There was no point in wasting time looking for a fresh trail that might or might not be that of Bill Pike. Pike could have taken any direction away from Deadwood. Jordan knew if he ever met the man, it would have to be strictly as a result of pure luck. Where would a man like that likely head for? He could have decided to ride on to Bismarck and Fort Lincoln, or he might have returned to Fort Laramie. Hattie had said that the boy, Toby Blessings, had seen a stranger riding out toward Wolf Valley. That was a roundabout trail that crossed the main trail at the lower end of the valley. If a man continued on, crossing the main trail and heading west, he would eventually come out on the Belle Fourche—hardly the way to Fort Laramie. But Fort Laramie was where Pike had found out that Polly had gone to Deadwood. Jordan decided that because it was from Fort Laramie that Pike had come, he would most likely be heading back that way. But who could say for sure? Maybe he had reason to head for the Big Horns, or beyond.
Jordan had no idea what the man looked like—except for the fact he had a scar on his left cheek—or what kind of horse he rode, but Toby Blessings had seemed certain that the man he had seen on the Wolf Valley trail was Bill Pike. It was the only thing approaching a solid guess. There was nothing else to go on, so Jordan decided to follow the same trail.
As Sweet Pea carried him through the hills and valleys before the river, Jordan rode easy in the saddle, his mind occupied not only with thoughts of the manner of man he hunted, but also of obligations he had left behind in Laramie. When he had learned of Polly’s decision to hire Jim Eagle as a guide, he had left a puzzled Lieutenant DiMarco wondering if his scout was going to return. I expect I may have lost my job as a scout, he thought. The possibility didn’t overly trouble him. Scouting for the army was not his greatest ambition in life. He had witnessed Crook’s arrival at Fort Laramie back in February, where the general had picked up three more companies of cavalry to join his campaign against the Sioux. At that time, Jordan was offered the opportunity to join a company of approximately thirty scouts under the command of Colonel Thaddeus Stanton. He had declined the offer. He judged the assembly of scouts to be no more than a collection of riffraff, cutthroats, and ne’er-do-wells—not the caliber of men he felt he could rely upon. The mere fact that, with that collection of scouts, Crook’s column had attacked a Cheyenne village on the Powder River, thinking they had destroyed Crazy Horse’s Sioux camp, was testimony enough that his assessment had been accurate. Until that point, the Cheyenne had considered themselves at peace with the army. Jordan had been at Fort Laramie when the news came back that Crazy Horse’s village, his supplies and food stores, had been destroyed. He had been skeptical at once. His own feeling was that Crazy Horse was most likely camped on the east fork of the Little Powder. From what he had been told by Iron Pony, the village Crook’s troops attacked was not as large as that of Crazy Horse. Some scouts, he had thought. They can’t even tell the difference between a Cheyenne and a Sioux camp.
Now, as Jordan approached the Belle Fourche, General Crook’s column was about to set out from Fort Fetterman, once again in search of Crazy Horse’s Oglala Sioux. He damn sure better be ready for a fight if he finds him, Jordan thought. Then he put it out of his mind. He had other things to think about—primarily a man with a four-inch horizontal scar across his left cheek.
Jonah Parsons paused a moment to listen. Solomon, his mule, curled his upper lip and let out a low bray to alert Jonah that it had caught the scent of a strange horse. The mule was very seldom wrong about things like that, so Jonah got to his feet and moved away from the fire. Might be a horse, might be a wolf or coyote, he thought. There was no sense sitting by the fire where he would make an easy target. Unlike most white men, Jonah had no fear of trouble from Sioux or Cheyenne war parties. He was well known by local bands of both tribes, and generally accepted as one of them. Still, it was always best to be cautious anytime when traveling alone in this part of the world.
As usual, Solomon was right. Jonah knelt just below the rim of a gully, his rifle ready, his aging eyes searching the darkness for sign of any movement when he heard his visitor call out. “Hello, the camp!” It was a white man by the sound of his voice, but Jonah could not make him out as yet.
“Hallo, yourself,” Jonah returned, still straining to see who was approaching his camp.
“I’m comin’ in. All right?”
“Come on then,” Jonah replied.
After a few moments, the form of a single rider appeared, moving up from the willows by the creek. Still cautious, Jonah remained where he was in the dark shadow of the gully, watching the stranger carefully. When it was obvious the man was traveling alone, Jonah stepped back into the firelight to greet his visitor. “Howdy,” he offered guardedly, still wondering what possessed a man to be riding around the prairie in the middle of the night.
“Howdy,” Bill Pike returned, and stepped down from the saddle. Noticing that Jonah was still careful to keep his rifle ready, he sought to put the old man at ease. “You got no call to worry about me. I just caught sight of your fire and thought you might have a cup of coffee to spare.”
