Cheyenne Justice

by Charles G. West

  A quick flicker of anger flashed across Pike’s face and he drew his hand back as if to backhand his partner. “You think I’ll take your leavin’s? You can go over there and court your hand.”

  “Ah, hell, Pike,” Selvey pouted, but he went obediently back to the horses.

  The smile returned to Pike’s face and he looked back down at Abby. “Don’t worry, sweetie, hit’ll be me and you.”

  “Over my dead body,” she replied.

  “Well, I ain’t never had it that way but it’s all the same to me. I’ll give ’er a try.” He winked at her, still grinning. Then he abruptly turned to Selvey and started giving orders. “Let’s git these horses on a lead line. We ain’t got time to fart around here no longer. I don’t wanna have that damn Coles taking potshots at us. Ol’ Crooked Leg’s Arapahos is camped somewhere on the Powder. We can trade these horses there.”

  Selvey did as he was told, still grumbling under his breath about the woman. He would grumble, but he had no misconceptions about his status in the partnership. Pike would just as soon kill him as look at him.

  * * *

  They left the Tongue and struck out to the northeast. Ahead of them, and to the west, storm clouds began to develop over the Big Horns. Abby, her hands and feet free of her bonds now, rode on Nathan White Horse’s pony. While she appreciated the freedom she now enjoyed, she was not foolish enough to entertain any thoughts of escape. The minute she broke away, Jack Pike would send a bullet to catch her. If she had any doubts about it, they were dispelled within the first two hours of their journey.

  Her bladder swollen to the point of pain, since it had been hours since she had been permitted to relieve herself, she determined to ease her discomfort at the next opportunity. It came when Pike led the small train through a ravine with clumps of thick brush growing on each side of the lower end. She pulled back on her reins, letting Selvey’s horse go ahead of her. Selvey, half asleep in the saddle, paid no attention to her movements. There was no thought of escape. She planned to make one of her quick nature stops, just as she had done when traveling with Nathan and Jason. When abreast of the bushes, she turned aside and went behind them. She had barely disappeared behind the bushes and dismounted when the snap of a bullet was followed almost immediately by the report of Pike’s pistol. Before she had time to unbuckle her belt, several shots followed, all close over the horse’s back, where she would have been had she not dismounted. The horse reared and ran away and she could hear Pike’s angry shouts and the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats approaching. She was terrified. Knowing that her only chance of surviving his wrath was to get her pants down and squat, she hurriedly fumbled with her buttons and very nearly wet her trousers before she could assume the position.

  His face black with rage, Pike wheeled his horse around the scrubby patch of brush to find the woman squatting, answering nature’s call, an indignant expression on her face. It totally disarmed him and he pulled his horse up short and threw back his head and laughed.

  “You damned near got yourself kilt that time, missy.” The smile disappeared. “You pull another trick like that and I’ll send Selvey with you when you got to piss.” He sat on his horse and watched her till she finished. Selvey rode up beside him to see the show. Pike glanced at his partner for a few seconds, then he took his foot out of the stirrup and, with a stout kick, knocked Selvey out of the saddle. Selvey, confused, picked himself up from the dust and looked at Pike glaring down at him. Abby was reminded of a hound dog, unable to understand what he had done to warrant his punishment. “If you don’t stay awake, I might have to shoot you,” Pike warned. “Now get mounted and go fetch that horse.”

  After that, Abby asked permission to leave the trail whenever nature called. Every time she had to contend with the leering Selvey, skulking back, trying to get an eyeful. She complained to Pike about his degenerate partner’s ogling but Pike didn’t care enough to curtail it. Abby knew that Pike was going to make his move toward her when it pleased him to do so. She didn’t know why he was content to wait, other than the fact he was intent on putting distance between them and Jason Coles, but she was thankful for his patience. When the time came, she prayed that she would be strong enough to fight him off. She had resolved in her mind that even though he might overpower her, he might succeed in satisfying his lust but he would damn sure not enjoy it. She also knew that the only thing protecting her from the degenerate Selvey was Pike’s desire to be first. She didn’t like to even think about that.

