Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  “Can you tell me where I can buy a horse?” Polly asked.

  Jordan glanced up from the fire he was tending, and watched the progress of the single rider slowly plodding along the riverbank. It appeared to be the woman who had come in with Lieutenant DiMarco, but he couldn’t be sure. He had not really gotten a close look at the woman riding in the ambulance with the colonel’s daughter. Where, he wondered, could she be going? There was a Shoshoni camp about two miles beyond his own. Beyond that, there was nothing. A few minutes passed before the woman spotted Jordan’s horse. She abruptly turned toward his campfire. Jordan rose to his feet to await her.

  “Ma’am,” he said in greeting when she pulled up before him.

  “Mr. Gray,” Polly returned.

  “Jordan,” he corrected.

  “Jordan,” she acknowledged. “I don’t know if you noticed. I was with Mary Castle in the wagon you rode in with yesterday.”

  “I noticed,” he said. “What brings you up this way?”

  “I was looking for you. The man in the sutler’s store told me I might find you up this way.”

  He stepped back to watch her dismount. Then, remembering his manners, stepped quickly forward to assist her. When she had both feet on the ground, he released her elbow, took the reins, and led her horse over to a willow a safe distance from Sweet Pea. The belligerent mare was already rolling her eyes in the strange horse’s direction. “What can I do for you, miss?”

  “Polly’s my name, Polly Hatcher,” she said, extending her hand. “I would like to hire you to guide me to the Black Hills. I can pay you fifty dollars.”

  Although there was no sign of emotion in his eyes, he couldn’t help but be surprised by the young lady’s wish. He studied her face for a moment more before responding. “Did Alton Broom tell you I hired out as a guide?”

  “Well, no,” she replied. “I asked about you, and he told me where to find you.” When he did not speak, but continued to study her face, she went on to explain. “When you met us back there on the prairie, they said you were a scout. I just thought you might be available to take me to the Black Hills.”

  “If you don’t mind me askin’, what’s a lady like you lookin’ for in the Black Hills?” He couldn’t help but be curious. He could only think of one kind of woman that followed the gold camps alone, and she didn’t fit the image. He was genuinely surprised when she explained that she was on her way to find her aunt Hattie, and that Alton Broom had told her that her aunt had started out for the Black Hills with another woman. “Hattie Moon?” he asked. “Your aunt’s Hattie Moon?”

  “Why, yes,” she replied, surprised by his response. “Do you know her?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said, unable to suppress a grin, the first sign of emotion he had displayed. “Hattie Moon and Maggie Hogg, they’re runnin’ a kitchen in Deadwood Gulch—probably makin’ more money than the fellows pannin’ for gold.” Hattie Moon and Maggie Hogg were two of the few friends he considered close, but he didn’t see fit to mention that.

  “Good, then you’ll lead me there?” Polly asked eagerly.

  “Ah, no, ma’am,” he immediately replied. “I don’t know what Alton told you, but I don’t generally hire out as a guide. I do some scoutin’ for the army, and I’m supposed to ride out with a patrol tomorrow.” Seeing the disappointment in her face, he added, “I’m sorry I can’t help you.” He also felt it his duty to advise her to reconsider her plans at this time. “Miss, there’s a lot of Sioux raidin’ parties between here and the Belle Fourche. It’s not a good idea to start out that way unless you’re with a column of soldiers.”

  There was another reason why he was hesitant to travel to Deadwood, one more significant than the danger of Sioux war parties, and one he wasn’t prone to mention. Deadwood was not a healthy place for him. A year ago he had had a run-in with a vigilante committee there, the result of which left the town shy of about a half dozen citizens. It wasn’t his fault. They had mistaken him for a murdering claim jumper. Without waiting to find out for sure, they came after him, hot for a lynching. He had no choice but to defend himself. It was not something he was proud of. He had been forced to kill several of the vigilantes who attacked him. It was either that or take part in their necktie party as guest of honor. The choice was simple. After the bloody incident, he had resolved to stay away from the untamed town. There were still some there who thought he had been the messenger of death who had stalked the isolated claims. Deadwood was a bad-luck town for Jordan.

