When Jordan and Toby rode into camp at Goose Creek again, it was to find an army preparing to march. The Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition was once again on the move. General Crook, still smarting somewhat from eastern newspaper accounts of his initial attempt to destroy Crazy Horse’s band, was anxious to launch the second attack. Additional companies of infantry had arrived, and the supply wagons had been left behind. Supplies were to be carried by mules, their main burden being grain for the animals. The entire area around the forks of Goose Creek was alive with activity as infantry and cavalry companies prepared to take to the field again.
The scene was somewhat discouraging to Jordan. It struck him as organized confusion at best. He had gambled on the premise that Bill Pike had returned to the encampment, but judging by the amount of activity among the departing troops, it might be difficult to find his man. Motioning Toby to follow, he guided Sweet Pea across the lower fork of the creek to the spot where he had found Colonel Stanton’s tent before—only to find it no longer there. Instead, he encountered a group of soldiers from the Third Cavalry sitting around a small fire. Their horses were standing nearby, saddled and saddle packs loaded. The men glanced up with no more than casual interest when the two civilians rode up.
“Can you fellows tell us where Colonel Stanton is?” Jordan asked.
One of the men, a corporal by the stripes on his sleeve, answered, “I wouldn’t know, friend. I don’t know who Colonel Stanton is. We just got here from Fort Fetterman day before yesterday.” He looked around at the others only to see equally blank expressions, then turned back to Jordan. “What unit is he in?”
“He’s head of the scout company,” Jordan replied. “Where are the Crows camped?”
“There’s a bunch of Injuns camped about a mile up the creek.” He pointed toward the northwest. “I don’t know if they’re Crow or Shoshone.”
“Much obliged,” Jordan said. He turned Sweet Pea away, and glanced at Toby. “If we find Iron Pony, he can probably tell us if Pike came back to the scout company.”
They had started back toward the union of the two forks of the creek when Toby suddenly pulled back hard on the reins. A rider on the opposite bank had caught his eye, and in that moment he thought it was Pike. Without waiting for an explanation to Jordan, he drove his horse into the creek, and charged up the other side to intercept the rider. Toby had only seen Pike from a distance on that late evening near his claim. But the heavyset man with the full dark beard, leaning forward in the saddle, seemed to be a dead ringer for the man fleeing Deadwood on that night.
Puzzled by Toby’s sudden decision to gallop into the creek, Jordan pulled Sweet Pea up sharply, and peered after his young partner. When he saw the rider on the opposite bank, he immediately followed after Toby, pulling up behind him a few seconds after Toby confronted the man. “Who the hell are you, mister?” he heard the boy blurt out, uncertain now that he was face to face with the rider.
“Who the hell wants to know?” the man replied, not the least bit intimidated by the brash young boy.
Jordan answered Toby’s demand. “He’s Frank Grouard, if I recollect correctly.” Jordan had met the white scout briefly when Colonel Stanton had solicited Jordan’s help on the campaign against the Sioux. He remembered Iron Pony saying that Grouard and a few others were the only competent scouts among the thirty or so white men the colonel had employed.
“Jordan Gray, right?” Grouard greeted the buckskin-clad scout.
“Frank,” Jordan returned.
“You come back to join the expedition?”
“No,” Jordan replied. “I’m lookin’ for a man.” He nodded toward a subdued Toby. “We’re lookin’ for a man. That’s the reason my brash young friend here was fixin’ to shoot you.” Grouard cocked an amused eye in Toby’s direction. Jordan went on. “Fellow’s name is Pike, and he was ridin’ with your company of scouts. We trailed him as far as the Rosebud, but we got jumped by a Lakota war party before we could catch up to him.”
“You’re talkin’ about that feller that called hisself Parsons. Is that right?”
“That’s the man,” Jordan replied.
Grouard nodded knowingly. “Well, I can save you some trouble there. Colonel Stanton had that feller put under arrest. They’ve already took him back to Fetterman to stand trial for the murder of Jonah Parsons. I knew that feller was full of bullshit after I talked to him for five minutes. I told Stanton I didn’t want him ridin’ with me. Stanton sent him out a few days ago with two pretty good scouts, Pepper O’Brien and Royce Johnson. Pepper and Royce didn’t come back with Parsons—or Pike, if that’s his real name—and now I’ve got to go out to see if I can find them.”
“I reckon I can save you trouble there,” Jordan said. “We found your two scouts near the Rosebud. They were both dead, and it didn’t look like the work of Indians.”
