by John Foxjohn
She would ask her father. But before she could move, the resounding slap of boots drew her attention. Why she eased back so the person walking couldn’t see her, she didn’t know, but she was half hiding around the corner of the closest building when the man came into sight.
Her eyes widened. It was Chester Pitts, the mayor, and many thought he was the big boss of Heath. At least from what Abbey had heard, and the way the man acted, he considered himself the boss. Pitts had once had a homestead west of Heath and while he was away, Indians had attacked his home, killing his wife and two children.
Pitts was an outspoken enemy of Andy. He believed in the phrase a good Indian was a dead Indian, and because Andy had lived with them, he was even worse.
What drew her attention even more was the way the mayor acted. He stopped at the foot of the steps leading to Lloyd’s second floor and looked around. Moments passed, and then the man hurried up the stairs as if he was afraid someone would see him. Even more puzzling, when he reached the top, he stopped and looked around again before entering the door without knocking.
For reasons she didn’t understand, Abbey heaved a sigh of relief because she’d hid from view. Her reprieve didn’t last long. Someone touched her on the shoulder and she jumped, her heart lodged in her throat. She whirled around to find JT Moreland, a worried frown carved on his face.
“Abigail, what in the world are you doing back here like this?”
Bending at the waist, she tried to speak, but had to regain her breath first. Finally, through gasps of breath, she said, “I was just out for some air.”
“Looks like you lost most of your air. I’m sorry I startled you.” He caught his elbow in hers. “Let me escort you some place a little safer. You shouldn’t be back here. Most western men wouldn’t dare harm a white woman, but there are men in this area that don’t fall in the category as most.” He glanced down at her. “You need to be more careful.”
As they strolled back the way they came, she wondered what he was doing in the alley, but something else occurred to her. She asked, “JT, did you know that Lloyd has a stairwell in the back leading to the second floor?”
He gave her a puzzled glance. “A stairwell? No, no I didn’t. I don’t go back there. Only went this time because I saw you.” Then he said, “That’s odd.”
When they reached the street, she stopped. “I just saw the mayor acting strange. He went up the stairs and entered without knocking.”
A dry chuckle erupted from deep in JT’s chest. “Abigail, the day you don’t see the mayor acting strange please come and tell me.” He frowned again before continuing, “I wonder what those two are up to? I knew the mayor was aligned with Stephens, but what you said might indicate they are up to something they need to keep a secret.”
She shifted from foot to foot, sucked in a deep breath. “JT, just what do you know about Lloyd?”
“Like most people in this town, I know nothing about his background. He doesn’t want anyone to.”
“Is he trustworthy?” she asked.
“Hmmm, interesting question. If I was your father I would not want you associated with him. Andy is a far better husband prospect. I almost jumped for joy when I heard you gave Stephens the boot.”
Abbey’s eyes widened. He’d already heard. It always amazed her how things got around the small town. They didn’t have a newspaper or telegraph and didn’t need one. Playfully, she elbowed him in the ribs. “You’re prejudiced. You just like Andy.”
JT Moreland had a smile that lit up wherever he was, and now those dazzling white teeth were on display. “Without a doubt you are right. I think that boy is a fine young man.” He winked, “I think you feel the same way.”
Her insides fluttered. Yes, she did. In that way, she had an affinity with JT.
Disengaging her arm from the crook of his, she patted him on the shoulder. Thank you for escorting me and the talk. It did me a world of good.”
“Anytime, Abigail,” he said.
Hurrying down the sidewalk, her heels clicked like a telegraph key. This time she knew exactly where she was heading. She was going to swallow her pride and tell Andy she was sorry for the way she had acted. Then if she got up the courage, even though a good girl didn’t do it, she was going to tell him how she felt about him.
She was halfway to his cabin when a black cloud of smoke billowed over the town. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath caught. It obviously came from the direction of Andy’s place.
Someone close by yelled, “Fire.”
The one word seared through her soul.
