The trail angled northeast. When they stopped at a creek to water their horses, Allison said: “You act like you want to find the bastards.”
“I do,” Staley said. “Too many bands are running around looking for horses and easy scalps with nobody bothering ’em. They need to hear a few bullets whistle past their ears. That lucky shot I got in back there at the hay camp did more good than anything that’s happened lately.”
“I’m going back,” Johnny Morgan said.
“All right,” Staley said. “But have you ever seen a man who’s been scalped?”
Morgan blinked at him. “They’re still a long ways ahead of us … ain’t they?”
“You think so?” Staley laughed softly. “Go ahead, boy. Start back.” He looked at Allison. “Have you got the name and address of his folks? They’ll want to know.”
Allison nodded. “I’ll write to them.”
Staley stepped into the saddle and put his buckskin up the steep north bank. He turned east when he came out of the box elders that flanked the stream, following Indian tracks toward the Barrone Ranch. Morgan kept up better than before, but all three soldiers were mounted on work horses and even Allison, who seemed to be a good rider, was having trouble holding the pace that Staley set.
About the middle of the morning they climbed a steep hill. Reaching the top, they saw a herd of fifty or more horses headed up the valley. The Indians were behind them, pushing the animals as hard as they could.
“We got ’em!” Staley yelled in triumph. “Dismount and fight on foot the way the cavalry does.”
He swung down and dropped on his belly in the grass. The Indians started up the hill toward them, but when Staley began shooting, they wheeled their ponies and raced toward the brush along the banks of the stream that meandered across the floor of the valley.
Staley emptied his Winchester, hitting one brave. Allison and Risdon got in three shots apiece before the curtain of brush closed behind the Indians. But Morgan, who lay motionless beside Allison, hadn’t fired a shot.
Staley rose and reloaded. He said: “You better learn to pull that trigger, kid. You don’t turn Indians back by staring at ’em.”
“I ain’t a very good shot,” Morgan mumbled. “I figured I’d better save my ammunition.”
Staley shook his head. “These boys didn’t have the belly for a real fight, but if they had, four rifles talking instead of three would have been a good argument to change their minds.”
Allison and Risdon came to their feet. “We gonna chase ’em any more?” Risdon asked.
“Nope. It’d be suicide to ride into that brush yonder. They’d cut us down before we got halfway there.” Staley motioned to the horses. “We’ll round up these animals and head ’em for Barrone’s ranch. They must be his. He’s got the only spread within twenty miles of here.”
“I guess I figured you wrong,” Risdon said. “I’ve seen a lot of half-breeds and white men that wore buckskin, fellers that had lived most of their lives amongst the Indians. Most of ’em were a lot of wind, but you don’t seem to be that kind.”
“Seem to?” Allison laughed. “Eight redskins come heading for us, and Staley says … ‘We’ve got ’em!’ ”
Staley shrugged. “I figured this bunch was looking for horses more than scalps. They ain’t likely to bother you now.”
He glanced at Morgan, who stood beside his horse, one hand on his saddle, his face so white that Staley wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d fainted and fallen to the ground. He added: “That’s why it’s a good idea to fire a few times in a deal like this whether you hit anything or not. Most Indians don’t pick a fight unless the odds are running in their favor. They could have figured odds of eight to three favored ’em enough to come after us … but eight to four might have looked different.”
Morgan understood him. “They could see we had four horses,” he said huskily.
“But they didn’t know four horses had four riders who had four rifles.” Staley turned to his buckskin, not wanting to waste time arguing with a scared boy like Morgan. Either he grew up enough to do his share of the fighting, or in the end he’d run and probably die a coward.
“Let’s get those horses rounded up,” Staley said.
As he mounted, he wondered why Johnny Morgan had joined the Army.
Chapter Seven
Staley told Risdon and Morgan to ride along the crest of the ridge so they could get around the horse herd without spooking them. He’d ride more slowly with Allison and hold the horses between the creek and the ridge. He was afraid they would scatter in all directions when the two soldiers started driving them back down the valley.
