by Clay Fisher
“Malachi,” he said, “if this ain’t the Big Lonesomes, it will do till we find same. Meanwhile, I got a deal to make with you. You don’t leave me, I won’t leave you—other than between bounces on that lame-camel lope of yours. You game? Or you want to go your own way, like that mealymouthed breed yonder?”
Malachi seemed to consider the offer, and for a bad moment, Ben thought he was about to decline it. But then he snorted to clear his nostrils, stuck his whiskered muzzle into the freshening morning breeze, took a deep sample of its upriver odors. Whatever he smelled, it was something he didn’t care for so soon after breakfast. He took Ben’s deal and also, in the bargain, the bit in his few remaining back teeth. Ben gave him no argument. When he turned inland from the river, his rider merely nodded and let the reins go slack.
“If that’s your idea of north,” he said, “you take it. Don’t let nobody talk you out of it neither. Least of all me. I just come along for the education. And maybe also the mountain air. Hookahey any old way you want.”
Malachi flagged an ear but did not look back.
It was a little late in the morning for idle conversation.
All that day Ben bore north, quartering away from Wind River, following the game trails upward through broken, cut-up country. About noon he had struck a creek which he knew was not Horse Creek and had spent the afternoon following it to its headwaters, knowing that in this way he would find the top of the drainage and be able to pass over into the next valley east of the Wind and so be out of the immediate range of Crowheart and the Horse Creek band.
It was wicked going all the way. What wasn’t rock was mud; what wasn’t mud was rock. It was a country built on edge and tilted over backward. You went sideways or back two steps for every step you went up or forward. Had it been bare and open, it would have been bad enough, but it was tangled and matted and windfallen with a bristle of bull pine and alder scrub that would have discouraged drilling with a jackhammer. How Malachi got through it, Ben never had the nerve to inquire. He simply hung on for all he was worth, and when sundown came at last, the old mule had him over the divide and dropping down the eastern side. Here, in a small, dark glade of open grass, Ben called the halt. Within twenty minutes, weary as he was, he had the water boiled and the coffee beans rock-pounded and poured into the simmering tin. He had just tethered Malachi in a stand of last summer’s hay near the spring which watered the pothole meadow when, back by the fire and through the thickening dusk, he spied a moving, ghostly white form that could not belong to two ancient Milk River plugs.
“Go-deen!” he gasped and stood there, never so glad to see anyone in his brief, remembered life.
“Come, come, Tall Brother,” chided the breed. “Don’t just gawk there looking. Ask me down. Offer me food. Ask me the news of the trail. You might be surprised.”
“My God,” said Ben, “I am surprised. And delighted. Get down, get down!”
Go-deen got off the gelding, moved to the fire, stood grinning at Ben.
“I couldn’t do it,” he said, widening his chronic leer. “Not to a brother of the blood.”
“Do what?” said Ben happily, not much caring what it was and refraining from hugging the fat breed only for fear the latter might knife him for the effort.
“Leave you alone in the woods with that damned Iron Eyes. I never did like him anyway. And besides he beat Magpie on my account. I owed him something.”
“Say,” said Ben, reminded of their Shoshoni shadow and growing edgy at once, “I guess we had best douse the fire. I’d forgot about him. Coffee’s boilt anyhow.”
Go-deen spread his hand magnanimously.
“No, leave the fire. It looks nice at night. Besides, Iron Eyes won’t see it.”
Ben glanced back up the darkening mountainside.
“You wouldn’t want to guarantee that, would you, blood brother?”
“You don’t like my word? It isn’t good enough for you?”
“Somehow, no,” admitted Ben. “In some vague way, I get the notion it ain’t. No hard feelings, you understand?” His wide, quick smile melted Go-deen’s resentment before the breed could bring it to bear. “You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do,” said Go-deen. “But you don’t.”
“How’s that?”
“When I give my word to a friend, I am no longer a half-breed.” He was suddenly, somehow—short, fat, grotesque, and villainous-looking withal—touched with the strangely poignant dignity of his red forebears. Ben nodded awkwardly and lost his grin.
