Evil Breed

by Charles G. West

  Exasperated with himself, he shook his head vigorously in an effort to sweep troubling cobwebs out of his brain. He still had almost half a day’s ride before reaching Katie’s log cabin by the river and a cup of hot coffee. He wondered how long it would be before Clay arrived, and tried to convince himself that the reason he wondered had nothing to do with how much time he might have to spend with Lettie.

  * * *

  “Reckon a fellow could get a cup of coffee around here?”

  Lettie whirled around so suddenly she almost dropped the armload of firewood she carried. “Jim!” she exclaimed, unable to contain her excitement upon seeing him. Fearing he was dead, she had prayed every night for his return. Now she was shocked almost speechless by his sudden appearance before her. Her composure lost for only a moment, however, she quickly reined her emotions in. “I declare,” she said, “you’re as bad as your brother—sneaking up behind folks.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, even though he was aware that he was, in effect, returning from the dead. He figured she would have heard the soft padding of the Indian pony had she not been engrossed in chopping wood. There was one who had heard him approach, however. Jim nodded to Luke at the corner of the corral. “Howdy, Luke,” he said.

  Luke acknowledged the greeting with a nod, stunned to see Jim alive. He had been convinced that the Crows had killed Jim at that little stream near the base of the Wind River foothills. Happy that he had been wrong, he immediately strode forward to shake Jim’s hand, at the same time feeling a heavy shroud of guilt for reporting him dead. “I thought you was dead,” he confessed apologetically. “I followed your trail to that stream and . . .” His words trailed off.

  “Well, I almost was, I guess,” Jim replied. “You weren’t far from right. If I hadn’t been found by a band of Crows, I reckon I would be dead.” He quickly returned his attention to Lettie. “Looks like you folks are doin’ all right,” he offered as he reached out and took the load of firewood from her arms. Suddenly he was speechless. He wanted to say more to her, but he lacked the courage to tell her that she was really the only reason he came back to Canyon Creek before searching for Johnny Malotte. He was saved for the moment when Katie appeared in the doorway.

  “Well, for goodness’ sake,” Katie said, a wide smile on her face. “We’d almost given you up for dead.” She took a step toward him, then stopped to look him up and down. “It’s a wonder anybody recognized you. You look like an Injun.”

  Jim grinned. “I didn’t think I was gone that long,” he said. “You folks oughta know I’m harder to kill than that.”

  Katie stood there a few moments longer, beaming with her delight to see Clay Culver’s younger brother again. She had constantly bolstered Lettie’s faith in Jim’s return, while not completely convinced that Luke’s original opinion had been an incorrect one. It was with a sigh of relief that she now glanced at Lettie and winked. The young girl immediately flushed red. Katie shook her head in mock exasperation and turned back to Jim. “Well, don’t just stand there with that armload of wood. Bring it on in the house, and we’ll get some coffee on the stove.”

  Luke took Jim’s horse, and Jim dutifully followed Katie into the cabin. “Keep your eye on him when you unsaddle him,” he called back to Luke. “He has a fondness for taking a nip outta you if you ain’t watchin’ him—been that way ever since I swapped saddles on him. He don’t like that big saddle too much.” He stole a quick glance in Lettie’s direction, then looked away when he discovered her doing the same.

  “What happened to Toby?” Luke asked.

  “Long story,” Jim replied. “I’ll tell you after you put my horse up.”

  “Did that big, ugly-looking grizzly ever find you?” Katie wanted to know when they got inside.

  “No,” Jim replied. “I heard he showed up here.” He didn’t particularly like the notion that this man who was looking for him knew about Canyon Creek. He told them he had not encountered the man, but was aware that the man was trying to trail him. Even after hearing Katie’s description of the stranger, it didn’t occur to him that the man she described sounded a helluva lot like Blackie.

  While Katie busied herself with the coffeepot, Lettie stirred up the fire in the iron cookstove in preparation for starting supper. Jim sat down at the table. In a few minutes they were joined by Luke, and Jim recounted the events that had taken place since he last saw them—from his encounter with Johnny Malotte to his stay among Iron Bow’s Crows. “If it hadn’t been for Iron Bow and Newt Plummer, I guess I might still be floating in that stream.” He looked over at Luke and grinned. “I guess they more or less took me into their tribe, so I reckon that sorta makes me and you natural enemies.”