He knew it would be a tricky job to round up the horses and still stay far enough from the creek to remain out of rifle range of the Indians. He had warned Risdon and Morgan not to get too close to the brush. It was not as thick opposite the horses as it was here, but it might be dense enough to hide an Indian sharpshooter.
Staley hadn’t seen any of the braves ride out of the brush on the far side. He didn’t think they would as long as there was a chance that a white man might make the mistake of getting too close to one of them.
A moment later he glanced back and saw three riders appear over the crest of the ridge. They were too far away to identify, but they didn’t figure to be Indians. The Indians did their raiding in larger parties, and if three scouts spotted a larger bunch of white men, they didn’t keep on coming. They rode away and the whole party hit you later.
No, those three must be Louis Barrone and his sons out looking for horses. If the Indians hiding in the brush were Cheyennes, they wouldn’t shoot the Barrone boys, and they probably wouldn’t hurt Louie. If Tally was right, his time would come later. In any case, the problem of recovering the horses belonged to the Barrones, not Staley and the three soldiers who were supposed to be back at the hay camp by noon.
Staley yelled to Allison to turn back and to tell Risdon and Morgan. Allison nodded and shouted at the other two.
As Staley reined toward the approaching riders, he lifted his hat, the Chinook sign of a white man. By the time Allison, Risdon, and Morgan joined him, Staley had recognized Louie Barrone and his sons.
When they came within shouting distance, Barrone bellowed: “It’s a good thing you lifted your hat or we’d have let you have it! We figured you was the red devils that had run our horses off!”
“It wouldn’t have been gratitude to shoot us,” Staley said. “We’re the ones who stopped the Indians from running your horses off. They’re still down there along the creek.”
“The hell.” Barrone’s gaze swept the brush. Then he glanced at his boys as if mentally measuring the risk in going after his horses. “I reckon they won’t try to take ’em away from us.” He looked at the soldiers. “How’d you get the cavalry out?”
“These men are mounted infantry,” Staley said, and introduced them.
Barrone said: “Howdy.” His voice was friendly, but his sons gave the soldiers surly, half-inch nods, their dark eyes hostile. The old man sensed their attitude, Staley thought, because he growled something about fetching the horses in, and then turned his back to them as they rode off.
“We’d better head back to camp,” Allison said. “The corporal will have our hides if we don’t get that load of hay to the fort this afternoon.”
As Staley watched the Barrone boys gallop away, it occurred to him that he would never have a better time to talk to the old man about marrying Tally.
“Go ahead,” he told Allison. “I’ll catch up. I want to talk to Louie.”
Allison grinned. “I guess your buckskin can move faster than these plugs we’re on.” He winked at Barrone. “I’m afraid the cavalry would be disgraced for life if they had to ride horses like these.”
“I reckon so.” Barrone grinned back as he scratched his nose. After the soldiers had ridden awa
y, he said: “I like that one. I’ve scouted for the Army ever since they laid the chunk, and most of the time I wonder how they ever win a scrap with the Injuns, considering the men they use. Take that fat young ’un. He’s all blubber. Ain’t good for nothing. The older man’s a tough if I ever seen one. Ain’t got a brain in that bullet head of his. But that tall boy looks like he oughta be an officer.”
“I’ve wondered why he ain’t,” Staley said. “Allison, that’s the tall one, he’s officer material, all right, but he’s the kind who thinks for himself. Chances are he’s spent half his time in the guardhouse for doing it.”
“He won’t stay in the Army,” Barrone said. “What’d you want to talk to me about, Walt?”
“Well, I didn’t have much chance yesterday to talk.” Staley moistened his lips, almost losing his nerve, then plunged on: “I want to marry Tally, Louie. Of course we hope it’s all right with you.”
