Chapter 5
Upon returning to Fort Reno, they discovered some new arrivals in the form of twenty-nine wagons with forty men, headed for Virginia City. It was led by a tall, lean man named Jack Grainger. With solid white hair crowning the ruddy face of a man who likes his liquor, Jack had left Fort Leavenworth in the spring with wagons loaded with tools and equipment for the “diggings” in Virginia City. He planned to “lay over” at Fort Reno for a day or so, long enough to burn charcoal and weld the tires on some of the wagon wheels that needed repair. His company more than met the requirements set by Colonel Carrington for trains to be allowed to continue on past the post. The colonel had posted a long list of rules for permitting emigrant wagons to travel through Indian country, and foremost of these was the requirement for at least thirty armed men. The arrival of the heavily armed train was met with much optimism by the emigrants who had been hoping for more wagons to enable them to leave for Montana.
Grainger was not especially enthusiastic about the idea of taking on the pilgrims. There were no women or children in his company, men only, and most of them veterans of the war recently ended between the North and the South. Well armed, he was confident in crossing Indian lands, and planned to move at a demanding pace. Emigrant families would slow him down, he feared, and he was anxious to reach Virginia City. Already there had been reports that the placer mining was drying up in Alder Gulch and folks were beginning to leave for Helena. Jack wanted to deliver his goods before the merchants who had ordered them might try to refuse shipment. After strong persuasion from Colonel Carrington, however, he relented and agreed to take a small party of six wagons that had been there for several weeks—and they were permitted to go because they were driving mules. A more recently arrived party with oxen was denied. “You’ll have to keep up with my wagons if you go,” Grainger told the families with mules, “and be ready to pull out of here tomorrow or the next day. We leave at four in the morning and stop for breakfast at ten. We rest the stock then and get under way by noon and stop for the day at four. I need to get ten hours a day driving, weather permitting.” He got no argument, even though the routine might have been more difficult than some of the families desired. Colonel Carrington informed the families that he planned to remain at Fort Reno for two weeks before moving on to the Big Horn. He would escort the other wagons to that location if they did not continue waiting at Reno, but there would be no facilities for them on the Big Horn.
Tessie McGowan climbed up to put the supper pans away, carefully nesting them to fit in their place in the tightly packed wagon. She turned then to take the plates and silverware handed to her by her sister, Lucy Taylor. “Sounds like we’re gonna be travelin’ like soldiers when you hear that Grainger fellow tell it,” she said as Lucy stepped back to give her room to get down.
“I guess he hoped he could discourage us,” Lucy replied with a laugh. “He doesn’t know much about farm folks, does he?”
“I guess not,” Tessie said. Their daily routine was not a great deal different from the one Grainger described. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had said they were going to ride all night. Lucy, Tessie, and Lucy’s brother-in-law were eager to get to Montana to join Harvey’s uncle, who operated a dry goods store in Virginia City.
Word that had come back east from there recently, of people leaving the town, was enough to cause concern on Harvey’s part, but they had come too far to have a change of heart. Tessie, like her sister, was of a stout constitution and fierce determination, and she had told her husband that if things didn’t work out for them in Virginia City, they’d simply follow the crowd to Helena, or wherever the tide carried them. She and Lucy both had a notion to try their hands at panning for some of those nuggets other folks were finding in Montana’s streams. None of their brave optimism was enough to ease Harvey’s mind. He was a born worrier, as most farmers were, accustomed to the fate that befell him at the hands of the weather and pestilence, believing he had no power to influence what the seasons held in store for him. He knew nothing about panning for gold, and for that matter, he knew just as little about managing a dry goods store. But Harvey’s uncle Ralph had assured him in his letters that he would teach him all he needed to know, and thus allow his uncle to open a second location. It seemed a better opportunity than remaining on their small farm in Illinois. They had begun to worry that their journey had ended in the middle of Indian country, as they had been stalled at Fort Reno for the last three weeks. Grainger’s arrival had been the answer to a prayer.
“Looks like we’ll be leavin’ tomorrow mornin’,” Harvey McGowan announced as he returned to the wagon. “Mr. Grainger said they got their wagons fixed, and he didn’t see no sense in hangin’ around here any longer. Barfield is goin’ with us. He changed his mind about waitin’ for some more family wagons.” That was good news to the women, since Mary Barfield had become their closest friend on the trip after leaving Omaha.
“We’re ready to go right now,” Tessie replied, and flashed an eager smile in her sister′s direction. “Breakfast won’t be until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, but we’ve got some biscuits left to keep our stomachs happy till then.”
The McGowan wagon was not the only place where someone contemplated the coming morning. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout this thing,” Johnny Hawk said as he and Jim finished the last of their evening coffee. “Whaddaya think ’bout hookin’ on with this feller Grainger′s outfit and leavin’ outta here in the mornin’?”
“It would suit me just fine,” Jim replied, “but what about our jobs as scouts?”
