Far west of Fort Lincoln, beyond South Pass and the southern slopes of the Wind River Mountains, Jim Culver stood on a massive outcropping of rock and looked toward the southern end of a valley. Long and narrow, the valley extended far beyond his eyesight. The settlement below him had been named Canyon Creek by the handful of immigrants who had first discovered the upper part of the valley. They were good people, these settlers who had built cabins and cleared land for crops. Hardworking and proper Christians, they asked for nothing more than to be allowed to live in peace, working the land. It was a quality Jim applauded, but knew was not ingrained in his soul. Like his brother Clay, Jim was hard put to stay in one place for very long.
Unaware that anyone back east still had reason to look for him, he decided that it was time to see what was on the far side of the mountains that surrounded Canyon Creek. There were some things that troubled his mind, and he needed room to sort out his feelings. The past few months had been some of the best of his life. He had to admit that. Getting reacquainted with his older brother, Clay, was well worth the time spent helping him build a new cabin for Katie Mashburn. They had built it about one hundred yards from the ashes of the original cabin, a little closer to the river. It was a sight bigger than the one Katie’s father and late husband had built. Lettie Henderson, the young girl whom Jim had met on the trail west from St. Louis, had decided to stay on in Canyon Creek after the winter instead of returning to St. Louis, and Katie had invited her to move in with her. It had been a decision that pleased Jim, although he was reluctant to admit it, even to himself.
As soon as the cabin had been completed, Clay had left. He had obligated himself to scout for the army at Fort Laramie, and was already late in reporting. Jim had taken on the responsibility of helping Katie and Lettie move in and get settled. He had plenty of help from Luke Kendall, a young half-breed boy Katie had more or less adopted. Now that they were situated comfortably, Jim felt free to go in search of his medicine, as Clay had expressed it. And that could best be found in the high mountains, where a man was a notch closer to his maker.
Once he admitted it to himself, he realized the biggest thing that troubled his mind was what to do about Lettie Henderson. No more than a slip of a girl, she had taken over a sizable portion of his mind. There was no denying he had feelings for her, but he wasn’t really sure what they meant. He wouldn’t admit to being sweet on her. It was just that whenever she was away from him, he always seemed to catch himself wondering when she was coming back. She had feelings for him, too. There was little doubt of that. A shiver ran the length of Jim’s spine when he thought of comments Clay had made. That little gal’s already got a rope on you. She’s just giving you plenty of slack right now. When she’s ready, she’ll start drawing you in. Jim was sure he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. And it bothered him that he couldn’t help worrying about those two women alone in the cabin, trying to work that little farm. They had Luke there to help them now, but how long would he stay? Hell, he’s half Shoshoni. How the hell is Katie gonna make a farmer outta him?
Jim guessed he must have the same blood coursing through his veins as Clay. For, like his brother, he needed solitude to examine his feelings, and maybe sort out a path for his life to follow. Being around people, especially Lettie, clouded his thinking. Even as a boy, back home in Virginia, he had been more at peace in the woods.
Thinking of Virginia, he knew he could never be satisfied going back there after seeing the Rockies. His father’s health had been failing when Jim left, leaving Jim’s two brothers to do the brunt of the work. They were capable. He was confident of their ability to take care of the farm. And after that incident with the soldiers by the Rapidan River, it might not be wise to ever return to his boyhood home anyway.
It had been self-defense, pure and simple. That hotheaded lieutenant had taken a shot at him. Jim had had little choice-but to shoot back. It had just been bad luck for the lieutenant that Jim usually hit what he aimed at, even in a split second, as that had been. The captain knew his officer had fired first. There were four more soldiers as well as the sheriff who had witnessed the killing. Still, Jim had decided not to risk hanging around to see what a military court might decide on the issue. Surely, he felt, the whole incident would have been forgotten after this much time had passed. He sure as hell wasn’t the first man to leave his past in the east and head west with a clean slate.
Now he couldn’t help but feel he was running again, only this time he was running from himself. With the completion of the cabin, the talk had turned to planting this field and that one—what crops to try on that piece above the old homeplace, whether or not the garden could be extended to take in one corner of the old cornfield. He admitted that he had probably panicked, but he had to get away from such talk. He could feel the noose tightening around his neck, and he couldn’t forget the worried look in Lettie’s eyes when he had ridden out that morning. He couldn’t help but wonder if it had been a coincidence that she had put on a dress that morning, instead of the shirt and pants she had been wearing to work on the cabin. There was no doubt that the transformation had had the proper effect on him, for she had implanted an image in his mind that he was not likely to forget. He wanted to leave and he wanted to stay. He knew he had to get away to think things out.
Now, as he put a foot in the stirrup and climbed aboard Toby, he tried to put those thoughts out of his mind. As he crossed over the first ridge, it didn’t take long before the excitement of seeing country he had never seen before took hold of him. For the rest of that day and most of the next, he pushed deeper and deeper into the rugged mountains.
Following an old game trail that led down through a thick belt of arrow-straight pines that towered high over his head, he suddenly emerged to find himself in a lush green meadow dotted profusely with tall buttercups and blue flag. All thoughts of Virginia and Lettie Henderson were immediately forgotten for the moment, banished from his conscious mind by the sheer beauty of the vista before him. He did not consider himself to be an emotional person, but he could not deny the involuntary shiver that touched his entire body as he pulled his horse up to take it all in. It was too much for the mind to contain. He gazed up at the snow-covered peaks above him. Tall and unyielding, they stood like silent symbols of immortality, reminding him that his time on earth held no more significance than that of the deer fly buzzing around his head. And yet he felt a part of it—the rocky cliffs, the trees, the steep meadows sloping steeply away from him, and the intense blue of the sky overhead—and he had a sense of coming home. Farther down the mountain, the slope of the meadow gradually lessened until it finally came to rest at the edge of an emerald lake that filled the narrow valley. On the far shore, an elk bugled his lovesick call and disappeared into the trees that lined the water. God had outdone Himself. There could be no place on Earth that matched it.