“I figured as much,” Grouard said. “That bastard. The colonel shoulda just strung him up as soon as he came back.” He gave Toby a quick glance, then shifted back to Jordan. “What are you fellers huntin’ him for?”
Jordan briefly related the reasons he and Toby had taken on the mission of tracking down the blatant murderer. They both had scores to settle with Pike. Grouard expressed his understanding for their mission, but assured them that they were too late to administer their personal punishment. The army had taken over the situation, but they could take solace in the certainty that Pike would hang.
The news was met with mixed feelings on the part of Jordan and Toby. As far as the boy was concerned, he had been cheated out of the vengeance that he so desperately wanted. Jordan, although almost as passionate for revenge at first, could be more philosophical about the issue at this point. The matter was simple to Jordan. The murderer needed to be stopped, and he didn’t feel anyone else was going to undertake the responsibility. That is, aside from Toby Blessings, and Jordan was not confident Toby would have come out on top in a match with Bill Pike. Maybe it was just as well that the matter would be handled by a military court. He was not especially fond of the role of executioner, anyway.
“Well, I’d best be gettin’ along,” Frank Grouard said. “Look me up if you decide you wanna come along with us to fight Sittin’ Bull and Crazy Horse.” He saluted with a single finger to his hat brim, and rode away.
Jordan nodded in reply, and he and Toby watched the stoutly built man as he guided his horse along the creek. Their search apparently ended, Jordan shrugged and said, “Well, I reckon the army has finished our job for us.”
Toby’s need for vengeance was not satisfied, however. His passion for Pike’s blood was fueled by his love for a woman. That the love affair had been one-sided made little difference to him. He had pledged his devotion to Polly Hatcher with all the passion in his young heart. And that passion needed desperately to be involved in the final reckoning of one, Bill Pike. “I’m goin’ to Fort Fetterman,” he announced. “If I can’t put the bullet in him that kills him, then I’ve got to see him hung. I want to see that son of a bitch dead.”
Jordan studied the young man’s face for a few moments. There was no mistaking the fact that Toby meant what he said. Jordan felt it would be better for Toby if he put Bill Pike behind him, and went on with the rest of his life. But he refrained from trying to advise the boy. Toby was man enough to make his own decisions. After a long moment, Jordan said, “I’ll ride with you. I might as well head back to Fort Laramie.” He glanced at the figure of Frank Grouard, almost out of sight by then. “I reckon I’ve killed all the Sioux I care to.” He had really given thought to joining General Crook’s troops no more than a fleeting moment.
“Suit yourself,” Toby said. Although making an attempt to sound independent, he was more than grateful to Jordan for accompanying him. Early the next morning, they were once again on the trail—this time the government road back to Fort Fetterman.
“Looks like they camped here,” Jordan commented upon finding recent ashes of a campfire by Crazy Woman Creek. “Good a place as any—we might as well camp here, too.”
There was good grass and ample water available, so they pulled their saddles off and let the horses graze. Toby looked around while Jordan built a fire. Watching as Toby poked around the tree where there were signs that someone had been chained, Jordan wondered if he had ever been that much in love with a woman. It seemed many years since his wife and child were killed. It was something he didn’t think about if he could help it, for when he did, it always stirred a bitter bile in his gut. He supposed he had been just as smitten with Sarah as Toby seemed to be with Polly. It was just so long ago, and so much had happened between then and now, that it was hard to remember ever being as young as Toby. Since Sarah’s death, he had only given thought to one other woman, Kathleen Beard, the post surgeon’s daughter. She had served as his nurse while he recovered from gunshot wounds in the hospital at Fort Gibson. At the time, he was puzzled by the amount of attention he received from the comely young woman. He had supposed it was her fascination with a wild creature—as she had laughingly referred to him then. It went a little deeper than that, but he was too stupid to realize it until it was too late. It was too soon after Sarah’s death to permit thoughts of another to take hold, but after leaving Fort Gibson, he had found that he could not rid his mind of Kathleen.
After months of trying to convince himself otherwise, he finally admitted that he was in love with the girl. By the time he made up his mind to do something about it, she had decided he was a lost cause. Being a practical woman, and realizing she was not getting any younger, she made a practical decision, and accepted a marriage proposal from Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson Wallace. That, in itself, was reason enough to detest Lieutenant Wallace, but Jordan had already developed a strong dislike for the arrogant officer. News of Kathleen’s engagement had struck him with a profound sense of loss.
