Cheyenne Saturday - Empty-Grave Extended Edition

by Richard Jessup

  “The war's over for me,” the Texan said shortly. “Except for one little piece of unfinished business.”

  “Lefty?”

  “That's right.”

  “I reckon we oughtta introduce ourselves, lad,” Kelly said. “I'm Liam Kelly, bucko in charge.”

  “How do, Mr. Kelly. I'm Nathan Ellis.”

  The men shook hands. “Texas, eh?” Kelly said, indicating the boots and the hat.

  “Texas,” Ellis said.

  Kelly scratched at his chin. “You wouldn't be one of those lads who sneaked supplies into the Confederacy under the noses of the Yankees, would you?”

  Ellis grinned. “We did manage to get a few wagonsful of stuff to the boys.”

  Kelly grunted. Texas had sided with the South in the conflict, but had not been as actively engaged in actual fighting as the others, its role being principally the supply of men and material, much of it brought overland from the Pacific coast. It took hard, tough men to cart guns and ammunition nearly two thousand miles across the southern deserts, fighting Indians and raiders every step of the way. His estimation of Nathan Ellis rose another notch.

  “I'll be right back, Ellis,” Kelly said. He turned into the tent and dismissed the Texan from his mind, his attention now wholly focused on his problem. How badly was Asa Little injured, and could he ride scout to relieve Jake Reeves? And if he couldn't, who was there to replace him?

  Even if he had to go himself, Kelly had to have information on the whereabouts and plans of the renegade Goose Face.

  Chapter 2

  GOOSE FACE didn't mind the stench of the buffalo dung he had so carefully smeared over his body to cover his own scent. Bent over and nearly on all fours beneath the weight of a bull buffalo's hide, complete with skull and horns, the young Cheyenne ignored the herd grazing around him and concentrated on the scene nearly twenty miles away across the plains. The railhead camp, with its city of tents and spirals of smoke from big campfires, delighted him.

  He studied the scene with the eye of one well experienced in attack. It was useless to come up from across the plains and attack the white men head-on. They would be warned and ready for him, and he and his hundred followers would be wiped out in the first sally.

  Though the young Indian did not understand much that motivated the white man, he had learned enough from the trader who had taken him in after the massacre of his village to know that this day, this night, was important to them. The greeting staged earlier by the white men for the iron horse confirmed his meager information that today was some sort of feast day for the men who broke trail for the smoking horse. He had learned from the scout taken during the night that it was Sad-a-day, and he remembered that the old trader never failed to drink whisky on Sad-a-day.

  What bothered Goose Face as he moved through the herd of buffalo was the number of soldiers. He was torn between the pleasant dream of killing so many of the killers-of-his-people and the honest respect he had for them as fighters. These soldiers, the young Cheyenne knew, had just finished fighting a war between themselves and there was nothing so dangerous as a brave who has learned the tricks of battle, and who does not flinch at death.

  Now, even as Goose Face watched the railhead encampment, the spur of rails had inched closer to him and the herd of buffalo. Suddenly his eyes gleamed. He had his plan.

  He turned and worked his way back through the herd to where he had hobbled his pony. He slung the buffalo hide to the ground and leaped on his swift broomtail stallion and trotted of in the direction of the rise that had caused Liam Kelly so much anxiety.

  Behind him, the rails inched closer and closer. The buffalo closed in after him, nuzzling the deep plains grass and one another.

  * * *

  Goose Face's men lay in wait in the depth of a shallow gully that, during early spring, would run full and wide and empty into the North Platte, but was now dry and loamed with hard red dust. There was no shade, and the men sat cross-legged in the shadows of their broomtails and talked among themselves. To one side Jake Reeves lay sprawled in the sun, bound hand and foot and pegged spread-legged to the ground. No one watched him any more, for Jake had ceased to struggle during the night. The blood from a head wound, inflicted by Goose Face in extracting information, had long since clotted over and the spill had dried into the dust.

  Farther up the draw, twenty or more of the ragged renegade band were grouped around a tall brave who was gesturing to the others and talking slowly. The circle of men listened to Singing Bird, a wandering Blackfoot who had been driven out of his village for theft, and did not respond to his tirade.

