The Hunted

by Ralph Compton

  But it was the man’s head, and his face in particular, that had suffered mightily. It looked as if he’d been scalped from the bottom of his face to the top. His eyes were missing, only bloodied holes remaining. The result was not unlike the dull, fixed expression on the head of a scalded hog ready for butchering.

  Charlie guessed the man had been dead a week or so. The cold had preserved him somewhat, and kept him from stinking, thankfully. But he’d begun to blacken and pucker in spots.

  Norbert staggered off beside the lead wagon and heaved up whatever booze and bits of jerky he’d taken in during the day. He wobbled, leaning against the wagon, moaning quietly as a series of heaves shook his gaunt buckskin-clad frame.

  “Oh my . . .”

  Hester had come up beside Charlie. He turned on her, glared down at her, his nostrils flared wide. “Go back to Delia. This ain’t no thing for neither of you to see.”

  To his surprise and relief, she didn’t argue, just nodded and walked away.

  “And stick close,” he said after her. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The other men were still looking at the odd sight, familiarity in seeing it seeming to embolden them, and they began to make low, crude comments.

  “Kind of lost his head, didn’t he?” said Shiner.

  “You should talk,” said Bo to his bald friend.

  “Ha! Why you think I keep my head free of hair? So them savages will pass me by.”

  “Ain’t nobody getting away that easy,” said Charlie, looking at them all.

  “What do you mean, Big Boy?” said Rollie.

  “I mean that a prize is a prize to these folks. Hair or ear or nose, don’t matter none. We’re likely dealing with a band of Shoshoni. And it looks to me like they’re doing this as a warning to us. This man didn’t set himself down by the side of the only trail going in and out of the mountains. A trail that ends right at Gamble.”

  “What are you saying, then?” Rollie seemed almost civil to him.

  “I am telling you that we best break out the guns and make camp in a spot we can protect ourselves in. We’ll have to sleep in shifts from now on, keep an eye out. Might be it’s only a couple of rogues, but might be a whole war party.”

  All that he said seemed to fall on ears of men who were doing a poor job at letting the danger of the situation sink into their booze-addled minds. Charlie sighed. “We don’t have time to stand here and consider what I’ve said. I’ll bet I ain’t the only one who’s fought Indians before, right?”

  “I’ve done my share,” said Norbert shakily.

  “Good, then you know that I’m telling you the truth.” Charlie turned to Rollie. “Look, it’s time to break out those guns and ammunition your uncle has stashed on your wagon.”

  That seemed to break the spell over Rollie. “Me give you a gun? Are you crazy? Ha. One dead man on the trail and we’re all yammering, ‘Indian! Indian!’ Heck.” He kicked the foot bone of the dead man. “He’s some old prospector got himself turned around in the hills up here and up and died, got chewed on by coyotes.”

  The leaning corpse flopped facedown to the ground, exposing his back, the skin on which had been peeled off in precise sections, as if by a knife.

  “That’s foolish and you know it, Rollie,” said Charlie, stepping closer to the bruised freighter. “Now break out them guns. We can’t fool around here.”

  “Naw, I don’t think so, Big Boy. And keep your distance, else you’ll end up like our new friend here. Besides, why do you think we kept you along? You are nothing more than Injun bait, Big Boy.” Rollie backed away from Charlie, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. “Man size of you, why, them Indians will go for you and the women before they go for me and the boys, all armed as we are and such. Not that there are any Injuns around these parts, mind you. But don’t you forget: We’re the freighters, you’re the freight. The sacrificial freight. Sort of like trade goods for the Injuns, if you read me.”

  Charlie walked back to the women. He didn’t think it was possible, but he had suddenly grown even wearier of this man, of his games, and of the entire trip. It seemed everyone was either angry, drunk, or crazy. Or any combination of those traits. It had been a long time since he’d been surrounded by people who were plain happy. He wondered if he ever would be again. Would they make it to Gamble? And if they did, would the people there be any more pleased with their lot in life than this bunch? He guessed some of them might well be, given that they were sitting on the promise of great riches.