“I’m listening,” he said. “Go ahead.”
Go-deen went over to his old horse and got something out of his saddlebag. He came back to the fire and tossed the object to Ben. Unthinkingly, Ben caught it.
“There,” said Go-deen. “Next time I tell you that I couldn’t leave you alone in the woods with Iron Eyes, you believe it.”
Ben felt his stomach flop over and pull in. He looked down at what he had caught in his hands and was still holding in the light of the little mountain fire.
It was a Shoshoni scalp.
7
Land of the Throat Slitters
On the sixth day north of Wind River, April twenty-first, moving east of the Yellowstone uplands and passing successively through the Pitchfork, Greybull, and Elk Basin drainages, they crossed into Montana. They were now safely out of Shoshoni country, not yet into danger range of the Sioux. This was Crow country. While they were in it, a tall white man and fat half-breed companion could light fires and sleep easy.
Crossing the Clark Fork of the Yellowstone, they bore northward, going over the main channel at the old Indian ford near Laurel. Angling to the west, Go-deen led the way through the Cayuse Hills to the Coffin Butte crossing of the Musselshell. Here, they camped and recouped for three days, for beyond the Musselshell lay the Land of the Throat Slitters.
In the “rest” camp, Go-deen regaled Ben with true tales—he said—of the Sioux. They were for the main part well-calculated to keep Tall Brother mentally stimulated. Typical was the breed’s meandering explanation of the manner in which his mother came by their High Plains name. The way Go-deen told it, it took most of the second morning. But reduced to its least terms, it took about twenty seconds; as the Cheyenne were called Cut Arms by the other Indians, so the Sioux were named Throat Slitters. This was very uncomplicated really. Just Indian arithmetic again. The Cheyenne marked their enemy dead by hacking off the left hand at mid-forearm. The Sioux did it by slashing the gullet ear to ear. Ergo, Cut Arms. Ergo, Throat Slitters. Simple? But of course. There was absolutely nothing to figuring out Indian mathematics once you understood that in their system, two plus two did not equal four but five. Or seven. Or three. Or whatever you wanted or needed it to equal in order to have things come out even for you. It was clearly a superior system to that of the whites.
Lulled by such logic, Ben regathered strength, but courage, no. With nightfall of the third day, May first, he was thinking of deserting as soon as the moon came up or Go-deen ran down, whichever natural phenomenon occurred first. But once more mere man triumphed over Mother Nature. Go-deen outtalked the moon. He was in fact just getting warmed to his subject, a rattling good account of an experience of his in which he had Indian-wrestled the great Crazy Horse and thrown him six falls out of eight, when Ben’s head fell forward for the final time. He got a fair night’s sleep considering that it was gained sitting on a pea-gravel bar propped up by a hard Montana rock, and the next morning he and the half-breed went on over the Musselshell.
Go-deen was at home now, and his moves were as certain as those of a migrant bird. He came on the second night to a wide place between the Little Belt and Little Snowy Mountains.
“Judith Gap,” he said happily to Ben. “Tomorrow you will see something.”
The following morning they went through the gap, coming out into the most magnificent high country game basin th
e white imagination could conceive. Ben simply stared; he could not speak.
“Judith Basin,” announced Go-deen with marked pride. “The last of the great Indian hunting grounds. The Sioux own it, they say. Occasionally, a foolish band of Crows or Nez Percés will question the title. But they do it only to build reputation at home. It’s a very brave thing. To come hunt in Judith Basin is better than striking coup barehanded in hot battle.”
Ben nodded, shading his eyes against the morning sun.
“And which one of the lionhearted lease breakers would you say that was coming yonder, Crow or Nez Percé?” he asked grimly.
Following his point, Go-deen’s eyes narrowed.
“Nez Percé,” he replied. “You tell by the feathers.”
Ben squinted again.
“What feathers?” he said.
“The ones he hasn’t got,” answered Go-deen. “A Crow would wear feathers, usually two in the back forked like two fingers.” He held up his fingers in a V. “That dead one yonder wears a hat. Who ever heard of a Crow wearing a hat?”
