Before continuing, Two Elks packed a clay pipe with tobacco and lit it. After taking several deep breaths from it, he passed it to Jason who, in turn, took several draws. The significance of this gesture by the chief was not lost on Jason.
“It is true,” Two Elks went on. “The Cheyennes had a baby with them but they said the child was the son of the Cheyenne, Stone Hand, and it was right that he be returned to his people.”
In his ragged Ute, Jason told Two Elks how he had come to have the baby. A white woman had been brutally raped by the renegade, Stone Hand. Nine months later, the woman gave birth to a baby boy. Wrongly thinking it the product of the assault by Stone Hand, the woman gave the baby to an Osage woman. Jason and the Osage woman came to his valley with the baby to raise as their own. The Cheyennes had no claim on the child.
Two Elks understood and sympathized with Jason’s plight. He freely gave Jason any information he could. He told him there were six Cheyenne warriors, and a woman from his village went with them to care for the child. It was thought that the Lakota chief, Sitting Bull, was camped in the Yellowstone country. The Cheyennes were on their way there to join him. He further warned Jason that the leader of the Cheyenne party was a brave named Black Eagle and that Black Eagle had sworn to kill Jason. He had expressed deep disappointment that Jason had been away from the cabin when they had come for the baby. When Jason asked why this particular Cheyenne had sworn to kill him, Two Elks explained that the man held Stone Hand as a spirit and Jason had killed him. To avenge Stone Hand, Black Eagle must kill Jason. The news concerned Jason but not enough to worry him. He had been threatened before.
After they had talked, Two Elks invited Jason to stay in his camp and rest before starting out after the Cheyennes but Jason was anxious to get under way. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy trying to catch up with them, what with the head start they already had. The whole trip would be through Indian territory and other tribes were not likely to be as hospitable as the Utes.
It was still early afternoon when he said good-bye to Two Elks. He thanked him for his hospitality and, as a gesture of his appreciation, he left the chief with two of his four Appaloosas, one as a gift to him and one to replace his son’s pony. The gesture pleased the chief greatly. Jason had no real use for four horses now. He had to travel fast, and four horses were too much trouble to manage. His horse-breeding days were over anyway, he was back in the scouting business.
* * *
Figuring the Cheyennes would start out toward the east to strike the plateau country before turning north if they were heading for the Yellowstone, Jason scouted up and down the valley in order to pick up the trail. It was easily identified by the prints of that many horses and, when he struck it, he asked the Appaloosa for a little more speed. He had some catching up to do. They had at least a full day’s start on him.
Jason held the Appaloosa to a steady pace for most of the day, stopping every two hours to rest the horses. There was plenty of opportunity to give them water. Even though many of the numerous streams he crossed dried up in the summer, there were plenty more that offered at least a trickle. He came to the first of their campsites before noon on the second day. Driving on until nearly dark, he came upon their next campsite and decided to make his camp there that night.
As was his custom, when operating in hostile country, he made up a dummy bedroll by the edge of the firelight. For himself, he took a buffalo robe Two Elks had given him, rolled up in it, and bedded down by his horses well away from the firelight. If he happened to be attacked, it would most likely be by a hunting party that stumbled on him by chance. He didn’t figure the party of Cheyennes knew they were being trailed.
As he settled himself in for the night, he thought about Henry. Henry was the best horse he had ever owned. No more than a common Indian pony, he had a stouter heart than any horse Jason had ever seen, before or since. Jason had made it a habit to throw his bedroll under Henry and sleep, knowing that the horse would let him know pretty quick if he had company. In the years that Jason and Henry were partners, Henry never once stepped on him. Jason was a little reluctant to try that trick with either of the two Appaloosas. He smiled when he thought about a remark that Sergeant-Major Max Kennedy made about Henry. He said that since Jason rode the ugliest horse in the western territory, he didn’t have to worry with horse thieves. Max may have been right, Henry wasn’t much to look at but he would sure as hell still be going long after the army’s mounts were foundered. It was a sorrowful day for him when Henry was shot out from under him, another thing he could credit to Stone Hand.
As he had guessed, Black Eagle and his friends struck a trail straight north after they came out of the hills and onto the broad rolling prairie. During the course of the day, he came across several trails, some east and west, but most north and south. They told Jason that there were more than a few hostiles going to join the Sioux leader. He wondered if the generals in Washington had any idea what a hornets’ nest they were going to stir up when they tried to put Sitting Bull on the reservation.
The morning of the third day, Jason saddled the other horse and shifted the pack to the one he had been riding. He didn’t favor either horse as yet and he thought it a good idea to keep both mounts accustomed to the saddle. The one he started out on was black all over except for a spotted rump and neck. The one he rode that morning was more white, with black stockings and neck. He had not bothered to name them, referring to them merely as Black and White.
He stayed in the saddle all day, doggedly following the trail that never veered far from its northerly course. He had hoped to pick up more ground on them but they seemed bent on making as good time as they could in their efforts to join Sitting Bull. And too, Jason could appreciate the irony of knowing they were as well mounted as he was, riding his Appaloosas. The fourth day passed without appreciable gain.
