The three men rode into the camp at Boar’s Nest about noon. It seemed a shorter journey now that he had traveled the distance a few times.
“There it is.” John pointed to the tunnel.
“Let’s take a look,” said the man who called himself Johnson, swinging down and heading for the opening.
“There’s a lantern inside,” John called. “Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”
He unsaddled his horse and tied it to a pine tree, laid his saddle aside, and walked over to the tunnel. The others had simply looped their reins around the saddle horn. They must be in a hurry, he smiled to himself.
The watery yellow light of the lantern showed as a glow from the inner end of the shaft. Johnson was holding the lantern, and Green, his companion, was inspecting the area where sparks of gold dust reflected its rays.
“Look at that!”
“And that …”
John was pleased. He said nothing, figuring he didn’t have to. They were already doing a selling job on themselves.
The two came out toward the entrance, talking softly between them.
“You find where I’d been workin’?” John asked.
“Yes, we sure did,” said Johnson. “Way that looks, why you wantin’ to sell?”
John shrugged. “I’m not a miner. Don’t really know much about it. Just as soon not be tied down.”
“How’d you happen to have it?” Johnson asked. “I assume you have a deed?”
“Of course. It’s in the vault at the assay office. To tell the truth, I won it in a poker game, sight unseen.”
“What do you think it’s worth, if we want to buy it?” Green asked, cautiously.
“I don’t know, fellas, I told you I’m not a miner,” John said. “I’m not lookin’ to get rich, here. I figure, the way the bettin’ was goin’ in that poker game, I’ve got about five hundred in it. That sound fair?”
The two men looked questioningly at each other.
“Let’s take another look at the vein, there,” Johnson said.
He picked up the lantern and headed on in. The two men followed.
“Now, where’d you first see the color along here?” Green asked.
“Right there where you see it.” John pointed. “Sort of spreads out along the wall toward the corner, there.”
“What’s your bottom dollar to sell—right now, today?” Johnson asked.
John hesitated. He’d hoped they’d make him an offer. In his ignorance, he might have priced too low and created suspicion.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve told you I don’t know mining. I might be too high or too low, and wouldn’t know either way. You see what I’ve got, and you know more than I what it’s worth. I said I’ve got maybe five hundred in it. But I want out, and if you’ll agree to four hundred, I’ll go back to town and sign the deed.”
Then a very strange thing happened. The two men glanced at each other in the dim lantern light, and both nodded agreement. As if in one motion, both drew their guns.
John wanted to make a break for it, but in the narrow confines of the mine tunnel, he knew he’d never reach the open air. This was what he’d feared, but …
“Wait!” he called out, hands half-lifted. “Don’t shoot! That deed’s back in town. This is no good to you … .”
His voice trailed off as he saw both men chuckling. Was this some kind of a terrible joke?
“Son,” said Johnson, “we don’t want to hurt you. We’re federal marshals, and you’re under arrest.”
“For what? Tryin’ to sell my claim?”
“Well, maybe that, too … . One you know is worthless … . But, for sure, saltin’ a mine with dust from someplace else is a crime. Might say, though, that for somebody that ain’t a miner, it’s a pretty slick job. How’d you do it? Shotgun shells?”
“Where are you takin’ me?”
“Back to town. There’ll be a circuit judge around in a week or so. We’ll let you gather up your stuff. Green, get the shotgun, there.”
He turned back to John.
“I hope you won’t try nothin’ stupid. You got another gun?”
“No. You can check.”
“We will. But it’ll go a lot better if nobody gets hurt, an’ that’s up to you. You’re not in a lot of trouble, yet, so just don’t cause none.”
It was nearly dark when they reached town, and the sheriff opened one of the cells for the marshals.
“That’s your home for now, Buffalo,” said Johnson. “The judge comes a week from Wednesday, the sheriff says. We’ll be here.”
“What about my horse? He belongs to the livery.”
“We’ll take him back. The sheriff will look after your gear.”
The trapped, enclosed feeling in the jail was among the hardest times of his life. He already had a dread of enclosed places, which had shown itself at the mine shaft. This was even worse. There was one small window, high in the wall. He could have seen out by standing on the cot, except that the window was covered by a wooden shutter against the winter winds.
