Lakotah Justice

by Will DuRey

  As though taking his cue from Curly’s thoughts, Charlie Huntz spoke to his partner.

  ‘You sure like that hat, Lew.’

  Lew grinned. ‘Couldn’t have found a better one.’

  Overhearing their conversation and hoping to elicit some useful snippet that would help him decide the hat’s provenance, Curly joined in.

  ‘I was admiring it myself. May I ask where you got it?’

  Lew put the hat back on his head.

  ‘Picked it up someplace.’ Lew grinned, but there wasn’t a lot of mirth in it. He was thoughtful, watchful when Curly pressed on with his interest.

  ‘Where exactly was that? I might like to get one of those myself.’

  ‘Can’t remember the name of the place,’ said Lew. ‘Just somewhere along the trail.’

  ‘Not Abilene?’

  ‘No. Certainly not Abilene.’ There was no longer any humour in Lew’s voice.

  Aware that his questions had irked the man, Curly departed, his final words intended as an affable end to the conversation.

  ‘Guess I’ll just have to settle for a plain one like those that Jed stocks in the back room.’

  After he’d gone, Lew spoke softly and urgently to Charlie Huntz.

  ‘I think that Wells Fargo guy is on to us. He was mighty interested in this hat.’

  ‘Do you think he recognized it?’

  ‘Could be.’ Lew’s voice carried a dark, sinister edge.

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’ Charlie’s question held the implication that killing Curly Clayport was the only sensible solution.

  ‘Time to move on, I reckon,’ replied Lew. ‘We’ll go at first light, collect the money we stashed away and head on down to Denver. We’ll have some fun there, then you go head for the riverboats while I make tracks to ’Frisco.’

  ‘What about that Wells Fargo man? We just gonna forget about him?’

  ‘Seems like the best idea. He may have suspicions about our involvement with the robbery but no proof. And that scout ain’t bringing any to him.’

  Lew stopped examining his hat and put it back on his head. ‘Wells Fargo will soon put two and two together if our leaving Laramie coincided with the killing of their agent. Our descriptions would be in every lawman’s office in the territory. No, Charlie, we won’t do anything to Mr Curly Clayport. Instead, we’ll leave before sunup. If anyone comes looking for us, they’ll go chasing out along the trail to Wyoming, where we told everyone we were headed, and in the meantime we’ll be cutting out the miles to Denver.’

  With that decision made they were packed and gone from their hotel rooms after only a couple of hours’ sleep. Their advance room hire had been sufficient to cover another two nights, so there was no need to inform the hotel clerk of their departures. Accordingly, they were saddled up before the first hint of daylight illuminated the high wood-frame stable. Intending to keep their departure a secret for as long as possible, they led their horses to the edge of town before mounting and riding south.

  They didn’t go unobserved. One other person in the stage-stop settlement was awake. Troubled by suspicion and indecision, Curly Clayport paced the small front room of the building that served as his home and the Wells Fargo office. He was certain that the cavalry had brought back Jake Welchman’s body bareheaded. After breakfast, he decided, his first task would be to get confirmation of that fact from Captain O’Malley. If it turned out that the guard’s hat had indeed been missing when they found him he would consult with Colonel Flint on a course of action. Of course the colonel would take the official line. Civilian matter, he would say, nothing I can do about it.

  But unofficially he could summon Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz to the fort on the pretext of gathering information on the movement of hostile tribesmen. With luck, he would detain them long enough for Curly to telegraph Cheyenne. Two days of swift riding would bring a territorial marshal to the settlement. The matter would then be his responsibility.

  Satisfied in his mind that his plan was both prudent and practical, Curly turned out his lamp in the hope of grabbing an hour of sleep before the settlement came to life. At that moment he heard the slow, steady step of walking horses. Surprised that anyone was abroad so early, he opened the shutter at the window. The blackness of the night was easing into a muggy, pre-dawn grey. Curly screwed up his eyes in concentration. Sure enough, somebody was out on the street, moving slowly and stealthily.