  Pike studied the clouds that had been drifting over from the mountains for the past two hours. By now they had become increasingly darker and seemed to be building up all the way to the heavens. There had been no rain in these parts for weeks and many of the smaller streams were no more than dry beds. But sudden thunderstorms were common during the dry season and they were generally violent, sometimes lasting for days. Pike was thinking that this storm blowing up now might be just what he needed, so he turned his horse back toward the mountains and the black clouds.

  Selvey, more alert now, was puzzled by his partner’s change of direction. “Where the hell you goin’, Pike? I thought we was gonna take these here horses to Crooked Leg’s camp.”

  “We are, dammit. But first I’m gonna cover our trail. You just watch out for them horses and follow me.”

  Another hour brought them back to the river. By now, the wind was whipping the trees along the banks and the first random drops of rain had begun to fall, large drops that were almost a drink of water by themselves. Before long, the rain increased in intensity, falling almost sideways as the wind hurled the huge drops against the faces and arms of the three riders. Selvey called out to Pike to look for shelter but Pike continued on leading them into the river and across. There was little shelter to be found—the trees were not substantial enough to offer much protection from the driving rain. All three were thoroughly soaked by the time they happened upon an overhanging rock ledge in the bluffs. It was barely large enough to cover three wet souls.

  Pike pulled a slicker out of his pack to use for shelter and directed Abby up under the ledge with him. He sent Selvey to hobble the horses before he permitted the complaining little man to get in out of the rain. It was too wet to make a fire and there was no firewood handy anyway, so they sat where they were and waited out the rain. Pike offered to share his slicker with the woman but Abby declined, preferring to sit shivering against the side of the bluff. Looking from the leering Selvey to the snarling Pike, she could not imagine a time or place that could be more miserable than this. But she was not really frightened—keeping dry seemed to be the only thing on Pike’s mind and she was grateful for that.

  The shelter they had found was very small and it soon was filled with the stale, corral-like odor offered up by soggy flannel on unwashed bodies. Long-dormant scents of horses, sweat, skinned buffalo, and drinking binges seemed to have been called forth by the soaking rain like ghosts summoned to a seance. Abby stood it in silence for a long time but she finally had to voice her displeasure.

  “Don’t you two ever take a bath?” As soon as she blurted it out, she wished she hadn’t said it. But Pike was not easily insulted.

  “Hell, yeah,” he roared with a grin. “I just took one.”

  “And that was one too many,” Selvey added, pulling the wet flannel shirt away from his skin.

  Abby moved closer to the edge of the overhanging rock—any farther and she would be out in the rain again. Pike reached out with one long arm and, grabbing a handful of her shirt, dragged her over closer to him. She recoiled as he stuck his face right next to hers. His breath was foul and heavy with the smell of rotten teeth and tobacco.

  “You’ll get used to my scent, darling,” he said.

  “Damned if I will!” She shot back defiantly and struggled to pull away from him.

  He held her fast for a few moments, amused by her futile efforts to free herself. “You better hope I fancy you, missy. ’Cause if I don’t, why I’ll just let ol’ Selve
y there have his fill of you and then I’ll trade you to the Injuns.” He yanked her face up close to his again and held her there for a few seconds. “You know, you ain’t exactly the purtiest female I ever seen anyway. I might not get more than a stray dog fer you if I do trade you.” Then he laughed and shoved her away.

  She pressed up against the side of the ravine, taking several deep breaths in an effort to rid her nostrils of the stench of the man. He watched her for a moment, then turned his thoughts to other things.

  “Hit looks like hit’s lettin’ up a little. Good thing too, ’cause hit’ll be dark pretty soon and I want to make camp before dark.”