Chapter Eight
As the early morning air seeped into the tepee, Andy breathed deeply. The odors of the wood smoke, animal hides, and rancid meat swirled about him. The whites thought the smells were sickening, but to Andy, it meant home.
He squatted beside Cap’s bed and touched his shoulder. Cap’s eyes flared open, focused, and found Andy. “What’s going on, Bull?”
For most of his life, the Lakota had called Andy Wrong Hand, or the shortened version, Hand. When he went back to the whites, they mostly called him Johansson—except Abbey and JT who called him Andy, although his given name was Andrew. Now Cap had dubbed him Bull, and he didn’t know what to think of it. He couldn’t get the man to call him by his name. He sighed. “I am… um…leaving for a few days. Maybe a… week, but I will be back.”
Cap tried to sit up but couldn’t. He ran a hand over his whiskered face. “You’re not planning on leaving me here, are you?”
“No. I need to … make quick trip but I will be back.”
Cap glanced around. He whispered, “Bull, these people don’t like me here. When you get back I might be missing my hair.”
“No need to…” he sighed, couldn’t come up with the word he wanted. “Talk quiet. They do not speak English. You will be…okay here as long as you stay with Worm. He will not let anything happen. Stay in the lodge and rest…um…get better. We will leave when I get back.”
Blowing out a breath, Cap said, “Podnar, I surely do hope nothing happens to you. My butt will be in a sling.”
With a pensive expression, Andy tried picturing how someone’s butt could get in a sling. He couldn’t come up with a way and passed over it. “No,” Andy said. “Not your butt they are after.”
He rose to leave, but Cap said to his back, “Very funny.”
A bruised sky greeted Andy after he exited the tepee. There was the funny smell of the air right before it rained. He’d saddled Big Red, but when he approached the horse, four men—ones he’d grown up with, hunted with, fought side-by-side with—awaited him. Their expressions no longer indicated the kinship that had once existed.
Three Bears, Scar Face, Little Hawk, and Runs A Man blocked his path. “You leaving the white man here?” demanded Little Hawk.
Andy’s attention settled on Scar Face. Of the four, he was the most dangerous and the most likely to start trouble. He would also be the leader of the group. “I am leaving for about a week. Then I will come back and take the white man away. Worm has told me I can leave him in his lodge as his guest.” Andy’s eyes narrowed. “He is a guest of the People.”
Scar Face spat his words out. “He is not a guest of the People. We did not invite him here. We want him to leave.”
“That is not the People’s law,” Andy said. “I brought him and Worm has accepted him. The People’s law says he will be safe.”
“You are very good at stating our laws. You are white yourself,” Three Bears said.
Andy’s fist tapped his heart three times. “I am of the People no matter the color of my skin. It has always been so. Nothing has changed.”
Runs A Man had not spoken, but he changed that. He stepped aside to allow Andy access to his horse. “You were of the People. I do not think so any more. Take your trip, but get back soon and get this white man out of our village. You are taking advantage of Worm. Crazy Horse would not like what he is seeing.”
“Crazy Horse was my brother. I w
as closer to him than anyone,” Andy said. “He would know my heart where you all do not. I will be back in a week or so and take the white man away.” He stepped close to the four of them. “When I return,” he turned and pointed at the lodge Cap was in, “that man better be unharmed.”
Scar Face’s eyes flashed anger. “Are you threatening us?”
“Yes, most definitely,” Andy said as he strode past them.
When he mounted Big Red, he took the horse at a walk to the east so he would not have to turn his back on the four warriors. The chances were good that Scar Face would come after him.
Instead of heading north from the village, Andy cut over to the west, found a deep rocky gorge, and took it. With the scent of pine and rain hanging heavy in the thick air, he let the horse find his own way through the maze of downed trees and rocks. It took Big Red almost an hour to travel the three-mile climb. Before they crested the hill, Andy stopped the horse and turned to look over their back trail.
