By noon three days later, the river mountain gorge Scar had been riding westward through widened out to a half mile. He could see Meeker in the distance. The first structure he came to was the Army compound, built close to the river and on the south side of the trampled trail he had been following. Fifty yards past the compound was a long log building supporting a general store sign. Past it a bit was a fair-sized building with a crude sign over its door identifying it as a café and tavern. Across the road from the café was a livery with an attached empty corral, and then about a dozen structures which Scar assumed to be homes. They were dugouts, each fourteen to twenty feet square with slanting roofs and only four feet above ground. Scar was familiar with this type of housing since he had lived in one with his ma and pa during his growing-up years in Pennsylvania. His pa told him the dugout floor, usually four-foot-deep, helped keep the house warm in the winter and cool in the summer. A stone chimney lined each structure’s side. Toward the end of the packed road were two large log buildings. Scar figured the one with a cross on the roof was most likely a church, and the other was probably the Indian agent’s headquarters. Not far beyond the agent’s building were tepees scattered about.
The entire town looked run down, with piles of debris spread about. Scar imagined it would look worse when the snow melted. Dogs ran about, some barking at the big man and his mules.
He left his mules untied at the café’s hitching rail alongside three tied horses. It had been six hours since breakfast. His mouth was watering for a hot meal. All eyes turned his way when he opened the door and stood for a few seconds getting oriented. Compared to the town, the room looked cleaner and more orderly than he’d expected. Cigarette smoke filled the air above the adjoining bar. As he took in the occupants, he observed they were all men with holstered handguns at their sides, and tobacco bag strings were hanging from their shirts or vest pockets. Most had cigarettes dangling from their lips. Five of the six dining tables were taken. Four sloppy looking soldiers sat at one. Three other tables had men eating at them, and the other table was occupied with four men playing cards with bottles nearby. Across the hall, a ten-foot bar dominated the room where three men stood, each with a glass in hand. One of the patrons, a man with red hair, was loud and obnoxious. He was tall with wide shoulders, and his belly protruded from his red plaid coat. His beard and mustache matched his shoulder-length hair hanging from under a dilapidated hat. He seemed to be impressed with himself, using profanity in every sentence and acting like the king of the roost.
All eyes followed Scar as he walked to the only vacant dining table along the side wall. It wasn’t long before a robust, middle-aged woman came over with coffee in one hand and a plate of food in the other. “That’ll be two bits,” she said in a short tone. “Pay me now, or I take the food back.” Scar, hungry for a hot meal, quickly reached for his pocket. As he pulled his money out, he wondered why she had such a sour attitude.
The woman took his money and had started off when Scar said calmly, “Thank you, ma’am.” She turned back, faced the big man, and after a long look gave a nod with a slight smile. Scar dug in. The food was surprisingly good.
He had pushed his plate back and was on his second cup of coffee when the redheaded drunk from the bar walked up to his table. “You’re new in these parts. I ain’t seen you before. What’s your name, and where do you hail from?”
“Name’s Bart Carter. I’m from a little town north of here a ways,” Scar said after standing and extending his hand to the drunk.
While their hands clasped, the drunk demanded in a low voice, “What are you doing here? What’s your business?”“I was sent here to see if a herd could be driven through to California,” Scar lied.
The drunk laughed, along with several men sitting around. “You must be a greenhorn,” one of the card players chimed in. “Folks for miles around know this pass gets filled with ten to twenty feet of snow, especially west of here where the winter snow comes over mountains.” Scar put on an act and looked surprised.
“Thanks for the information. I guess we’ll have to wait.”
The red-haired man had started toward the front door to leave but paused and said, “Ain’t no way to drive cows through this mountain pass till June gets here. You need to go home and wait it out.”
As soon as the man left, the café woman brought Scar a piece of apple pie and topped off his cup, saying in a low voice, “Better watch the drunk, mister. He’s got a terrible temper…killed a man in here a few weeks back.” She was starting to tell him more, but the drunk came stomping back in, heading toward Scar’s table.
“Are those your mules standing next to my horse out there?” he shouted as he approached Scar. Every head in the room turned toward Scar.
Scar didn’t want to draw more attention, so he answered quietly, “Yes, they’re mine. Are they causing a problem?”
“Don’t you ever let those mules get close to my horse again. If you do, I’ll shoot ’em. They could be carrying a disease or kick my horse, injuring its leg. Mules ain’t got no sense. You need to get yourself a horse. Only a yellow coward rides a mule.” Scar made no reply. The drunk turned and left, with Scar following several feet back. He wanted to make sure the man didn’t take his temper out on Maude or Frankie.
