by Chuck Tyrell
Lean Bear’s horse stood patiently by a gnarled cedar tree. It was much smaller than the hunter and cavalry horses Cat was familiar with from Europe. The wiry horse stood no more than fifteen hands high, but somehow exuded an aura of stamina and strength.
The Cheyenne warrior ran his hand up the back of the horse from rump to withers. He reached around its muzzle and pulled its head to where he could blow gently in the nostrils. The horse blew in return. The Dog Soldier murmured what sounded like reassuring words in his own language. The man and the horse seemed to meld together, both breathing at the same rate. Lean Bear lay the folded blanket over the pony’s back, placed a pad on top of it, and cinched it home. Wooden stirrups covered with rawhide hung by leather straps from the pad-saddle.
Lean Bear tied a single rein to the horse’s lower jaw, removed its hobbles, and leaped aboard with one lithe bound. He reined the gray horse around and extended an arm to Cat. “We go,” he said.
Cat knew there was no way for her to escape. She decided to bide her time. Eventually, when Lean Bear no longer watched her so closely, some time, her chance would come.
She grasped the Dog Soldier’s extended arm and made a small jump that put her astride the horse behind Lean Bear. Minutes later, they were back at the campsite, but only one other Cheyenne warrior was there. He’d already broken open the ball of mud, which was now hard and brittle. The grouse’s feathers stuck to the mud and came away from the carcass cleanly.
“We eat,” Lean Bear said. He swung his right leg over the neck of his horse and dismounted. He walked to the fire pit, leaving Cat to fend for herself. The grouse smelled good. Cat slid to the ground and followed Lean Bear, but she had eyes only for the roast grouse. The other Cheyenne gnawed at a grouse leg.
Lean Bear ripped the other leg from the roasted grouse and held it out to Cat. “Eat,” he said.
She took it and bit into the warm flesh. Her eyes widened. No chef at the estates in Belgium ever created a more delicious bird. The Cheyenne who’d made the mud ball had also filled the abdominal cavity with sagebrush leaves. The aroma of the bitter bush permeated the cooked bird’s flesh. Cat devoured the grouse leg, making sure she bit off every string of tender flesh from the bones.
“Good?” Lean Bear said.
Cat, her mouth full of grouse, could only give him an emphatic nod. His laugh surprised her. She had heard that Indians, the American variety, were unemotional. “You laugh,” she said.
“You give me laughter, Cat woman,” he said.
She took another bite of grouse while she studied her captor. He laughed. He did not strike her with hand or rod. He did not try to rape her as any conquering Prussian soldier would do. Who was this man who called himself Lean Bear? And why did he remind her so much of Matt Stryker?
Chapter Six
Stryker rode careful, but he didn’t ride scared. True, the Sioux and the Arapaho and the Cheyenne had whipped the socks off the 7th Cavalry just a year ago. But that seeming victory for the tribes of the northern plains didn’t result in the forming of a large Indian federation. And the loss of 280 men to Indian bullets and arrows was nothing compared to the tens of thousands of casualties at Chancellorsville and Bull Run and Antietam. Man for man, the American Army didn’t hold a candle to a Hunkpapa Sioux or a Cheyenne Dog Soldier, but where a Sioux camp could field 200 men on a good day, one troop of U.S. Cavalry was 95 officers and men, and there were 12 troops to the regiment. What’s more, the “plains cavalry” had ten regiments. None of this counted the infantry, either. So losing Fetterman and 80 men plus George Custer’s command was nowhere near enough to make the U.S. Army turn tail and run. In fact, Col. Mackenzie’s 4th Cavalry beat Dull Knife’s warriors and sent the Northern Cheyenne packing to Indian Territories. Which meant to Stryker that Lean Bear did not have many fellow tribesmen to rely upon.
The Bozeman Trail led to Bozeman, Montana, of course, and on to Virginia City and Alder Gulch, up across the state line. Following it would make the going easy, but it wouldn’t guarantee that Stryker was getting any closer to Catherine de Merode. So instead of following the deep wagon ruts of the Bozeman, Stryker went north and then a little westerly, leading his mule.
