A Man Called Sunday

by Charles G. West

The two antagonists were literally swept out the front door by the crowd of onlookers to be deposited in the open yard of the hog ranch. “Get rid of the revolver, Bogart,” the sergeant ordered. “You, too,” he said to Luke. “Let somebody hold that rifle for you.” Grinning at Luke, Bogart drew a large bowie knife from the scabbard, unbuckled the gun belt he wore, and handed it to Sonny Pickens. Luke looked around him at the eager faces before entrusting his Henry rifle to a young private standing on the inside of the circle. “Back up some on that side,” the sergeant continued to direct. “Give ’em some room.”

  Like a great cat patiently watching its prey, Luke stood on one side of the circle while Bogart shifted his bowie knife back and forth from one hand to the other in an effort to intimidate his adversary. Although prepared to react instantly, the tall, rangy scout appeared to be relaxed, almost casual in his manner. It was not unlike facing an angry bear, Luke decided, except he figured the bear would be smarter than the hulking brute that was now advancing toward him, waving his knife back and forth. Bogart paused for a few moments, waiting for Luke to make a move. When he did not, Bogart interpreted the scout’s lack of aggression as fear. With a roar like a charging grizzly, he suddenly lurched forward with his knife thrusting like a sword. Luke easily avoided the attack, stepping quickly aside to deliver a sharp hatchetlike chop across Bogart’s arm with his knife. Bogart roared again, this time in pain as Luke’s blade opened a gash in his forearm. He stumbled quickly away to prevent further damage.

  Circling warily now around the dead-calm man in buckskins, Bogart was suddenly struck with the realization that he should never have challenged Luke to a fight with knives. The sandy-haired scout was too quick, but it was too late to opt for fists, so he was going to have to go through with his boast. He glanced down at the blood already soaking the sleeve on his right arm, and it served to spark his anger once more. After circling Luke again, feigning thrusts with his knife, Bogart lunged when he thought Luke wasn’t expecting it. He was wrong again, and paid for it with a slash across his belly, causing him to disengage from the combat as before, fully aware of the hooting and hollering of the spectators.

  His face still completely devoid of expression, Luke watched the big man as he stepped away from him and stuck his hand inside his torn shirt to feel his wound. He could read the angry confusion in Bogart’s eyes, but it was tempered now with caution as the surly brute was faced with the prospect of being cut to pieces. Luke was also aware of a change in the crowd watching the fight. There was a perceptive shift in the cheering and encouragement for the bigger man, for it seemed apparent that Bogart was far outclassed in the art of knife fighting. They no longer chastised him for picking a fight with a smaller man, but rooted openly for him to corner the elusive scout.

  Buoyed up by the crowd’s encouragement, Bogart advanced upon his opponent again, but this time he did not charge blindly, pausing instead to anticipate Luke’s response. This time he was able to react when Luke stepped aside to avoid the expected charge and was successful in slashing Luke’s shoulder. His triumph was short-lived, however, for he received a long slash along the side of his neck in retaliation. Wincing with the pain, he tried to grab Luke’s knife arm only to land on his back when Luke ducked under his outstretched arm, thrust his shoulder into his stomach, and lifted the heavy man in the air to dump him on the ground. In an instant, Luke was on top of Bogart, his knife at the stunned man’s throat. “This business between you and me is done,” he threatened, “or I’m fixin’ to open up your throat right now.”

  Before Bogart had a chance to yield, a .44 revolver spoke and a bullet snapped by Luke’s ear. With no time for him to think, his instincts took over and he dived off Bogart and rolled over and over to the feet of the startled young private holding his rifle. In the confusion of the moment, the crowd of spectators scrambled for safety as another bullet kicked up dirt beside Luke. Luke managed to grab his rifle before the private ran for his life. Turning toward the source of the gunshots, he discovered Sonny Pickens, pausing to take better aim for another shot. Without consciously thinking about it, Luke cocked and fired the bullet that hit Sonny in the heart a split second before Sonny could squeeze the trigger.

