Cheyenne Justice

by Charles G. West

  Soon after he started walking, the night began to lose its intensity and the black turned gradually to a deep gray. Before he had covered another mile, the trees along the riverbank began to take shape in the gray mist. Sunup in another hour, he thought, breaking into a dogtrot now that he could see his footing a little better. When the sun first looked over the distant hills, Jason stopped to study the riverbank. He decided he was still some distance downstream from the site of the attack by the dozen Cheyenne warriors. Kneeling at the water’s edge, he pulled up his shirt and examined his wound. It was not serious—it was superficial and had already scabbed over—but it would annoy him for some time, because the scab cracked whenever he moved. He paused briefly to examine the horse’s leg. It did not appear to be broken, but the horse recoiled whenever Jason lifted it. He looked at the hoof, which appeared okay but would not bear weight. Maybe the pony had suffered a bad bruise. He would just have to keep leading him and hope he mended. Being practical, Jason knew the horse had other uses beyond that of transportation. He might have to use him as a breastworks, and he could always eat him if it came to that.

  Another half mile and he came to the spot where he had first found the paint. It wasn’t far now. He led the horse down closer to the water’s edge and continued on, passing the ravine where he had waited for the four Cheyennes while Abby and Nathan White Horse had hidden above him. Less than a quarter mile from the ravine, he came to the narrow gully where he had found Nathan White Horse’s body. He stopped and turned around. “I missed it,” he announced, and he began to retrace his steps.

  Examining the shallow gullies carefully, he walked slowly back the way he had just come, stopping and closing his eyes, trying to recreate the picture of the river he had sought to burn into his memory. When he opened them and started walking again, his gaze caught the sight of a small, odd-shaped gully. He smiled—that was it. He had not recognized it at first because there was a dead cottonwood lying across it. The tree had not been there when he buried the rifles.

  There was no indication that the cache had been disturbed. Having no tool of any kind, not even his knife, he looked around until he found a stout stick to dig with. It was not a very efficient digging tool but he worked feverishly with it until the dirt became softened enough for him to help with his hands. Working steadily, he finally uncovered the corner of the hide that contained the Winchester. With renewed energy, he set to his task with a vengence and soon he was able to pull the bundle from the dirt.

  He unwrapped the rifle and inspected it. It seemed to be in perfect condition, with no more than a hint of rust on the underside of the barrel, and Jason was not sure that hadn’t been there when he buried it. He cocked the lever back, ejecting a round. “Damn,” he laughed, “I buried it with a cartridge in the chamber.” If there had been any serious rust, he might not have been able to eject the cartridge. That would have been a helluva note, he thought.

  Satisfied that the rifle was in good working order, he examined the two belts of cartridges he had wrapped up with it. Content that he was once again armed and ready for whatever came his way, he also took a knife but left the other rifles in the hole, covering them up again. No need to leave them for the Indians to find, but he could see no sense in carrying a load of rifles and knives when he was on foot. He put the hide that had contained the Winchester on the paint’s back and hung a cartridge belt on his neck. “I reckon you can carry that much.”

  He looked up into the morning sky. The sun was well up on its way toward noon. They’ll be coming on soon, he thought. My trail won’t be very hard to follow, but it’ll be a sight more difficult from here on in. He took the paint’s reins and led him off into the river.

  He left the river a half-mile upstream and made his way carefully up the bluffs, taking great pains to place each foot so as not to leave footprints. There was no way to disguise the horse’s hoofprints in the hard dirt, but Jason attempted to make it look like a wild horse had gone up from the river. Any reasonably competent tracker could tell that the horse was not carrying a rider. A better than average tracker could see that the horse was lame. If they found no man’s footprints, they might assume a stray horse had wandered that way, a lame horse that couldn’t keep up with the herd.

  All afternoon he kept up a steady pace, walking for a while, then trotting for a while, the paint limping along behind him. Since he was on foot and unable to make decent time, he decided it best to try to make his way to Camp Carson at the mouth of the Tongue, that being the closest army post. He knew there were several bands of hostiles camped between him and the fort, but it was his best chance of surviving. He didn’t think much of the idea of walking all the way back to Fort Lincoln.

