by Noel Loomis
Sledge, who had been watching, said, “Those Otos sure talk sheep language.”
Ferguson watched Walking Bird on the north side and Mac Fresh Water on the south, each with his own crew of Indians, push the sheep into the river, get them across and out on dry land, and headed for the holding-area, where Mawson, obviously against his will, now had his boys and most of his herders to receive the sheep and keep them moving west to make room for others. Ferguson stationed Noah and Obie on the Nebraska side to see that the sheep were moved away from the shore as fast as they reached it, so as not to have a jam in deeper water where the sheep would drown. Mac Fresh Water, on the downstream side, had one Indian watching for strays, and by six o’clock Ferguson could see the end. There were, he estimated, no more than twenty-five hundred sheep left on the Iowa side, and the tables were completely turned on Mawson, who now was fully occupied taking care of the sheep that were delivered to him. Ferguson began to feel exultation as he rode in shallow water alongside Walking Bird. Below him, the river bed was filled with a mass of woolly backs, in a slow moving stream perhaps fifty to a hundred feet wide.
Ferguson looked at Walking Bird, dripping wet from just having swum across the deep water, and said, “You’re doing a fine job. I’ll pay all your men a bonus when we get through.”
Walking Bird smiled, and at that moment Mac Fresh Water waded through the muddy stream and said to Walking Bird: “Nih mock-scheh.”
Walking Bird frowned and studied the shoreline, “He says the water is rising,” he told Ferguson.
Ferguson felt a sudden emptiness. There were at least two thousand head of sheep in the river, and a fast rise could wipe him out. He looked to the northwest, but saw no clouds.
Mac Fresh Water pointed to the first muddy bubble floating by, “Han-ua nowai,” he said.
“It comes from a rain two days ago in the mountains,” Walking Bird explained.
Ferguson looked upstream, observed the roily surface, the little rafts of twigs and leaves. He turned away, feeling defeated and suddenly without hope, and rode back to the Iowa shore as fast as he could without creating a disturbance among the sheep.
“Stop them,” he told Teddy Root. “The river is coming up. You will have to hold all that are left until the river settles down.”
“Do my best,” said Root.
Sledge came up. “Couldn’t we start moving wagons across on the ferry?”
Ferguson said, “I’m sorry reverend, we’ve got our hands full. Once we get these sheep across, we’ll take wagons—and you will be first. Until then—”
“Mr. Ferguson!”
The hail came from downstream, and Black Gallagher on his horse splashed through the water and up to Ferguson. “Just came from the Forks,” he said. “Rain in July’s braves are startin’ this way.”
Ferguson thought about it for a moment. “We’ll have to head them off,” he said, “and we can’t do it with force. When will they get here, do you suppose?”
“Way they was movin’, about two or three hours.”
“I’d better go meet them.”
“I’ll get together a dozen men with rifles to go with you.”
“No, I want just one man—unarmed. There must be no killing. We must settle these things with talk.”
“A man can’t talk very good against a tommyhawk,” said Gallagher.
“I’m going to try.”
“All right,” Gallagher said slowly. “I’ll go with you.” They rode back across the river and up the slope, into Simon Hudson on a lathered horse. “Feller said to tell you,” he said between harsh breaths, “that the Otos under Rain in July went into camp about two mile this side of the Forks, and it looks like they’ll be there all night.”
Ferguson nodded, then looked at Gallagher. “Maybe we better wait till they start moving again.”
“They could change their minds and go back,” said Gallagher.
“Can you get somebody to go with you and keep an eye on them?” asked Ferguson.
Hudson nodded affirmatively.
“No shooting, no argument. Stay out of sight, and report to me when they break camp and start moving.”
“I’ll do ’er,” said Hudson.
Ferguson spoke to Gallagher. “We can go back and wait until they move.”
