For months there had seemed no way to correct his omission. The Elton's confession of failure in Omaha did not shift blame. He, Josiah Archer, had held the lash but had feared to apply it. From a summer's distance, the threat of Rockwell's gun or Holloway's knife had dimmed. The boy should have been whipped. Too late, too late. The opportunity was lost.
Then, on a day like a hundred others, as he preached to bored and disinterested passersby, Tucker Morgan was there, and neither Holloway nor Rockwell accompanied him. The Reverend Archer's expectations soared until his voice again thundered and conviction flooded his words.
As usual, no one responded, but this time Archer did not care. He hurried from his preaching and rushed to the single wagon the Correctors now shared.
William Elton was absent, but he was not of the right temperament anyway. The helpers stood slack-jawed as Archer and Bartholomew Elton seized and tested the whips used to urge teams to greater effort. The whips were braided leather and nearly fifteen feet in length. Neither man was an accomplished teamster, the kind who could flick flies from oxen without touching the animals' hide, but everyone used a whip on occasion, and for the Correctors, inspired fervor would substitute for skill.
In the direction taken by Tucker Morgan, Archer and Elton strode powerfully, driving their boots into the earth. They saw themselves as chosen men, bent on just vengeance. Neither doubted the outcome.
Tucker and Tommy Bell watched idly as a greasy man hung a beef from a pole tripod and prepared to butcher his meat into roasts of sizes easy to sell. Tucker judged the animal had been an ox that had died and was being put to final use. He told Tommy that he would prefer wild meat that was healthy and strong right up until the bullet went in. Tommy agreed.
Tucker stood easy, rifle butt resting on his moccasined foot protecting the metal from the earth. His hand gripped the rifle lightly. Here, almost within the walls of the fort there was no danger. Tommy wandered a little away to look into the butcher's wagon bed.
The lash that curled around his wrist, biting like a noose, came from nowhere. It jerked his grip from his rifle and then spun him toward its wielder. Pained and astonished, caught by his better arm, Tucker saw a stranger dragging hard on the whip handle. Even as he saw, a slash of fire burned his back and jerked his attention. This time he knew his attacker. The crazy reverend, eyes aglare, open mouthed with excitement, whipped his lash away to lay on a second. Another haul on his trapped wrist threw Tucker further off balance, and Archer's slash cut at his calves, tripping him so that a knee struck the ground.
Tommy Bell came from his own frozen astonishment and dashed for Tucker's rifle. The Reverend Archer drove him away with furious lashes that cut through the boy's cloth shirt. The beef butcher stood, jaw agape, without intent to interfere in a private dispute. Archer turned again to Tucker Morgan.
With Archer's leg slash, Tucker's surprised confusion vanished. Rage, cold and deadly, froze all feeling. His trapped hand snatched a grip on the whip imprisoning his wrist, and he hauled himself upright. Tugging frantically, the whip wielder called for help, but Archer was busy with the smaller boy. Hand over hand, almost at a rim, Tucker reeled himself toward the stranger who had whipped him.
Archer was back, and his long lash fell across Tucker's shoulders, but Tucker barely felt it. Gripping the stranger's whip in one hand, he went for Pin Larkin's old knife hanging at his side. The stranger clutched his whip handle in both fists, but his now bugging eyes followed Tucker's reaching hand. Once more Tucker took Archer's lash, a fierce cut across his thighs. Distantly he heard Tommy Bell's voice calling, but he did not falter.
The knife came free and Tucker cut with it. The whip parted leaving less than half in the wielder's hands. Free at last, Tucker went for his closest enemy, and Bartholomew Elton screamed aloud.
When his whip had wound around Morgan's wrist, ecstasy had flooded Bartholomew Elton. Archer's immediate lashings had beautified the just and thorough flogging they were about to administer. Then, just as it had in Omaha, everything went wrong. The moments needed to drive the younger boy from the rifle had given Morgan opportunity. He had almost flown up the entangled length of Elton's whip. He had produced a knife, and despite Archer's suddenly frantic flailing, Morgan slashed through Bartholomew's whip and was upon him.