  Late in the afternoon, just before the sun was ready to set behind the Big Horns, Jason lay flat on his belly watching a Sioux hunting party that was crossing a low ridge some three miles away. He observed them until they dropped out of sight beyond the ridge, then went back down the side of the hill to get the paint. The sight of the hunting party reminded him that he had not eaten in some time and the thought of some roasted antelope made his stomach growl. But he could not risk a shot, even if he came up on a pronghorn. He couldn’t even shoot one and then take it somewhere else to butcher it. On foot he couldn’t get far enough away from the site of the kill before a curious Sioux found him.

  It wasn’t to his liking at this point, but he found it necessary to travel at a much slower pace due to the many fresh trails he crossed. There were hunting parties riding through in every direction. Nightfall found him back close to the river again and he led the paint down to the water to drink. Then he tied him in a stand of willows that provided plenty of tender bark, as well as some sparse grass near the river. Once his horse was taken care of, he took the antelope hide off the paint’s back and laid it down near him to use for his bed. Then he gathered up as much dead wood as he could find and, using dead grass as kindling, made a fire beneath the bank of the river. He was grateful that Two Moon’s warriors had not emptied his pockets while he was a captive in their camp. Consequently, he still had his flint. He had attempted, at one time in his life, to make a fire using a bow drill like the Indians used, but he was not successful with it.

  By this time, his belly was constantly reminding him that it had been painfully neglected, but he had nothing to appease it. He looked over at his horse, contentedly stripping the bark from a willow branch, and he wondered how that lame leg of the paint’s would look turning on a spit over the fire. Tomorrow, he promised himself, I’m going to find something to eat, hostiles or no hostiles.

  To get his mind off his stomach, he decided to take a look around his camp before trying to sleep. Full darkness had set in now and he had to watch his step when he climbed up from the riverbank to the top of the bluff. Long before he reached the top, he saw the rosy glow in the sky. He knew full well what it was—the glow of a large Indian village, maybe two hundred lodges or more. Of even greater concern was the fact that the village lay between him and Camp Carson. Who could it be? With that many lodges, Sitting Bull? Crazy Horse, maybe? But Sitting Bull was supposed to be somewhere in the Little Big Horn valley and Crazy Horse was on the Rosebud. Well, whoever it was, he would have to give them a wide berth and, even then, it would be difficult to avoid their hunting parties. “Ain’t much I can do about it now,” he stated softly and scrambled back down the bluff and turned in.

  He set out early the next morning, before the sun was up, striking out to the east, toward the Powder. His thought was to avoid the huge Indian camp. He was in no shape to outrun a band of Indians. His only chance of survival was to remain undiscovered by those between him and the fort and hope that the Cheyennes chasing him would lose his trail. It was not encouraging to know that, with every step he took, the Cheyenne ponies closed the distance by several yards.

  As he walked and trotted, the ache in the pit of his stomach never let him forget his hunger, so he reminded himself to keep a sharp eye out for any food so
urce. But there was nothing. Had he been able to continue along the river, there might have been some wild berries on the bank, but on the hills and ravines there was little to eat but grass. Along about midmorning, he made up his mind that he would risk a shot if he happened upon any game. So when he started over a steep rise that bordered a small stream, he stopped dead still. There, by the water, two black-tail deer stood drinking. Jason looked around him at a vast expanse of seemingly empty land and decided it was worth the risk.

  He had never fired the Winchester before so he hoped the weapon’s aim was true, for he did not want to chance more than one shot. There was no wind to amount to anything, so he laid the front sight behind the closest animal’s left shoulder. He hesitated half a moment, then squeezed the trigger. The report of the rifle sounded as loud as a cannon in the morning stillness, although he knew it was exaggerated in his mind. The deer fell to his knees, then sprang up once and landed still in the stream.

  Jason did not move for a few seconds, listening. Then he stood up and scanned the country around him, searching for any sign that his shot had been heard. When he could see no riders in any direction, he descended the slope down to the stream and pulled the carcass out of the water.

