Chapter 7
“You were too many days without food and water,” Black Horn told his son. “Maybe the time was not right and you should have waited a while and then tried again.”
“I think it took a long time to see my dream,” the boy answered, “because it was a powerful message, too big to carry in a single dream. When it came to me, I was weak and sick, but I could feel the spirit who came to help me. He came first as a fierce grizzly bear, but I did not run, so he called down the thunder and sent the bear away. I was lifted from the ground, then, as if I was flying, yet I could sense the presence of his strong arms carrying me to a place of safety.”
The more Black Horn thought about his son’s story, the more he began to believe that it was a medicine dream, especially when told about the spirit pointing to the sky and calling down the thunder to tell Black Horn to come for him. Everyone in the village had heard the thunder, once, and then three times more. Black Horn and a group of other warriors rode out to the hills to see what had caused the thunder, for it sounded like gunshots. However, there was no one to be seen near the place where they found the boy. The rest of the warriors scouted the forest all around the foothills while Black Horn took his son home. When the scouting party returned, they reported that there was no one there, so Black Horn was convinced that his son had been given his medicine dream and he should take the name of Spirit Bear. The incident might have been forgotten, had not the people of the Blackfoot village all heard the sharp cracks of thunder that sounded like gunshots.
The story of Spirit Bear′s dream was soon spread among the people, and they took it as a sign that a powerful spirit lived in the mountains nearby, and many of the young warriors went into the mountains in hopes of seeing this powerful being, thinking it would strengthen their medicine. Rider Twelve Horses had no idea that he had become a Blackfoot legend, and that the mere sighting of him would give a young warrior cause to boast of it in the village. He did notice the occasional sighting of a Blackfoot hunter near the center of the mountains where he had seen none before. He had always been fortunate before to see them before they saw him, but on one occasion, while hunting, he had climbed out on a high rock precipice to scan the valley floor. It was one of his favorite spots, for the valley stretched out before him as far as the eye could see. As his eyes scanned up the slope below him, he suddenly caught sight of a solitary Indian hunter standing in a small clearing about halfway up. From the way the Indian was staring at him, there was no doubt that he had been discovered. There was no sign of aggression, or in truth, of action of any kind. He just continued to stand and stare until Rider backed out of his view.
When he mentioned it to Johnny, it surprised the little man. “He didn’t try to shoot at you or nothin’? A Blackfoot ain’t usually that peaceful. You’d better mind you don’t bring one of ’em back here to our camp.”
“I expect I’ll start huntin’ more in the lower part of the mountains,” Rider said. He had already planned to do that, after happening upon the Blackfoot boy, but he had thought he could be careful enough to avoid the Indian hunters.
“Maybe so,” Johnny replied as he studied his friend’s face, and wondered how much longer it would be before this chain of mountains would no longer satisfy him. He already knew practically every foot of the Big Belt Mountains, and never seemed to tire of scouting them. But winter was coming on, and Johnny was not enthusiastic about spending another winter in this secret camp. Unlike Rider, Johnny craved the enjoyment of a saloon once in a while, as well as contact with other folks, especially of the female persuasion. In the beginning of their camp here in the mountains, he was of the opinion that his young friend would soon heal his wounds and satisfy his desire for the solitude a man finds in the high country. Then, hopefully, he would develop the itch for bawdy houses and strong drink like any normal man, but the longer they remained there, the more ingrained Rider′s need for solitude became.
One thing that Johnny had not foreseen was Rider′s potential for supplying hides. He had taken to the bow like an Indian, and it had become his weapon of choice—not only for the saving of cartridges for the Henry rifle, but for its silence—allowing him to kill more than one animal in a group and not scare the others away. Of course, the bow also would not alert any Blackfoot hunter that might chance to be close by. Rider’s proficiency with a bow was cause for a comment from Grover Bramble on one of Johnny’s trips to the trading post.
“Where are you findin’ all these hides?” Bramble asked as he rubbed the fur on a bear hide that Johnny brought to trade. “This pelt is almost prime and we ain’t but a little way toward a hard winter yet.”
