Nathan Stark, Army Scout

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Yes, ma’am. I was educated at a mission school and became a believer while there.”

  “That’s splendid. Go right ahead.”

  Red Buffalo bowed his head and closed his eyes. Delia did likewise. Nathan lowered his head but left his eyes slitted. He couldn’t bring himself to close them completely while he was sitting across the table from an Indian. Not that he expected Red Buffalo to lunge across and attack him or anything like that, but where redskins were concerned... well, you just couldn’t tell.

  “Father, please accept our thanks for this meal and the gracious lady who has prepared it,” Red Buffalo said, “along with all the other blessings You have bestowed upon us. Watch over everyone in this vast frontier which You have provided as a home for us. We ask these things in Your name, amen.”

  “Amen,” Delia said. “Lovely sentiments, Mr. Red Buffalo.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She beamed. “Now, to be plain about it, let’s dig in. I imagine after the past few days, both of you can really use a good meal!”

  She might be wrong about a lot of things, Nathan thought, but she wasn’t wrong about that.

  * * *

  The stable was dark and quiet. All the hostlers had returned to their quarters, and the only sounds inside the cavernous building were the faint noises of horses’ tails swishing and the occasional thump of a hoof as the animals shifted around.

  Three men were in one of the tack rooms with a single candle burning dimly. Dietrich Bucher lifted a jug and took a swig from it, then held it out to Sergeant Jeremiah Dockery. “Not as good as schnapps, but I suppose this... what do you call it? Who hit Johann? It is better than nothing.”

  Dockery took a drink and licked his lips. “You mean nothing is better than some good corn squeezin’s like I used to get back in Tennessee.”

  “None of it can hold this candle or any other to good Irish whiskey,” Seamus McCall insisted as he took the jug from Dockery. “But soon we’ll be able to afford whatever we want to drink, boyos. The next shipment of rifles will be here within a week, and it’s the biggest one yet.”

  The three conspirators—two sergeants and a civilian scout—continued drinking for a while, not saying much.

  Finally Dockery got back to the subject of the clandestine meeting. “The boss has men lined up to deliver those guns?” he asked.

  “Ja,” Bucher replied. “I spoke with him a short time ago. Crates loaded with rocks will be delivered to the fort und checked off the freight manifest, while wagons with the real crates will meet Hanging Dog at Weeping Woman Rock.”

  McCall said, “I’d still like to know where the savages are getting the gold to pay for those rifles.”

  “What does it matter?” Dockery snapped. “They’ve got it, and they’re giving it to us. That’s all I care about.”

  “They believe themselves to be getting a good deal,” Bucher said. “To them, gold is just a useless yellow rock, too soft to make arrowheads or knives. That attitude is fortunate for us, nicht war?”

  “I wish ye’d talk good English,” McCall complained. “I know ye can do it, because I’ve heard ye.”

  “You understand me, ja?” Bucher reached out and prodded a blunt fingertip against McCall’s chest, causing the Irish noncom to glare at him. The German sounded a little drunk as he went on. “Now understand this—I do not trust Nathan Stark. The man is obsessed with killing Indians, but other than that he is honest . . . and smart. It will be better for us if he is dead.”

  “You claimed you were gonna kill him,” Dockery said.

  “I tried. He moved, just as I pulled the trigger. He should have died then and there, but fate protected him for some reason.”

  It wasn’t fate, and Bucher knew it. It was his own damned fault Nathan Stark was still alive. He had stepped where he shouldn’t and made a little noise, and Stark’s keen ears had caught the warning just in time to save him. But those dummkopfs Dockery and McCall didn’t have to know that.

  Dockery said, “You missed your shot at him, Bucher. And you had a chance to bust his head open but didn’t do it, McCall.”

  “I thought I was fightin’ to keep the spalpeen away from my Delia,” McCall said with a glower. “I didn’t know he was gonna wind up bein’ a threat to our business! If I had, I never would’ve let him get away.”