The men in the café watched Scar as he reentered the room and sat back down at his table. He knew the onlookers probably thought he was a pushover. In reality, he had the urge to put the drunk in his place, especially after he said he’d shoot Maude and Frankie. But he needed a few days to do his investigative work before any Indian protocol could be changed by the locals or the Indian agent, and he wanted to remain unidentified.
The woman came back with coffee. After pouring, she sat the pot on his table and unexpectedly joined him. “You sure did put on a good act,” she whispered, putting on a wide grin. It caught Scar off guard.
After a pause, he asked, “What do you mean by that?”
She didn’t reply directly but said, “My name is Abigail, but folks call me Abby. How are Jenny and Mrs. Kaiser at the café doing?” Scar’s mouth nearly dropped open.
“How do you know them, ma’am?” he asked.
“I stopped at Flat Peaks for a few days on my way here a couple months back. I ate at Jenny’s Place every day. The women there spoke a great deal about a man called Scar. A man tall and well-built with black hair and beard. They even explained how you got the scar on your left cheek. They told me how polite you were and how you helped people in need. I was also told about your bravery and fighting skills, so I know you cowed down to the drunk on purpose. I asked Jenny to introduce me to you if you came in, but she said you were gone someplace on an assignment.”
“Thank you, Abby. Those women have a tendency to stretch things a bit,” the big man said, blushing. “You have me pegged. My name is Bart Carter, but I’m known as Scar.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Bart,” she said, pouring more coffee.
After fiddling with his cup for a few seconds, he said in a low voice, “Abby, I may need your help.”
“I’ll help if I can—what do you need?”
Scar was hesitant at first to share his assignment with the woman but decided he must, under the circumstances. “Abby, I’m a state marshal who reports directly to Governor Routt. We received word from President Grant the Indians around here were being mistreated by the Indian agent and some of the local folks. At least the president wrote he’d received word to that effect. I’m here to investigate the matter and report my findings. I hope I can look around a bit before I’m found out.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Abby, if you have knowledge of any wrongdoing, I’d appreciate your help and please don’t tell anyone about me.”“You have my word, Bart. I won’t tell a soul about you. But we need to have more privacy before I explain what I know. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you the time and place to meet.” Scar rose to leave, but Abby called him back. “Do you have a place to spend the night, Bart?”
“Not really,” he said. “I suppose I’ll build some kind of shelter.”
“There’re no hotels around here, but I imagine you could spend the night in the livery. It has a stove that’s normally kept burning all night.”
“Thanks, Abby…sounds like my best option.”
“Talk with Tony. That’s not his real name, but it was pinned on him by the padre some time ago. He’s not the owner, but he runs the place. He’s a breed. His ma was Ute, and his father was white. But he speaks good English.” Scar nodded his thanks and left.
Once outside, he whistled for the mules as he crossed the snow-covered road toward the livery. When Scar was within a few yards of the door, it swung open. A short man wearing a high-crown, black western hat with an eagle feather in its band met him. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties.
“My name’s Bart Carter, and I’m looking for Tony,” he said. “Abby sent me.”
“I’m Tony. What can I do for you?” Abby was right. He spoke good English.
“I’m looking for a place to stay while I’m in Meeker…a place I can board my mules and store my belongings. Abby said you might be able to put me up.”
“Be happy to,” he responded. “It’ll cost you twenty-five cents a night for both mules, and it includes their hay. You’ll have to furnish your own bedding, but you can sleep on the floor close to the stove if you want. There’ll be no charge for that.”
“Thanks. I was hoping I’d find a warm place for the night. It gets mighty cold sleeping under the stars this time of the year. By the way, if you have corn or oats for my mules, I’d be obliged to buy it from you.”
“We don’t have any, Mr. Carter. Sometimes in the warmer months, a few wagons of corn and oats come our way for sale, but it’s not often.”
“That’s okay. They’ll do fine on hay.” Scar paused for a few seconds before asking, “Tony, I’d appreciate being called Bart. I’d like to become your friend and friends refer to one another by their first names. Mr. Carter sounds too formal.”
Tony looked puzzled. “Didn’t Abby tell you I was a breed?”
“Yes, she did, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Around here Indians and breeds don’t speak to white people by their first names. We’re not thought to be fit to associate with white people or have them for friends, except through business.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Scar said in a firm tone. “You’re as fit as me or any other man.” After a long pause, Tony fetched the coffee pot from the potbelly stove and poured two cups, handing one to Scar. After a couple of swallows, Scar asked, “Who raised you, Tony? Where did you grow up?”
“My father was a mountain man who came to my mother’s village when she was young. He was well-received by her people, and within weeks Father and Mother were married. She was fifteen. After their marriage, they went to my father’s town to live but were shunned, so they returned to my mother’s village where I was born and raised. When I was twelve, my father went tatanka hunting in the prairie and never came home. Mother told me Father was an honorable man and would never leave us stranded…that he must have been killed. My mother died two years later, leaving me to be raised by my grandparents. I have always thought of myself as an Indian. They call me Yellow Skin.”
