Lakotah Justice

by Will DuRey

  ‘The death of Kicking Bear has been avenged and our ponies graze once more beside Lakota tepees.’ He raised his lance above his head which evoked a chorus of excited yelps from the mounted warriors behind. Wes could see fresh scalps attached to many of their lances and shields and figured that not many of the Shoshone raiding party had returned to their own village.

  Not every brave in the group was happy to salute Wes. Suddenly, in the very moment that the visit of the Sioux seemed happily resolved, the air became brittle with tension. Nothing could disguise the hatred reflected in the black eyes of the brave who now walked his horse forward, and nothing screamed danger like the two white lines which crossed his nose from cheek to cheek. Black Raven halted beside Throws The Dust.

  ‘Go,’ he told Wes. ‘Leave our land. No white man will be honoured in the lodges where mothers cry for dead sons. Around the council fire tonight we will decide for war. In the morning all white men will be our enemy.’

  Throws The Dust spoke to Black Raven. ‘You do not decide for our people. Red Knife speaks against war.’

  ‘Red Knife speaks like an old woman. The Lakota are warriors. They need a chief who has no fear of his enemies.’

  After speaking these words Black Raven hefted his lance and flung it towards Wes. It passed over his head and thudded into the timber wall to the left of the doorway. The lance wasn’t meant to kill; throwing it had been a ritual, needed for Black Raven to show his intentions to the other warriors, needed to prove his bravery, although what bravery was needed to attack Wes at that moment was questionable. Still, it was a threat.

  Only Red Knife’s word was holding Black Raven in check, and Wes knew that it was only the presence of Throws The Dust that guaranteed that no one would try to kill him this day. Jim Taylor knew no such thing. Sky had relaxed her grip on his arm while her brother talked, and now, as Black Raven hurled his weapon, Jim swung his rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the Indian. Sky screamed and pushed his arm, sending the shot into the air. Up to that point Wes had suspected that Black Raven had little support for his calls for war against the white man, but now he realized the tension felt by all the Sioux. At the report from Jim Taylor’s rifle the Sioux ponies shuffled and stamped and suddenly arrows were flying. Jim’s rifle fell to the ground and he staggered back against the porch rail. For several seconds he leaned against it with four arrows in his chest. Then, crumpling, he slid to the ground and died looking at the sky.

  Throws The Dust waved his arms and shouted at his comrades, some of whom regarded Wes with dreadful meaning. Naked and unarmed he had no means of defending himself. His guns, he assumed, were in the house. He would never reach them. But Throws The Dust was in command. The Sioux braves listened while he berated them.

  ‘Are you women to kill such a one? His mind had left him. Do the warriors of the Lakota no longer protect those who are weakened?’

  ‘Only our own,’ grunted one of the braves.

  ‘He was our own,’ said Throws The Dust. ‘Chosen by my sister to be her husband and honoured by Grey Moccasin, our father, who gave her as his wife.’

  When the ponies were still again and the murmurs had ceased Throws The Dust dismounted and stood beside his sister. Sky was kneeling beside her dead husband singing a death chant. Throws The Dust rested a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘You must come with us now.’

  She shook her head. ‘I must mourn my husband.’

  ‘There will be trouble,’ he told her. ‘Soldiers will come.’

  ‘This is my home. I must mourn properly. Then I will return to the village.’

  ‘You cannot stay long,’ her brother said. ‘Soon I will come for you.’

  She bowed her head and began again to chant the death song.

  Throws The Dust turned his attention to Wes, approaching him with quick, aggressive steps, his expression difficult to read.

  ‘There will be fighting because of this. You must go quickly.’

  ‘No,’ said Wes. ‘There need be no more fighting. I will tell the soldiers what happened here. They won’t punish your people.’

  ‘A white man has been killed. When the soldiers hear of this the Lakota will be punished.’

  ‘I am Medicine Feather, brother of the Arapaho and friend of the Sioux. I will speak to the soldiers for my friends. Let there be no more fighting.’

  ‘I am not the chief of my village,’ replied the Indian. ‘I cannot say what will happen. But the talk around the council fire will be of more things than revenge for the death of Little Otter and Pony Holder. There is much talk of soldiers moving into the Paha Sapa. If fighting is the only way we can keep the land that is ours then there will be war.’

