Laramie

by Wallace J. Swenson

  A black form streaked from nowhere, ghostly silent. Spud struck the attacker, who let loose an anguished scream as the attacking dog tore into his flesh. Both fell across Simon and rolled away. Still dazed, he managed to sit up in time to see the man get to his feet, and run out of sight behind the cabin. The deep growling snarl of the determined dog was followed immediately by its pained howl, and then the beat of hooves as a horse surged into a gallop. The sound faded away toward the north.

  Buell spilled his chair as Simon carried the dog into the saloon. “What in hell?”

  “He’s been cut, Buell. Can you take a look?” Simon’s face twisted with concern. He knelt and laid the squirming dog on the floor. Spud tried to get up.

  “Hold his head,” Buell said as he got down on the floor. “You guys get outta the light.” He took hold of the dog’s leg and pushed on the right-front paw. Spud pushed back. “Doesn’t look bad.” He worked the leg a couple of times. “That works fine. Somebody go get a dish towel from the kitchen.”

  Amos hurried away and back. Buell wiped the blood away, and gently spread the sides of the cut, inspecting closely. Spud whined, and looked at Simon with fearful eyes. Buell tore a strip off the towel and folded it into a pad. He pressed it against the wound, and wrapped the remainder of the cloth around the dog’s leg.

  “That’ll stop the bleeding. He’s got a little cut in the muscle but it’s not deep. If we can get him to leave that on for a couple hours, I think it’ll be to the point where he can take care of it himself. Pa always said if a dog can get at it, he’ll keep it clean.”

  Spud turned to get his teeth in the bandage. “No!” Simon pushed the dog’s head away.

  “How did this happen?” Amos asked.

  “I took a little walk, and when I come back home, he was waiting in the shadow by the house. He had me down and was about to . . . God, he could have killed me so easy.”

  “Who had you down? Did you see ’im?” Buell asked.

  “No. I saw a shadow, and then he was across the porch and on me.”

  “Real quiet like?” Buell asked.

  Simon paused for a minute with his eyes closed. “Not a sound.” His eyes locked with Buell’s. “Just like by the river.”

  “We’ll take a look in the morning,” Amos said. “Was he just lookin’ to cut ya, or do you think you caught him trying to rob your house?”

  “Oh, shit,” Buell said. “The son of a bitch. I’ll be right back.” He raced out of the saloon.

  The bleeding had stopped as Buell predicted, and Spud lay by the door and licked diligently at the cut leg. Buell sat in the easy chair, face stern and hard-looking.

  Simon was exasperated. “We should have known not to leave our money lying around like that.”

  “It weren’t lying around. It was in saddlebags, in a cabinet, in our house. That should be safe enough. I’m gonna get it back.”

  “You don’t even know who did it.”

  “You know damn well who did it. Knife. And I’m gonna settle with him once and for all. I should’ve gone to Scott’s Bluff when I heard he was there.”

  “You can’t go after a man just because he leaves moccasin tracks. Other Indians do too, and so do some white people.”

  “For once in your life, can’t you wake up and see what’s real? That bastard tried to kill you. From what you said, if Spud hadn’t saw you down, you’d have a knife stuck in your neck. Doesn’t that bother you one bit, for chrissakes?”

  Simon looked at his friend for nearly a minute while Buell, his jaw muscles working furiously, stared back. “You’re right. Knife did it. No one else would wait after a robbery to attack me. He knows we’re looking for him, and saw an opportunity to fix one of us. He’s going to get what he earned.”

  “Finally, you see the light. I’m gonna go see Walks Fast. He knows about Knife, and who’s doing what everywhere. Sometimes I think he’s a ghost.” Buell got up, and put on his gun belt and coat. “Tell Amos I’ll be back late afternoon.”

  “We’ll tell him. I’m goin’ with you.”

  They walked their horses across the street, and Simon waited while Buell went into the saloon. His mind played back a half dozen of the lessons he had been taught him about fairness and integrity. Was it Lacey who told us that an innocent man’s death is no less permanent than a guilty one’s? God, I hope Buell doesn’t find Knife. Not till we’re sure.

