He would never forget the look of gratitude he received from the two Cheyenne women when he rode back that night with the yearling. If there had been any remaining distrust between them before he rode out earlier that day, it was gone now. One of the women skinned the calf and proudly held the hide up for him to admire. He nodded his approval, unable to avoid a wry smile at the prominence of the Broken-T brand. There was plenty to eat that night.
The next order of business was the surgery on the wound. Tom didn’t look forward to it, but knew it had to be done. He explained as best he could what he was going to do, and the women seemed to understand. He explained that it would be very painful for the man. They nodded understanding. One of the women spoke then.
“This man is my husband. If you do not cut the evil from his chest, he will die.”
Tom nodded. He wanted to make doubly sure they understood what he was trying to do. He didn’t want to take a chance on digging out the man’s infection and getting a knife in his own back because of a misunderstanding. He drew his knife from his belt and got the sharpening stone from his saddle pack. While he worked on the blade, he studied the man he was about to operate on. He was still feverish. His wife had tried to feed him some soup she made from the calf’s heart, but he was unable to get any of it down before sliding off into a half stupor. Tom tested the knife’s edge and decided it was as sharp as he was going to get it.
“You might have to hold him down when I start cutting. I don’t know how weak he is, but I reckon you two can hold him.” The women took a hand each and sat on it. When they were ready, Tom straddled his patient and got ready to cut. After pulling the poultice aside and cleaning the wound with hot water, he sat poised, the knife ready to strike. He glanced at his two assistants. “Ready?” They nodded. He looked back at the young man. “Boy, I hope you’re ready, ’cause this is gonna hurt like hell.”
He pressed hard on the skinning knife, cutting deeply into the festering wound. The wounded man’s whole body stiffened and his back arched like a horse about to buck. There was one long low grunt, like what a man would make if he had been hit with a large rock, and then his body went limp and his breath emptied from his lungs. Tom glanced up to see the alarm in his wife’s eyes. She thought her husband was dead. Tom himself wasn’t sure he hadn’t killed him. He felt for his pulse with his finger, then reassured the woman that her husband was still breathing. She responded with a weak smile. He decided he’d better get on with it while the man was totally unconscious. He made a long incision across the length of the wound and immediately had to sit back for a moment to catch his breath when a quantity of bloody pus oozed from the wound. He shook his head and snorted in an effort to rid his nostrils of the acrid odor of rotted flesh. He glanced again at the women. Neither had moved or even reacted. “Damn!” he swore and returned to his task.
It seemed to him that he cut and probed for hours. In fact, it was probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes. In spite of the coolness of the early winter evening, he was sweating heavily by the time he triumphantly held up the ugly little ball of lead for them to see. They smiled their grateful approval. He had removed quite a lot of rotted flesh from around the wound and there would be a noticeable hole in the poor man’s chest but he knew, if he didn’t get it all, the infection would simply continue to eat away at him. When he had done about as much as he thought he should, he wiped off the knife, then buried the blade in the coals of the fire. He noted the puzzled expressions on the faces of both women.
“You do not sew the wound together? Do you want me to do it?” one of the women asked.
“Yes,” Tom replied. “It must be sewn up but first it must be sealed off or he might keep on bleeding inside. Can you sew it?”
“Yes,” she answered solemnly. “I did it for my father but he died anyway.”
Well, I’d just as soon have you do it, he thought to himself. This one will probably die, too. He doesn’t look any too perky right now. To the woman, he said, “I’ll burn the wound now and then you can sew it up.”
He withdrew the knife from the glowing coals, the point of the blade heated to a red glow, and, before it had a chance to cool, he thrust it into the open wound. Both women recoiled in shock as foul smoke rose from the burning flesh. Tom held his head to one side to avoid the smell as he pressed the knife firmly against the exposed wound. Satisfied that his work was done, he turned the patient over to the women. They stripped some sinew from the slaughtered calf and used it to sew up the wound as neatly as any army surgeon he had ever seen. Then he convinced them to leave the dirt and buffalo dung poultice off and let the wound breathe. He took a long look at the man before covering him with his buffalo robe. As he gazed at the still body of the Cheyenne warrior, he thought, Well, we’ll see if God wants to perform one of his many miracles, because I wouldn’t bet on you making it till morning. The irony of the situation did not escape him. He had spent years trying to kill these people. Now he was trying to keep one from dying.
