“You have killed many of my people, White Crow, and now it is time for you to die. When I have killed you, I will cut off your head and put it on a pole in my village.”
A quick glance over the creek bank, where his .44 had fallen, told Slater that he had no chance to get to it before the hostile fired. He had no defense other than his determination to defy death until he could attack.
“Why do you call me White Crow?” he asked, speaking in the Crow tongue, thinking that the Sioux would understand him. He hoped the question would distract the savage from hurrying the execution.
“Because that is your name,” Iron Pony snarled, “and now you die.”
He pulled the trigger, only to be startled by the metallic click of the hammer striking an empty cartridge. In the violent collision minutes before, neither man realized that the rifle had fired. Slater did not hesitate further. He charged the confused savage, knocking him over backward, and they rolled over and over down the creek bank to stop at the water’s edge.
Springing to their feet simultaneously, they stood face-to-face once again for a brief instant before both men drew their skinning knives and clashed in desperate combat. It soon turned into a deadly test of power as each man grasped the wrist of the other, straining to overpower him.
For long seconds, the contest seemed a standoff, for the combatants seemed equal in strength, and the penalty for losing was too severe for either to give in. It soon became apparent that the struggle was to become one of endurance, as they both strained to gain the advantage.
Suddenly they were startled by the sharp report of a .44 Colt, and Iron Pony’s hand went slack when a bullet ripped into his side. Quick to take the opportunity handed him, Slater wrenched his knife hand free of Iron Pony’s grip and drove the blade deep into his stomach. Their eyes locked briefly as the stunned savage stared in disbelief before sagging helplessly, supported solely by Slater’s right arm, until he withdrew the knife and let him collapse at his feet.
Almost physically spent, Slater took only a quick glance to make sure the warrior was finished before turning to look in the direction from which the shot had come. Sawyer was lying on his stomach, his arm still stretched out with his pistol in his hand, his face resting on the hard dirt. Slater went to him at once, certain that he was dead, for the back of his shirt was soaked with blood. He knelt beside him and rolled him onto his side. Sawyer’s eyes fluttered slightly, then opened halfway. “Did I get him?” he asked feebly.
“You did,” Slater answered, “and you damn sure saved my life.”
“Are there any more of ’em?”
“I reckon not,” Slater said, “or we wouldn’t be talkin’.” He tried to get a better look at the wound in Sawyer’s back, not sure if he was dying or not. There was so much blood that he couldn’t tell. “I gotta get you back to the fort, to the hospital. Think you can stay on a horse?”
“I don’t know,” Sawyer said, laboring with every word. “I can try.”
“Let me make sure of our friend over there. Then we’ll see,” Slater said. He took the .44 from Sawyer’s hand and returned to the dying hostile by the edge of the water. With no hesitation, he held the pistol to Iron Pony’s forehead and pulled the trigger. Then he went back to see if Sawyer could be put on his horse.
He managed to get the wounded man on his feet, but Sawyer was already too weak to stand, even with Slater’s help. So Slater picked him up in his arms and carried him to the cabin and laid him down on his bedroll by the fireplace. He looked around the cabin until he found some ragged cloth to stuff against the wound to slow the bleeding.
“Ain’t nothing more I know to do for you,” he said. “But it looks to me like you can make it. So I’m gonna build a fire in the fireplace so you stay warm. Then I’m gonna saddle my horse and ride back to the fort and find the doctor, and I’ll bring him out here to take care of you.” He paused to make sure Sawyer understood that he wasn’t leaving him for good. “You just lay there, and don’t die after I go to all the trouble of findin’ the doctor.”
“I ain’t makin’ no promises,” Sawyer replied weakly.
“You damn sure better not die before I get back. If you do, I’ll throw your body in the same hole with that son of a bitch you just shot.”
When Sawyer nodded in response, Slater hurried out the door and ran to get his horse. He didn’t take time to saddle the paint, just grabbed his rifle from the sling and jumped on the horse’s back.
