by Noel Loomis
Another rider came from cross-country, and Black Gallagher pulled alongside. “So far,” he said, “we haven’t found hide nor hair of Keller. We scoured the river-bottom all day yesterday, and I rode the bank this morning for five miles, lookin’ for tracks where he might have gone to water.”
“He may of gone acrost,” said Ernest.
“It would be the intelligent thing to do—and for that very reason I have no faith in it. I don’t think Keller is a man who will do intelligent things.”
“You think he’s still on this side?” asked Ernest.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I don’t like the idea of a man like that runnin’ loose,” said Gallagher, “but I don’t know what to do about it until we git our hands on him. Then I know.”
“I would think,” said Ferguson, “that it is best that the women should not be left alone too long, especially at night.”
“What about Mrs. Talbot?” asked Gallagher.
Ferguson looked at him. “Has anybody seen her lately?”
“She was in at Turner’s about noon yesterday,” said Ernest. “Bought a pint of sugar.”
“She’s probably all right,” said Ferguson.
They reached the top of a low hill and on the opposite hill two men worked with pickax and shovel in a hole about knee-deep. Ferguson frowned. “What’s that for?” he asked.
“Benson’s grave,” said Ernest. “He liked the ferry so much, we thought that’s where he ought to be planted—and you was not around.”
“It’s fine with me,” said Ferguson.
They rode up to the digging site. Nosey Porter wiped his forehead on his sleeve, and Job Sye sat down for a moment on the edge of the grave.
“Sure is hard ground,” said Porter. “When we git through hangin’ the feller that did it, I move we throw his body to the coyotes and save all this diggin’.”
Ferguson looked at the hole, and a great heaviness came over him. Then Obie Turner came up the slope driving a span of mules. “Mr. Ferguson,” he said, “we’re movin’ sheep. We already got three loads acrost this morning.”
Ferguson rode on down the slope. The two Mawson boys were holding some three hundred sheep on the grass flat south of the ferry. Noah, near the ferry, was building up the fire under the coffee. Midway in the river and moving slowly toward the Nebraska side was the ferry, loaded with bleating sheep. Noah walked up to meet him, and asked, “How’s the well, Mr. Ferguson?”
“I dug it out on the south side,” he said, dismounting, “and it began to run. It might be a pretty good well.”
“Fine. Like some coffee?”
“Sure.” He took the tin cup and sipped it slowly, thinking it utterly fantastic that nobody had asked him where he had been for almost twenty-four hours. He would not ask what was wrong—not yet.
CHAPTER XIX
The ferry came in. Noah jumped aboard to get the snubbing-rope, Obie was heard loudly whoaing the mules, and the sheep set up a renewed cacophony of protest.
Obie came down to help, and he and Noah, using the Judas goat, got the sheep off with little delay. Then Noah signaled Teddy Root to take the ferry back. Ferguson watched it go, sensing something strange about it but unable to figure out what it was. He turned to watch Ackerman trot up on his little buckskin.
“Ferguson, glad you’re back. Suppose you’ve heard about Keller.”
“Some.”
“We sure scoured the country.”
“I take it nobody has seen him.”
“If they did, they sure kept quiet about it.”
“He may have lit out west,” said Ferguson.
Ackerman got down. “Sure looks like it to me.”
Ferguson looked up toward the men working on the grave. “What do you know about the Otos?”
Ackerman shook his head. “Thirty-five or forty of ’em had a stomp-dance up near the Forks last night. It might mean a war party.”
“Was Walking Bird among them?”
“Never heard no mention of him,” said Ackerman.
“We’d better keep an eye on those Indians,” said Ferguson, “and I have a feeling Keller is still in the country. Let’s don’t get careless.”
“I don’t aim to,” said Ackerman. “A lot of members of the claim club was real put out because they was cheated out of a hangin’, and some of ’em blamed me for not settin’ a guard.”
“I wonder why you didn’t.”
Ackerman looked surprised. “I thought you knowed. Sence they wasn’t loadin’ no sheep on the other side, Bill Benson said he would stand guard ontil we got ready to hang him.”
“You mean try him?”