Johnny smiled. “Back in them mountains over yonder, there’s plenty of game if you know how to find it.”
“You still campin’ over in the Big Belt range?” Grover asked. When Johnny nodded, Grover continued. “You better be careful you don’t run into that spirit that roams them mountains.”
“That what?” Johnny asked, puzzled by the comment.
Grover laughed. “I reckon you ain’t seen him yet. There’s a half-breed feller named Sam Brightwater comes in here to trade, maybe two, three times a year. His mama lives in that Blackfoot village on the other side of those mountains you’re campin’ in. He was in here about three weeks ago, and he said all the people in the village are talkin’ about some spirit that wanders over those hills. Several of their hunters claimed they’ve seen him, standing on top of a cliff or somewhere, lookin’ down at ’em.” He paused to allow himself a chuckle over the tale. “Thought maybe you’ve seen him.”
“I’ve seen him, all right,” Johnny replied at once. “I even know his name—Rider, his name’s Rider.” Seeing the surprise in Grover′s face, Johnny was about to explain the sightings when he hesitated to give it some thought. It might be wise to let the Blackfeet believe Rider was a spirit. It could be a lot safer for his friend if they thought he was one. It couldn’t hurt, anyway, he decided.
Grover looked at him expectantly, thinking there was more to the story. “Rider?” he questioned. “How do you know that?”
Becoming evasive then, Johnny shrugged and said, “I just know it, that’s all.”
“Huh,” Grover huffed, not satisfied with the answer. “Sounds like somebody’s made up a tale.”
“Maybe,” Johnny replied, and shrugged again, “but that’s his name.”
Grover might not have believed Johnny’s story whole cloth, but the next time Sam Brightwater came to trade at his store, he passed the information forward, and within a few weeks’ time, the people in the Blackfoot village had a name for their spirit. On his ride back to the mountains, after a brief stop to visit McGowan’s, which was now operating full steam, Johnny broke out with a chuckle every time he thought about it. “Wait’ll I tell Rider the Injuns think he’s a spirit,” he said aloud.
Rider was not particularly amused by Johnny’s ruse with Grover Bramble, but there was nothing he could do to explode the myth unless he made it a point to go into town with Johnny to confirm to the owner of the trading post that he was flesh and blood. And as always, he did not want to go into town. When Johnny recounted his visit to the new store, Rider listened to him, for there was no longer any pain from that quarter. He had healed. He listened with interest when Johnny told him how hard Harvey was working in the store while Tessie was setting up housekeeping in a cabin some distance behind it. Lucy, however, was very much in the thick of the new construction, leaving Ralph to take responsibility for providing a home for them. “There ain’t no doubt about that woman’s ambition,” Johnny remarked. “She’ll be runnin’ that whole damn store in a couple of years—if it takes even that long.”
Rider thought about the picture Johnny painted of the first and only woman he had ever loved, and he shook his head in amazement that he had let her rejection of him hurt him so much, when it seemed so unimportant now. “Are they married yet?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, they’re married,” Johnny replied with a snort. “Lucy—I mean Lucinda—insisted on gettin’ hitched by the justice of the peace.” He chuckled. “Ralph wanted to have a church weddin’—plan a big affair—and he’s old enough to be her daddy.” He paused to express his opinion of that, then said, “Jaybird,” and continued. “That poor man ain’t got sense enough to know that Lucy just wanted to get that Mrs. in front of her name, so she could grab hold of the reins of the marriage.” He paused to stroke his beard thoughtfully. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he is smart enough to know, and he thinks it’s worth it to get to sleep next to that warm young body.” Forming that particular image in his mind was enough to cause Rider a little tinge of pain in spite of his resolve.
The first light snow fell on the mountains and valleys early in the fall, and it seemed to bring a sense of longing over Johnny Hawk. Each new dusting of snow seemed to dampen the spirits of the typically carefree little man. His lack of enthusiasm in preparing for the hard winter finally caused Rider to seek the cause. In a frank confession, Johnny told him that he guessed he missed Morning Flower more than he thought he would. When they had left Fort Laramie, he didn’t plan to return to see her until spring. “But I guess I’m gettin’ old enough that I get to missin’ a warm body to keep my joints from freezin’ up on cold winter nights,” he said.