Jim made his camp by the water’s edge and hobbled Toby close by to graze in the lush grass. Toby didn’t like hobbles, and probably wouldn’t have strayed far anyway, but Jim decided it was best to take precautions. Clay had cautioned him to be careful. It was Indian territory, either Shoshoni or Crow, depending upon how far north he had traveled. In spite of this, he felt at home in this country. He wondered if the horse felt it, too. Toby seemed content enough, even with the hobbles.
He spent three days camped by the lake. He rigged up a fishing line, he listened to the elks bugle, and he watched the slow, lazy wheeling of hawks high over the valley. And he spent a lot of hours peering up into the starry heavens each night, desperately searching for insights to the life path he should follow. It was to no avail, however. He was still undecided, and he didn’t have a clue as far as what his medicine might be. Maybe that kind of thing worked only for Indians. Maybe white men didn’t have any special medicine. Maybe it was because he didn’t go on a fast. Clay said Indian warriors fasted for several days before attaining their vision. Jim couldn’t see the sense in that.
“Ah, to hell with it,” he finally exclaimed to Toby on the morning of the fourth day. In spite of his fascination with the country, he was disappointed to realize that he had been unsuccessful in ridding his mind of Lettie Henderson. “Dammit! I ain’t ready to tie my ass to a plow,” he complained loudly. Toby flicked his ears and snorted. Now I’ve got both of us confused, Jim thought, taking note of the horse’s reaction. He picked up his bedroll and tied it on behind the saddle. It was time to leave this perfect spot and move on, but he burned the location deep into his memory, knowing he would return one day.
As much as the land tempted him to wander, with the snowy peaks in the distance summoning him like pale sirens, still he knew he could not afford to roam aimlessly. Basic supplies and cartridges for his rifle didn’t grow on trees. Seeking a purpose, he made up his mind to ride to Fort Laramie. Maybe he could sign on as a scout, like Clay. That would do for a while until he discovered something else to do.
Backtracking to pick up the old game trail he had followed into the valley, he stopped to take one last look at the shimmering lake behind him before nudging Toby onward once more. Even though he had decided on a destination, there was no need to hurry. He could take the time to explore the lofty mountain range between him and South Pass.
* * *
Working his way around a towering peak, Jim climbed as high up the mountain as he could before Toby began to have trouble finding solid footing. Sidling across an area of loose shale, his horse labored to reach an outcropping of solid rock that would give Jim an uninterrupted view of the southern end of the range.
Once he reached the outcropping, he dismounted to rest his horse. Toby gazed at him as if saying, This damn sure had better be worth that climb. It was. He was not close to the peak; a horse couldn’t make that climb. But he was high enough to command a view of the rugged slopes around him that only hawks and mountain goats had witnessed. The experience had a profound effect upon him, and he knew then that he would always yearn to breathe in the clear mountain air and let his heart soar where the hawks and eagles flew.
Man and horse remained on their lofty perch until the sun began to sink toward the distant peaks, the man contemplating his place in God’s plan, the horse content to rest and graze in the sparse patches of bear grass. Realizing late that he had waited too long before starting back down the steep slope, Jim resigned himself to spend the night there. The thought caused no great concern. There was nothing to use to build a fire, however, but he could chew on some dried venison for his supper and he could share his canteen with Toby. So he settled in for the night, watching a glorious sunset of scarlet and gold before a sudden impenetrable darkness settled upon him like a silent shroud.
Morning found him stiff and shivering from the cold as a gray dawn gradually awakened the mountain range. Though eager to descend to more comfortable climes, he had to wait for the sun to climb high enough to light the dark pockets below him, lest Toby make a misstep and send them both tumbling down the steep mountainside.
When at last the first golden rays of the morning sun found their way through the narrow gaps of the upper ridges, Jim walked to the edge of the rocky precipice to experience one last look at the rugged expanse below him. Raising his rifle in both hands, he stretched his arms high overhead in an effort to relieve some of the stiffness in his shoulders. With his toes right at the edge of the rock, he glanced straight down at the ledges below him.
Startled, he almost staggered. Directly under him, some fifty feet at most, he was astonished to discover a lone Indian warrior. Unaware of Jim above him, the man was kneeling, facing the sun, his arms outstretched as if he were performing some sort of ritual. On reflex, Jim immediately dropped his arms, holding his rifle in a ready position, but made no other move or sound. Fascinated by the unlikely presence of the Indian, Jim continued to watch. The man was wearing no more than a loincloth and moccasins, with nothing but one blanket to protect him from the morning cold. Jim was reminded of Clay’s comments about seeking his medicine, and he felt certain that this was what the Indian was attempting. Judging by the Indian’s lack of clothes to make his body suffer, and the fact the man had no weapon other than a knife, it was apparent that Jim had guessed correctly.
* * *
War Ax ended his prayer to the Great Spirit. He felt his medicine was strong. He had spent three days and nights on the rocky ledge with no food and only a few mouthfuls of water. On the last night he had dreamed of slaughtering many enemies that had surrounded him in a fierce battle, and this was indeed a strong sign that he would remain a mighty war chief.
He had not come to this place since discovering it while a boy, searching for his medicine. It was a good place, for he had been successful in finding his path of life, an important undertaking for every Blackfoot warrior. Now it provided a renewal of his strength for the coming raids on his enemies, the Crow.
Ready to return to his village now, he rose to his feet, pulling the blanket around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill. Suddenly his senses warned him of danger, and he looked up above him. A white man! Standing on a ledge overhead, a white man, holding a rifle, looked down at him impassively. Ordinarily quick to react, War Ax stood, gazing up at Jim, unsure whether he was looking at a vision or a real man. Neither man uttered a sound as their eyes locked upon each other. When the vision did not go away or even fade, War Ax realized that it was a real man who stood over him. The realization also struck him that the white man had stood watching him as he made his prayer to the sun, helpless to defend himself. But the white man did not kill him. Why? War Ax could not explain.
Several long minutes passed. Still the white man and the Indian stood transfixed, gazing at each other. Finally Jim raised his rifle slightly in a simple salute and turned away. War Ax, below him, nodded in brief response, and turned away as well. Both men prepared to descend from the mountain, each going down a different side.