Bartholomew Elton fled. He dropped his whip and spun to run. His eyes unfocused in panic and his mind closed down. A fiery agony across his laboring buttocks speeded him. Haste sprawled him in a crashing fall, scraping hands and face. His hat was gone, but fear of Morgan's terrible knife and the implacable wrath that could ignore bull whipping scrabbled Elton erect and again running without backward glance.
Tucker had tried hard for his man. He had reached long and cut hard. The knife bit and dragged heavily through thick cloth, but another slash of Archer's whip burned his upper back and wrapped around a shoulder. The stranger was running away. Tucker whirled crouching, a hand high to protect his face, his knife low with its blade menacing.
The Reverend Archer was suddenly afraid, perhaps more afraid than he had ever been. Whipped men groveled beneath the lash and begged or moaned for mercy. Morgan had almost ignored the lashing. He had driven Elton into flight and cut at him with a hunting knife. Now, Morgan faced him, and Archer's whip seemed suddenly puny and ineffective.
Tommy Bell got to Tucker's rifle. He had no percussion cap to prime it, but when Tucker turned he got close and held the gun out for its owner to use. Tucker's free hand hesitated, then he waved the rifle away. His eyes held Archer's as the reverend stood, whip dangling, breathing heavily as though the wielding had exhausted him.
Tucker bent a little and seized the heavy handle of the stranger's cut off whip. Only six feet of braided leather remained, but it was the thick and stiffened end of the whip. Tucker flicked it once, and Tommy Bell felt his whole body explode in goose bumps. Tucker Morgan was going to give back what he had been taking.
Josiah Archer saw it, too. He was aware of knee tremor and fear induced weakness. Joe Darlin's grim warnings of the danger of whipping a western man came suddenly clear. Archer wished to flee, but Morgan would be faster. Perhaps they could talk. The reverend's mouth opened, but it was already too late. Morgan was coming.
Tucker simply went for his enemy. He drove straight in. Archer's lash sought him, but the effort was weak, and Tucker fended it off with his knife hand. The preacher stumbled backward, but Tucker was close enough. The shortened whip slashed heavily. Its weight struck solidly, almost club-like, without the limber snapping of the popper end. Tucker aimed low, and his whip tried to wrap its length around Archer's thigh. The man screeched like a child whose finger had been burned. Fear and panic tore the sound from Josiah Archer. It did nothing to slow Tucker Morgan.
Too close for Archer's longer whip to be effective, Tucker Morgan went to work. His own back and legs smarting from his enemy's lashings, Tucker began to even the score. Archer flinched and squalled with the first stroke. He cringed with the second and tried only to get away after the third.
Tommy Bell watched in awe. Tucker's whip fairly sang. A whacking overhand thudded with the impact of a wet rope across the preacher's shoulder and neck. Another lashed his ribs. A third entangled ankles, and Tucker jerked powerfully sending Archer asprawl.
Josiah Archer struck the ground hard. Air blew from his lungs, but raw panic kept him moving. His whip was gone somewhere and his body burned like fire. On hands and knees he strained to crawl away, but still Morgan's lash fell.
Tucker dropped his knife and used both hands on the short whip. His cold rage had blown away when Archer had squalled. Tucker no longer fought for his life. He chose now to even the count—and a little more—to convince Josiah Archer once and for all that Tucker Morgan would not be whipped.
Archer tried for the fort's entrance, although Tucker saw no security for him there. A military sentry was unlikely to interfere in a civilian squabble. All within view had halted to watch the excitement. Someone whooped a fox hunter'
s cry, and Archer made his feet and fled with Tucker's whip hurrying him along.
For a few steps Tucker considered again bringing his enemy down and lashing him until he collapsed, but Archer had had enough. He was thoroughly licked. Tucker laid on a final pair of biting slashes and let his man go. Archer did not look back. His laboring form disappeared into the fort, and Tucker turned away.
Tommy Bell came up with Tucker's rifle, knife, and hat. He had also gathered both of the attacker's hats and Archer's whip. Tucker handed the boy the shortened lash and accepted his rifle. He half-cocked the gun and placed a percussion cap on the nipple. Archer or his helper could reappear, perhaps prepared to shoot. If they did, Tucker would be ready.
