Summer Warpath

by Wayne D. Overholser

  She brought her gaze back to Staley. “Bill took me off alone and told me Big Elk would be along in a few hours and he was going to take me. Bill said Pa couldn’t stop it. I guess that was when I knew they were going to kill him. I didn’t have a chance to get a horse, but I slipped out of the house as soon as it was dark. I had told Bill I was going to the hay camp where I’d be safe, and he laughed at me and told me what the soldiers would do. Maybe I should have gone to the fort, but I was afraid of the soldiers there, too.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’re safe now. If anything happens to me, Allison will look after you. He’s a good man, Tally.”

  “But he’s not my man,” Tally said. “You are. Nothing is going to happen to you. Pa’s dead. Joe’s dead, too. Allison shot him this afternoon. Before it’s over, I suppose Bill will be dead.”

  Staley was surprised. He had seen Allison knock over the lead Indian, but he had not recognized him. Tally’s sharp eyes had. It surprised him that she showed no grief. She must have hated her brothers, and her father had never listened to her and never really loved her. To Louie she was a housekeeper, no more and no less. She had not known love after the death of her mother, and that, Staley thought, was probably the reason she had turned to him so completely.

  “Keep an eye on the Indians,” he said. “I want to talk to Allison.”

  She rose and looked through the loophole next to the door. He walked to the table and sat down across from Allison. O’Hara grinned at him in his cocky way and said: “Well, I’m seeing some Indian fighting the other correspondents aren’t. I’ll scoop them after all.”

  “If you live long enough to get it on the wire,” Staley said.

  “Oh, quit that,” O’Hara said. “We’re safe inside the house. After a while the Indians will get tired and ride away. I was scared this afternoon, but not now.”

  “You’d better be,” Staley said. “As long as Big Elk’s in charge, the warriors will stay right where they are until the wagon train comes by. If the train’s got enough of an escort to look tough, they’ll pull out, but that may be a week. They’ll have us burned out a long time before that … unless we get Big Elk. He’s the one that holds ’em together. If he was dead, they’d probably break up and drift away.”

  O’Hara’s eyes narrowed. “Is this the straight goods?”

  “I don’t figure it’s any time to bull you.” Staley turned to Allison. “I’m going out after the girl’s body. The light’s thin enough now so they can’t get a good bead on me, but I want you to keep me covered just in case.”

  “Maybe I ought to go out with you, Walt.”

  “No, you stay at your loophole. Some of ’em might have sneaked up close enough to have a good chance of hitting me. And another thing. You said this morning that we were all in this together. If I get rubbed out, will you look out for Tally?”

  “Of course I will, Walt.”

  “Good.” Staley rose. “Now get over to that loophole. Close the door after me but don’t bar it. I might have to get back in a hurry.”

  Staley lifted the bar and opened the door. The Indians were gathered around a fire on the other side of the road. They seemed in no hurry to go anywhere or do anything.

  He left the house on the run, bending low, and almost reached the body before the Indians noticed him. He picked the girl up just as two of the braves fired. The bullets whipped past, missing him comfortably. Then he began running hard back to the house and the firing stopped.

  Staley saw the door open ahead of him. He ran through it and heard it slam behind him.

  “Where do you want me to put her?” he asked Christine. “In here,” Christine said, and led the way into a bedroom.

  Staley laid the body on the bed and Christine quickly spread a blanket over it. When Staley went back into the other room, Fifi was there.

  “Where am I going to sleep?” she demanded. “That’s my bed you put her on.”

  Staley put his gaze on the woman and his hand on the haft of his knife. Fifi went back to the kitchen.

  “Tell her nobody’s going to sleep tonight,” Staley said to Christine. “I figure they’ll try to fire the house before morning.”

  Christine nodded, and followed Fifi into the kitchen. Staley joined Tally beside the door.

  “I don’t look for that woman to live much longer,” Tally said.

  “I don’t, either,” Staley said grimly. “Not if I’m here very long.”

