Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

“Yellow Hair. Hayowei,” Cody corrected.

  “Ya should’a seen it. Really somethin’. We was at Hat Creek.’ Bout two, three weeks back. Yessir,” Bull said from his position at the far end of the same log Lockhart sat on. “Ya know’d ol’ Buffalo Bill hyar dun got the Congressional Medal o’ Honor. Four years back, it were.”

  “That’s enough, Bull,” Cody said. “But I thank you for the kind words.”

  Shifting his worn boots away from the fire’s advancing warmth, Bull studied the wounded Lockhart as if assessing an old, hard-to-read map. He removed his pipe from his teeth, licked his parched lips and lowered his gaze to take in the pipe bowl in his hand, seeking the courage to tell what was churning in his mind.

  “Years back, I was a’trappin’ in the hills. Ever’ now an’ then, I’d visit me a Injun village. Sioux, usually. Sometimes Shoshoni. Always treated fine I were.” He glanced at Cody, then back to his held pipe. “One village I visited three times. No, it were four. Black Fire was the headman. Oglala Sioux, like Crazy Horse. In this hyar village there were a young white fella among ’em. A full warrior, mind ya. Lots o’ coups. Bin a Sun Dancer ev’n.” He made a slicing motion across his chest with the stem of his pipe and returned it to his mouth. “The panther were this hyar white warrior’s spirit guide, they tolt me.” He started to point to the panther tracks around the camp and decided against it. “Wal, this hyar feller spoke some ’Merican, so he always sat with the tribe’s headmen and white men who came a’visitin’. Kinda like a middleman, I reckon.” He saw his coffee cup beside the log where he sat, picked it up and stuck a finger in the remaining brew to check its warmth. “Sure don’t wanna insult ya none, Mistah Lockhart, but ya remind me some o’ that white warrior fella.”

  Lockhart stepped toward the thick-chested man, stopped and crossed his arms. “Yes, I remember you, too.” A smile broke across his tired, tanned face.

  Bull’s expression jerked like a whip into a matching smile. “Wal, I’ll be damned!”

  Lockhart answered in Lakotan that he was glad to see the man again, “Ake iyuskinyan wancinyankelo.”

  Cody’s eyebrows rose.

  Buoyed by Lockhart’s acknowledgement of his past, Bull said his last visit to the tribe brought a dramatic discovery. Tribesmen told him the white warrior had left to return to the white man’s world. They said he had fought alone against a Shoshoni war party and killed most of them. They believed he was protected by ghosts during this fight. Some thought he was a spirit himself. The scout said Lockhart had supposedly stopped breathing once, according to the stories. Stopped breathing! Stone dead, he said, and a holy man had brought him back to life. With relish, the grizzled man related that the Indians believed the white warrior was blessed so he couldn’t be killed unless their ancestors decided so. When Bull finished, he withdrew a pouch of tobacco and began refilling his pipe, mostly to have something to do.

  Without responding, Lockhart walked to the fire, leaned over and picked up the coffeepot and refilled his own cup. He looked around to offer more coffee to Bull, then to Cody. Both nodded agreement and Lockhart refilled their cups. Casually, he explained the reason for his journey was to find his old tribe, and see that they were safe and help them to the reservation. He made no attempt to explain the ghost stories or his reason for leaving the village.

  Cody’s eyebrows arched again in suspicion of Lockhart’s reason, but the chief scout said nothing. Bull looked relieved and gulped his fresh coffee.

  The French-speaking scout came to Cody and apologized in French for interrupting. They exchanged words and the Frenchman hurried away.

  “DuBois says we’ve got blue coats coming our way,” Cody said. “We’re going to have to mount up. You’re welcome to come with us, Vin.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better stay.” Lockhart motioned toward the dun.

  Cody’s response was to offer Lockhart the captured war horses; one for him to ride, one to carry his supplies and the third as a spare. Within minutes, Lockhart’s saddle and supplies were in place on the Cheyenne ponies. He rode out, leading the replacement pack horse who was not particularly happy about his load, the third unsaddled war horse— and his dun, moving easily.

  Cody rode beside him, talking about his wife and three children.

  As they left the area, Lockhart looked back and noticed the Pawnee scouts were gathered tightly around one of the circles of dead Cheyenne. He couldn’t make out what they were doing. Several were waving freshly cut cedar branches over the area.