  Black Raven pushed his pony alongside Throws The Dust. He sat astride it, his back straight, his head high and a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

  ‘It begins,’ he told Wes. ‘When we meet again I will kill you.’ With those words he turned his horse and led the other riders away from the cabin, their wild yelps carried on the breeze as they galloped towards the hills and home.

  After the dust of the Indian ponies had settled on the skyline, Wes and Throws The Dust turned their attention to Apo Hopa. She knelt on the ground, arms outstretched in supplication to the Great Spirit to take her husband on the path to Wangi Yata, the Land of Great Shadows. Unlike the mothers of Pony Holder and Little Otter, Apo Hopa’s sadness was not marked with high-pitched wails. When her chants were completed she straightened his limbs and turned him so that his body pointed to the sun. Then she fetched some water from the rain barrel and washed the dust from his face, as though preparing him for an important journey.

  Wes watched Sky, knowing that for the moment she would work alone. In an Indian village the work of tending to the dead was woman’s work and Sky would neither need nor want any help from Throws The Dust or himself. He was impressed by the calm manner in which she attended to her husband’s body, and he hoped that her restrained mourning signified that she would not commit some later act of self-mutilation such as had been performed by the mothers of the dead boys.

  ‘Throws The Dust,’ Wes said, ‘you must continue to speak against war. I’m the only white man who knows how Jim died and I’m not going to tell anyone. I’ll bury him before I leave here. No one is going to dig him up again. Tell Red Knife that no soldiers will come to punish the Sioux.’

  ‘I will tell Red Knife, but this doesn’t mean there will not be war. Black Raven and Pawnee Killer have many friends who are angry that their vengeance has been denied. If Black Raven becomes chief he will lead his braves on revenge raids against the white people.’

  ‘You must prevent that. Tell the council that I know who killed the boys. They have killed white people, too. You know them, Throws The Dust. They are the men who took the woman. The one with hair on his face the colour of my horse and his partner. They are in Laramie. When I return there they will be caught and punished. You have the word of Medicine Feather.’

  For a moment the Sioux warrior considered what Wes had said, then he touched his chest in the sign of friendship and rode away. Wes returned to the cabin, found his clothes and got dressed. He reflected on the fact that there was no better medicine for his own ailments than someone else’s death. That was not to say that seeing Jim Taylor with a chest full of arrows cured his own pains, but for the most part it made him forget them. When he did feel them they reminded him that he’d survived and would recover.

  Wes buried Jim Taylor on a small rise about thirty yards from the cabin. Sky sang her song while he worked. She had changed her clothing. The dull, rough buckskin dress she had worn earlier was replaced by a soft, fringed leather dress which was almost white in colour. It was decorated with beads and the fur of small animals, which had been dyed a tender blue.

  The moccasins on her feet were, like her dress, softer and paler than those she had worn earlier, and her hair was freshly braided and held in place with a rabbit-hide band.

  She carried a small, brightly co
loured doll made of buffalo hide and as she sang she raised it above her head as if in offering to her gods. Clearly the doll was important in her mourning, though whether it was significant to Jim Taylor alone or was part of the usual Ogallalah ceremony wasn’t clear to Wes. What was clear to him, however, was the girl’s beauty. Repeatedly, as he worked, his eyes strayed to where she knelt, finding pleasure in the high cheekbones and big, dark eyes.

  Such thoughts troubled Wes but Apo Hopa’s future was uppermost in his mind. When he looked up Sky’s gaze was upon him, her eyes steady as they studied the lines of his face, as though she were reading his thoughts and was pleased with them. He smiled at her.

  ‘There is much to do,’ he said, and stood over the grave. There wasn’t time to make a marker and there didn’t seem any reason to speak words so, when they were done, they went back to the cabin.

  ‘Fee?’ asked Sky. Wes shook his head, which made him wince. Sky made him sit so that she could examine the head wound. She wasn’t distressed by what she saw but renewed the poultice with a concoction of herbs and berries, which she mashed in a clay mortar and worked into a paste-like substance with the addition of some form of animal grease and her own saliva.