  He stared through the loophole. The light was so pale he could not make out the Indians. He thought about slipping out to the corral during the night and saddling the horses and trying to slip past them. No, he couldn’t go alone, and if they all tried it, they would never make it. The only thing he could do was kill Big Elk.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Two

  The last lingering trace of color from the sunset had died in the western sky and now the night was totally black. Staley would have preferred to wait until after midnight, but he couldn’t risk it. Big Elk’s patience was frayed. The Cheyenne wouldn’t wait that long to make his own move.

  Shutters had been placed on all the windows and a lighted lamp on the bar gave out a murky light. Staley said to Christine: “Blow out the lamp when I tell you to.” And to Allison: “When I get back I want in, but be damned sure it’s me you’re letting in.”

  Staley looked at Tally. He stood there, trying to fill himself with the sight of her, and then he kissed her and turned away. He nodded at Christine, who blew the lamp out. He opened the door and slipped through it and pulled it shut after him.

  He left his rifle inside, because it would only be in his way. His knife was in its casing and his revolver was in its holster. If they weren’t enough to do the job, it wouldn’t be done.

  For a moment he stood listening while his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. He heard nothing except the snorting of horses in the adobe corral and Nero speaking soothingly to them; he saw nothing in the blackness that surrounded him except the pinpoint of light on the other side of the road.

  If the Indians were still gathered around the fire, he would have no chance to get at Big Elk. But he didn’t think they would be. They were much more likely to have thrown a circle around the house to prevent anyone inside from slipping out and heading for Fort Laramie.

  Staley guessed it would be this way for an hour or two until Big Elk decided it was time to fire the house. That had to be his plan. Nothing else promised the results the Indians wanted.

  He started toward the fire, figuring it as the most likely point for Big Elk to be. He moved silently through the sagebrush, stopping often to listen. He dropped flat to the ground when he stopped, thankful for the covering blackness, then, hearing nothing, he moved on, keeping low, every sense alert.

  Once he thought he was going to sneeze. He hugged the ground, his nose pressed against his buckskin sleeve. When the impulse faded, he went on, crossing the road and again dropping flat in the sagebrush.

  The fire was dead ahead of him now. It was small, a typical Indian fire, but it gave enough light for Staley to see the only Indian beside it, a big man sitting with his head bowed as if he were lost in meditation.

  Well, well, Staley thought, Big Elk himself.

  Carefully he wormed his way toward the big Indian. All he needed was one more minute to reach him and drive his knife blade between the Cheyenne’s shoulder blades, then slip back into the darkness. He didn’t deserve luck like this.

  Seconds later he dug his nose into the dirt, trying to make himself invisible to the Indian who had appeared out of the darkness behind him. Apparently the warrior didn’t see Staley because he went past him, calling to Big Elk. The chief stood up and spoke arrogantly.

  For a minute or so they faced each other, both gesturing and talking angrily. Then the brave seemed to be cowed by Big Elk. He stood still and listened. When Big Elk stopped talkin
g, the warrior whirled and ran back the way he had come.

  Staley had no idea what they had argued about. Maybe some braves were rebelling against Big Elk’s plan, whatever it was. If so, Staley’s time was running close, because Big Elk might find himself forced to make his move sooner than he wanted.

  Staley inched forward until he was close enough to reach Big Elk in three long steps. Still he hugged the ground, waiting for the chief to turn back to the fire. He could not risk moving any closer, even though there was a tall sagebrush bush between them.

  For an eternity the chief stood like a great bronze statue, the dim glow of the fire on his nearly naked body. Then slowly he made the turn, and Staley came up off the ground, the knife in his hand.

  Staley took three long steps without a sound. His left arm came in under Big Elk’s chin, jammed hard against his windpipe, and choked off his breath. Staley brought his knife sweeping in from the other side, and buried the steel hilt-deep, thrusting upward from the notch of the ribcage.