Rider studied his friend’s face for a moment, thinking how difficult it must have been for one so confident and independent to confess that he needed the company of another. After a few more moments, Rider smiled and said, “Well, you’re sure as hell not gonna cuddle up to this warm body. I reckon the only way to cure your hurtin’ is to pack up and head on back to Two Bulls’ village.” He saw an immediate flicker of excitement in Johnny’s eyes, much like that seen in a child at Christmastime.
“To tell you the truth,” Johnny said, “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout headin’ back down there before real bad weather sets in and closes off these mountains. I figured I’d be goin’ alone, though. I didn’t figure anything could pull you down where there’s people. Hell, you’ve already gone half wild, roamin’ around up here by yourself.” He paused to give his friend a suspicious eye. “You ain’t got to believin’ them tales the Injuns has been spreadin’, have you?”
The question brought a smile to Rider′s usually solemn face. “Maybe you’re startin’ to believe it, and that’s why you wanna split up with me—afraid I’ll turn into a grizzly some night when you’re sleepin’.”
“That might be it,” Johnny said, chuckling.
Pleased to see a hint of renewal of the old sparkle in his partner’s eyes, Rider went on. “There’s nothin’ to hold us here. We’ve got meat laid back and plenty of hides we can trade at Fort Laramie. Everything else we can cache, and it’ll still be here when we come back.” He was thinking that it might be a good thing to sleep in Morning Flower’s warm lodge and visit with Deer Foot and White Fox and his other Crow friends. The thought surprised him, for as recently as a week before, he still had no desire to see civilized man. Maybe he really was healed, although his first reaction to Johnny’s intention to return to Fort Laramie alone was concern for his safety. On his routine visits to the trading post Johnny had heard that the Sioux and Cheyenne were actively raiding any parties attempting to travel the Bozeman Trail in protest to the forts under construction by Colonel Carrington’s expedition. Grover Bramble said he’d heard that all civilian wagon trains were being denied permission to continue past Fort Laramie because the army could not guarantee protection. “The two of us, with Henry repeatin’ rifles, can hold off a pretty good-sized war party,” he said. “If we keep our eyes sharp, maybe we can avoid a big party.”
“That’s a fact,” Johnny replied, his old enthusiasm returning rapidly. “They might jump us, but it’d be like a man tryin’ to grab a yeller jacket—he might catch him, but it’d pain him too much to hold on to him.” Then he got serious for a moment. “I know why you’re really goin’, partner, and I ’preciate it.” His simple thank-you did not express the full appreciation he felt for Rider′s support. He was too vain to admit it, even to Rider, but during the past couple of months he had realized that things in the distance were becoming difficult to see clearly. This was especially so in poor light, and he was afraid that he might need spectacles, something he swore to himself he would never do, even if he knew where to get them. So there was no measuring the relief he felt when Rider volunteered to accompany him home to see his wife.
Two days later, they left their camp early on a chilly morning after carefully checking every access to the place to make sure they had left no clue of its existence. Heading on a trail to the southeast, they planned to strike the Yellowstone at the great bend where the river turned from north to east. It was an easy uneventful two-day ride without pushing the horses too hard. Arriving at the Yellowstone, they made their camp in the bluffs of the river, and set out the next morning, heading east, holding the horses to a spirited pace. It was not until reaching Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone, about forty miles from Fort C. F. Smith, that they caught sight of an Indian war party. They hid the horses in the willows along the side and watched the Indians from the bank of the stream. The hostiles had apparently not spotted the two white men hiding in the brush as they passed at a distance of a little over a hundred yards. “We’re all right,” Rider said as he held his rifle before him, his hand clamped over the brass receiver plate to make sure there was no reflection from the sun. “They ain’t even looked this way.” He glanced at Johnny then. The little man’s face was all scrunched up as he strained to see the warriors more clearly. “Sioux,” Rider said. “Look like Sioux to me.”
