The chestnut had begun showing signs of fatigue. Unlike Perley’s mottled gray, the horse was not accustomed to long, hard days that covered miles of rolling prairie. Also, unlike the gray, the chestnut did not fare well on a diet of prairie grass alone. After Jordan’s supply of grain was exhausted, the horse began to look lean and weak. Now he feared the horse might falter if it were not allowed to rest. So the river could not have appeared at a better time.
Selecting a spot some fifty yards off the trail, he set up his camp under the sheltering arms of a large cottonwood and released the horses to romp in the dark water of the river. The refreshing respite restored a friskiness to the chestnut that Jordan had not seen for some days. Watching the horses play, Jordan could not resist stripping off his clothes and joining them. The dip in the river made him feel almost as frisky as the horses. It was the best he had felt since he could remember, and for a short while, his mind was free of the images of the two faces that constantly burned in his brain.
Leaving the water, he gathered up his clothes and got a bar of lye soap from his saddlebag. Then he waded back into the shallow water and gave his shirt, trousers, and underwear a good scrubbing. Afterward, with nothing on but his boots, he hung his clothes up on the lower branches of the tree to dry. With plenty of dry limbs for firewood, he soon had a fire going. Shortly after, his little gray metal coffeepot was working away over the flames. I just wish to hell I had something to eat besides this last little slab of bacon, he thought as he unwrapped the slightly rancid salt pork. He had no sooner had the thought when a slight movement on the other side of the narrow river caught his eye. He turned quickly to discover three antelope edging down to the water to drink. To him, it was like someone had heard his wish. Moving very slowly, and never taking his eye off the three animals, he eased his hand over until he felt the cold steel of his rifle. Without any sudden moves, he drew the rifle up against his bare shoulder and carefully sighted upon his target. Then, in one swift move, he cocked the rifle and fired. At the sound of the rifle cocking, all three antelope stopped in their tracks. The one closest to him raised its head to look at the naked man, just as Jordan’s bullet struck it at the base of the neck.
Content that providence had provided for him just when he needed it, he butchered the antelope, roasting strips of the meat over the fire while he completed the job. Although his supply of salt pork was exhausted, he still had a large quantity of dried beans. He decided not to bother with them, however, and feasted solely upon antelope meat. With a full belly for a change, he slept soundly that night, wrapping himself in his blanket, close by the fire.
Dawn broke gray and chilly for that time of year. His clothes were still slightly damp, and he shivered when he pulled the cold shirt over his bare torso. But his mood was positive, lifted by the timely appearance of the antelope just when he needed it. For the first time since leaving Perley behind, he felt that luck might possibly be with him. The feeling was not to last long.
After a breakfast of more of the antelope, he saddled up and headed back to pick up the trail. It was easy to see where it forded the shallow river, but Jordan decided to cross where a sand spit jutted out from the bank. It looked to be a quicker crossing. Both horses seemed fresh and willing as he guided the chestnut down into the water. The rest had evidently restored the horse’s stamina, and Jordan made a mental note to try not to push the gentle animal beyond its capability. Glancing back at Perley’s shaggy gray packhorse, he wondered if the ornery beast had enough sense to get tired. She never seemed to show it.
Jordan never saw them. Lying peacefully coiled under the bank, the nest of water moccasins was suddenly alarmed by the intrusion of the chestnut’s front hoofs in their midst. Immediately on the attack, the angry reptiles struck out at the intruder, one striking the unsuspecting horse on a rear leg. Startled, the terrified chestnut, bolted for the sand spit, kicking up its hind legs. Jordan, unprepared for the sudden bucking, lost a stirrup and nearly came out of the saddle. Still unaware of the cause of the horse’s sudden panic, he tried to rein him back, but the chestnut could still feel the stinging bite of the snake, and tried to climb out of harm’s way. In his panic, the gentle gelding stepped in a hole halfway up the bank. Jordan heard the sharp crack of the bone as the horse tumbled head first, throwing his rider from the saddle.