“Hell, Bridger won’t care,” Johnny snorted. “He knows we’re just ridin’ along on our way to Montana. He won’t feel like we’re backin’ out on him. You heard him say he had a full complement of scouts before we joined up. We’ve been talkin’ ’bout takin’ off on our own, but these fellers will be movin’ pretty fast.” He drained the last drop from his cup and smacked his lips. “I’ll talk to Bridger.” He peered into the empty cup as if hoping to find more in it. “Wish that was whiskey,” he said, then continued. “These soldiers ain’t goin’ on to the Big Horn for a couple of weeks yet, and when they get there, who knows how long they’ll be there before headin’ up the Yellowstone? Bridger said Carrington’s supposed to locate another fort up near Piney Fork somewhere and then go on to the Yellowstone. We’ll be in Virginia City by then if we tag along with Grainger.” A grin spread across his face then. “Of course you won’t be able to ride scout with your friends, Bodine and Hyde.” His face screwed up into a frown and he grunted, “Bodine—jaybird.”
“Whatever you want is all right with me,” Jim said, and shifted his position away from the fire.
“Good, let’s go talk to Grainger.”
They found Jack Grainger talking to Jim Bridger. “This’ll save some extra talk,” Johnny said when he saw the two together, as Bridger turned to see who was approaching.
“Well, here comes some trouble,” Jim Bridger called out with a laugh, and turned to Grainger. “You know these fellers, Jack?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Grainger responded as he looked the odd pair over.
“The stumpy one’s a bigger liar than I am,” Bridger joked.
“Now, hold on there, Jim,” Johnny came back. “Ain’t nobody west of the Mississippi can tell as many tall tales as you.” He walked up to shake Jack Grainger′s hand. “My name’s Johnny Hawk,” he said. “My partner′s name is Rider.” Grainger nodded to Rider as Johnny continued. “I’m glad we caught you and Bridger together, ’cause what I’m fixin’ to say is liable to break Jim’s heart.”
With a pretty good notion of what Johnny had in mind, Bridger interrupted. “I know what you’re fixin’ to say, and I hate to have to tell you, but you’re fired—you and your friend, there, too.”
“The hell we are,” Johnny exclaimed. “We quit ten minutes ago. You can’t fire us.”
Bridger threw his head back and laughed. “I figured as much.” He then explained the situation to Grainger, who, up to that point, was not sure if it was all a joke or not. “These boys just rode along with the colonel on their way to Montana,” he said. “I expect they came over to see if they could hook up with your outfit in the mornin’.”
“That’s a fact,” Johnny said.
Bridger continued to speak for them. “I’ve known Johnny Hawk for more years than I can remember. He’s a first-rate scout and won’t let you down. I don’t know much about his tight-lipped partner there, but Johnny vouches for him, so that makes him all right in my book.”
Grainger didn’t hesitate. “I always welcome a couple more good rifles,” he said, “but I ain’t lookin’ to add no more to my payroll.”
“We ain’t lookin’ for pay,” Johnny replied. “We’d just like to tag along. We’ll take care of our own food, and we’ll help out if you run into any of Red Cloud’s boys. That’s all we’re lookin’ for—same as these families you’re pickin’ up here.”
“Fair enough, then,” Grainger said.
As they turned to leave, Bridger said, “Take Bodine and Billy Hyde with you. I fired both of ’em this mornin’.”
“We’d sure love to do that,” Johnny replied, joking. “If we see ’em, we’ll invite ’em to come along. I never figured you’d fire two fine scouts like them. You sure you ain’t makin’ a mistake?”
Bridger got serious for a moment. “I fired ’em, all right. That little tussle you boys had with ’em wasn’t the first trouble they’ve caused, and as far as I’ve been able to see, we ain’t likely to lose nothing with them gone.”
The company wheeled out of Fort Reno in the predawn darkness, on a northwest trail to strike Crazy Woman Creek, and from there forward to the Clear Fork of the Powder, a distance of approximately sixty-five miles, they figured. Grainger hoped to make the trip in two days without undue strain on the mules. They reached the Crazy Woman in less than a day’s time, in spite of the weather, which reached one hundred and twelve degrees in the shade. Grainger decided to go into camp there for fear the mules would suffer if pushed any farther. The wagons were circled, with the front wheel of each wagon locked inside the rear wheel of the wagon in front of it. The wagon tongues were all turned to the outside of the circle. An opening was left on one end so that the stock could be driven in for the night.
After a hot day in the saddle, Jim decided to cool off in the creek while Johnny went about making camp. Since the teamsters and their mules were busy churning up the water close by, he decided to ride upstream to find clearer water. So he rode past the emigrants’ wagons near the end of the circle, and kept riding until he spotted a place where the cottonwoods were thickest. Guiding the buckskin through the cool shade of the trees, he dismounted and led the horse to the water’s edge to drink before he saw to his own comfort. Although the buckskin continued to drink until satisfied, Jim noticed that the horse’s ears, which were seldom still, always flickering, were now pricked up and still as if alert to something. It didn’t snort or even blow, as it would have if it thought there was a threat of some kind. Still, there were signals enough for Jim to become alert. There was always the possibility of a Sioux scout working his way in close to the camp to evaluate the strength of the wagon train, so he let his hand casually drop to the butt of his rifle while he strained to listen.
