Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  “Well, now, that’ud be right Christian of you,” Pike said, doing his best to affect a friendly face. Despite his efforts, his grizzled features, long accustomed to an evil scowl, presented a twisted facade more akin to pain.

  Dunstan was not at ease with the dark stranger. There was a look of hard violence about him that triggered an instant warning. John Dunstan was a Christian man, and he would not deny hospitality to strangers in need, but he made a mental note to lecture Jeremy on the scarcity of food. Anxious to speed the stranger on his way, he said, “My wife’ll fix you somethin’ to eat. Why don’t you set down beside the cabin in the shade, and Jeremy’ll fetch you a cool dipper of water from the springbox.” He motioned his son toward the stream with a nod of his head. “I ain’t no horse doctor, but I’ll take a look at that hoof.”

  Pike smiled. Although Dunstan was trying to disguise it, his sense of distrust was apparent to even one as insensitive as Bill Pike. No longer concerned with his horse’s welfare, for he already had his eye on the injured animal’s replacement, he nevertheless made a feeble attempt to continue the game. “Well, now, I appreciate it.” Feeling it necessary to assuage the man’s suspicions, he said, “I’m an army scout headin’ for Fort Laramie with some important messages for the general.”

  “Well, we’ll try not to delay you, Mr.—” He paused.

  “Pike.” Bill filled in the blank.

  “Mr. Pike,” Dunstan echoed. He lifted the horse’s leg and examined the injured hoof. “Looks like he’s throwed a shoe.”

  “Yeah,” Pike replied while taking the dipper of water from Jeremy. After a long drink of the cool water, he added, “He throwed it about a mile back. I had to get off and walk.”

  Dunstan stared at the badly injured hoof. It showed signs of tenderness that would hardly result from walking a mile. He had no sympathy for a man who would abuse any animal, especially his horse. Another precaution that stuck in his mind was Pike’s comment that he was carrying dispatches for the general at Fort Laramie. Colonel Bradley was the post commander at Laramie. There was no general there. He would have thought that an army scout would know that. Just another drifter, he thought, or a deserter—there were certainly plenty of them hitting the high road. Maybe instead of heading for the fort, Mr. Pike was heading away from it. Well, he thought, we’ll give him something to eat, and send him on his way.

  “There ain’t much you can do for this horse’s hoof. It’ll heal if you keep the weight off of it. But you can’t ride the horse till it heals.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Pike said. “But I got to git them messages to the fort.”

  Dunston realized that he was in a box now. It would be extremely bad manners to suggest to the man that he had best start walking if he wanted to make the fort before morning. It was either that or hitch up the wagon and carry Pike to Fort Laramie in the morning. He didn’t relish that idea, but he didn’t know what else to do. Reluctantly, he offered the invitation. “I reckon me and Jeremy could take you in to the fort in the mornin’. It ain’t hardly ten miles from here. There ain’t no room in the cabin, but you’re welcome to sleep in the barn tonight.”

  Pike had a different solution to his transportation problem, but he decided not to reveal it at the moment. Might as well take advantage of the hospitality, he thought. “Why that’s mighty neighborly of you,” he said. “I could use a good night’s rest before I start out again.”

  Helen Dunston arrived with a plate of food just in time to hear Pike express his appreciation. She set the plate down beside Pike, then stepped back, giving her husband a questioning look, hoping she had heard wrong. He frowned and shook his head, knowing he was going to have some explaining to do later.

  “Why in the world did you tell that man he could stay here tonight?” Helen Dunstan demanded when supper was finished and Pike had retired to the barn. “He’s the evilest-looking man I’ve ever seen—nothing but a common drifter. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t run off with the livestock while we’re asleep in our beds.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” John replied in defense. “I couldn’t just order him to start walkin’. I mean, his horse did go lame.” He placed the bar across the door. “Besides, I aim to set up all night and watch the barn. He ain’t goin’ nowhere without I see him.”

  As he said, John Dunston sat awake for almost the entire night. Sitting beside the window, his rifle propped against the wall beside him, he kept a close watch on the barn until just before daybreak. He didn’t realize he had drifted off to sleep until his wife shook his shoulder. He bolted from his slumber so violently that he knocked his chair over.