  Ellie Rogers, who hadn’t left the cabin at any time, sat silently, watching Sky at work. Wes regarded her long, stained travelling dress.

  ‘We need to find you something else to wear,’ he told her. ‘You’ll never get astride a horse dressed like that.’

  Ellie looked at him as though seeing him as an ally for the first time.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Wes Gray. I’ve been looking for you since the hold-up. You were lucky that Throws The Dust found you. He’s Sky’s brother.’

  Next morning, at Wes Gray’s prompting, Sky found some of Jim Taylor’s clothes for Ellie to wear. There was a blue plaid shirt and some grey woollen trousers which were less than flattering for the slim young girl. Both shirt and trousers were too large and Ellie could only accommodate herself to them by rolling up the sleeves and trouser legs. Wes had to cut a length of rope to tie around Ellie’s waist to keep the trousers in place and he supplied her with the floppy, grey hat he’d found, into which she bundled her thick, red hair.

  Ellie’s appearance was inelegant but more than practical for the journey to the fort. While Sky and Ellie busied themselves with the wardrobe, Wes went to the barn to saddle the animals. The Sioux had returned both Red and the stray that had found him by the creek. Now they were well fed and rested, and keen to be saddled up and exercised. Wes led the horses to the front of the cabin and called for the women.

  ‘I must get Ellie back to the fort,’ he told Sky when she emerged. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I will mourn my husband,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow I will return to Red Knife’s village.’ She touched the scout’s arm. ‘Will you return?’ Her dark eyes asked questions that were deeper than her words, questions that were impossible to answer. Who could say when he would again be welcome in a Sioux village?

  But he kissed her before leaving.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Having witnessed the shooting of Wes Gray and watched long enough to see his spread-eagled body surrounded by Indians, Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz thought all their problems had been solved. The only man with the ability to track them from the scene of the hold-up to the Laramie stage depot was, they believed, dead. Their secret was safe and they had a sackful of money to share. Without definite plans, they had returned to the scattering of buildings near Fort Laramie in high spirits, determined to put on a show of bravado for the citizens there.

  Jed and Clara Clancy had heard the wagon scout threaten Lew and, in view of Wes Gray’s reputation, they expected the newcomers to move on without delay. It was with some surprise, therefore, that they found the two cattlemen still hanging around their liquor room a couple of days later, drinking, gambling and declaring that no Injun lover would chase them from any place they wanted to stay. Jed told his wife that such talk was plumb foolish.

  ‘I ain’t sure if they’re foolish or just spoiling for a fight,’ said Clara. ‘There’s something mean about those two.’

  ‘Tough trail hands they may be,’ said her husband, ‘but their lives won’t be worth a plugged nickel if they’re still here when Wes Gray returns. People are paying heed to their talk and anticipating a fight. Somebody is sure to tell Wes. His temper’s got a mighty short fuse when it comes to badmouthing Indians. Don’t matter which tribe, neither.’

  Jed was right about people taking notice of Lew and Charlie’s behaviour. They’d gained a certain status in the settlement because of their oft-repeated account of their stand against the Sioux. Few of Laramie’s inhabitants hadn’t heard the tale at first hand; many of them were eager to praise the pair for their fighting ability.

  The threat of war with the tribes of the Plains still hung over the smattering of settlers whose homesteads were scattered north towards the Black Hills. It seemed that from day to day their opinions of the correct solution to the Indian problem swung between two extremes. Either teach them to live like Americans or kill them all. Some incidents, like the one described with bias by Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz, aroused fighting talk, but much of the early interest in their exploits was withdrawn when the Laramie people learned of Wes Gray’s threat.

  Although there were some in the community who had no liking for Wes Gray’s association with the tribes, there were none who would voice that opinion within earshot of him. They might not like his lifestyle but it didn’t affect their respect for his abilities. His reputation as a fighting man was not in doubt. So, it was the general opinion that the two cowboys would be wise to continue their journey to the cattle country of Wyoming, and many an eyebrow was raised when they remained and voiced challenges to Wes Gray for everyone to hear. Their careless behaviour attracted the attention of one person in particular: Curly Clayport, the Wells Fargo agent.