There was no sound other than the buckskin’s drinking and an occasional bird calling as Jim stood frozen on the bank of the creek. Just then, he heard a rustle of leaves, faint at first, but then a definite disturbance as if someone or something was moving in the berry bushes near the water. Jim jerked the Henry rifle from the saddle sling and turned to face the bushes as he dropped on one knee, his rifle aimed at the trembling branches.
“Wait! Don’t shoot!” a woman’s voice cried out, and a moment later a pale, bare arm appeared through a gap in the bushes. Astonished, Jim lowered his rifle as the hand waved back and forth for a moment before withdrawing into the shrubs again.
“What are you doin’ in there?” Jim asked, not sure if he should be worried or not. “You better come on out where I can see you.”
“I can’t come out,” Lucy Taylor called back. “I’m not dressed properly.”
Still baffled by a woman in the bushes and quite a ways from camp at that, he questioned her. “Well, what are you doin’ in the bushes?” As soon as he said it, it occurred to him that she might be in there doing her business.
Lucy was rapidly losing her patience with the seemingly clueless man dressed like an Indian, staring at her leafy screen. He was obviously one of the scouts who had joined the train at Fort Reno, although she had not seen him before. In answer to his question, she responded, “Up until a minute ago, I was trying to take a bath in the creek.” She thought that sufficient to suggest to him that he should simply leave her to her privacy, but still he remained.
“Miss, it might be a whole lot safer for you if you took your bath a little closer to the camp,” he cautioned. “There’s Sioux and Cheyenne raidin’ parties scoutin’ this country, and it’s not unlikely for a Sioux warrior to slip in close to see what kind of firepower they might run into if they attack the train. It’d be best if you put your clothes on and I’ll see you safely back to your wagon.”
His comment was sobering, but she was still perturbed by the intrusion upon her one opportunity for privacy. Straining to hold her temper, she replied, “I can’t put my clothes on. They’re over by the creek on that log. If you would just get on your horse and leave, I could get out of this damn bush and get my things.”
Jim looked up and down the bank then, and sure enough, there was a skirt and blouse a couple of dozen yards upstream that he had failed to notice before. Damn, he thought, how could I have missed seeing them? “I see ’em,” he said. “I’ll get ’em for you.”
“Just leave and I’ll get them myself,” she insisted.
“All the same to you, miss, I’d feel better about it if I saw you back to camp.”
In exasperation, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “All right,” she relented, “bring them over here and put them on the bush. And no peeking, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and promptly went to fetch her clothes.
“That’s far enough,” she warned as he approached. “Just lay them right there on that branch, then turn your back.” When he did as she bade, she hurriedly put on her blouse and slipped into her skirt, desperate to escape from the bush in which she had chosen to hide. “All right,” she said when finished. She paused a moment to brush some sand from her skirt before going to the log to recover her shoes and stockings, keeping a wary eye on the tall, rough-hewn scout as she did.
Jim, no less uncomfortable than she with the awkward situation, stared openly at the source of the voice in the bush. She was a young woman of slight build with light brown hair, and would have been an easy catch for any Sioux warrior who happened upon her. Although, he conceded, she had a sufficiently sharp tongue. If the Indian who stole her was as green around women as he was, it might be weapon enough. The flash of a milky white calf caught his eye as she raised her skirt to pull her stocking on. With an eye still on him, she said nothing, but motioned with her forefinger for him to turn around. When he did, she continued to study the tall figure with shoulders that seemed as wide as an oxbow while she finished putting on her shoes. “Are you an Indian,” she suddenly asked, “or what they call a half-breed?” Her question was prompted by the animal skins he wore, even down to the beaded moccasins.
Turning to face her again, he replied, “No, ma’am, I just lived with the Crow people for a while.” Thinking she might have been fooled by his lack of facial hair, he added, “None of the Crow men had whiskers, so I reckon I got in the habit of scrapin’ mine off.” His comment seemed to puzzle her, so he quickly changed the subject. “You ready to go back to camp now?”
“I expect I’d better,” she said, and picked up her sunbonnet from behind the log.
“You can hop up behind me and I’ll give you a ride back,” he offered.
She cast a wary glance his way and replied, “No, thanks. I can walk. You’ve done your masculine duty now, so you can be on your way. No wild Indians carried me off.”
He ignored her hint of sarcasm. “It’s still a good little piece back to the camp. I’ll go along with you.”
“It’s not that far,” she insisted. “I can see the wagons from here. I’ll be fine now.”