Barrone stared at Staley, his leathery old face turning hard, his eyes narrowing. He said: “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, Walt, I’d think living with the Crows all winter made you lose whatever sense you was born with. Maybe that’s what happened. Wintering with the Crows is enough to turn even a smart man into an idiot.”
Staley’s first reaction was one of anger so complete that he had to fight an impulse to pull the old man out of his saddle and break his neck. A good part of a minute passed before he trusted himself to say: “I don’t take that kindly, Louie.”
“What the hell did you expect me to say?” Barrone asked harshly. “It won’t do. I thought you had sense enough to know it.”
“I don’t have any money, if that’s what’s eating on you,” Staley said, “but I’ll look after her. I can tell you one thing. She’ll have a better life with me than you’ve given her so far, and a whole lot better than she’ll have in the future if she stays with you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I’m saying that the day will come when you can’t handle your sons the way you always have. When it does, they’ll ride out and take Tally with ’em. And then they’ll give her to some Cheyenne buck whether she likes it or not.”
“I’ll handle ’em,” Barrone said. “I’ll never see the day I can’t handle ’em. If they do ride out, they won’t take Tally with ’em. You can count on that.”
“Either way, you can’t keep a girl like Tally with you forever. What’s your objection to me as a son-in-law?”
“Nothing,” Barrone said, “’cept you’re white. It won’t work. I thought you had been around ’breeds enough to know that.”
“It worked for you with a full-blood,” Staley said. “Why wouldn’t it work for me?”
“It didn’t work for me and you know it as well as I do,” Barrone said hotly. “I tell you the whites won’t have nothing to do with Tally and the Injuns won’t want her, either, unless she goes Injun. Is that what you’re figuring to do?”
“No,” Staley said. “I’ll take her away from this country. I’ll make a good home for her.”
“She’s still a half-breed,” the old man said passionately. “You ain’t smart enough to change that. Your kids will be half-breeds, too, and the door will be closed to ’em anywhere they go. My boys can’t even go to a stinkin’ hog ranch. I told Madame Fifi they wanted to do business there and she cussed me like a muleskinner. She says … ‘You think I’m runnin’ this place for fun? If I let ’em come, I’ll lose all my business.’ That’s the way it is everywhere.”
“You’re stubborn, Louie,” Staley said. “Too stubborn to see what’s going to happen to her if she stays with you.”
Barrone stroked his beard, his hard eyes fixed on Staley. Then he said: “Stay away from her, Walt. I’ll shoot you if you come sneaking around trying to see her.”
He galloped past Staley toward the horses that were being herded down the valley. Staley reined over the ridge top and rode down the steep slope, telling himself he would go after Tally today if he had any money. But he didn’t. He’d need at least a month, and then he’d come back after her if he had to fight both Louie and his boys. All he could do now was hope she’d be all right until then.
Chapter Eight
Staley rode alongside the wagon from the hay camp to Fort Laramie that afternoon, and he sensed that both Allison and Morgan were scared. Allison kept his fear under control, but Morgan was so nervous that every time he spoke his voice shook.
Staley knew the Indians might still be in the area, and if they were, three men with a good buckskin saddle horse and team would be worth attacking. He didn’t mention this, partly because he knew Morgan could not stand a heavier burden of fear, and partly because he had never been a man to expect the worst to happen.
Halfway to the fort, Allison pointed to a two-story, unpainted house that had been built since Staley had traveled this road. A woodshed and privy stood behind it, with an adobe corral and slab shed a little farther down the road.
“That’s the hog ranch we were talking about,” Allison said. “The madam calls herself Fifi, but she sounds more like Mary Jones or Susy Smith from Ohio.”
“You ought to see her niece,” Morgan said. “Her name’s Christine. She sure is a beaut’.”
“She’s not the kind you’d expect to find in a place like that,” Allison agreed. “She’s not one of the working girls. All Fifi lets her do is serve drinks and wait on tables.”
