Once his cache was recovered, Tom rode south to strike the Yellowstone. A light snow had covered the ground before petering out sometime before the sun rose to midday. He let Billy set an easy pace, leading the string of three extra horses with his belongings. Even though it was the middle of winter, he was in no particular hurry. The weather was none too severe and, upon studying the sky to the north and west, he didn’t expect it to change much within the next few days. There was a concern, as there always was, that he might be caught out in the open by a band of Blackfeet or Crows. But Tom felt he could give a sizable raiding party more than they wanted when it came to firepower. He had his Sharps plus two repeating rifles, and as long as there weren’t too many hostiles, or he wasn’t surprised by them, he could hold his own. Even against a large band, he could make the cost of his scalp too dear. With the demise of the late Mr. Cobb, his main worry that a bounty hunter might be stalking him, was erased, bringing instead a feeling almost approaching cheerfulness.
He had not made up his mind where he was heading, beyond striking the Yellowstone and following it west. He still had no love for wintering in the wilderness alone. Maybe Bozeman would be far enough away from Fort Lincoln and the army. He could wait out the cold weather there, perhaps. He could afford to pay for lodging, thanks to the generosity of the late Mr. Cobb. When he searched Cobb’s pack that morning, he had found a pouch of gold dollars inside the lining of a huge buffalo coat. Seeing that Cobb would have no further use for the money, he decided he could put it to good use. In all likelihood, Cobb had probably come by the money by tracking down unfortunate fugitives like Tom. This thought caused him to consider another potential problem. Cobb had identified him by his horse. He wondered if it was general knowledge now that he rode a blue roan named Billy. He might be wise to swap Billy for another horse, although he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He and Billy had been together for a long time. They were partners, and they were comfortable with each other. Tom even forgave him for letting the Blackfoot run off with him. “But, if you let it happen again,” he lectured the horse, “I’ll let him keep you. See how you’d like being an Indian’s pony. He’d ride you till you dropped, then he’d eat you.”
Early the next afternoon, he struck the Yellowstone and almost rode right into a raiding party of about twenty Blackfeet. They were camped on the banks of the river and were grazing a large number of horses, so he figured they were returning from a raiding party on the Nez Perces or Flatheads. He was lucky he spotted them before they were aware of his presence but he was forced to lie low behind a low ridge and wait them out. The country was too open to circle around them without being discovered. He would have to take a wide detour to avoid them. He elected to wait until darkness when he felt it safe to continue. It struck him as being a little far south to run into a party of Blackfeet this time of year. If it had been summer, he would not have been surprised. But times were hard for all Indians these days, what with the army punishing all those not on reservations, and the buffalo damn near killed off. Maybe it was not so surprising that raiding parties were traveling a good way out of their usual territories.
Under the cover of darkness, he was able to continue west. His foremost intention was to leave the raiding party as far behind as possible, so he rode on through the night, not stopping until the first rays of light began to fill the valleys. It was unlikely the raiding party would be on the same trail he was riding, but he had learned from Squint Peterson that you never figure an Indian to do what he’s supposed to do, because that’s when he doesn’t. He continued on until he crossed a high ridge that afforded a sweeping view of the country around him. Looking back the way he had come, he could see no sign of anything moving. Good, he thought, I’m alone, the only man left on earth it seems. All around him for as far as he could see, the land was empty. There was no game in sight, not even sign to indicate game had ever been there. For a fleeting moment, he could not suppress a feeling of melancholy, as if he and his horses were the only living things left on earth. High overhead, thin clouds began to form high up in the morning sky, and the sun, after a brief appearance, disappeared behind a dark bank of heavier clouds that were now rolling in from the northwest. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since he first saw sunlight that morning, and it looked likely to drop further. He had to admit to himself that he had guessed wrong on the weather. The turn in the weather added to his sense of loneliness, and he urged Billy to get moving again. It seemed that all other living things had sensed the spell of bad weather coming, and that was the reason the land was devoid of any signs of life. The animals and the birds were holed up somewhere out of the oncoming storm. Only the foolish man and his horses were out in the open. Something told him he had better find some cover for himself and his horses.