Minutes passed as he waited, watching. Finally, his patience paid off. A couple of miles behind him, he caught a flash. Someone was following him, and the chances were they came from the village.
He turned Big Red and nudged him forward, but just enough for his head to peek over the rim. Again he watched but saw nothing. When he was satisfied, he topped the ridge; they crossed a small open area and then a stand of woods on the other side. As they entered the woods, he stopped the horse. He frowned. Dust to the east. Whoever that was had not come from the village. He might have two different groups trying to follow him.
Leaning forward, he patted Big Red’s neck. “Looks like we have some trouble coming our way, big boy.”
The horse nodded and shook his head as if he understood what Andy was talking about.
Andy kept Big Red at a good clip for a couple of hours. The horse’s log strides and stamina made it difficult for anyone to keep up with them. He wasn’t too worried about the group from the east. They were probably white and might have followed him from Heath. He would have no problem getting away from them. However, the ones coming up behind him were probably Scar Face and his group, and he was a different proposition.
Big Red climbed higher. It was an hour later when they came to a fast-moving stream. As the rain began, Andy guided the horse into the water. Because of the water’s speed, the horse’s tracks wouldn’t stay visible long. The people following him would have to guess what he would do. Most people who used water to hide their tracks came out on the opposite side they went in.
Andy walked Big Red upstream in the direction they were going. A hundred feet upstream they came to a small sand bar in the middle. He walked Big Red across it, but on the other side he doubled back. Now the horse traveled with the water. Andy glanced behind them. Although the water was low and clear, the horse’s tracks vanished.
As the rain beat down on them, he kept the horse in the water for almost a mile. Before exiting the stream, he reached into his saddlebags and pulled out one of his old shirts. He tore it into four large sections, found some strips of rawhide, and dismounted. Big Red eyed Andy with a critical expression as he went from one hoof to the other, tying the rags over the hooves.
With that done, he climbed back on the horse and led him onto a low rocky shelf. He and the horse traveled more than five miles before they took a break. As Big Red munched on the thick grass, Andy removed the cloth around his hooves. He didn’t know how well that would work, but remembered Crazy Horse talking about it. His brother was good at hiding his tracks when he wanted to.
Gnawing on a tough piece of jerky, Andy squatted close to a large oak tree. The thick foliage stopped a lot of the rain, although Andy was soaked. He blew out a breath. What was he? Who was he? But more than that, what was he to become? All these questions kept reverberating in his head, but the answers didn’t come with them.
He put the last of the jerky in his mouth and began to chew on it. “Why do I have to choose?”
Big Red looked up at him as if saying, “You talking to me?”
Andy rose from his squatting position. “No, big boy. I was talking to myself. I should not have to choose and I will not. People can either accept me, or they do not. I am going to make something of my life. I am going to have the family I want. These people who are trying to make me choose better stay out of my way.”
Joshua Perkins shivered as the rain poured down on him. Although summer, the rain was cold and he didn’t have a coat or slicker. He jerked the reins of his horse so violently the horse shied, flinging his head around, almost unseating Perkins
Furious with the way Stephens talked to him and treated him, Perkins was ready to lash out at anyone or anything. He didn’t like Lloyd Stephens, but he paid well and often. That was the only reason he hadn’t killed him. Johansson was another story. He was the reason for Stephens’ hostility, and when he caught up with him, he’d make him pay, but not with money.
Four other men rode with Perkins. Like him, three of them only cared about being paid. No one knew what Billy Whiteside cared about. The sullen tracker was half-white and half Crow, but all mean. With long black hair, the half-breed glared at everyone through obsidian eyes. The glare matched the long jagged scar down the side of his face. As far as anyone could tell, he didn’t like whites or Indians, but especially didn’t like people calling him breed. He’d cut the last person to do it to pieces at Julesburg. To show his disdain for the man he’d killed and the ones who watched it, he licked the blood off the knife.
