Chapter 8
The uniformed guard tapped lightly on the office door before opening it far enough to stick his head through. “Clayton’s here, Warden,” he said.
Warden Nathaniel K. Boswell looked up from his desk. “Well, tell him to come on in,” he said, and leaned back in his chair in amused anticipation of the deputy marshal’s report.
Deputy Marshal Zach Clayton strode into the office. The trace of chagrin he wore on his face bore proof that he knew full well the reception awaiting him. Boswell did not disappoint.
“Howdy, Zach. I hear tell you’ve taken to riding the train lately,” the warden said. “Have a seat. I heard you’ve been doing a little walking, too.” He could not suppress all of the grin that threatened to spread across his face. He could well imagine the embarrassment for Clayton following his encounter with the escaped felons, resulting in his having to walk to Cheyenne, then take the train back to Laramie. Zach Clayton was a proud man, although he would never admit it.
Clayton and Boswell had known each other for a number of years, from the time when Boswell was a sheriff. He knew before he walked in that his old friend was going to ride him hard for this one. “Yeah, Nat, I reckon you can crow a little about this one, but it ain’t over yet.”
“According to your telegram, you had one of ’em, but you let him get away and leave you on foot,” Boswell said, enjoying the interview. “How’d that happen?”
Clayton smirked and rubbed the healing cut on his chin. “He was very persuasive,” he replied, “so I told him to go along and I’d just walk back to Cheyenne. Hell, it wasn’t but fifteen miles.” He went on to tell Boswell how he had happened to ride into the ambush with Ballenger and Yancey. “As for young Conner, that’s a hard one to figure out. If he hadn’t jumped those two from behind and run ’em off, I might still be pinned down behind my horse. It’s hard to arrest a man after he’s just saved your bacon.” He paused, thinking about it. “But I took the oath, so I arrested him”—he shook his head as if finding it hard to believe—“and then let him get the jump on me.”
“Got any ideas about Ballenger and the other fellow?” Boswell asked. “Where they might be headed?”
“None at all,” Clayton replied. “They could be heading anywhere, but I’d bet on Montana Territory, Bozeman or Helena most likely. They’ll show up before long, rob a bank or hold up a stage, and then I’ll be right behind ’em.”
“Zach, we could turn this over to another marshal in Montana,” Boswell suggested.
“Hell no,” Clayton responded at once. “I’ll run those bastards down if I have to go to Canada to catch ’em. I ain’t ever quit on a job.” His dark eyebrows lowered to form a heavy frown. “I’ll catch young Conner, too.” His frown deepened. “He might be a little harder to run down, ’cause he ain’t likely to rob no banks or nothin’. He just wants to lose himself somewhere, but one of these days he’ll turn around and I’ll be standin’ there.”
Expecting nothing less from the reliable deputy, Boswell said, “All right, it that’s what you’re of a mind to do. But, Zach, that country’s dangerous right now. You watch yourself.”
Joanna Becker knelt beside the gently flowing creek, trying to see her reflection in the water. It was not dark enough to reflect a clear image, giving her a distorted picture of her battered face. Much of the tenderness had gone from the bruises left by the brutal wide-shouldered savage, but she feared the cut on one side of her face would leave a scar. What will Robert think? she asked herself. “He’ll understand,” she said softly in reply.
She continued to stare into the water, touching her bruised face lightly with her fingertips. The touch caused her to shiver when she remembered the abuse that had brought about her wounds. She vowed that she would never tell her husband the full extent of her abuse. It might break his heart. She looked up from the creek to glance at the stranger who had rescued her and protected her as he led the horses up from the creek and prepared to saddle them. She thanked God for Clint Conner, marveling that he would interrupt his life to see her safely home. She also thanked God for the man’s decency. Out in these mountains, removed from all civilization, he could easily have used her and then abandoned her, and no one would ever have known. But she had learned that Clint was a man of integrity and honor, a man she could put all her trust in.
