Cheyenne Justice

by Charles G. West

  The trail had left the Tongue the day before and cut a path to the east. Jason figured they must be heading to a village somewhere on the Powder. He stepped up on the paint and gave him a nudge. The horse responded immediately. By his reckoning, the Powder could be no more than a half day’s ride from the campsite he had just left. He let the paint settle into a gait that suited him, keeping to the low side of the rolling hills whenever possible, always watching the horizon ahead. It wouldn’t do for one of the Indians he followed to spot him and realize he was alone. Since they probably weren’t in good humor after being spooked out of their ambush of Lieutenant Jeffers’s patrol, they might not be any too hospitable.

  The sun was still not directly overhead when he sighted the river ahead and, for the first time since trailing them, caught sight of the hostiles. Keeping a safe distance behind, he trailed the band for another hour until they reached a sharp bend in the river and he got a glimpse of the village. It was a sizable camp of Arapahos, fifty or sixty lodges spread out along the west side of the river. On the other side, Jason could see a horse herd of several hundred ponies.

  There was a great deal of excitement in the Indian camp when the war party rode in. Jason took advantage of the distraction to scout out a closer place to watch the village. It was not easy to get close because the campsite had been well chosen to prevent surprise attacks from an enemy. There were some trees along the banks of the river where the tipis were located, but the hills and bluffs before that were open with no cover but tall grass. If he was even going to get close enough to use his field glasses, he was going to have to do some crawling. So he tied the paint in a thicket of bullberry bushes on the side of a ravine a good half mile from the river and then made his way back up the ridge on foot. Crawling to a position where he could sweep the main part of the village with his glasses, he lay in the grass and watched the people of the camp welcome the returning warriors.

  From the looks of the camp, they had been there for some time. The grass across the river was grazed down and the ponies looked fat and rested. There were a good many skins staked out to dry and the women were busy scraping them. It was a busy camp. But there was no white woman, at least not that he could see, and the two white men he searched for were not there either. Another cold trail, he thought, and he cursed the storm for obliterating the tracks of Abby’s abductors.

  As he lay there, trying to decide what to do now that this trail had led to nowhere, a movement under the cottonwoods along the river caught his attention. He turned to see a rider making his way along the riverbank, approaching the Arapaho village from the south. It was a white man. Jason raised his head and scanned the banks behind the man. He was alone. The trail Jason had followed before the storm was from two shod horses, plus the extra Indian ponies, one of which carried Abby. This man was alone. Jason didn’t think it was very likely that this could be a different man—it had to be him. He was leading the extra horses, no doubt to trade with the Arapahos. But where was Abby? And where was the other white man?

  He had to consider the possibility that Abby had already been sold to the Arapahos and she might be inside one of the lodges—maybe guarded by the missing white man. Or, more likely, this one had her hidden somewhere, not wanting the hostiles to know about her. If that were the case, then his partner was probably guarding her. He reasoned that he would know soon enough when the man rode into the village so he lay there and watched.

  When the rider emerged from the trees and approached the southernmost lodges of the village, a woman looked up from her work on a buffalo hide. Jason could tell that she was alarmed, for she ran to alert her people that a white man was coming. Almost immediately, several of the warriors whom Jason had trailed to the camp jumped on their ponies and raced to intercept the stranger. Even from that distance, Jason could see that the stranger was frantically making the peace sign. It was obvious that he had not been in the Arapaho camp recently. Apparently they recognized the man for they surrounded him and escorted him to a tipi in the center of the village.

  This told Jason what he wanted to know. This was one of the men he searched for and Abby, if she was still alive, was being held somewhere downriver by his partner. This had to be the case. Otherwise, the Arapahos would not have been so surprised when the white man showed up. No need to lay around here any longer, he thought. He would circle around to the south and cut the white man’s trail and that should lead him straight to Abby. Luck was with him.