  For several seconds the Cheyenne twisted and kicked and plunged in his desperate struggle to break free. Staley pulled the knife free and struck again, seeking the heart. Blood spurted from the wound and Big Elk went limp. Staley twisted the knife, jerked it free, and released his grip. The Indian fell beside the fire and lay still, blood turning his skin from bronze to scarlet.

  Staley wheeled away, slipping his knife back into the casing just as Bill Barrone appeared in front of him, screaming: “God damn you, Staley!” Bill was dressed and painted like a Cheyenne. Staley would not have recognized him if he had not heard his voice.

  As Staley drew his gun, the thought raced through Staley’s mind that now his luck had really turned sour. He had to kill Tally’s brother and the shot would bring the Indians down on him from all sides. But the choice was not his to make.

  Young Barrone got in the first shot, the bullet ripping through the flesh under Staley’s left arm. He brought his gun level and fired, the roar of his shot coming so close to the other that the sound was one great, prolonged explosion. His slug caught Barrone in the chest and slammed him back on his heels. He fell, his last word a curse that carried with it his terrible hatred for Staley and all whites.

  Staley holstered his revolver and raced into the darkness. He would never tell Tally about this. It must have been Bill who had battered his father’s head into a jellied mass of blood and bone. Bill, the elder son, who had been caught between two cultures and two opposite ways of life, who had favored one and hated the other, hated it with every nerve and fiber of his sick mind and his strong, young body.

  Staley sprinted toward the house, feeling the sagebrush come alive with Indians. He heard them yell, heard the shots that several took at the sound of his running steps. He slowed up so they would not hear him, and a moment later the shadowy bulk of the house appeared directly in front of him.

  “Dave,” Staley called, “I’m coming in!”

  The door was open when he reached the house. He lunged through it and closed it and leaned against it. He stayed there, panting, while Christine lighted the lamp on the bar. Tally saw the blood on Staley’s buckskin shirt and cried out.

  “We’ll get it bandaged right away,” Christine said. “Take off your shirt.”

  “So they got you,” Fifi said.

  Staley took off his shirt. For the first time since he had come here he didn’t itch to kill Fifi. Big Elk had been worth killing. Fifi wasn’t.

  Christine came with a bottle of whiskey. She poured it on the bullet hole and Staley gritted his teeth against the stinging pain. One of the other girls brought strips of white cloth and Christine put a crude bandage on the wound. It would do until he reached Fort Laramie.

  “They’ll pull out before sunup,” Staley said as he carefully pulled on his shirt. “At least that’s my guess. We want breakfast before dawn so we can travel as soon as we know for sure the Indians are gone.” He looked directly at Fifi. “Christine is going with us. Allison needs a horse. We’ll take one of yours and figure it’s an even swap, your life and the lives of your girls for a horse. Christine will ride the horse as far as the fort. Your man Nero can pick it up there. Christine and Tally can take the stage to Cheyenne. Now if you want to see your girl married …”

  “Married, hell!” Fifi snarled. She glared at Christine. “Are you determined to marry this soldier?”

  “Yes,” Christine said.

  Fifi groaned. “God damn it, I went to a lot of expense raising you. I got a right to make something on you now that you’ve growed up. But no, you have to marry a soldier who don’t even own a pot to …”

  “Breakfast before dawn,” Staley said. “A horse for your life, Fifi. Is it a deal?”

  Fifi looked at his eyes, and then at his knife hand. “It’s a deal,” she said, and lumbered across the room into the kitchen.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Three

  Pat O’Hara stood on the cinders beside the track in Cheyenne and watched the train as clouds of smoke rolled away into oblivion and the end of the rear coach became smaller and smaller in the distance. He was a happy man. Only a few hours ago he had stood before a preacher with Walt Staley and Tally Barrone on one side and Dave Allison and Christine Smith on the other, and had doubled as best man for both Staley and Allison.