* * *
It was toward the middle of the afternoon when Jim guided Toby down the side of a wide ravine to a trail that appeared to offer a passage to the foothills beyond. He had already spent a good portion of the morning backtracking from previous attempts to find a trail down from the steep slopes of the mountain he had chosen to cross. Although he was keeping a sharp eye for any sign of the warrior he had seen that morning, he had seen nothing. The Indian was almost forgotten by the time Jim found a trail that showed promise of a way out. There were a good many tracks of unshod horses on the trail, which told him that it was commonly used.
“It’s a good thing I ain’t in a hurry to get to Laramie,” he confided to Toby. “I wonder if the army will hire a scout who can’t find his way to the fort.” He was about to laugh at his own joke when he was startled by the sudden crack of a pistol and the sound of cracking limbs as the bullet ripped through the pines right behind him. Toby jumped at the sudden report, and Jim, ducking instinctively, let the startled horse have his head.
After lying low on Toby’s neck for about fifty yards until the trail took a sharp turn, Jim drew the horse up to a stop, figuring he had ample cover to try to determine who was shooting at him. His first thought was of the Indian back on the mountaintop. Drawing his rifle, he dismounted quickly and moved back to the point where the trail had taken a turn. Kneeling mere, he slowly scanned the trees up the side of the ravine and back down. There was no sign of anyone.
Leaving Toby tied to a low tree limb, he climbed up above the narrow trail and made his way back, weaving through the lodgepole pines that covered the slope. He was close to the point where he had heard the shot when he detected the faint sound of someone calling out. He stopped to listen. There it was again! The sound was muffled, as if someone were shouting from inside a cave. He worked his way closer, stopping to listen each time the call was repeated, until he crossed over the trail and continued to move down the slope. Finally he realized he was almost on top of the source, because the call rang out again, and this time he could hear the words distinctly. “Come back, Gawdammit!”
Jim carefully pulled a laurel branch aside and discovered that he was on the edge of a deep gully. Peering over the rim, he was amazed to find a horse at the bottom with a man seated in the saddle, facing away from him. It was a strange sight, and one that puzzled Jim, for it appeared that the horse and rider were jammed into the narrow end of the gully between two rock sides, waiting there for no apparent reason. At that moment the rider, a young man with long black hair, worn in two braids, Indian-fashion, threw back his head and yelled, “Help! Dammit.”
“I can hear you,” Jim replied.
Startled, the young man twisted around in an effort to see who had spoken. Relieved that the reply had been in English, he was further gratified to discover that Jim was alone. “I heard you ride off. I thought you weren’t coming to help me.”
“I thought you shot at me,” Jim calmly replied. “You didn’t miss by much.” Satisfied that he was no longer in danger of being shot, he pushed through the laurel bushes, walked around to a point above and beside the man, and squatted on his heels while he studied the problem.
“Sorry,” the rider said, “but my yelling didn’t seem to be doing no good.” He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. “I could hear your horse, but I wasn’t sure you could hear me.”
Jim nodded slowly while he considered that, then said, “Why don’t you get off that horse and climb outta there? He looks like he’s dead.”
Speaking with the forced patience of a man who had long since run out of it, the dark-haired young man replied, “Mister, that’s a God-given fact. He’s dead, all right—broke his neck when the damn-fool nag fell in this gully. Got spooked by a damn groundhog or something, I never did see what it was. He jumped off the trail up yonder, and before I knew what was happening, there wasn’t no ground under us. And I promise you, I’da climbed outta here except for a little matter of having my leg jammed up against the side of this hole.”
Jim took a moment to consider this, looking the young man’s situation over for himself. He was in a fix, all right. The horse’s body held the man’s leg pinned against the side of the hard dirt bank—a foot farmer and his leg would have been jammed against solid rock. Jim could see where the man had been trying to pick a hole in the dirt with his knife, but he had made very little progress. The problem didn’t appear to be the dirt bank itself, but more specifically a root the size of a man’s arm that crossed over his leg just above his ankle. The trapped rider had succeeded in digging out enough dirt to expose a portion of the root.
Seeing the job to be done, Jim stood up again. “Well, I expect it’ll take you the better part of a month to saw through that root with your knife. I’ve got a hand ax in my pack that might speed things up a bit. I’ll be right back.” He turned to leave.
“Much obliged, mister. I’m damn glad you happened along. I thought about butchering the damn horse to get loose, but I didn’t wanna draw the buzzards and wolves with the smell of raw meat.”
“Reckon not,” Jim replied. “We’ll get you out of there.” He started climbing back up the side of the ravine. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
After bringing Toby to the point where the trapped horse had left the trail, Jim tied a rope to the saddle horn and got his ax from the saddle pack. Making his way back to the gully, he lowered himself down the side until he ended up standing on the horse’s rump. “You’re lucky your leg ain’t jammed up against that rock,” he commented. “I’ve got an ax, but I don’t have any dynamite.”
The young man laughed and twisted around to extend his hand. “I’m obliged for the ax,” he said. “My name’s Johnny Malotte.”
“Jim Culver,” Jim said, shaking his hand.
Jim made short work of the root, chopping it in two in little more than ten minutes. But it took both men digging and chopping another forty-five minutes before the end of the root could be wrenched from the ground, freeing Johnny’s leg. Jim helped him get up from the saddle, carefully pulling the injured leg up from the stirrup. After cautiously testing his foot and ankle, Johnny determined that the leg was not broken, merely bruised and scraped. Relieved to find that he was not seriously injured, he flashed a wide, white-toothed smile at Jim, and shook his hand again, this time with added vigor.
“Yessir,” Johnny said, nodding his head for emphasis, “I’m damn lucky you happened along. I ain’t sure I coulda got outta here by myself.” He steadied himself on the wall of the gully while he tested his injured leg to see if he could put his full weight on it. It was a little awkward with the two men standing on the dead horse, so Jim helped steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “I ain’t sure about this,” Johnny said. “You might have to help me up.”