Even though it was not yet noon, the sky darkened steadily until it might as well have been evening. The wind picked up slightly, as the temperature continued to drop. He urged Billy on, scouting the river banks for a likely spot, under a bluff possibly, to take shelter from the storm that he now knew was coming. The first scattered snow flakes began to drift down, acknowledged by a snort from Billy, as if he meant to call it to Tom’s attention. As he pressed on, the snowfall increased in strength until it became more difficult to see in front of him, making the hills vague and misty, hidden behind a filmy curtain of white. He rode on for another hour. By then, snow was accumulating on the ground. He had no idea how far he was from Bozeman, and he could only hope that the storm would not last long. This much he did know—he had to make a camp, and soon, for with the wind increasing steadily now, it showed signs of turning into a blizzard. Off to his right, away from the river, Tom spied a wide gulch, lined with trees. It appeared to narrow as it deepened toward the far end. This was where he decided to make his camp.
He followed the gulch until it came to a point with evergreens forming a buffer around the sides and end. It would have been difficult to find a better choice of campsites if he had all day to look. The trees offered protection for his horses, and it would be a simple matter to fashion a makeshift shelter for himself. The snowfall was heavy by then and accumulating rapidly, so he wasted little time in preparing his camp. With his hand axe, he chopped four of the taller pines high up on their trunks so the stumps would be tall enough to provide him a high roof support. He took care to fell the trees inward toward each other so that, when they laid across each other, their tops supported by the narrow walls of the gulch, they provided a sturdy structure for his roof. Next he cut small trees and laid them across the larger ones. Cobb’s huge buffalo coat provided the insulation necessary to keep melting snow from dripping on his head. He spread it over the large trees before covering his roof with the smaller branches.
His shelter ready, he gathered deadwood to get a fire started. He had no way of knowing how long he would be forced to use his shelter. It might stop snowing and clear up in an hour, but on the other hand, he might be snowed in for days. If that turned out to be the case, he wanted to make a solid shelter while he still had time to work on it. He had jerky and fire and plenty of snow for water. The only thing that worried him was the lack of food for the horses. There was nothing he could do about that now. He would just have to wait it out and do what he could to keep himself alive. At least they were out of the wind, and the trees should help keep them from freezing to death. About a half a foot of snow had accumulated on the floor of the gulch by the time he had a good fire started and settled himself in for the night.
He was awakened once in the middle of the night by a sharp cracking sound when a pine limb broke under the shifting of his roof. He went outside to check on it. There were probably six or seven additional inches of snow piled on top of his shelter, but the structure seemed to be holding up. The air outside his camp was bitter cold, and it stung his skin wherever it was exposed. The frigid air hurt his lungs, causing him to hold the side of his buffalo hood over his mouth in an effort to breathe. He checked on the horses, huddled together in the small stand of evergreens, their breath falling like smoke from their nostrils. He hoped the storm didn’t last too long—they wouldn’t make it if he couldn’t find food for them in a day or so.
Morning broke gray and cold with the snow still falling, although not as heavily as the night before. Tom stirred his fire and soon had it blazing again. The sap snapping in the green branches gave off an angry protest against the freezing air. His firewood would soon be depleted. He would have to gather more. He estimated the snowfall to be approximately a foot and a half to two feet, and, while it was still coming down, it had definitely slackened. If it didn’t last too much longer, he might still continue his journey, and, from the looks of the western sky at that moment, it looked promising that it might stop. While that thought gave him encouragement, he discovered that all had not gone well through the night. Upon checking the horses, he found that Cobb’s packhorse had frozen to death during the night. Billy and his packhorse, along with Cobb’s saddle horse with the three white stockings, had survived the cold. White Stockings stamped impatiently when Tom approached them. Billy knickered softly, and his eyes seemed to question his master. Tom looked at the horse, then looked up to study the gray morning sky, straining to find some encouraging sign.
Luck was with him. The snow stopped about midmorning, and the sky, although still overcast, brightened perceptibly. Tom studied the sky and tried to make a decision. He desperately needed to get the horses moving, but he did not want to get caught out in the open if more snow was on the way. He estimated a total of about two to two and a half feet of snow. That much snow didn’t worry him. Travel would be slow but not impossible. Still, he worried over his decision. After another hour, patches of pale blue began to break through the cloud coverage. When, after an additional half hour, a single beam of sunlight bored a hole through the gray overhead and focused on the snow in front of his shelter, Tom took that as a sign and his decision was made.