“You speak very good English. Who taught you?”
Tony pondered the big stranger’s questions before he answered. It seemed that it was unusual for a white man to speak this way. Bart needed him to believe his words were sincere.
“My father taught me much of the white man’s ways, but the padre taught me the most. Before my mother died, she insisted I attend his class at the church every day. I went for several years. He taught me to speak English…how to read and write, and do numbers.”
“The padre did a good job,” Scar said. Tony offered his thanks with a nod.
When their cups were empty, Tony led the way to the stalls where the mules had been placed. After several forks of hay were thrown into the racks, Scar removed the cargo and saddle from the mules and placed it in a storage room Tony pointed out.
“I don’t suppose there’s a barber or bathhouse in the area, is there, Tony? I’m getting pretty rank and need a bath.”
“I was wondering if you could smell yourself.” Both men laughed.
“Where do you bathe?” Scar asked.
“I have a tub in my room.”
“Do you mind if I use it? I’d be happy to pay for its use.”
“I filled it last night and took a bath.”
“That’s great,” Scar said. “I can add a few pots of boiling water to warm it up. That is if you let me use it.”
Tony’s black eyes stared back at Scar. He didn’t blink or look away.
“What wrong?” Scar asked. “I promise to dump the dirty water and refill it after my bath.”
Tony’s stare continued. Finally, he said with a furrowed forehead, “Are you willing to bathe in the same water as me?”
“I’d be obliged to you if you’d let me.”
Tony thought on the matter, and then rose to put a bucket of bath water on top of the potbelly stove. Turning to Scar, he said, “I’d be happy to cut your hair and trim your beard if you like. I’ll be extra careful with your scar.” Scar saw a smile beginning to surface on Tony’s face.
“You know who I am…don’t you?” he inquired.
“Yes, I know. You’re Scar, the scarred warrior who saved the great-grandfather Indian chief in the north.”
Scar sat looking at Tony for several seconds and then asked, “Would you like to see the old chief’s necklace? He gave it to me because I gave him food and a horse when he was sick and couldn’t walk during his trip to his summer camp. I seldom take it off.”
Tony nodded.
Scar removed the old chief’s necklace from around his neck and handed it to him.
Tony spread the claws of the necklace in the palm of his hand. There was an eagle claw, a claw from a bear, one from a wolf, and one from a mountain lion. As he took in the sight, it seemed memories of bygone times passed through his mind. Times when the Indians ruled the land…times when food was plentiful and his people were happy. As Tony handed the necklace back, he said, “I’ve seen many necklaces from very important chiefs before, but none like this. The old chief’s fame has spread throughout the Indian world.”
The two men spent the remainder of the morning discussing the past years of the Ute Indians. According to Tony, some years had been good, and some had been bad. They were now in a period of bad.
At noon Scar went to the café for his meal, but Tony made an excuse and remained behind. When Scar returned from the café, he asked, “Tony, I’d like to confide in you…tell you why I’m here. Can you keep a secret?” Tony nodded. Scar proceeded to explain about his being appointed a marshal by the governor, the letter from President Grant concerning the complaint on behalf of the Ute Indians at the Meeker camp, and his assignment to investigate the situation. “Can you offer any information, Tony? Is there a problem here? And if so, who’s behind it?”
Tony stared at Scar for several seconds and then walked to the livery’s barn door and opened it, checking for any possible listeners. There were none. He returned and sat down with his eyes searching for answers. “My people have very little. There are not enough clothes and blankets to keep warm, and the food is very limited. They are starving. There is much sickness because of the lack of these rations. Life is at a low point for them. There is no happiness…no joy.”
“Why is that, Tony? What’s happened to cause this?”
“The white man’s Army has restricted my people to a small settlement which limits their food and animal skins for clothing. They’ve been promised an adequate supply of blankets, clothing, and food in return, but in reality, the amount of food supplied is only half of what is needed, and most of it is rotten…not fit to eat. Much of it is only fit for dogs. The allotment of clothing and blankets is half of what it should be.”
“Have you reported this to the authorities?”
“Many times, but nothing changes. My people have given up all hope. Some of our elderly and children have already died, and undoubtedly many more will die before spring. Our women are grieving. Our young men are considering an uprising.”
“Who’s responsible for this bad treatment?” Scar asked.
“I have an opinion, but I’m not sure and don’t want to speculate.”
There was a long pause, and then Scar asked, “Tony, would you assist me in speaking with the natives? You could interpret for me?”
Tony nodded.