  As startled as anyone, Bogart rolled over on his belly and prepared to get to his feet, but was stopped on one knee by the sight of his friend Sonny, sprawled flat on his back. Without thinking, he reached for the pistol that he no longer wore, realizing then that it lay on the ground beside Sonny’s body. Fearing that he was next, he jerked his head around and met the deadly gaze of Luke Sunday and a Henry rifle aimed at him. “You kilt him,” Bogart blurted.

  “Just as dead as hell,” Luke replied soberly. “Now I reckon it’s up to you to decide if you’re wantin’ to go with him.”

  “I ain’t got no gun,” Bogart protested. He figured his only chance was to get his pistol and get off a shot before Luke expected it. “If it’s gonna be a fair fight, you have to let me get my gun.”

  “I’m tired of playin’ your little games,” Luke said. “You either leave that pistol where it lies and walk away from here, or I’m gonna shoot you down where you stand.”

  The drama playing out now was too much an attraction for the frightened spectators, and they gradually drifted cautiously closer with the prospect of witnessing a second killing. Finally one of them had the courage to speak. The sergeant who had sought to referee the knife fight said, “This wasn’t meant to be no killin’.” He aimed his plea at the solemn scout holding the rifle on Bogart. “A few cuts and scratches, and maybe somebody gets slit good, then somebody calls, ‘Enough,’ and it’s over. It don’t call for killin’ anybody.”

  Luke didn’t take his eye off Bogart as he answered the sergeant. “He tried to kill me—twice—so I shot him. And I’m gonna shoot this one if he doesn’t walk away and leave me alone.”

  Turning back to Bogart then, the sergeant said, “You’d best do what the man says, Bogart. One killin’s been enough.”

  Fearing for his life moments before, Bogart now felt that the sergeant had saved his bacon, so there was a return of some of his bluster in an effort to save face before the spectators. “He ain’t got no stomach for facing me with a gun in my hand,” he boasted.

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” the sergeant said. “He’ll shoot you down, just like he said.”

  “Yeah, Bogart,” one in the crowd said, “he’ll shoot you down just like he did your friend.” The comment was repeated by several of the other soldiers. The fact that Pickens had tried to kill Luke first seemed to have been forgotten.

  Relieved to have the opportunity to walk away with his life, Bogart said, “Well, I don’t like it, but I ain’t willin’ to commit suicide if I ain’t gonna get a fair chance.”

  “That’s using your head,” the sergeant replied. “You go on. We’ll take care of your friend’s body. I expect the officer of the day will be lookin’ into this to see what must be done about it. He’s bound to have heard the shots.”

  “There’ll be somethin’ done about it,” Bogart spat in one final show of bravado. “I’ll guarantee that.”

  “I’ll handle this,” the sergeant said as Bogart got to his feet and walked away. Then he turned to Luke and said, “I expect you’d best come with me.”

  Luke slowly shook his head, then replied, “I expect not, Sergeant. I reckon I’ll be on my way.” With his rifle cradled in his arms, ready to fire if anyone threatened to stop him, he walked through the ring of onlookers to the paint pony at the end of the hitching rail. Once in the saddle, he slid the Henry in his saddle sling and, urging his horse with his heels, loped off into the night.

  * * *

  “You lookin’ for me?”

  Startled by the sudden voice behind him, Ben Clarke couldn’t help jumping. “Damn!” he exclaimed when he turned around to find the sandy-haired rifleman standing on the side of the deep gully. “You scared the he
ll outta me.” When his words were met with the usual stoic expression from the unemotional scout, he continued. “Yeah, I was lookin’ for you where I thought you had a camp in the bluffs, but you were gone.”

  “I moved it last night,” Luke said.

  “Yeah, that’s why I came lookin’ for you.” Clarke had already heard the complaints from both Major Potter and Bill Bogart, and their account of the killing at the hog ranch. He had a feeling there was another version of the incident, so he had made it a point to talk to a Sergeant McKim, who claimed to have been a witness to the fight. “You ain’t makin’ it easy for me to keep you on the job,” Clarke commented.

  “If you’re talkin’ about that little set-to at the hog ranch last night,” Luke replied, “I didn’t start it. And it wouldn’t have been much more’n a little knife fight if that sidekick of Bogart’s hadn’t tried to kill me. He didn’t leave me much choice.”

