn to their separate campfires, Johnny expressed his thanks to Jim. “Damn, partner, I ’preciate you steppin’ in back there, but I didn’t aim to get you into that little spat.”

  Jim grunted, astonished. “You didn’t?” he replied.

  “He was fixin’ to drag you across that fire. I thought I’d better stop him if I didn’t want a roasted runt on my hands.”

  Johnny laughed. “Hell, he wouldn’ta drug me very far. I’da shot him. I pulled my pistol out as soon as I saw them two buzzards comin’ our way and stuck it under my leg. But I ’preciate it, partner. That’s the second time you’ve watched my back.”

  “You’da shot him?”

  “I expect I woulda,” Johnny replied emphatically, and farted for emphasis. “Jaybird,” he announced.

  The night passed without further incident and the morning found Captain Marks with no desire to split his command into three different units to chase after the thieves. So after a quick breakfast, the patrol started back to Fort Reno.

  Chapter 5

  Upon returning to Fort Reno, they discovered some new arrivals in the form of twenty-nine wagons with forty men, headed for Virginia City. It was led by a tall, lean man named Jack Grainger. With solid white hair crowning the ruddy face of a man who likes his liquor, Jack had left Fort Leavenworth in the spring with wagons loaded with tools and equipment for the “diggings” in Virginia City. He planned to “lay over” at Fort Reno for a day or so, long enough to burn charcoal and weld the tires on some of the wagon wheels that needed repair. His company more than met the requirements set by Colonel Carrington for trains to be allowed to continue on past the post. The colonel had posted a long list of rules for permitting emigrant wagons to travel through Indian country, and foremost of these was the requirement for at least thirty armed men. The arrival of the heavily armed train was met with much optimism by the emigrants who had been hoping for more wagons to enable them to leave for Montana.

  Grainger was not especially enthusiastic about the idea of taking on the pilgrims. There were no women or children in his company, men only, and most of them veterans of the war recently ended between the North and the South. Well armed, he was confident in crossing Indian lands, and planned to move at a demanding pace. Emigrant families would slow him down, he feared, and he was anxious to reach Virginia City. Already there had been reports that the placer mining was drying up in Alder Gulch and folks were beginning to leave for Helena. Jack wanted to deliver his goods before the merchants who had ordered them might try to refuse shipment. After strong persuasion from Colonel Carrington, however, he relented and agreed to take a small party of six wagons that had been there for several weeks—and they were permitted to go because they were driving mules. A more recently arrived party with oxen was denied. “You’ll have to keep up with my wagons if you go,” Grainger told the families with mules, “and be ready to pull out of here tomorrow or the next day. We leave at four in the morning and stop for breakfast at ten. We rest the stock then and get under way by noon and stop for the day at four. I need to get ten hours a day driving, weather permitting.” He got no argument, even though the routine might have been more difficult than some of the families desired. Colonel Carrington informed the families that he planned to remain at Fort Reno for two weeks before moving on to the Big Horn. He would escort the other wagons to that location if they did not continue waiting at Reno, but there would be no facilities for them on the Big Horn.

  Tessie McGowan climbed up to put the supper pans away, carefully nesting them to fit in their place in the tightly packed wagon. She turned then to take the plates and silverware handed to her by her sister, Lucy Taylor. “Sounds like we’re gonna be travelin’ like soldiers when you hear that Grainger fellow tell it,” she said as Lucy stepped back to give her room to get down.

  “I guess he hoped he could discourage us,” Lucy replied with a laugh. “He doesn’t know much about farm folks, does he?”

  “I guess not,” Tessie said. Their daily routine was not a great deal different from the one Grainger described. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had said they were going to ride all night. Lucy, Tessie, and Lucy’s brother-in-law were eager to get to Montana to join Harvey’s uncle, who operated a dry goods store in Virginia City.

  Word that had come back east from there recently, of people leaving the town, was enough to cause concern on Harvey’s part, but they had come too far to have a change of heart. Tessie, like her sister, was of a stout constitution and fierce determination, and she had told her husband that if things didn’t work out for them in Virginia City, they’d simply follow the crowd to Helena, or wherever the tide carried them. She and Lucy both had a notion to try their hands at panning for some of those nuggets other folks were finding in Montana’s streams. None of their brave optimism was enough to ease Harvey’s mind. He was a born worrier, as most farmers were, accustomed to the fate that befell him at the hands of the weather and pestilence, believing he had no power to influence what the seasons held in store for him. He knew nothing about panning for gold, and for that matter, he knew just as little about managing a dry goods store. But Harvey’s uncle Ralph had assured him in his letters that he would teach him all he needed to know, and thus allow his uncle to open a second location. It seemed a better opportunity than remaining on their small farm in Illinois. They had begun to worry that their journey had ended in the middle of Indian country, as they had been stalled at Fort Reno for the last three weeks. Grainger’s arrival had been the answer to a prayer.