“Grab hold of the rope, and I’ll give you a boost. Toby will do the rest.” Jim cupped his hands together, making a stirrup for Johnny. When Johnny had a good grasp on the rope, Jim called out, “Toby, get up, boy.” And the horse obediently began to walk up the slope, pulling Johnny up the steep side of the gully. Once Johnny was safely up and had scrambled over the edge of the chasm, Jim said, “Back him up and throw me the rope.”
Johnny stood there brushing the dirt off his trousers for a few moments before flashing his toothy smile at Jim. “I’d love to, friend, but I’m in kind of a hurry. I’ve got about twelve head of horses that are most likely standing around somewhere at the bottom of this mountain. And the Injuns I stole ’em from might be showing up anytime now. I’ve already wasted too much time in that damn hole.”
“Why, you son of a bitch—” Jim began.
Johnny interrupted before Jim could say more. “Now, no hard feelings, Jim. I’m a fair man. I’m trading you that horse you’re standing on—and a damn good saddle—for your horse and saddle, even swap. I wouldn’t leave you here to die. You oughta be able to get yourself outta there if you work at it. I coulda got out myself if I hadn’t got my leg hung up. It’ll just take you a while. I’d love to stay and visit with you some more, but I best be on my way.”
In a fit of anger, Jim reached for his pistol, but Johnny ducked back out of sight. Furious and feeling like a damn fool, Jim could hear him laughing as he walked away. Jim yelled for Toby, but the horse was too far up the ravine to realize his master was calling. “Damn you, Toby, you’ll let anybody ride you.” He stood there, completely at a loss for several minutes, waiting for his blood to cool down, cursing himself for being so trusting of a total stranger. After another minute or two, he eased up on himself a little. Hell, how could I know? The man was in trouble. The logic was true, but it didn’t make him feel any less the fool. “Johnny Malotte,” he pronounced, “you ain’t seen the last of me.”
He was determined he would track Malotte down and recover his horse and possessions if he had to track him till doomsday. He was mad, madder than when that lieutenant back in Virginia had taken a shot at him. He could understand the lieutenant’s motivation. Jim had laid open a few welts on the officer’s back with a whip when he caught the lieutenant forcing himself on a young girl. Malotte was different. He had saved Malotte’s ass, and this was how he was repaid for his help. The thought of the dark-haired young man sitting astraddle Toby made his blood boil. Okay, he told himself, the first thing I’ve got to do is cool down and get myself out of this damn hole.
He immediately began to evaluate his new situation. He still had his ax. He could try to chop handholds in the steep sides of the gully. It would be a lot quicker if he had a rope. As soon as he thought it, it occurred to him to check the saddle he was standing on. Sure enough, there was a coil of rope tied beside the saddle horn. Close beside that he saw the butt of a rifle protruding from a deerskin sling. It was jammed tight between the carcass and the side of the gully, but came out after he gave it a strong tug. An old iron-frame Henry .44, it was a poor swap for his Winchester, but it had a fully loaded magazine. He propped it against the side of the gully and untied the rope.
His first thought was to wonder why Malotte hadn’t tried to use the rope. Then he reasoned that he probably would have, but all of his initial effort went toward freeing his leg. Jim wasted no more time on speculation. Untying the rope, he looked overhead, searching for something stout enough to support his weight. His gaze settled upon a couple of saplings, growing together almost on the lip of the gully. They were too tall to try to throw a loop over, so his only option was to try to toss one end of the rope over the saplings near their roots. He looked around for something to use as a weight. There was his ax. He considered that for a moment. If I throw it up there and it gets hung on something, then I’ve thrown away the tool to cut toeholds and handholds. He gave that a moment’s thought. Hell, if it hangs up so tight that I can’t pull it down, then it ought to support my weight.
Knotting the end of the rope as tightly around the head of the ax as he could, he fed out a good twenty feet of slack. Swinging the ax back and forth to test the weight, he steadied himself with one foot on the saddle and the other on the horse’s rump, gradually increasing the arc of the swing until he finally heaved it upward. His aim was to throw it over the two saplings, some fifteen feet above his head, causing the hatchet to drop down on the other side, pulling the rope back down to him. His toss was a few feet short, and the ax caught on the trunk of one of the trees, just as he had suspected might happen. He gave the rope a couple of hard tugs. The ax was lodged tight. Giving it one more tug, he decided it was secure, so he grabbed Malotte’s rifle by the barrel and threw it as far as he could to clear the top of the gulch. Then he reached up, took a firm hold, and began pulling himself up hand over hand.
So far, so good, he thought, straining against the rope, his boots trying to find purchase in the hard side of the gully. Halfway up, he felt the rope slipping on the handle of the hatchet. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, and tried to climb faster. It was too late. Suddenly the knot slid down the smooth handle, and at once he was dropped back in the gully, landing once again on the carcass of Johnny Malotte’s horse. “Dammit to hell!” he cursed, and got to his feet, still holding the rope.
He untied the knot in the end of the rope and looked around for something else to use for a weight. Finding nothing better, he emptied the cartridges from his pistol, pulled the end of the rope through the trigger guard, and knotted it. Hefting it a couple of times, he decided it should be easier to lob over the saplings than the ax had been. The thought proved to be true, but it still took half a dozen attempts before the pistol successfully looped over the trees and dropped back down to him. He knew then he was as good as out. He tied the two ends of the rope together to preclude any danger of losing one end while he pulled himself up. Three minutes later he was out, standing on the edge of the deep slash in the earth. With no time to waste, he looked around to quickly retrieve his ax and the rifle. Then he was off at a trot down the mountain.
Shunning the trail that wound down the mountain, he hurried straight down the slope, making his way through the brush as fast as he could without losing his balance and breaking his neck. His determination fueled by pure anger, he pushed his body relentlessly. He was afraid it had taken him too long to escape from the gully, and his only hope of catching up to Malotte would be if the horses he had mentioned were so scattered that it would take him some time to round them up.
Breathing hard, he came to a small meadow no more than fifty yards from the bottom of the slope. Off to his right he could see where the game trail made one more sharp turn before descending to the rolling hills. There was no sign of Johnny Malotte or any horses. He was too late. Dejected, but still determined, he walked across the meadow, trying to give his breath a chance to catch up. He had to decide which direction to take from the base of the mountain. There had to be enough tracks to point the way.
