Stringer on the Assassins' Trail

by Lou Cameron

  The Indian shook with him, gravely. “I am best known as Crow Killer. Have you eaten?”

  “Not lately,” Stringer replied. “Could I interest you in some Bull Durham?”

  Crow Killer smiled for the first time. “Not now. I think you should come home with me. We can smoke and talk about horses after supper. I am afoot too. This trail you were already following leads to our camp. That is why I thought it best to talk to you before you went any farther along it.”

  The renegade Shoshoni camp looked a mite more cow than one might have expected, too, once Crow Killer led him to it. As they strode down the slope, Stringer saw it could have easily been taken for a sort of rustic cattle spread from any distance. There wasn’t as much smoke rising from the smoke hole of the cabin’s sod roof as white squatters might have felt like sending up. This was as likely Indian custom as an attempt to keep from being spotted this far off the beaten track. The word renegade, as used by the B.I.A., didn’t mean an outright evil Indian. The government simply felt, with some logic, that once a band had come in, signed up for rations, and been given a B.I.A. number, it had reneged on its agreement with the Great White Father if it chose to run off wild again.

  He could see they had a remuda of about two dozen ponies in the pole corral behind their cabin. As they got closer, a yellow cur that looked half coyote and entirely unfriendly came around a corner to howl and cuss at them. Stringer paid no more mind to it than Crow Killer. He knew that unlike the yard dogs of some trash whites, Indian dogs knew better than to really bite, if they didn’t want to be served for supper.

  As they approached the cabin door, with the cur dog snapping ferociously at their shadows, it opened to reveal a fat old gal. She didn’t speak English, but when Crow Killer introduced Stringer to her in Ho, she gave him a big hug anyway. “Moon Girl enjoys company,” Crow Killer said. “She prides herself on her cooking. Don’t get the idea she wants to sleep with you, though.”

  Stringer told him, truthfully enough, the thought had never crossed his mind. So the two of them hauled him inside, and it got worse.

  To say Indians smelled worse instead of say different would have been unfair. Stringer had never minded the sort of parched corn or burning-leaves odor of Ho or Uto-Aztec speakers. But like almost all Indians, these seemed to enjoy the odor of smoke beyond all common sense. Perhaps because they’d invented smoking tobacco to begin with, they just couldn’t seem to stand fresh air indoors. The interior of the dimly lit cabin was filled with a blue haze of mostly wood smoke, from roof timbers to tamped earth floor. It took a little getting used to, and his eyes were still watering once he had. But once Moon Girl had him seated on a pile of blankets near her fireplace, he began to notice, by the ruby glow of her tiny fire, that there were others present. The old couple had a mess of children or grandchildren on hand. Like most Indian kids, they were shy and quiet as they stared at him from the gloom like a pack of poker-faced dolls. There was a younger male Shoshoni in one corner who pretended to ignore Stringer entirely. The two younger women seemed about as shy as the kids, but glanced his way more often, as he and the man of the house rolled smokes and made small talk. Stringer knew it was considered rude to ask about horses or anything else until he’d been grubbed and his host got around to any business he felt like discussing.

  Old Moon Girl didn’t take long to rustle up the grub. She’d had a black kettle and coffeepot steaming on the coals long enough to smoke up the whole place before they’d arrived. It was small wonder so little smoke rose above their cabin. Her motive seemed to be waste not, want not. So even though her fire was modest, she seemed to like to keep it going all day lest the air in there clear up.

  Naturally, she served her man, their male guest, and the sullen youth in the corner first. The main course turned out to be a sort of blue corn and chipped-beef mush. As the old woman handed his bowl to him, one of the younger gals said, in perfect English, “Don’t worry. It’s not dog or pony.”

  Stringer shot her a wary glance. She was sort of pretty, if one admired dark and sulky faces. She was sitting on her knees in a low-cut Mex blouse and wraparound striped skirts. Her black hair was neatly parted and braided into a sort of mouse-ear bun on either side of her fine-boned skull. He figured her for about a quarter white. That was the kind that seemed to resent his kind more than most pure-bloods did. He knew better than to tell her he’d eaten horse meat with the Army down in Cuba and survived the experience. He knew anything a man might say would just be pouring coal oil on the fire when a pouty gal was spoiling for a fight.