In the afternoon of the sixth day, he came to the north fork of the Platte and another of Black Eagle’s campsites. For the first time in several days, he felt as if he might be gaining on the renegades. He pushed on, following the trail that now crossed many other older trails. Jason had expected this because he was now just east of Fort Laramie. Black Eagle gave the fort a wide berth, holding to a trail that led almost always to the north, a trail that would take him east of the site of Fort Fetterman.
Living on jerky and coffee, he was tempted to kill some fresh meat when he came upon two deer, north of the Platte. They were Black Tails, good-sized deer that didn’t seem to love water as much as their White Tail cousins, so it wasn’t unusual to find them roaming away from easy watering holes. Unsure of the lead Black Eagle had on him, he was reluctant to take a shot for fear it might be heard. He tipped his hat to the two bucks, standing stone still now to stare at the lone white man. He held to the pace he had set.
Along about midday, after almost two weeks of trailing, he came upon another campsite and he knew for sure he was gaining on them. Judging by the bones and a few scant remains, it appeared they had taken some time to hunt, antelope by the look of it. It afforded him the opportunity to narrow the gap between them. Jason dug into the ashes of their campfire. They were still warm. If he could keep up his present pace, he might catch up to them before another day. Black Eagle was not pushing it too hard but he was making reasonably good time. Jason figured they were now no more than maybe half a day ahead.
Under a full moon, the prairie seemed almost as light as day so Jason decided to make up some more time. The careless trail left by Black Eagle and his party was easy enough to follow across the rolling land. He pushed on for several hours before stopping to bed down for the night by a narrow stream that wandered down through a stand of cottonwoods. His sense of caution was sharply intensified that night for he could feel he was closing in on the party of Cheyennes. He would sleep light, for he was deep in hostile territory.
* * *
The sun was warm on his shoulders as he followed the trail toward a line of low hills on the near horizon. He
had switched his saddle back to Black that morning and he was beginning to believe that of the two horses, he favored Black. He had passed Black Eagle’s last campfire early in the day and was again making good time. He could feel his senses awakening to the danger surrounding him. This land was still roamed by bands of Arapaho and Shoshoni, by Cheyenne and Sioux. He was the intruder here, yet he felt as one with the land. Even with the promise of impending danger, he knew he was back where he belonged. He had been foolish to think he could have settled down on his ranch in the little valley he had staked out. That thought made him think of his Osage wife, little Lark, and he immediately felt a tinge of guilt. He felt guilty for not being there to protect her, but more than that, he felt guilty because he knew now he could not have stayed on the ranch very long before he would be itching to get back in the saddle. He would fetch the baby back if he could and he would even the score with Mr. Black Eagle. That much he could do for her now.
He drew back on Black hard, causing the horse to dig his front hooves in the dirt. Almost in the same motion, he pulled Black’s head around so abruptly, the horse almost fell sideways. A hunting party was passing on the opposite side of the hill and Jason’s thoughts of Lark had almost caused him to blunder right over the crest of the hill, almost on top of them. As quickly as he could, he dismounted and led the horses down the slope until he found a bush to tie them to. Then he grabbed his rifle and scrambled back to the top of the rise, crawling the last few feet on his belly.
There were eight of them, Arapaho by the look of it. Apparently they had not heard him, for they showed no sense of caution. Instead, they seemed to be in good spirits, laughing and talking among themselves, unaware of the white scout no more than forty yards away. Jason could see the reason for their good humor. They had had a good hunt. Their packhorses were laden with fresh meat. He couldn’t help but think of their brothers who had come in to the reservation, waiting for the rations promised by the government but always in short supply. There was nothing much left for them but to hunt for themselves. It was a bitter pill for a people to swallow when they had taken care of themselves for as long as they could remember. He recalled the defeat and desperation he had seen in the faces at the agency at Camp Supply and he knew where he would be if he were a Cheyenne brave. He’d be out here with the so-called hostiles. Damned if I’d rot away on the reservation, he thought. It ain’t right but President Grant don’t come to me for advice so I guess it ain’t none of my affair.
He lay there on the hilltop, watching, until the hunting party had disappeared around a rise in the prairie. “Well,” he muttered. “You were lucky that time, Mr. Coles. Maybe next time you can just fire your rifle up in the air four or five times so they’ll know you’re here.”
Back in the saddle, he struck out for the hills again, picking up Black Eagle’s trail on the other side of the rise. After an hour’s ride, the trail crossed another trail, going in the opposite direction. Jason figured Black Eagle had met the Arapaho hunting party here and, judging by the tracks, they had stopped to talk. Traditionally, the Cheyennes and the Arapahos were friendly toward each other and often even intermarried.
Another hour’s ride saw him approaching the hills he had been riding toward all day. The sun was moving closer to the western horizon and he knew he should rest the horses. He had slowed to a more cautious pace because the tracks he was following were fresh now, no more than an hour old, judging by the fresh horse droppings he found. Coming upon a coulee that the trail skirted, he decided it best to rest the horses here before crossing the line of hills before him.
