by Jory Sherman
“I do not know,” she said.
I thought again of what Sheriff Hall and said. “Grain.” With sour mash, Pettigrew could make whiskey, sell it to the Utes. Would he also sell them guns?
“I will go to the town of the white eyes tomorrow,” I said to her.
“Why?”
“I look for my sister.”
“She is there?”
“She is somewhere near that town of the white eyes.”
“You know this?”
“I know this. Let us sleep now, Blue Owl. I will watch. You sleep.”
“Yes. I will sleep,” she said.
Tomorrow I would buy us blankets and canteens, maybe a tent, some staples, cooking utensils. La Porte was a trading post. I would go alone and take Blue Owl’s pony to carry the goods I would buy. We had eaten the dried buffalo meat, and she had some roots that served as vegetables, but were very dry and hard to chew. She had not eaten much and neither had I. We were both still shaken over our experience in Fort Collins. I looked at her and thought how brave she was, how sweet she looked in sleep.
Sometime after Blue Owl had fallen asleep, I saw the Utes leave the trading post and cross the river. Like wraiths, they disappeared in the night. Finally, the lights of the town began to wink out and the music stopped. The tavern, or wherever the voices and music were coming from, put out its lamps as well, and I was alone in the quiet. Blue Owl slept straight through. I didn’t have the heart to awaken her and take to the ground myself. I dozed and walked around to keep warm, wishing I had a fire, but knowing that Utes were around and would smell the smoke, seek us out.
Blue Owl awoke before dawn.
She went off in the bushes and then returned.
“You do not awaken Blue Owl,” she said.
“I did not have a wish to sleep.”
“You tired.”
“I go to buy blankets and cooking pots, food to eat.”
“Where?”
“Down there.” I pointed to what I thought was the trading post among the small buildings on the slope above the Cherokee Trail.
“Blue Owl go with you?”
“No. I will take your pony to carry what I buy with the shining metal.”
“Buy hatchet,” she said.
“Yes.”
I rode down to La Porte, but took a long way around so that I would not be seen coming from where we were camped. I rode some distance north until I could no longer see any of the buildings, then descended onto the Cherokee Trail. The sun was halfway up the sky to its zenith when I saw the sign: CHEROKEE TRAIL TRADING POST. Underneath it: BILL JENKINS, PROP. I rode toward the log building. I tied the ponies to the hitch rail out front, carried my rifle with me, and walked onto the porch and into the store, which was open for business.
There were half a dozen horses already tied up at the hitch rail so I knew there would be people inside. I wasn’t prepared for the two I saw, sitting at a table in one part of the room. They had a pail of beer and two glasses and hardly looked up when I entered. But they did look up for a minute and I saw their faces.
There, not twenty feet away, sat Cassius Hogg and Rudy Truitt.
They had not recognized me.
I walked to the counter. The other men in the place were playing cards at tables. There was a strong smell of beer and cider in the room, along with the other odors.
“I want to buy some things,” I said.
“We don’t sell to Injuns in the daytime,” the man said.
“I’m not an Indian. I’m a white man.”
He cocked his head and looked at me closely.
“Well, you speak the lingo good enough, but you don’t look much white to me.”
“I will buy clothes too.” I took out my money pouch and reached in, put some twenty-dollar gold pieces on the counter.
“Well, yes, sir, then. Money talks, eh? I’m Bill Jenkins. Where you from?”
I didn’t know what to say. I remembered Ormly House saying that he had come down from Fort Laramie. Perhaps he had stopped in here.
“Fort Laramie. I’m trying to find my friend, Ormly House.”
“Ormly came through here a few days ago. You just missed him. Now, let’s get you some clothes and whatnot. You just tell me what you want and I’ll bring them.”
“I’ll need a pannier and some rope to carry what I buy on my packhorse.” I didn’t say “pony” because I knew that would make him suspicious all over again.
I gave Jenkins a list of what I wanted to buy, wondering if I had enough money for all of it. But I had counted the paper, silver, and gold and it had come to over one hundred dollars. While he was counting it all up, I fitted the wooden pannier to the back of Blue Owl’s pony, and tied it on with diamond hitches like my father had once shown me.