  An hour later they rode up to the tepee, and as they climbed off their horses, the flap opened and Walks Fast stepped out. He nodded at Buell.

  “I expected my friend to visit.” His gaze then shifted. “You are Simon.” He smiled a welcome, and stepped to one side of the entrance.

  Simon had never been in a tepee before, and its spaciousness surprised him. Expecting smoky air, the freshness was even more apparent. Two women sat on the floor against the outside wall and opposite the entrance, working on something he couldn’t make out.

  Walks Fast pointed at a pile of hides. “Sit,” he said and then spoke quietly to the women.

  One got up and took three cups from a hide basket. She filled them with coffee from a pot that set next to the low fire in the center of the floor.

  “I learned to like coffee. The women think that as strange as you do,” Walks Fast said as Buell looked at his cup and then at the pot. “Many say I’m a little strange.”

  “I admit, didn’t expect a cup of coffee,” Buell said.

  Simon sipped some of his and watched Walks Fast fix Buell with a concentrated stare.

  “You look for Knife, yes?” Walks Fast made it sound more like a statement than a question.

  Buell choked on his drink and put his cup down.

  The two women snickered and Walks Fast said something sharply. He then nodded at Buell. “Not that hard to see. Simon was attacked in the night, and the tracks say it was an Indian. You think the Indian was Knife. I say it isn’t.”

  “How’n hell can you know all that? It only happened last night.”

  “Is Walks Fast wrong?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter how I know. You are looking for your possessions?” He spoke to the women again, and the same one got up and pulled two saddlebags from under a bearskin. She dropped them between Simon and Buell.

  “That’s mine,” Buell exclaimed. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It is yours. Now you have it back. The People take care of the People’s troubles. I am sorry for Simon’s Shadow Dog. The man who attacked you is punished. He has left here and will go to Wind River. He will not come back. His family is much ashamed.”

  “And it wasn’t Knife?” Simon asked.

  “Walks Fast says it is not Knife. Drink your coffee, it is good.” The old man settled back and sipped his cup as he watched confusion cloud Buell’s face.

  Relief made Simon’s chest feel light. Then he felt slightly angry. “But Buell could have shot Knife for this. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Knife did not get shot. I am more afraid for the man who shoots too fast. It is best to follow a trail close and make sure it is the right man who dies. The wrong man stays dead just the same.”

  Simon stared at the Indian in amazement.

  “You question that?”

  “Not really a question. I heard someone else say exactly the same thing, a white man.”

  “You believe the white man is the only one who thinks?” Walks Fast sighed and gave him a sad smile. “Simon is not the only one who thinks that.”

  The three of them sat sipping the coffee for a few minutes, and then they heard a pair of horses stop outside the tepee. Walks Fast slowly drank the last of his cup, and waited until Simon and Buell had drained theirs.

  “Here is a present for Simon. The punished man left a horse, a very good horse. We will go see it.”

  He got up and pushed open the flap. They followed him out. An Indian man stood in front of the tepee, head down. His extended hand held a halter rope made of braided horsehair. Tied to it was t
he strangest-looking horse Simon had ever seen. Pale gray in the front quarters, the coloration changed toward the rear. It looked like nature had splattered black paint on its haunch. The long, flowing, black tail had streaks of white through it, and the horse’s hooves were light colored with dark stripes. He looked at the man holding the horse, and then at Walks Fast.

  “This is the man’s brother. The family is very ashamed. You take the horse. It is yours to sell, trade, or keep. It will make them feel better.”

  Simon took the braided rope. The man raised his head and leveled a cool, steady gaze at him for a moment, then turned and got on his horse. Walks Fast said something, and the man kicked the animal into motion.

  “Walks Fast thanks Simon. Family can now sit with their face to the fire.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say nothing. You gave honor back to the family.”

  “We’re goin’ back to the ranch,” Buell said. “Thanks for gettin’ our stuff back. I’ll see you again soon.”