  Though without supplies, who knew what they’d be like come spring? They’d likely survive, if they had ammunition enough to hunt with and wood enough to keep warm. What a hard winter it’d be without booze, flour, canned milk and fruit, even tobacco. Though not a user of tobacco himself, Charlie knew that a good many people took great comfort from it and got much enjoyment out of it.

  “Was it Indians, Charlie?” Hester stood with her hand on her sister’s head. The younger sister looked dazed, probably from her medicine.

  “Yes, it was, no doubt. I can’t be sure, but I’d guess, given the region we’re in, that it’s Shoshoni. Maybe Bannock.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve had dealings with them in the past. Not bad sorts, mind you. Not quite so hard to take as the Blackfoot, but if they’re riled up, you can be darn sure they won’t invite us in for tea. But to do that to a man? Seems unlikely. Something about it ain’t right.”

  “Where do you think the dead man was from?”

  “Good question. Only answer that makes sense is that he’s from Gamble.” He rubbed a finger along his lower lip, considering the situation.

  “What?” Delia struggled to rouse herself out of her stupor. “Hester, what’s going on? Are we at Gamble now? Why didn’t you tell me, I have to make myself pretty for Vin—”

  “Shhh, honey, no. We’re not there yet.”

  Charlie felt bad but didn’t see what he could do to help. He looked back toward the front of the line of wagons and saw the men lead their teams off along the relatively wide spot in the road, then begin to unload gear. Must be they were stopping for the night. He wondered if Rollie really was afraid of the Indians and didn’t dare to travel farther that night.

  Charlie did the same with his team, then set to unpacking the gear they’d need. He’d like to scout the region, see if he could find some sign of the attackers, some clue to tell him who they were, how many they might be facing. But he didn’t dare leave the women alone.

  After long moments of silence, Charlie said, “Hester, what he said about you and your sister . . . that wasn’t right. I should have knocked him down for that. I apologize for not standing up for you when Rollie said such things.”

  “Why, Big Charlie. That’s a kind enough thing for you to say.” She was actually smiling at him. Then the other shoe dropped and the hard line of her mouth leveled out, along with her eyes, gazing at him leveled and cool. “But defending us is none of your concern, do you understand?”

  “You can get all puffed up and angry with me all you want, but those fellas aren’t the type to ask your permission for much. I aim to be close by, so you keep your grumbling to a dull roar. We can either talk civil or not.”

  “I thank you, Charlie, even if my rude old sister doesn’t.”

  The sound of Delia’s voice shocked both Charlie and Hester. They regarded her a moment; then Charlie bent low in an exaggerated bow. “Glad I can be of service to at least one of you. You are most welcome, Miss Delia O’Fallon.”

  Her smile slumped and she looked away. Charlie figured it was her sickness grabbing hold of her again. He sure hated seeing her that way, but not even knowing what she was ill from, let alone how to help her, he reckoned he’d leave such things to her sister. Hester was as devoted to Delia as one person could be to another.

  He turned back to the wagon and began unlo
ading the night’s gear from the back of his wagon.

  “Don’t be offended, Charlie. You couldn’t know.” Hester grabbed a stack of blankets.

  “Know what?”

  Hester sighed. “I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you. She’s not an O’Fallon anymore.”

  “What?”

  “She’s married. To a man in Gamble. That’s why we’re headed there.”

  “Oh, I see. But she is your sister, right?”

  Hester smiled. “Yes, that’s one thing that can never change.”

  “Kind of a rough trip for someone who’s under the weather.” Charlie offered it as a statement, in case Hester didn’t take to questioning.

  “Yes, but . . . it’s what she wanted. At this point, I can’t tell her no.”

  “Bad, then.”

  She nodded, turned away from him. He felt like kicking himself. You did it again, Charlie. Always leave ’em crying.