  Thinking he might be holding out for more money, she attempted another offer. “I don’t have much money left after selling my things, but I can raise the fee ten dollars.”

  “It ain’t the money, miss,” he replied patiently. “I just can’t help you right now. I’m headin’ out on patrol with Lieutenant Castle in the mornin’. I’m sorry.” The final tone in his voice left her with little doubt that the matter was closed. She sighed and turned to retrieve her horse. “Miss Hatcher,” he called out after her, “take my advice and go on back east. There ain’t nothin’ but sagebrush and Sioux between here and the Belle Fourche—no place for a lady like yourself.”

  A lady like myself, she thought. I wonder what kind of lady he would think me if he knew I killed my husband. She favored him with a tired smile, then turned her horse back toward the fort. Disappointed, but far from discouraged, she vowed to go to Deadwood even if she had to do it with no guide.

  Chapter 3

  “Looks like you’re the only officer catchin’ patrol duty, Lieutenant.” Jordan pulled up to the head of the formation of soldiers standing by their mounts.

  DiMarco gave him a half smile. “This was supposed to be Lieutenant Castle’s detail, but I offered to take it for him, since his wife just got here.”

  Jordan looked around at the assembly of troopers. Half of them were foreigners who knew very little English. All of them were green with little training. He hoped for their sake that the patrol wasn’t being sent to quell any hostile activity. “Where are we headin’?” Jordan asked.

  “Back down toward Scott’s Bluff,” DiMarco replied. “Some rancher down that way near the old Red Cloud Agency lost some stock, and he thinks it mighta been Injuns.”

  “Huh,” Jordan grunted. “Whaddaya need me for? You don’t need a scout to lead you to Scott’s Bluff.”

  “No, I s’pose not. Like I said, this was Castle’s patrol, and he requested you, since he’s new out here.” DiMarco grinned. “You might as well ride along, and pick up a few days’ pay.” He knew that Jordan was not on a regular salary, but was paid only for the days he was actively employed as a scout. It was an arrangement Jordan had insisted upon in order to be free to come and go as he chose.

  “I reckon,” Jordan said. Still, it seemed like another typically useless army patrol. Scott’s Bluff was at least fifty miles from Fort Laramie. By the time they reached the rancher’s place, any Sioux raiding party would be long gone. What the hell? he thought. I can use the money.

  The column started east along the Platte, following the old immigrant trail. There wasn’t much conversation between the lieutenant and his scout as the horses padded along through a region still scarred with the many tracks of settlers’ wagons, their perilous journeys long past. The end of the day’s march marked an uneventful trek that found them encamped at Horse Creek, where over a decade earlier the government had met to forge a treaty with the many tribes that occupied the plains. After the horses were cared for, and the cook fires were started, Lieutenant DiMarco and Sergeant Demry settled themselves on the creek bank beside Jordan. The conversation was casual, of little interest to Jordan, until Demry mentioned Polly Hatcher.

  “Alton Broom said that lady that come with us from Cheyenne is headin’ up to the Black Hills,” he commented.

  “Is that a fact?” DiMarco replied, his interest provoked. “She’s gonna end up in some Sioux buck’s lodge—if she ain’t scalped. How’s she planning to get there?”

  “Hell, she’s alrea
dy gone, accordin’ to Alton,” Demry said. “Hired that half-breed, Jim Eagle, to take her.”

  “My God,” DiMarco uttered in disbelief. “Couldn’t somebody have told her better than that? I wouldn’t trust that damn loafer Injun to find anything but a bottle of whiskey.”

  “I guess she’s mighty damned desperate to find her aunt,” Demry said. “She’s takin’ a helluva risk, though.”

  Jordan listened to the conversation without comment, but the news of Polly Hatcher’s indiscretion troubled him greatly. It was a foolish decision she had made—if Demry had the story straight. In fact, he considered the woman in grave danger. And try as he might to shrug it off as none of his responsibility, he could not escape the feeling of guilt that descended upon him. She had come to him for help, and he refused her. Hattie Moon and Maggie Hogg were friends of his, and she was Hattie’s niece. Dammit! She ain’t my responsibility. She should have had better sense, he thought, determined to put it out of his mind.