The iron bars let him look down a short hallway and into the sheriff’s office. At present, there was no one in the other two small cells.
On the third day in confinement, the sheriff brought a young man down the short hallway.
“You got a visitor, Buffalo,” he said simply.
John said nothing. He didn’t understand. He knew nobody in the area, except the assayer and the federal marshals.
The man looked familiar, somehow. He was dressed as a cowboy, and looked the part, but … Wait! A few weeks ago, in another part of the state … In a saloon … This was the quiet young Indian who was with the fun-loving Irishmen, joking about the war and the Kaiser.
“John Buffalo?” the young man asked aloud.
At the same time, he was using hand signs. The palm forward sign of friendly greeting, followed quickly by I am here to help you.
Still puzzled, John nodded and signed It is good.
The visitor smiled, and spoke now in English.
“Good. You know hand signs.”
“Out of practice, maybe. Who are you?”
“My name is George Shakespear. I saw you in Thermopolis at the Happy Jack. I was made to think that you were troubled.”
“More trouble now.” John gestured at the walls and bars.
“That is true.”
“Are you a medicine man?”
“No, no. I do a little medicine, is all. I work as a cowboy.”
“You are Lakota?”
“No … ’Rapaho. You are Lakota?”
“Yes. I was, anyway. I went to Indian schools.”
“Me, too. That’s how I got to be George Shakespear. My brother is William.”
“Of course.” John smiled for the first time in months. “But, what are you doing here?”
“I heard they were holding an Indian who had salted a mine. I thought it might be the same … Same as the troubled one in Thermopolis. So I came over to see.”
John stared. “You do have a powerful guide.”
George Shakespear merely shrugged, and went on.
“I have a friend who can help you. A white man … McCoy.”
“The big man telling jokes?”
“No, that’s Irish Tom. Tim McCoy is small but tough. He was there, but let me go on. He is recruiting … Building a war party of cavalry, a Rough Riders outfit to go to Germany. Theodore Roosevelt is sponsoring it.”
“I read about that in the Denver Post, didn’t I?”
“Maybe so. Anyway, he needs cowboys. I am made to think that you know horses, no?”
John nodded. “Some.”
“Okay … Would you talk to McCoy? With his influence … He has a telegram from Roosevelt … . They might let you off on this if you’d sign on for the Rough Riders. No promises …”
“Why not? It beats sittin’ here.”
“Okay. I think I can get McCoy to come over.”
“Is he a cowboy, too?”
“Yes. He has a homestead, a few cattle. Hires out to other ranches, too, sometimes.”
“Why would he help me?”
“He might not, but I’d guess he will. His Arapaho name is ‘The Friend.’”
“He’s a half-breed?”
“No, he’s just a white man who understands. He’s all Irish, I guess, but he’s all ’Rapaho, too.The old men talk to him.”
That, perhaps, was the most significant fact of all. A white man with whom the tribal elders consult must be very special.
“He speaks Arapaho?” asked John.
George Shakespear laughed.
“No,” he answered. “He does it all in hand signs.”
Tim McCoy, “The Friend,” showed up at the jail two days later. He explained the recruitment effort, which was going well. Already, he had enlisted more than 300 potential cavalrymen, with his goal 400.
“I think that your signing as volunteer would impress the marshals,” McCoy told him. “No promises, of course. What’s your riding experience?”
“Been at the Hundred and One Ranch a few years,” said John. “Traveled with the show. We were in Germany when the war broke out.”
“You were?”
“Yes … We had about sixty Oglalas with a circus over there.”
“Heard about that! That was you? Buffalo, we need you.”
John signed the enlistment roster, and sat back to wait.
It didn’t take long. Apparently, McCoy was skilled in the use of documents. A personal telegram from Theodore Roosevelt, authorizing the recruitment effort, seemed to carry a lot of weight with federal marshals. The jail door swung open.
In a matter of days, John Buffalo was working as a cowboy on a ranch in Wyoming, preparing to be mustered in with 400 other Rough Riders. When the call came to meet the Kaiser on his own ground, the Rough Riders would be ready.