  Bucher doubted that. McCall outweighed Stark by a good fifty pounds, but he was slow and Stark was cat-quick, not to mention surprisingly strong considering his wiry frame. Bucher was sure, of course, that he could defeat Stark in a brawl, if it ever came to that.

  But maybe it wouldn’t . . .

  Dockery took the jug back, downed another slug of liquor, and said, “You two have had your chance. It’s my turn now.” He shoved the jug into Bucher’s hands. “I’m gonna make damn sure Nathan Stark is dead long before that next shipment of rifles ever gets here.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The food was very good. As Delia had intimated when she first greeted Nathan at Fort Randall, she hadn’t been renowned for the quality of her cooking when he had been friends with her and her husband. She had gotten better, though. The chicken was fried just right.

  “This is a delicious meal,” Red Buffalo complimented as they ate.

  Nathan couldn’t let that pass. “A lot better than a hunk of raw dog meat on a stick, isn’t it?”

  “Nathan, that was uncalled for,” Delia scolded him, frowning. “You should apologize to Mr. Red Buffalo.”

  “Please, call me Moses,” the Crow scout said.

  Nathan didn’t like the idea of that at all.

  Delia just smiled and said, “Of course, Moses.” She looked at Nathan. “We’re still waiting for that apology.” There was a hint of iron in her voice.

  He could imagine her speaking to unruly school kids that way. “Sorry,” he muttered, clearly not meaning it.

  Red Buffalo waved a hand in nonchalant dismissal, angering Nathan that much more. It just wasn’t right for a damned redskin to talk and act like a white man.

  Delia made small talk about life at the fort as the meal continued. For dessert, she brought out apple pie with cream. It was a shame Red Buffalo had to be there and ruin an otherwise perfectly fine supper, Nathan thought.

  When they were finished, Delia poured coffee for all of them and then leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup in both hands. Solemnly, she said, “Nathan, I believe you should tell Moses about what happened to your family.”

  Taken by surprise, Nathan bristled. “What? I’m not gonna... It’s none of his business what happened to them.” His upper lip pulled back from his teeth as he grimaced. “It was the Pawnee who raided Badger Creek that day, not the Crow. If it had been his relatives, I would have killed him by now, scout or not.”

  “You might have tried.” Red Buffalo cocked an eyebrow and raised his cup to sip from it.

  “The two of you have a great deal in common,” Delia insisted. “You both lost loved ones to violence.”

  “A lot of people have, out here on the frontier,” Nathan said. “That doesn’t mean this savage and I are anything alike.”

  “You know perfectly well Moses isn’t a savage. I couldn’t have done as good a job of educating him as that missionary lady did.”

  Red Buffalo looked surprised. “You know more about my background than I expected, Mrs. Blaine.”

  “If I’m going to call you Moses, you should call me Delia. And I’ll admit, I did some asking around about you.” She smiled. “Corporal Cahill was very helpful when I asked him what he could find out.”

  I’ll just bet he was, Nathan thought. Delia had always been able to wrap any man she wanted to around her little finger. A meek little fellow like Winston Cahill wouldn’t be any challenge at all for her.

  “For instance,” Delia went on, “I know that your village was attacked by the Blackfeet when you were a young man, Moses. You had already been to school at the mission, but you had gone back to your people to resume your life with th
em. I don’t know all the details, but I’m sure you lost loved ones that day.”

  The slightly smug look Red Buffalo had been wearing earlier was gone, replaced by a frown. “The young woman I was going to marry was killed, and so were several members of my family, along with a number of friends. And this is not really something I wish to discuss, especially after such a pleasant meal.”

  “Good food can ease the way to difficult things that need to be said. Perhaps you weren’t aware that Nathan also lost friends and family to an Indian raid.”

  “I told him already,” Nathan said harshly. “He doesn’t care.”

  “A Pawnee war party attacked the town of Badger Creek in Kansas near Indian Territory,” Delia pressed on. “Nathan lived there along with his wife Camilla, who was carrying their first child. She was... how old, Nathan? Eighteen?”