  “Welcome when you come. Walks Fast welcomes Simon too.” He turned and went into the tepee.

  Several days later, Buell, his back and one heel against the stable wall, shook his head in frustration as Simon walked around the horse for the third time.

  “I’m not really that good at judging them, but he looks sound,” Simon said.

  “That’s not what I meant when I asked what you thought of him.” Buell snorted. “How do you like his looks?”

  “You mean his color. Frankly, he looks like a mistake.”

  “A mistake! That has to be the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen. And run. It’s hard to stay on him when he turns. You should’ve rode him a little harder.”

  “I’ve got a good horse, Buell. You like him so much, you keep him.”

  “You serious?”

  “Sure. Walks Fast said it was mine to sell, trade, or keep. I’ll presume that means I can give him away as well. You can have him.”

  “Let me pay you for it. We have our money back.”

  “There’s something about the way I got him that makes me not want to take any money. No, you like him, he’s yours.” Simon stroked the shoulder of the spotted horse and grinned at Buell. “Enjoy him.”

  “Thanks, Simon. This’s the nicest present I’ve ever got.” He put his hand on the velvet-covered muzzle. “Walks Fast says that it takes the shadows with it. And he’s right. It looks like his butt is in a spotty shade and his front is in the sun.”

  “So, what are you going to name him?” Simon asked.

  “That’s easy, Shadow Walker. I’ve been thinkin’ about it all week. Not that he was mine, but that would make a good name for him no matter what. I like the way Indians name things, and that’s what I think when I look at him.”

  “So now we have Shadow Walker and Shadow Dog. I’ll stick with Spot and Spud,” teased Simon.

  “You laugh. I’m gonna ride over and see Tay. Wanna come along?” Buell asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve got something I need to ask him.”

  Simon went into the stable and a few minutes later joined Buell. They were even with the saloon when, almost simultaneously, they kicked their mounts, and in three strides were headed down the road at a full gallop.

  Amos nodded as he approached T. P. at the counter.

  “Mornin’, Amos,” the sutler said. “Unusual to see you out this early in the morning.”

  “Simon and Lori are workin’ on something, so he asked me to check on a couple things they need. Spices, extracts, and such.”

  “We can see. Anything you need that I don’t have, I can order.”

  “Here’s what they want.” He handed T. P. a piece of paper.

  “Got it all,” he said after he’d scanned the list. “Couple of things I’m gonna have to look for a bit, but I know I have ’em. I thought I’d keep the cardamom forever.”

  “Well, whatever those two need, I’m gonna try to find. That’s the second idea he’s come up with that does nothin’ but make me money.”

  “That reminds me of something.” T. P. glanced at a woman who had entered after Amos. “Let me help her, then we can talk.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” T. P. said a few minutes later. The customer nodded as she left and the sutler came back to Amos. “I’ve been out to your place four times in a month, and I gotta tell ya, the food and drinks and service . . . well, everything about it is first-class.”

  “Why, thanks, T. P. I’ll pass that on to Simon and Lori. Good of you to say so.”

  “But that ain’t what I had to say. Well, it is, but it’s not what I had on my mind.”

  Amos nodded his head and waited, curious.

  “What I mean to say is, the wife, that is Missus Triffet . . . uh . . . well, she’d like to go, but doesn’t want to.”

  “Now that don’t make no sense at all, T. P. Listen to what you just said.”

  “It’s them women upstairs,” T. P. blurted. “The missus and several other ladies on the post can’t abide the thought of eating downstairs when . . . well you know.” He jabbed his thumb in the air three or four times. “Goes on upstairs.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ll be double damned. Who do they think the customers are?”

  “I’m not gonna argue the point, Amos. I’m just suggestin’ if you was to make your place just a saloon and restaurant without no whores, you could make even more money. I’ve seen how people like havin’ a nice place to go.” T. P. shrugged. “If you was to clean . . . I mean, not have the girls there, folks would come by three or four times as much, and bring the wives too. Think about it. Even though the men are goin’ for the cards and the food, the wives don’t like the thought of available girls just upstairs. See what I mean?”