The horses were anxious to move. He picked over the supplies and the few plews that the dead horse had carried, loaded them on White Stockings, and left the rest. By the time he led the horses back to the mouth of the gulch, the sun had broken through in a few more spots. He was relieved to find that the snow in his gulch had drifted a little higher than that in the open, and the going was even better than he anticipated. Still, it was bitterly cold and his horses needed feed. Once again he made his way back to the river and followed it west. It was close to midday when he crossed a wide coulee with a narrow stream that was frozen over. Where the stream emptied into the river there was a heavy stand of willows and cottonwoods, so he stopped and stripped enough bark to feed his three hungry horses.
* * *
For the next two days the weather held, and he was able to make reasonable progress. He occasionally crossed ravines where the snow had drifted to a depth that almost reached Billy’s belly, and the horses had to struggle to keep from foundering. But for most of the way, the going was not as tough as he had feared it might be. Cobb’s horse, Buster, as Tom had officially dubbed him now, proved to be a strong animal, and Tom shifted some of the load from his own packhorse over to him when the smaller horse showed signs of struggling.
On the afternoon of the second day, Tom crossed the trail of a large party of hostiles. By the tracks of their unshod ponies, he knew they were Indians, and from the look of it there were no women or children with them. That meant only one of two possibilities: a raiding party or a hunting party. Whichever it was, he wanted to avoid them. They had crossed the river and turned west, the direction in which he was traveling. It was his guess they had crossed early that morning, so he decided to follow their trail for a while. They were going in the same direction, and it wouldn’t hurt to mix his hoofprints in with theirs. He cautioned himself to keep a sharp eye out. He was pretty sure they were half a day ahead of him, but it wouldn’t do for him to accidentally ride up on a party of what he estimated to be about twenty braves.
He followed the Indians’ trail for about seven or eight miles before it abruptly left the river and turned north, an occurrence that greatly relieved his mind. His relief did not last long, however, for he had not ridden more than a mile farther when he heard shots.
He pulled Billy up sharply and stopped to listen, trying to locate the direction they had come from. His first thought was to see if he was in danger. Quickly scanning the horizon on all sides, and expecting to see a horde of savages charging down on him, he saw nothing but the white empty land. He did not have to wait long before hearing more shots, three in rapid succession. They were then followed by sounds of a volley, and then sporadic firing. There could be little doubt that someone was in a pitched battle. Evidently, the raiding party he had been following had found what they were looking for. He hesitated for only a split second, then turned Billy in the direction of the shooting.
Finally, only one hill separated Tom from the battle. As he came closer to the fight, he looked around for a place to leave Billy and the packhorse. He also didn’t want to top the rise and find himself silhouetted against the sky. From the sound of the gunfire, the fight had to be just beyond the hill. Off to his left, a gully cut into the hillside, deep enough to picket the horses out of sight. That taken care of, he rode up the rise, stopping to leave Billy just below the crest. He crawled to the top and lay on his belly, his Winchester ready.
Below him, a brisk battle was in progress. He watched for a few minutes to get a full picture of the situation before deciding what he should do, or even if he should do anything at all. As he suspected, it was the band of hostiles whose trail he had followed. From his position, maybe a quarter of a mile or less from the action, he could see that his original estimate proved to be correct—they appeared to be about twenty strong. A steeply banked streambed ran through the center of the small valley, and the Indians were using it for cover to fire on a party of whites—traders or trappers, he couldn’t tell. There were no wagons, only mules and horses, and they were corralled in the center of a makeshift fort. Tom tried to count the smoke from the guns as they returned fire from behind a flimsy breastwork of willows. It appeared that the numbers were fairly even with about as many rifles on one side as the other. Tom studied the terrain and picked his spot. If he could make his way down along the edge of the hill, he could pick up the cover of a line of trees on the creek’s bank. From there, he could work his way up to within about a hundred yards behind the hostiles. From that position, he figured he could raise a lot of hell with his Winchester, as their backs would be exposed to his fire.
It took about fifteen minutes to work his way down to the position he sought. On foot, he led Billy along the back slope of the ridge until he reached the safety of the cottonwoods. From there he followed the frozen creek to a point where he picketed his horse well out of sight of the battle. He was close enough to identify the raiding party as Blackfeet. They were well armed, and from the cover of the steep bank, they controlled the battle. On his belly, Tom inched his way up to a log that lay along the creek. He situated himself there with his rifle and Cobb’s repeating rifle. From his position behind the log, he had a clear field of fire out across the flat streambed where the smaller creek flowed into the stream the Blackfeet were using for cover. A real turkey shoot, he thought, as he cocked his Winchester and sighted down on the rearmost hostile.
