A Man Called Sunday

by Charles G. West

  DEAD MAN

  Luke listened when the captain returned to tell the skinny corporal that there was nothing that could be done to learn the fate of Foster and Rivers. The news was not well received by the small group of soldiers gathered about the fire, with some faintly subdued grumbling about the responsibility of their officers to recover the wounded and dead after every battle. The Indians’ penchant for mutilating bodies of their enemies was well known among the troopers. “I don’t like it, either,” Captain Egan told them, “but we were ordered to move on.”

  “I reckon I could go back and see if I can find out what happened to your two men,” Luke volunteered. His announcement brought forth looks of surprise on the faces of those gathered around the fire. He had made no comment up to that point.

  “That might not be such a good idea,” Egan said, “riding back into that swarm of Indians. The minute they see you, you’re a dead man.”

  “I don’t plan on lettin’ ’em see me,” Luke replied.

  A MAN CALLED SUNDAY

  Charles G. West

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, June 2012

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  For Ronda

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Special Excerpt

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chief Scout Ben Clarke looked over the group of Crow Indians who had volunteered to act as scouts for General George Crook’s winter campaign against the hostile Sioux. Principal among the hostile leaders, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse had refused to obey orders from Washington to report to the reservation, and it was now up to the army to punish them. As Clarke scanned the line of warriors standing before him now at Fort Laramie, his gaze was captured by one among them, and he paused to study the lean features of a lone white man. Dressed in buckskins from head to toe, the man would have passed for an Indian had it not been for the shock of sandy hair, tied in a single strand between his shoulder blades. A closer look revealed deep-set gray eyes that locked, unblinking, on Clarke’s. “You’re Luke Sunday, ain’t you?” Clarke asked, certain the man could be no other. He received a single nod in response.

  Ben Clarke was as informed as any white man in the territory, but this was the first time he had come face-to-face with Luke Sunday. He knew him only by tales he had heard from others who had chanced upon the man the Crows called Dead Man. He would have dismissed the rare sightings as nothing more than tales the Indians had created, had it not been for verification by John Collins, the sutler at Fort Laramie. Collins said there was such a man named Luke Sunday who had come in his store a couple of times to buy .44 cartridges. He said the man was short on conversation and never lingered once his purchases were made. He didn’t know where Sunday got his money to pay for the ammunition for the Henry rifle he carried, but he supposed it came from the trading of furs. Ben couldn’t help being fascinated by the chance encounter with an Indian legend, so while the Crows were being issued ammunition and weapons, he called Sunday aside. “You speak English?” Clarke asked, not sure whether the man had been raised from childhood by Indians, as some folks believed.

  Again, Luke nodded, then spoke. “I do,” he said, somewhat surprised that Clarke had to ask.

  It was Clarke’s turn to nod thoughtfully. “Well, I wasn’t sure since you came in with the Crows,” he said. “I’ve hired on close to thirty white scouts for this campaign, some of ’em the best in the business. All of ’em claim to know the Powder River country like the back of their hands. What about you? You know the country between here and the Yellowstone?”

  “About as well as the next man,” Luke answered.

  “I reckon there’ll be plenty of opportunity to find out,” Clarke said. “I’ve been runnin’ scout details for the army for a helluva long time. How come I ain’t ever run into you before?”

  “I wasn’t this low on money for cartridges till now,” Luke stated frankly.

  Ben took another few moments to study the man’s face before deciding. “I reckon I’ll take a chance on you even though I’ve already got more scouts than I’ll probably need.”

  Although Luke’s shrug in response might have seemed indifferent, he was genuinely grateful for the employment. It had been a hard winter so far, and what little money he had managed to accumulate was rapidly running out. He had no real quarrel with the Oglala Lakota. It was a Hunkpapa Lakota war party that had killed his parents. Now the Sioux were at war with the United States, so he felt no qualms about scouting for the army against them. He did find it odd, however, that Clarke said he was going to take a chance on him, as if he was going to interview each of the Crow scouts who volunteered. It didn’t occur to him that Clarke meant to measure him against his proven senior scouts.

  “I’m gonna send you out with Bill Bogart,” Clarke continued. “He’s worked for me before. Sometimes he’s hard to get along with, but if you just do what he says, you’ll be all right, I reckon.” He turned and pointed to a large man with a full beard the color of pine straw. “He’ll be scoutin’ for Colonel Reynolds most of the time. You m
ight wanna go on over and tell him I said you’ll be ridin’ with him and his partner.”