“All the same,” Ackerman said practically.
Ferguson reached down for a blade of rye grass. “That puts a different light on it,” he said.
“Not much. We figured he might have surprised somebody releasing Keller.”
“Maybe so.” Ferguson poked the grass blade between two teeth. “One thing bothers me: it would take a mighty strong man to pull up a dead weight from forty feet down.”
“Have you looked at the well?” asked Ackerman.
“Not yet.”
“Let’s go have a look.”
Ferguson caught up the sorrel, and they rode to the well, a hundred feet or so in front of Turner’s. They dismounted and went up slowly, examining tracks. “You can’t tell much here now,” said Ackerman.
“No. Too many men and horses have been over it.” Ackerman looked down the well. “No windlass here, but they did build a stone curbing. Mr. Ackerman,” he said abruptly, “What kind of rope was Keller let down with?”
“Three-quarter-inch hemp. Why?”
Ferguson pointed. “Hemp threads sticking to the edge of the curbing—and soap smeared along the edge. Did anybody find the rope?”
“Nobody said so. What does it mean?”
“Anybody with a good horse could have tied Keller onto the rope from the saddlehorn, and pulled him up to the edge, then cut his arms free, and the rest was easy.”
“But they had to cut Bill Benson’s throat first.”
Ferguson’s jaw was hard. “It looks that way,” he said.
Ackerman mounted. “I’ll mosey back up to the Forks and keep an eye on the redskins while you rassle sheep.”
“See you later,” said Ferguson.
He watched Ackerman ride off, and then looked toward Turner’s. He saw no one, and mounted the sorrel and rode slowly up the road a way, then looked back. Sally was drawing water, and he was tempted to offer help, but thought better of it, and rode slowly back to the ferry.
Noah was stretched out on the ground near the fire, and Obie was sharpening a jackknife on his cowhide shoe. Across the river the ferry was still tied up, but it was empty, and there was no activity at all on the other side.
“There hasn’t been no load sence you was here,” said Noah. “We been waitin’.”
“I’ll go across and have a look,” said Ferguson.
He rode the sorrel into the water, and presently reached a point from which he saw a dozen or so men working upriver from the ferry, using shovels at the river bank as if they might be going to cut out a road into the river for a ford. He shook his head over that; it was not feasible to ford the Missouri, even if it were possible—which he doubted.
He reached the sand bars on the far side and rode on them to the scene of activity, where they were indeed making a sloping runway. He rode out onto the bank, identifying three of the men who had been behind Sledge, and came face to face with Mawson on a big horse.
“What are you making?” asked Ferguson.
Mawson stared at him with a half-smile on his face. “Just what it looks like,” he said.
“You can’t ford wagons across this river.”
“Who says I can’t?”
“You would have to calk the wagons and float them across, but it will still take ropes and men and teams to keep them going west.”
Ferguson went down to the
dock, and the Reverend Sledge came out to meet him.
“He brought sheep up here.” Sledge pointed. “But he hired away all the emigrants who were helping me—one dollar a day and free passage.”
Ferguson said, “Let’s recruit more.”
“I did, and he hired them. The man is a veritable apostle of evil genius.”
Ferguson nodded. “Maybe I could hire them back.”
“I doubt it, Mr. Ferguson. On the whole, the people are angry with you for taking the sheep in the first place.”
“I had no choice,” said Ferguson.
“I know,” Sledge said sadly.
Ferguson said, “It will take only one attempted crossing to break Mawson’s spell—but that will be too late to help me.” He spoke to Teddy Root. “Keep an eye on things, Mr. Root.”
* * * *
There were almost a hundred booted, droopy-hatted men and sunbonneted women gathered for the funeral. Yeakel was there, rather conspicuous in a shiny black suit, and at his side was Wiggins, his arm still slung up; it did not appear, thought Ferguson, that Wiggins was much concerned about the fate of his family.
Reverend Sledge was present, fresh from a big dinner at Ernest’s, in overalls and checked shirt and big hat, but with his boots freshly blacked; and Ferguson was glad for those small marks of respect shown by those who had come—even Yeakel.