Realizing that he was allowing his mind to wander back into places that brought only pain, he quickly brought it back to the present. He elected then to think of things that brought him pleasure—like the cool night air and the peaceful quiet of the prairie away from the noisy army camps. “Who the hell can blame the Sioux for not wantin’ to go to the reservations?” he blurted aloud. “Damned if I’d give up my way of life.”
“How’s that?” Toby asked.
Realizing then that he had spoken his thoughts, Jordan replied, “Nothin’, I was just mumblin’ to myself—I need to get some coffee made.”
The next morning, with the horses grazed, watered, and rested, they were back in the saddle. It was Toby who was impatient to ride. Jordan was in no particular hurry, but he was attuned to Toby’s urgency. They made good time, and noontime found them about a mile northwest of the ruins of Fort Reno. It was here that they were first alerted that something was wrong.
Jordan spotted it first—a ring of buzzards circling in the sky ahead. Half a mile farther, off to their left on a gentle rise, a lone horse grazed leisurely in the high grass. It was saddled and, at that distance, they could see that it was an army saddle. It raised its head and whinnied when they approached. Sweet Pea snorted in reply. There was no need for either man to waste words of warning. Both Jordan and Toby tensed as they proceeded cautiously toward the riderless horse. It stood obediently waiting while they approached. Jordan reached over and picked up the loose reins.
“Injuns?” Toby wondered aloud.
“I don’t know,” Jordan replied. “I don’t hardly expect an Indian would have let the horse go.”
They rode on, guiding on the circle of buzzards. After covering another half mile, they arrived at the ruins of Fort Reno. The ring of scavenger birds was hovering directly overhead. Jordan took a careful look around them before riding in. The closeness of the buzzards would indicate that the birds sensed no threat of danger, but Jordan was still alert to the possibility of ambush. Impatient, Toby pushed on ahead. When Jordan followed him, it was to find the boy staring at three corpses sprawled near the ashes of a campfire.
“Well, I don’t reckon I have to ask if one of those bodies is our man, Pike,” Jordan commented as he rode up and dismounted. It didn’t take a great deal of investigating to see what had happened. “Lieutenant Castle,” Jordan said, recognizing the young officer from Fort Laramie. He at once thought of the officer’s young family, and his wife now a widow. A series of deep bruises and broken skin tattooed the lieutenant’s neck, obviously the cause of his death. There were no bullet holes or other wounds. Apparently, his windpipe had been crushed, and probably with a length of the chain lying at his feet. The other two bodies had been shot—one with a bullet hole in his forehead, the other a few yards away, shot in the back. Since all three bodies were wearing uniforms, there was no need for close examination to know that Pike was not one of the dead.
“I thought that feller, Grouard, said there were four soldiers in the guard detail with the lieutenant,” Toby said, just remembering.
“He did,” Jordan replied. “Maybe the other two helped him pull it off. Or maybe they deserted before they got this far.”
Now there was the question of whether they were trailing one man or three, and there were too many tracks around the old ruins to determine which were new and which weren’t. The road had been traveled a great deal lately by army troops going and coming, but Jordan searched anyway, hoping to find some clue that might tell him which tracks were Pike’s. He soon abandoned his search. This time, Toby didn’t bother to suggest the Christian thing would be to bury the bodies, but Jordan couldn’t bring himself to leave the young officer’s body for the buzzards to feast upon. Picturing Mary Castle’s face in his mind, he didn’t like the prospect of someday having to relate the circumstances of her husband’s death. He resolved that he would at least be able to comfort her with the knowledge that her husband had had a decent burial.
A few miles past Reno, they came upon another saddled horse wandering free. Toby went after it, and soon had it trailing along behind Brownie. “I reckon there’s another horse out here somewhere,” Jordan speculated. “He wasn’t takin’ a chance on being caught with horses wearin’ a US brand.”
The more Jordan thought about it, the more he was convinced they were still chasing one man. He just couldn’t see a man like Pike teaming up with the two deserters. Pike was a lone wolf. The riddle to be solved was where would a lone wolf likely be headed? With no identifiable trail to follow, it was little more than a guessing game. He couldn’t go back to Deadwood—he would most likely be strung up for killing Polly. And to go back into the Powder River country would be heading straight into a swarm of Sioux and Cheyenne. Because there was nothing but speculation to go on, Jordan decided their best chance was to continue on the government road to Fort Fetterman, and beyond to Fort Laramie. His reasoning was that Pike could assume that there were no witnesses to tell of his arrest or the murder of his guards. There was no telegraph between Goose Creek and Fort Fetterman, so he had to figure he could be long gone before the army was even alerted that the guard detail was missing.