  They’d had a wedding breakfast, and then O’Hara had given Staley his brown gelding and refused pay for him. Allison had given Staley the horse he’d taken at the hog ranch, and Staley had traded him for a pack mule. After Staley had bought supplies, he loaded up the mule and headed west with Tally, and an hour or so later Allison and Christine had caught an eastbound train.

  O’Hara had considered taking the same train but then decided it would be better if he didn’t. He’d lay over a day and write the story of his ride south from Crook’s base camp and the fight at the hog ranch. He’d give Crook hell for sitting on his hind end up there on Goose Creek without making the slightest effort to pursue the hostiles.

  Crook had practically drummed him out of camp. By God, George Crook would be sorry he’d done it. Before Patrick O’Hara got done with him, he’d be the sorriest general in the United States Army.

  Maybe, if O’Hara had any luck, he’d get back to Chicago in time to talk that old tyrant, Samuel Simpson Cunningham, into sending him out with Custer. O’Hara luck never stayed bad very long. Maybe he could catch Custer in time to see some real campaigning.

  He went into the depot, puffing on the new pipe he’d bought in Fort Laramie. He hadn’t seen a newspaper. He hadn’t even gone through his mail that the hotel had kept for him. Well, one thing was sure, he thought. No one could tell him anything about the Yellowstone Expedition. He had been there …

  He stopped, flat-footed, the pipe falling out of his mouth. His gaze fastened on the headlines of a newspaper that someone had left on a seat: Custer Wiped Out on the Little Big Horn.

  For a moment O’Hara couldn’t even move. The big, black print of the headline swam before his eyes. He closed his eyes and rested.

  Sometime later he bent down and picked up his pipe and slipped it into his pocket. Slowly he walked to a window, the newspaper in his hand. He began to read, and gradually he became aware that he was reading the truth. Custer had divided his command. Reno had almost been overwhelmed, but had forted up on a bluff above the river until Benteen joined him. The combined force had survived, but Custer, attacking the main village, had perished with every man in his command.

  O’Hara put the newspaper down. He rubbed his face with his hands, remembering his ride with Mills down the Rosebud. If Crook had not recalled Mills, the chances were that the column would have been wiped out just as Custer’s had been. If that had happened, Patrick O’Hara would be dead.

  O’Hara sucked in a long, sighing breath. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped sweat from his face.

  This was indeed the
summer of warpath between the Indians and the Army. In the high tide of its military power, the Sioux nation had defeated Crook, then turned on Custer and wiped him out a few days later.

  In the end the Army would win. As Walt Staley had often said, the Army could harass the Indians and destroy their villages and capture their ponies and starve every band into submission. The Army would return the Sioux to their reservations, but the Sioux would never be whipped on the battlefield. In spite of himself, O’Hara admired them.

  He folded the newspaper and went outside. He guessed he’d better not write what he’d planned to about George Crook. He wished he could change what he’d put on the wire at Fort Fetterman. After all, it was pretty hard to fault a man who had saved your life.

  A strange, electric prickle ran across his scalp. He took off his derby and touched his wiry red hair. Well, the O’Hara luck had held. He still had his hair, even though it rightly belonged in an Indian lodge.

  * * * * *

  Dave Allison put his head back against the red plush of the seat and turned it enough to look at Christine. “Scrootch down,” she said.

  He obeyed and she kissed him.

  “We’ll make out,” she said. “We’ll tell your father I was working in Cheyenne when you met me. I was … well, I was a waitress in a restaurant. That’s honest enough work. You’ll go back to reading law and I’ll keep house for your father. I’ll work, Dave. I’ll work hard.”

  She smiled radiantly, and then she began to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Dave Allison asked. “Why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m so happy,” she sobbed. “That’s why.”

  * * * * *

  Walt Staley and Tally rode west out of Cheyenne, on across the Laramie Plain, and deep into the Medicine Bows. They had ridden slowly, without plan, stopping when and where they pleased and enjoying every minute of it. They were free. They didn’t owe anything to anybody.