Reminding herself that she should help him break camp, she quickly splashed water on her face and smoothed her hair back. She couldn’t block the thought that crept in as she patted her face dry. He’s seeing me at my very worst, she thought. She was well aware that she was not really a pretty woman, but she knew that she was not truly homely, either. Just plain, she thought, and then scolded herself for even wondering whether it mattered how she looked to Clint.
“I expect we’d best get goin’,” he said when Joanna walked back from the creek, “if you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” she replied as cheerfully as she could manage. “I’ll just rinse out the coffeepot and put out the fire.”
Looking over the saddle as he tightened Rowdy’s cinch, he watched her as she hurried about the campfire. He couldn’t help but admire her spirit after what she had suffered. She had tried not to be a burden to him. Last night she had insisted that she should prepare their supper. “I should do something to carry my weight,” she had proclaimed, and mixed up some pan biscuits with the flour he had brought from his father’s house. They were pretty good, too, he thought. Her husband’s a lucky man.
In the saddle again, they started out, following the creek through a series of foothills, Clint first, leading his packhorse, and Joanna coming on behind. The prior two days had been spent tracing various springs and streams through the mountains in hopes that they would lead to some place Joanna recognized. None had, but the creek they were now on was only a few hundred yards from its confluence with a river that Joanna guessed might be the Beaver. Upon reaching the river, there was a question as to the proper direction to turn, north or south, in hopes of finding the forks that she remembered crossing when abducted. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t honestly know.”
He nodded patiently, and stood up in the stirrups to look around them. “Judging from the direction of their trail before we lost it back there, I’d say we need to go south.” Then without waiting for further discussion, he turned Rowdy in that direction. Riding with the dark outline of the Black Hills on their left, they had progressed no more than two or three miles when Joanna spurred her horse up beside him. “There!” she exclaimed, pointing ahead. “There’s the fork with this river. I remember that!”
There were more than a few game trails leading down from the mountains to the river. They all looked the same to Joanna. She could not say which trail was the one her abductors had taken down to the river. Clint examined each likely prospect for sign, but could find none. Finally, he decided to follow the one that looked to be the most used, and they started up through the pines. It was late in the afternoon when the trail turned and led them back toward the river. The second trail they picked seemed more promising when it led up over a small ridge and then took them down into a long narrow gulch that cut deep into the mountains. “We came this way!” Joanna exclaimed as the gray rocky walls closed in to form a narrow passageway, and memories of that dark horrible night returned to her. Her throat tightened as she recalled those terrifying moments.
Seeing the terror registering in her face, he tried to reassure her. “Well, that’s good,” he said softly. “We’ll have you home soon, and you’ll be back with your husband and your father.”
She nodded and the moment of anxiety passed. Pointing up the trail, she said, “It’s not far now, just on the other side of that ridge.” The worry of seconds before was replaced by anticipation of her reunion with her husband and father, and she pushed ahead of Clint, anxious to go home.
Karl Steiner looked over the supplies he had gathered to take with him. They seemed meager to set out with on a trip that could last for a long, long time. Seeing the small quantity of flour and coffee beans, he said, “I shoulda opened those packs that son of a bitch had on his horse,” thinking of his son-in-law’s sudden departure. “He damn sure took a generous share.”
He paused to listen when his horse whinnied in the corral, but made no effort to investigate until he suddenly heard a horse lope into the clearing. He dropped the sack of coffee beans and grabbed the rifle propped against the table. Running to slam the open door, he was stopped in his tracks, hardly believing his eyes.
“Papa!” Joanna cried breathlessly when she saw him. Sliding from her horse, she almost stumbled in her excitement to reach her father.
Stunned almost to the point of collapsing, the old man had to grab the doorjamb for support until he realized that it really was Joanna returned from the dead. “Oh, baby girl,” he repeated over and over as he looked at his daughter’s bruised and swollen face. Pulling her close in his arms, he whispered, “You’re home, you’re home.” Still holding his daughter tightly, he glanced up to discover a man slowly walking his horse into the clearing. Astonished, he asked, “Who’s that?”
Without relaxing her embrace, she said, “Clint Conner, he’s the reason I’m back home safe.” Releasing him then, she asked, “Where’s Robert—at the claim?” The moment of joy for Karl was suddenly lost, replaced by one of reluctance. Seeing the baleful look in her father’s eyes, she exclaimed, “Is Robert all right?”