Just as he left the open meadow and entered the pines that ringed the base of the mountain, he heard voices above him, coming from the trail. Dropping to one knee, he brought the Henry up to rest across his other knee while he listened. It took but a moment to realize that it had to be the Indian war party tracking their stolen horses. There was a decision to be made, and he made it quickly. He was still new to the country, and he didn’t know which Indians might be friendly, and which ones viewed any white man as an enemy. He had to consider the possibility that the Indians might mistakenly take him to be the one who stole their horses. Clay had warned him that even those supposedly friendly to the white man might take a lone man’s scalp if they caught him in the wrong territory. So until he knew them better, he decided to treat them all as hostile. He couldn’t speak in their tongue, anyway. How in hell could he explain he was after the man who stole their horses, the same as they were? Better to keep out of sight, he decided.
Lying flat on his belly behind a rotten log, he waited for the war party to pass by him. Thirteen strong, they filed by—young warriors, painted for the warpath, feathers fluttering in the afternoon breeze, their ponies prancing impatiently as they were held to a walk while several of the riders studied the tracks at the bottom of the slope. Jim could not help but admire the way the warriors, most of them naked from the waist up, sat straight and alert on their ponies. He wondered if they were Sioux, Crow, or Shoshoni. It made him determined to learn to make the distinction for himself.
He guessed mere had to be a confusion of tracks left by the scattered ponies when they descended the trail unattended. It couldn’t have taken Johnny Malotte long to round them up, however—to be already out of sight driving a herd of horses. He probably got lucky, Jim decided, and found them in a bunch at the bottom of the trail. There was a small branch not far from the base of the hill. The horses were probably drinking when Johnny had arrived on Toby. The image of that stirred Jim’s anger once more, and his hand tightened on the stock of the Henry.
The warriors didn’t take long in scouting the trail. They looked around carefully, then discussed the sign. In two minutes they agreed on the direction and set off toward a line of lowlying hills to the south. Jim counted the war party as a definite sign of luck for him. He had no doubt that they would track Johnny Malotte down. All he had to do was follow the warriors—if he could keep up. With that thought in mind, he sprang to his feet and gave chase, the Henry rifle in one hand, the coil of rope in the other, and the ax stuck in his belt.
Although Jim considered himself a strong runner, he soon found that he was going to be hard-pressed to keep the war party in sight. They were moving fast, and he was already gasping for air. Pretty soon he had to stop for a few moments to catch his breath. His heart pounding in his chest, he looked up at the sun. It was getting low. He wondered if Malotte would stop to make camp before dark. There was not much hope that Jim would be able to follow the tracks after dark. He had to keep the Indians in sight. Taking a deep breath, he started out again, this time at a trot. He had not covered a hundred yards before his breathing became labored again. He pushed on, spurred on by his ire at having been gulled by the smiling Johnny Malotte.
He was breathing so hard that he didn’t hear the hoofbeats behind him until the horse nudged him between the shoulder blades. Startled, he leaped aside, stumbling as he did so, causing him to tumble head over heels and wind up on his back, gazing up into the dark eye of a curious paint pony. Jim lay there for a few moments while the pony sniffed his chest and belly, looking for some sign of recognition. He immediately realized that luck had sent him some transportation when he most sorely needed it. Evidently Malotte could not afford the time to round up all his stolen horses, and this one was obviously following the others.
“Easy, boy,” Jim cooed, and reached up to stroke the white face of the paint. The pony accepted the affection and made no attempt to retreat when Jim slowly got to his feet. “Easy, boy,” he said again as he stroked the horse’s neck. “I believe you’re somebody’s favorite. You’re as tame as a kitten.” It was a fine horse and obviously well cared for—no doubt by one angry individual riding in the war party ahead of him. “Well, son, let’s go find your papa.” He fashioned a bridle by cutting off a length of rope and looping a couple of half hitches around the pony’s lower jaw. Then he hopped on its back and set off after the Indians.
* * *
Well, looks like you’ve got your ass in a tight spot again, Jim thought as he knelt on one knee, watching the scene below him. There was his old friend Johnny Malotte, tied to a tree trunk, while off to the side a baker’s dozen Indians sat around a fire eating what looked to be deer or possibly antelope. On the other side of a small stream the horses grazed, Toby among them, still saddled. Jim felt a little quiver of relief when he spotted the big horse standing with the smaller Indian ponies. Behind him he heard a low nicker from the paint. Although out of sight behind the hill where Jim knelt, the horse was aware of the other horses across the creek. There was an answering whinny from one of them, but the warriors seated around the fire paid it no mind.
Jim focused his attention upon the hapless horse thief bound hand and foot to the cottonwood. Johnny’s head was hanging, his chin almost touching his chest, but Jim could still see streaks of drying blood across his face, glistening as they reflected the glow of the firelight. It gave him the eerie appearance of a painted warrior. Judging by the man’s sagging body, Jim could guess that Malotte had been severely beaten. It surprised him that he was still alive. As angry as he was at Johnny, he couldn’t help but feel a modicum of sympathy for him. It’s his own damn fault, he told himself. He dug his own grave. Serves him right.
Jim gave the situation a great deal of thought. If he went down there to try to reclaim his horse and rifle, there was a pretty good possibility he might wind up tied to the tree next to Johnny. But he knew without doubt that he was damn sure going down there to get his horse.
There was another option. He checked the magazine of Johnny’s Henry rifle again. It was loaded. So he had sixteen cartridges, and there weren’t but thirteen Indians. The odds were in his favor that he could maybe cut half of them down before they had a chance to protect themselves. But after that he would have a hell of a battle on his hands, one in which he would be outnumbered as much as six to one. Then, too, he really had no reason to attack the Indians. They had done him no harm. They were merely dealing with a horse thief. It was hard to say what method of execution they planned for Johnny, but Jim was certain it wasn’t going to be pleasant. But, hell, it ain’t none of my affair. He squatted on his heels for a long minute, trying to decide the best way to approach the group of Indians. “Hell,” he finally concluded, “I aim to get my horse and rifle back.”