  “Seventeen,” he managed to choke out. The food he had eaten was becoming a sickening lump in his stomach due to all the terrible memories Delia insisted on stirring up.

  “Only seventeen years old. Just on the threshold of life, really. His parents were killed as well, and he and his brother were both badly injured.”

  “My little brother was unconscious for days.” Now that Delia had dredged all it up, he couldn’t stop himself from letting it pour out. “I didn’t figure he’d ever wake up. I didn’t think I’d ever see him alive again or ever talk to him. But he made it. The folks who took him in made sure of that. They looked out for him like he was their own.”

  “What did you do?” Red Buffalo asked.

  Nathan shrugged. “Soon as I was fit to travel, I lit out after those red bas—those Pawnee renegades. I never found the ones who were responsible for what happened... at least I could never be sure of it . . . but I found plenty of others who needed killing.”

  Delia leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “Does anyone actually need killing?”

  Without hesitation, Nathan and Red Buffalo looked at her and said in unison, “Yes.”

  That strong response seemed to take her a little aback. She frowned. “I’m not sure I really believe that, but... let’s say you’re right. Surely you can see by now how very much alike the two of you are. Both of you have suffered terrible tragedies in your lives. Both of you have set out to avenge the ones you lost. Really, the two of you should be friends.”

  The men looked at each other in disbelief.

  It was Red Buffalo who shook his head and spoke first. “That will never happen.”

  “Not hardly,” Nathan agreed.

  Undeterred, Delia turned back to Red Buffalo. “You haven’t heard the entire story, Moses. Nathan had a sister, too. The Pawnee took her. Carried her off with them when they fled that day.”

  Nathan’s face might have been carved out of stone. He didn’t dare let his iron control slip, even for a second. He didn’t know what would happen if he did.

  “What was her name, Nathan?” Delia went on. “I want to say Rena—”

  “Renata, but we all called her Rena. Three years old. Prettiest little girl you ever saw. She had”—a swallow forced its way through his throat—“she had long red hair. My ma would braid it every morning and wind it around Rena’s head, then pin it in place. Every night she unwound it and combed it out. The two of them always laughed and talked while they were doing that.”

  “I am sorry, Stark,” Red Buffalo said. “Truly.”

  “You being sorry doesn’t change a damn thing,” Nathan said.

  “You said you went after the renegades who raided your town. You searched for your sister, too, didn’t you?” Delia asked.

  “For fifteen years now,” Nathan said. “She’s never far from my thoughts. One of these days I’ll find her.” In truth, he had no way of knowing if Rena was even still alive.

  If she was, there was a good chance the things Leah had said down in Statler’s Mill were true. Rena wouldn’t be the sweet little girl he remembered. He might even look at her and not recognize her, not see anything except another filthy Indian squaw . . .

  And it would be bucks like Red Buffalo that made her that way.

  Abruptly, Nathan scraped back his chair and stood up. He felt himself trembling inside from the rage that filled him. He forced himself to sound halfway calm as he said, “Thank you for supper, Delia. It was delicious. But I have to go now, and so does Red Buffalo.”

  The Crow leaned back in his chair. “I have nowhere I need to be.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Nathan said. “Anywhere but here.”

  “Nathan, you’re being very rude—” Delia began.

  Red Buffalo lifted a hand to stop her. “No, it’s all right. Stark doesn’t want to leave you here alone with me. He’s afraid of what a redskin might do to you.”

  “You’re damn right,” Nathan said.

  Red Buffalo got to his feet and turned to Delia, saying, “Thank you. It was a noble gesture on your part, trying to make the two of us see that we should be friends instead of enemies, especially since circumstances have forced us to work together. But it was doomed to failure. Stark can’t see anything good in any of my people, I’m afraid.”

  Nathan jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Blaine.”