When I was almost all packed, I heard a voice.
“You there. Turn around.”
I turned around and there on the porch stood Hogg and Truitt. They both wore sidearms. Colts, I think.
“Do I know you?” Hogg asked.
My blood froze.
He had his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol.
And my rifle was inside, leaning against the counter.
My answer, I thought, might well decide my fate. If I said the wrong thing, I could be dead within a very short time. If I didn’t, I might just get to live.
But, for that long precarious moment, I was tongue-tied, and shaking like a leaf inside my buckskins.
Twenty-three
Here he was, I thought. A man I hated so much I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. But he was armed and I was not.
Cassius Hogg was bracing me, ready to draw his pistol and shoot me dead if I told him the truth, if I told him who I really was.
I thought of a boy back home I knew, back in Kansas City. He was younger than I, and kind of a dolt. His parents were not gifted much with brains either, and it was unlikely a man like Hogg would have ever heard of any of them.
“My name’s Nickerson,” I said, pitching my voice a lot lower than it usually was, “Andy Nickerson. Out of Fort Laramie. Been up in the Medicine Bows hunting elk. Lost my traps in a flood, stole me a couple of Rappyhoe ponies, and am headin’ out for Santa Fe.”
Where I got all that, I don’t know. Maybe there’s just one big mind in the whole universe and it’s God’s great mind and we just dip into it when we need to and find all kinds of useful thoughts.
“Well, you looked kinda familiar,” Hogg said. “But I reckon we ain’t never met.”
“Not likely.”
“It ain’t him,” Truitt said, his tongue thick with drink.
I didn’t say anything, believing that the less I said, the better.
“My mistake,” Hogg said. “I’m Cassius Hogg and this here’s Rudy Truitt. Buy you a drink?”
“Naw, I got to get to Fort Collins. Hope to meet up with my pard.”
“Who would that be?” Hogg said. “Might be I know the man.”
“Ormly. Ormly House.”
Hogg and Truitt exchanged glances.
“Yeah, he come through here a while back. Seems like he was from Fort Laramie too.”
I pulled the rope tight on the pannier and stood there, hoping the two men would go on back inside and drink another pail of warm beer.
“Well, thanks,” I said.
The two men went back inside the trading post. I heaved a sigh and waited a few minutes, then walked in to retrieve my rifle.
“Anything else?” Jenkins asked when I picked up my rifle.
I looked around, then shook my head.
“You’re all settled up then.”
“Sir, would you mind walking outside with me? I want to talk to you in private.”
“Why, sure. I reckon I can do that. Ain’t nobody in here goin’ to steal nothin’.”
He laughed and followed me out of the store.
“What was it you wanted to say, young feller?”
“I’m wondering about a family in these pa
rts, sir. Name of Pettigrew. Amos Pettigrew in particular. Do you have an acquaintance with this man?”
The expression on Jenkins’s face changed markedly, freezing up in a suspicious scowl.
“How come you be askin’ about Amos Pettigrew?”
“A friend in Fort Laramie asked me to pass on his regards.”
“Oh, well, that’s different, I guess. Yeah, I know Amos pretty well. Do some business with him.”
“Can you give me directions to his farm? I’d like to stop by and relieve myself of the obligation I’m under.”
“Well, yeah, he’s got him a farm yonder, over the hill. But he ain’t there.”
“Oh. He left?”
Jenkins chuckled.
“Up the canyon,” he said, pointing across the river. “He goes up there to trade every spring. It’s quite a ride. You may not want to take the time.”
“No, maybe not. Well, thanks, Mr. Jenkins.”
“You have yourself a safe journey to Santy Fe, young feller.”
I untied the ponies and climbed up on the back of the one I was riding. I saluted Jenkins as he stood on the porch, laid my rifle across my lap, and rode away. I felt the stares on my back and knew I had better head for Fort Collins until I was well out of sight, then double back to where Blue Owl was waiting for me.