  Luke returned the grin. “I reckon,” he answered. “But then, I guess you’re Clay’s natural enemy, too.”

  “Dang, I guess I am at that,” Jim replied, laughing. He had forgotten Clay’s close ties with the Shoshonis. “Well, friend or foe, Clay’s supposed to meet me here in a few days.”

  His remark captured Katie’s attention at once, and she hoped the sudden flush in her face had not been noticed. She quickly turned back to the gray coffeepot on the stove in an effort to hide her emotions. She was not quick enough to avoid Lettie’s glance, however, and her young friend’s quizzical gaze. “This hot stove is making me flush,” Katie mumbled lamely.

  Lettie didn’t comment, but for the first time she began to suspect that Clay Culver might be more than a friend to Katie. It occurred to her then that Katie always seemed to become extremely quiet whenever the subject of Clay Culver came up. The thought caused a little smile to form on her face as she continued to gaze at the other woman.

  Alarmed that Lettie might have read her innermost thoughts, Katie attempted to bluster. “Another mouth to feed,” she said to Jim. “But I reckon he’s welcome, since you and him built this cabin.” She could tell by Lettie’s expression that her young friend was on to her ruse.

  Jim smiled, knowing Katie’s comments were no more than bluster. There was not a more compassionate and giving person in the whole territory than Katie Mashburn, although few of her neighbors realized it. “That’s right,” he said, “another mouth to feed.” He reached over and poked Luke on the shoulder. “I don’t know how you’re fixed for food, so I reckon Luke and I better go huntin’ in the morning—see if we can bring some meat in.” Luke smiled his approval of the suggestion.

  “Maybe you could kill a couple of those deer that have been feeding in my garden,” Katie replied. “What with the damned deer and the cool weather, there ain’t much left of the garden.”

  Lettie, having returned her gaze to settle on Jim once more, could not help but comment. “Haven’t been in the house for an hour, and already you’re talking about heading to the woods.” As soon as she said it, she blushed and looked away, only to catch Katie’s smug grin, as the previous situation was now reversed.

  Jim and Luke, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation between the two women, the communication having been conducted solely with their eyes, were already talking about the best place to jump a deer. As the afternoon wore on and evening approached, the mood was light-hearted, with Jim and Lettie renewing their acquaintance after many months apart. Katie watched the two young people, amused by the stolen glances each would take when the other was not looking. The two would make an excellent couple, she decided, if Jim ever got it through his thick skull that he needed Lettie. Just like his brother, she couldn’t help but think. And the thought brought a wistful look to her eyes as she formed a picture in her mind of Clay Culver, sitting tall and straight in the saddle. Where was he at this moment? Jim said he was on his way here as soon as he was back from leading a patrol. What the hell do I care where he is? she scolded, bringing her thoughts back to the present. Her resolve had slipped for a moment. She tried never to let herself think about Clay Culver as anything more than a friend.

  * * *

  At the precise moment that Katie Mashb
urn had wondered about his whereabouts, Clay was not sitting tall and straight in the saddle, as she had envisioned. In contrast, he was lying flat on his belly behind a clump of prairie sage that ringed the rim of a deep defile. Below him, beside a trickle of a stream, a half dozen Sioux warriors were engrossed in the butchering of Bailey Palmer’s milk cow. A few yards upstream, two more were watering the raiding party’s ponies. Among the ponies, Bailey’s two mules and one saddle horse crowded their muzzles in to compete for access to the tiny stream.

  The raiding party had not been hard to follow, and it had not been hard to figure where they were headed. The trail was leading straight to the Spotted Tail agency. Clay unconsciously shook his head as he thought about it. It was hard to blame the Indians for raiding the settlers’ livestock. Hell, they’re starving! I might raid too, if I was hungry. Clay didn’t like this part of the job. If the government insisted that the Sioux stay on the reservation, then they should provide the food and supplies they had promised. After a few moments he pushed away from the sage, keeping his body low behind the rim of the defile. Once he was far enough away so as not to be seen by the Indians, he got to his feet and made his way back to his horse.