Knowing of no way to tell her that would not devastate her, he came out with it. “Robert’s not here. He packed up and went back east.”
“What?” she gasped, unable to understand. “Why?”
“Why? I don’t know,” he said, not wishing to tell her that her husband didn’t want her after she had been with the Indians. “Because he ain’t fit to wear men’s clothes, I reckon. It’s good riddance I say.” He motioned toward the supplies covering the table. “I was fixing to go search for you again, but he wouldn’t even do that.” He held her by her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “It’s better you found out what he was made of now, instead of later on,” he said.
Joanna was staggered, her brain reeling as much as it did from the physical blows she suffered from the broad-shouldered warrior. Robert gone! She felt all the blood drain from her head, and had to sink to the floor to keep from fainting. With the unspeakable abuse she had endured, she expected to need some time for herself to recover. But if she never spoke of these things, she had hoped Robert would understand, never question her or press for details. There had never been any thought that he might abandon her. It was not her fault she had been abducted. How could Robert blame her, and look upon her as soiled? He didn’t even wait around to find out for sure.
A silent observer to the tragic homecoming, Clint found himself furious for Joanna. In the few days they had traveled together, he had known her to be a fine and decent woman, and deserving of an understanding husband. As his fury subsided, he felt a wave of compassion for the jilted woman, but there was nothing he could think of to alleviate her pain. So he turned Joanna’s horse out in the small corral and left the grieving father and daughter to their sorrow without the intrusion of his presence.
He was checking the buckskin’s front hooves when he heard Karl Steiner coming up behind him. He stood up to face him. “Mr. Conner,” Karl greeted him, and extended his hand.
“Clint,” Clint corrected him, shaking his hand.
“Clint,” Karl repeated, talking with a thick German accent. “I apologize for my lack of hospitality, but it was a bad time for my daughter. I had to tell her some bad things.”
“Yessir,” Clint responded. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I’m real sorry for Joanna. She deserves better. I’m sorry about your wife, too. I expect I’d best get along and let you folks have your privacy.”
“No, sir,” Karl replied emphatically. “I wouldn’t hear of it. Joanna told me what you did for her—and for me. I have you to thank for giving me back my daughter. No, sir, I insist you stay with us. Joanna’s strong. She’s in the house now, starting supper, and she would never forgive you if you didn’t stay.”
“I don’t wanna be in the way with her feelin’ so bad right now,” Clint said.
“Clint, she wants you to stay. She feels she owes you for her life. Hell, man, I owe you for bringing my daughter back. Anything you want that I can give, I owe you.”
Clint nodded his surrender. “A cup of coffee’ll do, I reckon.”
“Well, I can certainly manage that,” Karl said with a wide grin. “Put your horses in the corral with mine and come on in the house.”
As soon as her father left to go talk to Clint, Joanna went to her room and changed out of the dirty torn dress she had been wearing since she was taken. She told herself to be strong, that she could live with the stigma of being discarded, and she was determined to show a strong resolve for Clint’s sake. She was burning the dirty dress in the fireplace when the men came in. It could have been washed and mended, but she would never wear that dress again, and she didn’t want it around to remind her.
“I hope that wasn’t supper,” Karl said, not really having seen what was going up in flames.
Clint got a glimpse of the material he had been seeing every day, and knew at once the significance of the cremation. Joanna glanced in his direction, but would not meet his gaze lest he saw the redness from crying. “Sit down, Clint,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.” There were so many things troubling her mind, her mother’s death, her captivity, her husband’s desertion, but she was determined to remain strong at this moment. There would be time later, when alone in her bed, when she could succumb to her grief.
Clint watched her closely as she went about preparing a meal for them. It seemed there was a sadness in her face that was not there while the two of them were searching the mountains for the cabin. He felt that it was not entirely due to the shock of finding her husband gone, but also because she was faced with the reality of her mother’s death. During the time when the two of them were concerned with the possibility of being found by another war party, there was little time to dwell on other things. His concern now was the sense of security she and her father might feel just because they were home. In his mind, there was no safety for the two of them in this remote cabin. It was just a matter of time before the next war party found them. Further thought on the matter was interrupted when Joanna set a plate of beans and biscuits before him.