  Silently he opened the office door and stepped out on to the boardwalk. Although there was insufficient light to discern the details of the faces of the two men, their shape and movement betrayed their identity. From among the handful of people in this small, stage-stop settlement it wasn’t difficult to recognize Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz. They were quitting the settlement and doing so in secrecy. At the end of the street they stopped, mounted, then galloped away towards the foothills that led to the long-grass country.

  Curly Clayport wouldn’t have called himself a brave man. When younger he’d been in several skirmishes, fist fights and gunfights, but it wasn’t something he bragged about or relished having to repeat. But at that moment he knew he had no alternative but to follow Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz. It was his duty to catch them, confront them with his suspicions about the robbery and retrieve the stolen money. Yes, it was his duty to do that, and, moreover, Ben Garland and Jake Welchman had been his friends and he was determined that their killers wouldn’t go unpunished. He was sure they hadn’t done anything to deserve the violence that had been meted out to them. He strapped on his gunbelt and checked that his pistol was fully loaded. Then he grabbed a rifle from a wall rack and raced out to the stable. He saddled his bay mare quickly and set off in pursuit.

  He didn’t go too fast. Without sight of them it would be rash to proceed too quickly. Until there was a little light he would refrain from headlong pursuit. If they heard someone on their back trail they could easily set an ambush. No, for the moment, caution was the watchword. When he caught up to them he wanted to be the one with the advantage of surprise.

  Fortunately for Curly the first tinges of pink were beginning to stain the morning sky as he left the settlement behind. The strengthening light made the hoofprints of his quarry an easy trail to follow. In the gentle heat of the awakening day he was aware of the faint scent of the late pasque flowers, people hereabouts called them ‘prairie smoke’. Curly wasn’t a superstitious man by nature, but the longer the perfume clung to his nostrils the greater the notion grew in his mind that this was some sort of premonition; that the smoke on the prairie this morning would be gunsmoke.

  Twenty minutes later, breasting a small rise, he was surprised to see a riderless horse grazing on a ridge some quarter of a mile ahead. He hadn’t expected them to stop so soon, but nor had he expected them to head in this direction when they left Laramie. They had diligently declared their intention of seeking work as drovers in Wyoming. This wasn’t the way to Wyoming. They were heading south, back to the high-grass country, to Cheyenne or beyond to Denver.

  He dismounted, led his horse into a thicket and tethered it out of sight. Again he checked his guns. Satisfied, he scampered over the undulating meadow to where he’d last seen the horse. By now it was out of sight, grazing, Curly hoped, on the far side of the ridge, for he hadn’t heard any sound to suggest his quarry had ridden away.

  He bellied his way to the edge, removed his hat and looked over. The land beyond had formed a kind of saucer-shaped depression, the bottom being some twenty feet below the point where Curly lay. The horse he had seen earlier had wandered down to the bottom and stood patiently alongside a second animal, neither of them showing any interest in the activity that was taking place close by. A wide-spreading cottonwood reached up from the bottom of the depression and at the foot of the tree Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz were eagerly shifting rocks. Occasionally their voices could be heard but the words were unclear.

  Cautiously, Curly squirmed forward, using any cover available that got him closer to
the pair. There were few rocks large enough to hide his big frame and the grass was no more than knee high, but he kept going until he’d reached a point just a few feet away. All the way down from the ridge he’d been afraid they would hear him crawling through the grass or dislodging a stone. Now his main concern was that they would hear him breathing. He was no longer a young man and, as a resident agent, it had been many years since he’d last been active in apprehending outlaws.

  The tension of the situation was taking its toll. He was breathing shallowly and frequently though he was telling himself to breathe slowly and deep. In his head the sound of his breathing was like a timber saw in the forest. He lay still, not wanting to reveal his presence until Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz had finished their excavation.

  The possibility that they were under surveillance never occurred to Lew and Charlie. Their concentration was entirely focused on the pile of boulders they were shifting one by one. With that task accomplished, Charlie retrieved a short-handled shovel from the pack behind his saddle. He offered it to Lew, who leant with his back against the cottonwood, wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve.