“Yeah,” Johnny replied, “they look like Sioux, all right. Wonder where they’re headin’. It’s a day’s ride from here to Fort Smith. How many do you see?”
Rider paused while he counted. “Twenty-one is what I count,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s what I get,” Johnny lied. “Must be a village back south. The way they’re headin’, they ain’t goin’ to Fort Smith.”
After the Sioux warriors had disappeared over the hills toward the Bear Tooth Mountains, they decided that it was too late to continue that day, so they set up their camp there at Clark’s Fork. The night was passed without any visitors, and they were in the saddle again under a leaden sky promising snow before noon. They were within five miles of the fort when they sighted the war party again. “Yonder,” Rider said, pointing to the south. “Looks like that same bunch we saw yesterday.”
“Damn, they musta doubled back on us. Maybe they ain’t seen us,” Johnny said.
“They’ve seen us,” Rider replied. “We’d better see if we can beat ’em to the fort. Come on!” He kicked the buckskin sharply and the race was on. It was Rider’s guess that the Sioux had spotted Johnny and him some distance back and were now angling across in hopes of intercepting them before they could reach the safety of the fort.
Over the rough terrain their horses raced, oblivious of the possibility of a headlong tumble in the snow-frosted grass, side by side, until the broad-chested buckskin gradually began to pull away from the spotted gray carrying Johnny. The race soon went to the Sioux, however, owing to the fatigue of the white men’s packhorses. “No good!” Johnny shouted when they were within sight of the fort. “They’re gonna cut us off. Look for a place.”
“There!” Rider shouted, and pointed to a shallow ravine that was just deep enough to provide cover. He jerked his reins over and the buckskin veered off toward the ravine with Johnny right behind, the packhorses bumping together as all four horses entered the narrow defile at once. The hostiles responded immediately, wheeling their ponies toward them, knowing they had succeeded in cutting them off from the fort. The first shots rang out while the two scouts were still pulling their horses to the deepest part of the ravine for cover.
“If we can keep these boys occupied for a few minutes, maybe the army will send out some help,” Johnny said as he and Rider scrambled to positions on either side of the ravine.
The fact that they were within a mile of the fort was not lost on the Sioux war party, so they wasted no time in charging upon the two white men, hoping to overwhelm them quickly and retreat before soldiers were sent out to rescue them. It was to be, however, that they were destined to experience the firepower of two marksmen with repeating rifles. With hostile fire kicking up dirt all along the edge of the ravine, the two scouts took steady aim and one by one began a deadly toll on the advancing Sioux. In a matter of minutes, seven of their number had fallen, causing the others to wheel away to scatter in retreat. “By God!” Johnny shouted. “That’ll give ’em somethin’ to think about.” He rose on one knee to get a better look. “They’re bunching up again to talk it over and decide if they want some more.” The decision was made for them, however, in the form of a cavalry detachment charging from the fort at full speed.
As the hostiles fled, Johnny and Rider led their horses up from the ravine to meet their reinforcements. “That’s a pretty sight, ain’t it, partner? Johnny remarked while reloading his rifle. “The cavalry ridin’ to the rescue.”
Rider didn’t answer. His eyes sharper than his older partner′s, he was looking at the lieutenant leading the column. When he was positive, he spat and muttered, “Carrington.” Why, he wondered, did it seem that he was destined to run into the troublesome lieutenant no matter where he went?
Carrington was equally surprised when he realized who the two white men were. Pulling up before them, he hesitated before deciding whether or not to chase after the war party. “Hawk,” he finally blurted, but his focus was on the mysterious scout called Rider, “what are you doing back here? I thought you two had gone to Virginia City.” Before Johnny had time to answer, a corporal interrupted to ask the lieutenant if they were going to chase after the hostiles. “No,” Carrington replied, “let them go.”
The corporal looked around at the bodies of the slain Indians and remarked, “Looks to me like you two didn’t need no help. We shoulda waited a few minutes and you woulda cleaned up the whole war party.”