* * *
Iron Bow held up his hand to silence his comrades. The conversation around the campfire ceased immediately, and the warriors turned to see what had captured the war chief’s attention. In a few moments they all saw what had caused him to gesture. As one, they all started to spring for their weapons, but Iron Bow calmed them again with no more than a silent signal. “Wait,” he said. “It is only one man.” With moonlight bathing the clearing before the camp, it was apparent that it was a lone rider approaching the camp. Seeing no threat from one man, the warriors waited, watching with curiosity, their weapons ready nonetheless.
Determined to take back that which belonged to him, Jim sat ramrod straight as he walked the paint Indian pony slowly toward the middle of the camp. He held Johnny Malotte’s rifle up over his head, his red bandanna tied around the barrel. He had nothing white to use as a flag of peace, but in the light of the moon it was difficult to determine the color, anyway. “I come in peace,” he called out, hoping they understood English. There was no verbal response, just a puzzled exchange of looks and murmured comments among the warriors standing there.
As Jim entered the circle of firelight, one of the warriors suddenly grabbed a rifle and started toward him. Iron Bow quickly stopped him. The warrior protested. “That is my pony!”
“I see that,” Iron Bow replied, never taking his eyes off the white man now practically in their midst. He was fascinated by Jim’s boldness against such overwhelming odds and was curious to see what the white man intended to do. “We can easily kill him. Let’s see what this white fool is going to do.” Wounded Leg obediently stepped back and silently watched with the others.
Without knowing the language, Jim didn’t know what had been said, but it was clear to him that Iron Bow was the leader. His bluff had paid off to this point. By boldly riding into camp, he had piqued the warriors’ curiosity, and they had not immediately set upon him. He knew what they knew: They could kill him anytime they took a notion. He only hoped that his brazen attitude would gain him enough respect to bluff his way out of there with his horse and rifle.
Barely glancing at the warriors now closing in on either side of him, he pulled the paint up before Iron Bow and dismounted. With exaggerated gestures, he motioned for Iron Bow to follow him, and started walking toward the horses across the stream, leading Wounded Leg’s paint behind him. They all followed. Jim didn’t even glance at the sagging body of Johnny Malotte as he walked past the tree where he was tied.
Toby raised his head and whinnied softly when Jim crossed over the narrow stream and stopped before him. Jim turned to Iron Bow. He pointed to Toby and then back to himself, pounding his chest with his finger. The Indians dutifully followed his every motion. Jim then pointed beyond them to Johnny Malotte and then back to Toby. He tried to make riding motions to convey to them that Malotte had ridden off with his horse. He could see the puzzled expressions on their faces, so he tried to exaggerate the motions, swinging his hips back and forth in rhythm. This only seemed to confuse them more. Finally Iron Bow’s curiosity got the best of him.
“Are you trying to say that man mated with the horse?” Iron Bow asked in almost perfect English.
“No!” Jim shot back. “No. What I’m saying is that man stole my horse. I wish I’d known you spoke American. I coulda told you straight out.” He nodded his head toward the paint. “This horse belongs to you. I brought him back to trade for my horse. He stole my rifle.” He held up the Henry. “This rifle for my rifle.” He looked Iron Bow in the eyes. “Give me the things that belong to me, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
Iron Bow was truly fascinated by the brash young man. He turned to relay what Jim had said to his warriors. Jim couldn’t tell from their reactions whether he was in deep trouble or not. There was a great deal of discussion among them, and after some earnest conversation between Iron Bow and one of the warriors, the warrior stepped forward and held out Jim’s Winchester. Jim wasted no time taking it, at the same time handing the warrior Johnny’s Henry. Looking around him now, he met smiling faces, and he realized that there was going to be no trouble over reclaiming his possessions.
“How are you called?” Iron Bow asked.
“Jim, Jim Culver,” he responded.
“I am Iron Bow of the Crows. You must camp here and eat with us tonight. Then you can go on your way in the morning.”
Jim accepted graciously. He might have preferred to move on immediately, but he figured he might insult Iron Bow if he refused his hospitality.
Across the stream, Johnny Malotte raised his chin slightly. Having heard the exchange between the Indian and the white man, he prayed there might be hope for him.
“What do you intend to do with him?” Jim asked, gesturing toward Malotte.
“Him?” Iron Bow echoed with an uninterested shrug of his shoulders. “He is a horse thief. We will kill him in the morning.”
Jim didn’t reply. He turned and took a hard look at the man bound to the tree. He wondered why the Indians hadn’t already killed Malotte—not so much for stealing horses, but merely because he was a white man. Probably want to let him think about it all night. It ain’t my business. Johnny Malotte dug his own grave. Death was a pretty severe penalty for stealing horses, especially among Indians, who customarily stole horses whenever the opportunity presented itself. Horse thieves were commonly hung by the supposedly civilized whites, but to an Indian it was the natural thing to do. He shrugged. It wasn’t his business, he reminded himself.
* * *
Iron Bow turned out to be a gracious host. He and his warriors were happy to share their food with Jim. Wounded Leg was especially grateful for the return of his favorite war pony. He had trained the animal from a colt, and he had been crestfallen to discover the paint missing when they caught up with Malotte and the other stolen horses.
Iron Bow told Jim that he and several of the others in his small band had often served as scouts for the soldiers at Fort Laramie. “The Crows have long been friends to the soldiers,” he said. When Jim said that his brother sometimes scouted for the soldiers at Fort Laramie as well, Iron Bow asked his brother’s name.
“Culver,” Jim replied, “Clay Culver.”
Iron Bow’s eyes lit up. “Ahh, Ghost Wind,” he said, nodding his head approvingly. “I have ridden with your brother. He is a mighty warrior.”
“Ghost Wind?” Jim asked.
Iron Bow smiled. “That is the name given him by the Crow scouts. When the Hush Wings flies—that is the bird the white man calls an owl—it flies silently, making no sound with its wings. It is said that if you hear the sound of the Hush Wings’ flight, it is a Ghost Wind. Your brother moves silently like the Hush Wings. Those who hear him hear the Ghost Wind.