Tucker moved painfully. His arms were tired from swinging the whip, and he needed a moment to get his breathing back to normal. Whip slashes across his back and legs burned hotly, but his hide hunting shirt and leather pants had absorbed some of the lashing. Tommy Bell's cloth shirt had split from one of Archer's cuts, and the whip had left long wheals that glowed an angry red.
A grizzled wagoner pulled his team up short to holler down. "That was smart cuttin' your whip short. You put it to that preacher right good." He bellowed laughter, "Wish I'd of done it to him. The fool has called me and my friends about every bad name in the Bible for more'n a month." The man hee-hawed again. "All that held me back was that he was right." The wagon rattled on, the driver's hilarity rolling after him.
The interruption eased the last of Tucker's tension. He sheathed his knife and started for their camp.
"We'd best get some lard on our wounds, Tom, or maybe Mister Jones has something better. My back smarts like it was under hot coals."
The boy plucked tenderly at his shirt, but his mind was on Tucker. "My gosh, Tuck, you about whipped the hide off that old preacher. Whew, anything we're feeling he must be suffering a hundred times worse."
"I sure hope he is, Tom, but I'm not through with him and his friend yet. Once we get salved up, I'm going to ask Mister Holloway to help me dig 'em out. We've got to be sure they won't try again."
Mister Jones had an English ointment special for drawing pain from cuts and scratches. Going on it stung like real fire, but the pain soon blunted. Tucker bore his treatment stoically, so Tommy Bell did the same, with only a hiss of hurt and a wriggle or two.
Payne-Weston was furious, and Holloway was coldly angry. Holloway cracked the shortened whip a time or two, nodded approval, and looped it through his pouch straps.
Joe Darlin was fit to be tied. Tucker Morgan's blade had sliced Bartholomew Elton's rump clean across. The wound was not deep, but it bled heavily. Stitches would be required to close the wound, but there was no time for that now.
Josiah Archer's back, behind, and legs were whipped into crisscrossed wheals, some of which wept blood. His clothes were tattered by Tucker Morgan's laying on, but Darlin gave no time for soothing treatment.
Darlin ordered, forced, and helped the Correctors to dump their belongings into their wagon. He rushed the team's harnessing; then he told Archer and his company just how it would be.
"Head east. Don't stop or even slow down. Holloway will be coming. I'll try to talk him quiet. If I don't, he'll likely catch up, and you'll rue this day like no other.
"If Grant agrees to let you go, it'll be because I promise him you are going to the Missouri and won't ever be back. My promises are kept—my word is good—you all better understand that."
Josiah Archer had no fight remaining. The Missouri, weeks to the east, sounded safe.
Joe Darlin nodded and whacked the Correctors' team into motion. They had no whips, but one of the helpers did his best with a length of hemp rope. Darlin grinned to himself. He expected Holloway and Tuck Morgan would settle for having Archer gone for good. Bartholomew Elton would suffer aplenty getting his butt sewed up, and he would not sit comfortably for a long period. Archer's body would sting for a week—like a million bees had found him.
Darlin would be paid for guiding Archer east, and wintering in Omaha would also be a handsome reward. The wagon was two miles out when he saw Holloway, Morgan, and another man coming on foot.
Darlin swung off his horse and got a palm up in the peace sign. Old Grant looked a bit tight around the jaw, and the third man was jouncing mad. Tuck Morgan wasn't smiling either. Joe Darlin got ready for real serious pow-wowing.
Chapter 18
Each night riotous celebrants disturbed Fort Laramie's rest, and gunshots might mix with drunken whooping at any hour. Close guard was kept over all possessions. Thieves, both white and Indian, lurked about, but other than the Josiah Archer incident the Payne-Weston party suffered no disruptions.
Still, Tucker would be glad to leave the place. To the west, the Laramie Mountains rose. Sheep bands could be found there, and Holloway believed they were different than the Big Horns of the Rockies. The guide called them desert sheep, more common to the southern country.
Elk would also be prime. With the last of the velvet scraped away, their antlers would be approaching final polish. However, elk and sheep could wait until the next season if necessary; mule deer had first priority. In these mountains, Payne-Weston hoped to complete a quota of the long eared, small tailed deer.