“We’re just as glad you didn’t,” Johnny said. “Cartridges are expensive.”
Carrington continued to study the quiet scout, although he directed his question to Johnny. The more he puzzled over the resemblance to the boy Jim Moran, the more convinced he became that they were one and the same, but he couldn’t prove it. So he held his thoughts on the matter until he could find proof, even though it was especially galling to think that they might be playing him for a fool. “So, what are you doing here at Fort Smith?” he asked Johnny again.
“Just passin’ through on our way back to Fort Laramie,” Johnny replied. “Thought maybe we’d visit with the army here tonight, then head on in the mornin’.” He climbed back on his horse. “What’s the Injun talk between here and Bridger′s Ferry? Much trouble since the weather′s gettin’ cold?”
“We’re still getting attacks on our woodcutting details and any small patrols,” Carrington replied. “The word we get from Fort Phil Kearney is that they’re seeing fewer attacks. We haven’t gotten any reports of major attacks, and of course all civilian traffic has been halted since the end of the summer.” He raised an eyebrow and remarked, “I guess a couple of former army scouts can risk it if they want to.”
“I expect we will,” Johnny said. “It’s a good week’s ride from here to Fort Laramie, providin’ the weather don’t go bad on us.” He nudged the spotted gray to follow along behind Rider and the soldiers, who had already started back to the fort.
Carrington fell in beside him and they rode in silence for a few minutes until the lieutenant said, “Well, you and your silent partner up there can eat with the company tonight.”
“Much obliged, Lieutenant,” Johnny said.
Carrington raised his voice and called out, “That would be all right, wouldn’t it, Moran?” When there was no response from the broad-shouldered man riding the buckskin before him, he called out again, “Moran, Jim Moran!”
Again there was no response from the silent scout ahead, and no indication that he had even heard the lieutenant. Johnny, however, reacted with an expression of contrived puzzlement, looking ahead as if expecting one of the troopers to respond. He must think Rider’s dumb as a stump, he thought.
Although he made not even a slight hitch when the lieutenant called, Rider heard it, all right, and he could not help feeling a tightening in the pit of his stomach. It appeared that Carrington had decided never to forget Jim Moran and just let the issue die with the end of the war.
“Who’d you call?” Johnny asked, looking ahead again.
“Nobody,” Carrington answered, and quickly changed the subject. “Why are you going back to Fort Laramie?”
Johnny grinned sheepishly. “I got a little woman back there in Two Bulls’ camp that’s waitin’ to keep me warm this winter. Course Rider′s a member of that village, and he’s just goin’ home to wait the winter out and visit his old friends. Then I expect we’ll be back up Helena way come spring if we don’t run into somethin’ more interestin’ somewhere else.”
It was difficult for Carrington to take his mind off the broad-shouldered man in buckskins ahead of him, and he was bound to express it. “There’s an uncanny resemblance between your friend Rider and that boy Jim Moran,” he blurted, “don’t you think?”
“You think so?” Johnny replied. “I hadn’t really noticed it, myself. There’s a helluva difference between Rider Twelve Horses and that young boy you captured back on the Solomon.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Carrington said, but he was still not convinced. Since there was nothing he could do about it now, he decided to let the matter rest for the time being. But don’t think I’ll quit until I find out the truth of this thing, he silently promised. He had to admit that he had become obsessed with solving this mystery if only for his own satisfaction. He had even persuaded his uncle to order Wanted posters printed for information on the whereabouts of Jim Moran. Maybe, if this Rider person didn’t remind him so much of the boy he had let escape, he could put it aside for good. Letting it go for the moment, he remarked to Johnny, “There’s a dispatch detail going to Fort Phil Kearney in the morning. You and your friend might want to ride with them.”
“That’d be good,” Johnny said. “Always nice to have extra folks with guns to ride along with you through the Powder River country.”
