Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  As he watched, the party of Crows pulled up some seventy-five yards away, cautious now in their approach. Seeing them hesitate, Jordan stepped out in the open and waved his rifle over his head. “Come on in, Iron Pony,” he called out.

  “Is that you, Jordan?” Iron Pony’s reply came back, and he immediately prodded his pony forward.

  “You’re just in time for coffee,” Jordan said when the Indians pulled up and dismounted. He was always happy to see his friends, Iron Pony and Otter, but he couldn’t help but begrudge the time it would cost him to offer food and coffee to a party of Crow warriors. He nodded toward a grinning Otter, and offered a word of welcome in the Crow language to the rest of the party. Turning back to Iron Pony, he asked, “Why is it that you’re headin’ south? I thought you were scoutin’ for the army.”

  “We go home now,” Iron Pony explained. “Come back later.” He went on to tell Jordan about the outcome of General Crook’s expedition to find Crazy Horse’s camp. According to Iron Pony, there were too many Lakota and Cheyenne. The column went into camp on the Tongue, and waited there until the Crow and Shoshone scouts showed up. By the time Iron Pony and his warriors arrived, the soldiers had moved down to Goose Creek, which puzzled the Crows. They were moving away from the enemy. But after all the scouts arrived, they pushed north again up the Tongue, then crossed over to the Rosebud where they camped.

  “The Sioux knew where we were all the time,” Iron Pony said. “We saw Sioux scouts around us all the time. Still, Crook thought he was going to surprise them.” He shook his head as if unable to believe his own words. “They attacked us one morning while the soldiers were still sitting around drinking coffee. We kept them from raiding the pony herds and chased them along the Rosebud. There were too many Sioux.”

  Iron Pony continued, saying that Crook had allowed his soldiers to be drawn out and stretched thin when they tried to pursue the Indians. Sioux and Cheyenne riflemen sniped at the soldiers from the gullies in the bluffs. Crook was forced to pull back in order to prevent major losses of life. Feeling they had won the battle, the Sioux withdrew and returned to their camp.

  Jordan stroked his head thoughtfully. It sounded to him like the army had suffered a black eye in the initial round of fighting. “Where are the soldiers now?” he asked.

  “Goose Creek,” Iron Pony replied. “They say more soldiers coming, then they go after Sioux again. We’re going home now, but we’ll be back in two, maybe three weeks.” Finished with that subject, he inquired, “Where are you heading? To join the soldiers?”

  “We’re lookin’ for someone, a murderer. Maybe you’ve seen him? A white man with a long scar across his face.”

  Iron Pony shook his head at first, then remembered. “The new scout has a scar on his face.” He looked at Otter for help. “Parsons?” Otter nodded in agreement.

  “Parsons?” Jordan echoed. “Jonah Parsons?” Iron Pony and Otter exchanged glances then nodded. He realized in a flash that Pike had not only taken Jonah’s life, he had also stolen his name. “The army hired this man on as a scout?” When it was confirmed by both Indians, Jordan asked, “Is he still at Goose Creek?”

  “He was there when we left,” Otter said.

  “Let’s get goin’, then,” Toby interrupted impatiently, and started to get up.

  Jordan stopped him with a firm hand on the boy’s arm. “Just hold your horses. We’ll let our guests finish their coffee first.” He knew the importance of proper etiquette when dealing with Indians, and he didn’t want to seem impolite by a hasty departure before giving the Crow scouts a chance to express their thanks for his hospitality. Toby frowned, unable to understand Jordan’s lack of urgency, but he settled back down by the fire. Jordan turned his attention back to Iron Pony.

  “Colonel Stanton—is he still commanding the scouts?” Jordan asked.

  Iron Pony smiled and nodded. “Lead Bottom is still chief of all scouts,” he said, referring to Colonel Thaddeus Stanton by the name the Crows had given him. It was inspired by the colonel’s ability to remain in the saddle for long hours on end without dismounting to stretch his legs. Jordan knew Colonel Stanton well. He had scouted for him on occasion.

  The coffee finished, the Crow scouts said their farewells and departed. Jordan and Toby saddled up and were soon on their way to Goose Creek. In less than an hour’s time, they struck a large trail left by Crook’s column on his march from Fort Fetterman. Jordan turned and followed the trail for another hour before reaching the staging point at Fort Reno. There, they saw supply wagons and tents for a hundred or more soldiers left to guard them. Jordan pushed on, hoping to reach Goose Creek by nightfall.