  Bull rode up beside Lockhart, looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “Did ya ev’r cross o’vr to the oth’r side? The spirit world? Go thar wi’ them Grandfathers?” He looked around again and his voice was barely a whisper. “I did. Onc’t. Found a special place high up in the mountains. Walked ri’t thru. Easy as can be. Yessuh.”

  Lockhart smiled and touched the stone in his pants pocket, then the feathers in his shirt pocket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Young Sean Kavanagh placed his boot into the stirrup one more time. The dark brown gelding he called “Chocolate” had reared when he tried moments before. And again a few minutes earlier. The green horse was one of a small herd they had just purchased with Crawfish’s approval—and money.

  Swinging up and over, he retook his position in the middle of the gelding’s saddle. The horse reared. Again. Wide-eyed, Sean yanked on the reins and the animal stutter-stepped on its hind legs, froze in the air momentarily, flailing its front legs, and finally returned to the ground.

  From the corral, Harry Rhymer watched, ran his fingers through his thick, white hair and said, “Sean, halfway between saddle and earth is a dangerous place to be, if’n a hoss rears up. Ain’t no place good that’s fer sure.” He made a falling motion with his hand.

  “Ye can be jerkin’ the reins, Harry, so he be knowin’ it’s wrong.” Sean pulled on imaginary reins.

  “Yeah, an’you’ll be havin’ a hoss on top o’ ya, boy.”

  Jumping from the saddle, Sean frowned. “Well, if me be kickin’ him now, he won’t be knowin’ what the punishment be for.”

  “Right, son. An’ after you’re in the saddle, he’ll settle down,” Harry said. “Kin I show you somethin’ that always worked fer me—when I was a’breakin’ ’em.”

  Sean frowned again and stepped back, making an exaggerated bow.

  “Be ri’t back. Gotta git somethin’.” Harry hurried away toward the barn. A fresh coat of red paint—along with some well-placed boards—had given the structure a new life. Just like the repairs had done on the two corrals. A rebirth of the ranch of sorts. Much like the renewed enthusiasm and purpose Harry and Martha Rhymer had found in their “partnership” with Lockhart and Crawfish.

  Sean watched him; then his gaze caught the magnificent Magic in the nearby second corral. Morning sun wrestled to clear the other outbuildings and windmill and then rested across the proud bay stallion’s back, turning it into a brown diamond. In the wide green field, 200 horses and a dozen milk cows met the new day and the plentiful grass. With Crawfish’s blessing, Sean had taken to staying at the ranch for days at a time. It allowed him to get to work earlier in the morning and the Rhymers seemed to enjoy the company.

  The Irish lad couldn’t help thinking of Lockhart and wishing for his return soon. Would he be pleased with what they had accomplished? Would he be excited to see how the colt Kola had grown? What if he didn’t come back? News about wild Indians was in the newspapers all the time. What if he was attacked and killed? Sean shook his head to push away the awful thought. He missed Lockhart a great deal; Crawfish and the Rhymers had been very nice to him, very nice, indeed. Still, he missed the man who had changed his life.

  Harry returned, holding up a small steel ring, two rawhide strings and a leather strap.

  “Found ’em!” he declared.

  The white-haired man grabbed a coiled lariat from the closest corral post and slipped between the poles into the enclosed area. He laid out the rop
e on the ground next to the horse with one end just beyond the horse’s head and the rest of the coiled rope a foot beyond its tail. He took a pocketknife from his pocket, opened its blade and cut the rope at the point.

  “Here, you kin put the rest back on the pole. Hold on to the t’other—’til I tell ya different.”

  “Aye.”

  Without further comment, he walked over to the brown horse and said something quietly to it. He leaned over next to the horse and tied the metal ring in the middle of the tightened cinch with one of the strings. Then he tied the leather strap tightly to the animal’s right hind ankle, making sure it lay between the joint and the hoof.

  He stood and looked at Sean. “Now, you tie that rope— good an’ tight—to the noseband. All right?”

  “Aye.”

  As soon as that was done, Harry told him to run the rope between the horse’s front legs and through the ring and then tie it to the strap on its rear foot.

  “Use that slip hitch I taught ya,” Harry advised. “Ya wanna be able to yank it free in a hurry, if needs be.”