  * * *

  Several hours behind them, Jason Coles came upon the body of Lame Otter. He knelt beside the body and looked at it closely. He had been scalped and it was a messy job at that. The wounds that killed him came from a knife in his back and in his side. Whoever killed him stripped him clean of weapons and ammunition. There were plenty of tracks and Jason studied the area carefully trying to piece the picture together. The Cheyenne had met someone—two men by the look of it—and they both rode shod horses. Traders, trappers, or possibly Indians on stolen army mounts—there was no way to tell but Jason’s bet was on white men, judging by the boot prints and the tobacco stains on the bare patches of earth. And, from the pattern of footprints, it was apparent the Indian knew his murderers. “Some friends you got, you poor devil.” Noticing something peculiar about one of the hoofprints, he knelt again to examine it more closely, tracing the outline of the print with his finger. Nicked, he thought. The corner of one of the horseshoes had a piece missing.

  The Cheyenne’s murder changed the game drastically. Jason had been confident that, even if he didn’t catch up to the Indian before dark, he would almost certainly return to Two Moon’s camp eventually, and Jason was prepared to go into Two Moon’s camp to get Abby. Now he could only guess what the white men had in mind. One thing he knew for sure—he was now after a treacherous pair as evidenced by the way they had negotiated with the Indian. He had better watch his backtrail.

  After searching the site of the meeting, he found where the tracks led out toward the northeast. He paused to study the sky before him. Don’t like the look of that, he thought. Better get going. He stepped up in the saddle and urged the paint on in hopes of catching sight of Abby’s captors before the rain hit.

  Luck was not with him on this day. He had ridden no more than a few miles when the storm hit. He pushed on through a driving rain, following the trail left by the half-dozen horses until it disappeared in what had been a dry wash but was now a torrent of rushing water. He scouted the other side of the wash but the storm had erased all traces of the trail except for one lone hoofprint, pointed toward the river.

  Jason stood in the pouring rain, looking around him in all directions. The hoofprint pointed toward the river but they could have gone in any direction. A cold trail was one thing—he could follow a cold trail—but no man could follow when there was no trail. There was nothing he could do but scout the riverbanks on both sides, hoping he might luck onto some sign. He had known horses that could follow a week-old trail left by the herd they had run with. It was worth a try, he decided, and there was little else left to try anyway. He climbed back on the paint and gave him a slight kick, letting him have his head, but the pony trotted a few yards and stopped to graze on a tuft of grass. “You ain’t got no more notion than I have,” Jason said and nudged the horse again. Might as well scout the banks, he decided.

  After another hour, the rain stopped and he continued his search along the banks of the river until darkness made it impossible to continue. With no sign to be found he gave up for the night, hoping for better luck tomorrow. Reasonably certain he was the only human being within miles, he felt no need for caution, so he gathered up some dead limbs and made a fire to dry himself and his clothes. Wearing nothing but his boots, he unsaddled the paint and hobbled him close by his camp. Before returning to his fire, he stood there a few moments, evaluating his mount. The paint had proven to be a fairly stout horse, seemed to have a fair amount of stamina and had adjusted to the strange saddle on his back. He had kind of short legs but a broad chest that indicated a lot of heart. He also had dark brown markings around his eyes that made him look like he was wearing a mask. He would have been no match for White, but then few horses were in the same class with the Appaloosa. This one would do, he decided, and he returned to his fire to fix himself some supper.

  The driest thing he had was his saddle blanket, so he spread that before the fire to protect his bare bottom from the wet grass. Not really hungry, he made some coffee and dined on a piece of jerky. While he sat before the fire, drinking his coffee, he speculated on possible places the two outlaws might be headed. He was pretty much certain the two white men were outlaws or deserters. For one thing, they obviously knew the Indian they had killed. Otherwise he would not have permitted them to get so close. Probably they were gunrunners, selling weapons to the hostile bands of Indians, which would explain why they felt free to travel alone in this territory. Aside from that, if they weren’t outlaws, they would have brought Abby back to find him. There was no telling what plans they had for the girl. Jason felt it at least a good sign that they had taken her with them. He could have found her body back there beside the Cheyenne’s. He didn’t spend any more thought on the possible fate of the lady—Jason usually made it a rule not to worry about things he was powerless to influence. He would do the best he could to find her and he would search until he did find her or find out what happened to her. That was the best he could do.