  After a ride of approximately a mile, he came upon the cavalry patrol resting their mounts while they awaited his return. Clay rode up to the lieutenant and dismounted. “They’re about a mile ahead,” he said as he stepped down. “They stopped to butcher the cow.”

  “How many?” Lieutenant Fannin asked.

  “I counted eight,” Clay replied, “two of ’em just boys.”

  Fannin nodded, satisfied that the odds favored his fifteen-man patrol. Clay had told him before that the tracks indicated less than ten riders, but it was reassuring to have visual confirmation. He had no intention of getting his ass kicked by attacking a war party bigger than his patrol. There were only four men in the patrol who had actually been blooded in Indian fighting. The rest were green troops, most of them foreigners, just transferred over from Fort Lincoln, and probably enlisted because of difficulties in finding jobs in the civilian population. Fannin knew they hadn’t received a great deal of training, so he wasn’t willing to rely on their ability to perform unless the odds were heavily in his favor. “All right, then,” he said, “we’d best get moving.” He turned to his sergeant. “Sergeant, get the men mounted.”

  “No need to hurry,” Clay said. “From the looks of it, they just started to butcher that cow.”

  At Clay’s suggestion, Lieutenant Fannin split his detachment and sent half of his troops to the west of the defile. Led by Sergeant Dubois with orders to advance no closer than fifty yards, they would be able to cut off the Indians’ retreat. When Fannin, with the rest of the patrol, was within two hundred yards of the narrow stream, he halted his men and waited for the sergeant to get his troopers into position. While Fannin waited, Clay made his way forward to the clump of sage he had originally hidden behind to watch the Sioux raiding party.

  Let’s don’t mess this up, boys, Clay thought as he rose to one knee and signaled the lieutenant that the raiding party was still there. After seeing Fannin acknowledge with a wave of his arm, Clay turned back to keep an eye on the Indians. All of them were young warriors, two barely old enough to be called warriors. How, he wondered, would Red Cloud be able to keep these young warriors from jumping the reservation and flocking to join Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse? He held no animosity for these young fighting men. They were not his enemies. To the contrary, he could well sympathize with their plight. They were born hunters and fighters, no more able to adapt to reservation life than a grizzly or mountain lion. For a brief moment he wished he had not found them. But, he told himself, they raided a settler and stole his livestock, so it was best to run them to ground. He had done his job—he had tracked them to this spot—now he would let the lieutenant do the police work. “Come on, Fannin,” he said under his breath. “I’ve got things to do.” His mind was already jumping ahead to Canyon Creek and his brother waiting there. He shifted his gaze from the two young boys watching the horses back to the butchering of the cow. I wonder if that cow gave much milk?

  As it turned out, the successful completion of the hostiles’ capture was doomed by the greenness of the lieutenant’s troops. In his excitement over his first actual combat with Indians, one of the troopers with Sergeant Dubois accidentally fired his carbine before the detail had a chance to get into position. The result of the sudden gunshot was a wild scramble as the Sioux warriors ran to their horses. Since Dubois was not in position to cut them off, the hostiles were able to escape the trap, galloping off to the west.

  Fannin quickly ordered his troops to pursue, but it was too late. The Indians already had too great a head start. Riding low on their swift ponies, the Sioux warriors soon stretched the distance between them and their pursuers. Bailey Palmer’s horse and mules followed behind the fleeing Sioux for a while before trailing off and giving up the chase. The soldiers gamely attempted to pursue the hostiles, but Fannin soon realized it was a losing proposition and gave the order to halt. He detailed a couple of soldiers to round up Palmer’s livestock, and headed back to the little stream where Clay stood waiting.

  When the shot that startled the Indians into flight had rung out, Clay just shook his head in amused exasperation. Since there was no longer a need for concealment, he stood up and casually watched the hostiles as they jumped on their ponies and fled. He could have easily picked off a couple of them with his rifle, but he was not of a mind to. Instead he stood there for a few moments, watching the cavalry in useless pursuit. After the dust settled, he took his horse’s reins and led it down the bank to the fire where the butchering had been done. Lieutenant Fannin and his patrol returned to find him squatting by the fire, roasting a piece of beef over the flame.