Later, he and Rider accepted Carrington’s invitation to join his company for supper, but only in order to save their own supply of coffee. As Johnny noted, the coffee was the only thing that was fit to eat, so he and Rider passed up the moldy hard bread and bacon for some dried deer jerky they had brought with them. The following morning, they rode out of the fort with a detail of fifteen troopers, bound for Fort Phil Kearney. From that post, they left once more on their own, bypassing Fort Reno and heading straight for Fort Laramie, a trip of almost five days, making their ride from the Big Belt Mountains to Fort Laramie a total of thirteen days. It was good time, considering the weather.
“By God, what they say about a bad penny always showin’ up must be true,” William Bullock sang out when Johnny and Rider walked into the sutler′s store.
“Hello, Bullock,” Johnny replied. “How come Seth ain’t fired you yet?”
Laughing, they shook hands and pounded each other on the shoulder. Bullock graced Johnny’s solemn companion with a friendly smile and acknowledged, “Rider.” Something about the silent man reminded him of a great cat about to strike, and he seemed hardly likely to participate in the friendly joshing that his partner thrived on. Rider nodded in response to his greeting. Turning back to Johnny, Bullock asked, “What brings you back to Laramie? You lookin’ for Two Bulls’ camp?”
“Yep,” Johnny replied, “that’s a fact. You know where he set up his winter camp?”
“Yeah, I do,” Bullock said. “There was a soldier in here last week that said his patrol had run across Two Bulls’ camp on the North Laramie, east of the mountains, just before the river makes that big turn back to the north.”
Johnny thought that over for a moment, tracing the route in his mind. Then he turned to Rider and said, “That’s close to two days’ ride, and damned if we ain’t runnin’ short of supplies.” Turning back to Bullock, he said, “Are you in a tradin’ mood? ’Cause we need a few things, and we’ve got a couple of prime bearskins and some fine-lookin’ deer hides we might could let go if the price was right.”
“You know I’ll always give you a fair price,” Bullock said, “but hides ain’t bringin’ what they once did—bearskins are always good, but every other pelt is down.”
“Damn, Bullock, you say that every time I come in here.”
“Well, you know I’m just bein’ honest with you,” Bullock said. “I ain’t the one sets the price.”
Johnny shook his head and sighed. “I know it. Just do the best you can.”
When the trading was done, Bullock walked outside with them and stood by while they loaded their purchases on the packhorses. When they were finished, Bullock asked, “You boys headin’ up the river right away?”
Johnny glanced up at the sky before answering. “I expect so. We ain’t gonna get very far before dark, though.”
“I’ve never known you to ride out without takin’ a turn at a saloon for a drink of liquor,” Bullock said with a grin. “You might run into some old friends of yours that lit here a few days ago.”
Curious, Johnny asked, “Who might that be?”
“Big ol’ feller said he used to scout with you and Rider here. Bodine, I think he said his name was—couple of other fellows with him. I don’t recall their names.” He chuckled then when he saw the sour expression the news brought to the little man’s face. “Maybe they ain’t close friends of your′n after all.”
“I expect Billy Hyde was one of ’em,” Johnny said, “a kinda scrawny half-breed?”
“I believe that does sound like one of ’em,” Bullock replied.
“I don’t know who the other’n might be,” Johnny said. He grabbed the saddle horn and pulled himself up on his horse. “But I thought somethin’ smelled bad around here when we rode in. Now I know what it was.”
Bullock laughed, then said, “Quincy, that was the other fellow’s name.” He stepped back to the door then and gave them a little wave as they turned their horses away.
There were few occasions when the somber expression ever changed on Rider′s face, but Johnny had lived with the serious young man long enough to detect changes no matter how slight. And he had noticed the slight reaction in his friend’s face when the name Quincy was dropped. When they had ridden a few yards away from the sutler′s, he asked, “You know this feller Quincy?”
“I know a Quincy,” Rider replied. “A man named Quincy rode with Henry Butcher’s gang. He was on the raid on that farm where I got shot. He was one of the ones that got away.”
Johnny nodded solemnly. “Maybe this ain’t the same Quincy.”
“Maybe,” Rider replied, “but if he’s ridin’ with Bodine and Hyde, it doesn’t make much difference if he’s the same one or not. He’s up to no good.”