  She didn’t let him off when he refused the first bait. As her mother, grandmother, or whatever poured him some coffee, she sniffed and said, “I guess you expected flour or salt instead of sugar in that, right?”

  He sipped. “This tastes just fine, ma’am.”

  “Don’t you mean squaw?” she demanded.

  “Nope. Squaw is an Algonquin word for womankind, so a Cheyenne gal might not mind being called that. I know some other nations with different lingos seem to resent the word, and since we’re talking English to begin with, ma’am will just have to do you unless you’ve time to teach me Ho.”

  Old Crow Killer growled something at her in their own singsong tongue, and she had to shut up a spell. “Pay no attention to Judith Ann,” his more gracious host told Stringer. “They had her going to a Saltu school for a time, and it made her mean. You haven’t told me much about yourself and why you have to go so far so fast.”

  Stringer didn’t want to tell anyone about anarchist plots he still wasn’t sure of himself. So he settled for giving the old man a rundown on who he was and what he did for a living.

  Judith Ann couldn’t stand her own silence after all.

  “I think you are trying to play my uncle for a fool,” she suddenly snapped. “You say you are a writer. Hear me, I can read. I have read many books, many, and you don’t talk the way books are written. You talk just like everyone else. Maybe not even as fancy as some Saltu I have met. I have caught you saying ain’t, twice. The teachers at the boarding school used to punish us for using ain’t. How could you make a living putting words on paper if you don’t know how to talk right?”

  Her uncle growled at her again. But Stringer said, “That’s a fair question. Miss Judith Ann ain’t the first to ask it, so I’d best explain. I talk the way I talk because I grew up talking this way, natural. Like you, Miss Judith Ann, I was taught rules about grammar and such in school, and sure, when I sit down to write a feature for my paper, I hardly ever use ain’t. When I do, my editor changes it with a big blue pencil. Sometimes I’m surprised myself, to see how refined my stuff reads in print. Meanwhile, as I poke about for feature stories in all sorts of places, I’d just as soon not get into any more fights than I have to, and it makes even educated folk wince to hear a grown man talking like a book. I never met Sir Walter Scott, but I suspect he didn’t use thee and thou in ordinary conversation either. They say Edgar Allan Poe liked to drink with the boys a lot, and if he did, he’d have sure sounded silly ordering a round in words that rhymed, right?”

  She sniffed. “I still don’t think he could have sounded like a cowhand, even getting drunk.”

  Stringer shrugged. “Have it your way. I’m a cow thief on the dodge, and I still have to get up to the Yellowstone Park, sudden.”

  Crow Killer shushed the sass again and picked up on Stringer’s last remark. “Finish your meal,” he said, “and I’ll show you my stock while it’s still light outside.”

  So Stringer did. He’d meant to finish fast so the women and children could be served in any case. Old Moon Girl insisted on serving him another tin cup of coffee, and he carried it out to the corral with him. The younger Shoshoni followed silently, and the yard dog resumed growling, at all three of them now.

  As was the custom among both white and red men when dealing in horse flesh, Stringer leaned against the same corral rail Crow Killer had his arms folded over, silently sipping coffee as they stared casually
at the remuda. The ponies sensed at least one of them figured to get roped in the near future, and milled nervously as each sought a quiet comer as far from the gate as possible. Finally Crow Killer murmured, “Hear me, all my stock is grain fed and steel shod.”

  Stringer nodded. “I noticed how many of ’em seem to be wearing brands. No offense, but I’d just as soon not buy a branded pony without a matching bill of sale. Some old boys just don’t understand Shoshoni notions of finders-keepers.”

  The younger silent Indian suppressed a smug smile. “Hear me,” Crow Killer said, “none of those ponies have been stolen, exactly. Is it our fault some of you Saltu are so cruel to their ponies that they run away? Would it be right to let a poor stray starve or be eaten by wolves among these cruel hills?”