  Several miles away, south of the little stream, in a wide ravine, Wild Pony, a Lakota warrior, stopped and listened. He turned to his companion, Small Bear, and saw that he too had heard the single rifle shot. There were eight of them in the hunting party. All eight had heard the shot.

  “What do you think?” Wild Pony asked. “Do you know if anyone rode out to the north of us?”

  Small Bear shook his head and said, “No.” He looked at the others for comment. They all shrugged. One of them, Walks Big, said, “Only one shot—maybe it is Gray Wolf. He sometimes hunts alone.”

  “Maybe,” Wild Pony replied. “Maybe it is some Arapahos from Crooked Leg’s camp.”

  They listened for a few minutes longer, then decided it was nothing of importance and continued on their way.

  Before butchering the deer, Jason carefully noted the location of the bullethole behind the shoulder. The wound was a little high, but not enough to concern him. A variance that small could well be his fault. He decided he could trust the sights on the Winchester without making allowances.

  He could not afford to take the time to cut up the whole animal, so he would take what he could carry with him. As soon as he gutted the deer, he cut out the liver and ate a chunk of it. His empty stomach almost rejected the warm, raw mouthful he gulped down, but he waited for a few moments until it settled down. Then he swallowed more of it. The Sioux considered the raw liver a delicacy but Jason never cared for any meat that wasn’t cooked and, as a rule, he never ate the internal organs of anything. Nevertheless, he needed the nourishment the liver would provide, and he was hungry enough to eat a prairie dog raw at this stage. Already feeling stronger, he cut up several slabs of the fresh meat and wrapped them in a square of the hide. These he would take with him to roast for his dinner.

  Tying his horse’s reins to the back of his belt so that he had both hands free to carry his possibles, he started on his way again, leaving the half-butchered carcass to the buzzards.

  * * *

  They had ridden hard, not resting until the horses were almost foundering. Even then they were mounted and riding again as soon as the horses could go. Two Moon had decided to lead the war party himself, such was his desire to be a witness to the end of the white scout. Coles had escaped and Two Moon was not really surprised. The man’s medicine was strong, perhaps strong enough to make White Bird’s eyes heavy and sleepy, as White Bird had insisted. These things were possible. How he had escaped didn’t matter—the thing that mattered was that he must be overtaken and punished for the lives he took that day on the Tongue.

  Two Moon was certain Coles could not be far ahead of them now. It was plain that the white scout was on foot, leading a lame horse. They should have caught up with him already, but he had managed to lose them back at the river and his scouts had to search the banks several times before finding a single print from the horse.

  “Ki-ya, Ki-ya,” Big Turtle called out, racing back to meet Two Moon and the rest of the war party. He pulled his pony up to a stop and reported. “We see riders up ahead, on the ridge beyond this valley!”

  Two Moon was concerned but not alarmed. “How many? Can you tell who they are?”

  “Only eight or nine,” Big Turtle replied. “They are not soldiers—I think maybe a hunting party.”

  Two Moon nodded and rode out ahead of the war party with Big Turtle to get a look for himself. They whipped their ponies to run hard in an effort to climb up the slope before the riders were out of their view. At the top of the ridge, Broken Foot waited. When Two Moon and Big Turtle pulled up beside him, he turned and pointed toward a long ridge, shaped like a buffalo’s hump. He simply stated, “Lakota.”

  Two Moon studied the riders for a moment before confirming Broken Foot’s statement. “Yes, they are Lakotas.” He raised his rifle in the air and fired two shots. The Lakota hunting party stopped immediately. Though over a mile away, Two Moon could see their heads turn as one toward the sound of his rifle. He raised his rifle again and waved it back and forth. The leader of the Lakotas waved in return and then turned to ride toward the Cheyennes.

  Wild Pony and his party rode down to meet their friends and allies and words of greeting were exchanged between the Lakotas and the Cheyennes. When Wild Pony wondered why Two Moon led such a large party of warriors through this territory. Two Moon explained that they were searching for a lone white man who had been responsible for the deaths of many Cheyenne warriors. Wild Pony glanced at his friend, Small Bear. They both immediately thought of the single rifle shot they had heard no more than an hour before.