Jim took a minute to think that over. Smiling to himself, he tried to picture his brother Clay as a huge owl, silently flying through the night. Maybe so, he allowed. At any rate, he would try to remember to call him Ghost Wind the next time he saw him.
There was such a casual air about the camp of Crow warriors that Jim at times forgot the battered prisoner bound to the cottonwood outside the fire’s glow. He might have forgotten him altogether except for a few times during the evening when Malotte tried to get Jim’s attention. Each time he did he would receive a beating, administered by one of the warriors with his quirt. Jim did his best to ignore the punishment, but he could not help but feel some compassion for Johnny’s fate.
The next morning Jim awoke with the first rays of the sun, feeling that he had not rested at all. His sleep had been a fitful one; he’d awakened often to look around him at the sleeping Indians. In spite of the warm welcome he had received from Iron Bow and his friends, there remained a wariness that told him to sleep with one eye open. It had been unnecessary caution, apparently, judging by his sleeping hosts. The only one awake other than himself was Johnny Malotte, whose sagging body was hanging to one side of the tree trunk. When Jim got up and began to stir the coals of the campfire, Johnny raised his head and whispered, “Cut me loose, Jim, before they wake up.” Jim hesitated. “Come on, Jim, give me a chance to run. They’re gonna gut me and leave me to die. You ain’t gonna side with a bunch of Injuns, are you?”
Perplexed, Jim turned to face him, but before he could reply to Johnny’s pleas, Iron Bow stirred from his blanket and sat up. Jim quickly returned his attention to the fire. To himself, he cursed Johnny Malotte for putting him in the position of making a judgment on his life. The man was a damn horse thief, caught red-handed. He had stolen Toby, for chrissakes. He deserved to be hung. But did anybody deserve to be tortured to death? Iron Bow had assured him that Malotte’s death would be slow and painful.
“You rise early,” Iron Bow said as he watched Jim place some limbs on the fire.
“Yeah, I expect I’d better get started,” Jim replied.
“Don’t you want to stay long enough to see the man who stole your horse die?”
“No, I guess not,” Jim pronounced slowly, thinking hard on what he was about to propose, and what he was going to do if Iron Bow rejected it. “This man”—he motioned toward Johnny Malotte—“has stolen Crow ponies, and he stole from me. You want him punished. I want him punished. The soldiers have been looking for him for a long time. They want to punish him, too. I think the army would be grateful to you if you turn him over to me and let me take him to Fort Laramie so they can let others like him witness his punishment.”
Iron Bow was only mildly interested in the proposition. “You can tell the soldiers that we killed him. Why should you have to bother with him? It’s four days from here to Fort Laramie.”
“That’s true,” Jim replied, trying to seem as unconcerned over Malotte’s fate as his Crow friend. “I would not trouble myself, but I think the army would like to show other white men what will happen to them if they try to steal horses from our friends the Crows.”
Iron Bow paused to consider the wisdom in this. After a few moments’ thought, he nodded his head in approval. “This might be a good thing. Maybe what you say would be the right thing to do.” The more he thought about it, the more he began to see it as an opportunity to show that the Crows were not the savages most white men thought they were. “It is a good thing,” he repeated. “You should take him back to Laramie with you.” He hesitated, thinking. “He cannot take one of our ponies, though.”
“No,” Jim quickly agreed, still surprised that Iron Bow was going to turn Malotte over to him that easily. “I wouldn’t let him ride, even if he had a horse.”
To Jim’s further surprise, the others in Iron Bow’s band voiced no opposition to their leader’s decision to turn their prisoner over. So, after a breakfast of dried meat, Iron Bow cut the bonds that held Johnny Malotte to the cottonwood. Johnny slumped to the ground, too weak to stand. With his foot, Iron Bow rolled him over onto his back and tied his wrists together. Then he stepped back to let Jim take over.
Johnny Malotte didn’t look too good. Jim wondered if he was going to have a dead man on his hands before he had ridden out of sight. He bent low over Johnny while he tied a rope to Johnny’s bound wrists. Malotte’s eyes, almost closed until that moment, suddenly flickered wide open, and he gazed into Jim’s eyes. “I’m fixing to take your sorry ass outta here,” Jim whispered. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll damn sure walk outta here,” Johnny rasped.
The rope secured, Jim pulled his prisoner to his feet. Johnny struggled for a few moments to keep from staggering and took a few shaky steps forward as the group of interested Crow warriors watched. One of them saw fit to administer a stinging swipe across Johnny’s back with his quirt. Johnny recoiled with the pain, but managed to stay on his feet. Jim figured he’d better get the beaten man out of there before the Crows changed their minds and decided to whip him to death. With a quick farewell to Iron Bow, he climbed aboard Toby and started out of camp, walking his horse slowly, one end of the lead rope looped around his saddle horn, the other tied to Johnny’s wrists.
“Go in peace, Jim Culver,” Iron Bow called after him.
* * *
Jim never looked back at his stumbling prisoner, staggering drunkenly at the end of the rope, until he had ridden beyond a line of hills that crossed his path. He felt certain that the Indians were watching him. Once he rode out of sight of the camp, he stopped to let Johnny catch up to him. As soon as Johnny was even with his stirrup, Jim handed him his canteen and watched silently as the desperate man gulped the water down. It served to revive him somewhat.
“I’ll never forget you for this,” Johnny rasped, his voice still hoarse from his long period without water. Holding up his hands, he said, “Here, cut me loose.”
Jim didn’t say anything while he untied the lead rope from Johnny’s wrists. Then he said, “I think I’ll leave your hands tied for a while yet.”
“Ah, hell,” Johnny complained. “Whaddaya want to do that for? Hell, man, you saved my life back yonder. That makes us the same as blood brothers or something. I knew I had you pegged as a fair man.”
Jim straightened up in the saddle, and gazed at him in cool appraisal. “You don’t know shit about me,” he assured him. “You’re the same blood brother that left me down in a hole while you ran off with my horse. I think I’ll keep your hands tied for a while.”
“You ain’t gonna leave me on foot with my hands tied, are you?”
Jim smirked. “Now, what kind of son of a bitch would do something like that?”