  ‘Get on with it,’ he told Charlie.

  Charlie Huntz scooped out a shovelful of soil and spread it on the ground behind him. He dug again and again. Six times the shovel lifted out dirt, and on the seventh it struck the saddle-bags that he’d buried there some days earlier.

  ‘Here they are!’ His voice held an edge of excitement as though he were discovering a treasure that had been lost for years. He flung the shovel aside and reached into the hole he’d created. He tugged and tugged, and, when the pouches failed to come up freely, scrabbled in the dirt with his bare hands to clear away the impediment. He stood up and swung the well-filled saddle-bags to shake off the clinging soil. He opened one side and withdrew a bundle of banknotes.

  ‘We gonna divide it now?’ he asked.

  Lew pushed himself away from the tree and stood beside his partner.

  ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘when we make camp. I’d like to put a bit more distance between us and that Wells Fargo agent before we’re missed.’

  ‘Too late for that.’ Curly got to his feet. There was a nervous timbre to his voice but his rifle was held steadily in his hands.

  Charlie made a move for the revolver at his side. Curly swung the rifle so that it covered him.

  ‘If you give me cause I’ll plug you,’ he declared. ‘Those men you killed were my friends so I don’t need much encouragement to pull this trigger.’

  Charlie let his hand relax.

  ‘Now, without making any sudden moves,’ continued Curly, ‘unfasten your gunbelts and let them fall at your feet.’

  Lew Butler spoke. ‘You’re smarter than I gave you credit for,’ he told Curly. ‘It was the hat, wasn’t it? That’s what put you on to us, I reckon.’

  Curly didn’t answer, just kept his gun pointed towards them.

  ‘Figured you recognized it last night. Must say, though, I didn’t think you’d watch for us leaving town. Wells Fargo must be mighty proud to have a man like you looking after their interest.’

  ‘Quit talking,’ said Curly, ‘and drop those guns.’

  While he’d been talking Lew had moved slowly to his left, increasing the gap between himself and Charlie Huntz, making it more difficult for Curly to keep them both covered.

  ‘Stand still,’ the Wells Fargo agent ordered, ‘and drop those guns. I won’t tell you again.’

  ‘Sure, sure. Don’t get edgy. Charlie, throw him the saddle-bags.’

  Charlie lobbed the leather pouches into the air and they landed near Curly’s feet. Lew took the opportunity to move a few more steps, getting further from Charlie and nearer the grazing horses.

  ‘Stand still,’ ordered Curly, less sure now that he was in control of the situation, not sure whether to point the gun at Lew or Charlie. ‘And for the last time of asking, drop that gun.’

  ‘OK. OK.’ Lew unfastened the buckle and let the belt and weapon fall to the ground.

  With one man unarmed, Curly concentrated on the other outlaw.

  ‘Now you.’

  Charlie unfastened his belt slowly, menacingly exuding some sort of confidence that he could still draw and shoot the Wells Fargo man before he could pull the trigger. It was a ploy, of course: keeping Curly distracted while Lew moved more quickly towards the horses. When Charlie’s gun hit the ground Lew needed only three more steps. Out of the corner of his eye, Curly caught the movement and pivoted to his right to shoot Lew.

  It was too late. One of the horses was now between him and his target. Charlie shouted, not words: something like a Rebel yell. Nervously, Curly swung his rifle so that it now covered his other prisoner. Curly’s indecision was what Lew had been waiting for. He drew his rifle from its saddle scabbard, threw himself to the ground and fired up from under the horse’s body. Curly took two slugs in the chest and crumpled to the ground. Without another thought for their victim, Lew and Charlie gathered up their guns and money, clambered on their horses and rode away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The experiences of the past few days had left Ellie Rogers in a state of shock.