“For that matter,” said Ben, “who ever heard of a Nez Percé wearing a hat?”
“Oh, lots of times. I told you they had taken the white man’s road. Even Looking Glass, their famous fighting chief, wears a hat instead of feathers. It’s a black soldier hat with three balls of otter fur pinned on the front of it, exactly like the one that poor fellow over there is wearing.”
“Come on!” complained Ben. “You may have good eyes, but you can’t see otter-fur balls on that hat from here!”
For reply, Go-deen reached under his leg. There in a rifle scabbard, he carried one of his numerous strange treasures; this one a yard-long brassbound telescope. He handed the unsheathed glass to his companion.
“Take a look,” he said. “See for yourself.”
Ben focused the telescope, swore softly under his breath.
“Damn, that’s somewhat!”
“Sure, didn’t I tell you? I would have thought the scalp I brought you back there would have decided the issue, but it’s apparent you have a hard head.”
Ben grinned tartly.
“Well, I won’t bet into your openers again. There’s three fur balls of some kind pinned on a black cavalry hat yonder. You want to say they’re otter fur, it suits me.”
“Thank you. What else do you want to know?”
Ben watched the fleeing Nez Percé a moment longer before answering. He moved the glass backward, studying his pursuers as well. Then he nodded.
“Those would be Sioux chasing him, I suppose.”
“Yes, Buffalo Ribs and six Hunkpapas.”
Ben lowered the telescope.
“Now listen, you’re not handing me any of that. You might recognize feathers or hats or otter-fur balls at that distance, but you’re not calling personal face features.”
“There’s no need. I know the horse the leading Sioux is riding. That’s Buffalo Ribs’ horse. His bay paint warhorse. Nobody rides a Hunkpapa’s warhorse but the owner. You can bet on that all summer long. Also you can bet on the rest of what I said—that’s a dead Nez Percé over there.”
Ben looked at him, shaking his head. His stubborn jaw took a hard set. The good-humored lines disappeared from his eye corners.
“I’ll take a little of that last,” he said quietly.
Go-deen stared back at him.
“You’re doubting my word again? What’s the matter with you? I thought you were only obstinate. Are you really stupid then after all?”
“Maybe. What odds you giving today?”
The Milk River breed studied the cross-meadow race briefly, then shrugged.
“The same as the Sioux are giving that Nez Percé; seven to one. That all right?”
“It’s all right. You stay here. But make those odds seven-to-two.”
“What!” said Go-deen. “You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I?” said Ben, soft as new snow and easing the big .44 in its worn leather. “You watch me.”
8
Lame John
Ben followed along the rear of the ridge from which he and Go-deen had sighted the outnumbered Nez Percé riding for his life. It was a low, rocky crescent half-circling the meadow across which the race for death was being run. If a man could encourage Malachi to his best, he ought to be able to come to the end of the crescent ahead of the hunted and the hunters. For his part, the Nez Percé was making for the rocks, hoping to get into them and die profitably by taking one or two or three of the enemy with him. The latter, in turn, were urging their shaggy ponies to the limit, just as determined to prevent this achievement as was their quarry to effect it.
The first factor guaranteeing the latter a chance to succeed was the quality of his mount, a rangy, big-boned, bad-headed Appaloosa which appeared to cover the same ground in one leap as did the Hunkpapas’ scrubs in three. The second factor was Ben Allison and Malachi Johnston. Ben cajoled and low-talked the old mule the best way he knew, and for a wonder the willful brute took the spirit of the thing gallantly. He responded with a calamitous gallop which, while it very nearly unhinged Ben’s jaw and fused his vertebrae, did get over a surprising distance in a short time. Happily, there was no need for caution. The ridge hid both mount and rider from the Sioux. An early spring shower had laid the dust but the night previous. The wind was to Ben strongly, carrying any sound of his endearments or Malachi’s reactions thereto safely away from the Hunkpapas. He and Chilkoot’s mule made the tip rocks of the crescent with seconds to spare. Ben sprang off his mount and ran, bent double, to take cover. As he paused behind the last rock out, the Nez Percé swept by on the panting Appaloosa.