With a brilliant full moon rising over the treetops, he followed the trail back down beside the creek, scanning the creek banks carefully to make sure the crazed savage had acted alone. When he reached the road, he nudged the paint into a full gallop and held him to it all the way to the post, which was a good mile away. While he rode, many thoughts filled his mind. Sarcastic when they first met, Sawyer had transformed into a solid friend, and he had fired the shot that might have saved Slater’s life. It was a new experience for him. He had never been beholden to any man before. It was hard to say whether or not Sawyer had actually saved his life, because he wasn’t sure who might have overpowered who. The savage was a powerful man, and while Slater was determined to prevail, he had to admit that it was dead even when Sawyer decided the outcome. And for that, he owed him.
He knew which building was the post hospital, so he rode straight to it, slid off his horse, and ran inside, startling a soldier on duty at the desk. “I need the doctor!” he exclaimed.
“What for?” the surprised corporal replied. “What’s wrong?” He was obviously dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of the obvious civilian, dressed like an Indian, and no idea who he was. “This is a military hospital.”
“I know that,” Slater responded impatiently, then hurriedly explained what the emergency was.
“Damn!” the corporal exclaimed when he realized it was one of the scouts who had been shot. “But the doctor ain’t here now.”
Before Slater could demand where he was, they were interrupted by the sergeant of the guard coming through the door, having heard unexplained gunshots before. He had subsequently been alerted by one of the men on guard duty that he had seen a man on horseback gallop onto the post and head straight for the hospital. By a stroke of good fortune, it was Sergeant Bell.
“Slater!” he blurted. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Slater hurriedly repeated the story and told him that Sawyer was unable to stay on a horse, or he would have brought him to the hospital. As soon as Bell heard it, he turned to the corporal.
“Dr. Davis has already gone home,” the corporal blurted right away before Bell could speak.
“Who have you got here now?” Bell asked. When told that there were two hospital orderlies in the ward area, Bell continued. “Send one of ’em to the post surgeon’s house to get Dr. Davis. The other one can go with me to the stable to hitch up the ambulance. Then he can follow Slater here to pick up Jeb Sawyer. And let’s get it done quick.”
“But who’s gonna watch the patients if you take my orderlies?” the corporal asked.
“I reckon you are,” Bell said. “Now don’t waste any more time. The man could die while you’re settin’ here frettin’ about it.”
Things happened quickly after that. Sergeant Bell helped the orderly hitch a team of horses to the ambulance and gave him orders to get back in all possible speed. “Slater will take you there,” he said to him. Then he turned to Slater. “I’d go with you to give a hand with Sawyer,” he said. “But I’m pullin’ sergeant of the guard, so I can’t leave the post.” As an afterthought, he asked, “And you’re sure there weren’t no more Injuns with that one that jumped you?” When Slater said he was, Bell commented, “If that ain’t the dangedest thing I ever heard. Just gone loco, I reckon.”
“I reckon,” Slater agreed, and jumped on the paint’s back when the orderly said he was ready to go.
They found Sawyer in pretty much the same shape he
was in when Slater left. The orderly took a moment to take a look at the wound to see if there was anything more he could do before they moved him. The only problem they had run into was that the trail back into Sawyer’s cabin was too narrow to allow the team of horses to pull the ambulance all the way. They made it halfway back before almost getting it jammed permanently between two trees, so they left it there and Slater and the orderly carried Sawyer to the ambulance.
When they made it back to the hospital, they found the doctor waiting for them. He examined the wound and decided there was no reason to wait.
“We might as well go in and get it,” he decided. “Let’s get him cleaned up.” He turned to Slater and Sergeant Bell, who had joined them. “You men can clear out of here now. I don’t see any reason why he won’t make it all right. It’s a good thing you didn’t wait any longer to get him here, though.” Slater took one last look at the patient, and couldn’t help noticing the pitiful look on Sawyer’s face. He was obviously not as confident as the doctor.