  Some of them turned away without a word. Others followed, and when Singing Bird tried to make them listen, his eye caught sight of a pony standing above him on the edge of the dry bank.

  Goose Face stared at the man below. “So,” he said between his teeth, “you would have us sneak into the white man's camp and steal like the thief you are!”

  Caught, Singing Bird tried to bluff his way out. “Many of us do not like attacking the white man.”

  “You do not like attacking the white man,” Goose Face said, nudging his pony down the bank.

  “I challenge any brave in my hatred of the long beards!” Singing Bird shouted.

  “You sing like the bird and are named justly,” Goose Face said angrily. “A vulture!” Moving swiftly, he slipped his knife into Singing Bird's stomach and, with the bone-handled hilt flat against the man's skin, twisted it.

  Goose Face withdrew the knife, wiped it on the buckskin trousers of the slain man and turned to face the emotionless stares of his men. More than half of them were Cheyenne who had been cut off from Black Kettle during raids. There were many Sioux, as many Pawnee and some Arapaho and Crow. All of them had tasted the treachery of the white man and were dedicated to his death, but all of them had not come to Goose Face to join forces against the long beards. Many of them, like Singing Bird, had been cast out of their villages for violating tribal taboos. But if they swore allegiance to Goose Face—who promised nothing but hardship and war in his sworn vengeance against the whites—the past crimes that brought them into the young renegade's party were forgotten. “Is there another who thinks he has enough coups in his lodge to challenge the will of Soft-and-Running-Deer?”

  The Cheyenne leader did not know that the white man's name for him was Goose Face, and spoke his true name.

  None of the men moved.

  “The buffalo stand between us and the whites,” Goose Face went on. “When the sun is here—” he pointed to the horizon where the sun would begin to sink—“and the long beards are beginning their Sad-a-day feast with much whisky, some of us will stampede the buffalo into their camp. And when the beasts have run them down, we will attack from there.” He pointed east and beyond the railhead camp.

  The older Cheyenne, who were not dishonored but were true Cheyenne who had been cut off from their people, agreed that Goose Face had devised a clever plan in using the buffalo.

  Selecting a group of twenty of his best men, Goose Face planted a stick in the ground and drew a line some distance away. “When the shadow crosses this mark, you will start the buffalo toward the whites!” Goose Face spat the word out with contempt. “Then you will follow the beasts and slay the long beards.”

  Goose Face looked over his party. “Today we pay our revenge for the destruction of Soft-and-Running-Deer's people, for the day when the blood of squaws and little ones ran over by horses' hoofs!”

  Instructing those who remained to kill the scout before they stampeded the buffalo, Goose Face mounted his pony and led his party far to the west, walking slowly to avoid dust trails and circling far to the north to bring up east of the railhead.

  Those who were left in the draw posted sentinels down close to the buffalo herd to watch for other scouts who might come out from the railhead in search of the first. The remaining men sat in the shadows of their ponies and talked softly among themselves, recounting the days of their fathers' childhoods
when there were no white men pushing across the plains, and the only danger was hunger and cold, and telling of the pleasures of forging north to the headwaters of the Missouri and raiding the Mandan for women.

  * * *

  “This man won't sit on a horse for six months,” the doctor told Kelly. The big Irishman glanced down at the silent form of Asa Little, whose head was swathed in bandages.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Kelly said and turned quickly from the tent.

  “How's your man?” Ellis asked.

  “Lucky to be alive,” Kelly grunted. “Somebody oughtta string that Watson to one of his own tent poles.”

  “What's all the sweat about?”

  “Goose Face,” Kelly said heavily. “Our night scout didn't come in—neither did the surveyors or the engineers.”

  Ellis squinted into the middle distance where the buffalo grazed. “That youngun around here?”

  “There were reports from the south by muleskinners bringin' up cross ties that some settlements had been hit by that youngun,” Kelly said bitterly. “Only he's not a youngun, he's a cutthroat Cheyenne with a hatred in him that can be cut out only with a knife.”