In rapid succession, he went down the line of Blackfeet. Each time he squeezed the trigger, an Indian crumpled and slid down the creekbank. He took out four of the raiders before they figured out what was happening. When they finally realized that their brothers were not getting hit by rifle fire from the breastwork before them, they scurried around trying to find cover, not yet aware of the origin of the attack. Tom dropped two more of their number before they pinpointed his fire and scrambled to find protection behind the opposite creekbank. No longer with a clear shot, Tom continued to keep the Blackfeet pinned down behind the bank until he emptied his rifle. At that point, all firing ceased and a deathly silence fell over the little valley. While watching the creek, Tom calmly reloaded his Winchester, waiting for the attack that he figured would come. He didn’t have to wait but a few seconds. The Blackfeet were sure now that there was just one man behind them. Figuring that he was reloading, they decided to rush him, and suddenly, with a blood-chilling war cry, three warriors leaped to their feet and charged him. Tom lifted Cobb’s rifle and took careful aim. If he was of a mind to discourage their attack, he would have sighted on the warrior in front, so that the other two would see him fall and possibly turn back. But his intention was to reduce the number of the enemy by killing as many as he could. Consequently, he drew down on the rearmost man and squeezed the trigger. He missed, the bullet clipping a branch to the right of the man. Without hesitating, he resighted, allowing for the pull to the right, and watched the rear Blackfoot tumble as he pulled the trigger. With little loss of motion, he drew down on the second warrior and fired, hitting him square in the middle of the chest. The third warrior, unaware that he was now the lone survivor of the three, was within twenty yards of the log. Running full out, he fired his rifle at the gun barrel he could now plainly see. Tom took his time, ignoring the splinters that flew up when the warrior’s bullet thumped into the log, sighted carefully, and placed his shot between the Indian’s eyes. Though he was killed instantly, the Blackfoot continued to charge forward until he fell in a heap over the log Tom was lying behind.
The result of Tom’s assault was general confusion among the rest of the Blackfeet. In less than a quarter of an hour, they had lost nine warriors and found themselves caught in a crossfire. Encouraged by the confusion of their attackers, a couple of the men came out from behind the flimsy breastworks and were now firing at the Blackfeet from above them on the creek’s bank. Totally demoralized, the Indians withdrew, carrying as many of their dead as they could manage to recover. Satisfied that there would be no more trouble from this band, Tom held his fire while a Blackfoot brave risked his life to pick up a fallen comrade and made his way back to their ponies. He stood silently watching as the band of raiders mounted in haste and rode out of the valley.
* * *
“God’s bones!” Scarborough swore. He stood on the bank of the stream, cold and still now where moments earlier it had crackled hot with flying lead. “Look at ’em run!” He turned to the man at his side, who was busily reloading his rifle. “I swear, John, they was dead Injuns all over this here crick. I ain’t never seed sich shooting.” Both men were straining to get a look at their rescuer. As they stood staring out toward the point on the creek where the rifle fire came from, they were soon joined by several others, now that the danger appeared to be over.
One of the party said, “Yonder he is,” as Tom stood up from behind the log he had used for cover.
John asked, “You know him, Scarborough? I cain’t make him out.”
“I don’t ‘low as how I’ve ever seed him before, but I’ll tell you this, he’s shore as hell a dear friend of mine now.” Noticing that Tom was now raising his arm in greeting, he called out, “Welcome, friend. Come on in!”
The men watched as Tom acknowledged their welcome with a wave of his arm, then turned away and disappeared into the trees. “Hell,” Scarborough exclaimed, “he ain’t coming in.” But then Tom reappeared on horseback, starting across the stream.
“He just had to get his horse,” John voiced the obvious. They stood in silence, watching the stranger ford the stream and climb up the bank. “He shore looks familiar somehow,” he said, his voice trailing off as he studied the approaching rider. There was a moment of silence, and then he remembered. “Damn a mule, Scarborough! You know who that is?” He didn’t wait for his friend’s response. “That’s that Dakota feller…kilt that soldier in Miles City!”
“You shore?” Scarborough replied, his voice low now that the rider was almost in hearing distance.
“Shore as boars got nuts and sows ain’t. Look at ’em! We seen him in the saloon the night before he done it. You remember. You warn’t that drunk. It’s him, I tell ya. Ain’t no surprise he’s mighty handy with that rifle.”