  “Well, you said your piece, for sure. And I can see your point. I’ll think on it.”

  “Figgered we was friends enough that I could say that. No hard feelings?”

  “No, not at all. Let me have the stuff on that list, and I’ll go talk with my young manager and see what he thinks.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Tay Prescott sat in front of his dugout, half asleep in the morning sun. The staccato two-two beat of a running horse invaded his daydream. He opened his eyes to see a pinto horse lay over at a sharp angle as it rounded the point of hillside leading into the meadow. Its long flowing tail streamed in the rushing wind.

  “My gawd, that horse can run.” He stood up and peered to recognize the rider. “Buell.”

  The horse and rider thundered past, then slammed to a stiff-legged skidding stop, turned in the horse’s length, and pranced back to the dugout.

  “In a hurry and change your mind, or just showin’ off?” Tay chuckled.

  “Ever seen a horse stop and turn like that, Tay?” Buell swung down, and tied the horse to the post by the woodpile.

  “Can’t say that I have. That’s one of them Palouse horses ain’t it?”

  “Don’t know what ya call it. Walks Fast gave it to Simon and he give it to me.”

  “Give it to ’im?”

  “Yeah. Walks Fast found out who jumped Simon, and I guess the family made him give Simon the horse for punishment. And Simon likes the horse he has so he gave this’n to me. Ain’t he purdy?”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen more than one or two of those in my life. Indians way north and west of here raise ’em and don’t part with ’em lightly.”

  “I love ’im. He will run flat out for five miles, then be ready to come back just as fast. I can’t wear ’im down. Want to ride ’im?”

  Tay looked at the horse and smiled. “My bowels move reg’lar and I can still make water, Buell. At my age, I ain’t lookin’ for a fast horse.” He looked toward the south again. “That another horse comin?”

  “Yup, that’s Simon. We come together and he started a race. I can’t wait to see his face. I beat him by a half a mile.”

  Simon came into view, coat flying as he leaned over his horse’s neck. Slowing to a stop, he pull
ed up beside Buell’s horse, and got off.

  “Damn, that horse can run. Is he as smooth to ride as it looks?” Simon asked.

  “Ever bit. Sorry ya give him up, huh?” Buell punched Simon on the arm.

  “Nah, you look good on him, and I got here didn’t I?”

  “Sure, a day late.”

  “How you doing, Tay?” Simon asked.

  “Fine. Sittin’ in the sun when this damn fool near run my camp over.”

  “Weren’t goin’ all that fast,” Buell said. He cast an admiring look at his horse.

  “So, just sitting out, enjoying the morning?”

  “We got a good storm comin’, and that first one can last till April. You’ll learn to sit in the sun ever chance ya git.”

  “How kin ya tell?” Buell asked.

  “Nothin’ special,” Tay said as he shrugged his shoulders and studied the clouds. “The air feels a little slow somehow, and them high wispy clouds looks like they’s attached to somethin’ heavier there in the northwest. ’Sides that, my hip hurts. Took an arrow in it in forty-four and it’ll tell me if the weather’s gonna change . . . rain, snow, wind, or hot.”

  “When you going to come visit the new place?” Simon asked.

  “I ain’t. No offense, but the only diff’rence ’tween you boilin’ a spud or fryin’ a piece a meat, and cookin’ it my ownself, is I git my poke shook fer the priv’lege. No thanks, I’ll keep my cash.”

  “I can see your point, but you could relax and let us take care of you. Doesn’t that sound good for a change?”

  “I s’pose that’s all right when yer young, Simon, but after ya been shot at a few times, and slept wet fer a week or two, you’ll re’lize gettin’ it done yerself is a habit ya want ta git into.”

  “And that’s why you stay here by yerself?”

  “That and I git along with me more’n most other folks.”

  Simon squinted his eyes and cocked his head sideways.

  Tay chuckled. “That’n hit yer brain sideways, didn’t it?”

  “Sounds like some of those Greek writers I used to read. They always had more than one meaning to what they said. Do you old-timers do that on purpose?”