“You pick a strange time of night to travel,” Jonah remarked.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m in a hurry to get to Fort Laramie. I’m plumb out of supplies, and I ain’t had much luck huntin’, so I’ve been ridin’ at night to make up time.”
Jonah studied the man’s face for a moment. It was not a kind face, he decided. It might be a good idea to keep a careful eye on him. “Come from the Black Hills, I bet,” Jonah finally said. “Lookin’ for gold till your supplies run out.”
A sly grin formed on Bill’s face. “Well, now, that’s a fact, all right.”
Jonah relaxed his grip on the rifle. “There’s coffee in the pot. Help yourself.” He paused, watching for a moment as Bill filled a cup. “You say you’re headin’ for Fort Laramie?” When Bill nodded, Jonah continued, “Well, if you just come from the Black Hills, you ain’t hardly headed to Fort Laramie. You’re headin’ west, toward the Powder River country.” He pointed toward the south. “Laramie’s that a’way.” And you ain’t the first dumb-ass pilgrim to go wandering around lost, he thought. “Git yourself some of that deer meat on the fire. I got plenty.”
“Much obliged,” Pike said, somewhat irritated to find out he had been traveling in the wrong direction. He tried not to show it as he eagerly helped himself to Jonah’s supper. “I reckon a man gets a little confused travelin’ at night.”
“I reckon,” Jonah replied while thinking that it never happened to him.
“Where are you headed?” Bill asked as he devoured a chunk of meat the size of his fist. Now that his hunger pangs were subdued, he glanced around the little camp, taking inventory of Jonah’s possessions. Returning his gaze to the old man, he told himself that it might have been good fortune that he had stumbled upon Jonah’s camp.
“Powder River Valley,” Jonah answered in reply to Bill’s question.
“What’s at Powder River?” Bill asked.
Jonah shrugged. “Nothin’ much but a whole heap of soldiers and maybe just as many Injuns.” He could see at once that his answer puzzled his visitor. “The soldiers set out to find Sittin’ Bull and his folks,” Jonah explained. “They’re supposed to have set up a stagin’ point at old Fort Reno.”
“What the hell would you wanna go there for?”
Jonah smiled patiently. It was like trying to explain the lure of the high mountains to a child. “There’s bound to be a helluva fight when them soldiers catch up to Sittin’ Bull and Crazy Horse.”
Jonah’s answer left Bill still puzzled. “You mean you’re goin’ there to see the fight?”
Jonah tried to explain that there were other reasons for his interest in the outcome of General Crook’s campaign to force the Sioux back to the reservation. Jonah had many friends among the Lakota and Oglala bands. His concern was for their welfare, for he knew they would not go peacefully. He had never met General Crook or any of his officers, but they had evidently heard of him, for they had left word at Fort Laramie inviting him to join the company of scouts with the expedition. They had probably been told of his long years living with the Lakota, and figured he would be valuable to the campaign. Jonah was more interested in the fate of his adopted tribe. He was acting upon the general’s invitation simply because he hoped to help prevent undue abuse of the free-roaming Indians.
“And you ain’t never met any of the officers with the general?” Pike asked.
“Nope.”
“They’re willin’ to hire you on, sight unseen? Pay you five dollars a day?” Bill asked. “For doin’ what?”
“Like I said, scoutin’. Only I ain’t sure I’ll take a job to scout agin my own people.”
“Hell, they’s Injuns, ain’t they?” Bill’s mind was already working on a possible deal for himself. Five dollars a day for shooting Indians sounded like something he’d be interested in. “How ’bout I ride along with you? I’d like to do a little scoutin’ myself.”
Jonah was hesitant, not at all enthusiastic about Pike’s proposal. “I don’t know, mister. I generally ride alone.”
“Hell,” Bill prodded, “you said yourself it ain’t much more than two days from here. And then we can part company.” He paused, waiting for Jonah’s response. When Jonah continued to stall, he pressed. “Come on, old man. You know the way, and I don’t. Just let me ride along with you till we get to the Powder, and then we’ll part company.”
Jonah shook his head impatiently. “How you gonna scout if you don’t even know how to find Fort Reno?”
“You just get me there. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“All right,” Jonah finally conceded. “I’ll take you to Fort Reno, but you’re on your own from there.” He didn’t care for the prospect of traveling with Bill Pike, but he figured that if he didn’t take him along, the man would simply follow him. And it might be wise to have him closer just to keep an eye on him.
They struck camp early the next morning, and headed off in a northwesterly direction. The morning sun lit the tall peaks of the Big Horn Mountains in the distance, causing them to sparkle like polished silver. The tallest in the chain of mountains, Cloud Peak, gleamed white and icy in the clear morning air. It was cold during the early hours, with a light frost on the higher ridges, but by midday, the sun had warmed the prairie to a more springlike comfort.