  “Looks like we’ll be leavin’ tomorrow mornin’,” Harvey McGowan announced as he returned to the wagon. “Mr. Grainger said they got their wagons fixed, and he didn’t see no sense in hangin’ around here any longer. Barfield is goin’ with us. He changed his mind about waitin’ for some more family wagons.” That was good news to the women, since Mary Barfield had become their closest friend on the trip after leaving Omaha.

  “We’re ready to go right now,” Tessie replied, and flashed an eager smile in her sister′s direction. “Breakfast won’t be until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, but we’ve got some biscuits left to keep our stomachs happy till then.”

  The McGowan wagon was not the only place where someone contemplated the coming morning. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout this thing,” Johnny Hawk said as he and Jim finished the last of their evening coffee. “Whaddaya think ’bout hookin’ on with this feller Grainger′s outfit and leavin’ outta here in the mornin’?”

  “It would suit me just fine,” Jim replied, “but what about our jobs as scouts?”

  “Hell, Bridger won’t care,” Johnny snorted. “He knows we’re just ridin’ along on our way to Montana. He won’t feel like we’re backin’ out on him. You heard him say he had a full complement of scouts before we joined up. We’ve been talkin’ ’bout takin’ off on our own, but these fellers w
ill be movin’ pretty fast.” He drained the last drop from his cup and smacked his lips. “I’ll talk to Bridger.” He peered into the empty cup as if hoping to find more in it. “Wish that was whiskey,” he said, then continued. “These soldiers ain’t goin’ on to the Big Horn for a couple of weeks yet, and when they get there, who knows how long they’ll be there before headin’ up the Yellowstone? Bridger said Carrington’s supposed to locate another fort up near Piney Fork somewhere and then go on to the Yellowstone. We’ll be in Virginia City by then if we tag along with Grainger.” A grin spread across his face then. “Of course you won’t be able to ride scout with your friends, Bodine and Hyde.” His face screwed up into a frown and he grunted, “Bodine—jaybird.”

  “Whatever you want is all right with me,” Jim said, and shifted his position away from the fire.

  “Good, let’s go talk to Grainger.”

  They found Jack Grainger talking to Jim Bridger. “This’ll save some extra talk,” Johnny said when he saw the two together, as Bridger turned to see who was approaching.

  “Well, here comes some trouble,” Jim Bridger called out with a laugh, and turned to Grainger. “You know these fellers, Jack?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Grainger responded as he looked the odd pair over.

  “The stumpy one’s a bigger liar than I am,” Bridger joked.

  “Now, hold on there, Jim,” Johnny came back. “Ain’t nobody west of the Mississippi can tell as many tall tales as you.” He walked up to shake Jack Grainger′s hand. “My name’s Johnny Hawk,” he said. “My partner′s name is Rider.” Grainger nodded to Rider as Johnny continued. “I’m glad we caught you and Bridger together, ’cause what I’m fixin’ to say is liable to break Jim’s heart.”

  With a pretty good notion of what Johnny had in mind, Bridger interrupted. “I know what you’re fixin’ to say, and I hate to have to tell you, but you’re fired—you and your friend, there, too.”

  “The hell we are,” Johnny exclaimed. “We quit ten minutes ago. You can’t fire us.”

  Bridger threw his head back and laughed. “I figured as much.” He then explained the situation to Grainger, who, up to that point, was not sure if it was all a joke or not. “These boys just rode along with the colonel on their way to Montana,” he said. “I expect they came over to see if they could hook up with your outfit in the mornin’.”

  “That’s a fact,” Johnny said.

  Bridger continued to speak for them. “I’ve known Johnny Hawk for more years than I can remember. He’s a first-rate scout and won’t let you down. I don’t know much about his tight-lipped partner there, but Johnny vouches for him, so that makes him all right in my book.”

  Grainger didn’t hesitate. “I always welcome a couple more good rifles,” he said, “but I ain’t lookin’ to add no more to my payroll.”

  “We ain’t lookin’ for pay,” Johnny replied. “We’d just like to tag along. We’ll take care of our own food, and we’ll help out if you run into any of Red Cloud’s boys. That’s all we’re lookin’ for—same as these families you’re pickin’ up here.”

  “Fair enough, then,” Grainger said.

  As they turned to leave, Bridger said, “Take Bodine and Billy Hyde with you. I fired both of ’em this mornin’.”

  “We’d sure love to do that,” Johnny replied, joking. “If we see ’em, we’ll invite ’em to come along. I never figured you’d fire two fine scouts like them. You sure you ain’t makin’ a mistake?”

  Bridger got serious for a moment. “I fired ’em, all right. That little tussle you boys had with ’em wasn’t the first trouble they’ve caused, and as far as I’ve been able to see, we ain’t likely to lose nothing with them gone.”

  The company wheeled out of Fort Reno in the predawn darkness, on a northwest trail to strike Crazy Woman Creek, and from there forward to the Clear Fork of the Powder, a distance of approximately sixty-five miles, they figured. Grainger hoped to make the trip in two days without undue strain on the mules. They reached the Crazy Woman in less than a day’s time, in spite of the weather, which reached one hundred and twelve degrees in the shade. Grainger decided to go into camp there for fear the mules would suffer if pushed any farther. The wagons were circled, with the front wheel of each wagon locked inside the rear wheel of the wagon in front of it. The wagon tongues were all turned to the outside of the circle. An opening was left on one end so that the stock could be driven in for the night.