“Danged if I don’t believe you’re right. It’s him all right.” Scarborough quickly thought this revelation over, wondering if the identity of the man posed any threat to his pack train. There was very little he could do about it at that point, so he decided that it was not for him to question. It wasn’t any of his affair, the thing that happened between Dakota and the soldier. Maybe Dakota had little choice in the matter—only Dakota could answer that one. But one thing Scarborough knew for a fact—the man had saved their bacon on this day and for that he was obliged. “Mister,” he called out, “you shore come along at a proper time!”
Tom reined up and dismounted. “Looked like they had you pinned down. Just lucky I heard the shooting, I guess.”
“I’m James Scarborough. This here is John Butcher. We’re leading this party of folks to Bozeman.” He gestured toward the small group of men gathering to see the man who had driven off the savages.
John Butcher stepped forward and extended his hand. “Dakota, ain’t it? You shore tied a knot in them Injuns’ string.”
Tom was startled, surprised that the man knew who he was. He had not expected it, and in fact, had not even considered it. Tom managed to conceal his concern for having been recognized. He took John Butcher’s outstretched hand and shook it briefly, a nod of his head the only reply to the greeting.
Scarborough stepped forward and offered his own hand, which Tom accepted. “Well, Mr. Dakota, come on over to the fire and we’ll see if one of the women-folk can rustle you up somethin’ to eat. You done a day’s work out there. You could most likely use somethin’, couldn’t you?” He led the way toward the willow fort.
“I would appreciate a cup of coffee, if you have any to spare,” Tom replied, following him.
The group of men parted to make way for him. A small, slightly built man standing to one side of the group had been studying the stranger very carefully. As he watched the tall young man in the buckskins and buffalo coat pass within a few feet of him, he suddenly asked, “Tom? Tom Allred?”
Tom halted in his tracks. He turned to face the man. At once he recognized the little man. “Jubal!” he exclaimed. His reaction brought a broad smile to the little man’s face. “What in the world are you doing out here?” He hurried to grab Jubal’s outstretched hand, and the two men pounded each other vigorously on the back. The unexpected reunion left the rest of the men staring in wonder, waiting for the two of them to finish their greeting and get on with the explanation.
Jubal Clay took Tom by the arm and quickly told him how he happened to be in a mule pack train headed to Bozeman instead of running his store back in Ruby’s Choice. “The town petered out,” he explained. “We might’a stayed anyway, but we was visited one night by a band of Sioux, and they decided it would be a good idea to burn the store down. We saved what we could. Then Scarborough and this bunch come by, and we figured, hell, we might as well go with ’em.”
“This is a helluva time of year for a train to be traveling through this country, even if you don’t have wagons. How come you’re camped over here anyway? You’re a’ways off the trail to Bozeman, aren’t you?”
Jubal shrugged. “It was Scarborough’s idea. After that storm hit a couple days back, we was afraid we was in for it, and he knew about this place. Said it was a better place to hole up if we were gonna be snowed in for any time. But, hell, the storm let up and quit after a day. We’re fixin’ to get started again in the mornin’.” He paused to give Tom a huge grin. “I know somebody’s gonna be surprised to see you.”
Tom felt a tingling sensation run down the length of his spine. He tried not to reveal the excitement he felt at the thought of seeing her again. As casually as he could manage, he asked, “You mean nobody’s married Ruby yet?”
“Nope. It ain’t like she ain’t had plenty of chances.”
Suddenly Tom went all numb inside, a feeling that was hard for him to understand. His heart had nearly skipped a beat with the mention of her name. He could now feel his pulse quicken in anticipation of seeing Jubal’s daughter again, but he sought to delay the encounter, at least until he could prepare his emotions. It had been almost a year since he last saw her, though it seemed longer. Still, he had made a considerable effort to banish her from his thoughts, and now the mere mention of her name proved that he had been unsuccessful.
“Wait,” he said, “I’ve got to fetch my packhorses. I left them back on the other side of the hill.” He stepped up in the saddle and turned Billy back toward the stream.
Jubal stepped out of his way. “You need some help fetchin’ ’em?”
“No, no thanks. I’ll be right back.”
“Hurry up then. I’ll have Ruby make us some coffee.”