  Barely a word passed her lips as she and Wes rode at a canter towards Fort Laramie. After half an hour Wes gave up trying to make conversation, but he watched her closely. Her discomfort, he realized, was not only mental but physical, too. Continuously she tugged at her ill-fitting clothes, adjusted the collar of the shirt one minute, clamping a hand to the floppy-brimmed hat which threatened to part company with her head the next and, intermittently, tugged at the waistband of Jim Taylor’s old wool trousers which rolled over the rope belt that Wes had fashioned for her.

  In addition, despite the assurances she had given him that she was a capable horsewoman, she seemed ill at ease in the saddle and had difficulty maintaining the easy pace at which they travelled. Wes wondered if she was more accustomed to riding sidesaddle.

  Wes loved the surrounding country. The meadowland was lush and the tree-lined lower slopes of the hills abounded in game. Mildwater Creek never ran dry. Constantly fed by the melting high-ground snow, it provided a year-round water supply for the valley, and its nearby convergence with the South Platte provided an alternative water route to the larger eastern settlements. Yes, it was good land, a site on which a man could settle, raise stock and plant crops.

  These were thoughts that had dwelt in Wes Gray’s mind ever since he’d first come across this valley. That had been eight years ago, at a time when he’d known he wasn’t ready to put down roots in one spot. The frontier land was too big, the horizon too challenging for him to dismount at the same spot every night. Then he’d shown the valley to Jim Taylor and it seemed that the potential of the valley for raising stock had occurred as instantly to him as it had to Wes himself. When Jim declared his intention of leaving the wagon train and settling on the V of land it pleased Wes to know that the valley was in the hands of a friend who would work it wisely and efficiently.

  That wasn’t the way it had worked out. Now Jim Taylor was dead and thoughts of ownership once more niggled at Wes. They were stronger this time. Perhaps the dreams of those settlers he had guided to their own promised land were beginning to rub off on him. Also there was Sky. Common law decreed that the land was hers but, even as Jim’s ex-wife, it was a claim that would never stand up in a court of law. Indians had no rights in American courts and their marriage had been blessed only by the Sioux. Anyone happening upon this valley now could claim the land as their own. Apo Hopa would be chased from it, chased back without recompense to the village of her people.

  It occurred to Wes that perhaps he thought about Apo Hopa more than he did about the land. Remembrance of her prettiness tinged with an inner sadness warmed him as he rode. He attributed the sadness to Jim Taylor’s behaviour. Yet she hadn’t left him, as she so easily could have done, though whether she stayed because of love or loyalty he couldn’t say. It wasn’t always easy to tell with Indian girls.
Knowing that she had been allowed to marry Jim Taylor so that a bond of friendship could be forged between the Ogallalah and the Americans would have been justification enough for Apo Hopa to put aside her own unhappiness and stay with her husband. It also occurred to Wes that her people might have killed him a long time ago if she hadn’t stayed.

  That Apo Hopa liked him, Wes, she had made abundantly clear. He could still feel the softness of her lips on his when they had kissed an hour earlier. She would be a good wife for him, a woman who would make him accepted among the Sioux in the same way as Little Feather made him a brother of the Arapaho. Neither woman would be jealous of the other. It wasn’t their way. When he lived with her people, Little Feather expected him to be faithful to her, but he lived with them for less than three months each year; a great warrior like Medicine Feather needed a woman at other times. Little Feather understood this, so would Sky.

  In addition, he reasoned with himself, uniting himself with the Sioux was the best way of ensuring the safety of the wagons he guided through their territory. He would become more fluent in their tongue, more familiar with their habits and, just as he did for the Arapaho, he would speak on their behalf at negotiation meetings with the authorities. With his mind thus engaged he rode silently towards Fort Laramie.

  When Red started tossing his head and coughing out an occasional snicker Wes’s attention was drawn to more immediate matters. The horse had sensed something that had escaped the scout’s notice. In this undulating country with plenty of tree cover it would probably be the presence of Indians. Wes scanned the tree line but saw nothing. The hairs on his neck made his skin itch in the way it did when his senses were on full alert. He was sure that someone was watching, following them, but keeping well out of sight.