“Sorry, but this is about all I could scare up on short notice,” she said. “It’s not much for grown men, but maybe it’ll keep your stomach warm.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t been thinking much about fresh meat for a while,” Karl apologized.
“I reckon that’s understandable,” Clint said. “That’s one thing I can do for you. I’ll go huntin’ in the mornin’. Lord knows I saw plenty of sign on the way in.”
When supper was finished, Clint and Joanna’s father remained seated at the table drinking coffee while Joanna cleaned up the dishes. After listening to Joanna’s account of the days following her rescue, until they showed up here at the cabin, Karl began to tell Clint about his journey from Germany when Joanna was a baby. And before he wound down, he had taken Clint through every phase of his and his family’s life, from New York to Missouri, to Omaha, and finally to this cabin in the Black Hills. Halfway through, Clint caught Joanna’s gaze, and she rolled her eyes heavenward as a sign of boredom. Clint smiled at her, understanding the old man’s need to talk about the past.
Finished at last, Karl paused to light his pipe, puffing out great clouds of gray smoke. “I guess I’ve been doing all the talking,” he confessed. “I must apologize.”
“Quite all right,” Clint replied.
“What about you, Clint?” Karl asked, settling back in his chair. “Joanna said you were on your way to Montana.”
“That’s a fact,” Clint said.
Hoping for more of a response than that, Karl continued to probe. “Where in Montana?”
“Can’t say for sure. I reckon I’ll know when I find it.”
“You got family?” Karl asked in an effort to get his guest to open up a little. Unnoticed by both men, the question prompted Joanna to pause and listen.
“Nope, just my pa back in Cheyenne,” Clint answered, reluctant to delve any deeper.
“What are you planning on doing when you get to Montana?” Karl pressed.
As interested as her father in the young man’s plans, Joanna, however, perceived the reluctance on Clint’s part. “Papa, for goodness’ sake, let the poor man drink his coffee. You’ll wear him out with your questions.”
Her father jerked his head back with a mock expression of surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosey.” He chuckled and winked at Clint. Then to Joanna he explained, “I had already been thinking about pulling out of here myself, even before those savages ran off with you. I hadn’t said anything to Robert about it, but I was thinking about going on up to the Yellowstone with your uncle Frederick. That’s why I was interested in what part of Montana Clint was heading for. We weren’t scraping enough gold out of that stream to buy salt and flour. And Frederick has always tried to get me to join him up there.” He glanced over at Clint then. “My younger brother went out to Montana with two other families a year ago. They’re farming a strip of land on the lower side of the Yellowstone River where the Tongue River connects with it. I thought if you’re going up Montana way, it might be a good time for us to pull up stakes and go with you—as far as the Yellowstone, anyway. There ain’t a helluva lot of summer left, so I was thinking I’d better get going if we’re going to do it. I think it would be better for Joanna, too, to be around other folks instead of wasting away up here with an old man. Of course, you might not want any company.” He looked at Clint and waited for his response.
“It’s fine with me,” Clint replied at once. “I think you’re asking for more trouble if you stay here in these mountains by yourself.” He was actually relieved to know that Joanna would not be at the mercy of any roving Sioux raiding parties that happened upon the isolated cabin. Equally relieved, Joanna smiled her approval.
The next few days were spent in preparation for the journey north. It could have been done more quickly, but for the need for fresh meat. So Clint spent one day hunting in the mountain ridges for deer. As he had noticed before, there was plenty of deer sign close to the cabin, and they were not hard to find. He came upon a small herd drinking from a spring at the bottom of a ravine. Since he planned to smoke the meat to preserve it, he passed up a shot at a ten-point buck in favor of a medium-sized one. He wanted a deer that was in good condition without much fat; the less fat, the better and quicker the meat would dry.