  “Well, damn,” was all Fannin could think of to say as he dismounted. The sight of the big scout leisurely sampling the meat caused a bit of confusion in his mind. For a moment he was undecided whether or not he should be ordering Clay to stop. But then the incident struck him as kind of humorous. Looking around him, he couldn’t help but notice the interest generated among the men as they eyed the half-slaughtered carcass. It took Sergeant Dubois to settle it.

  “Well, by God, Lieutenant, since them damn Injuns got away, we might as well have us a feast. I mean, since they was kind enough to fix it for us.” Without waiting for Fannin’s permission, Dubois pulled out his knife and started hacking off a piece of the cow. The rest of the men hung back at first, undecided.

  Fannin laughed. “I guess you’re right. No sense in wasting the meat.” He looked at Clay. “At least we got Palmer’s mules and his horse back.”

  Clay nodded and stepped away from the fire to make room for the troopers now eagerly shouldering one another aside to get at the carcass. “Do you aim to go after them?” he asked Fannin.

  “Hell, no,” Fannin replied after a moment’s consideration. “There ain’t much doubt where they’re heading—back to the reservation. By the time we got there, they’d be scattered everywhere.”

  “I expect so,” Clay agreed.

  The decision made to return to Fort Laramie, Fannin ordered an hour’s rest. The order was met with a cheer from his men, and the feast was continued. After four days of salt pork, the tough beef was a banquet indeed. There was very little sympathy for Bailey Palmer’s loss.

  After every man had a chance to cut off a slab of meat, Clay carved off another and sat down beside one of the troopers. The young soldier was one of the men recently arrived from Fort Lincoln. He studied Clay out of the corner oaf his eye for a few moments before asking a question. Hesitant, because most of the men regarded the quiet scout as something of a mystery, he nonetheless sought to satisfy his curiosity. “Your name’s Culver, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Clay acknowledged.

  “Have you got a brother?”

  Clay turned to look at him. “I’ve got three.”

  “Any chance one o
f ’em’s named Jim?”

  This piqued Clay’s interest. “Matter of fact, one of ’em is. Why? Do you know Jim?”

  “No,” the trooper replied. “It’s probably just a coincidence; probably ain’t your brother a’tall. I just heard about a fellow named Jim Culver when I was at Fort Lincoln. I was pulling fatigue duty one day, sweeping the yard around the post adjutant’s office, when this bounty hunter brought some fellow in hog-tied to a horse. He was sure his prisoner was Jim Culver, but the captain said he’d brought in the wrong man.” The trooper shook his head to emphasize his story. “And I mean that feller didn’t like it a bit.”

  Clay threw the piece of meat he had been eating into the fire, no longer interested in food. “This bounty hunter, what did he look like?”

  “Trouble,” the trooper replied. “One of the meanest-looking sons of bitches I’ve ever seen—and big as a grizzly, bigger than you, I expect.” He could see from Clay’s expression that the scout was more than a little interested. “And, boy, he was fit to be tied when he found out he had the wrong man. I believe if there hadn’t been a bunch of us soldiers standing there listening, he mighta jumped on the captain for not paying him.”

  The soldier’s description of the bounty hunter caused a new feeling of urgency in Clay as he recalled Jim’s account of the stranger who seemed to be tailing him. The description matched that of the man asking about Jim in the sutler’s store. Suddenly the picture began to become clear in his head. He strained his mind to remember the name of the man who shot Jim and left him for dead. Johnny something . . . Malone, Mallard . . . no, that wasn’t it. “You said the bounty hunter had the wrong man. Did he say what his name was?”

  “I don’t recall,” the trooper said, stroking his chin in an effort to remember. “I remember he said his name; I just can’t recall it.”

  “Malotte?” Clay suddenly remembered. “Was it Johnny Malotte?”

  “You know, it coulda been. It was a name like that, anyway.”