  The next morning he found that it was not so easily done. The image of Polly’s face returned to haunt him, and he knew he was going to have to do something about it or he would never have peace of mind again. Damn! He cursed himself for being softhearted. Then he cursed himself for being foolish because the odds of cutting Jim Eagle’s trail from Fort Laramie were stacked pretty tall against him. If Jim Eagle meant the lady harm, as Jordan suspected, there was really no reason to believe he would even head toward the Black Hills. But Jordan had little choice but to assume that was the direction taken.

  “Mornin’,” Lieutenant DiMarco greeted Jordan as the scout led his horse up to the officer seated on a cottonwood log, nursing a cup of coffee. “You look like you’re all rarin’ to go.”

  “I’m leavin’ the patrol,” Jordan stated matter-of-factly. His statement caught DiMarco by surprise, and before the lieutenant could respond, he continued, “You sure as hell don’t need me on this patrol, and I’ve got somethin’ I’ve gotta do.”

  Amazed by the scout’s announcement, DiMarco found his voice. “What will I tell the paymaster? Don’t you wanna get paid?”

  Jordan shrugged. “Tell him I quit.” Wasting no more time to offer an explanation, he climbed aboard Sweet Pea and promptly loped away, leaving DiMarco shaking his head in exasperation.

  “Hard man to figure out,” DiMarco commented as he stared after the broad buckskin-clad shoulders moving in rhythm with the surprisingly smooth gait of the ungainly gray mare.

  “I reckon,” Demry agreed.

  Jordan arrived back at Fort Laramie just at dusk. The notes of the bugler’s trumpet sounding retreat carried across the parade ground as he headed straight for the post trader’s store. Alton Broom would be the first person to consult for information regarding Polly Hatcher’s departure. It was Jordan’s hope that Alton could shed some light on the trail taken by Jim Eagle and how great a head start he and the woman had on him. As usual, Alton was primed with information.

  “I told that lady she’d be better off waitin’ for a better time to go traipsin’ off across the prairie, especially with the likes of Jim Eagle,” Alton said in his own defense. “She said that he was the only one willin’ to do it for the little amount of money she had to offer. She was bound and determined to go, said she didn’t have the time to hunt for somebody better. I warned her she’d best keep an eye on that buck. She said she would, and had me draw her a map to show her the general direction Jim Eagle oughta be takin’ her. I told her she oughta be headin’ due north, crossin’ the Niobrara and the lower fork of the Cheyenne. She should see the hills by then. If she didn’t, they was goin’ in the wrong direction.”

  “When did they leave?” Jordan asked.

  “Just a little before Lieutenant DiMarco’s detail rode out yesterday mornin’.”

  Two days to make up, Jordan thought. Now he would have to lose another night because he would need daylight to try to pick up a trail. From what Alton said about making Polly a map, there was a good possibility that they set out on the correct path. Jim Eagle wouldn’t want to arouse her suspicions before getting out of sight of the fort. “Where’d she buy that horse she was ridin’?” Jordan asked.

  “Ike Lester,” Alton answered.

  “Much obliged,” Jordan replied, and took his leave, determined to make a call on Ike first thing in the morning. He led his horse across the parade ground, heading for the cavalry barracks, and was just passing the post surgeon’s house when he heard his name called. Stopping abruptly, he turned to encounter the doctor’s daughter.

  “Jordan, I thought that was you,” she greeted him as she stepped off of the porch to meet him.

  “Kathleen,” he replied. “Or should I say Mrs. Wallace?”

  If there was a hint of bitterness in his tone, she did not perceive it, but came smiling to greet him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I hope you haven’t been avoiding me.” She puckered her lips as if to scold. “Thomas said that you’ve been riding on some patrols, but not in any he has led.”