“Well, we ain’t likely to run into the bastards, anyway. Let’s get on outta here and head toward Two Bulls’ camp.”
They rode out of Fort Laramie and picked up a well-traveled trail along the bank of the North Laramie River. They would make only a little over six miles before darkness threatened, so they made camp there by the river. Rider took care of the horses while Johnny built a fire and used some of the coffee beans they had just bought. Rider could not help noticing the lifting of the stumpy little man’s spirits, and he recalled the first time the two of them had gone in search of Two Bulls’ village, and the eagerness he exhibited on that occasion—like a child anticipating a birthday party. He was tempted to tease him. “What are you gonna do if Morning Flower has decided to take up with another buck after you left her all summer?”
“Never happen,” Johnny replied confidently. “She knows I’m comin’ back.” He grinned real big then. “She’ll wait for ol’ Little Thunder ’cause she knows I ain’t short all over.”
Rider had to laugh. “I expect the biggest thing about you is your talk.”
Another day and a half brought them to the bend in the river and they spotted the Crow horse herd just shy of it, pawing and scratching the light covering of snow to get to the grass. Beyond the herd, back in the shelter of the hills, they could see the smoke trails from the tipis snaking up through the cold gray sky. Accustomed to a big arrival whenever he approached the village after a long absence, Johnny drew his revolver and fired several shots in the air to let everybody know he was coming. His announcement got the results he desired and he turned to flash Rider a quick grin as the people poured out of their tipis.
The greeting was certainly equal to the first one Rider had experienced with Johnny, and maybe even greater, for Rider Twelve Horses was welcomed as warmly as Little Thunder, with one exception. Giggling like a small child, Morning Flower ran out to meet them and caught Johnny in her arms as he dismounted. Caught in her powerful embrace, the little man barely reached the ground with his tiptoes, causing the people to laugh delightedly. As they crowded around the two, everyone wanted to touch them and welcome them. Deer Foot and White Fox pounded Rider on the shoulders, all smiles as they expressed their pleasure in seeing him again. This time it was a genuine homecoming for the quiet man, and he felt that he was truly a member of the village. Appropriately, Two Bulls called for a dance to celebrate the return of the two white Crows.
The dance went on until the wee hours of the morning. Rider tried to remain awake till the end, but sleep overtook him shortly before dawn and he lay down close to one of the fires with only his saddle blanket for a bed. Little Thunder, on the other hand, not only stayed awake, but participated in the dancing, delighting the people with his comical kicks and bounds. Gradually the crowd retired to their lodges until finally there was no one left to dance. Exhausted to the point of staggering, Johnny and Morning Flower paused before the sleeping form of Rider Twelve Horses. Johnny studied the situation for a few seconds before deciding to leave him where he was. “If he can sleep like that, might as well leave him be,” he said. “He’s too big to carry, anyway.” They wandered off to bed and left him huddled up like a baby on the saddle blanket. A little while later, when the camp was quiet, a slight young girl came from one of the lodges and spread a blanket over him, put some more wood on the fire, then paused to watch him for a few moments before slipping back to her tipi.
He awoke with the sun shining directly in his face. Unable to remember at once where he was, he sat up and looked around him before recalling how he happened to be in the center of the Crow village. Feeling a little foolish, he quickly got to his feet, just then noticing the blanket that he had been sleeping under. He had no idea how it got there, but he folded it carefully while looking around for the best place to empty his bladder. When he decided upon a likely place in a thick stand of pines near the base of the hill, he placed the blanket on his saddle and went to take care of his morning business. He had seen no sign of anyone else up and about, and he had no desire to wake everyone in Morning Flower′s tipi, so he decided he’d build up the smoldering fire and try to revive himself without coffee. He returned from his morning call in time to glimpse a slender Crow girl as she picked up the blanket and hurried toward the circle of tipis. He thought to thank her, but she was already too far for him to call out to her, so he took his time walking back to the fire. There were plenty of half-burned sticks of wood left around the ashes of the large fire that the dancers had circled, so he built up his smaller fire using these. When he had a strong flame going, he sat down on the saddle blanket, warming himself and wishing that he had his coffeepot and coffee beans from the packs in Morning Flower′s lodge.
