Laramie

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “Yeah, they left in a hurry. Think they’ll be back?” Simon peered in the direction of the bluffs.

  “No idea.”

  “Well, I’m not going back to bed, I’ll tell ya that.”

  “Me either. Let’s get away from the campfire and wait for daylight. Can’t be long till sunup.”

  “What time is it?” Simon asked.

  Buell looked up. “About two thirty or three, near as I can guess.”

  “Two thirty! You waited out there in the dark for six hours?” Simon stared at Buell and swallowed hard.

  “Nothin’ new to me. I can’t count the times I sat out in the prairie at home. More nights than not.” He walked over and grabbed his canvas bedcover. “Let’s go.”

  Simon went to his saddle and picked up his rifle.

  Night’s tenacity punished them, giving way slowly to the first dim hint of morning. Both men had dozed fitfully, the simple act of nodding off snapping shots of adrenaline into their blood. They walked into camp as soon as they could make out their saddles and beds. The flames had gone out, but Buell tossed some small wood pieces on the ashes and they immediately began to smoke. In a couple of minutes, flames rose to cast a welcome light.

  “I’m going to climb up and see if I can spot where their horses were tied up,” Buell said.

  “It’s still too dark.” Simon looked around at the deep shadows.

  “Not up on top, out of these trees. I won’t be long.” Buell strode into the woods, and a minute later rocks clattered down the side of the hill.

  On top he found where the horses had stood, tied to a low shrub about fifty yards from the lip of the bluff. Out of the trees, he had more light, just as he’d thought. The deep prints of a hard-spurred horse led straight south. Buell knelt for a closer look and found blood on the ground by the bush, lots of it. He walked back to the bluff and slid down stiff-legged, knocking dirt and rock loose as he descended. Simon sat hunkered by the fire, his rifle across his knees.

  “What’d ya see?” Simon asked glumly.

  “I can see where the horses were tied. Quite a ways back. They took off in a hurry. The one I hit is losin’ a lot of blood.” Buell squatted down by the fire.

  “You think they’re gone, then?”

  “I ain’t got no doubt. They’re gone.” He picked up the coffee pan and sniffed it. Grimacing, he dumped the wet grounds at the edge of the fire.

  “Well, I’m glad for that,” Simon said. “I was afraid something like this might happen, but I didn’t think it really would. We could have been killed in our sleep.” Simon squinted across the fire at Buell. Concern crumpled his face.

  “And weren’t. Shit, Simon, look at the bright side. Want some coffee?”

  “How in hell can you be so calm? We coulda been killed!” Simon stood.

  “Sometimes I can’t believe you.” Buell grabbed the coffee pan and stomped off toward the river.

  “Can’t you wait till it’s light?” Simon took a tentative step in Buell’s direction.

  “Humph.” Buell snorted his disdain and disappeared.

  Both of them stared at the pan of water as it absorbed the heat and started to boil. Buell shook a heaping handful of coffee from the bag and dumped it in the roiling water. Instantly, foam rose and overflowed the sides. He put on a glove and pulled the pan back to the fire’s edge, and they watched it roll the coffee grounds around for a couple of minutes. Then he lifted the pan out of the coals and dumped in the cup of cold water he’d saved. A minute later they both held cups of hot coffee.

  The light in the eastern sky finally lit the camp completely. Buell put his empty cup down, and walked to the maple tree where he’d spent most of the night. Positioning himself, he estimated where the Breather had stood and went there. He found footprints in the dirt, not boot prints—footprints. Then he saw the blood, about four feet up the trunk of a tree. The splatter of dark crimson speckled the bark, and drops of it marked the bush behind. He walked closer to inspect the ground and nearly stepped on the gun. He picked up a gleaming blue-black pistol with carved ivory or bone grips—it was cocked. A Remington just like his .36, but bigger and heavier. Pat Lacey, a Texas herder back home, had taught Buell to shoot with a pistol just like it, only not so fancy. He lowered the hammer, and a glance at the front end of the cylinder showed six loaded chambers.

  “Buellll! Hurry!” Simon shouted, nearly screaming.

  Tearing out of the trees, he charged into an empty camp with his pistol drawn, the new gun stuffed in his belt. “Simon?”