Sledge preached a long and sonorous sermon at the front door about the forces of evil and damnation, and finally they took the rough board coffin on their shoulders—Ferguson and Yeakel among the six—and marched in slow and mournful procession across the prairie while the women sang “Rock of Ages” and “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” The women had painted the coffin with stove blacking, and it came off when Ferguson’s hands got sweaty from the heat and the exertion, but presently they reached the grave where it overlooked the Missouri and the ferry itself. They set down the coffin, and Nosey Porter, who was acting as undertaker, did not open the box at all, but got Ernest to help him pass the reins under it while the Reverend Sledge, bareheaded and Moses-like in the sun, put on some of his best oratory. Then he bent down and got a handful of Nebraska dirt. He arose and began to intone:
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust—while he let the dust slowly dribble through his fingers.
The six men got hold of the reins, lifted the coffin, poised it over the grave until Porter whispered: “Let ’er go.” The women began to cry, and the Reverend Sledge began to pray. Porter and the grave-digger began to shovel in the clods.
Ernest plucked at Ferguson’s sleeve, and Ferguson followed him to one side. “What about lookin’ over his stuff now?”
“I want to,” said Ferguson, “but two Indians have just ridden up to the dock down there, and I think one of them is Walking Bird. Can we put it off for a little while?”
“I’m in no hurry,” said Ernest.
“Don’t go too far away until I find out what they want.” He went down to the fire, where Noah was making coffee for the Indians. Walking Bird said gravely, “Mr. Ferguson, we have come to help.”
“Only two of you?”
“This is Mac Fresh Water. We call him Mac because his father was named Mackenzie.”
Ferguson nodded.
“The Otos have split up into, two bands,” said Walking Bird. “Twenty-four have come with me, to follow the ways of peace, but thirty-four have gone with Rain in July, who is urging them to make war on the whites. He is telling them they can’t win, but he has persuaded some of them it is better to die fighting than to live in subjection to Washington.”
“Maybe it is better—for him.”
Walking Bird shook his head. “It may be better for some, but what about the rest of us, who want to live and try to get along with the whites?”
“Of course you will all be Indians when the shooting starts.”
“Maybe it won’t start,” said Walking Bird. “Meantime, I have recruited my men, and we are ready to help you with your sheep.”
“I don’t see but two of you.”
“The others are waiting in the brush along the river until I tell them to come out.” Walking Bird grinned sorrowfully. “You know what so many Indians would do to the whites.”
Ferguson nodded slowly. “I am going back up to the funeral,” he said, “and tell them that you are going to help me, and urge them to preserve order. Then I think you will be safe.”
He reached the grave just as the men were tamping the dirt with their shovels, and spoke to the Reverend Sledge, who said: “Brother Ferguson has an important announcement.” The women stopped crying, and Ferguson told them all: “Walking Bird, the Oto, has recruited a band of Indians to help with getting the sheep across the river. These are peaceful Indians, and will do no harm to anybody, but I understand there is a band near the Forks that may give some trouble. Walking Bird’s band, however, is peaceful, and I ask your help to preserve the peace. These are good Indians, and they know they are risking their lives to come here in a body, but I have assured them you will respect their offer to help. I would like assurance from you that you will leave them alone as long as they leave you alone.”
“I am sure, Brother Ferguson,” said Sledge, “that no good Christian man or woman would touch a hair of an honest Indian’s head.”
“How do the rest of you feel?” asked Ferguson.
Roy Ernest spoke up: “Mr. Ferguson, we know there are some good Indians and some bad Indians, but how are we going to tell them apart?”
“The Indians at the ferry,” said Ferguson, “will be Walking Bird’s band, and I will be responsible for them. I will personally guarantee that Walking Bird’s Indians will do no damage to anybody, and I will warn them to stay close to the ferry.”
Gallagher said, “I can get together a bunch of men to act as guard if you want me to.”
“Good idea,” said Ferguson. “You can keep an eye on both sides—and I don’t think there will be any trouble from these Indians.”
“Hey,” Hudson said, “Here comes Logan leading an Indian now.”
“No Horse!” said Roy Ernest.