Whiteside had no trouble tracking Johansson from Heath to the Indian camp on the reservation. The travois left sign even Perkins could read. What he hadn’t known until Whiteside told him was someone occupied the travois.
The knowledge that Stephens had been right made Perkins even madder.
They’d camped the night on a hill overlooking the campsite. When he asked Whiteside why Johansson had taken the white man to the Indian camp, the half-breed grunted in disgust. “You go to the camp and get him?”
Holding his hands out to his side, palms up, Perkins asked, “Huh, what are you talking about?”
“You no go into no Sioux camp and get the man. Johansson no fool. The man safe.”
Perkins glared at him. “Would you go in there?”
Whiteside’s shiny black eyes resembled a snake’s. “I no stupid. No go in cave after bear. Wait till bear comes out.”
Hollis Hilton, a tall skinny Texan who fancied himself a gunfighter, sneered. “Johansson ain’t no bear. Nothing to be scairt of.”
With his stare fixed on Hilton, the half-breed said, “You fool. Johansson dangerous. He kill you easy.”
His statement got all of the men’s attention. If Johansson was someone the breed was cautious about, they might need to take another look at him.
When Perkins asked why he thought Johansson was dangerous, the breed wouldn’t say any more.
The next morning when Johansson left by himself, they didn’t have any trouble following him. They circled to the east and came around to pick up his tracks. When they did, Whiteside pulled up and waited.
When Perkins joined him, all he saw was a jumble of horse tracks. The tracker pointed at the ground. “Four follow him.”
“Four who?” Perkins asked.
Whiteside was looking all around. His nervousness made Perkins’s stomach tighten.
“Four Sioux from camp.” Whiteside said.
“They with him or following?” Perkins asked.
Frowning, Whiteside said, “No with. They track.”
Perkins eased his rifle out of the scabbard. That didn’t make sense. Why would the Sioux be tracking Johansson? If they’d wanted him, they had him while he was in their camp.
He followed Whiteside as the tracker moved slowly. Although he never got off his horse, he stopped several times, looked around and grunted. They’d traveled for over an hour when another burst of rain hit.
Horses splashed through the puddles as they continued. The rain didn’t seem to have a
ny effect on Whiteside or his tracking. Hours later, when they came to the stream, Perkins expected the tracker to cross, but instead he stopped his horse and motioned for him to come up.
The tracker had a perplexed expression when Perkins pulled his horse beside him. “What’s the matter?”
“Took to water. He knows,” the tracker said.
Irritated at the monosyllables the half-breed spoke in, Perkins ground his teeth. Why could he just say what he was talking about? “Who is he and what does he know?” he snapped.
Whiteside’s head turned so Perkins felt the razors shooting out of his look. “Johansson took to water. Hide tracks.” He pointed to his right. “Two Sioux went that way, one on either side.” He nodded to the left. “Two that way.”
Perkins took his hat off and swiped the water away. “Why’d they do that?”
“Don’t know where he went. Come out somewhere.”
“You can find him. Right? We can’t lose him.”
Whiteside shrugged. “Follow Sioux now.”
Hours later, Perkins drew his horse up beside Whiteside, who’d stopped. Without looking at him, the tracker shrugged. “He gone,” he said.
“What do you mean he’s gone? People can’t vanish.”
The tracker’s head slowly turned to face Perkins. “Sioux no find. I no find. He gone.”
Chapter Nine
A hawk’s call broke the early morning stillness. It was the only sound except for Big Red’s soft steps on sodden leaves. As they moved through a dense section of woods, Andy pulled the horse to a halt at the edge of a shallow but wide creek. Apprehension sizzled through him. He could tell by the horse’s bunched muscles that something was wrong with the morning. He even sensed it.
He sat his horse, all senses attuned to his surroundings. Although he couldn’t see, hear, or smell anything, he remained motionless. Crazy Horse’s words crept into his head. “Sometimes it’s not what you hear or see but what you don’t.”