  Midday found them at Crazy Woman Creek, after riding in the shadow of the Bighorn Mountains for half a day. At the rate they were traveling, Jordan realized that his plan to make Goose Creek by nightfall was not feasible. He elected to make camp near the ruins of Fort Phil Kearny, the site of the massacre of Captain William Fetterman’s troop some years before. There was nothing much left of the old fort, but judging by the abundance of sign, Crook’s column had apparently camped there on his march to the Rosebud. After the horses were unsaddled and left to graze, Jordan went about making a fire while Toby poked around some obscure articles left behind by the soldiers, hoping to find something of value. His search yielded a broken case of hardtack that had evidently fallen from a pack mule and rolled into some berry bushes. The contents were spoiled after a few days of frequent rain.

  Jordan glanced up at his traveling companion when Toby came up to the fire, carrying an armload of dry branches. “Not much luck, huh?” Jordan said.

  “Nope,” Toby replied, surprised to hear Jordan initiate conversation. “Nothin’ but some spoiled hardtack, and I don’t like that stuff when it ain’t spoiled.” He had learned over the past two days that his somber partner wasted little energy on talk. He often thought about some of the things he had heard about Jordan Gray—some good, some bad. As far as he could decide, after having ridden with him a short time, the mystery of Jordan Gray lay somewhere in-between. He did decide, however, that his initial caution about the man was unnecessary. It was apparent that, like himself, Jordan Gray was after one man only.

  “Maybe the next day or so we’ll find some game, and we’ll have somethin’ to cook besides bacon,” Jordan said. “The soldiers have run off all the game around here.”

  The next day before noon, they encountered pickets in the bluffs around Goose Creek. They were posted a good mile or so outside the camp proper. It was a big camp with the army supply wagons assembled in a huge circle between the two forks of Goose Creek. Jordan asked one of the pickets where he might find the scout company under Colonel Stanton’s command. The picket didn’t know exactly where Stanton was bivouacked, but directed Jordan and Toby to an area above the wagon corral where the main troops were encamped. “Much obliged,” Jordan said, and prodded Sweet Pea. Toby followed, looking around from side to side, his hand resting on the stock of his rifle.

  Riding along the left bank of the creek, they soon came to the main camp. As he looked around him, Jordan saw soldiers everywhere, but coming toward him, riding a chestnut stallion, was a familiar face. The name didn’t come to him at once, but he remembered when the officer pulled up and recognized him.

  “Well, Jordan Gray,” the lieutenant declared. “I was wondering if you were going to participate in this action.”

  “Lieutenant Castle,” Jordan acknowledged. “I thought you were assigned duty back at Fort Laramie, working for your father-in-law. What are you doin’ out here?”

  “I volunteered to join one of the reinforcement companies of cavalry after the first encounter with the Sioux on the Rosebud.”

  Jordan nodded, but refrained from passing on Iron Pony’s view of that battle as a victory for Crazy Horse and the Sioux. “This here’s Toby Blessings,” he said, nodding toward the boy. “We’re lookin’ for the scout company.”

  Castle briefly recognized Toby with a nod before turning
in the saddle to point toward the upper end of a long grassy tableland. “Colonel Stanton’s tent is at the end of that plain, just before the bluffs.”

  “Much obliged,” Jordan said, and nudged Sweet Pea.

  As Jordan and Toby rode off, Castle called after them, “I’d be glad to have you assigned to my company as a scout.”

  Jordan called back, “I ain’t sure I’m gonna be scoutin’ this time. Toby and me’s got somethin’ we’ve gotta do first.”

  They found Colonel Stanton in his tent, playing a game of whist with several other officers. The colonel excused himself for a few minutes while he came outside to talk to Jordan and Toby. “By God,” Stanton exclaimed. “Jordan Gray—I thought you might show up.” He extended his hand. “I can damn sure use you. Who’s this you brought with you?”

  Jordan smiled and shook the colonel’s hand. “This here is Toby Blessings. I’m afraid I didn’t come to join up with the column.” The colonel’s face immediately showed his disappointment as Jordan continued. “We ran into Iron Pony and a party of Crow Scouts yesterday,” he said. “Accordin’ to Iron Pony, you just hired Jonah Parsons on as a scout.”

