Ride the High Range

It struck Jim as ironic that he was now riding Henry Butcher′s horse, for he had always admired the buckskin for its strength and stamina, often putting his faithful old sorrel to shame when it came to long marches or difficult terrain. Butcher had often bragged about the buckskin, saying it had better bones and harder feet than other breeds. Accustomed to a cruel master, the horse seemed a bit nervous at first, as if unsure of what his new master required. Jim felt pleased for the horse, knowing that he would now be treated a great deal better than he had been in the past. It didn’t take long for the horse to realize it, and the two of them developed a partnership by the time Johnny picked a place to camp just before sunup.

Jim tried to help out as best he could with one hand, but about the most he could do was gather wood for the fire and water the horses. After that, he was reduced to sitting down and watching his rescuer go about cooking some breakfast for the two of them. He could not help being fascinated by the mysterious little man, dressed in animal skins as he fried up bacon and beans. When they had finished eating, and Johnny drained the last of the coffee, he was ready to examine the wound.

“It’s swelled up a-plenty,” Johnny decided as he peered at the hole in Jim’s shoulder. “I expect it’s sore as hell.” Jim confirmed that and added that it was stiff as a board as well. “I reckon I’d best dig that bullet outta there, or it ain’t never gonna get well.”

Johnny laughed. “First off, quit callin’ me mister. My name’s Johnny Hawk, and to answer your question, I done told you why back there in the smokehouse. You just looked like you could use a hand. And it ’peared like I was the only one back there that believed you wasn’t leadin’ that gang of outlaws. Now let’s see if we can’t get that bullet outta your shoulder, ’cause I think you’ll feel a whole helluva lot better without it.” He started to sterilize his knife in the fire, but paused to ask, “What was your name, again?” He had already forgotten.

The operation didn’t take long because Johnny went after the bullet with a vengeance, figuring that it was better to get the pain over with as soon as possible. Luckily, it was not as deep as he had anticipated, but it would soon have begun to infect the tissue had he waited much longer. “I’ve knowed men to walk around all their lives with a chunk of lead in ’em,” he said, “and no bother at all. This’un looks like it wants to fester the muscle around it. It’s a good thing we’re diggin’ it outta there.” Throughout the procedure, the boy never made a sound, except for an involuntary grunt when the bullet was removed and Johnny cauterized the wound. The pain he experienced, however, was evident by the expression on his face. Johnny was impressed. “You’re a helluva man, Jim Moran, ’cause I know that hurt like a son of a bitch. But you oughta start feelin’ better pretty soon.”

Now that the initial pain from Johnny Hawk’s none-too-gentle surgery was over, Jim was left with an aching in his shoulder, accompanied by the stinging of the cauterization. His discomfort must have been evident in his eyes, because Johnny suggested that they could both use a couple of hours’ sleep before climbing back in the saddle. Jim was grateful for the suggestion.

While Jim was undergoing Johnny Hawk’s crude medical procedure, some fifteen miles behind them Lieutenant Carrington was scratching his head over the mystery of the missing prisoner. A few minutes earlier, he had sent Corporal Ellis to get the prisoner. Now he and the corporal were questioning the guard about the whereabouts of the wounded young man. “The door was still locked when I went to get him,” Ellis said, “but he wasn’t in there. I looked around the sides, but there ain’t no sign of him diggin’ out under the wall, and he didn’t go out the top.”

Carrington just shook his head in disbelief. “When did you come on?” When the guard replied that it had been at four o’clock, Carrington asked, “Did you hear anything inside? Any noise that would let you know he was still in there?” The guard stated that all had been quiet, causing the lieutenant to curse and say, “So there’s no telling when he got out of there.”

Carrington sent for the other men who had pulled guard duty during the night. None could report hearing any sounds from inside the smokehouse, and all swore they had not fallen asleep on their tour. The lieutenant knew at least one of them was lying, but there was no way to prove it. And since the door was still locked that morning, someone had to have walked past a sleeping guard and released the prisoner. It was impossible to know how much head start the boy had without knowing what time he had escaped. As for the boy’s accomplice, the first name that came to mind was Johnny Hawk, since he had tried to speak on the boy’s behalf. Another possibility was Esther Thompson, or one of her sons, since they had shown compassion for the prisoner. Giving the issue some hard thought, he had to conclude that Hawk had already left before evening, and he doubted the grizzled old scout cared enough to risk freeing the prisoner. That left the woman, and he knew there was little he could do if she denied it. To add further irritation to a morning that had already caused him undue frustration, a trooper came to report that one of the captive horses was missing along with the body that had been on it, so that told him that the fugitive was not on foot and probably miles away by now. A short time later, the missing body of Henry Butcher was discovered in the trees by the river.

