Bodine didn’t answer right away while he studied the terrain between the hill they were on and the bank of the river. “There’s plenty of cover between here and the river if they’ll come a little bit farther down this way,” he said. “That’s right, that’s right,” he coaxed. “Come on, you little son of a bitch.”
Puzzled by the vengeful brute’s hesitancy, Quincy asked, “What are you waitin’ for? Follow that ravine down to the bottom and you’re plenty close enough for a good shot.” He pointed to a spot that would put him close to one hundred yards from the little man and the big Crow woman.
Bodine was more ambitious than that. He was busy figuring out a route beyond the bottom of the ravine Quincy pointed to, a route that would allow him to get closer to Johnny, one that would permit him to enjoy the satisfaction of using his knife. When he got it mapped out in his head, he told his partners what he intended to do. “I’ll lead my horse down that ravine and leave him there. Then I’ll work my way around them bushes along the bluff, and I won’t be no more’n a couple dozen yards from him.”
Quincy shook his head, not convinced that Bodine’s plan was a good one. “You’re gonna put yourself mighty damn close to that Crow camp. One shot and they’ll come pourin’ outta there like a hive of bees.”
Bodine could not be swayed. His lust for vengeance was too great to consider risks. He turned to cast a contemptuous look at Quincy. “Quit your whinin’. I’ll have my horse down in that ravine. I’ll have plenty of time to skedaddle before them Injuns know what happened. You two can hightail it and I’ll catch up.”
“It’s your neck,” Quincy said with an indifferent shrug.
“It damn sure is,” Bodine shot back, and started toward the ravine.
Down at the bottom, he tied his horse to a gooseberry bush and, running in a crouch, made his way along a low rise toward the bluffs. When he reached the point where the rise leveled out, and no longer offered adequate cover, he was forced to stop and consider his next move. Watching from the hill, Billy said, “He’s gonna get hisself killed.”
“That’s as close as he’s gonna get,” Quincy said. “Take the shot, you damn fool. Hell, it can’t be over fifty yards.”
But Bodine was determined to finish Johnny Hawk with his knife, close and personal. His dilemma, however, was the open space between him and the river bluffs. Bodine was a big man, and not fleet of foot. He knew that if he tried to sprint across the open area between them, he would be seen and probably get shot. “Dammit!” he swore as he watched the Indian woman fill her water skins with Johnny standing by, watching her. The skins filled, Morning Flower turned and they started back toward the village. Bodine panicked. His only option to stop them was to shoot. He didn’t hesitate. Raising his rifle, he took aim and fired.
Hit in the back, Johnny went down immediately and Morning Flower dropped the bags filled with water and dropped on her knees beside him. Seeing Johnny go down, Bodine saw it as his opportunity to complete the execution the way he wanted. Screaming in horror, Morning Flower tried to take Johnny in her arms as he tried desperately to draw his revolver to defend himself against the hulking man charging toward them. “Bodine,” Johnny spat weakly, unable to clear the pistol from his holster. Shrieking her rage, Morning Flower grabbed the pistol, pulled it free, and got off one wild shot with the single-action revolver, but she was still trying to cock it when she was knocked senseless by a blow from Bodine’s rifle butt.
Knowing there was little time left before the village responded to the shots, Bodine nevertheless took a few seconds to gloat over his dastardly act of murder. “Now, you sawed-off little son of a bitch, you’re gonna get what’s comin’ to ya,” he taunted, holding his skinning knife up for Johnny to see. Hearing loud voices coming from the village, he knew he’d better get his evil business done. With a quick thrust, he sank his knife deep into Johnny’s side as the little man grunted with the pain and struggled to get his hands on Bodine’s neck. The big man swept them aside with ease. “Die, you little bastard,” he commanded.
“Go to hell,” Johnny spat back at him.