  Luke nodded, but hesitated for a moment. “All right if I collect my cartridges first?” he asked. Judging by the arming of the Crow scouts, he was concerned that the soldiers might run out of cartridges before he got his.

  “I reckon,” Clarke answered. Then out of curiosity, he motioned toward the ash bow strapped on Luke’s back. “You any good with that thing?”

  “I get by,” Luke replied.

  * * *

  “Ben Clarke told me that I’ll be ridin’ with you,” Luke announced as he approached the large man standing by one of the campfires, talking to a smaller, dark-complexioned man.

  “Is that so?” Bogart replied, not particularly impressed by the sandy-haired man clad in buckskins. “What might your name be?”

  “Luke Sunday,” Luke replied.

  “Luke Sunday,” Bogart repeated, trying to recall. He turned to his friend and asked, “You ever hear of Luke Sunday?” His partner shook his head. Bogart turned back to the stranger. “This here’s Sonny Pickens. Me and him has scouted for the army for the last five years. How come we ain’t ever run into you before? I expect I know, or know of, every scout hired for this campaign, but I ain’t never heard of you. Where the hell have you been scoutin’?”

  “Round about,” Luke answered without emotion.

  “Round about,” Bogart repeated, obviously amused. Then he glanced at Pickens and smiled. “Looks like we got us a greenhorn to break in, Sonny.” Turning back to Luke, he said, “I’ll let you ride with us, but the best thing you can do is keep your eyes open and do what I tell you, and maybe you’ll learn somethin’.” Luke shrugged in response. He wasn’t out to impress the man or his partner. He had simply signed on for the pay and the supplies. Bogart continued. “We’re fixin’ to get goin’ here as soon as the colonel gets his soldier boys in the saddle, so, Sunday, you can get started by saddlin’ them two horses yonder.” He pointed to a gray and a sorrel tied by the stream.

  Luke figured that was about as far as he intended to be buffaloed. “How about if I shine up your boots before we go, too?” His deep-set gray eyes locked with Bogart’s, so that his next statement would not be misunderstood. “I signed on as a scout. The sooner you learn that, the easier it’ll be for us to get along.”

  A brief silence followed before Bogart responded. He was accustomed to throwing his weight around, especially with new hires, but this one had a lethal look about him that warned of potential trouble—much like the sensation of cornering a bobcat. Bogart was bigger by half than the rangy stranger, but he wasn’t sure the contest would be worth the pain. After thinking about it, he forced a wide smile and, with an exaggerated wink for Pickens, said, “Damn, Sonny, he ain’t as green as I thought. I expect we’d best get saddled up. We’re ’bout to pull outta here, headin’ to Fort Fetterman.” He let it pass as a harmless incident, but Bogart still smoldered inside. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone showing that much backbone when he stared them down. I’ll be teaching you a hard lesson before we’re done, he promised silently.

  Designated the Big Horn Expedition, the campaign was under way, with General Crook’s troops marching two days to arrive at Fort Fetterman. The fort was known as a hard-luck post by the troops stationed there, because of its desolate location. The fort was situated on a high bluff on the south side of the North Platte River above the valleys of the river and LaPrele Creek, where it was subjected to heavy snows and freezing winds during the long winters. Water had to be carried up the bluffs from the river, and the soil was unsuitable for growing fresh vegetables. So all supplies had to be brought in from Fort Laramie or Medicine Bow Station on the Union Pacific Railroad. Desertions were common.

  Upon arriving at Fetterman, Crook was informed that Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse had been reported to be in camp somewhere near the headwaters of the Powder and Tongue rivers. Anxious to catch the Lakotas in their winter camp, General Crook left Fort Fetterman on the first of March and headed north. Luke Sunday found that he was little more than a forward scout for the column, along with Bill Bogart, Sonny Pickens, and a few other scouts. His excellent knowledge of the country was not really needed since the column followed an oft-used government road through eastern Wyoming.

  Five more days found the expedition at the ruins of Fort Reno, where Crook established his supply depot. Pushing on from Reno, the troops continued their march through the freezing country until the scouts came upon frequent travois trails left by many Indians, and all of them heading toward the Powder River. Convinced that he had found Sitting Bull’s camp, the general divided his command and ordered Colonel Joseph J. Reynolds on a night march with three hundred men and rations for one day. Out in front of the column by about two miles, Luke and the other scouts searched for the hostile camp.