“She’s crazy to build so far from the fort,” Staley said. “Does she figure her girls are Indian fighters?”
Allison laughed. “That’s not what she hired them for, but she claims all of them can shoot. She’s got just one man working for her, a big Negro named Nero. She built strong, with double walls and shutters for the windows and bars for the doors.”
“Has she got plenty of rifles and ammunition?” Staley asked.
“She says so,” Allison said. “I’ve seen her rifles. She keeps them on racks near the back and front doors. As for being closer to the fort, she said she’d get enough soldier trade out here, and she wanted to be far enough away so the cowboys and freighters wouldn’t think she was only catering to soldiers. She’s a smart old hag. When the Indian trouble is over, the government will close the fort and move the soldiers, but the cowboys and freighters will be here a long time.”
“She’ll be here a real long time if the Sioux decide to burn her out,” Staley said. “She’ll be six feet under.”
Allison shrugged. “She’s not a woman to worry. The Indians were quiet when she built the place, but even if they’d been on the prod, she’d have built anyway.”
“She promised Christine she could take over as madam when she retires,” Morgan said. “We think Christine is her daughter, not her niece.”
“You mean you think so, Johnny,” Allison said. “I don’t. And I don’t think Christine wants to be a madam, either. All she wants is to get out of the damned place and I don’t think Fifi is going to let her go. She’s not only smart, she’s mean.”
“She don’t mistreat Christine,” Morgan said. “She’s good to her.”
Allison just chuckled.
An hour later they reached the fort. Allison said he and Morgan would pick up mail, unload the hay behind the stables, and then head back to camp. It would be late when they arrived, but there was less chance of meeting Indians at night.
“I hope I run into you boys again,” Staley said. “If I can talk Crook into giving me a job, I probably will.”
“He needs scouts,” Allison said. He hesitated as if he had something to add, then shrugged. “Good luck, Staley.”
“Good luck to you,” Staley said, and rode toward Crook’s headquarters.
A wind had sprung up, and as Staley crossed the parade ground, he heard the halyards slap sharply against the flagpole. He dismounted, glancing westward. A mass of black clouds was rolling into the sky, promising a spring storm. W
ell, this time he wouldn’t be out in it.
Staley had never met General Crook, but he knew men who had served under Crook and they liked and respected him. In appearance, Crook certainly lived up to his reputation. He was in his late forties, an athletic-appearing man without an ounce of surplus flesh on his lean body. He wore his light brown hair close-cropped, and his blond beard parted at the point of his chin. Staley particularly liked the way Crook’s blue-gray eyes met his, and the general’s strong grip when they shook hands.
“Glad you came in,” Crook said. “I’ve heard of you and I do need help.”
“I’m after a job, all right,” Staley said, “but there’s some things I ought to tell you first.”
“Go ahead.”
Staley brought him up to date in regard to Indian affairs around the Barrone Ranch and the Army hay camp.
“Well,” Crook said, “I can’t send a detail out to chase Indians every time they steal horses. It’s like putting your finger on a flea. You see the flea, all right, but by the time your hand gets there, he’s gone.”
Staley just nodded. He had expected Crook to say exactly that, flea included.
“One more thing,” Staley said. “The soldiers at the hay camp are almost out of ammunition.”
“Why?” Crook snapped. “Some of them come to the fort every day or so. What’s the matter with them?”
“It’s like this,” Staley said. “They had plenty of ammunition when the hay camp was built, but they shot most of it away on rabbits and antelopes. I guess Corporal Jones was embarrassed to ask for more.”
Crook was plainly irritated. He motioned to his orderly. “See that one hundred rounds per man are sent to the hay camp with the wagon that just came in.”
The orderly saluted and left. Crook leaned back in his chair and studied Staley. Finally, he said: “What kind of job did you want?”
“I ain’t particular,” Staley answered, “as long as it ain’t dull and pays good money.”
Summer Warpath Page 4