  “John!” Helen exclaimed. “It’s just me. Everything’s all right.” A moment later, she heard the rooster announcing the arrival of the new day.

  Fully awake then, he picked up the chair and moved back to peer out of the corner of the window. There was no sign of activity from the barn. The horse and the mules were standing peacefully in the corral. Nothing was out of place. He looked at his wife and shook his head, thinking what a fool he had been to sit up all night while their guest slept soundly in the barn.

  “I guess I’d better get coffee started,” Helen said with a sigh. “Jeremy’s friend will want some breakfast before he leaves.” As she said it, she made a mental note to talk to her son about inviting strangers home with him.

  There was still no sign of movement in the barn by the time John left the cabin to feed the livestock. He dragged the barn door open and stepped inside to find his overnight guest just stirring from his bed in the hay. “Damn! That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in I can’t remember when,” Pike said, greeting him. His tone was almost cheerful. “I never did sleep worth a damn on the ground.” He got to his feet and took a few steps away from the hay to relieve himself. “Better than a feather bed,” he commented as he patiently emptied his bladder.

  “The missus will have breakfast ready in a few minutes,” Dunston said. He glanced back toward the barn door, concerned that his wife might walk in to look for eggs while Pike was still performing his toilet. Much to his relief, the footfalls he heard on the hard-baked clay turned out to be Jeremy’s. She had assigned the boy that duty on this morning.

  “Mornin’,” Jeremy said with a definite lack of enthusiasm, and went straight to the nests along the back wall of the barn. Shooing the hens away, he gathered the few eggs he found and returned to the cabin.

  The mood at breakfast was considerably lighter than the somber tone of supper the night before—the prospect of saying good-bye to their guest being the primary reason. What discomfort remained was felt by Helen Dunston due to the crude gaze that Bill Pike fixed upon her as she moved about the table. She was reluctant to speculate on the thoughts behind those dull eyes—a fear that even the homeliest of women felt around a man of suspect morals.

  “Well, I expect I’d better hitch up the mules,” John Dunston said, and got up from the table. “We’d better get movin’ if we’re gonna drive into Fort Laramie and get back before dark.”

  Pike turned his coffee cup up, draining the last of it, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and gave Helen a satisfied smile. “Yeah, reckon it’s time to get movin’,” he said, getting up from his chair. “But there ain’t no need to hitch up your wagon. I’ve got a better idea. I’m gonna trade horses with you.” Before Dunstan could reply, he said, “You’ll be gettin’ the best part of the deal, ’cause my horse is a heap stouter than your’n, and his hoof will be as good as new in a few days.”

  Dunstan didn’t know what to say at first, but he didn’t see a trade of the two horses being to his advantage. In his opinion, there was no comparison between them—his horse the better by far. Glancing at Helen’s startled expression, and then at Jeremy’s anxious look of concern, he turned back to Pike’s smiling face. The stranger’s confident grin told him that there was little room for negotiation. “Thanks just the same,” Dunstan finally replied, “but I don’t reckon I wanna trade horses.”
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  The malicious grin remained frozen in place on Pike’s grizzled face as his dark eyes narrowed slightly and locked on Dunstan’s gaze. “I’m givin’ you a helluva deal for that piece of crow bait. It’s just your good fortune you caught me in a time of need.”

  “Nossir, I reckon not,” Dunstan gave his final say on the matter. “Now I’ll hitch up the wagon and take you to Fort Laramie. There’s horses for sale there.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to Fort Laramie,” Pike replied.

  Dunstan paused with his hand on the door latch. “I thought you had dispatches for the army you had to deliver.”

  Pike shrugged impatiently. “Well, I ain’t. I got no business at that fort.” Then his patience, limited at best, dissipated completely. “Dammit, I need that damn horse, and that’s all there is to it. I’m tired of pussyfootin’ around with you.” The grin that had remained in place before was now transformed into an angry glare.

  “John, let him have the horse.” Helen Dunstan read the depth of violence in the angry man’s eyes. She feared for her husband’s safety.

  “No,” Dunstan replied firmly, aware of his young son’s eyes upon him. “Now I reckon it’s time for Mr. Pike to leave.” He pulled the door open.