  When Captain O’Malley brought news of the stagecoach hold-up to his attention, Curly’s thoughts had at first been focused on relaying details of the robbery to Cheyenne and considering plans to track down the robbers in hopes of reclaiming the stolen money. There was also a kidnapped passenger to rescue. The safe return of both of these was essential for the reputation of the company but, Curly knew, the chances of recovering either diminished with each passing hour. It was impossible to organize a posse from the citizens of this hamlet, there being insufficient men of suitable calibre, and the army wouldn’t interfere in what was strictly a civilian affair. By the time men could arrive from Cheyenne it was probable that all trace of a trail would be lost.

  The only gleam of light for Curly was Wes Gray. The wagon scout’s being guided to Fort Laramie at that particular moment had been, he reasoned, the act of a kindly God. Life in a frontier settlement wasn’t easy: Curly fought and cursed and killed when necessary but whatever religion he could afford he adhered to. So long as it didn’t interfere with his job, his few pleasures or his neighbour’s opinion that he was a fine man of the West, he would admit to a Christian faith that had served him well all his years. Wes Gray’s arrival was further proof that Curly could witness to the existence of a Power that watched over God-fearing people.

  Like everyone who had lived in Laramie for several years, he was aware of Wes Gray’s reputation. The report that he had gone in pursuit of the robbers offered hope for some kind of success. If anyone could bring back either money or captive it was Wes Gray.

  Which was why he was needled by the derogatory remarks made by Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz. Wes Gray had less reason than most people hereabouts to go after the killers of the agent’s stagecoach driver and guard; the crime affected the people of Laramie more than him; it had been committed in their territory, not his. Jake Welchman and Ben Garland had been driving the coach through Laramie for more years than Curly could remember; he figured their violent deaths should be arousing folks hereabout to greater action than a sorrowful remembrance as they rais
ed their glasses of beer.

  Furthermore, that kidnapped girl was due to be the soldier’s bride. No doubt the military had to obey orders and leave the hunt for her abductors to civil law but there was nothing to prevent that young captain from taking a few days’ leave and burning up the land between here and the Platte in an effort to find her. The stolen money? Well that, no doubt, was the payroll for the silver-mine workers in Cheyenne. Perhaps they’d send someone to investigate the hold-up but too much time had passed for them to have much hope of success.

  There was, however, nothing to stop those newcomers, Butler and Huntz, from mounting up and helping in the search, yet they hadn’t shown any enthusiasm for anything other than cards and whiskey since arriving in Laramie. Curly would have held them in higher esteem if, instead of badmouthing Wes Gray, they had saddled their horses and ridden with him to help in the search.

  With a shrug, Curly threw back the last of the whiskey in his glass. He considered the two men again and wondered if his judgement of them was too harsh. They had, after all, fought off a Sioux war party. That was no mean feat and deserving of a few days’ celebration. He threw another look in their direction, noted the pile of dollar notes in front of them on the table: winnings from their recent poker game with two of the settlement’s citizens, and told himself they were the richest drovers he’d ever seen.

  One of them, the elder one, the one called Lew, removed his hat, spun it in his hands and inspected the hatband with its neat collection of silver discs. Curly had to admit it was a smart hat. He admired it. He remembered admiring a similar one a few weeks earlier and it had been nagging at him for two days as he tried to recall who else had had such a hat. Now, as Jake Clancy poured more whiskey into his glass the image of Jake Welchman, with his hat clutched to his chest, leapt into his mind.

  The recollection startled Curly. Of course he couldn’t be certain it was the same hat but it had also been a new one. He’d only worn it that one time – on his last trip through from Cheyenne. Proud as a peacock he’d been, adjusting it from one angle to another, or whipping it off and clutching it to his chest whenever he spoke to a female or anyone of authority. Still, Curly argued with himself, just because it had a fancy hatband didn’t mean it was unique. If Jake had ordered his from a catalogue there could be dozens like it all over the Western states, but Curly mused on the coincidence. As Lew Butler counted the discs on the hatband, Curly had an uncomfortable feeling that the hat had belonged to his stagecoach guard.