* * *
The man was strong. Morning came and he was still alive, much to Tom’s amazement. He had troubled thoughts about his predicament all during the night. If he had kept his nose in his own business and kept on riding, instead of stopping to help the Indians, he would be at the Broken-T that morning. As it was, he felt somewhat trapped. Since he had undertaken to play the Samaritan, he felt obligated to stay with them until they could travel again on their own. He wasn’t sure how long that would be, and he wasn’t sure what he should do if the man didn’t make it and he was left with two Cheyenne women. So he was greatly relieved to see his patient regain consciousness during the afternoon. Tom was further amazed to see that the man’s fever was gone and his wife was able to get some of the broth in him. After another night’s rest, the man was lucid, and there was little doubt that he was going to recover.
The young warrior was totally confused as to the events of the past several days and what had taken place to cause him to come out of his great sickness. He was further astonished to find a white man in their company. He was alarmed at first sight of Tom, but his wife soon calmed his fears and explained that, were it not for this white man, he would most likely be among the spirits. When he understood what had happened, he was anxious to express his gratitude.
“My name is Sleeps Standing,” he told Tom. “My wife, Lark, has told me of your kindness to her and her sister. I am in your debt.”
Tom smiled and shrugged. “You owe me nothing. I’m just happy to see you recovering.”
During the days that followed, Tom became more acquainted with his three new friends. It seemed a strange friendship, more akin to a truce. Although the two men were not enemies at this point, still Tom learned that they had fought on opposite sides at the Little Big Horn when Tom had fought his way in to Major Reno’s relief with Captain Benteen’s regiment. Who could say how many times before this meeting they might have actually fired at each other? Tom had led many patrols against the Cheyenne and Sioux. For Sleeps Standing’s part, he had never met any white man on peaceful terms before. He came to trust Tom, and they would talk in the evening by the campfire when Tom returned from his daily hunting trips. Sleeps Standing explained to Tom that he and the two women were running from the soldiers. They had hoped to join some of their people in the mountains to the north. He refused to report to the reservation after the big battle at Wagon Box, saying he would not live as a white man’s dog in a pen. He and several other warriors started on a journey to the land of the Nez Perces with their women and old people. They had been on the trail for little more than a week when the soldiers found them and attacked. This was when he received the wound in his chest. He managed to escape with his wife and her sister, whose husband was killed. All the others were slaughtered. No prisoners were taken.
Tom stayed with them for three more days until Sleeps Standing regained enough strength to travel. Both men knew they could not stay camped there on the prairie for much longer. Already, the days were getti
ng colder. The small grove of trees would not offer enough protection against the frigid weather that was soon to blanket the prairie. Also, there would be no game to hunt. So, as soon as he was strong enough, Sleeps Standing instructed the women to pack up the camp and prepare to leave. On the morning the white man and the three Cheyennes parted, Lark and her sister both hugged Tom and thanked him again. He and Sleeps Standing clasped hands, and the Cheyenne warrior pledged his undying friendship to his white friend.
“Here,” Tom said, “let me take a look at that wound before you go.” He waited while Sleeps Standing pulled his robe aside exposing the still hideous wound. “I think it’s healing right along. I’m sorry I had to make such a mess of it. I had to get all the rotten part. Left a helluva hole.”
Sleeps Standing laughed. “It does not matter.” He turned to his wife and remarked, “Now I have a hole in my chest like Little Wolf. He would laugh to see it.”
The mention of the name brought Tom up short. “Little Wolf? Did you say Little Wolf?”
“Yes, Little Wolf.” He seemed amused by Tom’s reaction. It was a name that brought fear to the hearts of many white men. “You have heard of him?”