  They reached the hat tree in the foyer at the same time and once again could have collided. Red Buffalo didn’t back off. Nathan slowed down because the alternative was to tackle the Crow and have a knock-down, drag-out fight with him right there in Delia’s parlor. Nathan wasn’t willing to do that despite the anger he felt.

  He was mad at both of them, he realized. Red Buffalo for being, well, an Indian, and Delia for refusing to see how that made all the difference.

  He felt Delia’s eyes boring into him and knew that once again he was leaving her house with hard feelings between them. Maybe it would be a good idea not to go there anymore. He was sure he could manage to forget how good she smelled, and how nice it had felt when she’d hugged him a few hours earlier and rested her head against his chest.

  When he was outside, he put his hat on and just stood there, breathing deeply. The air had cooled off slightly since the sun went down. The temperature was pleasant. Far off in the distance to the south, lightning flickered as a thunderstorm rolled across the plains. It was far enough away that he couldn’t hear the thunder, only see the bursts of illumination dancing through the darkness.

  Red Buffalo paused nearby. “We should tell Colonel Ledbetter it would be wise not to pair the two of us on the same assignments anymore.”

  “If you think it’ll do any good to talk to that stuffed shirt, you go right ahead. We made it back from that patrol without killing each other. I reckon we can do it again, no matter how we feel about it.”

  “Why, Stark.” Red Buffalo chuckled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Go to hell.” Nathan turned on his heel and stalked away, heading for his cabin at the other end of the parade ground. He didn’t look back to see where Red Buffalo was going. He didn’t care.

  He thought about stopping by the sutler’s store to say hello to Noah Crimmens. He hadn’t seen the clerk since he’d been back. It could wait until morning, he decided. He liked Crimmens but didn’t feel like being friendly.

  Delia is like all women, he told himself.

  She believed she knew what men were thinking and feeling. Even more important, she believed she knew what they ought to be thinking and feeling. She had gotten it into her head that he and Red Buffalo had enough in common to be friends. Nothing would sway her from that belief, no matter how many times she butted her head against that particular brick wall.

  Just try to avoid her, he told himself again.

  That was the best solution ... even though a part of him knew that he would really miss her.

  With those thoughts going through his head as he walked past the night-deserted granary, a third of the way down the parade ground, he didn’t notice the dark shape shifting position in the thic
k shadows behind the building. Nor did he see the twin barrels of the shotgun that thrust out of the gloom and centered directly on his back.

  CHAPTER 24

  Something slammed into Nathan’s back and knocked him forward off his feet. At the same time, a roar like the unheard thunder from that distant storm exploded through the night. The impact and the sound combined to leave him stunned for a second.

  The part of his brain that was always working recognized the blast as that of a shotgun going off. He didn’t think he’d been hit, but the weight on his back pinned him down and as long as he couldn’t move he was in danger. He bucked up from the ground as hard as he could and as the weight fell away from him he rolled to his left, closer to the parade ground. He came up on his knees and balanced with his left hand, filling his right hand with the butt of the Colt.

  A dark shape, long enough and thick enough to be human, lay motionless on the ground a few feet away. Nathan heard the swift thud of running footsteps next to the granary. Instinct told him that was the shotgunner getting away. He lifted the revolver and triggered two quick shots. Colt flame bloomed in the darkness, but the garish flash didn’t reach far enough to light up the fleeing figure. Nathan caught a glimpse of movement, that was all.

  Knowing there could be more than one bushwhacker lurking in the shadows, he stayed low as he hurried over to the granary and planted himself with his back against the building. His enemies would have to come at him from the front, if there were any more around.

  In the distance, men called urgently to each other. That would be the soldiers posted on guard duty, Nathan thought. A light bobbed along the edge of the parade ground. Somebody with a lantern was headed his way, moving quickly.

  A groan came from the man still lying on the ground. Whoever it was, he had tackled Nathan from behind and knocked him out of the way of that shotgun blast. The man must have spotted the twin barrels of the Greener and acted instantly to save Nathan’s life at the risk of his own. Nathan wondered if the man had caught both charges of buckshot in the back.