“Get down, get down!” Ben yelled at him but could not wait to see if the command was obeyed. With the shout, he leaped into the open meadow facing the onrushing Hunkpapa horsemen.
The latter were almost upon him, but he had timed it beautifully. Further, he had accurately foreseen the reception which would be given the appearance of a six-foot four-inch white man under their very noses by the wild Sioux ponies. The wiry mounts came loose at all seams in the same instant. They split away from Ben, bucking and squalling in their fear of him and his alien odor. Two of them actually brushed him in whirling aside, the contact upsetting his aim and saving their riders, one of whom was Buffalo Ribs. Others of the Sioux—three others of them—were not so fortunate.
The walnut-handled .44 boomed point-blank into the dividing mass of the ponies. Ben was not picking individual targets but firing into the group. The instinct was that of the practiced gunman and the group no farther than fifteen yards to its outermost member. Even in the dust and violent motion of the ambuscade, Ben knew that two of the Indians were done for from the way their slack bodies struck and bounded among the jagged rocks before him. As if to confirm his opinion, a deep voice spoke calmly at his elbow:
“Good shooting; kaiziyeuyeu, itu timnein.”
The four surviving Sioux were now pulling away into mid-meadow. The third of those Ben had shot lay very quiet in the grass ten feet out from the rocks. Ben could and did take his eyes off the enemy. He turned to the Nez Percé, warm grin breaking quickly.
“I don’t know what you added there in Indian,” he told his companion, “but I reckon I’ll second the motion regardless.”
The other’s return smile was as grave as Ben’s had been cheerful.
“What I said was, ‘Thank you, that was a thoughtful thing to do.’”
“You’re a Nez Percé, aren’t you?” said Ben.
“Yes, a Wallowa of Old Joseph’s band.”
“Well, my friend, doesn’t that make you kind of a far piece from home?”
Again the Indian smiled and spread his hands eloquently.
“You have just called me friend,” he said. “Can any man be far from home when he is with his friend?”
I
t was a graceful thing to say, and without thinking Ben touched his forehead in respect. The Nez Percé’s face lit up. He returned the gesture.
“I see you speak the language of my people,” he said. “That’s a good sign. As I also speak your tongue, I hope we will truly be friends. What do you say?”
“Well, we’ve made a fair start,” admitted Ben. “And speaking of tongues, you handle that Yankee English pretty good. Better even than the half-breed I’m riding with, and he’s the best I ever heard up to now. What’s your secret?”
“No secret. I was a Christian Indian. What my people call a Treaty Indian. The agent at Lapwai taught me from the age of ten. I am now twenty and one. Before the agent there were the Catholic black robes; they also taught me well. Good men. I learned much from them.”
“You did for a fact,” said Ben admiringly. “I never heard an Indian could talk like you.”
“And I,” cut in a disgusted voice behind them, “never heard a white man could talk like you. Now get out of the way; there’s work to finish beyond you.”
Ben and the Nez Percé turned at the first sound of Go-deen’s words. They were in time to see the breed raise his rifle, a Sharps of .50 caliber and 473-grain ball, seemingly aiming it directly at them. Both dove for the ground as the big gun roared above them.
In the meadow, ten feet out, the wounded Sioux died soundlessly. The great chunk of lead struck him in mid-chest, as he lay reared on the elbow to which he had come in seeking to shoot Ben and the Nez Percé in their backs. Ben got up from the rocks slowly. The dying brave tried to say something to him. He could not make the words come. Instead, he touched his forehead in the respect sign, hunched his body like a snake with a broken back, slipped forward into the dirt of the trail, and was motionless. Ben stepped forward and retrieved the rifle—a brand-new Winchester carbine—from his loosened grasp. Straightening, he found Go-deen’s eyes. The breed lifted his thick shoulders, nonchalantly blew the white smoke through the Sharps’ barrel.