He looked toward the wagons, then turned to look behind them along the banks of the creek. She was right, but for his own peace of mind, he thought he might as well see her safely to her wagon. “I’ll just ride along behind you,” he said, equally insistent, “see you back to your husband and family.”
Her impatience unraveling and rapidly being replaced with open irritation, she stated emphatically, “I don’t have a husband, and I don’t need one, so why don’t you just go on about your business and I’ll tend to mine?”
Her message could not have been clearer, so he apologized. “Sorry to have bothered you, miss.” He reined the buckskin to a halt as she continued walking, her stride purposeful and strong.
After walking for a few minutes, she allowed herself a quick glance behind her and discovered that he was keeping pace with her from a distance of perhaps fifty yards. “Oh, good grief,” she muttered to herself, and increased her pace. By the time she reached her brother-in-law’s wagon, she felt that she needed another bath, due to the briskness of her walk. Glancing behind her then, she saw him wheel the buckskin around and head back upstream at a lope.
Without consciously thinking about it, he made a mental note of the wagon she went to. It certainly appeared that he had managed to thoroughly irritate the woman, although it had been his intention to see that she was not in any danger. As he rode back upstream to finish what he had started to do before encountering the lady in the bush, he didn’t know what to think about the woman—but he did think about her, and for some time after this evening’s encounter.
The wagon train set out the following morning, hoping to camp that night where the Bozeman Trail crossed Clear Creek. The wheels started rolling precisely at four o’clock, as Jack Grainger had mandated, with no slackers tolerated. The emigrant wagons had been warned from the first day that to fall behind would result in that wagon being left on its own. Grainger was smart enough to take advantage of Johnny Hawk’s knowledge of the Powder River country. Jim Bridger had assured him that no man knew it any better, so he put Johnny and Rider out front during the early hours of darkness. After the sun came up, he was able to lead the train, himself, relying on his memory of the one time he had made the trip before, and guided by the occasional signals of Johnny as he and Jim scouted the country up ahead of the wagons.
At ten o’clock, the train stopped by a stream to eat breakfast and rest the stock. Jim and his partner rode in to take their breakfast as well, building their fire close to the wagons. Jack Grainger walked over to their fire to discuss the afternoon’s plan of travel.
“Who is that man over there?” Lucy Taylor asked her brother-in-law when he walked up to the fire after tending the mules. When he turned to see where she pointed, she continued. “That one, the tall one talking to Mr. Grainger.”
“I don’t know,” Harvey replied. “Scout, I guess. Him and the little short one joined the train back at Fort Reno, same as us. I think Sam Barfield said his name is Rider.”
“Rider?” Lucy responded. “What kind of name is that?” Harvey shrugged. Lucy continued to question. “Rider what? Or what Rider? Is it his first name or last name?”
“I don’t know,” Harvey said, more interested in the coffeepot just then reaching a boil. “You’ll have to ask him.”
Tessie paused to give her sister a puzzled glance before turning the bacon over in the pan. After turning the sizzling strips of fried pork, she stood erect and stared toward the scouts’ campfire, taking a good look at the man in question. “Why are you so interested in the man, Lucy?” She favored her sister with a knowing smile.
Lucy blushed. “I’m not interested in him,” she said. “I was just wondering, that’s all.” When Tessie continued to fix on her with that wide smile, she tried to explain. “He just chased me in the bushes yesterday when I was taking a bath.”
“What?” Harvey and Tessie replied, almost in unison. “Why didn’t you say something about it yesterday?” Harvey asked, obviously concerned that the man had accosted Lucy.
“Whoa,” Lucy exclaimed. “It’s nothing like you’re thinking. What I should have said is that I hid in the bushes when he happened to come down to the creek right where I was taking my bath. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t even know I was there.” She went on to relate the encounter by the creek.
“So now you want to know his name?” Tessie said, seeing an opportunity to tease her sister. “He is tall, isn’t he? I can’t tell much about him from this distance. He looks like an Indian.”
“He’s not an Indian,” Lucy said, “and I’m not the slightest bit interested in him, so let’s drop it.”
Harvey had already put the matter aside, relieved that he was not going to be called upon to defend his sister-in-law’s honor. He could tell from that distance that he was tall, and broad-shouldered as well, and he would not have enjoyed taking him to task. Tessie had to turn her attention back to the breakfast she was cooking, so Lucy was spared further taunting about the tall scout. Always the imp, however, Tessie would be sure to broach the subject again, if only to see her younger sister blush. She delighted in teasing Lucy about her proclaimed attitude toward men in general and the competitive nature she tried to exhibit to others. Lucy insisted that she could get along just fine without some lazy husband to contend with—an attitude that would have offended Harvey had he not so readily fit the profile. In fact, he enjoyed the benefit of Lucy’s help with the team of mules.
The breakfast break over, the wagon train set out again, following the Crazy Woman for five or six miles before leaving it to take a more northwesterly direction. With the route established, Jim and Johnny Hawk rode out away from the train to scout the country ahead.