He pulled off the trail and descended to the bottom of the coulee where he found a trickle of water. Lucky, he thought, because another couple of weeks without rain and this’ll be dried up. He took his hand axe and dug a hole in the sandy bottom to make a basin for the horses to drink from. It was not his usual practice to disturb the ground in that fashion in case someone might come across his trail. But he wanted to make sure the horses got enough water. Besides, anyone happening upon his trail wouldn’t know it was a white man who dug the hole because he never shod his horses.
He held the horses back until the little pool filled before letting them drink. Once they were taken care of, he took his rifle and climbed up the side of the coulee to scout the terrain between him and the hills. In his estimation, it was no more than a mile before the trail would climb up through the pines that dotted the gentle slopes. It had been more than three years since he had scouted this part of the country but, if memory served, that line of hills gave way to more prairie on the far side.
He studied the hills more closely, trying to decide where Black Eagle would most likely climb up through the pines. He picked a spot that he would take, if it was him, following the general direction of the trail. Then he looked back at the prairie between the coulee and the hills. He didn’t like the look of it. He was too close now and the hills would give Black Eagle too good a vantage point to check his back trail if he was of a mind to. Surprise was too big an element in Jason’s plan to give away and he could be spotted too easily crossing that open expanse. “Nothing to do but wait till dark,” he muttered and, after another look around in all directions, scrambled back down to the horses.
Darkness came at last. He hated losing the hours he had spent waiting for it but he knew it made a lot more sense. He roused himself from the position he had burrowed in near the top of the coulee and stretched to pull some of the kinks from his back and shoulders. Then he listened to the night noises to make sure everything seemed right. In a few minutes time, he was riding out of the coulee and heading for the hills at a trot. He wanted to find the cover of the trees before the moon rose too high.
By the time he gained the protection of the pines, the moon had risen high enough to light his way. Since he had only guessed where the Cheyennes would cross the hills, he now had to skirt the edge of the trees at the foot of the hill to pick up the trail. It was not easy, even with the help of a nearly full moon. He dismounted and carefully searched the grass for sign. His guess on the easiest place to climb the hill was not far off, for within a quarter of an hour, he found the trail. He stood there, peering into the pines above him, the moonlight spreading alternating patterns of dark and light, giving the forest a dreamlike appearance. Plenty of places for ambush, he thought, as he stepped up on Black and urged him up the hill.
The hill was no more than about three hundred feet high but there were some steep climbs that caused his horses to labor a bit before reaching the top. Beyond the first hill were two smaller ones. Between the two smaller hills, a stream ran, the moonlight shining on the water and reflecting back through the openings in the trees. Jason followed the course of the stream with his eyes until he saw what he was searching for, a soft red glow near the stream. He was in luck, they had not gone far before making camp for the night.
Jason made his way slowly down the hill, carefully guiding the horses around dead trees and loose rocks. At the bottom, he led them into a thicket of young Ponderosa pine and firs and tied them off. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot and checked the action on his Colt forty-four and stuck it in his belt. He then made his way up the first small hill on foot.
From the looks of their camp, it didn’t appear they were expecting any trouble. From his position in the pines, halfway down the hill, he was able to see all six of the men. One of them was tending to the horses while the other five sat around the fire, two of them with their backs to Jason. The woman sat off to one side, feeding the child. The odds were six to one but he figured his Winchester reduced the odds to three to one because he figured to take three of them out before they even realized what was happening. Not knowing what kind or how many weapons they had, he knew he would have to move fast after the initial three shots in case his muzzle flashes attracted a lot of return fire. The odds might still be in their favor at three to one but Jason was comfortable with three to one in a situation like this.
Not ready yet, he
waited. The Cheyennes didn’t seem concerned about their safety, what with the size of their campfire and the way they were sitting close around it. Consequently, Jason didn’t expect them to post a sentry on the horses so he waited for the man who was tending the horses to return to the others. He didn’t have to wait long before they were all six around the fire, eating from a sizable hump of meat that was sizzling on a spit. Jason figured it must have been a gift from the Arapaho hunting party they met earlier that day.
Ready now, he steadied himself on one knee and brought his Winchester to his shoulder. He hesitated, for one of the braves had suddenly gotten to his feet and walked out of the firelight. Jason could just barely make his form out in the shadow of the trees. He waited patiently until the Indian had emptied his bladder and returned to take his place by the fire.
Once again he raised his rifle. Before taking his aim, he glanced quickly at the squaw. He calculated that she would roll over to her left when the shooting started because that offered the closest cover. That should take her out of the field of fire. It was anybody’s guess where the remaining three braves would scatter. He would just have to depend on his reactions and maybe a little luck. He laid his front sight on a spot between the shoulder blades of the warrior on his left. “Back shooting is just as honorable as face on when you’re bushwhacking,” he mumbled and squeezed the trigger.
As soon as he fired, he swung the muzzle to the right and squeezed off a second shot. The two Indians with their backs toward him slumped over sideways without making a sound. Before their companions could react to the explosion of rifle fire, Jason cut down one of the braves on the opposite side of the fire. Cocking and firing in one continuous motion, he moved a few yards farther down the hill.
Black Eagle Page 3