  “I reckon you got a problem, Kelly,” Ellis said, walking beside the bucko toward the general's tent. “Goose Face is one stubborn Injun.”

  “You ever have any trouble with him?”

  “I seen him once. I was kickin' up dust along the Santa Fe trail headin' for Independence lookin' for this Lefty—me and a few other hardtails—when we rousted Goose Face and a party of about twenty from killing off a tradin' post.”

  “He's got more than twenty followin' him now. I hear it's closer to a hundred and twenty,” Kelly said grimly.

  “Well, you sure got a problem.” The Texan shook his head, still squinting at the buffalo. “If he's got a hundred and twenty men—yes sir, Kelly—you got a problem.”

  “You eat yet, lad?”

  “No, I ain't and I'm pretty hungry,” Ellis said.

  “I've got to see the general and tell him the situation. That's my tent over there,” Kelly said, pointing. “There's a whucked-up Jehu hobblin' around on one foot and a cane that fixes for me. You tell him I said to feed you.”

  “Right kind of you, Kelly. Thank you,” Ellis said courteously.

  While Kelly strode off toward the general's tent, Ellis stepped over tent guys and dropped his saddle in front of a tent. A young boy of about eighteen, leaning on a makeshift crutch, grinned up at Ellis. “Mr. Kelly ain't here, mister.”

  “I know, boy,” Ellis said amiably. “I been sent over to eat by the very man himself. You reckon you could rustle me some coffee, beans and bacon?”

  “Sure,” the boy replied.

  “Where can I wash off some engine smoke? I been ridin' your damned railroad all night on an open flatcar.”

  The boy jerked a thumb around the side of the tent.

  “How'd you hurt your foot?”

  “Wagonload of rails spilled and I didn't jump quick enough,” the boy replied with an infectious grin.

  Ellis dug into his pocket and flipped a silver dollar toward him. “Hot coffee,” Ellis said, “strong enough to bite back.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Ellis moved around the side of the tent to a community washstand, consisting of a rough plank, several basins and a donkey-drawn cistern of water on high wheels.

  A black-haired, buckskin-clad figure was bending over a basin swishing water and gurgling happily. Ellis stepped up and slapped the figure on the seat with a resounding whack. “Move over, hardtail,” he said good-naturedly.

  The figure whirled, black hair a tangled, dripping mess, hurled the basin of water into Ellis's face and shoved him off balance into a wallow of mud. While he was still spluttering, Ellis heard the unmistakable click of a Colt hammer pulled back.

  “You make that kinda mistake again, mister,” Liza Reeves said, finger on the trigger, “and I'll take your ears off one piece at a time.”

  Ellis could only stare at the apparition with the tangled, dripping hair.

  To one side, Billy Brighton stepped out of his tent and offered Liza Reeves a towel. He looked at Ellis, still sprawled in the mud, and grinned. The tall Texan watched them walk away.

  “Well I'll be damned!” he said.

  “Whatcha doing down there, mister?” The crippled boy had moved to the washstand and was grinning broadly. “Your coffee's ready.”

  “I'm comin', boy, just give me time,” Ellis said, shaking his head.

  * * *

  “The graders and survey engineers are back, Kelly,” the general said. “They had gotten so far out, they decided to make camp last night. And Jake Reeves will probably show up, too. Jake's a damned good scout. It would take a lot more cunning than Goose Face possesses to get a good man like him.” The general smiled. “Relax, Kelly. I heard the boys have already put down nearly two miles, and it isn't ten o'clock yet.”

  Kelly grunted. “I'd like to talk to them just the same.”

  The general grinned. “Go ahead.”

  Kelly left the big tent and, after a quick check around the railhead, headed for the survey tent.

  “Did you see anything at all?” he demanded of the head of the survey party that had gone out two days before.

  “Not a thing, Kelly,” the man replied. “Last night we saw Jake makin’ a fire about thirty miles west of the railhead.”

  Kelly frowned. “You saw Jake making a fire? Are you sure it was Jake?”

  “We didn't go over and pass the time of day with him, Kelly,” the man said. “But who else could it have been?”

  “It could have been Goose Face and his party, that's who!” Kelly snapped. And then he apologized. “I'm sorry. I guess I'm gettin' to where I see Injuns behind every bush.”