* * *
From inside the makeshift fort, she had watched with more than a casual interest as the men talked to the stranger who had come to their aid. He had come at an opportune time, for it had appeared that the savages would be able to pin them down indefinitely. From this distance she could not see the man very well, but there was a feeling deep inside her that she could not explain, an urgency mixed with a feeling of coming home, as if everything would now be all right. When he mounted his horse and turned away, she felt a sinking in her bosom, feeling despair that he was leaving. She continued to stare at the point in the trees where she last saw him as she absentmindedly reached up and pulled the fur cap from her head making an effort to straighten her tousled hair. She glanced down at her hands, soiled with grease from loading and reloading rifles for her father during the attack. Walking away from the fire, she picked up some snow and cleaned her hands. It was obvious that her father knew the man—she could tell that by the way they greeted each other. So she went about making the coffee before Jubal returned to their campfire. She only paused to watch her father when he came striding back, a grin covering his face.
“Ruby!” he called out cheerfully. “Looks like we got some company for supper.”
“That so?” A feeling of excitement was building up inside her, but she would never show it. Instead, she appeared to be disinterested as she busied herself with preparing their meal. Finally she paused and looked at her father, who was still grinning as if he held a powerful secret. “Well, are you gonna tell me who it is?”
“I reckon you’ll know him when you see him.”
It was obvious her father was enjoying the surprise, so much so that she was now certain why she had felt this excitement. Although she had never voiced it, Jubal was smart enough to know there was a marked change in his daughter when Tom Allred rode out of Ruby’s Choice a year ago this spring It was him! She was sure of it now. She knew he would come back. He had to because she had known for some time now that Tom Allred was the only man she could marry.
When the coffee was on and a pot of boiled venison was set on the coals to warm, she brushed her hair and pinched her cheeks lightly in an effort to bring some color to them. It’ll have to do, she thought. In this rough camp, there was little opportunity for primping.
Outside again, she glanced briefly at the pot, then stood by the fire and watched Tom approach the camp, leading two horses. He had taken off his heavy buffalo coat and laid it across the saddle. Clad in buckskins and high-laced moccasins, he looked more like a mountain man than when she had last seen him. When they said good-bye at the stream that day, he was still wearing army issue trousers and boots. He looked thinner than she remembered, and his face was covered with what looked to be a week’s growth of whiskers. Still, the sight of his tall figure striding through the camp was enough to quicken her heartbeat. She felt a strong desire to run to greet him, but she restrained herself. She had her pride, even though she had once cast it aside to offer herself to him. But having done it once, she would not permit her feelings to be openly displayed again. He knew how she felt. It was his place to make the next move, if there was to be a next move for them. She stood silently, her face expressionless, waiting for him to speak.
“Hello, Ruby,” was all he said—a simple greeting, nothing more. He hoped she could not read the confusion in his eyes, for he couldn’t explain the emotions she caused. He truly did not know what his real feelings were for this girl. He felt clumsy in her presence, and while he was around her, he seemed always aware of how he stood and what his hands and feet were doing. No other human being had affected him this way. Did this mean he was in love with the girl? He honestly did not know. One thing for certain, she sure as hell bothered his mind.
“Tom,” she returned simply.
They stood looking at each other, both feeling the awkwardness of the moment, not knowing what to say. All at once, they both blushed and laughed nervously like two children caught in some mischief. Ruby was first to see the humor in the situation and regain her composure. “Well,” she said, “it seems like every time you show up, you’re about starved to death and I have to feed you.”
He laughed. “I reckon that’s right. I seem to recollect I was pretty hungry when I showed up in Ruby’s Choice that first time.” He looked directly into her eyes. “It’s good to see you, Ruby.”
She returned his gaze, unblinking. “It’s good to see you, too, Tom.”
Just then, Jubal appeared from behind the tent. “I see you got your horses. If you want to, you can hobble ’em by the tent or you can turn ’em out with the rest of the horses.”
“I reckon I’ll turn ’em out with the rest of the horses,” Tom replied. He added, “I wondered where you disappeared to.”
Jubal grinned. “I thought I’d let you say hello to Ruby. I had to attend to some business out in the bushes. I was about to do it when them damn Injuns jumped us. My bowels was tied up in knots by the time you come along.”
Ruby blushed. “I swear, Pa, everybody don’t want to hear about your business.”
Tom laughed. “I’ll go take care of my horses.”