The train moved up the valley of the Laramie River and followed its course until a major tributary branched to the north. Laramie Peak guarded the wagons' right flank for two days of rough travel before Holloway pulled the train to a halt in Fletcher's Park. A permanent camp was established, and Payne-Weston and the guide went out to shoot deer.
From the park, Tucker located bands of sheep along the mountain. The clear air made details visible even miles away. Ewes and lambs comprised large flocks, with massive homed rams paired or in small groups on overlooks and at the heads of steep meadows. No question there would be fine hunting.
Paul Laban arranged his easel and paints on a level where peaks shown in late morning light. He painted without preliminary sketching, catching the glint, shine, and shadow before the sun moved and changed his scene.
Mister Jones measured their camp at nearly nine thousand feet above sea level. The days were crisp with ice rime along the creek edges. Nights required warm robes and high fires. Buffalo chips were too few here, but the thinly wooded slopes provided enough dead limbs for evening comfort around a single campfire.
The hunters rarely returned empty-handed, and the skinners were busy. Buck deer with admirable antlers were brought in. Holloway guessed one animal at four hundred pounds, and all had acquired thick and gray winter hair. James Payne-Weston was satisfied and decided to try for sheep while the weather remained favorable.
First Payne-Weston declared a pair of rest days to regroup, clean guns, cast bullets, and take measure of exactly how things were progressing. That suited Tuck Morgan. He and Grant Holloway would ride out and take a closer look at the sheep. Tucker had seen a pair of grizzlies foraging below the ewes, and while the bears were unlikely to catch sheep they might disturb the bands and cause them to move away. It was a good enough excuse, and Tucker and the guide seized it.
Both Tucker and Holloway enjoyed their day. They climbed high and looked down on most of the sheep. The grizzlies had wandered north and were no longer a menace.
"Good looking bears, Mister Holloway."
"Big enough, but they aren't prime, Tucker. To my thinking, the best are silvertips. Running your hand over a good, cold weather silvertip is about like stroking a mink. Deep down the fur is brown or almost black, but each hair end is tipped light, almost gray or white, with maybe even a hint of blue."
"Yup, I've seen 'em, Mister Holloway." Tucker chuckled, "Matching those colors will keep Paul Laban a'painting."
Later in the day Tucker asked, "How long'll we keep hunting, Mister Holloway? Winter is crowding closer."
"Most comfortable thing would be to head in toward Fort Laramie tomorrow, but the sheep are coming down with the cold, and we'll get better hunting on them every day. Another week should se
e us finished." Holloway scowled at the sky. "Providing the weather holds. Wind's been backing to the north. Might mean something or it might not. We'll be all right even if an early snow comes in. It won't last, and we'll ease on out when it's over."
"We could winter in the park if we had to, Mister Holloway."
"A'course, but I don't want to, and I doubt you do either. Weston, Laban, and the boy want to go east, so we'll get out early rather than late."
They were starting down when Holloway saw big rams. "Too late to look 'em over, Tuck. We'll find them tomorrow, and Weston can hunt 'em when he's ready."
Tucker agreed. It gave them another day to roam together, which was the way Tucker Morgan liked it best.
They saddled with the sun barely over the horizon.
The wind shifted to the north, but it was a warm and almost lazy breeze. Before they moved out, Holloway leaned across his saddle studying on it.
"Don't like the smell or taste of it, Tucker. Something's brewing up in the cold country. I recollect another warm wind like this. Way up in the Hudson Bay Company's territory, along the Flathead River we were. A'fore dark we had a howling blizzard with wind cold enough to make a buffler cry." The guide considered a minute. "Won't do no harm to tell those pilgrims to stay close and we'll stay watchful our ownselves." Holloway rode over to spread the word.
By the time they reached high ground, the wind had died, but the sun lost itself behind overcast. The day became gray, and the sheep lay in their beds with little shifting about.
Holloway kept sniffing like a suspicious grizzly and shaking his head in discontent. Before noon the wind came again. Still from the north; this time it had a bite. When he spoke, the guide's breath smoked in the sudden cold.
"Don't like it, Tuck. We'll get back down." He kicked his gelding onto their back trail, and Tucker was glad to have the wind behind them. He too could feel something.
Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith) Page 10