  “It’s time for Mr. Pike to leave,” Pike mocked sarcastically. “You damn fool, I gave you a chance.” He pulled his pistol and fired two shots into the startled man’s chest. Dunstan fell back against the doorpost, his knees buckling. Then he slid down the post to the floor.

  Helen screamed in horror, and ran to her husband’s side. Unmoved by her despair, Pike shifted his gaze to the boy. He had seen the double-barreled shotgun propped in the corner, and he watched Jeremy to see if the boy had any notions about making a move toward it. But Jeremy was paralyzed by the sight of his dying father, slumped in his mother’s arms as she pleaded with her husband to live. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat from mother or son, he walked over and removed the shells from the shotgun. “All right,” he ordered, “that’s enough. Let’s go outside.”

  He motioned toward the door with his pistol. When Jeremy did not move, Pike gave him a kick in the seat of his pants. It was enough to break the stunned youngster’s paralysis. Jeremy stumbled toward the door, almost falling over his mother’s feet. Pike grabbed the stricken woman by the collar and dragged her outside. “Come on. He’s dead. Stop your blubberin’. It’s his own damn fault.”

  Once they were all outside, Pike ordered Jeremy to saddle the horse. The boy, devastated a few moments earlier, now found his backbone. “I ain’t saddlin’ no horse for you,” he spat in defiance. “You killed my pa, and I’ll hunt you down till I kill you!”

  Pike recoiled slightly in surprise. Then the grin returned to his face. “You little shit, I believe you would.” The pistol spoke once more, the force of the bullet knocking the boy back against the cabin wall, where he fell dead.

  The impact of her son’s brutal murder coming upon that of her husband’s was too great a shock for the woman’s shattered mind to withstand. Her eyes fluttered briefly, and then she collapsed on the ground. Pike paused to stand over her for a few moments before turning to go into the barn to fetch his saddle. In the length of time it took for him to saddle John Dunston’s horse, the man’s new widow slowly regained consciousness. When she began to stir, Pike paused again to watch her, curious as to what her reaction might be. It was not long in coming, and the reverse of what he anticipated.

  Opening her eyes from what she prayed had been a bad dream, she was devastated to find it had been all too real. Gripped by many emotions, from hopeless and terrifying despair to a sudden burning fury, the latter taking control of her mind, she struggled unsteadily to her feet. In uncontrolled rage, she suddenly charged headlong at her antagonist, hurling her fragile body at Pike. With one foot in the stirrup already, he barely had time to withdraw it and prepare to meet the crazed woman’s charge. Bracing himself, he stepped aside, causing her to collide with the horse’s belly. When she bounced back from the collision, he took a step toward her and unloaded a right hand, his fist catching her square on the chin. She dropped like a sack of grain on the ground. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered.

  He started to step up in the saddle again, but hesitated to take another look at the woman lying at his feet. With husband and son no longer a threat, he let his mind dwell on the woman’s bare leg for a moment. It had been a long time since he had known a woman. He reached over and pushed her skirt up with the toe of his boot, revealing loose-fitting cotton drawers. It suddenly became an obsession with him to see what the drawers concealed. His lust fully awakened now, he tied the horse to the gatepost, and returned to draw his knife. Sticking the blade under the waistband, he ripped the garment from top to bottom. Then he sat back on his heels to gaze at the bony pelvis and pale thighs. She was not a pretty woman. Life on the open prairie had taken the bloom from her youth many years before. This would have ordinarily made little difference to a man of Pike’s moral fiber. It was the fact that he had never seen gray pubic hair before. It looked unreal, eerie in fact, and the sight served to cool his passion. “Damn,” he swore. She opened her eyes at that point to find him hovering over her. She immediately screamed and struck him in the face. His reaction was swift. In a fit of anger, he buried the knife in her abdomen.