Stryker looked and acted like a mountain man of the pre-war era. To the casual eye, he was a buckskin-clad man that rode slouched in his saddle. He held a long gun in a beaded buckskin sheath. In days gone by, the long gun would have been a Hawken, perhaps. Now Stryker carried a Sharps .50 sighted in for a thousand yards. Besides the Sharps, a Winchester’s stock showed from the saddle scabbard beneath his right leg. A fourteen-inch Bowie rode in a sheath under his left arm, and his Remington Army, chambered for the same .44-40 rounds as the Winchester, sat holstered on his right hip.
Off to Stryker’s right, Wyoming’s rolling plains spread to the horizon, with the blue outline of the Black Hills to the west. Nothing moved in the vast open spaces. Still, Stryker halted his Tennessee Walker in the shade of a Ponderosa, shielded by a growth of jack pines that said a fire had burned across the foothills not too long ago.
He sat the Walker for some minutes, carefully searching the plains for any sign of movement. To the east, a flicker of white caught his eye. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the spot where the white had shown. Another flicker of movement, and a pronghorn antelope materialized. Its brown and white markings blended almost perfectly with the surrounding flora. Only the flicking of an ear had shown Stryker where the pronghorn stood.
Stryker took off his floppy hat and waved it. The pronghorn’s head came up and its wide-set eyes focused on the flapping hat. The antelope took a step in Stryker’s direction. Then another. And another. Before long, the beast stood not twenty yards away, head held high, eyes searching for the flapping hat, legs ready to spring into full flight in an instant.
“You lose, old son,” Stryker said, and waved his arm.
The antelope bounded away, snorting.
“Another day, you’d have been in my pot.” Stryker reined his horse northwest. The antelope ran east and was soon out of sight.
Twice Stryker’s stealth paid off. Once a group of five Blackfeet crossed his path. They wore no war paint and their ponies looked scraggly and unkempt. Nevertheless, Stryker stayed out of their way, keeping silent and motionless until an hour after they’d disappeared into the western woodlands that led to the Bighorn Mountains.
The second group of Indians were Cheyenne. Not Dog Soldiers on a raid, but an extended family of an old women, three younger women, two warriors, and two young boys. They had a dozen horses, three of which pulled travois, their worldly possessions piled on top, or so Stryker surmised.
The Cheyenne headed in a more northerly direction than Stryker. He altered to follow, staying nearly two miles behind the little group. Only their tracks showed, telling him they were still ahead.
Stryker made a dry camp in a copse of Gambel’s oak, foregoing coffee and using a strip of jerky and a piece of hardtack as his supper. He took his saddle from the Walker and unloaded the mule for the night. He didn’t want the mule to wander off, so he hobbled it and picketed it to a stake he pounded into the ground with the blunt end of his hatchet. The Walker he left free. The dark bay horse was fool enough to come at a trot to Stryker’s whistle, as he knew his obedience was worth a treat.
Stryker prided himself on being a light sleeper. No ordinary man could sneak up on him, he thought. Warblers earned their name among the tree branches as the dawn arrived, and Stryker’s eyes opened a slit to their inquisitive calls. Automatically, his hand reached for the Remington Army .44 he’d left within easy reach.
It wasn’t there.
Stryker’s hand stopped. For an instant, he froze; then launched himself in a backwards roll, throwing his feet and legs over his head and coming up on his knees, facing the foot of his bedroll with his 14-inch Bowie in his left hand.
One of the Cheyenne warriors sat cross-legged about ten yards away. He held Stryker’s Winchester, cocked and pointed in Stryker’s directio
n.
Stryker used his right hand to make the plains Indian sign for “peace.” Then “talk.”
The Cheyenne poked the Winchester at Stryker’s Bowie and made a “throw away” gesture.
Stryker shrugged and put the knife away, slipping it into the scabbard that hung on a belt across his chest. He made it a point to never sleep without the Bowie, a precaution that saved his life more than once. He sat and crossed his legs, acting as if the Cheyenne was someone he’d invited to his camp. He figured showing fear would get him nowhere but dead.