It was late in the afternoon when the buildings of Fort Fetterman came into view. Located on a plateau above the valleys of the North Platte and LaPrele Creek, the post was not one of Jordan’s favorite places. Generally known as a hardship post among the soldiers who were unfortunate enough to be stationed there, Fort Fetterman was the cause of many desertions. Fresh food and supplies were not available on the site. Everything had to be hauled in from Fort Laramie or Medicine Bow Station on the Union Pacific Railroad. It was a constant complaint from the soldiers that the soil was not capable of supporting even a small garden. Jonah Parsons had told of spending a winter there many years back. He said it was a toss-up as to whether he was going to starve to death or freeze solid. Blizzard after blizzard paid regular visits, and the wintry gales never ceased. Jonah claimed that he had a ringing in his ears on into the following summer as a result. Due to the inhospitality of the location, there were no more than a few homesteaders scattered nearby. So there were no social opportunities for the off duty soldier—the only diversion being an establishment known to the troops as the “Hog Ranch,” staffed by a few prairie belles as rough as the rugged land.
Jordan and Toby went directly to the log building pointed out as the post headquarters, where they were met by a Sergeant Murray. Murray informed them that the post commander was off up the river somewhere fishing, but he assured them that he was the one who actually ran the post. When Jordan described the man they were trailing, Murray remembered Pike right away. “Yeah, solidly built man, had a scar on one side of his face. He rode in two days ago. Didn’t stay long, not even overnight—I saw him in the sutler’s store. He bought a few things and left right away.”
“Did he say where he was headin’?” Jordan asked.
“Back east,” Murray answered. “That’s all he said. I didn’t push him for more ’cause he didn’t seem like he wanted to talk. I figured him for just another drifter, and let him be.” The sergeant stepped outside with Jordan and Toby. “What did you say you was following him for?”
“He’s killed some folks, seven that I know of, five of ’em soldiers. We found the bodies of the last three back at Fort Reno two days ago.” He then went on to explain that Pike was being escorted to Fort Fetterman for trial, and the three bodies were part of the guard detail.
“Well, forevermore,” Murray exclaimed. “And he was right here on the post. The colonel’s most likely gonna send out a patrol to look for him.”
“Maybe,” Jordan said. He shot a quick glance in Toby’s direction when the boy showed a slight look of alarm. “I don’t reckon Toby and me’ll wait for the army to get a patrol mounted.” This last, he said for the boy’s benefit, knowing that Toby wanted to beat the army to Pike. “We’ve got a couple of the army’s mounts we’d just as soon get rid of. Can you take ’em off our hands?”
“Shore can,” Murray replied, and walked to the hitching post with Jordan. Noticing Sweet Pea then, he couldn’t help but remark, “I’m surprised you didn’t swap horses when you had the chance.”
Weary of defending his horse, Jordan just smiled and said, “Didn’t think of it.”
Content to have Fort Fetterman behind them, they followed the North Platte toward Fort Laramie. It would be a two-day ride, less if they pushed the horses hard. Starting out with only a few hours of daylight left, they were determined to close the distance between them and the outlaw. Already trailing Pike by a couple of days, it was hard to say if they were gaining on him or not until they stumbled upon a recent campfire around noon the next day. They paused to rest the horses and look around the campsite for sign. It was here that lady luck decided to glance in their direction.
“What is it?” Toby asked, noticing that Jordan was kneeling over a patch of bare ground near the ashes of the fire.
“Might be a break,” Jordan said without looking up. Toby came over to see. Jordan looked up at him then. “I believe Mr. Pike will be slowin’ down pretty soon.” He traced his finger along a hoof print in the soft dirt. “His horse is about to throw a shoe.” Toby bent low to see for himself. There was no doubt about it. The shoe was loose, as evidenced by the double print in the dirt. “He probably didn’t get very much farther before the horse lost it,” Jordan said.
Still two days ahead, but unaware of his pursuers, Bill Pike cursed his horse for throwing a shoe. He pushed on, forcing the animal to keep up a steady pace until the horse began to limp slightly. Still with no compassion for his mount, Pike whipped the horse unmercifully. By his reckoning, he could be no farther than ten or fifteen miles from Fort Laramie at this point, and he was intent upon reaching the post before dark. With each mile, however, the horse’s hoof became more and more tender until, finally, it began to limp in earnest.