  “Over here.”

  Buell moved toward Simon’s voice until he found him just inside the trees, looking down at a rifle and a large black patch of blood.

  “There’s more over there,” Simon said, pointing further into the trees.

  Buell followed the blood trail, advancing carefully. When he stopped, Simon bumped into his back. “Hey, you,” he shouted, “get up!”

  A skinny man in ragged clothes sat with his back against a tree, legs outstretched. His head hung, slightly cocked, on his chest, and he held his hands folded in his lap. He looked quite comfortable.

  “Get up!” Buell shouted, his pistol leveled at the sleeping man. The man didn’t move.

  “Look at his leg,” Simon whispered. A black blotch stained the man’s crotch and thigh. “He’s all bloody.”

  Buell advanced slowly, his pistol trained on the man’s chest. He kicked the bottom of the man’s foot. “Hey!”

  When the man didn’t respond, Buell reached out and pushed on a shoulder with the muzzle of his gun. The man toppled sideways, his body stiff.

  “He’s deader’n Moses, Simon.” Buell peered down at the man. “Look at all that blood under his butt. He bled to death. Wonder where I hit ’im.” Buell poked at the bloody leg.

  “Leave him alone. He’s dead.” Simon curled his lip and wrinkled his nose.

  Buell stooped for a closer look. The man’s filthy hair lay in a matted tangle, his partly open mouth full of rotten teeth, and his pasty face a disaster of pockmarks. “He don’t know nothin’.” Buell felt the man’s pants pockets, and then the shirt pockets.

  “What’re you doing?” Simon protested, but he made no move to get closer.

  “Lookin’ for his money.” Buell unbuckled the leather strap holding a pouch slung around the man’s neck. He pulled it loose and undid the catch on the flap. He inspected the contents, grinned, and closed it again. “I can see why they wanted more’n our horses. This fella ain’t got a dime, but he’s got plenty of patched-bullet cartridges. Must be fifty shots in here, and primers too.”

  Buell triumphantly hoisted the pouch, and when Simon just looked at him, he shoved past him to charge through the brush and into camp. By the fire, he picked up the short rifle lying in the sparse grass and took it over to his bedroll. Pulling his newly found pistol out of his waistband, he laid it on the canvas rain cover, and then sat down by the fire. Tipping the carbine muzzle down, he carefully lowered the hammer, then pushed down on the under lever of the Sharps. As soon as he saw the gleam of brass in the breech, he closed it again and laid the gun across his knees. He looked up as Simon walked out of the trees.

  Simon seemed dazed. “What are we doin’, Buell? You just robbed a dead man,” he murmured, his speech low and monotone.

  “Don’t start. I could be buryin’ my partner.” Buell’s voice rose slightly.

  “I know that. I know that for sure. I’m sick to my stomach knowing it.” Simon shook his head. “But to take a man’s stuff when he’s dead. That can’t be right.” He now looked absolutely dismal.

  “And what the hell’s he gonna do with it?” Buell glared at his friend. “It’d be stupid to leave this here.” He slapped the Sharps’s butt stock. “Have some Indian come along, and shoot you with it later.”

  Simon did not reply.

  “Them bastards figgered to kill us both. Hadn’t been for me, you’d be wrapped in that bedroll right now, cold as that feller out there.” He scrambled
to his feet and faced Simon. “I’m glad we found him dead. Now I know I hit ’em both, cuz that blood up on top sure can’t be his. And I think the one that rode off is an Indian. The footprints over there ain’t from boots. Now, where do ya think an Indian got a pistol like that?” He pointed at the gleaming Remington lying on his bed. “Expect he went to Swartz’s and paid cash money for it? Not likely. Some poor sumbitch lost his life over that gun, and that stinkin’ Indian probably had somethin’ to do with it.” He glared at Simon. “So I don’t want to hear ya mewlin’ about no damn dead man.”

  “But I still don—”

  Buell yanked back the hammer on the Sharps and pulled the trigger. The deafening report slapped the air, and sparks, ash, and coffee grounds erupted out of the campfire, the coffee pan kicked, spinning into the treetops. Simon staggered back and fell full length on the ground. In one stride Buell stood over him. “Ya little shit. Ya wanna go back to momma, you go right ahead. Ya wanna go with me, ya better grow some goddamn bark. Your choice.” He threw the carbine down beside Simon, and stomped out of camp.