He had not sat there long when he saw the slender girl again, coming toward him, carrying a parfleche. When he was sure she was coming to him, he got to his feet to greet her. Using the sign language he had learned when living with her people before, he thanked her for the blanket.
She smiled at him and said, “I afraid you get cold.”
“You speak English,” he said, surprised.
“Little bit,” she replied. “I bring you food.” She opened the parfleche she was carrying and offered it to him. Inside, he found cakes of pemmican, a food staple of almost all Indian tribes. He had learned to like it when he spent the previous winter with the Crows. It was an excellent way to preserve meat to have when fresh game was not available. Sun-dried buffalo or deer pounded fine with a maul was mixed with melted fat and sometimes marrow. To give it flavor, a paste of crushed wild cherries was added. The result was a surprisingly pleasant tasting cake that provided nourishment as well, and they couldn’t have come at a better time. He was hungry.
“That’s a lot of pemmican,” he said.
“You big man. I don’t know how much you eat.”
He smiled at her and said, “I don’t eat that much.” He took what he wanted and closed the parfleche. “Here, you take the rest back to your tipi—and thank you.” She smiled and took it from him, her eyes averted to avoid his gaze. “And thank you for bringin’ that blanket.”
“Deer Foot tell me to bring blanket,” she said.
“Deer Foot? Are you Deer Foot’s wife?”
She placed her hand over her mouth to hide her giggle. “No wife,” she said, then paused while she sought to remember the English word she searched for.
“Sister? Are you Deer Foot’s sister?”
She nodded vigorously, still laughing. “Yes,” she said, “sister.”
“Well, it’s plain to see who got all the looks in the family,” he said, causing her to look puzzled, and he realized that she didn’t understand what he meant. So he told her in words she could understand. “You are a very pretty girl,” he said, then told her again in sign language, to be sure she got it. She did, for she blushed and promptly turned on her heel and fled back to her lodge. “Well, what in the hell got into her?” he questioned aloud.
Later, when the camp came fully alive again, Johnny came looking for him. Beaming openly, he apologized for leaving him lying by the fire all night. “You was sleepin’ so peaceful-like I didn’t wanna roust you out. Besides, I had some urgent business I had to tend to.”
He winked mischievously. “Come on back to Morning Flower′s lodge. I know you. I bet you’d give a big toe for a cup of fresh coffee, wouldn’t you?”
“As a matter of fact,” Rider replied, “I reckon I’da starved to death if Deer Foot’s little sister hadn’t brought me a sack of pemmican this mornin’ while you were still snorin’.”
This captured Johnny’s attention right away. “What? Deer Foot’s sister brought you food?”
“Yeah, and she covered me with a blanket last night,” Rider replied.
“Hot damn!” Johnny exclaimed. “Sounds to me like that little Injun gal is takin’ a shine to you.”
Rider had to give that some thought. He had assumed that the girl’s actions were no more than a show of kindness to welcome him back to the village and nothing more. He expressed as much to Johnny. “It was Deer Foot’s doin’,” he said. “She said he sent her with the blanket.”
“I swear,” Johnny replied, perplexed by the naïveté of his young friend. “Ain’t you learned nothin’ about Injuns? Course Deer Foot sent her. It’d be an honor to him to have you in the family.” He grinned at his astonished partner. “It might not be the last little gal that gets paraded by you. Might be a good time to take a wife.”
“You’re crazy,” Rider said good-naturedly. “She ain’t much more’n a child.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Johnny replied. “I ain’t got a look at her yet, but she was a sight more’n a child when we was here last winter. You sure you took a good look?”
In fact, he hadn’t. Thoughts of women and prospective wives had never entered his mind since his unpleasant experience with Lucy Taylor. That episode had all but closed that door in his brain. Deer Foot’s sister might have caused it to drift ajar.