“Damn you!” Bill lashed out at the helpless animal, and with great reluctance, dismounted. He would have shot the horse then and there, but even in his fit of anger, he realized he would then have to carry his saddle himself. Frustrated and hungry, for he had finished the last of his meager rations that noon, he started walking, leading the lame animal.
He had covered little more than a mile when he came to a small stream that emptied into the North Platte. He paused for a moment to let the horse drink. Then as he was about to cross over and be on his way, he detected a movement in the corner of his eye. His reflexes were swift. In a flash, he drew his pistol and turned, ready to fire. Expecting an Indian or a soldier, he was astonished to find he was facing a small boy armed with a fishing pole. The boy, even more startled, froze, his eyes wide and growing every second as he stared at the gun barrel.
Pike relaxed and returned the pistol to its holster. “Boy, that’s a damn good way to get your head blowed off,” he said. “Where the hell did you come from, anyway?”
“Down by the river,” the youngster replied. He held his catch up for Bill to see.
It was only one catfish, and hardly of a size to make a meal, but the sight of it immediately reminded the outlaw of his empty stomach. “Here, lemme see that fish,” Bill demanded abruptly. The boy dutifully complied. Pike held it up before his eyes to examine it more closely. Satisfied that it was edible, he looked around him for something to build a fire with.
The boy studied the strange man with a white scar parting the dark beard on one side of his face. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the man’s brusque demeanor, and it was beginning to look as if he was not going to return the fish. He remained still for a few seconds while Pike, clutching the catfish possessively, looked around for wood. He had already dismissed the boy from his mind.
“You hungry, mister?” The boy finally broke his silence.
As if just then remembering the boy standing there, Pike cocked an eye in the lad’s direction. “Damn right I’m hungry. You got anything else with you besides this slimy little fish?”
The boy shook his head. He didn’t care for the stranger’s unfriendly attitude, but his parents had taught him to be respectful of his elders. “No, sir,” he replied. “But if you’re hungry, Mama can fix you somethin’ to eat.”
This immediately garnered Pike’s attention. He looked all around him now, searching for sign of a house. “You live near here?”
The boy nodded, then pointed toward a low ridge to the north. “On the other side of yonder hill,” he said.
This was pleasing news for Bill. He needed food, and he needed a horse. His belligerent attitude swiftly changed, and he broke out a crooked smile for the boy’s benefit. “Well, then,” he said, “let’s go see your mama.” He handed the catfish back to the boy. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jeremy,” the lad replied.
“Well, Jeremy, I’m mighty glad I run into you. Lead away.”
The boy crossed the tiny stream, and started up a path that led along the bank toward a narrow gap where the stream cut through the ridge. Pike followed along behind, leading his lame horse. On the other side of the ridge, they came to a modest cabin built of logs. Pike wasted no time in taking a quick assessment of the homestead. He was hungry. There was no doubt about that, but there were other things he needed—a horse for certain. So he was quick to look toward the corral. It was of crude construction, built of gnarled pine logs that were no doubt not straight enough for use on the cabin roof. But there was a horse and two mules inside. The discovery brought a smile to Pike’s face. He shifted his gaze to the chickens pecking near the cabin door, and his smile grew wider. Yessir, Jeremy. I’m mighty glad I run into you.
He glanced again at the stock in the corral. “Where’s your pa, boy?”
“I think he’s in the house,” Jeremy replied. “Pa ain’t workin’ the place today.”
“Oh, he ain’t, is he?” Bill responded. “Why ain’t he workin’ today?”
Jeremy looked back at the stranger in surprise. “’Cause today’s Sunday—Pa don’t work on Sunday. It ain’t right to work on the Lord’s Day.”
“So today’s Sunday,” Pike said. “I didn’t have no idea.” He was about to remark that the devil worked every day when a woman appeared in the cabin doorway. “Is that your mama?”
“Yessir,” Jeremy replied. The woman turned her head to make a comment to someone inside, and a moment later Jeremy’s father appeared in the open doorway. “Pa,” Jeremy called out, “this feller’s horse is gone lame.” His father stepped around his wife, and walked out in the front yard to meet them. “And he’s hungry,” Jeremy added.
“John Dunstan,” his father said. “This is my wife, Helen. We ain’t got much to offer, but I’m sure we can fix you up with somethin’ to eat.” Hearing her husband’s comment, Helen Dunstan nodded politely, then disappeared inside to see what she could come up with to feed the stranger.