  Simon Steele suffered a lot of mental anguish over the next few days. Everything he had been taught as a young man had been assaulted, the very basis of his morals challenged. And he didn’t have answers to the questions his righteous self screamed at him. His hardworking parents had told him that you earned what you got. You didn’t steal it, borrow it, or find it. His adopted uncle, John Lindstrom, wealthy but disillusioned Eastern lawyer, turned town drunk, turned family benefactor, had told him a man lives by his word. And now, doubts about the man who’d just saved his life crept in—the same man, who, as a boy, had saved it before. Buell had not uttered a single word since storming out of camp. They had saddled the horses, and over Simon’s protests—visions of birds and coyotes ravaging the body—left the dead man lying where he fell.

  Simon’s mind thrashed in turmoil. Can you label a man a murderer if he simply attempted it? He looked at the back of the man riding in front of him. Was it murder to lie in wait for those men to come into camp? Am I glad Buell was out there, ready to shoot? If I am, am I also glad the man’s dead? He shook his head to stop the voice inside. Do I wish I were dead? That can’t be. I have a right to live, to protect myself. He searched his soul for support, and his memory for guidance. You are who your company is. Sarah’s declaration rang clear in his mind, as did his response. I like Buell for who he is, not what he is.

  Is Buell right? Am I best suited to stand around in a store somewhere, counting money and selling stuff? His horse’s right ear rotated back, listening, and he realized he was mumbling. Do I care what people think anymore? Who said, “A contempt for a good reputation is impudent”? It was in one of those dusty old books I read in Judge Kingsley’s library. But another one said, “A man cannot step in the same river twice.” And I think he’s right.

  Simon kicked his horse to a trot and caught up with Buell. “Thanks,” he said as he pulled alongside.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They were now eight days out of Carlisle, about halfway to Fort Laramie.

  The solitary finger sticking into the sky made them want to hurry up the next rise to see the hand it must surely be attached to. But on arriving, the finger stood alone, set against the rolling prairie, mocking. Could it be that far away? They rode the rolling hills all that day, and some of the next before they started to make out the base of Chimney Rock. They were back on the Oregon Trail now, the ruts deep and many. The bones and carcasses of oxen, cattle, horses and mules, worked to death by uninitiated pilgrims, fouled the prairie. The progress of man littered the landscape: farm implements, beds, heavy furniture, even a piano, all the droppings of constipated wagons that had been stuffed with wants instead of needs. The more human toll lay buried and hidden by the wagon tracks, the graves deliberately pounded beyond recognition by the inexorable churning wheels. They set up camp near the river, the towering formation a couple miles to the north.

  “Looks like we eat cold again tonight,” Buell complained. “Those wagon folks burned everything. I haven’t seen a stick of wood for forty miles. Even the buffalo dung is gone.”

  Buell took his duties seriously, and was somewhat put out when he couldn’t find something to make a fire with. They had burned clothes closets, trunks, tables, chairs, even a coffin once. Here, nothing could be found.

  “I don’t mind,” Simon said. “We got a couple of cans of beans left, and some fruit. From the looks of the country to the west, we might get into some rougher riding. Shows here that a place called Scott’s Bluff is near. I hope bluff means something more than riverside like we been seeing since Carlisle.” He studied the map.

  “So, how many more days to Fort Laramie?” Buell asked. “I’m gettin’ tired of sleeping damp, and it’s starting to get cold.”

  “Another day to Scott’s Bluff and then about sixty miles more. Figger four days.” Simon folded the map and put it away. “I’d say we’ve been real lucky not to get snowed on.”