  He tried to think of something to lighten the mood, and lifted down their carpetbags. “What in the heck do you have in this bag anyway? It’s sure enough heavier than it looks.”

  “That one’s mine. There’s something in there that belonged to our father. I plan on giving it to . . . to her husband, once we reach Gamble.”

  “Oh, sort of a family heirloom, huh? That’s nice. I once had a right fine pocket watch that belonged to my old uncle Jack.”

  “You don’t have it anymore?”

  “Naw, that got stole once in a mining camp in California. I about tore that place apart looking for it, but I never did turn it up. I reckon whoever took it needed it more than me anyway.”

  “Charlie, you are a curious sort of man, you know that?”

  He felt himself redden again, and wondered if he would ever stop doing that around women.

  “Well.” He grinned. “That heirloom you have there won’t hold a candle to the surprise Delia’s fella’s bound to feel once you all show up.”

  Hester smiled. “I don’t doubt that, Charlie. I don’t doubt that in the least.”

  Chapter 17

  Lately, Son of Cloud felt as if he was losing his power over his brother, as if Blue Dog was less and less convinced with each sun’s rise of the truth of Son of Cloud’s words.

  He was worried that Blue Dog would give over fully to his own hotheaded ideas. And then there would be little he could do to prevent a war. He would either have to leave him, and go his own way, away from his own brother, away from his own people—even though they had cast them out. Son of Cloud still held out hope that they might one day take the brothers back in. That they might realize they were all of the same people. He hoped that day would come, but he feared it never would.

  And now they had killed. Not only killed, but his brother had acted in a way Son of Cloud had never seen before. Blue Dog had not been content with taking the white’s life, but he had then ripped apart the man’s body, scarring, gutting, and skinning. And all because Blue Dog was confused and angry about things that could not be helped.

  “If we keep killing them,” said Son of Cloud, giving voice to thoughts that had been troubling him for days, “we will have nothing to bargain with.”

  “Why are you so bothered by such things? Is it not good enough to kill these creatures who come here and ruin our way of life?”

  “No, brother, it is not enough. I am beginning to believe it is foolish to do so. For in killing them, they force us to change our way of life. We are no better than them, then. They have forced us to turn our backs on our traditions, don’t you see that?”

  The brothers glared at each other. Finally Blue Dog Moon said, “Yesterday you said I reminded you of an old woman. Today I tell you—and unlike you I am not trying to make you laugh when I say this—that you are the old woman. You talk first one way and then another. If you do not want to kill the whites, then you should never have left the tribe.”

  “We had no choice. You . . .” Son of Cloud closed his mouth, shook his head, and looked away.

  “What? What were you going to say, brother? Do you think you can begin to say something and then decide not to?” Blue Dog circled his seated brother and nudged his shoulder when he passed behind him. “Out with it—you were going to say something about our people. About how we had no choice in leaving them.”

  He reached to nudge his brother again and Son of Cloud spun and grabbed his brother’s hand, leaped to his feet, twisting Blue Dog’s hand downward in a hard, sharp motion. The younger man cried out in pain and still Son of Cloud held the hand tight.

  “Yes, brother,” said Son of Cloud, forcing the words between nearly gritted teeth. “It is about our people. And about the fact that we had no choice but to leave.” Son of Cloud bent close to his brother’s pained, snarling face. “Because of you.” He nodded as Blue Dog’s eyes flinted wide. “Yes, it is true. The council felt that you were too much like a white man, too filled with anger. They worried for you and for the rest of our people.”

  “Then why did you not tell me? Or let me go away on my own while you stayed with your precious people?”

  The brothers stared hard at each other, their faces inches apart, their breaths coming in fast, forced plumes. Finally Son of Cloud pushed Blue Dog Moon away from him, letting go of the younger man’s hand. Blue Dog stumbled backward, caught himself against a tree, and leaned there, rubbing his sore wrist.