Back at the cabin, he and Karl cut four forked stakes to support the drying frame they fashioned; then the venison was cut in strips to hang from racks made from tree limbs over a fire pit dug in the yard. One whole day was required to properly dry the jerky, but there was enough to last them for the journey to Montana. When all was ready to depart, Karl closed the door to the cabin that had been his family’s home for only eight months. He and Joanna made one last visit to the grave of his late wife before stepping up in the saddle. There were no happy memories left there by him or his daughter as they followed Clint up the side of the ridge, each rider leading a packhorse, loaded with the earthly possessions of all three.
With no real knowledge of the country they had set out to cross, they went back in the general direction Clint and Joanna had come from when he brought her home. Reaching the Belle Fourche, they decided to follow the course that Clint had originally picked before his encounter with Joanna’s abductors. “I figured on holding to a north and slightly west trail, figured I had to hit the Yellowstone somewhere,” Clint said. “Once we strike the Yellowstone, I reckon then we’ll have to figure out which way to go to find your brother’s place.”
Less than a day’s ride found them approaching the banks of another river. Recollecting the planned route that his brother had told him about back in Omaha, Karl speculated that it might be the Powder, and he knew that the place his brother described was at the confluence of the Tongue and the Yellowstone. “If we keep bearing to the west, we’ll reach the Tongue River,” he said. “Then we can follow it north to the Yellowstone.”
“That suits me just fine,” Clint responded. “I ain’t ever seen any of this country before.”
They camped by the river that night and started out on a more westerly course the next morning. A little before the sun was directly overhead they came upon a trail apparently left by an entire village of Indians on the move. The trail led directly from the west, causing Clint and Karl to decide it best to turn a little more north so as not to chance overtaking them. Stopping only long enough to rest the horses, they pushed on until almost nightfall, crossing several other trails of smaller Indian parties heading west. As the sun settled lower in the prairie to the west, they spotted another river by the line of trees in the distance. “I was hoping we’d come up on a stream or river or something before dark,” Karl said.
“Maybe I’d better ride on ahead and take a look around before we go ridin’ into those trees,” Clint decided. “As much Indian sign as we’ve seen today, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was someone else camping there already.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” Karl concurred. “Joanna and I will stay back here below this ridge till you call us in.”
With his rifle cradled across his arms, Clint held Rowdy to a comfortable lope until he reached the edge of a line of cottonwoods that bordered a river. Walking the buckskin slowly through the brush and trees, he looked the bank over for the best place to camp. He had just about settled upon a spot when he noticed that Rowdy’s ears, seldom still, were now pricked up as if he heard something. Could be he senses something, Clint thought, animal or man. I’d best take a look.
He dismounted, looped Rowdy’s reins over a berry bush, and with his rifle ready, walked farther along the bank. By then the approaching evening dusk had descended upon the riverbank and the daylight faded away, affording him the cover of darkness. He had walked no more than a few dozen yards when he discovered the cause of Rowdy’s concern. Through the trees that skirted the water, he saw the faint flicker of a flame. That’s what I was afraid of, he thought, and cautiously edged his way to get a better look.
Before moving any closer, he paused to check the wind, concerned that a horse might announce his presence. He determined that he was downwind, so he kept moving forward until he reached a large cottonwood that afforded ample cover while giving him a better look at the camp. He was immediately relieved to see only two horses and apparently one man sleeping on the other side of a small campfire. From the look of things, he wasn’t sure whether he was an Indian or not.
He considered whether he should hail the camp or go back and get his horse and then ride in. Even if he was a white man, Clint had no way of knowing what manner of man would be traveling through Indian country alone. Maybe, he thought, it might be wiser to go back for Karl and Joanna, then move downriver a mile or so, and let this traveler be. Probably the smartest, he decided, and turned to retrace his steps.
Making his way through the darkened trees, he returned to his horse to find Rowdy still fidgeting nervously. “It’s just me, boy,” Clint said in an effort to calm the horse. “Looks like a peaceful traveler. We’ll just let him be.”
“I’m right glad to hear that, friend.” Clint whirled at once, his rifle before him, searching for the source of the words. “Take her easy, there,” the voice came again, “you ain’t got nothin’ to fear from me.”