  Stringer tried not to laugh. “I’ve noticed how overgrazed and wolf infested it looks around here. I just said Indian views on property rights were none of my business. That roan mare with the white blaze looks fat and sassy as well as unbranded.”

  Crow Killer sighed. “You do seem to know which end of a pony is which. But I can’t let you have her. I don’t get any sleep when Judith Ann screams and throws things all night, and she seems to like that one.”

  Stringer said he wasn’t surprised, and pointed the tin cup at a brown-and-white paint. “That paint shows more of the whites of his eye than I like to see outside a bucking contest. But at least he has four legs. What are you asking for him, in case I meet some buzzards I want to feed?”

  “Hear me,” Crow Killer said, “that’s a good gelding. If I let you have him for forty dollars, it would only be to prove how much I love you as a son.”

  Stringer snorted and replied, “I’d be proving I was the half-wit of the family if I paid ten, just to use his pretty hide for fancy winter chaps.”

  Crow Killer stared morosely up at the low sun. “I think we should cut the bullshit before it gets too dark to see what we are talking about. You say you need a pony and that you are in a hurry. That paint will carry you far and fast, if you are man enough to ride him. You are right about his eyes. How do you feel about thirty?”

  “Awful. But I’ll need a saddle and bridle as well. Throw them in and we got a deal.”

  “Now you are really trying to make me sorry about that peace treaty of ’79.” Crow Killer sighed. “Forty-five for the paint and a good double-rigged roper and Army bridle. I have spoken.”

  Stringer said he had to see the gear first. So they went around to a lean-to tack room attached to the rear wall of the cabin, and as far as Stringer could see by the tricky light, the Army bridle was all right, save for the one cheek strap replaced by braided rawhide, and the roping saddle’s tree was still in one piece under the leather when Stringer tried to bend it. The old Indian asked, sadly, if he’d really thought they’d try to sell him a saddle with a broken tree.

  “I don’t see why you should be any different than any other businessmen I’ve dealt with in the past,” Stringer replied. “But I’d say we have a deal.”

  So he counted out the money and hoped the younger Shoshoni was just naturally curious as he tried to see how much more there might be in a stranger’s wallet. Then they helped him cut out and saddle the wild-eyed paint. It wasn’t easy. Stringer didn’t lash his possibles to the saddle until he’d mounted up and run the pony up and down the slope a couple of times. When it didn’t seem to want to buck or roll, he dismounted near his possibles and made sure they were tied down good across the skirts. By this time all the women and children had come out of the cabin to watch, of course. In the soft light of gloaming the pouty Judith Ann appeared even prettier, or would have if she hadn’t looked as if she were rooting for the paint to throw and stomp him.

  It didn’t. She looked sort of disappointed as he mounted up, waved his rough rider hat at everyone, and rode off upslope to the north.

  He was soon out of sight, making good time along the ridge trail for well over an hour. Then the sun went down entire, and while at this altitude the stars came out looking thick enough and close enough to sweep out of the black velvet sky by the hatful, if he stood only a mite taller in the stirrups, the moon hadn’t risen yet and even countless stars cast little light upon the subject.

  He knew his new pony could see better in the dark, and had it been a mount he was more familiar with, he might have trusted it to cover a few more miles without strolling into a tree or off a cliff with him. But when they came to a grassy hollow on a bare rise, Stringer reined in. “We’d best call her a day, at least until the moon comes up,” he told the paint. “Tonight that don’t figure to happen this side of midnight. Meanwhile, you can rest your legs and make it up to me when it’s safer to do some ridge running, hear?”

  The paint didn’t answer. It had already lowered its head to inhale some of the lush grass that came with the hollow. Stringer dismounted to unsaddle it, rub its back dry with the saddle blanket, and tether it to a handy clump of rabbit bush.

  Then he moved upslope, dropped the saddle on the soft sod, and unrolled the tarp. This automatically left the waterproof canvas on the bottom, with the blankets between it and the confusion of supplies he managed to get along without up till now. He sorted things out as neatly as he could by the dim light of the Milky Way, and found a place for his own rump on the blankets. He had to strike a match to tell beans from tomatoes, but had no trouble opening either in the dark with the can opener blade of his pocket knife.