Slater and Bell walked outside and stood by the steps of the building while Slater related the details of the attack at the cabin. “What did you say he called you?” Bell asked.
“White Crow,” Slater said.
“And that don’t mean nothin’ to you?”
“Nope,” Slater said. “He told me that was my name, but it don’t mean anything to me.”
“Maybe he was goin’ after somebody named White Crow,” Bell suggested, “and he got you mixed up with him.”
“Maybe,” Slater said.
Chapter 14
As the doctor promised, the patient came through the surgery in fine fashion, although he complained of extreme discomfort when Slater came to visit him the next day.
“I don’t mind tellin’ you I was not likin’ my chances when you left me here last night. That’s a mighty scary thing to me, a doctor with one of them sharp knives comin’ after me. I ain’t never had but one bullet took outta me before—took a .44 slug in my leg one time—and a Flathead medicine man dug that out—like to kilt me. So I figured diggin’ one outta my back might be more’n I could stand. But it warn’t bad atall, at least not as bad as that medicine man. They soaked a rag with some of that . . .” He paused, trying to remember, then asked the orderly who was changing his dressing, “What did they call that stuff?”
“Chloroform,” the orderly said.
“Yeah, that stuff,” Sawyer went on. “They poured some of that on a rag and held it under my nose and told me to breathe it in. Hell, I tried not to at first, but before I knew what was what, I’d done gone to sleep. When I woke up, he was already done. Only thing is I’ve got a helluva pain back there now. And I’m drinkin’ all the laudanum they’ll gimme.”
Seeing a chance to finally slip in a word when the excited scout paused to take a drink of water, Slater was inspired to comment dryly, “’Pears they musta cut out your vocal cords.”
“Cut out my vocal cords?” Sawyer asked, confused. “Whaddaya mean?”
“So you can’t talk,” Slater deadpanned.
“Can’t talk. . . ?” he started, then, “Oh, so I can’t talk.” Then it occurred to him. “You’re japin’ me. You made a joke!” He looked at the orderly and exclaimed, “He made a joke!” The orderly merely shrugged, unable to appreciate the significance of Sawyer’s remark, with no prior knowledge of the somber young man’s history of no sense of humor. Sawyer couldn’t help chuckling, even though it pained him. “I reckon I have been runnin’ on, ain’t I? Well, I’ll shut up a little while so you can tell me about that visitor we had last night.”
“There ain’t much to tell,” Slater said. “He was a Lakota Sioux, I can tell you that for sure. But I ain’t got no idea how he stumbled on us, or what in the world he was doin’ there all by himself. Looks like he was just out to kill some white men, and right in the middle of a bunch of soldiers, too. Maybe he was just out to do something brave to show his people he had big medicine.”
Sawyer didn’t say so, but he wondered if that was entirely true. He thought about what Sergeant Bell had told him about Slater killing an entire Lakota war party—and his actions against a second war party on the Boulder River. It struck him that maybe that Lakota warrior knew exactly who he was attacking. Maybe Slater had earned himself a special name for himself, White Crow, and there might be more Sioux warriors coming after him to make big medicine for themselves. It was a sobering thought.
“I dragged him off on the other side of the trees this mornin’,” Slater went on. “I figured we didn’t need to smell him when he started to get ripe, so I dug a hole and dumped him in it. We picked up a pretty good Injun pony, a speckled gray. A single-shot rifle, some cartridges for it, a good knife, that’s about all he had that was worth anything. I reckon I’ll go by the cavalry stable and pick up my packhorse and go on back to the cabin. When they say it’s all right, I’ll take you home.”
“I ’preciate it,” Sawyer said, seemingly quiet now.
* * *
Slater spent the next few days getting acquainted with his new home base. With the coming of colder weather, reported incidents of Sioux raiding parties declined to the point where army troops were not called upon to respond but once. This was a one-day patrol the day after Sawyer went into the hospital. Slater was assigned to act as scout, but the report turned out to be an incident in which a small rancher in the valley lost one cow, killed and eaten by some hungry Indians. They were long gone by the time the patrol arrived, so the troopers returned to the fort that night.