Although he still couldn’t tell which tree the man was behind, Clint relaxed his defensive stance. He figured if whoever it was intended to shoot him, he would already have done so. As soon as he did, a gnarled little knot of a man stepped out from behind a tree, dressed head to foot in buckskins. He carried a Remington Rolling Block rifle, and when he rested the butt on the ground, the muzzle of the long heavy barrel was even with his shoulder. As speechless as if a gnome or a forest spirit had suddenly materialized from the darkness, Clint stood gaping at the little man.
“I seen you when you was ridin’ across that ridge back yonder,” the man said. “These days, it’s a good idea to check on who’s checkin’ on you, so I circled back around here while you were takin’ a look at my camp.”
Clint couldn’t help but chuckle, even though he’d been outfoxed by the harmless-looking little man. “I reckon that’s fair enough,” he allowed.
“What in tarnation are you doin’ out here? Ain’t you heard about Little Big Horn?”
“No. What about it?”
The elfish little man explained that there had been a terrible battle on the Little Big Horn, and that Colonel George Custer had suffered a massacre. Though mildly shocked by the news, Clint figured there was nothing he could do about it now. “My name’s Clint Conner,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of friends back yonder behind that last ridge, a man and his daughter. We were fixin’ to make camp, on our way to Yellowstone country,”
“Billy Turnipseed,” the little man replied, stepping forward to shake Clint’s hand. “Go on back and get your friends, and you’re welcome at my campfire. I done et, but I’d be proud to boil you some coffee—if I had some coffee beans. You ain’t got some by any chance, have you?”
Clint laughed again. “Yeah, we’ve got some coffee. I’ll go fetch my friends.” He slipped his rifle back in the saddle sling and stepped up on Rowdy.
Billy backed away to give him room to turn the horse. “I’m thinkin’ you might be the feller that shot them Injuns over near the Belle Fourche. I heard that Red Hand said that man rode a buckskin horse like this one, and had a woman with him.” Clint checked the big horse momentarily, wondering whether that might change things. Billy grinned and said, “They said he had a Spirit Gun that didn’t miss.” He turned to go to his camp. “Go get your folks, and we’ll drink some coffee. I ain’t had no coffee in a long time.”
When Clint led Karl and Joanna into the little clearing by the riverbank, Billy Turnipseed had recharged his fire and moved his saddle back away from it. After the introductions were made, Clint and Karl took care of the horses while Joanna ground some coffee beans, and soon the coffeepot was boiling away. Although Billy had already eaten, he reconsidered and accepted Joanna’s offer to share their supper. She made a thick soup by boiling some of the deer jerky with dried beans, thickened with a small amount of flour. It was good eatin’, Billy testified.
While they sat around the fire, finishing the coffee, Billy told them how he happened to be a lone trapper and hunter in the midst of several Indian tribes that were growing more and more hostile. “I’ve rode the Powder River valley, up and down, back and forth, for over fifteen years by my calculations—at least as nigh as I remember. I’ve trapped over as far as Three Forks, up the Milk and the Musselshell, and the Missouri as far as Fort Benton. But mostly, I’ve been after buffalo for the last few years.”
“How is it you don’t have any trouble with the Indians?” Karl asked.
“I get along fine with the Injuns,” Billy said as he wiped the remains of his soup from his whiskers and licked his fingers. “Lived with ’em for a few years—old Angry Bear’s Lakotas. They even give me a name, Sung ma< he tu.”
“What’s it mean?” Karl asked.
Billy giggled. “Coyote,” he said. “Old Angry Bear said I weren’t much bigger than a coyote, but I could take a buffalo down just the same.”
Clint found the spry little man entertaining, with his shaggy beard draped across his wrinkled face from ear to ear like a tablecloth spread over a knotty oak table. “Don’t the Sioux resent you killin’ buffalo?” he asked.
“Nah, not me. They know I just kill what I need to get by. I ain’t doin’ it to sell the hides.” He winked at Joanna and said, “Ever’ once in a while, though, I take a couple of extra hides to swap for coffee and tobacco.”