  The country didn’t change as much as Simon had anticipated. It got a little higher on either side of the river valley, but the bluffs were farther away. They didn’t know it, when, on September 27, 1868, they passed out of Nebraska and into Wyoming Territory. To them another Sunday had arrived, and tomorrow they would ride some more.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fort Laramie proved a disappointment. Set in the same rolling hills they had been riding across for seventeen days, it contained a spread-out conglomeration of buildings of various sizes and conditions. A two-story structure on the far side of the fort stood out above the rest. An American flag flew from a pole a little left of the center of the place. People, some on foot, some mounted, and some in wagons, all seemed to be moving aimlessly. Near the flag and facing the two-story building, a group of soldiers stood in some sort of formation. Brass buttons flashed in the sun as they turned and moved, the commands too far away to be heard by Simon or Buell. The small river they looked across forked around sandbar.

  “Not a very purdy place,” Buell observed.

  “Doesn’t look like Fort Hartwell at all.” Simon brought the image of the fort near Carlisle back to his mind. “Where are the walls? You could run a herd of cows through the place and never scrape a hide.”

  “And if I ain’t mistaken, them’s Indians going into that building over there.” Buell pointed off to the right.

  “And civilians. Bet that’s the sutler’s store,” Simon said. “Probably as good a place as any to ask a few questions.” He kicked his horse into motion, and they splashed across the two branches of water and skirted the military part of the settlement.

  The interior of the trading post welcomed them with its familiarity. Tall shelves of bare wood held cans, packages, sacks, and boxes of every description. Where there wasn’t a shelf, a barrel or a bin stood. A counter filled the left end of the store, and behind it stood a medium-tall man with the wildest face full of hair Simon had ever seen. He even had hair growing out of his ears. He held a packet of tobacco firmly to the counter with his hand, also hair covered, and faced a half-naked Indian. The native pointed to the package, then held up three fingers. The hairy sutler held up both his hands, all his fingers extended. The Indian put his right hand palm-down in front of his chest, moved it quickly out and away, showing his palm, and brought it back again. Then he held up four fingers. The sutler held up eight.

  “They’re hagglin’.”

  Simon started at the voice. He turned to see a grinning short man. He looked old, except for his eyes—gray, with an intensity that demanded attention. Short whisker stubble frosted his tan, weathered skin. A dingy union suit peeked through the worn elbows of his shirt. But it was the hat that claimed Simon’s attention. It defied description—animal fur and felt, it looked like some sort of . . . nest.

  “See’d ya watchin’ and knew ya might be a wonderin’. The quick move of his right hand means no. You kin guess what the fingers mean.”

  His eyes sparkled,
and the creases around them could only be caused by the present condition of his face, a full-fledged, genuine and friendly smile. The expression looked as natural as breathing.

  “Guess I was,” Simon said. “How much can they say with their hands like that?”

  “Prit’near anything they want. I know up’erds of two hunert signs. Name’s Prescott, Taylor Prescott, folks call me Tay. I’m a trapper, miner, scout, or whatever pays.” His eyebrows arched in anticipation as he stuck out a calloused hand.

  Simon reached for it. Tay’s flesh felt like a piece of weathered wood, hard, dry, and unyielding. He mentally braced himself for a crushing squeeze, but received a surprisingly gentle grasp—firm, but gentle. He met the old man’s smile. “I’m Simon Steele, late of Nebraska, and looking for work. This is my friend, Buell Mace.”

  “Please to meetcha both.” Tay held his hand out until Buell took it.

  The Indian had said no twice more, and they had agreed on sixty cents for the package of tobacco. The Indian turned and walked past them like they didn’t exist.

  “Howdy gents. What can I do for ya?” the sutler asked, black eyes peering from beneath bushy eyebrows.

  Momentarily transfixed, Simon simply looked at him.

  “These fellers is lookin’ fer work, T. P.,” the trapper, miner, scout said.

  “Well, that shouldn’t be too hard. Plenty of work to do and mostly the army to pay for it. Whatcha got in mind?”

  He seemed to be smiling under all the hair, but Simon couldn’t be sure. He smiled back just in case. “I got a lot of experience working in the mercantile trade. A store a lot like this.”

  “Ya might be in luck. The roadhouse just west of here is lookin’ for someone to help ’em. Ain’t exactly a tradin’ post, more like a saloon and rowdy house if ya get my meanin’. If ya ain’t particular, you could look there. In here, I purdy much keep up with it by myself. Figger if they cain’t wait a minute they really don’t need it.”