  “Because,” said Son of Cloud, his back to Blue Dog, “you are my brother and I foolishly thought I could convince you to stop causing so much trouble for yourself. For me. For others.” He turned, faced his brother again, pointing with a bold hand. “It is one thing to rob whites, to steal their whiskey and horses and whatever else excites you. But, Blue Dog, if we do not stop killing, there will be a war. And it won’t be between our people and us. It will be between the whites and us. And there are more whites than us. And the whites will not care if the bad things were done by one or two. If they can, they will kill all Shoshoni they meet.”

  Blue Dog continued to rub his sore wrist and regard his brother. Finally he said, “Why should I care? Shoshoni? White? I am both and neither. And so are you. Their problems are none of mine.”

  Son of Cloud could not believe what he heard. “You cannot mean that, brother.”

  “Do you know?” said Blue Dog. “Up until this moment, I have looked up to you. But I can see now that you are like the rest. You cannot understand that none of this matters.” He walked away, leaving his older brother confused and worried.

  Chapter 18

  It only took an hour or so for the freighters to convince themselves that a quick nip of whiskey would do no harm. Charlie watched as one drink led to another, to another, and soon worry of Indians evaporated into the chill night air, replaced with the false bravado only fools and hard-drinking men feel. Charlie noted that for the second night in a row, they kept their weapons laid across their laps. If anything, they were more dangerous than they had been in previous days. But at least they were now good and worried, and for that Charlie was relieved.

  He left them to it, and didn’t have to work too hard at convincing Hester that she and her sister should hunker down under the wagon. He made a bulwark of gear and covered it over with a tarp. He couldn’t shake the gruesome image of that corpse from his mind and knew that they were, no doubt, being watched from the surrounding hills. And there was little he could do.

  But he would sure as heck get his hands on a firearm. He’d have to wait until Rollie and the boys went to sleep. Course, that might prove to be more dangerous. He should have figured this out sooner. Now he was up against it with no weapon.

  If they were attacked in the night by Indians, he’d probably come out on the losing end of that stick. He sure hoped he didn’t end up looking as bad as that man earlier. The thought drew his eyes to the hills again. Dark had an unnerving way of dropping down fast this time of the year, and never
quicker than in the hills on an overcast afternoon.

  He wished they hadn’t stopped at the site where the body was found. He’d have preferred to keep on moving, but Charlie was realizing that, unlike Everett Meecher, who was hell-bent on getting to Gamble as fast as possible, they were now being led by a man who didn’t seem in any particular hurry to get to the remote mine camp. That alone made him worry what Rollie’s motives were.

  At least the skinny drunk hadn’t kicked up much of a fuss when Charlie covered the dead man with a ragged scrap of tarpaulin large enough to drape over the gory remains. “Not going to bury him, Big Boy?” said Rollie, nudging Bo in the gut with an elbow. Bo’s laughter followed hard on the heels of Rollie’s.

  Later, when Charlie returned from roving a few hundred feet out in several directions away from the wagons, he saw something that gave him further cause for doubt of Rollie’s intentions. He and his cronies had peeled back the tarps covering the loads on the freight wagons. One had already been pillaged, as that’s where they’d been getting their seemingly endless supply of whiskey.

  And what Charlie saw in the opened crates were various pieces of equipment that looked an awful lot like those used in mine operations. No surprise there. He’d been around enough such operations to know these were smaller pieces of larger machines, the sort used in mine camps that had more promise than the first-blush prospecting most such camps never got beyond. Some of the pieces he knew were parts for crushers, another crate spilled pipe fittings and what looked to be rollers for conveyors, and still others contained gears of assorted sizes.

  There must really be enough promising color for such expensive gear to be sent up. And it all verified what Everett had guessed at—that maybe Rafferty and the marshal, as the ones who’d bankrolled the gamble that was Gamble, were convinced enough of its future payoff. Enough so to get more sophisticated gear up there, maybe to impress a high-money outfit to come on in and do it up in a big way.