“Which way are you headin’?” Clint asked when there was a lull in the conversation.
“South,” Billy answered, “goin’ to Fort Laramie. Maybe trade them hides you seen under my blanket.”
Clint laughed. He explained to Karl and Joanna that Billy had placed his blanket over a bundle of hides to make it look like a man sleeping while he circled around to Clint’s horse. “Well, I didn’t know how friendly you folks were,” Billy confessed.
“Maybe you can give us a little help,” Clint said. “None of us know the country we’re ridin’ through. We camped last night on a river, took us all day to get here. Is this the Powder?”
“You really don’t know where in the bejesus you are, do you?” Billy replied patiently. “No, son, this ain’t the Powder. This is the Little Powder. That river you camped on last night I expect is the Little Missouri. You say you’re tryin’ to get to the Yellowstone?”
Clint nodded and said, “Where it meets the Tongue.”
“Whaddaya wanna go there for?”
“My brother and some other families are farming some land near there,” Karl said.
Billy grimaced at the mention of farmers, but offered his advice. “You’d best follow this river north. It’ll take you about two days before you come to the fork where this meets up with the Powder. You can cut across northwest from there, ’cause you wanna strike the Tongue and follow that on in. I oughta tell you, though, after you leave the fork at the Powder, you’ll strike a fair-sized creek in about half a day. You might wanna follow that creek for another half a day or so before you go west again to strike the Tongue. There’s a lot of Injun goin’s-on in that country right now. There’s whole villages of Injuns scatterin’ in all directions since the fight at the Little Horn. You folks best keep a sharp eye where you’re goin’ ’cause they ain’t too friendly to white folks.” He cocked an eye in Clint’s direction. “Especially one that’s killed four of Red Hand’s warriors. I expect Red Hand’s already lookin’ for you. I noticed the lady rode in settin’ an Injun saddle, and I’d guess three of them horses is Injun ponies. They ain’t wearin’ no shoes.” He turned his head to talk directly to Clint then. “So you keep your eyes open, son, and keep that Winchester you’re totin’ ready to use.”
With the dawning of a new day, they bid farewell to Billy “Coyote” Turnipseed and followed the Little Powder north. The strange little man left, happily carrying a small sack of coffee beans given him by Joanna after warning Clint once again to be careful. Heeding Billy’s advice, Clint kept an observant eye out as they made their way north. They rode close by the river, since it was the quickest cover available in case of an encounter with hostiles, but they saw no sign of Indian activity all day long. At the end of the day they rode into the trees to make camp.
Joanna walked along the riverbank until she was certain she was out of sight of the camp. Once she was sure of her privacy, she removed her shoes and stockings, removed her cotton underpants, and waded out into the cool water. With her skirt tied up around her waist, she walked out until the water was well over her knees. Looking around her again, fearful of being seen by one of the men, she then examined the large bruises on the insides of her thighs. Blue and just beginning to turn yellow, they no longer ached as before, but the sickening feeling the sight of them provoked would live with her a long time. She thought then of Robert, and pictured him riding away from the cabin, unable to bear the thought of living with a wife who had been ravaged by savages. Maybe I shouldn’t blame him, she thought. Robert was not a strong or capable man. She surprised herself with the thought, realizing that she had never labeled her husband that way before. She was not ready to admit that it was probably brought about by a comparison with Clint. She resolved to think less of Robert Becker. That part of her life was over.
Clint came to an abrupt halt when he was suddenly surprised by the sight of the young woman standing in the river in water over her knees. With her skirt tied up around her waist, there was a generous portion of her slender thighs exposed. He could not help but pause a moment to stare, grateful that her back was turned toward him. But a moment was all he would allow himself before quietly turning around and withdrawing to search for firewood on the other side of the camp. The incident set his mind to thinking, however, and he wondered what manner of man Robert Becker was. He couldn’t have been much, Clint thought, to go off and leave his wife like that. He considered for a moment the possibility that he might take a wife someday. I can’t see it, he decided. I’ll probably be a loner all my life—end up like Billy Turnipseed.