“Yeah,” said Gallagher. “They might move the other way.” Ferguson rode back to the river. Specks of foam and little branches of twigs and leaves were coming down on the brown water, and the level had risen an inch above its previous height. He looked at the twenty-five hundred sheep still on the Iowa side. He hardly dared to use the ferry while the river was up, for a sudden surge would break the guide rope and sweep the raft away from them. He watched Walking Bird’s Otos melt into the brush along the river, and Waking Bird stopped for a last word. “We will be back when the river goes down,” he said.
“How long will that be?” asked Ferguson.
“Who knows? Maybe a few hours, maybe several days.”
CHAPTER XX
Ferguson sent Ackerman and his guards home for some sleep while he and Gallagher slept on blankets at the dock. In the twilight, the freshly covered grave of Bill Benson made a dark mound against the western sky, and Ferguson was quiet with his own thoughts, but in a moment, tired beyond feeling, he was sound asleep…
He was awakened by the thunder of hooves, and then Simon Hudson was bending over him. “Mr. Ferguson, they’re comin’ this way!”
Ferguson sat up and began to pull on his boots. “Just started?” he asked.
“Not too long ago. They was camped about six mile northwest. They had a big pow-wow this morning, and they wasn’t movin’ very fast, but they started towards the ferry.” Ferguson shook Gallagher and got him awake. The river had risen almost two feet, and now was a broad, swirling, turgid mass of brown water. Ferguson reflected that this was the last day he had to get the sheep across, and then threw the saddle on the sorrel and mounted. He rode up the slope past Mr. Benson’s grave and paused for a moment, then kicked the sorrel into a trot.
But in the stillness of the early morning he heard more hoofbeats, and saw a rider coming from the direction of Turner’s road-ranch, and heard the faint call: “Mr. Ferguson! Mr. Ferguson!”
He did not like the panic in Noah’s voice, and he turned the sorrel that way.
Noah was coming at a hard lope. “Mr. Ferguson, Sally’s gone!”
“Gone?”
“She got up early,” said Noah, “to build a fire. I was roundin’ up the mules over the hill when I heard her scream, and then it sounded like a fight. I run back up the hill to help—but she was gone.”
“Where was your pa?”
“Him and Obie had went southwest to look for buffalo chips and wood.”
“Weren’t you on the lookout for Indians?”
“We knew they was camped. Anyways, Mr. Ferguson, it wasn’t Injuns. The dirt was all tore up around the well, and there was bootprints.”
Ferguson went cold. “What kind of bootprints?”
“Hard to tell. You better come and look.” Noah was about to cry. “You will find her, won’t you, Mr. Ferguson?” Ferguson started off toward Turner’s, trying to conceal the shock that Noah had given him. Sally gone—kidnapped.
“Mr. Ferguson,” said Gallagher, “you’re forgettin’ the Otos.”
Ferguson called back. “Sally’s gone! The Otos can wait.”
“They won’t wait—and they’ll kill a lot if they get started. Just let one Injun taste blood—”
Slowly Ferguson turned the sorrel, feeling a great weight in his stomach. He looked at Noah and said, “I will have to go to the Indians first. Get hold of Ernest and Job Sye and organize posses. Tell them not to go around the well, but to wait until I get there. Meantime, tell the posses to scour the country. I should be back within three or four hours, and we will make a careful search. Tell your father not to worry.” He put an arm across the boy’s shoulders, “And don’t you worry. Sally’s all right. We’ll get
her back in good shape. Now go on down to Ernest’s and tell him to get organized.”
“Yes, sir.” Noah turned away. Then he turned back, and his lower jaw was quivering. “You don’t think anything happened to Sally, do you, Mr. Ferguson?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ferguson. “Now run along.” Noah headed south; Ferguson and Gallagher went northwest.
They came in sight of the Otos within an hour. The Indians yelled and galloped toward him, but Ferguson and Gallagher held fast, their right hands upright. The Otos bore down on them, but Ferguson waited until they were close, and then called out: “Rain in July! I want to talk to you!” The Indians did not slow down, but began to circle, and still Ferguson and Gallagher held fast, and again Ferguson called out to Rain in July, and again there was no answer.