  “Well, that’s pretty much what Sergeant McKim told me,” Clarke said, “and that’s the only reason I talked Major Potter outta sendin’ a detail of soldiers to slap some irons on you and haul you off to the guardhouse. It’s a damn good thing I’m in good with General Crook. That’s the only reason you’re still on the payroll and not in the guardhouse.” He didn’t tell Luke that he had convinced the general that Sunday was the best scout he had, Indian or civilian.

  “When I saw you ridin’ along the bluffs, I figured you was comin’ to fire me,” Luke said. “I figured I’d be movin’ on before a bunch of soldiers came lookin’ for me.”

  “You’re lucky the army has got more important things on its mind right now than a little shootin’ between two civilians off post,” Clarke said. “You’re still on the payroll, but there’s a lot of folks that think you shouldn’t be. I’m gonna send you with a column of wagons to pick up supplies at Medicine Bow. I figure it might be a good idea if you were gone for a couple of weeks to let things between you and Bill Bogart simmer down a little bit.”

  * * *

  It was not with a great deal of enthusiasm that he greeted an assignment to accompany a wagon train leaving the fort to pick up supplies at Medicine Bow on the Union Pacific Railroad. On the other hand, he could see that it was a wise decision on Ben Clarke’s part. He wasn’t satisfied that his trouble with Bill Bogart was over. It was bound to come bubbling to the surface again, but he felt sure there would be no challenges from the bully for a fair fight of any kind. Next time it would likely be a bullet in the back. If he hadn’t needed the money, he would have struck out for some other part of the country.

  One of the other scouts retained by Clarke was also sent with the wagons, Jake Bradley. Bradley was the only one of his scouts that had no real animosity toward Luke, as far as he knew. There was really no need for scouts at all. The trail south to Medicine Bow was well known by the teamsters, but it was a matter of routine to send scouts with every expedition.

  On a chilly morning in early spring, the train, consisting of twenty-five wagons with canvas, set out from Fort Fetterman. A fifteen-man detail headed by Lieutenant James Findley was assigned to escort the wagons. Another wagon train set out the same morning, this one bound for Fort Laramie and accompanied by Bill Bogart, and was a far easier trip than the road to Medicine Bow. “Looks like ol’ Bogart got his pick of the trains,” Jake said, well aware of Bogart’s favored status with the major. “I ain’t surprised you got the trip to Medicine Bow, but what the hell has he got against me?” The Medicine Bow Road was a rigorous test for horses and men alike, crossing the Laramie Hills, four river crossings, and miles of canyons and treeless flats. Luke listened to Jake’s complaints, but voiced none of his own. He was at home in all parts of the territory. Some just took a bit more effort to survive in. As far as he was concerned, all life was like the different parts of the country—sometimes it was easy, sometimes hard. Still, he felt it was part of his job as a scout to advise the lieutenant, so he did.

  “I expect it ain’t necessary to tell you that it’s better’n a fifty percent chance some of those mountain passes are still piled up with snow,” he told Findley. “It’s awful early in the spring yet. You might wanna take another way around the Laramies.”

  As his column formed up, Lieutenant Findley paused to consider Luke’s advice. He had never ridden with either of his two scouts, so he was not inclined to put complete faith in the pair until he had more experience with them. Based on what little he knew about Luke Sunday and Jake Bradley—one a potential troublemaker, the other a lackadaisical ne’er-do-well—he was inclined to stick to well-known trails. “We’re going to follow the common road to Medicine Bow. What I want from you two is to range a mile or two ahead, so you can let me know if there’s anything for me to be concerned with. I don’t expect any trouble, but I damn sure don’t wanna be surprised by some stray hostile raiding party. Understood?”

  The lieutenant’s orders were fine by Luke. He merely nodded his understanding. Jake took it upon himself to speak for them both. “Sure thing, Lieutenant. We’ll keep our eyes open. You never can tell, what with the weather lettin’ up a little bit now, some of Sittin’ Bull’s boys mighta snuck back figurin’ to catch us when we ain’t expectin’ it.”