  “That’s a fact,” Stanton replied. “I sent him off yesterday to see if he could locate the main Sioux camp.” He paused, curious as to the nature of Jordan’s inquiring. “Why? Do you have some business with Jonah Parsons?”

  “You might say that,” Jordan said. “Not so much with Jonah as I have with his killer.” Seeing his reply had confused the colonel, he explained, “We found Jonah Parsons’ body two days ago. The man you hired murdered him.”

  Stanton was flabbergasted. “My God!” he exclaimed, at the same time feeling somewhat foolish at having been duped. “I had no reason to doubt the man’s word.” As he said it, he remembered thinking at the time that the man claiming to be Jonah Parsons was a much younger man than he would have expected. “Who is this impostor?” he asked.

  “His name’s Bill Pike,” Toby volunteered, anxious to get on Pike’s trail. “We need to get after him.”

  Jordan shot his impatient partner a quick glance before continuing. “Maybe you can tell us where Pike is lookin’ for the Lakota camp,” he said to Stanton. “Did he go out by himself?”

  “No, I sent him out with two other scouts. They are to scout along the Tongue, and cross over to the Rosebud north of where the battle took place.”

  “Much obliged,” Jordan said, and turned to leave.

  A thought struck the colonel. “I expect if what you allege is true, this is a matter for the army to handle when Mr. Parsons . . . that is, Mr. Pike . . . returns from the scout.”

  “Yessir, I reckon so,” Jordan replied as he and Toby prepared to climb into their saddles. If he gets back, he thought.

  Chapter 12

  Pepper O’Brien had been hunting and trapping the country from the Platte all the way north to the Judith River for more than fifteen years. During that time, he had never bumped into Jonah Parsons, although he had heard plenty about him. He guessed that they had never crossed paths because Jonah had lived with Crazy Horse’s band of free-roving Sioux. And Pepper had made it his business to avoid the Sioux whenever possible—especially Crazy Horse’s bunch.

  He had to admit being somewhat surprised by how young Jonah was, now that he had finally met him. He and Royce Johnson had been detailed to accompany Parsons on a scout to find out where Crazy Horse may have moved his camp after the Rosebud fight. He had assumed that because he had lived with the Sioux for so many years, Jonah would have a fair notion as to where Crazy Horse liked to camp. As soon as they had left Goose Creek, however, Parsons had held back, allowing Pepper to lead the way up the Tongue. At first, Pepper guessed that Jonah was testing him and Royce to see how good they were. Now, after two days scouting the Rosebud above the valley where most of the fighting took place, Pepper began to question Jonah’s skill as a scout. After riding with him for three days, Pepper decided he didn’t like the man. There was something sinister and untrustworthy about him, and Pepper got the impression that Royce was of like mind. It was beginning to become painfully clear that this man claiming to be Jonah Parsons was in fact an impostor. Pepper decided to call his hand.

  “How long did you say you lived with the Sioux, Jonah?” Pepper asked the casual question as they squatted around a fire, having their morning coffee.

  Bill cocked a wary eyebrow and answered. “Longer than I care to think about,” he said.

  “How long was you married to that Sioux woman?”

  “A spell,” Bill countered, not anxious to give details he did not possess.

  Catching a hint of what was going on, Royce chimed in. “You musta been no more’n a pup when you married her. You don’t look all that old now.” He shot Pepper a knowing grin.

  “Yeah, I reckon” was Pike’s curt answer. Not wishing the conversation to go any further, he got up and tossed the dregs of his coffee on the fire. “We’d best be movin’.”

  “I expect so,” Pepper said. “Which way you think we oughta go? West to the Powder or east to the Bighorn? Where would Crazy Horse most likely go?” He winked at Royce.

  Bill was beginning to get damned uncomfortable with the box he was being forced into, but he decided it important to try to bluster his way through. “I expect we’d better head west to the Powder. That’s one of his favorite spots.”

  Neither of his two companions spoke right away, as they exchanged glances of total disbelief. Pike had walked right into it. After a long silent moment, Pepper closed the lid on the box. “I expect we’ll be up to our asses in the Pacific Ocean before we strike the Powder if we head west. The Powder’s to the east of us.”

  Realizing he’d been found out, Bill nevertheless attempted to talk his way out of it. “Hell, I know that. I meant to say east.” He searched their faces, hoping to see they had bought the story. It was plain they had not.