Gallagher, sitting quietly in his saddle with his hands crossed on the saddlehorn, said, “It don’t look so good, Mr. Ferguson. They’re workin’ up their nerve.”
“I’m surprised, they have not attacked before now,” said Ferguson. He raised his voice. “Rain in July, I want to talk to you.”
The circling Indians slowed down, and there was a confab beyond the circle. Then Rain in July rode through his men. “What do you want, Ferguson?” he asked.
“I want to know why you are on the warpath?”
“Because we are hungry.”
“Scalps won’t get you food. Scalps will get you bullets, and some of your wives will be left without husbands, and some of your children will get more hungry than they are now.”
Rain in July showed no emotion. “They are hungry now. What’s the difference—hungry or more hungry?”
“If you get killed,” said Ferguson, “your wives will have to sell themselves to renegade white men to get food. Do you want that?”
Rain in July said angrily: “We will kill all the goddamn’ white men in the world.”
“You cannot. There are too many. They will come on and on like the aspen leaves in the fall. There is no end. You kill ten, and a hundred take their places. But there are not many Otos. If ten of you get killed, there will be only twenty-four left.”
Obviously Rain in July was not too sure of himself, for he was willing to argue. “We are not many,” he said, “but we can die bravely.”
“Is it more important to die bravely,” asked Ferguson, “or to live for your families? The Indian agent will get your land straightened out some day, and you will be able to live respectably.”
“And have a white man come in the way that black-bearded one did, and take us out at the point of a knife?”
Ferguson heard the muttering on all sides. “Do you mean No Horse?” he asked.
“No Horse—he never hurt anybody. Too turkey-hearted to hurt anybody. But the ma-song-ka came with a pistol and took him from his lodge.”
Ferguson saw his chance. “If I produce No Horse for you, will you drop your scalping knives and go back home?”
“You cannot.”
“I can. No Horse is with Walking Bird right now.”
“It is a lie!” said Rain in July.
“No. It is true. No Horse helped Walking Bird move the sheep. He is free now.”
“I do not believe it.”
“Go down along the river and find Walking Bird; there you will find No Horse also. Ask him.”
The Otos began to talk among themselves, and finally drew off, while Ferguson and Gallagher patiently sat their horses, not wanting to move for fear of taking the Otos away from their council.
After a while, Rain in July came up to Ferguson. “We know you are white man who talks straight. If you say No Horse is with Walking Bird, we will believe you.”
“He is.”
Rain in July searched his face, then nodded slowly, “All right, we go back.”
“Let me ask you one question.”
Rain in July grunted, and Ferguson knew his life was in the balance; if the answer to the question was yes, they would kill him. But he asked it:
“Did any of your men take a white girl this morning—the girl at Turner’s road-ranch?”
Rain in July’s eyes opened wide, and Ferguson knew what the answer would be:
“We have not left our camp all night.”
“All right. Now go down to the river and join Walking Bird. He is keeping his men hidden until the water goes down. If you join him, and don’t cause trouble, I will protect you as much as I can.”
“All right,” said Rain in July. “But if you fool us, Ferguson, I will cut your heart out with my knife.”
“I am not fooling you.”
“Go back, then.”
Ferguson turned the sorrel and kicked it into a trot. Gallagher followed him. They rode for a quarter of a mile and went down into a draw, and Gallagher finally took off his droopy hat and slung water from his forehead. “It was close, Sandy John.”
“‘Close’ doesn’t take your scalp,” said Ferguson thankfully.
“Do you think they were telling the truth about Sally?”
“I hope so,” said Ferguson. “As well as I could, I counted them, and got thirty-four, so they probably were all there.” The horses had slowed down to a walk, and now jogged along, cropping at grass. “As soon as we get over the next hill,” said Ferguson, “let’s high-tail it for the river.”