“Well, now, that’ud be right Christian of you,” Pike said, doing his best to affect a friendly face. Despite his efforts, his grizzled features, long accustomed to an evil scowl, presented a twisted facade more akin to pain.
Dunstan was not at ease with the dark stranger. There was a look of hard violence about him that triggered an instant warning. John Dunstan was a Christian man, and he would not deny hospitality to strangers in need, but he made a mental note to lecture Jeremy on the scarcity of food. Anxious to speed the stranger on his way, he said, “My wife’ll fix you somethin’ to eat. Why don’t you set down beside the cabin in the shade, and Jeremy’ll fetch you a cool dipper of water from the springbox.” He motioned his son toward the stream with a nod of his head. “I ain’t no horse doctor, but I’ll take a look at that hoof.”
Pike smiled. Although Dunstan was trying to disguise it, his sense of distrust was apparent to even one as insensitive as Bill Pike. No longer concerned with his horse’s welfare, for he already had his eye on the injured animal’s replacement, he nevertheless made a feeble attempt to continue the game. “Well, now, I appreciate it.” Feeling it necessary to assuage the man’s suspicions, he said, “I’m an army scout headin’ for Fort Laramie with some important messages for the general.”
“Well, we’ll try not to delay you, Mr.—” He paused.
“Pike.” Bill filled in the blank.
“Mr. Pike,” Dunstan echoed. He lifted the horse’s leg and examined the injured hoof. “Looks like he’s throwed a shoe.”
“Yeah,” Pike replied while taking the dipper of water from Jeremy. After a long drink of the cool water, he added, “He throwed it about a mile back. I had to get off and walk.”
Dunstan stared at the badly injured hoof. It showed signs of tenderness that would hardly result from walking a mile. He had no sympathy for a man who would abuse any animal, especially his horse. Another precaution that stuck in his mind was Pike’s comment that he was carrying dispatches for the general at Fort Laramie. Colonel Bradley was the post commander at Laramie. There was no general there. He would have thought that an army scout would know that. Just another drifter, he thought, or a deserter—there were certainly plenty of them hitting the high road. Maybe instead of heading for the fort, Mr. Pike was heading away from it. Well, he thought, we’ll give him something to eat, and send him on his way.
“There ain’t much you can do for this horse’s hoof. It’ll heal if you keep the weight off of it. But you can’t ride the horse till it heals.”
“That’s what I figured,” Pike said. “But I got to git them messages to the fort.”
Dunston realized that he was in a box now. It would be extremely bad manners to suggest to the man that he had best start walking if he wanted to make the fort before morning. It was either that or hitch up the wagon and carry Pike to Fort Laramie in the morning. He didn’t relish that idea, but he didn’t know what else to do. Reluctantly, he offered the invitation. “I reckon me and Jeremy could take you in to the fort in the mornin’. It ain’t hardly ten miles from here. There ain’t no room in the cabin, but you’re welcome to sleep in the barn tonight.”
Pike had a different solution to his transportation problem, but he decided not to reveal it at the moment. Might as well take advantage of the hospitality, he thought. “Why that’s mighty neighborly of you,” he said. “I could use a good night’s rest before I start out again.”
Helen Dunston arrived with a plate of food just in time to hear Pike express his appreciation. She set the plate down beside Pike, then stepped back, giving her husband a questioning look, hoping she had heard wrong. He frowned and shook his head, knowing he was going to have some explaining to do later.
“Why in the world did you tell that man he could stay here tonight?” Helen Dunstan demanded when supper was finished and Pike had retired to the barn. “He’s the evilest-looking man I’ve ever seen—nothing but a common drifter. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t run off with the livestock while we’re asleep in our beds.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” John replied in defense. “I couldn’t just order him to start walkin’. I mean, his horse did go lame.” He placed the bar across the door. “Besides, I aim to set up all night and watch the barn. He ain’t goin’ nowhere without I see him.”
As he said, John Dunston sat awake for almost the entire night. Sitting beside the window, his rifle propped against the wall beside him, he kept a close watch on the barn until just before daybreak. He didn’t realize he had drifted off to sleep until his wife shook his shoulder. He bolted from his slumber so violently that he knocked his chair over.
“John!” Helen exclaimed. “It’s just me. Everything’s all right.” A moment later, she heard the rooster announcing the arrival of the new day.
Fully awake then, he picked up the chair and moved back to peer out of the corner of the window. There was no sign of activity from the barn. The horse and the mules were standing peacefully in the corral. Nothing was out of place. He looked at his wife and shook his head, thinking what a fool he had been to sit up all night while their guest slept soundly in the barn.