“All right, I guess I had that coming. But, dammit, Jim, I’m pretty stove up. Them Injuns beat the hell outta me. That horse of yours is strong as an ox. He could carry double all day and not even know the difference.”
“If things aren’t to your liking, I guess I could take you back to Iron Bow. His boys would probably throw a party for you.”
Johnny realized that it was useless to try to sway Jim, so he reluctantly acknowledged the futility of his position. “All right,” he said. “I reckon you’re holding all the cards.”
Jim studied the plaintive face looking hopefully up at him for a few moments more. He couldn’t leave the man on the prairie with his hands tied. Ah, shit, he thought, and drew his knife. He reached down and cut the rawhide bonds around Johnny’s wrists, then quickly backed Toby away a few yards. “I saved your worthless hide from those Crow Indians, but I damn sure didn’t take you to raise. You were on your own before I met up with you, so you’re on your own again. The fact that you’re on foot is your own doing.” He could see the seeds of understanding taking root in Johnny’s eyes. But the battered man still attempted to appeal to Jim’s conscience.
“Jim, I know I wronged you, and I’m sorry for that, I swear. But I’m stove up pretty bad, and I ain’t had food for days. I’m too weak to get very far on foot. Without no gun, I can’t even hunt for something to eat. You might as well shoot me right here. I’m as good as dead, anyway.”
Jim silently cursed himself for having even the slightest compassion for the man who had stolen his horse. He wasn’t softheaded enough to give Johnny a gun, though. He thought it over for a few moments before deciding. “Now, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” he said, turning in the saddle and pointing toward the southeast. “I’m heading that way, just about on a straight line with that tallest hill you see in the distance. I’m gonna hunt for some fresh meat when I get in those hills. If I’m lucky enough to find some game, I’ll share some of it with you. You might be as hungry as you say, but you don’t look all that feeble to me. You’ve been walking pretty good since we got out of sight of those Injuns. I think you ought to make it to those hills by nightfall. You can eat what I leave on top of that highest one.” That said, he wheeled Toby and rode off, leaving a disillusioned Johnny Malotte standing there staring after him.
“You wait for me, Jim,” Johnny called after him. “I’ll be there, all right. No hard feelings a’tall. I’m still obliged to you for gittin’ me out of that Injun camp.”
* * *
It was less than half a day’s ride to the foot of the tallest in the line of hills Jim had pointed out to Johnny Malotte. He thought about pushing on, but he had said he would leave food for him. He had given his word, and even when dealing with a thief like Johnny Malotte, his word was his bond. The poor bastard’s gonna need something to eat by the time he makes it to this hill. Jim knew the Crows had wasted no food on him.
He began a careful scout around the hills, holding to the trees near the base. While he hunted, he gave a lot of thought to the subject of Johnny Malotte. A young man, Johnny looked to be about the same age as Jim. He seemed genuinely contrite about bamboozling Jim out of his horse, but Jim was not softheaded to the point where he would trust the glib-talking young horse thief. He was convinced that, when it came down to two men and one horse, a man would be a fool to turn his back on Johnny Malotte. Still, Jim wasn’t prone to leaving a man stranded with no means of survival. After worrying his mind with it for some time, he decided to leave him food and his pistol, loaded. It was a difficult decision to leave the pistol, even though he used it only on rare occasions—to kill a snake or scare off a bear. If Johnny was as smart as Jim figured him to be, he could walk at night and rest during the day. The pistol would provide him with some defense against hostile Indians. That’s the best I can do for him, and more than he deserves.
Finding meat proved to be a little more difficult than he had anticipated. It was the middle of the afternoon before he spotted a couple of antelope out on the prairie that rolled away from the base of the hills. With Toby tied to a clump of sage, Jim worked his way around the antelope on foot, keeping downwind. When close enough to risk a shot, he didn’t waste it, bringing one of the animals down with a strike right behind the front legs.
He sat there in the cover of the shallow defile he had settled in for a long time, watching the prairie around him. When there was no sign that his shot had attracted the attention of any roaming Indian hunting parties, he left the defile and recovered his meat. Drawing the animal up on Toby’s back, he led the horse back to a tiny stream near the base of the hill.
Butchering done, he packed the meat up the hill on his horse just as the shadows began to pool in the gullies and draws. It would be dark soon, and he intended to be long gone from this hill before then. He wrapped part of the meat in the antelope hide and placed it in a prominent spot on the treeless hilltop, where Johnny would be sure to find it. Then he took out his pistol and placed it on top of the hide bundle. “I expect that’s the last I’ll see of that,” he muttered.
Satisfied that he had done as well for the man as could be expected, he led Toby back down the hill to the stream. After winding his way through the willows that framed the tiny water course, he let Toby drink while he knelt down to wash the last traces of antelope blood from his hands. In the next instant his head exploded and he was knocked senseless, floating in a sea of inky darkness, until the shock of his face in the cool water of the stream partially revived him. Completely disoriented, his ears still ringing from the impact and his brain spinning out of control, he tried to push himself up, but succeeded only in sprawling helplessly into the stream.
Johnny Malotte stood over the fallen man, holding the stump of a stout cottonwood limb that had broken in two under the force of the blow. He reached for Jim’s pistol after he struck him down, only to find an empty holster. Undeterred, he turned immediately and pulled the Winchester from the saddle sling. Turning back to Jim, he watched impassively for a few seconds while the injured man tried to regain his feet. Jim had managed to struggle to his knees when Johnny cocked the rifle and pulled the trigger. He went down immediately, the bullet slamming into his chest and knocking him down on his back.
Johnny ejected the spent shell and took a couple of steps forward, watching Jim closely as the shallow water around his body became dark with blood. When, after some long seconds, there was no sign of movement, Johnny eased the hammer down and turned back to calm the startled bay stallion. Toby pulled away at first, but Johnny kept a firm hold on the reins while he quieted the confused animal. Soon Toby calmed enough to accept Johnny in the saddle. Once mounted, Johnny took one long last look at the body lying in the tiny stream. “No hard feelings, friend,” he said with a smile. “But I’ve got to get goin’ in case some nosy Injun heard that shot.”