The decision to be made at this point was whether or not to try to go after the prisoner. I wish to hell Johnny Hawk had not left yesterday, he thought. I need him to track that boy. He thought it over for a long moment. His patrol was low on supplies, not prepared to extend the mission. And his objective had certainly been accomplished. He had effectively stopped the raiding by this band of bushwhackers and had the bodies to prove it; unfortunately one of the bodies was that of a soldier. Coming now to influence his decision, the weather was showing indications that the past few weeks of fair skies might be coming to an end. Clouds had been rolling in since early morning and he suspected they might soon see some snow. There was little value in questioning Esther Thompson, he decided. “To hell with it,” he said, and turned to Corporal Ellis. “Get the men mounted. We’re going back to Riley.” He couldn’t help wondering, however, when he saw Esther′s smiling face as she and her sons waved good-bye as the patrol passed out of the yard. In spite of his efforts to dismiss the incident in his mind, it would continue to plague his conscience.

Although he had not slept at all during the preceding night, Jim was still unable to get more than a few minutes of fitful sleep owing to the discomfort of his wound. As a consequence, he was feeling tired and sore when Johnny stirred from his blankets, ready to ride. Lieutenant Carrington had permitted Jim to take his own blanket and a few personal items from the carcass of his sorrel, which he was thankful for, since the weather was turning colder.

“We’ll run into some snow before noon,” Johnny predicted as he cast his blanket aside and replaced his .44 in its holster. When Jim seemed surprised to see he had slept with the revolver in his hand, he shrugged and commented, “Hell, I didn’t know how far I could trust you. You mighta had some ideas about goin’ on alone.”

As Johnny had predicted, a light snow began to fall as they left the river and angled more toward the northwest. By nightfall, there was a small accumulation of snow on the short grass plains when they reached a small stream bordered by a line of willow trees. “Don’t look like we’re gonna find anythin’ better before hard dark,” Johnny said. “Leastways we can pull some of these willows over to make us a shed.” After the horses were taken care of, he went to work bending several of the willows over and tying them together to make the framework. Next he unrolled a buffalo hide he carried on his packhorse and laid it over the willows to make a roof for his shed. In the meantime, Jim gathered enough sticks and branches to make a fire. Soon they were settled comfortably inside the makeshift hut enjoying a meal of boiled jerky, again courtesy of Johnny Hawk.

Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment while he studied the young man’s face. “Maybe you could,” he finally said, “but maybe we’d better wait till mornin’ and see how you saddle your horse with that lame shoulder.” Jim’s expression told him that he wasn’t confident in his ability to use the shoulder. “Say you do take off in the mornin’, where are you gonna go?”

Johnny continued to study his young companion. There was something about the boy that led Johnny to believe he was made of the right kind of iron, and he always fancied himself a good judge of character. After a moment, he spoke again. “Have you seen the Yellowstone? Or Big Timber? Three Forks? Or the Musselshell?”

Johnny extended his hand and they shook on it. “All right, Jim Moran . . .” He paused then. “I don’t know if they’ll still be lookin’ for you or not, but I’m sorry to say they know your name and they wanna hang you for the death of that soldier. So maybe you oughta use another name just to be safe, especially when we get to Fort Laramie. You think of any name you’d want?”

The necessity of a name change had not occurred to Jim. He thought it over for a few moments while Johnny patiently waited. There was his mother′s maiden name, but he wasn’t inclined to recall that unpleasant period of his life. His father′s middle name was Percy, so that was out. Finally he replied that he couldn’t think of any alias at the moment.

It took a full week, maintaining a steady northwest course over grasslands blanketed with a six-inch snowfall, before the gaunt buildings of North Platte appeared in the distance. Located at the confluence of the North Platte and the South Platte rivers, the town had only a few permanent structures but appeared to show a bustling population since the last time Johnny Hawk had ridden through. They soon found out the reason.