Landing on his back, Jordan rolled over and sat up. With no concern for himself, he looked back at his horse, foundering painfully in an attempt to get up. Jordan was struck with a sick feeling in his stomach as he realized what had happened, and he saw the right fetlock dangling uselessly from the chestnut’s leg. At that moment, he paid no attention to the packhorse, but Sweet Pea had given the snakes a wide berth, and left the water a few yards upstream. Jordan’s concern was all for his horse, and he quickly moved to the stricken animal’s side. It took but a moment to see what must be done, and the thought sickened him. The leg was broken badly, and the horse was suffering. He had no choice. Reluctantly, he drew his pistol from the holster and held it against the chestnut’s head. The horse rolled a pitiful eye toward his master, and Jordan hesitated, reluctant to pull the trigger. Telling himself that his horse was suffering, he finally squeezed the trigger, ending the chestnut’s pain.
Feeling as if he had lost another family member, Jordan knelt there for a time until his sorrow turned to anger—anger at the nest of moccasins that had caused his loss. Rising to his feet, he stalked back to the water’s edge, his pistol still in hand, his initial thought to empty the remaining bullets into the midst of the snakes. The reptiles were no longer there. He fumed helplessly for a few moments before finally holstering the weapon and returning to the business at hand. The poor chestnut had been killed by panic. The snake bite would not have been enough to put him down.
Sadly, Jordan went about the business of pulling his saddle off the carcass. The stirrups were free, but the cinch strap became entangled with a root under the horse’s belly, and he had to use the gray’s strength to pull it free. Next came the uncertain task of saddling Sweet Pea. Perley, himself, had been reluctant to throw his saddle on the ornery horse, so Jordan expected the worst. But he had little choice in the matter. It was ride the mottled gray or walk, and Jordan had no intention of walking.
The scruffy-looking animal made no move to back away when Jordan approached, but she kept a wary eye on the man. Always alert for a possible nip from the horse’s teeth, Jordan pulled the packs from Sweet Pea’s back. Still unmoved, she lowered her head when he removed Perley’s old bridle, and remained docile while he replaced it with his own. Her only reaction was to shake her head a couple of times as if adjusting to the difference. As a precaution, in case the horse decided to bolt, Jordan tied the reins to a willow branch while he picked up his saddle.
Eyeing him suspiciously, the horse nevertheless remained still when he approached with the saddle. Her only show of protest was to sidestep a couple of steps as he neared her flanks. “Easy now, girl,” Jordan cooed as he laid the saddle blanket on her. She registered no objection, so he picked up the saddle again, expecting a violent explosion. But the mare never flinched when she felt the saddle settle upon her back. Genuinely surprised, he stepped back and patted her on her neck. “Good girl, Sweet Pea,” he said.
It didn’t take long to sort through the things that had been in the packs. The items he deemed unnecessary, were discarded in order to lighten Sweet Pea’s load, even though Perley’s words—if you can load it, she can carry it—came to mind. He decided to carry only essentials, but after going through the packs, he realized that there were but a few items to be left behind—mainly a spare set of horseshoes and the tools to set them. Sweet Pea was an Indian pony. She had never worn shoes. From the discarded packs, he fashioned a cross strap that served as another rifle sling to carry the Henry rifle with the shattered stock. The Winchester 66 that had belonged to the half-breed called Snake was now occupying his own saddle sling. His weapons and his meager food supply were really all he deemed neces
sary, anyway. With everything packed, he was ready to step up in the saddle.
With Perley’s words ringing in his mind—She don’t cotton to nobody a-settin’ on her back—Jordan put a foot in the stirrup. He took a firm grip on the saddle horn and braced for the violent reaction he knew was to come when she felt the full weight of his body on the stirrup. Beyond disbelief, he paused there with only one foot in the stirrup, astonished by her lack of protest. Still expecting the explosion, he threw his other leg over and settled his behind in the saddle. The horse remained docile, turned at his bidding, and started toward the trail at a slow walk. Jordan couldn’t help but believe Perley had not known the horse as well as he had thought. He reached forward and stroked her neck. “Good girl—we’re gonna get along just fine.” The words had barely cleared his lips when she decided to express her objection. Caught off-guard, he was bucked out of the saddle when she suddenly humped her back and threw her rump toward the sky.