I found a ford, a small one, barely accessible, farther down the South Platte and crossed over. I knew I’d have to cross the Poudre too, and rode into the foothills. I knew I could cross at that wide bend where we hunted the elk. It would be a long ride, but I had some hardtack and jerky to gnaw on, plus a couple of canteens that I could fill from the Poudre.
It was late afternoon when I got back to our camp. I had gotten lost a couple of times and had to ride close to the Cherokee Trail to get my bearings. I don’t know if anyone from the trading post saw me, but I hoped not.
Blue Owl was happy to see me and she helped me unload the bulging pannier. When she laid out the things that I had bought, she picked up each. I bought her a little mirror and some candy, which she had never tasted before. She beamed as she chewed on a licorice stick and examined the small kettle, the cups, and a cook pot. She gazed at herself in the mirror and made faces, smiling all the time.
We made love that night under the lean-to I had put up from canvas I had bought. She delighted in cutting the stakes with the new hatchet. We did not make a fire that night, but I told her I would make one in the morning and would cook for her. There was no word in Arapaho for “breakfast,” but she knew what “morning food” was. I was content. I did not tell her that we were going to ride up the Cache la Poudre to look for my sister. I would do that after I had cooked her some eggs and bacon and her belly was full. I had bought a coffeepot and some Arbuckle’s coffee too, which was my surprise for her. She asked me over and over what was in the sack, but I wouldn’t tell her.
Blue Owl would never have that breakfast. And I never got to light a fire the next morning. She heard them coming long before I did, and told me that we must hide.
“Somebody come,” she said. “You, me, we hide.”
“Where?”
“From the town of the white eyes.”
She pointed down toward La Porte.
I put fresh powder in the pan of my rifle, blew away the excess, and we waited. I heard horses coming up through the trees. Then, it was quiet for a long time.
“Maybe they went away,” I whispered.
She put her ear to the ground. It grew very quiet. I waited. She lifted her head and looked at me.
“Gone?” I asked.
“I do not know.”
“Maybe just some hunters,” I said in English to myself.
We got up and walked back to the lean-to. Nothing had been disturbed and there were no signs that anyone had ridden up on horseback. I laid my rifle against a small pine tree within easy reach and started to chop kindling with the hatchet.
“I know who you are, you sonofabitch.”
The voice boomed and I must have jumped a half foot. I dropped the hatchet and stretched to grab my rifle.
I recognized the voice.
It was Hogg, but I couldn’t see him.
He and Truitt stepped out from a clump of trees. Blue Owl ran up, bent down, and snatched up the hatchet.
“Got yourself a squaw, eh, Jared? Well, you drop that rifle, sonny.”
Both Hogg and Truitt had rifles in their hands.
“Leave us alone, Hogg,” I said.
He lifted his rifle to his shoulder. He was no more than forty yards away.
But Truitt shot first. The crack of the Winchester sounded like a bullwhip.
I brought my rifle up and took aim an instant after Truitt fired. I put the blade front sight on his chest, lined it up with the rear buckhorn, pulled the set trigger, then fired. A cloud of white smoke billowed from the muzzle of my rifle. Orange flame squirted from the barrel in a shower of sparks. I could not see through the thick white smoke.
I heard a cry from nearby, and turned to see Blue Owl crumpling to her knees. A crimson stain blossomed like a flower on her chest.
I drew my knife and ran through the smoke, straight toward Hogg and Truitt.
Hogg fired his rifle, but the bullet whistled past me. I saw Truitt lying on the ground, blood gushing from his chest.
Hogg was working the lever to jack in another cartridge when I hit him in the gut with my head, bowling him over backward. I slapped at his rifle and it tumbled from his grasp. His whiskey breath assaulted my nostrils.
“You bastard,” Hogg growled, the breath knocked out of him.
I got to my knees and jabbed my knife at him. Hogg crabbed around and stood up. He drew his Colt pistol, but I hit him before the weapon cleared his holster. I sailed a roundhouse left to his face, struck him high, near the temple. He kicked me hard in the shin and pain shot through my leg.