The change was not a welcome sight to Johnny, for he had planned to spend some time there to hunt buffalo and restock their food supply. With the railroad there, he could naturally expect a passel of buffalo hunters to feed the workers, and that meant the game was more than likely hard to find. “Damn,” he swore as he reined his horse up short to avoid running over a drunk who came staggering off the boardwalk in front of a saloon that hadn’t been there six months before. He peered down the short street, looking for the trading post where he had previously done business. It was still there, but now it had added a shed on the back. “Well, I reckon we can get some coffee beans and some salt. I swear, I’d like to have a little drink or two while we’ve got the chance.” Not waiting for Jim’s response, he stepped down from the saddle and led his horses up to the hitching rail.

Inside the canvas walls of the tiny saloon, they found about a dozen patrons at various stages of drunkenness from near sober to near unconsciousness, the most part of them obviously railroad workers. Near the end of the bar, a trio of men were sharing a bottle of rye whiskey, and based on their loud talk and laughter, they had probably consumed all the alcohol missing from the bottle. They seemed not to notice the short, stocky man and the tall gangly boy when they stepped up to the bar. “I’m partial to corn whiskey,” Johnny said, standing only a head above the level of the bar.

Jim tossed the fiery liquid back and set the empty glass on the bar. When Johnny did likewise, then motioned for a refill, Jim waved the bartender off. “One’s all I want,” he said. He had been drunk only once in his life, and he didn’t like the effect it had on his mind and body. As one who didn’t like not having complete control over his faculties and reflexes, he swore never to get drunk again.

Aware of the rough-hewn appearance of the crowd of men, Jim felt some concern for his and Johnny’s possessions outside on their horses. He had just gained the horse and an 1863 model Sharps carbine that had been converted to accept metal cartridges, and he wasn’t comfortable leaving them unguarded on the busy thoroughfare outside. “I think I’ll wait outside where I can keep an eye on the horses,” he told Johnny.

Sufficiently liquored up and looking for further entertainment, one of the three railroad men took notice of the stumpy little man at the bar. The sight was especially amusing to him, and he called his friends’ attention to what he figured would be a source of entertainment. They immediately responded with a howl of laughter. One of them, a large, heavy-built man with a drooping handlebar mustache, decided to take it further. “Hey, there, Shorty. Does your mama know you’re in here?” His remark brought the round of laughter he hoped for.

Oblivious of the three men until that moment, Johnny turned his head unhurriedly to face the heckler. Having been the object of like remarks all of his life because of his short stature, he chose to ignore it, wanting simply to enjoy his whiskey. His reaction served to only encourage Mustache to further entertain his companions. He moved over closer to Johnny. “All dressed up in your little Injun suit. You wanna box to stand on so you can see over the bar?”

The foolish grin disappeared immediately from Mustache’s face. “Why, you sawed-off little bastard,” he roared, and grabbed Johnny by the back of his collar. The saloon suddenly became dead silent, alerted to the possibility of a fight, most of them unconcerned about the discrepancy in size. Caught with no weapons but his fists, Johnny took a swing at his antagonist, but because of the length of his arms, was woefully short. This served to spark the laughter from the onlookers again. “Now I’m gonna teach you a lesson, Stumpy,” the bully said, and drew back his fist.

He jumped, startled, when Jim pulled the trigger and the rifle slug breezed by his face, ripping a hole in the canvas wall of the saloon. “Let him go,” Jim demanded as he quickly cranked another cartridge into the chamber and brought the rifle around to point more directly at the man’s chest.

“Whoa!” the bully yelled. “Wait a minute!” He quickly released Johnny’s collar and backed away, convinced that it was no time to bluff. One of his two companions let his hand drop slowly toward the revolver in his belt. A slight shift of Jim’s eyes brought his baleful gaze to focus on the man, enough to convince him it was not worth the gamble.

“Right,” Johnny replied, then stepped quickly up before his antagonist, staring him in the face for a moment before bringing his foot up sharply between the man’s legs. With Mustache bent over in pain, the two new partners backed cautiously out the door. They wasted no time jumping in the saddle and galloping away toward the trading post. “That went well,” Johnny said when he caught up to Jim’s buckskin. “With all the fuss, the bartender forgot to charge me for the whiskey.”