  After a hot day in the saddle, Jim decided to cool off in the creek while Johnny went about making camp. Since the teamsters and their mules were busy churning up the water close by, he decided to ride upstream to find clearer water. So he rode past the emigrants’ wagons near the end of the circle, and kept riding until he spotted a place where the cottonwoods were thickest. Guiding the buckskin through the cool shade of the trees, he dismounted and led the horse to the water’s edge to drink before he saw to his own comfort. Although the buckskin continued to drink until satisfied, Jim noticed that the horse’s ears, which were seldom still, always flickering, were now pricked up and still as if alert to something. It didn’t snort or even blow, as it would have if it thought there was a threat of some kind. Still, there were signals enough for Jim to become alert. There was always the possibility of a Sioux scout working his way in close to the camp to evaluate the strength of the wagon train, so he let his hand casually drop to the butt of his rifle while he strained to listen.

  There was no sound other than the buckskin’s drinking and an occasional bird calling as Jim stood frozen on the bank of the creek. Just then, he heard a rustle of leaves, faint at first, but then a definite disturbance as if someone or something was moving in the berry bushes near the water. Jim jerked the Henry rifle from the saddle sling and turned to face the bushes as he dropped on one knee, his rifle aimed at the trembling branches.

  “Wait! Don’t shoot!” a woman’s voice cried out, and a moment later a pale, bare arm appeared through a gap in the bushes. Astonished, Jim lowered his rifle as the hand waved back and forth for a moment before withdrawing into the shrubs again.

  “What are you doin’ in there?” Jim asked, not sure if he should be worried or not. “You better come on out where I can see you.”

  “I can’t come out,” Lucy Taylor called back. “I’m not dressed properly.”

  Still baffled by a woman in the bushes and quite a ways from camp at that, he questioned her. “Well, what are you doin’ in the bushes?” As soon as he said it, it occurred to him that she might be in there doing her business.

  Lucy was rapidly losing her patience with the seemingly clueless man dressed like an Indian, staring at her leafy screen. He was obviously one of the scouts who had joined the train at Fort Reno, although she had not seen him before. In answer to his question, she responded, “Up until a minute ago, I was trying to take a bath in the creek.” She thought that sufficient to suggest to him that he should simply leave her to her privacy, but still he remained.

  “Miss, it might be a whole lot safer for you if you took your bath a little closer to the camp,” he cautioned. “There’s Sioux and Cheyenne raidin’ parties scoutin’ this country, and it’s not unlikely for a Sioux warrior to slip in close to see what kind of firepower they might run into if they attack the train. It’d be best if you put your clothes on and I’ll see you safely back to your wagon.”

  His comment was sobering, but she was still perturbed by the intrusion upon her one opportunity for privacy. Straining to hold her temper, she replied, “I can’t put my clothes on. They’re over by the creek on that log. If you would just get on your horse and leave, I could get out of this damn bush and get my things.”

  Jim looked up and down the bank then, and sure enough, there was a skirt and blouse a couple of dozen yards upstream that he had failed to notice before. Damn, he thought, how could I have missed seeing them? “I see ’em,” he said. “I’ll get ’em for you.”

  “Just leave and I’ll get them
myself,” she insisted.

  “All the same to you, miss, I’d feel better about it if I saw you back to camp.”

  In exasperation, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “All right,” she relented, “bring them over here and put them on the bush. And no peeking, understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and promptly went to fetch her clothes.

  “That’s far enough,” she warned as he approached. “Just lay them right there on that branch, then turn your back.” When he did as she bade, she hurriedly put on her blouse and slipped into her skirt, desperate to escape from the bush in which she had chosen to hide. “All right,” she said when finished. She paused a moment to brush some sand from her skirt before going to the log to recover her shoes and stockings, keeping a wary eye on the tall, rough-hewn scout as she did.

  Jim, no less uncomfortable than she with the awkward situation, stared openly at the source of the voice in the bush. She was a young woman of slight build with light brown hair, and would have been an easy catch for any Sioux warrior who happened upon her. Although, he conceded, she had a sufficiently sharp tongue. If the Indian who stole her was as green around women as he was, it might be weapon enough. The flash of a milky white calf caught his eye as she raised her skirt to pull her stocking on. With an eye still on him, she said nothing, but motioned with her forefinger for him to turn around. When he did, she continued to study the tall figure with shoulders that seemed as wide as an oxbow while she finished putting on her shoes. “Are you an Indian,” she suddenly asked, “or what they call a half-breed?” Her question was prompted by the animal skins he wore, even down to the beaded moccasins.

  Turning to face her again, he replied, “No, ma’am, I just lived with the Crow people for a while.” Thinking she might have been fooled by his lack of facial hair, he added, “None of the Crow men had whiskers, so I reckon I got in the habit of scrapin’ mine off.” His comment seemed to puzzle her, so he quickly changed the subject. “You ready to go back to camp now?”