  Slowly, keeping low to the ground, he backed down the other side of the rise he had hidden behind, being careful not to disturb the tall grass on the crest. Once he was far enough down so that he could stand up without showing a profile, he made his way quickly back the way he had come. Moving carefully, he crossed over the ridge and descended the side of the ravine to the thicket where the paint stood, quietly pulling at the grass around the bushes.

  He untied the pony and started to mount when he was stopped in his tracks by the sudden flight of a covey of birds on the other side of the ravine. He stood still and listened. Something had flushed them. What? A fox, maybe…or maybe not. All at once a familiar feeling took hold of him and he sensed that he was in danger. Then he heard the low call of a lark on the opposite side of the ravine. He was being hunted!

  Wasting no more time, he quietly climbed up in the saddle and started the paint along the bottom of the ravine at a slow walk, listening and watching the high ground on each side of him. He had only two choices—to go back down the ravine the way he had come or to ride north, away from the river. The choice took no deliberation since he felt reasonably sure they were on both sides of him—they had tracked him into the mouth of the ravine behind him and had split up to trap him in the ravine. Maybe luck was not with him after all. All he could figure was that some hunters must have stumbled across his trail into the hills. It had to be sheer accident on their part because his tracks, before finding this ravine, had been intermingled with those of the war party he had followed to the camp. His only chance was to make it out the north end of the ravine before they could get there to cut him off. The only good thing about the situation he found himself in was the fact that they were too far away from the camp to summon other hostiles to participate in the chase.

  From his many years of living with the danger that rode with a frontier scout, he could see the chase developing in his mind’s eye. Everything was still quiet but they were pacing him, much as a fox patiently paces a prairie hen until she bolts. Well, he decided, I reckon it’s time for this hen to bolt. With that thought, he suddenly kicked the paint into full flight and the horse didn’t disappoint him. On the ridges above him he heard an almost immediate response as war whoops rang out on both sides.

  The little paint worked hard and steady, sensing he was in a race as he flew over the small gullies and cuts with never a misstep. From the whoops of the warriors above him, he determined that it was not a large party chasing him—there was no way to tell for sure, but he guessed there were no more than half a dozen. Even though the paint had the heart for it, Jason could see that the hostiles, riding on the level tops of the ridge, would intercept him at the end of the ravine. As he galloped toward the narrow opening at the top of the ravine, he could see that he would come out barely a few steps ahead of them.

  Now he caught glimpses of his pursuers as their ponies jumped and weaved in their headlong dash to cut him off. He flinched as an arrow flashed in front of his face and he was aware of others passing harmlessly behind him. The race was too fast and too roughshod to permit accurate shooting. Jason knew that if an arrow found him, it would be pure luck. He didn’t have time to speculate on the reason they were using bows instead of rifles. Maybe they didn’t have rifles, or maybe they had used up their ammunition while hunting—he didn’t care why. At the moment, his concern was to reach the end of the ravine.

  Fifty yards more. He could see that it was going to be a dead heat. He couldn’t outdistance them. He pulled his rifle from the saddle boot an
d kept kicking his heels into the paint’s sides. There was a sharp turn where the head of the ravine broke out on the ridge above. As he approached it, he pulled back on the paint, slowing the horse a little. When the pony hit the turn, Jason threw himself off and hit the dirt rolling over and over. Startled, the horse continued to charge up out of the ravine. Jason scrambled to his feet and ran after the horse, reaching the end of the ravine at almost the same moment the hostiles galloped by, chasing the paint.

  There were four of them and, when Jason brought his rifle to bear, there were two less. Realizing too late that they were chasing a riderless horse, the two remaining hostiles turned back to discover their companions lying dead, their ponies galloping off into the hills. Confused at first, then angry, they charged back toward the white man standing calmly awaiting them. Unhurriedly, he shot one and then the other.