This would be the day Johnny would remember as the first indication that he had a partner who would always watch his back. After buying some supplies, they wasted no more time in North Platte, striking out for Fort Laramie, which Johnny figured was a good six days’ ride with the weather that had set in. Following the North Platte River along the trail countless immigrants had traveled on their way to Oregon, they were in the saddle three days when the weather cleared and the sun reappeared. Pushing on, they came upon a great swath trampled across their trail. “Buffalo,” Johnny pronounced, “and they crossed here not long ago.” Knowing they would not likely have a better opportunity for meat and hides, they immediately went in pursuit of the animals.

Jim was fascinated. He had never seen buffalo, and he was anxious to join the hunt. They followed the wide black swath in the snow for almost half a day before coming upon the rear animals in the herd. They had gathered in a low basin near the South Platte, and were milling about, snorting and pawing the snow for grass. Jim had been told before about the magnitude of the buffalo herds, but all he had heard was not sufficient to prepare him for the sight he was now seeing with his own eyes. All the way to the banks of the river, there was a wide sea of dark massive bodies, bobbing and pawing, like a black flood flowing toward the river.

Following Johnny’s lead, he guided the buckskin along a ridge that formed one side of the basin until they reached a point parallel with the middle of the herd. There they left the horses and prepared to descend the ridge on foot to get a little closer to their quarry. “Here,” Johnny instructed, and handed Jim a deerskin from his packhorse. “Put this over your shoulders. You’re gonna have to get a helluva lot closer to do any good with that carbine.”

“Nah,” Johnny drawled. “With that hide on your shoulders, they won’t think nothin’ about it. They’re used to havin’ wolves sniffin’ around the herd, lookin’ for a calf or a lame cow. With that weapon you’re usin’, you’re gonna need to shoot ’em right behind their front legs. Try to get a lung shot—might take two or three shots to bring one of ’em down.” Satisfied that Jim was all set, he then untied another deer hide from his packhorse and unrolled it to reveal his special buffalo rifle, a Remington Rolling Block .50/70, leaving his Henry in the saddle sling. “This boy’ll knock ’em down,” he said with a grin. “I’ve shot more’n a few with this here rifle.”

As Johnny had advised, Jim threw the deerskin over his shoulders, and hunched over as much as possible, he moved in closer to the edge of the herd. The beasts began moving away from him, so he wasted no time in selecting his targets. Picking two young cows closest to him, he quickly pumped two shots into each of them, behind the front leg as Johnny had instructed. Matching him, Johnny dropped two also, spending only one shot on each animal. “That’ll do,” Johnny crowed. “That’s as much meat and hides as we’ll be able to handle without no more packhorses. In fact, I ain’t sure but what we’ll have to waste some of it.”

“It takes more’n three or four dropping before the rest of ’em break into a run,” Johnny said. He turned and started back up the ridge to get the horses. “Let’s get to work skinnin’ and butcherin’. Ain’t no tellin’ who mighta heard them shots and we’re pretty much out in the open.”

“This carbine shoots a mite high,” Jim responded. “I didn’t have a chance to shoot it before, so I ain’t got used to it yet.” Johnny didn’t comment further, but he was thinking that if the two shots in each cow were any closer together, there would be but one hole.

Jim got a valuable lesson on the quickest and most efficient method of skinning a buffalo. The butchering was somewhat different than portioning a deer or an antelope, which Jim had done on many occasions, because of the size of the animal. But left alone, he would have butchered the animal the same way Johnny favored. After the hides were harvested and the best cuts of meat and the liver were packed, they left the rest to a pack of wolves that had already discovered their kill. “Everybody gets to eat,” Johnny proclaimed, satisfied that there would be no waste. “Now let’s get away from here. We’re gonna have to find us a good place to camp for a couple days so we can cut up this meat and smoke-cure it, and then we’ll have food for a good while.”

They headed back toward their original trail on the North Platte, where they selected a campsite by a creek where it flowed into the river forming a small island. There was ample coverage in the willows that ringed the island to conceal them from the view of any passersby. The successful hunt was celebrated by a feast of roasted meat while they cut most of their kill into strips to be cured over the fire as the sun dried the hides staked out on the ground. It was a good time for Jim. They ended up staying at the camp for almost a week.