“I guess I’d better get coffee started,” Helen said with a sigh. “Jeremy’s friend will want some breakfast before he leaves.” As she said it, she made a mental note to talk to her son about inviting strangers home with him.
There was still no sign of movement in the barn by the time John left the cabin to feed the livestock. He dragged the barn door open and stepped inside to find his overnight guest just stirring from his bed in the hay. “Damn! That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in I can’t remember when,” Pike said, greeting him. His tone was almost cheerful. “I never did sleep worth a damn on the ground.” He got to his feet and took a few steps away from the hay to relieve himself. “Better than a feather bed,” he commented as he patiently emptied his bladder.
“The missus will have breakfast ready in a few minutes,” Dunston said. He glanced back toward the barn door, concerned that his wife might walk in to look for eggs while Pike was still performing his toilet. Much to his relief, the footfalls he heard on the hard-baked clay turned out to be Jeremy’s. She had assigned the boy that duty on this morning.
“Mornin’,” Jeremy said with a definite lack of enthusiasm, and went straight to the nests along the back wall of the barn. Shooing the hens away, he gathered the few eggs he found and returned to the cabin.
The mood at breakfast was considerably lighter than the somber tone of supper the night before—the prospect of saying good-bye to their guest being the primary reason. What discomfort remained was felt by Helen Dunston due to the crude gaze that Bill Pike fixed upon her as she moved about the table. She was reluctant to speculate on the thoughts behind those dull eyes—a fear that even the homeliest of women felt around a man of suspect morals.
“Well, I expect I’d better hitch up the mules,” John Dunston said, and got up from the table. “We’d better get movin’ if we’re gonna drive into Fort Laramie and get back before dark.”
Pike turned his coffee cup up, draining the last of it, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and gave Helen a satisfied smile. “Yeah, reckon it’s time to get movin’,” he said, getting up from his chair. “But there ain’t no need to hitch up your wagon. I’ve got a better idea. I’m gonna trade horses with you.” Before Dunstan could reply, he said, “You’ll be gettin’ the best part of the deal, ’cause my horse is a heap stouter than your’n, and his hoof will be as good as new in a few days.”
Dunstan didn’t know what to say at first, but he didn’t see a trade of the two horses being to his advantage. In his opinion, there was no comparison between them—his horse the better by far. Glancing at Helen’s startled expression, and then at Jeremy’s anxious look of concern, he turned back to Pike’s smiling face. The stranger’s confident grin told him that there was little room for negotiation. “Thanks just the same,” Dunstan finally replied, “but I don’t reckon I wanna trade horses.”
The malicious grin remained frozen in place on Pike’s grizzled face as his dark eyes narrowed slightly and locked on Dunstan’s gaze. “I’m givin’ you a helluva deal for that piece of crow bait. It’s just your good fortune you caught me in a time of need.”
“Nossir, I reckon not,” Dunstan gave his final say on the matter. “Now I’ll hitch up the wagon and take you to Fort Laramie. There’s horses for sale there.”
“I ain’t goin’ to Fort Laramie,” Pike replied.
Dunstan paused with his hand on the door latch. “I thought you had dispatches for the army you had to deliver.”
Pike shrugged impatiently. “Well, I ain’t. I got no business at that fort.” Then his patience, limited at best, dissipated completely. “Dammit, I need that damn horse, and that’s all there is to it. I’m tired of pussyfootin’ around with you.” The grin that had remained in place before was now transformed into an angry glare.
“John, let him have the horse.” Helen Dunstan read the depth of violence in the angry man’s eyes. She feared for her husband’s safety.
“No,” Dunstan replied firmly, aware of his young son’s eyes upon him. “Now I reckon it’s time for Mr. Pike to leave.” He pulled the door open.
“It’s time for Mr. Pike to leave,” Pike mocked sarcastically. “You damn fool, I gave you a chance.” He pulled his pistol and fired two shots into the startled man’s chest. Dunstan fell back against the doorpost, his knees buckling. Then he slid down the post to the floor.
Helen screamed in horror, and ran to her husband’s side. Unmoved by her despair, Pike shifted his gaze to the boy. He had seen the double-barreled shotgun propped in the corner, and he watched Jeremy to see if the boy had any notions about making a move toward it. But Jeremy was paralyzed by the sight of his dying father, slumped in his mother’s arms as she pleaded with her husband to live. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat from mother or son, he walked over and removed the shells from the shotgun. “All right,” he ordered, “that’s enough. Let’s go outside.”