  “Where did the shot come from?” Two Moon asked.

  Wild Pony indicated a low range of hills to the north. “It sounded like it came from beyond those hills. How far is hard to tell—maybe three or four miles from here.”

  The two men discussed the probability of the white man’s intended route. They agreed that Jason was more than likely trying to make his way to Camp Carson, since he was on foot and the fort was the closest army post. They considered where the Lakotas had heard the rifle shot and surmised that Jason had no doubt seen the Lakota village and was making a wide circle around it, but would probably cut back to his original path to the fort.

  “We will help you catch this white man,” Wild Pony said. “My friends and I will ride back to our camp and get more warriors to help. If this man is trying to go to the soldier fort, he will be following the river. It will take a man on foot a long time to reach the Yellowstone. We should be able to get around in front of him and cut him off before he reaches the fork where the Pumpkin leaves the Tongue. If you and your warriors continue to follow him, we will trap him between us.”

  The plan seemed a good one to Two Moon so he thanked Wild Pony for his offer. Soon the two bands were off again, the Lakotas to their camp and the Cheyennes after Jason.

  * * *

  Jason knelt by the small fire he had made in a hollowed-out basin beside a small stream. He had walked at least four miles from the spot where he had killed the deer until he found a place that afforded enough concealment to suit him. The raw liver he had eaten seemed reluctant to leave his stomach and he was anxious to put some cooked meat in to help it along.

  When he had satisfied his hunger and felt strong again, he took up the paint’s reins and started out once more, working his way around the hostile village and then cutting back toward the river. His muscles began to remind him that it had been a long time since he had walked that far. He felt a nagging stiffness in his thighs that made his steps feel heavy, but he continued to push himself, knowing that, if he paced himself properly, he could go on indefinitely. Glancing behind him, he noticed that the paint’s condition did not improve. If anything, the limp seemed more pronounced. It was bad luck, but there was no need to
spend thought lamenting the way things had fallen.

  Paralleling the line of trees that traced the river’s course, Jason kept to the low country as much as possible. Once, just when he was about to cross over a ridge, he had to stop and lay hidden for a few minutes. A band of forty or fifty Sioux warriors suddenly appeared on the other side of the river, traveling in roughly the same direction he was. He lay still and watched them until they rode out of sight. They did not cross over to his side of the river, so he had to assume they would not cross his path. They had seemed in a hurry to get wherever they were going and, wherever that was, he figured it didn’t concern him. There was no reason for the Lakotas to hold him as an enemy. Still, they wouldn’t be thrilled to find any white man this deep in their hunting grounds.

  It was well past noon when he decided to rest for a few minutes near the base of a high hill. For the past several miles, he had been aware of a pain in his right heel. He had a pretty good idea that his boot had rubbed his heel raw, but he was reluctant to remove the boot to examine the extent of the damage—once if was off, he was afraid it would be too hard to put back on. So he decided to ignore it. Sitting on the ground, he stretched his legs out before him and massaged his thighs. He glanced up at the paint. “I sure as hell ain’t used to this. What did you have to step in a damn hole for?”

  After only a few minutes’ rest, he made himself get up again to avoid getting stiff. Before continuing, he climbed to the top of the hill to check his backtrail. The sight that greeted him was what he had hoped to avoid seeing altogether. They were maybe two miles back, a long, single file of riders, moving exactly along the way he had come. There was no need to wait until they were close enough to identify. He knew it was Two Moon. “Well, shit,” he uttered. Feeling concern but no fear, he lingered but a few moments longer watching the progress of the war party before descending the hill. They were gaining fast. He had hoped he had lost them but evidently he hadn’t. Well, he thought, no use fretting over that now. The valley he was now in was open and treeless offering no place to hide. He looked hard at his horse, wondering just how bad the paint’s leg actually was. “Let’s just see,” he murmured and, grabbing a handful of mane, pulled himself up on horse’s back. The paint squealed with pain, took a few staggering steps and went to his knees. Jason jumped off. “Well, I reckon we can forget about that option.” He cradled the horse’s head in his arm and stroked his neck. “Come on, then. We’ll make for the river. There ain’t no cover out here.”