The two men rode along in silence. Few words passed between them the entire day until they made camp by the banks of a small trickle Jonah called Crow Creek. As a rule, Jonah talked very little at any time, usually no more than a word here and there to his mule. But his tongue could loosen up on the rare occasion when he had company, like a few days back when he had encountered his friend, Jordan Gray. This dark, bulky man with the scar on his face was of a different breed in Jonah’s judgment, however. And Jonah found little to say to him. Watching the careless way Bill tended his horse, Jonah shook his head in disgust. He was overcome with a sudden nostalgic longing for the old days, when he felt like the only white man between the Belle Fourche and the Wind River Mountains. It’s getting so a man can’t travel a week without running into some fool greenhorn from back east, he thought.
In contrast to his silent traveling companion, Bill Pike became quite talkative once they made camp. Helping himself to Jonah’s coffee and venison, he bombarded the old man with a flood of questions about the country they were riding into and the Indians who roamed the land there. Jonah reluctantly answered his questions, with no more than a grunt whenever possible.
“How much farther to Fort Reno?” Bill asked.
“That way?” Bill questioned, pointing west.
“More or less,” Jonah replied. “Just follow the crick—even you could find it.” He couldn’t resist adding that last barb.
“Is that so?” Bill responded. A thin smile creased his face. It was the news he wanted to hear. He stood up and gazed down the course of the creek for several long moments as if imprinting the direction on his mind. “Half a day,” he muttered as he continued to gaze. Then he turned back to face the old man. “Like you say, even I could find Fort Reno from here.” He favored Jonah with a wide smile. “I reckon this is where you and me part company, old man.” He pulled his pistol and leveled it at Jonah.
Jonah acted instantaneously. Diving across the fire, he lunged at his adversary, drawing his knife as he rolled on the ground.
Startled by the old man’s sudden reaction, Bill was nevertheless nimble enough to quickly step out of the way. At point blank range, he squeezed the trigger and took another step back as the bullet smacked hard into Jonah’s chest. The old trapper continued to charge, a look of savage fury gripping his face. While constantly backpedaling, Bill pumped three more slugs into him before he finally crumpled to the ground.
After a few moments to make sure Jonah was finished, Bill stepped closer to gaze down into his face. Although faint, there was a spark of life still burning in the old man’s eyes. “You caused me to waste a helluva lot of lead, you old fart.” He stood over him for a few moments more before leaving him to die while he returned to the fire to finish his supper.
He checked on the old man once more before bedding down for the night. “You’re a damn stubborn ol’ cuss,” he complained when he discovered movement in Jonah’s eyes. Not willing to risk a miracle recovery during the night, he clamped his hands tightly over Jonah’s nose and mouth, and held them there until the old man finally cashed in. Jonah was so far down death’s dark avenue that he made no effort to resist. Sitting on his heels, his hands clamped over the old man’s face, Bill could not help but think about his father’s death. “Maybe you’ll meet up with my old man in hell,” he said.
Satisfied that he would not be disturbed by a resurrection of Jonah Parsons during the night, he settled down by the fire to sleep. In the morning, he would sort through Jonah’s possessions, taking what might prove useful, discarding the rest. He decided he would cut the mule loose, and take Jonah’s packhorse. Pleased with the way things had worked out, he rolled over on his side and pulled his blanket over his shoulders. It’s been a good day, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.
Colonel Thaddeus Stanton, commander of the company of scouts, studied the face of the man before him. He had to admit that the man standing in a confident slouch at the entrance of his tent presented nothing akin to the picture he had formed in his mind. When Colonel Bradley had suggested sending for Jonah Parsons, it seemed to Stanton that Bradley had referred to Parsons as an old scout. This man, with a gaze that could only be described as insolent, looked to be too young to have had all the experience he was said to possess. The colonel shook his head, dismissing his doubts. He had been wrong in his judgment of half the company of cutthroats who passed as scouts for General Crook—this one should fit right in. Stanton had come to rely upon the few good scouts he had already: Frank Grouard, Ben Clarke, Louis Richaud, “Big Bat” Pourier, and “Little Bat” Gaunier. These men had proven to be good dependable scouts, but they should benefit from Jonah Parson’s many years living with the Sioux.
“All right, then, Mr. Parsons,” Stanton said, signaling the interview’s end. “I’ll have the clerk add your name to the roster.” He got up from the campstool he had been seated upon. “We’ll be moving out in the morning, heading up the Powder. Reports we’ve been getting tell us that there are plenty of Indians camped along the Rosebud. The general thinks it may be the main camp.”
Bill grinned and nodded. Then he turned and walked away, pleased with his successful charade. He hadn’t the slightest notion where the Rosebud was, but he felt sure he could tag along with someone who did.