  The survey engineer smiled thinly. “We penetrated nearly forty miles due west and didn't see so much as a rabbit.”

  Kelly stamped out of the tent and headed back for his own quarters.

  “Saddle my horse, boy,” he roared as he approached his tent.

  “Goin' for a ride?” Ellis asked, sitting cross-legged on the ground, working on his fourth tin plate of beans. He watched Kelly strap on a heavy Colt and turn to his rifle.

  “Seems like I'm the only one in this camp,” Kelly said, “that sees any danger in Goose Face.”

  “Then you ain't got many bright people in your camp,” Ellis said, chewing on his beans. “You goin' to ride out and take a look?”

  “I am.”

  Ellis squinted. “You had an experience ridin' scout against Cheyenne?”

  “I'm goin' out lookin' for Jake,” Kelly said stubbornly.

  “Didn't Jake get in yet?” a voice said in the tent opening. They spun around to see Liza Reeves standing in the light. “How come you ridin' out to look for ol' Jake?” she asked quietly. Her eyes took in the heavy awkwardness of Kelly's sagging Colt. “Ain't there no more scouts in this setup to go out? And what makes you think ol' Jake needs lookin' after?”

  Kelly was checking his rifle, one of the new breechloaders, and shoving cartridges into his pockets. “Ma'am, there're a few people in his camp that don't think much of my fears that that sly devil Goose Face is in the area, but I'll tell you straight out that I think he is. And with my scout Asa Little laid up in the doctoring tent with a busted head, somebody's got to go lookin' around to see where he is.”

  Liza Reeves appeared to see Ellis for the first time. “Whyn't you send him ? He looks like a trail rider.”

  “I don't work for the railroad, ma'am,” Ellis said and continued to eat his beans.

  “Where'bouts you think ol' Jake might be?” Liza Reeves asked.

  “He was headin' for the big grass due west of here,” Kelly said.

  “Well, I might just ride along with you,” Liza said decisively.

  “No, you won't,” Kelly said shortly. “You might be free to ride down from the Missouri badlands by yourself, but you're not—”

  Nathan Ellis ne
arly choked on a mouthful of beans. “She came down from up north—alone?”

  Liza Reeves glanced at Ellis with impatience. “Are you one of them that thinks a woman can't live without the help of a man?”

  “No, ma'am,” Ellis said. “I guess I made a mistake. I shoulda known that any woman that would walk around with her hair lookin' like yours, and wearin' buckskin and smellin' as bad as you do, wouldn't need a man— and had lost hopes of ever gettin' one.”

  Liza Reeves's face turned violently red. She hefted her rifle and spoke to Kelly. “What time you leavin'? You gotta give me time to get my horse.”

  “You're not goin' with me!”

  “You don't think you're goin' to stop me, do you?”

  Kelly looked at Ellis in dismay. Ellis grinned. “Might as well take her, Kelly. If your horse breaks a leg, she can carry you into camp on her back. Damned if she don't look strong enough.”

  “I knew you wouldn't fight me 'cause I'm a woman, but I wish—”

  Liza Reeves didn't get a chance to finish here wish. A tremendous explosion rocked the air, followed by a second and then a third. The ground quivered under the shock and then, rising out of the deafening noise, came the shrieks and wails of injured men.

  “Good God almighty!” Kelly roared and sprang to the opening of the tent, Nathan Ellis and Liza Reeves right behind him.

  * * *

  For two hundred yards along the sides of what had been Union Pacific track, tents and wagonloads of equipment had been blown over as if by a giant wind. And, instead of shining rails laid out in perfect alignment, there was a hole torn in the plains four feet deep and nearly fifty yards long. Whole lengths of track had been hurled three hundred feet and lay twisted and useless. Two sets of wheel trucks had been blown fifty yards. Cross ties had soared into the air and splinters were still raining down on the army of rescuers surging into the scorched field. Men lay on the ground by the score, some of them with the silence of death about them. Others crawled on all fours, blood streaming from their faces, eyes glazed with shock. And others screamed with pain and begged for relief.