Knowing his victim had little time left before he died, Bodine withdrew the knife, intent upon scalping him while he still had life enough to feel it. “How you like bein’ scalped, like them Injuns you been livin’ with?” With that, he grabbed a handful of Johnny’s thinning gray hair and drew his knife across the little man’s forehead. He didn’t have the opportunity to complete the job, for he was interrupted when Morning Flower recovered her senses enough to reach for Johnny’s pistol again. Having to react quickly, he kicked the pistol out of her reach in time to hear a mob of Indians pouring out of the village. There was no time left. He turned for just a second to take a quick shot at Morning Flower, then retreated as fast as he could run to the cover of the rise. Breathing heavily from his exertion, he still found satisfaction in finishing off the little man who had been such a pain in his side.
Back beside the river, the people of Two Bulls’ village had found the victims of the cruel attack, and warriors were running to find the raiders, but Bodine had too great a lead to be caught by men on foot. After a search of the area around the bluffs, they discovered the place where he had tied his horse, but they were too late to catch him. Because of Bodine’s need to hurry his shot, Morning Flower was only wounded in the shoulder, but Little Thunder appeared to be near death. He was covered with blood from the bullet wound and the knife wound with blood streaming over his face from the scalp wound. Crying, and still in a state of profound shock, Morning Flower kept repeating the name she had heard Johnny utter, Bodine, over and over.
They carried the injured couple back to Morning Flower’s tipi, where the women worked with the village’s medicine man to tend the wounds as best they could. Morning Flower was recovering well enough since at that close range, Bodine’s rifle slug had passed all the way through. Little Thunder, however, was in grave trouble. He was alive, although barely, having already slid into a state of unconsciousness, and it looked as if he would not make it through the night.
A war party rode out to track the murderers, and they picked up their trail down a long ravine into a shallow valley. They followed the trail north before losing it just before dark in the Laramie Mountains. Discouraged, they returned to a village in mourning for a beloved little white man who would probably not make it through the night. As soon as her wounds were bandaged, Morning Flower was at Johnny’s side, bathing his bloody scalp wound and singing softly for his recovery, while the medicine man administered every ritual he knew. The prognosis did not look good.
Much to everyone’s surprise, Little Thunder was still among the living the next morning. Always a stubborn man, he wouldn’t improve and he wouldn’t die, it seemed, and yet he wasn’t there mentally. For Morning Flower would talk to him constantly, hoping for some response, but there was none. This was the condition Rider found him in when the hunting party returned.
He noticed a rather strange welcome when the hunting party rode into the village with packhorses loaded with deer meat. They had been unable to find the reported buffalo, but they were fortunate to have run up on a small herd of deer, and ordinarily any successful hunt in winter was met with a warm welcome. They soon discovered the reason for their lukewarm homecoming, and Rider went at once to Morning Flower’s tipi when he was told of the tragic attack on his friend.
As soon as he entered the lodge, Morning Flower got up to meet him. “Little Thunder sleeps,” she cried. “No wake up.”
At first, he thought she meant Johnny was dead, but she then explained his friend’s condition. Looking down at the man who had risked his life to free him from federal custody, and taken him in practically as a father might adopt a son, he was overcome by a wave of emotion the likes of which he had never experienced. Then he felt his fists tighten as Morning Flower related the details of the attack, ending with the word she kept repeating so as not to forget. “Bodine,” she said. “Little Thunder say Bodine when white man sho
ot him.” Rider pictured the bully in his mind as he started to scalp Johnny, and the anger in him seemed to race red-hot through his veins. I will find you and I will kill you, he vowed to himself. But his first concern was what he could do for Johnny. Bodine would have to wait until after Johnny was taken care of.
“How long has he been like this?” Rider asked as he watched the medicine man chanting over Johnny’s bed, shaking a rattle made from a gourd. When told it had been two days now, he decided what he must do. He did not wish to offend the medicine man, but there was little doubt in his mind that Johnny’s condition was well beyond his chanting and herbs. “Get him wrapped up in warm blankets,” he said. “I’m takin’ him to the surgeon at Fort Laramie.” The medicine man insisted that his medicine was the only thing keeping Johnny alive, so in terms as politely as possible Rider told him it would not be his fault if Little Thunder died. He then went to cut poles for a travois to transport him.