Tom found it hard to believe the coincidence. “Yes, I have heard of him,” he replied softly. He realized there was more than one Indian with the name of Little Wolf, so he added, “At least I know one Cheyenne warrior named Little Wolf.”
Sleeps Standing smiled proudly and stated, “Little Wolf is my brother-in-law. His wife is Rain Song, my wife’s other sister. He and I have fought many battles side by side.”
Tom was speechless for the moment as he considered this strange twist of fate. He had thought a great deal on the probable fate of his brother, even though other more pressing needs had occupied most of his thoughts. Finally he looked at Sleeps Standing and stated calmly, “Little Wolf is my brother.”
They did not understand at first, thinking that Tom was saying all Cheyennes were his brothers, a statement of friendship. Sleeps Standing smiled broadly and nodded his approval. Tom realized he did not understand the significance of his statement.
“Little Wolf,” he repeated steadily, “Little Wolf is my brother.”
Sleeps Standing did not answer. Tom could see the confusion in the man’s eyes as he looked first to his wife and then to her sister. Seeing the same confusion in their eyes, he turned back to Tom. “Little Wolf, the son of Spotted Pony, is a Cheyenne war chief,” he tried to explain.
“I know this,” Tom responded. “He is a mighty war chief now, but he is my brother. We have the same mother, same father.” Still met with a look of disbelief, he asked, “Is his skin white, like mine?”
Sleeps Standing did not answer at once, as if having to pause and think about it. Then he conceded, “Yes, his skin is white, but his heart is Cheyenne.” It was plain to Tom that even though Sleeps Standing now counted him as a friend, he was reluctant to believe Little Wolf could be related to any other white man, Tom included. Such was the lofty status his brother held among the Cheyenne.
“Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Sleeps Standing answered. “He has gone away into the far hills, beyond the land of the Nez Perces. It is my hope that I will find him someday.”
The Cheyenne’s answer was sincere—Tom decided he was not being evasive. “Did he go alone? Was there another white man with him? A big man?” He held his arms wide at his shoulders, emphasizing Squint Peterson’s massive bulk.
Sleeps Standing nodded excitedly. “Yes, a big white man,” he answered.
Tom stood thinking about the coincidence of this meeting with Little Wolf’s brother-in-law. He could not decide what to do about this information. In truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find his brother at all. Maybe Little Wolf had no desire to be reunited with him. After all, they hardly knew each other. Their only common interest was Squint Peterson, who was friend to them both. It was little more than speculation anyway, he decided. Sleeps Standing had no idea where to find Little Wolf, and only knew that he was in the high mountains. That covered a hell of a lot of territory. He decided it best to forget it for the time being. His immediate concern was to find a place to pass the winter. He had already lost almost a week’s time with the three Indians.
They wished each other well and parted company, the Indians headed to the north toward Canada, the white man to the west. Before they said their final good-byes, Tom said, “If you find Little Wolf, tell him you met Tom Allred.” Sleeps Standing nodded and smiled, then rode out of the wooded draw.
Chapter IX
Eli Cruze looked up from the bridle he was mending. He paused in his work to watch the lone rider approaching from across the river. He was leading a packhorse, and, since he was coming on at a leisurely pace, Eli was only mildly curious. He was still too far out to identify, yet there was something familiar about the way he sat his horse, and Eli strained a little harder to make the figure out. As the rider came up from out of the shallow crossing, Eli still couldn’t identify him. The man was wrapped in a heavy buffalo robe. It wasn’t until there was barely two hundred yards between them that he recognized the man’s horse.
“Well, I’ll be…” he muttered aloud. “That there’s Billy.” He put the bridle down and stood up. A crooked smile broke the usual stoic expression on his face as he now recognized Tom Allred. “Tom!” he called out as he walked out of the rough harness shed to meet him. “Goddam, Tom! What are you doing here?”
“Howdy, Cap’n,” Tom replied, smiling. “Figured you’d seen the last of me, I reckon.”
“Hell, no. I knowed you’d show up sometime to collect your pay. Step down and let’s see if Smoky’s got some coffee.”