  Findley favored Jake with a patient smile. He didn’t expect to meet up with any trouble this close to Fort Fetterman and Fort Laramie. “Just see that you do,” he said. He stared at the broad back of the sandy-haired scout named Sunday as the two men went to their horses. He didn’t know much about the man except the fact that he had shot one of the other scouts, but Captain Egan had praised him for rescuing one of his men after the Powder River raid. He had also heard of an altercation where Sunday had dragged another scout into a campfire and threatened to kill him. So he wasn’t sure if he had a dependable scout or a troublemaker along on this detail. One thing for sure, he decided, the man seemed to have no friends in the entire regiment. He sighed and returned his attention to getting the wagons under way.

  Findley was wrong about Luke’s lack of friends. He had one friend in the camp, one eternally grateful to him. Luke had gone by the hospital the night before to see how Bob Rivers was getting along. Bob had been in good spirits in spite of the stump where his right leg had been. “I’m already gettin’ around pretty good on these crutches,” he had said, “and the carpenter is workin’ on a peg leg for me. I’ll be dancin’ a jig over at the hog ranch by the time you get back from Medicine Bow. Wait till them gals see me spin around on my peg leg.” Bob’s comment caused a sight seldom seen by any of the soldiers or scouts at the fort when a smile of amusement formed on Luke’s ever-serious face. When he got up to leave, Bob had grabbed his sleeve and his expression sobered. “Don’t think for a minute that I ain’t grateful for what you done for me. I’ll never forget it, and that’s a fact.”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Luke had nodded, his somber expression returning. “Well, take care of yourself,” he had muttered, and quickly took his leave.

  * * *

  As Lieutenant Findley had anticipated, there was no trouble encountered on the trip to Medicine Bow Station as far as hostile Indians were concerned. As Luke had cautioned, however, there was still heavy snow in the canyons of the Laramie Mountains, which made for a difficult passage, even for empty wagons. It caused Findley to give some thought to the return trip to Fort Fetterman with loaded wagons. The going proved somewhat easier once the hills were behind them and they passed through the Little Medicine country. The last forty miles took them across the Laramie Plains and involved four difficult river crossings, poor grass, and no wood for their campfires. There was a great deal of complaining from the army teamsters and cavalry troops by the time the column reached Medicine Bow just before noon.

  It had been a while since Luke had been to Medicine Bow. The last time the town had been little more than a shipping point on the Union Pacific Railroad. This time there was considerable growth in the station in the form of saloons, bawdy hou
ses, a general store, and an army warehouse. There were not many permanent residents in Medicine Bow, and most of them worked for the railroad, or managed the local business establishments. Standing apart, some several hundred yards from the freight depot, Luke noticed a lone wagon, obviously encamped, and a team of two horses hobbled nearby. Close by the wagon, a man and a woman sat before a campfire. The scene struck Luke as peculiar. Maybe they’re waiting to catch an eastbound train, he thought, after they found out they couldn’t make it in this hostile land. He paid it no further mind while he pulled his paint pony to the side and watched the troopers prepare to bivouac while the lieutenant went to the depot to arrange for receipt of the supplies.

  “Lieutenant, sir,” Sergeant Branch, the ranking enlisted man, said, as Findley started toward the door. “Some of the men are wantin’ to know if it’s all right to visit one of the saloons to cut some of the dust in their throats. It’s been a long, dry ride for the last two days.”

  Findley paused, not surprised by the question, but somewhat amazed that any of them had money to spend. Although the men had been scheduled to receive their pay a day before leaving Fort Fetterman, he had ordered a delay in their payday until the detail returned there. Consequently, he felt assured that the men would have very little money to spend on whiskey, or anything else, and there would be little danger of desertion, always a concern with troops stationed at Fort Fetterman with its lack of creature comforts. In addition, the delayed payday was incentive to return to their base. Giving Branch a stern look, he said, “All right, Sergeant, but you can tell them anybody not fulfilling their duty might find themselves making the trip back in chains, walking behind the last wagon. I want these wagons loaded first, a guard detail set for tonight, and the detail ready to roll after first light in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Branch replied. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll see that your orders are carried out. I doubt if anybody’s got the price of more’n one or two drinks, anyway.”