  This was no time to be on foot so close to a hostile village of Arapahos, so Jason started out after his horse at a trot. The paint had continued on for almost a mile before coming to a stop, where he casually began to graze. Jason could see the paint ripping at the grass, then looking up at the man trotting toward him, seemingly unconcerned. Jason glanced to the west. All four of the Indians’ ponies had scattered toward the hills. As he jogged along, he found himself hoping the paint didn’t develop an urge to join his brothers. Evidently the pony had decided to adopt Jason because he stood there, patiently waiting until Jason caught up to him.

  “Good boy,” Jason cooed, stroking the paint’s neck. He slid the rifle back in the boot and stepped up in the saddle. “I don’t know how much time we’ve got before somebody rides out to find out what all that shooting was about, but I reckon it would be best to keep going for a ways before doubling back. I don’t want that whole damn village following me.” He galloped off toward the hills after the Indian ponies to make sure they didn’t turn around and head back to the village. He knew he was losing time but he thought it necessary to chase the horses then try to cover his trail before turning back to the river and Abby.

  * * *

  Jack Pike was angry. Crooked Leg, that old son of a bitch, wanted rifles and bullets. He didn’t want to trade anything for the horses Pike brought in. He said he had plenty of horses. Pike tried to tell him that he didn’t have rifles this time, he had three horses. That’s what he needed to trade, dammit! Then he told the chief that he had a white woman captive and he might be willing to trade her. Crooked Leg said, “Why would I want a white woman?” The old son of a bitch! He took the horses anyway. When I get back, he told himself, I’m gonna have me some of that homely bitch, then I’m gonna carve her up good before I let Selvey have her.

  He paid little attention to the shots heard beyond the bluffs. There were hunting parties going and coming all day. There had been four shots. Probably one damn Injun shooting at a rabbit, he thought. No wonder they were short of ammunition. He had to promise old Crooked Leg that he’d come back with more rifles and bullets or the old cutthroat might not have let him leave. “Damn!” he swore when he thought about it. They had been lucky that last time, he and Selvey, when they bushwhacked that freight wagon loaded with ordnance. He let Selvey scalp the driver and the guard—Selvey liked scalping people. It would be right handy to run up on another wagon like that. He and Selvey needed some more merchandise to trade with.

  Something didn’t look right as he approached his camp. Then it struck him that one of the horses was missing. “What the hell…” he muttered, and drew his pistol from his belt. Looking cautiously from right to left, he rode up to the edge of the camp and stopped. “Selvey!” he called out. He heard a low groan and followed the sound with his eyes. There, under a tree, Selvey lay, looking half dead. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He rode on in and dismounted, his pistol still ready.

  When he had satisfied himself that the girl was not hiding and waiting to ambush him, he went back to the stricken man lying against the tree trunk. “Selvey, what the hell happened?”

  Selvey’s eyes fluttered for a few seconds. When he tried to speak at first, nothing came out but a wheezing sound. After a moment, he seemed to come to his senses. His voice weak and strained, he spoke. “Pike, I think she cracked my head.”

  Pike, looking around at the skillet laying in the sand and a half-cooked piece of salt pork a few yards from it, responded impatiently. “Yeah, I can see that. She oughta cracked your head. You untied her, didn’t you?”

  “She was gonna give me some, Pike, I swear. I don’t know why she up and hit me.”

  Pike just looked down at his partner for a long moment, the anger and disgust building up to a peak. “You dumb shit. Why would any woman want to give you any? Open your mouth,” he ordered. Dutifully, Selvey opened his mouth as wide as he could manage. Pike casually stuck the barrel of the forty-five in Selvey’s mouth and pulled the trigger. “I’ve had enough of your whimpering,” he said.

  Pike didn’t waste any more time there. He picked up the half-cooked piece of pork, wiped the sand off, and ate it while he packed up Selvey’s horse with what supplies were left. It was not until then that he realized the saddlepack left by the fire was Selvey’s. She had taken his! The bitch had taken his! It was not the little bit of pork and hardtack that concerned him. There was a pouch of at least four ounces of gold dust in that pack. He had killed a man and his partner for that dust. It was his property, and that ugly bitch had stolen it. Selvey didn’t even know about that pouch of gold—when they had dry-gulched the two miners, he told Selvey there wasn’t any gold.