Slater had the time to fulfill his promise to return to Lame Elk’s village, but he felt he should not leave while Sawyer was indisposed. So he spent his time working to improve the cabin and to do a little work on the barn that Sawyer had started but never completed. Sawyer was released from the hospital four days after his surgery, primarily because the doctor and his staff grew weary of the patient’s constant complaining.
Once he was back in his cabin, he seemed content to take his time healing, for it would be some time before he was back on his feet again. Slater was satisfied that it had been a good move to share Sawyer’s cabin.
Situated near the fort, he had mountains to the north, south, east, and west, with many canyons and hollows to hunt. And for a brief while, he was even busy enough to keep thoughts of Little Wren and Red Basket in the back of his mind. There was a little town about three miles west of the fort, still in the early stages of birth. He had not been there, but Sawyer said it was growing steadily, and already boasted a saloon, a blacksmith and stable, and a general store. He said they were calling it Bozeman, after the feller that cut the trail through Sioux territory to get to the gold strikes. Slater had not visited it because he had no need of the services the town offered. The general supplies he needed, he found in the post sutler’s store. He was in a good place, at peace in his mind, as long as he smothered occasional thoughts about the Crow village on the Musselshell.
Unknown to him, or Sawyer, there was already a new saloon going up in Bozeman. Carpenters were hurrying to finish it before the real hard winter set in. The new establishment was to be operated by a man and woman, as equal partners. The woman was reported to be a wealthy widow, who gained her wealth in the gold fields, and her partner likewise had struck it rich on a claim in Last Chance Gulch near Helena. Both parties had come to Bozeman to look over the potential for growth in the new town. They met by chance and decided they could build a much finer saloon if they pooled their resources. The result was to be the opening of the Golden Chance, the finest drinking establishment in town. A rumor was also circulating among some of the soldiers who visited the town that the widow wasn’t half-bad-looking, and she might be offering additional services to the troops.
When Sawyer got wind of it, the news seemed to stimulate his healing process, for he could hardly wait to see for himself. Taking advantage of the infrequent patrols, Slater had made sev
eral trips into the Big Belt Mountains to the north to hunt elk. He knew where to find the great animals in their valleys and pockets where they went in the winter, and he had been able to cure a fair quantity of meat for both Sawyer and him as well as for Red Basket and her brother. One evening he found Sawyer eagerly awaiting his return from one of those trips.
“Damn!” Sawyer exclaimed, standing in the doorway of the cabin to greet Slater as he rode in, leading his packhorse, loaded with meat. “I’ve been waitin’ for you. I thought for a while there that you was gonna stay up in those mountains overnight.”
“I told you I wasn’t,” Slater replied.
“I know, I know,” Sawyer answered hurriedly. “But Corporal Jarvis came by here this mornin’ to see how I was doin’. He said the Golden Chance is finally done, they’ve already got their whiskey brought in, and they’re open for business. He said it’s as fine a place as you’d likely find in Omaha or St. Louis.”
“Is that so?” Slater responded dryly, not really interested, as he started unloading his horses.
“I was thinkin’ me and you could ride in to Bozeman and take a look at the new place. I swear, I think a little drink of whiskey would start me to gettin’ well quicker.”
Slater stopped untying his pack strap and turned to fix Sawyer with an incredulous gaze. “Is that a fact?” he replied. “It’s a little late, ain’t it?” He turned back and continued loosening his pack straps.
“I swear, Slater,” Sawyer complained to his ever-stoic partner, “if sometimes you ain’t the dimmest candle in the box. It’s a damn saloon! They’ll most likely be open all night.”
“I need to do something with this meat I brought back,” Slater protested. “How ’bout we ride over there tomorrow?”
“I need a drink tonight,” Sawyer pleaded. “I got my mind worked up to it, waitin’ all day for you to get back.”
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