  Sean finished making the knot with a big loop for a quick untie. “Now what?”

  “Now you can try mountin’ up.” Harry folded his arms. “When that brown outlaw rears up, he’ll flat pull his own hind leg out from under himself. That’ll teach ’im real quick-like. Yessuh.”

  “Won’t he be hurtin’ hisself?”

  “Naw. He’ll do it twice. Three times at the most. Then he’ll figger it ain’t the savvy thing to do.” Harry pointed at the horse. “Best thing is, he’s gittin’ the hurt ri’t when he’s a’rearin’. So he’ll know it’s the reason fer it. Nev’r seed it not work, Sean.”

  “Aye.” Sean moved to the horse and regathered the reins.

  “Nice ’n easy, Sean,” the old man cautioned. “He’ll be feelin’ ya quick—an’ ya don’t wanna be in the saddle if’n he yanks his ass to the ground.” He chuckled.

  Sean glanced in his direction, shrugged and lifted his boot to the stirrup.

  From the nearly finished house being built for Lockhart and his friends, Crawfish watched the young lad jump away as the wild horse jerked his head and staggered in response to its own doing. Shaking his head, Crawfish turned away and saw the head carpenter appear in the doorway of the new house.

  “Morning, Adrian,” he yelled. “May I have a word?” He began walking toward the house without waiting for a response.

  “ ’Course. What’s up?” Adrian Ominis smiled as Crawfish neared.

  “We’re gettin’ close,” the stocky carpenter said, pointing to the finished roof of the long house and adding that most of the interior work was finished as well.

  Crawfish was pleased with the response and eager to get a definitive date. He wanted to have it furnished before Lockhart returned. Having an important project kept him happy now that the hotel was running well. This one was especially stimulating. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Lockhart’s face when he saw it. That brought the worry that was never far from his thoughts. Was his friend all right? Would Lockhart find his old tribe in time? Would they be safe? Soon the region would be feeling the bite of early winter. Would he return before the cold settled in? Would he return? He swallowed the last question as Ominis held out his hand.

  As they shook hands, the jovial carpenter began telling about the status of the house. Ominis was one of those rather excitable men who was always working, always with too many things going on. Crawfish liked him, but knew the man needed the discipline of asking questions and demanding specific deadlines. Rather than resenting it, Ominis seemed to find relief in the specificity.

  “Mr. Crawford…there’s a man in front…he wants to see you.”

  The announcement came from Martha Rhymer, coming from the back door of the low-roofed Rhymer home. With her walked Falling Leaf. Both Crawfish and the Indian woman had come out in his carriage this morning. Crawfish had been eager to check on the house. It wasn’t the first time Falling Leaf had visited the ranch and Martha Rhymer had welcomed her graciously. So had Harry.

  “Have him come around.” Crawfish returned to Ominis’s assessment.

  Swallowing, Martha said, “H-He’s a black man. I asked him in, but he said he preferred not to.” Crow’s-feet jumped around her eyes in reinforcement of her declaration.

  Crawfish looked up again, more puzzled than annoyed. The gap between his front teeth was visible as he spoke. “A black man?”

  Nervously, she explained the man worked for the stage line, and that he had a dispatch letter from Vin Lockhart.

  “Mail-and-money! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Crawfish rushed toward the front of the house, leaving Ominis in midsentence.

  Outside, a thin Jean-Jacques Beezah waited, holding an envelope in both hands. His cutaway navy blue coat and vest were sprinkled with dust. As Crawfish approached, he removed his matching bowler hat. A quiet horse stood at the hitching rack; in its saddle sat a black cat, half-asleep.

  “Mr. Crawford, I have a postal letter for you. From Vin Lockhart,” Beezah announced, presenting the communication. “A dispatch rider from Fort Laramie brought it to the stage office. In Cheyenne. He came, bringing all the army mail like usual. Only he brought this, too. It came from William F. Cody himself. Buffalo Bill. From General Merritt’s camp. Up north. Near the Yellowstone. That’s what he told me anyway.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.” Crawfish took the envelope, noticed the official dispatch order from Cody, ripped it open and began reading aloud without realizing it.

  A few feet away, Martha and Falling Leaf watched him read aloud. Martha’s mouth moved along with every word he pronounced.