“Welcome. My name is Stryker,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “Coffee?”
The warrior shook his head. “No fire,” he said.
Stryker shrugged. “Afraid?”
The Cheyenne barked a laugh. “Me? Afraid? Never.”
“You understand white man talk very good,” Stryker said.
“I went to school.”
“Don’t look like it. You look natural Cheyenne to me.”
“Why do you follow us? Are you army scout?”
“No.”
“Why do you follow us?”
“I’m going in the same direction, not necessarily following you.”
“Why not?”
“Raven-that-walks said Lean Bear went north with a white woman he took after killing all white men in the hunting party she was with. I follow Lean Bear. Your family goes in the same direction. That is all.”
The Cheyenne sat silent for some time as if digesting what Stryker had said. “Lean Bear?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Many Cheyenne go north. No big bunches, but many. In this land, we will die. Blue Coat soldiers will kill us all. Men who speak for the man they call ‘Great White Father’ all lie. We go north.”
“I go north. Perhaps we should go north together,” Stryker said.
Again the Cheyenne was silent for some time. Then he nodded. “That might be good. My name is Waquini. Means Hook Nose, but school people called me Wilson.
“I will call you Hook,” Stryker said. “A man should go by his own name.”
Hook stood and held out Stryker’s Winchester. “Come with us,” he said.
Stryker got to his feet in one lithe movement. He took two steps forward and held out his left hand for the rifle. “Where’s my Remington?” he said.
Hook pointed at an oak tree. “There.”
The gun hung just above eye level. “You sleep too hard,” Hook said. “You could be dead.”
“I don’t die easy.” Stryker casually turned his back on Hook, walked to the tree, and retrieved his gun belt and Remington revolver.
“Probable,” Hook said. “Come to us when you are ready.” He walked away, taking a path through the oak trees. Moments later, Stryker heard a horse walk away.
Caught with my pants down. Stryker made up his mind to find a better way of getting warned while he was asleep. A man purely does not want to wake up and find the business end of his own rifle staring him in the face.
No need for stealth ... wait. Hook said no fire. That must mean someone else is close by. Like the evening meal, breakfast for Stryker was a strip of jerky and a bit of hardtack, washed down with two swigs of water from his canteen.
The Walker horse came looking for treats as Stryker loaded the mule. At least no Cheyenne or Arapaho or other Indian had made off with him. “Hang on a minute, Walker, Jack Mule needs his load. After I get through, I’ll give you some hardtack. Fair enough?”
The Walker tossed his head. He wasn’t happy, but he’d wait. No other choice.
Mid-day saw Stryker aboard the Walker horse with the loaded mule in tow. He’d found the place where Hook’s bunch camped, such as it was. No fire. No teepees. Just a place where his bunch of ponies spent the night—shown by cropped down grass and a pile or two of horse dung. But they were gone and Stryker now rode on their trail. It looked like the group traveled faster now. “C’mon, Walker. Something’s bothering Hook’s family. Let’s go see what.”
Again, Stryker did not follow in Hook’s footsteps, but rode off to the side, not quite a mile away. He hoped anyone watching would find his direction of travel was coincidentally the same as Hook’s. He let Walker choose the path. The mule followed, seemingly asleep on his feet. Stryker’s eyes roamed the Wyoming countryside. He wanted to catch sight of whatever or whomever spooked Hook, but nothing showed.
Although Stryker was loathe to move after dark, by sundown he’d not caught up with Hook’s family, so he kept Walker and the mule going ahead.
The Walker horse gave Stryker the first indication that all was not natural. His head came up, his neck arched, and Stryker could feel him getting ready to whinny. That meant other horses nearby.
Stryker piled off the Walker and put a hand to the horse’s nose. He saw nothing unusual, but knew that didn’t mean a thing. He dropped the ends of Walker’s reins to the ground, which would keep him there as if he were tied to a hitching rail. The mule stood slightly spraddle-legged, head down, already catching some sleep time.
The moon stayed below the horizon so the night was dark. Stryker moved on silent moccasined feet, slow and careful. He carried only his Bowie and holstered Remington Army revolver. He wished his clothing were dark brown instead of buckskin tan. There was always something ... .