With nothing to grab on to but air, Jordan hit the ground hard. More angry than hurt, he scrambled to his feet. “You deceitful bitch!” he cursed the horse. His initial thought was to formally introduce himself to the horse with a good-sized limb across her face, as Perley had done with the half-breed’s horse. Restraining that urge, he grabbed the mare’s reins and pulled her head up close, so he could look her right in the eye. “You might as well get used to it. I damn sure ain’t gonna carry you.” He climbed back aboard. Sweet Pea proceeded to repeat the routine, only this time Jordan was braced for her reaction. As before, she gently walked for a few yards before suddenly deciding to rid herself of the burden on her back. Unable to catch the man by surprise this time, she was forced to buck and flail with added violence, almost twisting herself in two. He stayed with her for a long time before losing his grip and coming out of the saddle again.
The horse stood a few yards away, her head down, staring at the man seated in the dust of the trail. With the firm knowledge of who was going to win in the end, Jordan got to his feet and approached the horse. The routine was repeated several more times before Jordan became familiar with every one of the ornery mare’s moves, and the horse finally conceded defeat. The issue of who was in charge settled, the team of man and horse set out for the Smoky Hill.
Chapter 11
Briscoe Greenwell untied the string on his last sack of cornmeal. Spreading the top of the sack, he peered into it, looking for signs of infestation. It was not as bad as he had expected. He dragged the heavy sack over to the wooden barrel at the end of the counter and propped it there while he went behind the counter to fetch his scoop and a wire sieve. Laying the sieve across the top of the barrel, he proceeded to empty the sack of cornmeal, scoop by scoop, into the barrel. By necessity, his sieve was coarse. It had to be to allow the cornmeal to pass through, but it still managed to catch a large percentage of the weevils that had taken residence in the sack. By his thinking, he was being very responsible to his customers. I oughta leave the damn bugs in it and charge extra for the meat, he said to himself, knowing that wouldn’t be right, even if almost all of his customers were Indians.
The cornmeal wasn’t the only item in his small storeroom that was getting low. It was time to make his late-summer trip to Fort Gibson to restock his stores. The thought caused him to pause and gaze at the bundles of hides and the small stack of buffalo robes in the corner of the storeroom. The robes, a rarity these days, would fetch a good price in Fort Gibson. The buffalo herds were long gone from these parts, had been for years. He didn’t expect to see many more of the heavy robes. On this trip, he was determined to buy something nice for Sally, even if it meant shorting himself on some of the supplies. Lord knows she deserves it—putting up with an old coot like me.
He shook his head sadly as he remembered his younger days when he had first set up his little trading post on the Smoky Hill River. Trading was good then. The Indians had accepted him, after they learned he would be fair in his dealings with them. He had taken a wife, a young Cheyenne girl named Summer Moon, whom he called Sally. She and her mother had been survivors of the massacre on Sand Creek, when Colonel Chivington’s regiment of Colorado volunteers jumped Black Kettle’s peaceful village. Along with other survivors, they had escaped to a Cheyenne village on the Smoky Hill, not far from where Briscoe’s store now stood. It had been a good marriage, in spite of the fact that Briscoe was some fifteen years older than his young wife. Sally seemed content and pleased that Briscoe had taken her mother in as well. Ten . . . no, eleven years since that cold November night, he thought, trying to remember exactly when Sally and her mother had trudged wearily into the Cheyenne camp. He had taken her for a wife less than six months after that. God, she was a pretty little thing, he remembered, slender and bright-eyed, like a fox pup. She was still a relatively young woman today, but he had to admit that he was slowing down. “Damn!” he swore at the thought. Before he had time to dwell upon it, his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden barking of the dogs.