Then he brought his pistol up. He started to bring it level with my head. He cocked it, and the metallic sound sent shivers up my spine. I dove at him, brandishing my knife, slashing at his torso.
The knife blade sliced through his shirt and drew blood. I ducked, just as he squeezed the trigger of his Colt. The explosion deafened me, as I windmilled my arms trying to bring him down, to put the knife to his throat.
Hogg fought me off with his left hand. He was heavier than I was, and very strong. A fist hammered me in the side, knocking wind from my lungs. I whirled and jabbed at him with the knife. He swung the pistol around, and was thumbing back on the hammer when I struck his arm.
He cried out in pain as the knife cut him just above his wrist. The pistol fell from his grasp and he dove for it, cursing and bleeding from his wrist like a stuck pig.
My fury was more than a match for his bulk and strength. I waded into him just as his fingers touched the butt of his pistol. I drove the knife hard into his side and gave it a twist. I felt rib bone and gristle, and blood gushed out before I could completely withdraw the blade. I struck him again in the arm, and then, as he weakened and started to roll over on his back, I plunged the knife into his stomach, once, twice, a third time. Hard and fast. The smell of his bowels wafted up to my nostrils and he groaned in pain.
“You got me, Sunnedon,” he rasped. “Damn you.”
“You’re the one who is damned, Hogg. I hope you rot in hell for what you did to my folks.”
“I . . . I . . .” he started to say, but then his body convulsed and his eyes flapped closed.
I heard a click behind me and turned.
Truitt was sitting up, blood all over his chest, and aiming his Colt at me.
I threw myself flat down and grabbed Hogg’s cocked pistol. I swung it around to bear on Truitt.
He was too slow and I fired point-blank. The bullet slammed into him and knocked him back down. The lead tore off part of his nose and blew out most of his brains, the back of his skull flying through the air like a pie plate.
Breathless, I stood up. Hogg was dead. I walked over to Truitt, cocking
the pistol in case I had to shoot him again. I looked down into his dead, staring eyes that were turning to frost. I could still hear the echoes of the gunshots and see the afterimage of bright orange flame glowing in my eyes.
I started to shake as I walked back to where Blue Owl lay on the ground, sprawled there like a broken doll.
She let out a small gasp as I knelt down beside her. There was so much blood on her chest, I winced at the sight.
She tried to speak, but no sound would come out. I drew her into my arms and held her bloody body tight against my own. I felt a small quiver as she shuddered with her last breath. I looked down at her innocent face. Her eyes were closed and she was still.
It was at that moment that I realized I loved Blue Owl.
I truly loved her.
And now, she was gone.
Forever.
Twenty-four
I made a scaffold for Blue Owl and set it on a ridge that faced the rising sun. There were lots of spruce and pine trees around it, and I set it in front of a large juniper that would keep the mountain winds from blowing her bones away. I bathed her and made her as pretty as I could. I missed her when I put her atop the structure, and I’ve missed her every day since.
I took the two Winchesters and the Colt pistols that had belonged to Hogg and Truitt. I cleaned out what money they had and put it with the rest of the money in my pouch. I took the best horse they had, a young, strong sorrel gelding, with its saddle and bags, and made it my own. I tied their bodies to the two pinto ponies, and rode down to the trading post.
“Mr. Jenkins, I’m going to leave the bodies of two men outside your store here,” I said. “Cassius Hogg and Rudy Truitt. They jumped me and my woman and I killed them both. In self-defense. If you’ve got a sheriff here, you tell him. If Sheriff Frank Hall is who you go to, then you tell him what I told you.”
“Lord God Almighty, you done what?”
“You heard me. Now, I’m going after Amos Pettigrew, up the Poudre, and if anybody follows me, I’ll kill them, sure as I’m standing here. You got that?”
“Well, yes, but Good God Almighty, son. You got any witnesses?”
“They killed my witness and I killed them. I’m a dangerous man, Jenkins, from here on out. Now you know all you need to know. And I want to buy something before I set out.”