“I ain’t wasting good coffee beans on ever’ saddle tramp that stumbles in here!” a voice boomed from behind them, and Tom and Eli turned to see Smoky, grinning from ear to ear, coming out to greet their visitor. He grabbed Tom by the hand and shook it vigorously. “Odd damn, Tom, I thought you’d done be in Canada by now…or gone under.”
“How you doing, Smoky?” Tom could not help being touched by the warm welcome he received. It was like coming home. “I’ve been in the upper Missouri. I didn’t get to Canada, but I wasn’t far from it.”
Eli’s grin faded, and his face took on a serious look for a second. “I reckon you know the army’s still looking for you. Ain’t it a bit risky hangin’ around these parts?”
“I reckon, but I figured there wouldn’t be much going on after this long and it being close to the middle of winter. I plan to keep on moving, but I need to pick up the money I got coming.”
“Well, I got it for you,” Eli stated. “It belongs to you, and I was gonna hold it till you showed up, no matter if it was next year.”
“I knew you would, Cap’n, and I’m grateful. God knows I need it.”
Smoky poured up three steaming cups of black coffee, and the three men sat down under the lean-to by the harness shed. Tom inquired about his friends on the Broken-T; Bris and Slim, Doc, and the others.
“The whole crew’s out working for a change,” Eli answered, “trying to keep the cattle from wandering too far from our range and freezing to death. I swear, I don’t know how many we’ll still have after this winter. It’s gonna be a rough one.”
Tom held the hot coffee cup in both hands and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. “I notice you been doing a little work around here. Finished the bunkhouse, I see.” He looked around to see what other changes had been made. “Got a harness shed, too.”
“Yeah.” Eli grinned. “We’ll have us a ranch here one of these days.”
After a moment’s silence, Tom asked, “Seen any army patrols?”
“No, not for ’bout a month. Like you said, cold weather must of slowed ’em down some.” Eli paused before adding, “But there was a fellow come through here a week ago. Said he was a special deputy. Looked more like a bounty hunter to me. Said he was lookin fer a feller called Dakota. Said he killed a soldier over in Miles City.”
Watching Tom’s eyes, he saw the slight glint that told him what he already suspected. “He described this Dakota feller’s horse. Sounded like Billy.”
Tom’s eyes shifted to the ground, then back to meet Eli’s gaze. “Yeah, it was Billy. I should have known better than to think I could get by without anybody knowing who I was.” His eyes went cold as steel. “But I’ll tell you this, Cap’n, I had no choice. He was bound to kill me if I didn’t get him first. He said he had no intention of taking me back to Lincoln alive.”
Eli placed his hand on Tom’s arm to reassure him. “Hell, I know it, boy. But the fact of the matter is, now it ain’t only the army looking for you. Now there’s bounty hunters too. What are you gonna do? Keep on running?”
“I don’t know. Hell, I reckon. Would you turn yourself in if you were me? I don’t see any way I can convince a court-martial I didn’t have any choice but to shoot two men.”
Eli looked as if he was about to argue the point, but he just shook his head and said, “I reckon not.” He was silent for a long moment while he thought about it. “But I’ll say this, if you’re gonna run, then you better get on with it because this here bounty hunter looked pretty damn woolly. Didn’t he, Smoky?” He looked at the cook and got an enthusiastic nod of agreement. “He looked like the kind that won’t stop for winter or nuthin’ else.”
Smoky chimed in, “Cap’n’s right, Tom. That there feller looked like bad luck, a back shooter if I ever saw one.”
Tom paused to consider this latest development. The thought of the bounty hunter didn’t scare him as much as it brought a feeling of frustration and dismay. The whole series of incidents had been one misunderstanding after another. It seemed ridiculous that anyone should be hunting him for any reason. He had done nothing more than defend himself. There was a long silence while Smoky and Eli waited for him to speak. Finally, he sighed in resignation, stood up, and threw the dregs of his coffee cup out. “I guess I have no choice but to move on.” Then he looked back at Eli and asked, “I wonder how he knew to come here looking for me, if he didn’t know my real name.”
Bitterroot Page 12