He walked over and peered out the door. Two riders were approaching on the south trail—white men, he quickly ascertained. He squinted in an effort to see them more clearly. They did not even have a packhorse, so he knew they were not trappers or traders. And since his little store was not on the road to anywhere, the next logical assumption was that they were on the run from the law. As a precaution, he got his shotgun from the corner and placed it in plain sight at the end of the counter. Then he returned to stand in the doorway to watch the riders approach.
* * *
Leach and Roach stopped to water the horses before fording the river, both men staring at the log structure on the other bank with one lone tipi behind it. A thin ribbon of smoke wafted upward from behind the building.
“Looks like some kind of store,” Leach speculated.
“I’m damn glad to see it,” Roach said. “My ass is startin’ to take root in this saddle. I ain’t ever seen such scruffy-lookin’ country. Maybe there’s something to drink in that little shack.”
The thought appealed to Leach. “Let’s go see,” he said, just then noticing Briscoe standing in the doorway. At that point, it was difficult for Leach to determine if he was looking at a white man or Indian.
“Howdy,” Briscoe greeted the two strangers when they rode up to his store. “Don’t see many white men travelin’ this way.”
“Reckon not,” Leach returned, looking around him at the desolate terrain.
“You got anything in that little shack to drink?” Roach asked impatiently, not willing to wait for polite greetings.
“A dipper of water,” Briscoe answered, knowing what Roach was really after.
“Damn!” Roach swore. “You mean you ain’t even got no private stock you keep for yourself? We’ve got money, if that’s what’s worryin’ you, and right now I’d give five dollars for a good drink of whiskey.”
Briscoe shook his head from side to side. “Wish I could help you fellers, but I ain’t got a drop of whiskey—never carry it—it don’t bring nothin’ but trouble.”
Roach stared at Briscoe in disbelief. “Are you some kind of preacher or somethin’?”
“Nope, just don’t keep whiskey around. The Injuns can’t handle it, and I never had a need for it myself. Now, like I said, if you fellers are thirsty, there’s a water barrel inside. You’re welcome to help yourselves.”
Leach listened to Roach’s interrogation of the old man for as long as his patience permitted before interrupting. “Never mind the whiskey,” he said. “Have you got anything to eat?” A slight breeze had kicked up, causing the smoke from the fire behind the store to drift past his nostrils.
“Depends on what you want,” Briscoe replied. “If you’re needin’ staples, I’ve got cornmeal and coffee beans, some salt pork left, a few dried beans, some salt, and a little bit of sugar. That’s about all that’s left. I’m fixin’ to go to Fort Gibson tomorrow to lay in supplies for the winter. Too bad you fellers didn’t wait until a week or two from now.”
“We’ll be needin’ supplies, all right,” Leach said. “But what I mean is, have you got somethin’ we could buy to eat right now? I’ve et salt pork till I’m startin’ to feel like a hog.”
Briscoe grinned. “Oh, you’re wantin’ to know if you can get some supper.”
“That’s right,” Roach chimed in and pulled a wad of bills from his saddlebag. “We can pay for our supper.”
“I reckon I can fix you boys up with somethin’ to fill your bellies,” Briscoe said. The sight of a sizable wad of money was enough to curb some of his caution. He didn’t get many chances to buy supplies for his tiny store with real U.S. currency, and his trade goods were meager at best this season. He had little doubt that the two strangers were on the run from the law. They seemed to be carrying a great deal of money. How they came by it was no concern of his, he told himself. “You got here just before suppertime,” he said. “My woman is cookin’ up some antelope stew right now. She cooks it up with beans and onions till the meat is nice and tender.” He watched their faces, satisfied that they were properly tempted. “I expect I could get her to fry up some pan bread, too. It won’t be long. We could go ahead and take care of what supplies you’ll need, and by that time, supper ought to be ready.” After seeing nods of approval from both men, he called out, “Sally!”
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