While he trimmed the poles for his travois, he was approached by Yellow Bird, who came up so quietly behind him that he almost knocked her over when he suddenly turned to pick up his hatchet again. He just managed to catch her by her shoulders to keep her from falling. She smiled sweetly as he apologized for his clumsiness. “I am sorry for Little Thunder,” she said, and he nodded in response. “I am sorry for your hurt,” she added. “If you need me, I will help you.”
“Thank you,” he said, then paused to study her face. He remembered how Johnny had teased him before about Deer Foot’s sister. His initial impression had been that she was just a girl, not really old enough to even consider Johnny’s speculations. There were too many other things to occupy his mind at the present, dire, lethal thoughts to consume his thinking. Yet he could not at the moment help noticing the soul of a woman in the dark eyes that seemed to look so deeply into his and the full lips that spoke so softly. He quickly reminded himself that there were other things to think about now. “Thank you for your offer,” he said, “but Morning Flower is goin’ with me to take care of Little Thunder.”
She nodded and said, “I will watch for your return.” She smiled then, turned, and left him to finish his travois.
“It’ll be a while,” he said, and picked up his hatchet.
She turned and replied, “No matter, I will wait for you.”
His mind was too preoccupied with worry for Johnny at that moment to think about other things. It would come to puzzle him at a later time when he would wonder about the young woman’s attention toward him.
Chapter 9
With Johnny loaded as comfortably as they could make him with layers of blankets, they left Two Bulls’ camp early the next morning. Rider led the horse pulling the travois while Morning Flower rode behind, her arm in a makeshift sling, leading a packhorse with all their supplies. Yellow Bird watched them leave, standing apart from the crowd of well-wishers so that he would see her. On a trip that took Rider and Johnny less than two days when they had come in search of Two Bulls’ camp, they took three full days going back, because of the travois and the frequent stops to make sure Johnny was all right. At night, when they made camp, Morning Flower insisted on doing her usual work, taking the sling off and using both hands. Rider tried to help, but was roughly rebuked for his efforts and told to keep out of her way.
They arrived at Fort Laramie late in the afternoon and Rider pulled the travois straight to the post hospital. The surgeon was in, and seemed reluctant at first to examine Johnny, but consented to admit the patient when told that he was a scout for the army, hired by Jim Bridger. Rider declined to tell him that they had left the service of the army at Fort Reno. The surgeon was a man dedicated to his profession and he undertook the treatment of Johnny’s various wounds, but he could not in all honesty give Rider any hope for the patient’s recovery from the apparent coma. His frank diagnosis to Rider was that he simply didn’t know. “He hasn’t had anything to eat for about five days, according to what you tell me,” the doctor said. “And to be honest with you, I think you’ve been hauling a dead man around, or at least he might as well be. I don’t see how he’s made it this long without nourishment of some kind. All I can tell you is that if he doesn’t come out of that coma pretty damn soon, there’s nothing more we can do for him.”
“I ’preciate it, Doctor,” Rider said. “I’m gonna take this woman over to the Crow camp. Then I’ll be back to sit with Johnny.”
“Suit yourself,” the surgeon said.
Morning Flower was reluctant to leave Johnny, but Rider explained that she couldn’t stay in the hospital. She argued that she could make a bed for herself beside the building, but he finally convinced her that the army wouldn’t allow it. She finally gave in after he promised that she could come back first thing in the morning. Then he took her to a Crow village a couple of miles up the North Platte, where she was warmly welcomed. Rider was welcomed as well, but he thanked them graciously and returned to camp by Johnny’s bed. There were many thoughts on his mind throughout the long night, most of them concerning the possible whereabouts of Bodine and his partners.