The prairie gradually transcended into rolling grassland as they approached the foothills, dotted with stands of pines. And off to the west of their route, Jim could now see the taller, stark, and foreboding peaks of the Big Horn Mountains. The sight of them seemed to fill his veins with their call to his primitive soul, regenerating a feeling that he had always felt that he was somehow born to the mountains. He had a strong urge to turn the buckskin’s head directly west and ride into the midst of the majestic peaks. Such notions of fantasy were restrained, however, by his responsibility to scout the foothills while Johnny ranged east of the wagon train.
Loping along comfortably, he let his gaze sweep the hills before him, from one ridge to another, some with wide meadows while others were ringed with thick bands of pines. Suddenly his eye caught a movement of some kind near the base of a hill. It was just for a moment, but he was certain his eyes had not played tricks on him. It could have been a deer or some other animal passing through the pines, or it could have been something more dangerous, like a Sioux war party. He knew he had to find out what, if anything, was on the other side of that stand of pines. Of concern to him then was, had that something or someone spotted him as he rode along nonchalantly daydreaming and admiring the scenery?
Without thinking about it, his initial reaction was to pull his rifle and crank a cartridge into the chamber. Then he replaced it in the sling and guided his horse down across a grassy draw and up the ridge on the other side, hurrying to gain the cover of a ravine leading up the slope toward the stand of pines. Before reaching the top of the ravine, he pulled the Henry again and dismounted. Dropping the buckskin’s reins to the ground, he crawled up close to the edge of the ravine. What he saw convinced him that he would have ridden into a real hornet’s nest had he not caught sight of that slight movement in the trees. On the uphill side of the trees, a Sioux war party rode, using the pines to hide them as they paralleled the train of wagons in the valley below. The movement Jim had spotted was no doubt one of their scouts who had been following the progress of the wagons. From his position on the topside of the ravine, Jim could see the prairie ahead of the wagons, speculating on the spot the war party might be thinking about attacking. It was a sizable party, he estimated maybe sixty or seventy strong, but he could not tell how well they were armed. Whatever their strength, Jim had to believe that the well-armed men of Grainger’s freight train would be more than a match for the Indians—but only if the wagons were not surprised before they could go into a defensive position. His job was obvious. He had to warn Grainger before they reached a point parallel with the edge of the pine belt.
Even then as he was withdrawing from the top of the ravine, the Sioux warriors were crowding up to the edge of the trees, awaiting the signal to attack. In the saddle on the fly, he urged the buckskin impatiently down the ravine and crossed over the ridge between him and the valley at a gallop. With hooves pounding the short grass prairie, he emerged in the open and raced after the wagons.
There seemed to be no relief from the heat of the previous two days as the wagons trudged forward at their monotonous pace. Lucy could have enjoyed the view of the mountains as she drove the mules, in relief of Harvey, had it not been for a long barren stretch where the grass had evidently been burned in a prairie fire. Whether set by lightning or Indian, it had left a large section of the prairie scorched. Aided by a stout summer breeze, the wagon train stirred up a dingy gray cloud of smut-filled dust that billowed out behind them, an unfortunate occurrence for those bringing up the rear. Consequently, the emigrant wagons got the worst of it.
Never one to follow the rules when they inconvenienced her, Lucy soon rebelled against the cloud of soot in her eyes, and pulled the wagon out of line, driving them a good fifty yards out to the side before the constant wave of dust. “We’re gonna get in trouble with Mr. Grainger,” Tessie warned when Lucy drove the team out of line.
“I don’t see him back here choking to death on this dust,” Lucy replied. “Besides, what’s he gonna do, tell us to get back in place?”
Tessie shrugged, equally glad to escape the soot and grime. There was no argument from Harvey, who had taken the opportunity to get a nap in the back of the wagon.
Since the trail was wide and gentle enough, she continued on away from the train even after the scorched patch of prairie was passed. Suddenly Tessie turned in the wagon seat when she saw a lone rider clear the top of a low ridge, racing toward them. “Somebody is sure in a hurry to . . .” She paused then. “Isn’t that your Indian scout?” Before Lucy could turn and see for herself, the rider fired his revolver in the air three times, the signal to circle the wagons.
“Oh, Lord,” Lucy muttered, and hauled away on the traces. “Gee, mules, gee!” she yelled, and applied the whip.
The wagon lurched to the right, bringing a confused Harvey clawing his way up to the seat behind her. “What is it?” he yelled, confused when he saw how far they were out of position.
“Circle up!” Lucy answered, still urging the mules on, still fifty yards from the other wagons already forming up. A few seconds later, the pine forest on her left seemed to explode into a screaming horde of savages that poured out upon the prairie, heading for the wagons.
“Holy Mother of God,” Harvey uttered when he saw the hostiles. “We’re not gonna make it,” he said, and reached for the shotgun behind the seat.