They rode up from the river, horses and clothes, dripping, and Logan seemed astonished when he saw the funeral crowd. He started to change his course, but it was too late. Ferguson stepped out to confront him. “Where you going with that Indian?” he asked.
Logan said, “I’m going to hang him for the murder of Bill Benson.”
“Without a trial?”
“An Injun don’t need a trial.”
“How do you know he did it?”
“I found him with a knife.”
Ferguson looked at No Horse. The boy’s bronze face was impassive, but his eyes showed fright; they changed as he met Ferguson’s eyes, and implored him to help. No Horse’s hands were tied behind him and a rope around his waist was fastened to the saddlehorn before him. Ferguson asked, “Did you have a knife?”
No Horse nodded yes.
“Did you kill Mr. Benson?”
No Horse looked at the people around him, at Ferguson. “I would not hurt Mr. Benson,” he said finally. “He was my friend.”
“An Injun doesn’t have no friends,” said Logan.
Ferguson said, “Since you have brought No Horse for trial, we will take charge of him now, and see that he gets a trial—a fair trial.”
Logan looked at him quickly. “He’s my prisoner,” he said.
“The claim club is the only organized law in this region,” said Ferguson. “We’ll take over the prisoner.”
A pistol appeared in Logan’s hand. “I brung him here to hang—not to be tried,” he said.
“Why? Is it something personal between you and him?” Ferguson did not want to reveal Logan’s true reason until the trial.
“It don’t make no difference,” said Logan. “If he’s guilty, he’s goin’ to hang.”
Gallagher said from behind Logan, “I got a rifle on you, Logan. Put that six-shooter back into your pocket and ride away slow—and leave No Horse behi
nd you.”
Logan’s eyes shifted for an instant; then he looked at Ferguson and his lips were tight. Slowly he put the pistol into his waist-band.
Ferguson said, “Come around tomorrow night for the trial, if you have any evidence,” Ferguson untied the rope from around No Horse’s waist and released his hands. “Give me your word you will not try to run away before the trial,” he said, “and you can go help Walking Bird.”
“I will not run away if you will speak for me,” said No Horse.
“Suit you?” Ferguson asked Gallagher.
“Suits me fine.”
Ferguson went back to the river with No Horse, while Ackerman got half a dozen men to stand guard along the river bank north of the ferry landing. When Ferguson reached the spot where they kept the fire for the coffee, Walking Bird rose out of the brush. “My men are here,” he said.
Ferguson said, “Good. Will you be responsible for No Horse until tomorrow night?”
Walking Bird looked at No Horse. “You stay,” he said.
No Horse nodded. “I stay.”
Walking Bird said, “You ready to move the sheep?”
Ferguson nodded. He had the ferry pulled back to the Nebraska side, loaded all the Indians on it, along with Noah and Obie, and signaled Teddy Root to pull them across.
Mawson met him on the Iowa side. “What are you up to now?” he demanded.
“I’m going to move your sheep,” said Ferguson. “Get them down here.”
“You ain’t goin’ to turn my sheep over to no Indians,” said Mawson.
“I made a deal with you to move your sheep,” said Ferguson. “Get them down here or I will send men of my own to move them to the river.”
He knew the Indians could round them up in better shape, but he was afraid some of Mawson’s men would start trouble.
Mawson said grudgingly, “You pay for what you lose.”
“That was agreed at the beginning,” said Ferguson. “Get them down here.”
Mawson glowered, but by mid-afternoon some fifty-five hundred sheep were moving in from the hills. The Otos had stationed themselves to form a fan-shaped chute with a broad apex at the river, and Ferguson soon found that the Indians could handle sheep better than any white man, for in spite of the sheep’s being pretty well choused up by Mawson’s men, the Indians quieted them and began to form them into a big band, moving slowly toward the river. The Judas goat stepped out ahead, and presently the sheep began to enter the water and spread out far enough to have room to swim. The Indians went into the water with them, and presently, like a miracle, the river was filled with woolly bodies. Ferguson looked at the sheep in the meadow and then at the sun, and said, “We’ll have them across by dark, it looks like now.”