“The same way an Injun gets one. We’ll steal it.” This captured Jim’s attention, and Johnny continued. “There’s a couple of different bands of Injuns between here and Fort Laramie, mostly Crow, but Arapaho, too, last time I rode through. I’d prefer we steal it from Arapahos. I’m kinda partial to the Crows, since I married one a few years back.”

“Oh, she’s still with her people, I reckon. I ain’t seen her in more’n a year—lives in Two Bulls’ village. I figured on visitin’ her after we get to Fort Laramie. Two Bulls usually camps between the North Platte and the Laramie River in the winter—at least he has for the last three years.” He paused and grinned. “Morning Flower, you’ll get to meet her if Two Bulls is campin’ where he usually does.” Jim made no comment, but he found the prospect of meeting Mrs. Hawk extremely interesting.

Quincy walked across a low rise about a quarter of a mile from the Smoky Hill River. As he walked, leading his grateful mount, he frequently looked back over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. “That damn kid,” he muttered to himself, thinking of Jim Moran, never conceding the fact that the gang of raiders would have ridden into an ambush by the soldiers regardless. The soldiers had guessed where they might strike next. Quincy blamed Butcher for that. They had damn near ridden in a straight line from Salina, hitting every farm and ranch they came to. Hell, any damn fool could have seen that, he thought.

As far as he could tell, only three of the others had gotten away from the ambush, and it was every man for himself. At least I got one of the bastards, he thought, thinking of the soldier he had shot before running. He saw Joe Coons and Ben Roberts, hightailing it off to the west, and one other, maybe Maynard, heading toward the river—he couldn’t be sure, as he was pretty busy saving his ass at the time. After he lost the soldiers chasing him, he had cut back toward the west in hopes he might find Coons and Roberts at the camp they had left on the Smoky Hill. Now as he walked toward the creek, he suddenly stopped when his eye caught some movement in the cottonwoods that lined the river. Not sure if he had been spotted, he hesitated, standing behind his horse in case he was greeted with a rifle shot while he strained to see who or what might be in the trees. Maybe someone else had stumbled upon their old camp. After watching for a few moments more, he spotted a gray horse through an opening in the trees that looked like the one Joe Coons rode. He decided to risk it. There weren’t many horses as downright ugly as Joe’s horse.

“You boys got anythin’ to eat?” Quincy asked. “I’m down to a few coffee beans and a strip of salt pork.” When Ben volunteered that the two of them had a little more than that, but would need to find a new source pretty damn soon, Quincy took the lead in planning the next move. “We’d do well to move on up into Montana, where they’re diggin’ all that gold outta the ground. We’ll find us some grub somewhere—maybe do some huntin’, now that we’re sure the army ain’t just over the next hill.” He hesitated then, thinking their reaction was not especially receptive to his proposal.

“Well,” Joe countered, “that’s what me and Ben are good at, rustlin’ cattle.” A discussion on the subject followed and was soon upgraded to an argument. Quincy needed the two of them, but he could not convince them to join him, and it was already obvious to Joe that Quincy was planning on being the boss. The result was a standoff. “Well, I reckon this is where we part company, then,” Joe concluded.

“Ah, hell no,” Joe said, relieved that Quincy accepted the split-up, so much so that he failed to notice the casual drop of Quincy’s hand to rest on the handle of his six-gun. Caught completely by surprise, both he and Ben were frozen for the fraction of a second that it took Quincy to draw the weapon and pump two rounds into Joe’s chest, then turn and slam Ben with two in the back when he scrambled for his rifle.

Quincy moved casually over Ben as the mortally wounded man tried to crawl the last few feet to his rifle. One more shot in the back of the head finished the job. Then he went back to stand before Joe Coons while the dying man agonized through his last few seconds on earth. “Like I said,” Quincy told him, “no hard feelin’s, Joe. It’s just business. I need your guns and your horses. I reckon I’ll just have to find me a couple men up Montana way.” He watched Joe for a few moments more to see how long it was going to take him to die. He could have helped him along, but he’d already spent an extra cartridge on Ben. Then he decided to end it with his knife. He was not concerned for his former partner′s suffering as much as the remote possibility that he might live. He was saved the trouble, for as he drew his knife from its sheath, Joe accommodated him by expiring. “It’da been a whole lot easier if they’da just come on with me,” he commented.