* * *
After they had eaten the meat and some panbread Ruby had mixed up, they sat in front of the fire and talked. Jubal wanted to know why Scarborough and Butcher had called him Dakota, so Tom explained the series of events that had brought about the alias. He had not purposely taken on the name, he explained. He had simply refrained from giving his real name. The owner of the stable in Miles City, Pop Turley, had christened him Dakota, so Tom let it go at that. Jubal told him the army had sent a special detail of soldiers to look for him in Ruby’s Choice, just as Tom had anticipated. He had been right to run, because the story the army had of the shooting in Jubal’s store was a long sight from the truth. And, Jubal added, the lieutenant in charge of the detail had no interest in hearing the real story either.
“That sergeant was with ’em, too,” Jubal continued, glancing at his daughter when he said it.
“Spanner?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, Spanner. You shoulda seen that son of a bitch lying his no-good self outta assaultin’ Ruby. You’da thought it was the other way around, to hear him tell it. I started to get my shotgun and dust his sorry ass right there.” He snorted and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I would’ve, too, if he hadn’t had so many soldiers with him.”
There was a swollen moment of silence before Tom spoke again. He picked up a half-burned stick and poked around in the ashes with it for a few moments before tossing it back in the flames. “I guess Dakota dusted Spanner for you. That’s the reason I had to leave Miles City.”
“I know,” Jubal replied. “John Butcher told me you done him in.”
“I didn’t have a whole lot of choice. He was aiming to kill me. If I’d had a choice, I would have run, but he jumped me in the stable, and there was no way out but through him.”
“John told me about it when you went to fetch your horses. Him and Scarborough was in Miles City at the time. The way they told it, you damn near cut him in two with your rifle. Anyway, I reckon you know the army’s put a price on your head.”
“I know.” He glanced quickly in Ruby’s direction, but she was staring into the fire, listening intently to their conversation. Tom wished he could know what she was thinking.
Jubal studied his young friend’s face for a long moment, then said, “Tom, I don’t know if it’s bothering your mind any, but you don’t have to worry about any of these men trying to collect any rewards.” He paused a moment longer. “Fact is, don’t nobody but Scarborough and Butcher know you’re that Dakota feller, and they ain’t gonna say nuthin’ about it. These people we’re traveling with were heading west in a wagon train when a bunch of Sioux jumped ’em—burned their wagons and most of their belongings. They’re already scared half to death. It wouldn’t help none for them to know they got a wanted gunman campin’ with ’em.” He snorted and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve once more. “Matter of fact, after the way you run them Injuns off today, they might want to make you captain of the train.”
Tom didn’t say anything for a while. He sat there staring into the glowing coals, the realization of what had become his life having just been hammered home in the simple, innocent words of his friend. “Wanted gunman” was what Jubal called him. Of course he knew he was wanted. But “gunman”? Was that what he was? A gunman? When he thought about it, he could find no reason folks would think any differently. It was just that he had never thought of himself as anything but a man defending himself. No need to fret about it now, he thought. “I appreciate it, Jubal. I guess most folks wouldn’t welcome a wanted man at their campfire.”
“Hellfire, Tom. I know you ain’t no outlaw. I was there when you shot that there soldier in my store. I know you didn’t have no choice. ’Course I warn’t there when you got Spanner, but I know you done what you had to. Besides, that was one man that needed killin’.”
They talked on until long after dark. Tom told them about his summer and fall running cattle and how he had almost become a partner with Eli Cruze. Ruby listened to the two men talk, only adding a word here and there, not really participating in the conversation, just listening. More than once during the course of the evening, Tom and Ruby’s glances found each other. He still did not know what to make of his feelings toward her. Her presence made him nervous, yet he did not want her to leave. Ruby, for her part, had made a decision. She loved him, of that she was certain, but she decided it was up to him to take the next step. Finally, Jubal announced that it was time to turn in.
“We can make room for you if you want to sleep in the tent,” he offered.
“Thanks, Jubal, but I think I’ll just roll up by the fire.” He got up and stretched his back. Taking his rifle, he said, “I think I’ll go take a look around before I turn in.”
“Mind you don’t git shot at by the lookouts.”
“I’ll watch out.” Tom assured him. He knew Scarborough had sentries posted to guard against any surprise visits from the Blackfeet, but he preferred to have his own look-see. No use taking chances. Scarborough’s men might be dependable, and Scarborough might know what he was doing, but the man had camped his party in a coulee where the Indians could just line up along a creekbank and take potshots at them. And that didn’t indicate a man who knew what he was doing, as far as Tom was concerned. He turned to glance at Ruby and found the girl gazing intently at him. Their eyes held for a brief moment before Tom mumbled good night, then turned to disappear into the growing darkness.