  “Suppose you lead us, you lying son of a bitch.” Pepper challenged. “Who the hell are you, anyway? You shore as hell ain’t Jonah Parsons.”

  There was no use trying to prolong the charade. Bill scowled and turned to face Pepper. His pistol was in his hand. “This is who the hell I am,” he growled. Pepper was taken by surprise by this sudden turn of events, and he realized too late that he had misjudged the evil in the man. He tried to scramble backward, but Bill fired at point-blank range. The first bullet caught Pepper in the face, the second in the chest. Pepper didn’t even have time to cry out before collapsing flat on his back—dead.

  Horrified, and as equally stunned as his partner, Royce found himself without a gun. His pistol had been hung over his saddle horn before he settled down by the fire. Now, as Pepper’s face was split open by Bill’s bullet, Royce scrambled to his feet and started to run for the horses. Bill gave chase immediately. Both men ran for all they were worth, Bill shooting at the terrified Royce. His aim was not that good at a dead run up a creek bank, so he missed the first two shots. Royce tried to zigzag, shrieking fearfully all the while. With only two bullets left in the .44, Bill stopped running and set himself to take careful aim. Royce dropped with two shots in his back.

  Panting like a dog after chasing his victim, Bill walked slowly up to examine him. Though mortally wounded, Royce was still alive. “You done kilt me, you bastard,” he forced the words out of his mouth, which was already filling with blood from his lungs.

  Bill stood over the dying man, casually reloading his pistol. “The boys back at camp is gonna be real sad when I have to tell ’em you two was shot by Injuns.” He curled his lip in a cynical grin. “I reckon you found me out. Was it worth it?”

  Royce groaned with the pain that was now burning through his chest. “Oh, God,” he gasped. “It hurts like hell.” He turned pitiful eyes up to his executioner. “For God’s sake, end it,” he pleaded.

  “Hell, you’ll die before long,” Bill growled. “What’s the sense in wastin’ another bullet?” He turned his back, leaving the man to suffer until death or the buzza
rds took him—whichever arrived first.

  Concerned now that the pistol shots may have been heard by a roving party of Sioux, he deemed it prudent to vacate the ravine and start back to camp. Before leaving, however, he went back to take a look at Pepper’s corpse, just to make sure he was dead. Satisfied that Pepper was done for, he then paused to consider which way they had come into this valley. “I may not know where the damn Powder is,” he informed the corpse, “But I can damn shore go back the way we came.”

  Before mounting, he stopped to consider the dead men’s horses. He was tempted to string them along behind him, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to claim them if he took them back to Goose Creek. He decided they’d be too much trouble. I’ll just say the Injuns got them, he thought. Neither victim had much of value. Bill took what he could use from the saddlebags and pockets, then hurried out of the valley. The creek and valley, named for the abundance of wild roses that grew in profusion along the banks, returned once again to silence, satisfied to be rid of him.

  Backtracking by following the trail he and the other two scouts had taken into the valley, Bill had no trouble making his way back to the Tongue. Upon reaching the river, he turned south and followed it toward Goose Creek. As he rode, he rehearsed the report he intended to make when he got back to camp. He was scouting ahead of the other two and, when he returned, he found that they had been ambushed by a party of Sioux warriors. He, himself, was set upon by these same warriors, but he fought his way free, killing several of the savages in the process. Then, thinking it best to report the loss of two men to the colonel, he hightailed it back to camp. He liked the sound of it. It was downright heroic. So enthralled by his anticipated hero’s welcome, he almost missed spotting the two riders on the opposite bank.

  Seeing them just in time, Bill backed his horse into a gully lined with berry bushes, and hurriedly scrambled up to the rim to take a longer look. His first thought had been that they were Indians. A second look told him they were white men. Although from a distance, one of them could have been mistaken for an Indian. Bill studied the two as they followed the broken trail along the far bank. If they were army scouts, he had not seen them before. But in the short time he had been employed as a scout, he had not had the opportunity to meet all of them. He started to call out, but decided against it, reasoning that after they heard his story they might want him to lead them back to the bodies he had left behind. He preferred to give the buzzards and the coyotes a chance before anyone found Pepper and Royce. So he continued to lay low in the serviceberry bushes until the riders disappeared around a bend in the river.