  A little over fifteen miles upriver, Abby sat, cold and shivering, afraid to go to sleep even if she could, wondering if Jason Coles was still alive. At this moment, he seemed to be her only hope for survival. Her one encouraging thought was that, if he was still alive, Jason would come after her. She could not know that her one hope for rescue was no more than a half day’s ride away, sitting naked on a horse blanket, nursing a cup of coffee.

  Sunup the next morning found Jason in the saddle, scouting the riverbanks. From the sign he picked up before the rain washed everything away, he knew that the two men did not have any pack horses with them before meeting the Indian. Based on that, Jason figured they had probably just come from one of the several Indian camps in the Big Horn country. Now what would they do? he asked himself. They now were in possession of a woman captive and some horses. The obvious thing would be to go somewhere to trade the horses…and possibly the woman. He supposed they had enough sense not to take the horses back to a village where someone might recognize them, and they would probably want to get rid of them as soon as possible. Some of the Sioux scouts at Fort Lincoln had reported that several bands, Sioux as well as Cheyenne and Arapaho, were scattered between the Tongue and the Powder. Since he had to start somewhere, he decided he might as well search in that vicinity. His scouting along the Tongue had availed him nothing so he determined to waste no more time there. He turned the paint toward the east and headed toward the Pumpkin River.

  Chapter VIII

  Lieutenant Page Jeffers held up his hand to halt the column of cavalry following behind him. “Sergeant Ryman,” he called out, and he waited while the sergeant pulled up beside him. “This is as good a place as any. We’ll stop for the noon meal here and rest and water the horses.”

  “Yessir,” Ryman replied, turning back to relay the lieutenant’s orders to the scouting party of twenty troopers. After he had directed his men to a small assembly of cottonwoods near the edge of the river, he rode back to the lieutenant. “Can the men cook, sir?”

  Jeffers nodded, then said, “Yes, we’ll take an hour.”

  “Yessir. Want me to send somebody to call in the scouts?”

  Jeffers shook his head. “No. They aren’t that far afield. They should be able to see we aren’t behind them and come back anyway.”

  “Yessir.” Ryman wasn’t surprised. The lieutenant didn’t have a very high opinio
n of the two Crow scouts that had been assigned to the detail. He thought it was a waste of time to deploy the scouts when they seemed reluctant to operate out of sight of the column. Ryman understood the scouts’ feelings. This country was crawling with Sioux and Cheyenne and Arapaho, and none of ’em was too fond of Crows. The lieutenant was right about one thing, though. Looking out toward the east, he could see one of the scouts. The Indian was standing still, looking back toward the troops. In a few minutes he and his partner would be back to the column. “Fannin, take the lieutenant’s horse down to the river.” He paused a moment to make sure the trooper responded quickly enough to his order before seeing to his own horse.

  The column had been in the saddle since before sunup, some six hours before. Normally Lieutenant Jeffers marched only four or five hours before stopping for the noon meal but for once they had a warm trail and he had been pushing the detail hard in an effort to close on the hostiles. But in spite of the lieutenant’s urging, there seemed to be no indication that they were closing the gap between them and the party of nine Indians. Finally Jeffers resigned himself to the obvious and realized the chase might take longer than he had hoped. He might as well save the horses.

  The spot Jeffers picked to rest the men and horses had plenty of firewood and water so there were already several campfires crackling. They had only been out from Camp Carson for two days so the men were in pretty high spirits. Each man still had his supply of salt pork, hardtack, sugar, and coffee. They were all veterans of western campaigns so they would have resisted the urge to eat most of their rations on the first day out. Ryman had a feeling that this bunch was going to be hard to catch and that, before they were through, the detail might be eating one of the mules.

  Fannin brought the lieutenant’s horse back and tied the reins loosely over a willow switch. He settled himself beside the fire and got a slice of sowbelly from his mess kit. “How far you reckon the lieutenant’s gonna chase after them Injuns, Sarge?”