It was just as well that Rider wasn’t aware that the men he sought were closer than he thought, for had he known they were on their way to Helena, and only a couple of days ahead of him, it might have caused him a great deal of anguish as whether or not to leave Johnny. Seated Indian-style on the floor beside Johnny’s bed with his back against the wall, he had fallen asleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning. He was jerked awake by a gentle tapping on his shoulder, opening his eyes to see Morning Flower′s beaming face. Still groggy from lack of sleep, he got up when she pointed to the bed, to discover Johnny’s eyes open and seemingly staring straight at the ceiling. They were the unblinking eyes of a dead man, he feared, and wondered why Morning Flower′s expression was one of joy. Then Johnny’s eyes blinked and he saw a weak attempt to display the lone tooth in a smile.
Dehydrated to the point of approaching death, Johnny was immediately given water by the orderly on duty, and Rider went in search of the doctor. Scarcely believing what he was told, that Johnny had come out of his sleep, the surgeon went to examine the patient. “It’s a damn miracle,” he pronounced. “I don’t mind telling you I didn’t expect him to make it through another night.” Although apparently alive, the patient had not spoken a word up to that point. “We’ll change those bandages and clean him up a little,” the doctor said, “but first I want to get a little food in him.” He had to pause then to again comment, “I swear, this man oughta be dead.”
“He always was stubborn,” a relieved Rider replied with a wide smile on his face.
“I ain’t ready to go yet,” Johnny said, startling the three standing over him, his words barely audible.
“Doctor fix. I take care of you,” Morning Flower gushed gleefully, causing Rider to smile. It was obvious that the big woman was finding it difficult to restrain from snatching him up from the bed to hug him.
When the doctor agreed to permit the Crow woman to stay by Johnny’s bedside, Rider felt it was time to attend to the vengeful business that had now returned to the forefront of his mind. With assurance that his friend was going to live, he did not want to delay any further the quest he had promised himself. “I’ve got to take care of some unfinished business,” he told Johnny. “Morning Flower will take care of you.” He directed his next comment to the Indian woman. “When they say he’s well enough to get out of here, take him to the Crow village. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, maybe a long time, ’cause I won’t be back till I take care of business.” Directing his comments to the frail-looking little man in the hospital bed, he said, “Don’t give them any hard time, and I’ll expect you to be on your feet the next time I see you.” That said, he took his leave, heading first to the sutler’s store to trade what pelts he had left for a few staples.
William Bullock was surprised to hear that Johnny Hawk was in the post hospital, and when told that the man who caused him to be there was the oversized brute called Bodine, he
was quick to inform Rider of some important news. “That big bastard was just in here two days ago, him and his two cutthroat friends. They were trying to weasel me down on the price of .44 cartridges, but I told ’em the price was what it was, no more, no less. They didn’t seem too happy about it. And to think they’d just come from tryin’ to murder Johnny Hawk.” He paused to shake his head in disbelief.
“They didn’t say where they were headin’, did they?” Rider asked.
“Well, no. That is, they didn’t tell me, but they got into an argument among themselves about what they were fixin’ to do. I couldn’t help overhearin’ what they were arguin’ about. I didn’t hear them mention the exact place, but if I had to guess, I’d say they were plannin’ to ride up to Last Chance Gulch, Helena way, ’cause that’s the hot diggin’s right now. And that’s what they were arguin’ about—talkin’ about doin’ some gold minin’.” He gave Rider a knowing look then. “And that threesome ain’t likely to go to the work of puttin’ a pick in the ground or a pan in the stream, if you know what I mean.”
“I reckon,” Rider replied. He could well agree with Bullock’s speculation. It made sense to him that Bodine and his two partners would seek to put some distance between them and Fort Laramie. And where else would they head except someplace where they might rob and murder some innocent souls who were working to pull the wealth out of the ground? “I’m much obliged for the information,” Rider said. “I expect I’d best get on my way.” He gathered up the few staples his furs would buy and turned to leave. Before he reached the door, Bullock stopped him.
“You goin’ after those three?” he asked.
“I expect so,” Rider replied.
“Well, hold on a minute.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a box of cartridges. “Here, take these. You might need extra cartridges.”
Surprised, Rider′s initial response was to refuse them. “Ten dollars a box. I can’t afford extra cartridges right now,” he said.
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