A nightjar’s ratchety cry broke the silence. What made the bird do that? Or was it a bird? Stryker had to assume the nightjar walked on two legs and smelled of sweat and smoke. He waited, taking shallow breaths.
Nothing.
He moved half a step farther. Waited. Took another half step. Waited. Half an hour later, he nestled beside a young cedar tree that stood only slightly higher than his own five-ten. Again he rued the light color of his buckskin clothing. The darkness of the cedar tree could only serve to make him stand out. The nightjar made no sound. Stryker moved ahead, half a step at a time.
He smelled horses before he heard them cropping grass. Someone would be guarding them, surely. No teepees. A dry, fireless camp. After searching Hook’s campsite thoroughly by eye, Stryker started around, staying out of earshot as he moved.
A shadow moved. Hook? Someone else? Stryker crouched. The nightjar called again, but from a different place. Birds fly. Men walk. A cry from a different place did not necessarily mean the bird was a man. He let his peripheral vision keep the place where the shadow moved in sight.
Something moved again. A big something. An upright something. Stryker’s right hand stole to the thong over the hammer of his Remington Army. He lifted the thong. Now he could draw and fire the revolver in somewhat less than a second. He watched for another movement.
It came, and with the movement, Stryker made out the form of a man with the distinctive pompadour of a Crow, or Absaroka—the sparrowhawk people—long bitter enemies of the Cheyenne and Shoshone.
“Hook!” Stryker hollered. “Crow!”
The roar of his Remington .44 punctuated his shout, and the shadow grunted and sagged to the ground.
Stryker took three swift steps to his left and came up against a ponderosa pine. He put his back to it and waited for his eyes to recover from the muzzle flash of his Remington.
Horses thundered away. The nightjar was silent.
“Stryker?”
Stryker said nothing. It might not be Hook.
“Stryker? The Crow are gone. Our horses are safe.”
“Step out where I can see you,” Stryker said.
Hook chuckled. “You may live a long life, Stryker. You may.”
Minutes passed. Stryker stood motionless. Once he though he heard a soft footstep, but wasn’t sure of it. Then a voice came from behind the ponderosa that protected his back. “I am here, Stryker. The Crow ran away. Crow men often run away.”
“One won’t run,” Stryker said. “I don’t miss at that range.”
“Yes. A Crow is dead. Perhaps we should see if he has any message for us.”
“Message?”
“Every dead man bears m
essages. But it may only tell about how weak he is.”
“Wait for morning?”
“We move. Crow perhaps come back.” Hook stepped away, and even though he listened hard, Stryker could not hear Hook’s footsteps. No dry twigs snapped. No dry grass rustled. No sound came from Hook’s movement at all.
Stryker tried to emulate Hook’s silent passage. For the most part, he was successful, but once in a while, he made some noise. He almost bumped into Hook, who stood perfectly still over the Crow warrior Striker killed.
“Scout,” Hook said. He pointed at the body. “Blue coat.”
Indeed, the dead Crow did have on an old cavalry coat. It also had sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves.
Stryker swore. The army’ll be after us ... me. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. He no longer attempted stealth. He whistled. Walker and the mule came, making surprisingly little noise in the night. Stryker had a piece of hardtack ready.
“Help me roll him up in a blanket,” Stryker said. He got one of his own blankets to shroud the body.
With Hook’s help, Stryker tied the Crow to the mule, face down. “I’ll take the body to Fort Kearney. You go north. Someday I will catch up with you.”
“Stryker. You always have one place at Waquini’s fire,” Hook said, using his Cheyenne name.
Stryker mounted Walker. “Take care, Hook,” he said, and reined Walker toward Fort Kearney.
Chapter Seven
Three days they rode, the three of them. Lean Bear never told Cat who the other Cheyenne man was, and she didn’t ask. The sun climbed toward its zenith on the fourth day, a woman appeared. At least to Cat it seemed that one moment there were three people riding two horses in a northwesterly direction, and the next she saw a woman coming toward them, riding a red and white two-color paint and leading a three-color of red, white, and black.