With the buckskin stretching its stride to cover ground as quickly as it could, Jim bent low in the saddle. “What the hell are they doin’ way out there?” he exclaimed when he topped the ridge and saw the lone wagon apart from the rest. Looking back at the host of warriors descending the slope, he saw that it was going to be a close race even if he headed straight for the circle already forming. The wagon was going to be swarmed over before it could reach the circle. With no choice, he holstered his pistol and drew his rifle. Then he made for the lone wagon, still at a full gallop. The errant wagon did not go unnoticed by the Sioux warriors, and a dozen or more split off from the others to go after it, unleashing a barrage of gunfire and arrows. Jim looped his reins loosely around his saddle horn so he could use both hands to fire his rifle. Stretching flat out in the gallop, the buckskin provided a steady platform for his Henry and he fired it as fast as he could pull the trigger and cock it again. The twelve warriors chasing the wagon were bunched closely, so he simply aimed in the middle of them. One by one they slid from the saddle as his deadly fire found them while their bullets zipped harmlessly on either side of him.
When four of their number had gone down, the rest wisely scattered to escape the deadly killing machine bearing down on them, shooting wildly at him as they fled to join their brothers. In the meantime, Grainger, at Johnny Hawk’s suggestion, left a fifty-foot opening at one end of the circle of wagons and waited to see if the hostiles would charge through it, thinking to slaughter what they might believe to be a train of white families. Back on the prairie, Jim pulled up even with Lucy’s wagon and pointed toward the opening in the circle. She nodded that she understood and urged the mules on. Seeing the lurching wagon as it raced toward the circle, the Sioux immediately tried to cut it off. But Lucy beat them to the opening and raced through it, Jim right beside her, with bullets and arrows flying after them. Unaware of the trap set for them, or the firepower of the teamsters, the raiders rode inside the circle after Lucy. Caught in a cross fire from both sides, and finding repeating rifles in the hands of men who knew how to use them, the war party soon fled back out of the trap as fast as they could get their ponies turned around, leaving their dead behind in their panic to escape.
“By God, I don’t think they’ll be back,” Johnny Hawk crowed as he walked out from behind a wagon, reloading his rifle.
Over by the McGowan wagon, Jim stepped down from his weary horse and looked up at Lucy. “Are you all right, miss?”
Thoroughly shaken, now that it was over, yet game enough to hold herself together, she smiled and replied. “Yes, thanks to you mostly, I guess.”
Harvey McGowan climbed down, then helped Tessie and Lucy down, his shotgun propped behind the seat again, having never been fired. “I was bouncing around so much, I couldn’t get steady enough to take a shot,” he explained. He extended his hand then. “Mister, I wanna shake your hand. You sure came along at the right time.”
Jim didn’t have time to respond before Johnny walked up. “I swear, partner, I didn’t think you was gonna leave any Injuns for the rest of us to shoot.”
Motioning toward the bodies lying within the circle of wagons, Jim replied, “Oh, I don’t know. It looks to me like you fellers did all right. Besides, mine were ridin’ pretty much in a bunch. A man would have to be a pretty poor shot not to hit somethin’.” Feeling someone’s eyes upon him, he turned to face Lucy just as she averted her gaze in order to miss his.
There wasn’t much time for further talk. Already Grainger was summoning his men to get their teams ready to roll and leave this place behind, not knowing if there were more war parties in the vicinity. The next one might be bigger, but he was still confident in his superior firepower to see them through attacks by raiding parties of any size. He came over to talk to Harvey. Of interest at the moment was the condition of Harvey’s mules. They had been pushed to a long, hard run in Lucy’s sprint for the rest of the train, and Grainger was concerned that they were in no shape to keep up. Harvey and Lucy, in particular, were subjected to a lecture by the captain of the wagon train for their departure from the line. “If those mules are too tired to keep the pace,” he complained, “they’re gonna slow up the whole train, and it’s best that we leave this place as soon as possible.”
Jim listened to the lecture without comment. The expansive area of burned-out prairie would indicate that the valley had been the site of an earlier attack upon an emigrant train. It might be a favorite spot for Sioux warriors to sit in ambush, since the valley narrowed slightly, making it further suitable for ambush. It was not a good spot for McGowan’s wagon to lag behind. When Grainger had finished his admonishing, Jim spoke up. “If they can’t keep up, I’ll hang back and ride with ’em.”
Although not yet recovered from the terrifying dash for life, Tessie glanced quickly at her sister to see her reaction to the scout’s offer. But Lucy was still smarting somewhat from Grainger’s remarks, too much so at that moment to read anything personal into Jim’s words. Though she was prone to recover quickly from stressful situations, her disposition at the moment was one of defiance. One spectator, who found the incident amusing, was Johnny Hawk as he read the faces of Jim and Lucy, and wondered if his somber young partner had more than a casual interest in the rambunctious young lady. Harvey was quick to apologize for impeding the progress of the train—not so with Lucy, however. “We’ll keep up,” she declared emphatically. “Don’t worry about us.” Her statement raised Grainger′s eyebrows, brought a faint smile to Johnny’s face, and an expression of alarm to Harvey’s.