  The idea was to swallow the beans first and wash ’em down with the wetter tomato preserves. It tasted funnier the other way. He wasn’t surprised to find his cold dinner so filling. That was why he’d brought the cans along, and of course, that bowl of Shoshoni mush had almost amounted to a light meal for a white man. He was sort of sorry he’d had that coffee back there. Trying to sleep this early at night could be a chore even when he wasn’t full of coffee, and it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do until moonrise.

  He lay back on one elbow, listening to the pony munching, while more distant crickets sang to them both. After a while he sat back up to roll a smoke. The crickets stopped chirping. That was reasonable enough. But the pony had stopped grazing. That was something to study on.

  As Stringer strained his ears, he failed to hear anything but the dead silence. It still struck him as a piss-poor time to strike a match. So he didn’t. He drew his gun instead.

  A million years went by as a million silent stars stared down expectantly. Then the tethered pony nickered, as if to someone it might know. Stringer grimaced, took a deep breath, and let half of it out so his voice wouldn’t crack as he called out in a conversational tone, “I couldn’t see how I was going to pay for the ride without letting you boys know I had some money on me. But it seems only fair to tell you I don’t have enough to make this worth the considerable risk. I say considerable because I see you, and so does my six-gun, Chief.”

  The bluff seemed to work, sort of, although Stringer flinched when the answer came from the east instead of the south rim of the hollow he was hunkered in. The voice he recognized, though, was that of the pouty Judith Ann. “You must have eyes like an owl if you can see me,” she called back. “For I can’t see you at all. Where are you?”

  He put his free hand to his mouth to keep from making her aim by ear needlessly easy. “Oh, here and there, ma’am. Before you move in any closer, would you mind telling me to what I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?”

  “I came to warn you,” she called back. “My uncle is not a bad person. He just doesn’t care what happens to you, Saltu.”

  He pondered her odd words some before he suggested, “Just head downslope until I have you sky-lined better, and we’ll talk.”

  She did. He saw she was indeed alone, and when she spotted him as a dark blur, she sank to her knees in the nearby grass, sitting on the heels of her moccasins. “I heard my uncle and Wounded Hawk talking about it after you’d left,” she said. “This trail you are following leads the way you wish to go. But before you
even get to Jackson’s Hole, it will lead you into bad country. Crow Killer says he would have told you, had you asked. But since none of our people are involved, and you didn’t ask, he thinks it is Saltu business. I think he was hoping you might take at least one or two of the evil Saltu down with you. I don’t think he has any personal grudge against you.”

  “I don’t see why he should,” Stringer said. “I paid more than I might have for what I bought off him. Tell me more about these wicked white men up ahead.”

  “There is little to tell. Every time any of our people get anywhere near them, they shoot at us. They have taken over a whole valley, about a day’s ride north of here. It used to be part of our band’s hunting ground. Nobody else has ever wanted it. We don’t know why they want it or what they are doing there. They are just there. Maybe thirty men with some Saltu women. No children. They have built lean-tos along the creek that waters the valley. Wounded Hawk thinks they could be the ones called Butch and Sundance. He wants my uncle to gather in all the others and go after them for the reward. Crow Killer says that would be silly. Even if his young men were not all killed, the B.I.A. would never let us claim the money.”

  Stringer nodded soberly. “They could both be right. Since nobody knows for sure where the Wild Bunch holes up between jobs, one valley in these mountains makes as much sense as any others. If we’re discussing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, your kith and kin would be well advised to stay the hell away from them. I’ve read those same reward posters. It’s my considered opinion they’re not offering enough for any man with a lick of sense to go up against either of those old boys, solo. But there’s Wild Bunches, and then there’s just bunches of boys gone wild. How do you know they’re not just a mess of secretive prospectors, or cowhands in business for themselves?”

  “They have not been panning the creek,” she replied. “They have no stolen cattle with them. Just their ponies and women. More ponies than women. Is it true you Saltu share your women between you, like dogs?”