He motioned toward the door with his pistol. When Jeremy did not move, Pike gave him a kick in the seat of his pants. It was enough to break the stunned youngster’s paralysis. Jeremy stumbled toward the door, almost falling over his mother’s feet. Pike grabbed the stricken woman by the collar and dragged her outside. “Come on. He’s dead. Stop your blubberin’. It’s his own damn fault.”
Once they were all outside, Pike ordered Jeremy to saddle the horse. The boy, devastated a few moments earlier, now found his backbone. “I ain’t saddlin’ no horse for you,” he spat in defiance. “You killed my pa, and I’ll hunt you down till I kill you!”
Pike recoiled slightly in surprise. Then the grin returned to his face. “You little shit, I believe you would.” The pistol spoke once more, the force of the bullet knocking the boy back against the cabin wall, where he fell dead.
The impact of her son’s brutal murder coming upon that of her husband’s was too great a shock for the woman’s shattered mind to withstand. Her eyes fluttered briefly, and then she collapsed on the ground. Pike paused to stand over her for a few moments before turning to go into the barn to fetch his saddle. In the length of time it took for him to saddle John Dunston’s horse, the man’s new widow slowly regained consciousness. When she began to stir, Pike paused again to watch her, curious as to what her reaction might be. It was not long in coming, and the reverse of what he anticipated.
Opening her eyes from what she prayed had been a bad dream, she was devastated to find it had been all too real. Gripped by many emotions, from hopeless and terrifying despair to a sudden burning fury, the latter taking control of her mind, she struggled unsteadily to her feet. In uncontrolled rage, she suddenly charged headlong at her antagonist, hurling her fragile body at Pike. With one foot in the stirrup already, he barely had time to withdraw it and prepare to meet the crazed woman’s charge. Bracing himself, he stepped aside, causing her to collide with the horse’s belly. When she bounced back from the collision, he took a step toward her and unloaded a right hand, his fist catching her square on the chin. She dropped like a sack of grain on the ground. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered.
He started to step up in the saddle again, but hesitated to take another look at the woman lying at his feet. With husband and son no longer a threat, he let his mind dwell on the woman’s bare leg for a moment. It had been a long time since he had known a woman. He reached over and pushed her skirt up with the toe of his boot, revealing loose-fitting cotton drawers. It suddenly became an obsession with him to see what the drawers concealed. His lust fully awakened now, he tied the horse to the gatepost, and returned to draw his knife. Sticking the blade under the waistband, he ripped the garment from top to bottom. Then he sat back on his heels to gaze at the bony pelvis and pale thighs. She was not a pretty woman. Life on the open prairie had taken the bloom from her youth many years before. This would have ordinarily made little difference to a man of Pike’s moral fiber. It was the fact that he had never seen gray pubic hair before. It looked unreal, eerie in fact, and the sight served to cool his passion. “Damn,” he swore. She opened her eyes at that point to find him hovering over her. She immediately screamed and struck him in the face. His reaction was swift. In a fit of anger, he buried the knife in her abdomen.
Helen Dunston’s final moments in this world were long and painful. Oblivious to the woman’s suffering, Pike delayed his departure long enough to ransack the cabin in search of anything of value. There was little to find: a shotgun, a box of twelve-gauge shells, a small silver chain, a locket with a faded picture of a baby inside. The only item that caught his fancy was John Dunston’s razor. The handle was pearl with a pattern of onyx inlaid to form the shape of a diamond. Pike opened the razor and admired the honed edge of the spotless blade. Dunston must have valued the razor highly, judging by the condition it was in. Pleased, Pike nodded smugly to himself as he ran a finger over the inlaid pattern. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of moaning outside, and he stepped to the door to make sure the woman was no threat. He stood there and watched her for a moment in her desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood from the ragged gash in her abdomen. Satisfied that she had not moved from where she had fallen, he continued his search of the cabin.
Outside again, he stuffed the few trinkets he had found into his saddlebags, only glancing down at the dying woman as he walked past her. Her painful moaning was weaker now, but still constant to the point where it began to annoy him. He decided to end it. Opening the pearl handled razor, he started toward her, but had second thoughts. The razor was too fine a thing to soil on a bony old woman’s throat, he thought. So he put it back in his pocket and, as he had done before, he knelt beside his helpless victim and smothered the life from her lungs. When she finally quit struggling, he got to his feet and, on a sudden impulse, decided to burn the cabin.