“All right, then,” Grainger said. “Let’s get ready to roll.” He returned to his own wagon, leaving them to stand looking at each other in silence.
It was Tessie who spoke first. “Let’s get away from here and all these dead Indians,” she said.
“These mules need water,” Jim said, stating the obvious. “That looks like some kinda stream up ahead there.” He said pointing toward a line of trees and bushes that usually defined water. “My horse needs it, too.”
Harvey nodded and prepared to follow the column of wagons already pulling out. Shaken by his first experience with hostile Indians, he was grateful for the presence of the broad-shouldered scout.
“I expect it would be a good idea if we rode out a ways and took a look around, partner,” Johnny said.
“I expect so,” Jim returned. “I need to water my horse first.” He stepped up in the saddle and turned the buckskin around. “I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you folks,” he said, looking directly at Lucy.
The train continued on with no further contact with Indians. Harvey’s mules proved to be up to the task, never falling seriously behind the others, so Jim was never required to hang back with them. But he was seen from time to time to appear for a few moments on a distant ridge, or at the edge of a stand of pines, before disappearing again. It was enough to tell Lucy and Tessie that he was watching over them.
They camped that night between the forks of the Little Piney Creek, and Tessie called for a celebration in honor of the successful defense of their wagons. In view of that, she announced that she was going to use some of her precious flour and make pan bread to go with their beans and bacon. “I think it would be nice if you took some bread over to Rider’s fire,” she said to Lucy, “to sort of thank him for protecting us today.”
“Why me?” Lucy replied, her guard up immediately. “Why don’t you take it over—or Harvey?”
Tessie favored her sister with an impatient gaze, much like a mother with a difficult child. “Because you’re the one who drove the wagon way outside the column,” she retorted. “You’re the one who’s been eyeing him when you think nobody’s looking. And you’re the one he’s been eyeing. Besides,” she giggled, “I’ve already got a husband.”
“Tessie Taylor McGowan!” Lucy charged. “Bite your tongue. I haven’t been eyeing anybody. Even if I was, it wouldn’t be a wild man who looks like an Indian.” She pulled herself erect in an exaggerated huff. “I’ve a good mind to pour some of this coffee on you,” she said as she moved the boiling pot away from the coals. “Harvey,” she called, “whip your wife.”
Harvey looked at her bewildered, with no notion if she was serious or not.
Jim and his partner got some pan bread that night, but it was Tessie who brought it to their campfire, telling them how pleased she was that they had joined the train back at Fort Reno. Jim was slightly disappointed that Lucy did not deliver the bread, but he and Johnny enjoyed the treat. “I swear,” Johnny commented, “this is better′n that bread Mornin’ Flower bakes, but don’t ever tell her I said that. She’d kick my ass.”
It took a little extra time for Lucy to fall asleep that night, for there were many thoughts that captured her mind, most of them concentrated around the rugged dark-haired scout called Rider. The strong, sharply chiseled face and the dark moody eyes were things that a woman would notice. She had to question the many times he was on her mind when she should be thinking about other things. Long before this day, she had vowed to herself that she would never marry for love, unless it was accompanied by wealth. Still, it was interesting to fantasize about a union with a man like Rider. It would be like mating with a panther, she thought, and allowed a devilish smile to creep across her face.
The wagon train started out early the next morning as usual. There was no further threat from Sioux or Cheyenne war parties the entire trip as they crossed the Tongue and traveled on to the confluence of the Big Horn and the Yellowstone. After crossing over to the north side of the Yellowstone, which required the major part of the day, the train went into camp a few hundred yards from the ferry. With the wagons circled up and the stock driven in for the night, there was nothing more to do but finish the last of their supper and drink up the remaining coffee.
“When we get to Bozeman City,” Johnny said, “we’re gonna need to trade for some more coffee beans, and that’s a fact.”
Jim didn’t answer, caught more deeply in thought than usual, even for him. Johnny had a suspicion about what the problem might be. The closer they came to the end of this trip with Grainger′s train, the more his young partner seemed to withdraw into himself. Jim was never much for talking, but over the last few nights, he almost never said a word. Johnny was sure the problem had to do with Lucy Taylor, and to Johnny it was very much like lancing a boil. If Jim didn’t release some of that worry inside him, he was in for some powerful suffering. So he decided it was time to lance the boil. “I swear, you’ve been a bit off your feed lately, and I know you’ve been thinkin’ ’bout that gal.” There was no response from Jim at all, but Johnny was not discouraged. “I’ve seen enough buck fever to know when it’s hit somebody, so you might as well come on out with it.”