  Helen Dunston’s final moments in this world were long and painful. Oblivious to the woman’s suffering, Pike delayed his departure long enough to ransack the cabin in search of anything of value. There was little to find: a shotgun, a box of twelve-gauge shells, a small silver chain, a locket with a faded picture of a baby inside. The only item that caught his fancy was John Dunston’s razor. The handle was pearl with a pattern of onyx inlaid to form the shape of a diamond. Pike opened the razor and admired the honed edge of the spotless blade. Dunston must have valued the razor highly, judging by the condition it was in. Pleased, Pike nodded smugly to himself as he ran a finger over the inlaid pattern. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of moaning outside, and he stepped to the door to make sure the woman was no threat. He stood there and watched her for a moment in her desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood from the ragged gash in her abdomen. Satisfied that she had not moved from where she had fallen, he continued his search of the cabin.

  Outside again, he stuffed the few trinkets he had found into his saddlebags, only glancing down at the dying woman as he walked past her. Her painful moaning was weaker now, but still constant to the point where it began to annoy him. He decided to end it. Opening the pearl handled razor, he started toward her, but had second thoughts. The razor was too fine a thing to soil on a bony old woman’s throat, he thought. So he put it back in his pocket and, as he had done before, he knelt beside his helpless victim and smothered the life from her lungs. When she finally quit struggling, he got to his feet and, on a sudden impulse, decided to burn the cabin.

  Chapter 15

  “Injuns?”

  “Maybe,” Jordan replied as he continued to gaze at the lone column of smoke in the distance. “It’s mighty damn close to the fort though. Could be some homesteader clearing some land.” Even as he said it, he doubted it.

  Toby got up from his knee where moments before he had been studying the hoofprint in the sand. Although neither voiced it, they were both thinking the same thing. Someone might be in trouble, but there was a strong reluctance to leave the trail they had been following. There was a long moment of hesitation while Toby climbed back in the saddle, and then conscience got the best of Jordan. “I expect we’d best have a look on the other side of that ridge.”

  Toby didn’t answer at once. There was nothing in his young life more important than catching up with Bill Pike. There had been nothing uppermost in his mind than the fear that Pike might get away, and go unpunished for the evil he had done. When he realized that Jordan was going to investigate the smoke off to the northeast, however, he begrudgingly gave in to conscience as well. He stood up in the stirrups, peering at the trail far up a
head, searching for a landmark. “That looks like a stream or somethin’ about a half mile up ahead. “We can pick up his trail there when we come back,” he suggested, unaware that Pike’s tracks took an abrupt turn to the north precisely at the stream, heading straight for the column of smoke.

  Guiding on the smoke, they rode for almost a mile before reaching the ridge. Upon gaining the crest, they stopped to survey the land beyond. There was nothing but uneven prairie, broken by cuts and draws for perhaps another mile before giving way to the stream, which was bordered with cottonwoods and willows. The smoke was clearly coming from the trees on the far side of the stream, but the source of the fire was hidden from their view. Even though he couldn’t see it, Jordan was fairly confident at this point that it was a cabin that was burning. The speculation was reason enough to approach with caution. It would be somewhat surprising, but not out of the question, that a Sioux war party would strike a homestead this close to the fort. Iron Pony had warned him that the Lakota and Cheyenne were emboldened by their success against General Crook’s troopers on the Rosebud. “We’d best be careful how we approach that cabin,” Jordan advised. “That party might not be over.”

  Leading off, he angled down the ridge and made straight for a stand of willows at a bend in the stream to the south of the fire. He figured that way they’d have less chance of meeting a war party that might just be leaving the scene. His reasoning was that a Sioux raiding party would most likely escape to the north, away from the direction of the fort.

  Once the safety of the trees was reached without mishap, Jordan dismounted and signaled Toby to do the same. “We’d best leave the horses here till we see what’s what,” he said. “Check your rifle,” he added, for he could hear the sound of horses snorting and an occasional squeal. With no further hesitation, he made his way along the bank of the stream, weaving through the thick clump of willows. Toby followed in his footsteps. When he reached a point near the edge, he dropped down on one knee. Parting the branches before him, he saw the burning cabin. There was no sign of anyone about. He shifted his gaze to the small corral. There were two mules and a horse in the corral, which seemed strange to Jordan—a Sioux raiding party would have taken the livestock. The squealing and snorting he had heard before was due to the fact that the wind had shifted and was blowing the smoke and cinders from the fire toward the penned-up stock.