  Crawfish, I am well and headed for the Bighorn Mountains. I expect to find Black Fire’s people there unless the army arrives first. Bill Cody advised me on their possible whereabouts. A Pawnee scout told him of a small band of Oglala headed that way. It appears the Indians spread out after the Little Bighorn. I did not hear about Custer’s great defeat until a week ago. I heard it from Cody himself.

  I had a run-in with a Cheyenne dog-soldier war party two weeks ago, but I was only slightly injured. It is nothing to worry about. Tell Sean and Harry that I have three Cheyenne war ponies now. Two are geldings. The other is a stallion. I also have a dun that has proven a fine, strong horse. None are as good as Magic. Or what I think Kola will be. I will bring them when I return.

  I rode for a week with Bill Cody and his scouts as part of General Crook’s army. He is chief scout of the Fifth Cavalry. They are camped on the Rosebud with General Terry. This makes a huge army of over 3,500 men. It is the greatest force ever to enter Indian country. It sounds like they intend to stay the winter, if it is necessary. I am leaving them now and Bill has generously taken the responsibility for seeing that this letter gets to you. I don’t think Bill will stay with the army much longer. He is interested in doing a stage act again.

  It has been a long time since I left Denver and I am sorry to have left so much for you to do. I hope the hotel and restaurant are going well. I hope the ranch has not been too big a burden. Harry and Sean will do well I am certain. Is Falling Leaf well? I hope she has not been trouble for you. Have you taken her to the ranch? Sean can learn much from Harry who is a good horse man. I think Falling Leaf can help if Harry and Martha do not mind her presence.

  Keep praying that I find my friends in time. You are right. They must go to the reservation. It is very sad.

  Vin

  Crawfish looked up and mumbled that he wished the letter was longer.

  Nodding agreement, Martha glanced at Falling Leaf, then back to Crawfish, then again to the Indian woman who was staring at the open land from where Beezah had come. Martha wondered if the older woman was thinking Lockhart himself would be coming. Falling Leaf’s dress was one Crawfish had bought for her, a soft blue trimmed in white with long sleeves that were puffed out at the cuffs. Around her neck, however, was her tribal choker and in her hand was t
he pipe bag holding her old gun. Over her dress, she wore a pale yellow apron that Martha had given her.

  Beezah’s smile was wide as Crawfish peered over the top of the handwritten page. The black shootist explained his relationship with Lockhart and it being the reason he wanted to deliver the letter personally. He said this was his first trip riding shotgun after the attempted holdup and his wounds.

  For the first time, Crawfish noticed the black man was well armed, wearing a holstered, black-handled .44 Remington revolver on a silver-appointed gunbelt strapped over his navy blue vest. A second matching gun was shoved into his belt in the middle of his stomach.

  “Of course! Of course!” Crawfish waved the letter. “I should have guessed. Lockhart told us about you. In a wire. Seems a long time ago now.” He lowered the sheet and frowned. “How are you?”

  Beezah raised his right arm to demonstrate his fitness. “I am well, Governor. Beezah’s body heals fast.”

  “I heard Dr. Milens broke out of the Cheyenne jail. A week ago, I think,” Crawfish said. “What happened?”

  Shaking his head, Beezah said, “I am not certain. It came while the town constable and his deputies were on guard.” The black man’s eyebrows arched in disbelief. “From what I heard, the spiritualist talked them into doing a séance, hypnotized them and got ahold of the keys.”

  “Did his gang escape, too?”

  “Yes. All of them, except the two women assistants. They had been transferred to a hotel room—and kept under guard,” Beezah said. “That’s why I am riding shotgun now. I’m a little weak, but I felt I owed it to the company. They were good to me.”

  “They’re lucky to have you.”

  Beezah laughed. “I now check everyone riding on the stage roof—for guns.” He frowned and added that U. S. Marshal John Hogan said Dr. Milens was furious at Vin Lockhart, blaming him for the arrest and the subsequent stopping of his first jailbreak attempt.

  “Do they know where that bunch was headed?” Crawfish asked.

  “Well, the last I heard, Marshal Hogan was leading a posse. Headed west. But that was two weeks ago. At least. I suppose Dr. Milens and his bunch could be anywhere. When I got to Denver, there was a report the gang had been seen just outside of town. Who knows? All I really know is they didn’t try to rob the stage.” He nodded to emphasize the point.