Jim gazed unblinking into Johnny’s eyes, a look Johnny had become accustomed to from his serious young friend. Then for a second, his sober expression softened, the burden he had been carrying on his mind weighing too heavily to hold any longer. He spoke hesitantly in the beginning, but as his feelings flowed, he emptied his heart to the only man he would trust with his inner yearnings. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “I’ve never had any doin’s with a girl before. I never cared whether I did or not. But dammit, from the first day I found her in the bushes at the Crazy Woman, I ain’t been able to get her out of my head.”
“That’s what I thought,” Johnny said, satisfied that his diagnosis was accurate, and ready to subscribe the medication. “I ain’t been blind to the way she’s been lookin’ at you, so I’m willin’ to bet you ain’t the only one thinkin’ ’bout the other′n.”
“But what should I do about it? She acts like she don’t like me most of the time I’m around her.”
“Now, see,” Johnny was quick to explain. “That’s what they do. They don’t want you to think they’re gonna be easy, like pickin’ a gooseberry off a bush.” He paused then. “What kinda hurtin’ have you got for this gal? Roll in the hay hurtin’? Or marryin’ hurtin’?”
“I expect it’s marryin’ hurtin’,” Jim confessed. “I wanna take care of her, go somewhere where we can live together.”
“Hmm,” Johnny murmured. “You’ve got it worse than I suspected.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Jim repeated.
“There ain’t nothin’ to do but tell her how you feel. That’s the only way you’ll find out how she feels about it. Then you have to take it from there. Two young folks like yourselves, you can make it right fine, do enough huntin’ and trappin’ to get what you need.”
“You think I’m crazy?” Jim asked humbly.
“Hell no. Look at me and Mornin’ Flower. We get along just fine, and I ain’t even there half the time. Go tell that gal what you got on your mind. She’s getting way past marryin’ age, anyway. I expect she’s been wonderin’ if she was gonna have to pop the question to you.”
“You think so?”
“Sure I do.”
“I reckon I might as well do it,” Jim decided.
“Go get ’em, boy,” Johnny encouraged happily.
Lucy walked down by the busy stream as the evening softened. It was the last camp before reaching Virginia City. It had seemed like a trip of a million miles and it was hard to believe they had actually made it with everyone safe and sound. The thought of seeing Virginia City the next day was cause for excitement after so many days traveling in a wagon through land so foreign to civilization, but she felt stronger because of that trip, and confident that she could tackle any task. There were some things that had made the trip interesting, and her thoughts went directly to Rider. What an odd name, she thought, remembering her reaction to it the first time she had heard it. Surely he must have a second name. Her thoughts were interrupted then by the sudden appearance of the tall, silent scout. She glanced up to see him leading his buckskin horse toward her along the stream bank, and knew that he had come to find her. “You found me by the water again,” she said in greeting him.
“Yep,” he replied. “Only this time you ain’t hidin’ in a bush.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, guessing that she knew the answer.
“Lookin’ for you,” he replied, then paused before trying to go on with what he had determined to say to her, his nerve wavering now that he was face-to-face with her. “I got somethin’ I need to tell you,” he found the courage to say.
“Well, I’m right in front of you,” she replied, wondering now if she could possibly be right in thinking what she suspected he was gathering his nerve to confess.
It was difficult to speak of his feelings for her, harder than Johnny had said it would be, but he had opened the door and he was determined to go through it. “Well”—he stumbled over the words—“I ain’t—I mean—I reckon I oughta tell you that my real name ain’t Rider. Johnny gave me that name, after a creek we camped on. My real name is Jim Moran. Johnny gave me the name Rider because the Yankees were lookin’ for me because I rode with Bill Quantrill’s boys durin’ the war.”
“Is that what you came down here to tell me?” Lucy asked, somewhat surprised.
“Well, that and another thing. I just thought I oughta be honest with you before I asked you, and I didn’t want you to think I was an outlaw usin’ another name.”
“Asked me what?” she promptly responded before he could finish.
“I’ve been watchin’ you ever since that day on the Crazy Woman,” he said. “I never thought about ever hitchin’ up with a woman, but I ain’t been thinkin’ about much else ever since that day. I know I ain’t got a lot to offer you right now, but I’m strong and able. I know I can make a good life for you—or die tryin’. I guess I just need to know how you feel about it.”
“You do?” she asked after listening to his stumbling attempt to confess his feelings. He nodded. “You’re asking me to marry you?” she asked.
“I reckon I am,” he replied.
Before answering, she gazed intently at the bashful young man standing nervously before her. Fearless in the face of charging Sioux warriors, he fidgeted bashfully in her presence. She thought carefully about her response. “Rider—or Jim, whichever—I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth. It’s nice of you to ask, but I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life like a squaw in some log cabin, raising a houseful of young’uns for a husband who’s off somewhere hunting or trapping.” It was cruel, she admitted that to herself, but she wanted to be sure he didn’t harbor any hope that she might change her mind.