  His business was finished with Crooked Leg, he knew that. The old bastard was getting too hard to deal with. Well, that was all right with Pike. Crooked Leg didn’t have anything he wanted to trade for anyway. He might go back to his business with the Sioux, although he didn’t like the way he was being treated by the Sioux lately. Maybe it would be better to trade with Two Moon’s Cheyennes. They still appreciated his help in ridding the Black Hills of the white miners, and they paid in gold dust. But one thing he promised himself was to track down that homely bitch who made a fool of him and Selvey. He vowed to make himself a tobacco pouch out of one of her breasts.

  Chapter X

  Abby hopped down from the saddle and stretched her back and legs while her horse drank from the shallow river. She looked back the way she had come, half expecting to see Pike galloping after her. Ahead, the country looked the same as that she had just traveled through, never changing. She had been careful to keep the position of the sun over her left shoulder. Otherwise, it would be pretty easy to end up riding in a circle.

  She knelt down at the water’s edge and splashed some water on her hands and face. Then she unbuttoned her shirt and splashed some of the cool water on her chest and neck. It reminded her of Selvey and she wondered if the little rat was dead or alive when she had fled. The thought caused her to stand up and look long and hard at her backtrail. She rested her hand on the rifle butt protruding from the saddle boot. “I hope to hell they do come after me. I’ll settle their hash for ’em.” Her bluster had become a habit over the last few weeks. This time it was for the purpose of shoring up her spirits. If she had permitted her innermost thoughts to surface, she would have had to admit to the dread she harbored that the two bloodthirsty renegades might appear at any time.

  Up in the saddle again, she paused to look upstream and then downstream, and then at the rolling prairie facing her. “Abby, girl, you ain’t got the slightest idea where the hell you are…or where you’re going, for that matter.” The quiet was almost overpowering. Were it not for the soft gurgle of the water, there would have been no sound at all, and suddenly the vastness of the land seemed to close in on her and she felt her throat choking off her wind-pipe. “Stop it!” she scolded. There was no time to become frightened and she patted the butt of her rifle again for reassurance.

  There was no choice for her but to keep riding, even though she had the feeling that she might blunder into a band of hostiles on the far side of every hill. Sh
e knew well enough what was behind her so she urged the horse into the water and walked him downstream. Since she had no idea where she was going, one direction was as good as the other. Her intention was to ride down the middle of the river for a mile or two in hopes of throwing Pike off her trail.

  She had ridden not quite a mile when she came to a place she deemed suitable for leaving the river. A grassy knoll extended out almost to the water before giving way to a sandy bank about three yards wide. She guided her horse up the bank and onto the grass, where she dismounted and cut herself a switch from a young willow. Using the willow switch as a broom, she went back and carefully swept the hoofmarks from the sandy bank. Feeling smug about her ingenuity, she mounted again and resumed her trek to the east and, she hoped, civilization.

  * * *

  “Well, Mister, it sure looks like your friend has dissolved the partnership.” Jason stood over the corpse lying at the base of a cottonwood tree. The man’s brains were splattered all over the tree trunk behind him. It wasn’t the work of Indians, that was plain to see, so it had to be the man’s partner.

  Jason had circled back below the Arapaho village and picked up the white man’s trail down the river. It was easy to follow. But the piece of business he had with the four Arapaho hunters had caused him to lose more time than he had planned. He didn’t see that he had had any choice in the matter. He did what he had to do at the time. Though unavoidable, it caused him to find the renegade’s camp several hours after the man had already returned from the Indian camp. Abby was not there, but maybe that meant she was at least still alive. The puzzle facing Jason now was to try to paint a picture of what had happened here.