  The mention of her husband served to rankle the nerves in the back of his neck. Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson Wallace—Kathleen had chosen to marry the arrogant officer, a decision that Jordan could never understand. Why should I care who she marries? He had often asked himself that question over the past year, knowing the answer full well, but reluctant to admit it, even to himself. There had been feelings between them, disturbing feelings that had caused him to question his solitary way of life—a life that suited him before she had taken his hand in hers and kissed him lightly on the cheek. But that was long ago, he thought. Why did it still bother him? Maybe if she had chosen any other man except Wallace, he would have been better able to accept it. Now she was standing before him, offering her hand, greeting him as an old friend.

  “I’ve been in the mountains a lot of the time,” he offered as an excuse. “Haven’t been on many patrols lately.”

  “I should have guessed,” she said cheerfully. In her mind, she pictured him, as she often had, in his beloved mountains, as wild as any Sioux warrior. Knowing it could be painful to dwell on thoughts of Jordan Gray, she quickly chased them from her mind. “Come,” she said, “I’ll walk with you as far as the hospital.”

  As they walked, Kathleen attempted to fill the silence often left by Jordan. There was not much to talk about except the campaign against the Sioux and the massing of troops that had passed through Fort Laramie. She wanted to ask him how he had been, and if he spent as much time trying not to think about her as she spent trying to rid her mind of thoughts of him. Walking beside him now brought back memories of the days she had spent watching over him when he had been wounded, when her father was the post surgeon at Fort Gibson. Though it seemed like a century ago, it had not been that long. She would have gone with him then if he had asked, and lived in his mountains, in a tent or a cave. But he had not asked. Sometimes she thanked God that he had not, for it would have been a foolish endeavor to try to tame a wild hawk. She had made the sensible choice. Still, there were moments when she looked at her husband, preening before his mirror as he made sure his uniform was perfect, and wondered if Jordan Gray might have been a gamble worth the risk. “I’ll never know,” she murmured.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  Realizing that she had uttered the statement aloud, she quickly replied, “Oh, I was just mumbling. I was thinking I’ll never know what happens to all the time. I’ve got so many things to do before Thomas gets back. He’s out on patrol, won’t be back until tomorrow.” There, she thought, I put it out there in spite of myself.

  If the significance of her statement even registered with him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he continued walking in silence, trying to ignore the closeness of her, and the faint smell of cinnamon that told him she had been baking. When they reached the hospital, Jordan finally spoke. “I reckon I’d better ride on upriver and make camp. It’ll be dark pretty soon.” He turned to say good-bye.

  “Jordan,” she said as he prep
ared to step up in the saddle and ride out of her life again, “I hope I’ll see you more often.” She fumbled for words, unable to say what she really wished. “Don’t stay away so long,” she finally said, taking his hand. “I think you’d really like Thomas if the two of you got to know each other.” She realized that she must sound desperate, hanging onto him like a child, but she also realized that she wanted somehow to keep him near her—a feeling she would find difficult to explain to her husband—or herself.

  He gazed at her for a long moment, thinking hard on what he was about to say. He was a man of few words and simple truths, but he cared too much for her to hurt her feelings. It would be a cold day in hell before he would come to like Thomas Jefferson Wallace, and it would be a chilly day there when he came to even tolerate the pompous lieutenant. After a few more moments, he dropped her hand and said, “I’m sure your husband has plenty of friends. I doubt he’s lookin’ for one from the scout company.” With a foot in the stirrup, he uttered a quick good-bye, climbed up, and without another look in her direction, rode off toward the river. In spite of his efforts to avoid them, the chance meeting had stirred up thoughts painful to remember. The worst part of it was the deep suspicion in his mind that she would have accepted his proposal of marriage if he had only asked. It wouldn’t have worked, he had to admit to himself.

  Ike Lester was walking from the barn when Jordan rode in. He kept a wary eye on the stranger, and picked up his pace as he made straight for his sod hut and the rifle leaning against the wall. With rifle now in hand, he turned to meet his visitor.

  “Mornin’,” Jordan offered.

  “Mornin’,” Ike responded.

  “You sold a lady a horse a couple of days ago,” Jordan said. Ike interrupted before he could ask the question.

  “That was a dang good horse for what she give fer it,” Ike blurted, immediately defensive. “She didn’t have a whole lot of money, and she wanted somethin’ gentle, and that’s what I sold her.”