  * * *

  It was shortly before dawn when the scouts found a large Indian village on the west bank of the Powder River. From their position, high on a plateau that stood about five hundred feet or more above the village, it was difficult to see clearly through the fog that had settled upon the river. Bill Bogart had seen all he needed to see, however. “We’d best get right on back to tell Colonel Reynolds we found them Sioux he’s been lookin’ for,” he said, his breath forming a white cloud as it struck the frozen air.

  Luke Sunday wasn’t ready to assume as much. From where the small party of scouts now stood, and it not yet daylight, he couldn’t be sure whose village it was without a closer look. When the others immediately started to act upon Bogart’s opinion and turned their horses back toward the way they had just come, Luke felt it his duty to speak. “Hard to say who that is down there on the other side of the river, with it being so foggy. Might be old Two Moons’s village—Cheyenne—and he ain’t at war with anybody.”

  “Horse shit!” Bogart responded. “I don’t need to get no closer to know that’s a Lakota village. Hell, I can smell ’em. We already know Sittin’ Bull’s camp is on the Powder, him and Crazy Horse, and that’s sure as hell a big village down there. Couldn’t be nobody else, so let’s get ridin’ and tell the colonel we found ’em, so he can hit ’em before they wake up good.” He glared impatiently at Luke, halfway expecting his disagreement since he didn’t know how far the newly hired scout would push the issue.

  No one he had talked to really knew much about Luke Sunday, and this bothered Bogart. Sunday had not volunteered any information about his past, and he was the kind of man a person would hesitate to question. Had he been inclined to ask, Bogart would have found that no one in General Crook’s column knew much about the man—and only a few outside his command had rumored knowledge. There were a couple of different stories—both hearsay that came from the sutler’s store at Fort Laramie—about his prior life before he arrived that day at the fort and signed on as an Indian scout. One story had it that he was kidnapped by a band of Cheyenne warriors when he was a baby. Others were certain that he was born to a Crow mother and father. That version failed to explain why, up close, he didn’t look like an Indian, especially when you considered his light, sandy hair.

  He had spent some time with the Cheyenne as well as the Crows. That much was obvious, because he spoke both languages well—when he spoke at all. A tall, rangy man of few words, Luke made no effort to fit in with the other thirty-odd white scouts hired by General Crook at Fort Laramie that February. With the exceptions of chief scout Ben Clarke, Louis Richaud, Frank Grouard, and a few others, most of the white scouts were little more than cutthroat drifters, cattle rustlers, bank robbers, and probably murderers. Luke had little in common with any of them, and seemed to be more comfortable with the Crow scouts, who called him Dead Man because of his seemingly lifeless gray eyes that looked at a man as if seeing right through his skull and reading his thoughts. That lifeless gaze was fixed now on the likes of Bill Bogart as the lumbering bully insisted to Luke and the other two sc
outs that they had found the combined camps of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse.

  “I reckon I’ll move in closer to get a better look at that camp,” Luke said after he thought the situation over. It made no sense to him to attack a village before you were certain about who you were attacking.

  “You’re a hardheaded cuss, ain’t you?” Bogart retorted. When Luke made no reply, Bogart said, “Suit yourself, but we’re ridin’ back to get Colonel Reynolds. You go nosin’ around close to that village and get yourself caught, and the colonel will most likely have your hide for givin’ away his surprise—if the Sioux ain’t already scalped you. And after he’s through with you, I might decide to give you a good ass-kickin’ myself.” He hesitated for a few moments to see if Luke wanted to challenge the threat. When he did not, and just remained sitting passively on his horse, Bogart turned to the other scouts and said, “Come on, boys, let’s get goin’. Let this jackass go see if he can get hisself scalped.”

  Luke waited a moment to watch them disappear into the heavy fog rolling over the bluffs from the river below. When he could no longer see them, he took his horse’s reins in hand and led the paint Indian pony along the snow-covered bluffs, looking for a good place to descend the icy slope. The thought occurred to him that the approach to the village on the west bank of the Powder was not going to be easily accomplished by six companies of cavalry with any element of surprise. The predawn darkness would make a surprise attack even more difficult for the horses to move with any sense of urgency over the broken terrain of shallow ravines and gullies that led down to the river. Picking a narrow ravine that promised a gentler descent, he led the paint down toward the water’s edge to a clump of cottonwoods with a thick undergrowth of plum bushes. Leaving his horse there, he moved even closer to the edge of the water. From this point, he could see more of the village, as well as a large pony herd of maybe a thousand or more. Though it was sizable, he could not believe the village was big enough to be the combined Sioux camp the colonel searched for.