“Suits me fine. I don’t like them Otos behind me so close.”
He found Walking Bird near the ferry, and asked: “Who’s your best tracker?”
“Mac Fresh Water can follow anything that leaves a track,” said Walking Bird. “You want him?”
“Yes.”
Walking Bird emitted a call that sounded like a coyote’s yapping, and presently Mac Fresh Water appeared.
“I want you to come with me to find a girl who was kidnapped this morning,” said Ferguson.
Walking Bird looked at him. “I thought those men were looking for Indians.”
“No—the girl, Sally Turner. A man abducted her. They heard her scream.”
“I go,” said Mac, “if you protect me.”
“There won’t be any trouble like that.” Ferguson asked Walking Bird. “Do you know anything at all about it?”
“Nothing.”
“You can ride behind me,” said Ferguson to Mac Fresh Water.
When they reached the road-ranch, Turner was making a circuit of the house, looking for tracks and carrying the shotgun, while Obie and Noah, wide-eyed and fearful, watched him from a distance. Turner looked up, distraught. “If I get my hands on him,” he said in a tight voice, “I will fill him full of buckshot.”
Ferguson motioned to Mac, and led Turner to the door and went inside with him. Mac went to the well and examined the ground; he talked to the two boys; and finally he began to cast wider and wider loops about the cabin.
Turner sat stiff, the shotgun on the table before him, his eyes staring straight ahead.
Presently Mac came to the door. “I know who took her,” he said.
A strange and chilling premonition ran over Ferguson. “How do you know?” he asked.
“Tracks. A boot with a spot burned in the sole. I have seen that track before, in Iowa.” He motioned with his bare, brown arm.
“A white man, then?”
“Yes. White.”
Although he did not foresee the exact answer, Ferguson dreaded it, but he finally asked again: “Who?”
“Man name Keller,” said Mac.
“Keller!” shouted Turner.
Mac was silent.
“He swore to get revenge,” said Ferguson slowly. “Which way did he go?”
“He went into the road. No tracks left.”
“Which way?” asked Ferguson.
“Toward ferry.”
“Do you think you can find out any more?”
“I can follow road and find out where he left it, maybe.”
“By all means, do so. Here’s a ten-dollar gold piece for you.”
Mac Fresh Water shrugged. “I no track for money. I track be
cause I like you and girl too.”
Ferguson put a hand on his shoulder. “Then see if you can find out where the man left the road, so we’ll know which way to look. Gallagher, you go with him so nothing will happen to him. I’ll be down at the ferry.”
He ran into Ackerman with four men behind him. Ackerman said, “We sure looked everywhere.”
“Have you seen any sign of Keller?”
“Nope. You think—”
“Mac Fresh Water examined the tracks and said it was Keller—called him by name.”
“Holy Jee-rusalem!” said Job Sye. “You know what that means?”
Walking Bird came up. “Water going down now,” he said. “Pretty soon we try again, if you say so.”
Ferguson nodded. “I say so.”
Roy Ernest came down with Nosey Porter, and Ferguson said, “I guess we might as well look in on Mr. Benson’s belongings while we’re waiting.”
Job Sye said, “There’s nothin’ more we can do. We switch-whipped every barn and outhouse in the country. There ain’t nothin’ we missed. I figure he has gone on west.”
“He wasn’t that patient,” said Ferguson. “He must be hidden out somewhere.”
“What we need,” said Ackerman, “is a bloodhound.”
“We’ve got one: Mac Fresh Water. He’s with Gallagher.”
“I know that Injun,” said Grimes, “if he can’t find her, nobody can.”
Ferguson said to Ernest, “Come on, we’ll go over Mr. Benson’s things.”
“Suits me.”
“Has anybody checked the Iowa side?” asked Ferguson.
“Ain’t had time,” said Ackerman. “Maybe you had better take a look down the shore.”
“Do you know any better idea?” asked Ferguson.
Ackerman said, “We’ll go have a look.”
