Lakotah Justice Read online

  Carelessly he dropped the bundle in his right hand to enable him to grab the bulging saddle-bags from the ground, and, because his life depended on it, he ran to his horse more quickly than anyone would have thought his thickset body capable of. In one fluid movement he flung the saddle-bags over the horse’s back and drew his rifle from the saddle boot. He began firing, indiscriminately, a token show of resistance with little chance of hitting the enemy.

  The attackers were experienced guerrilla fighters, lying flat along the backs of their ponies to make themselves the smallest targets possible. Indeed, for some of those with rifles, their animal provided almost total protection as they clung to one flank and fired under its neck.

  Lew Butler had been regarding the antics of his brother with anger. There was a code in the West with regard to the treatment of women which you ignored at your peril. Clem should have left the girl at the stagecoach. Molesting her was a greater crime than robbery and they would all be judged guilty of it no matter what little part Charlie Huntz and he had played. Perhaps it didn’t matter; now that she had seen all their faces there was only one thing to be done with her when Clem was finished. If they were caught they would hang for the murder of the stagecoach driver and guard anyhow, but it sat ill with Lew that people would think of him as an abuser of women. He glanced in their direction. He had to admit his brother had been right about one thing. She was certainly pretty. Beating her ugly, as Clem seemed prepared to do, didn’t make any sense.

  Then, as though pushed forward by a giant’s hand, Clem fell forward, his torso covering the girl. As with Ellie, the appearance of the arrows in his brother’s back, the war whoops of the attacking warriors and Charlie Huntz’s cry of ‘Indians!’ all registered at the same moment.

  ‘Clem!’ Lew shouted, even though he knew it would be to no avail. His brother was dead. He pulled his revolver from its holster and fired two wild shots in the direction of the attackers. Like Charlie, he knew the only things that could save him now were his rifle and a fast horse. Unlike Charlie, he mounted first but before he could spur his horse forward a hideous cry rose above the tumult of battle.

  Lew twisted in the saddle. Standing above his brother’s body, with arms raised aloft, was one of the braves. In one hand he held a knife, in the other a bloody scalp.

  ‘Clem!’ Lew shouted again, his voice taut with a hundred emotions as he witnessed the mutilation of his brother. He drew his rifle and shot at the Indian, hitting him in the back and pitching him face first on to the ground. An arrow flew close to his head, cutting short any sense of fulfilled vengeance. Survival, now, was his only thought.

  ‘Come on, Charlie,’ he shouted, ‘let’s ride.’

  Charlie had his horse running before he was on its back. Gripping his rifle and the saddle horn he vaulted into leather as his mount followed Lew’s up the ridge towards the tree line. Pursued by yelling Indians, the air buzzing with arrows and bullets, Lew and Charlie pushed their steeds to their best speed. If the white men had hoped the trees would provide sufficient cover for them to make a stand against their attackers they were soon disabused of such a notion. The trees were nothing more than an isolated line which the riders left behind almost before they knew they had reached them. Before them was an expanse of long-grassed prairie which offered them no obvious defensive position. All that remained was to try to outrun their pursuers.

  For three miles the conflict ensued. The horses of the stagecoach robbers had the initial advantage. They were bigger and faster and already had a head start, but after the first mile that advantage disappeared. The Indian ponies were accustomed to long treks, were bred for it, and they carried a lot less weight. Their near-naked riders rode without heavy leather saddles, nor were they burdened with so many accoutrements as were their enemies. The gap between the two groups was maintained for another mile but then, gradually, it began to close. Bullets and arrows whistled nearer as Lew and Charlie tried to urge another burst of speed from their failing horses.

  Charlie turned in the saddle several times to discharge his rifle at the band of Indians behind them. It was a waste of ammunition; his chance of hitting a target was remote at best. The Indians themselves, nine in total, had stopped yelling, content in the knowledge that they were running down their prey. They fired more frequently but they had the advantage of having their targets in view at all times. Lew peered ahead, his eyes desperately scanning for suitable cover. Unable to see any and with his horse rapidly failing to maintain its speed he knew there only remained one course of action.

  ‘We’ve got to make a stand,’ he yelled at Charlie. ‘Get down behind the horses.’

  Charlie nodded his agreement. He knew his horse couldn’t go much further and, reluctant though he was to dismount, he knew that afoot, their marksmanship would improve immensely. Lew and he were more than adequate in the use of firearms; they’d lived by their guns most of their life.

  Simultaneously they reined back their mounts and were off them before they came to a halt. The beasts were snorting and stamping and sweating, but their duty wasn’t done. Each man grabbed his horse’s bridle, pulling down on it and across, forcing the animal on to its front knees then on to its side. But by now the nearest Indians were almost upon the two white men. Lew raised his rifle and fired twice. Both the Indians fell, disappearing from sight in the long grass. Their riderless ponies galloped past.

  Charlie was on one knee behind his horse, using it as a living rampart, waiting for the onrushing Indians. He could hear them now, they’d restarted their war whoops, sensing that the white men were at their mercy. Charlie felt vulnerable. Being low to the ground was a disadvantage, not least because the long grass prevented him seeing the attackers until they were almost upon him. He waited, rifle at his shoulder.

  The drumming of hoofs got louder. Then a head and shoulders appeared almost above him. Instinctively he fired. The Indian hurled a spear. Neither missile found its mark but as the ridden pony hurdled the recumbent horse Charlie fired again. The slug bored a way through the Indian’s head, entering under the chin, passing through the cavity of his mouth and rising into the density of his brain. He dropped at Charlie’s feet, legs twitching twice before a final stillness settled over him.

  Charlie only had time to recognize that that was one Indian who wouldn’t be a trouble to him again when another hard-ridden pony loomed into view. Its rider released an arrow, which thudded deep into the belly of Charlie’s horse. The beast jerked and rasped out a pain-filled, frightened cough. Charlie fired his rifle, three times in swift succession. Blood spurted from the Indian’s chest as he tumbled backwards from his pony.

  Lew, too, had his hands full. After his dispatching of the first two Indians, bullets screamed through the air from the rifles of two others who were riding wide on his left. All he could see was their wild-eyed ponies and the smoke drifting up from the barrels of the rifles which had been fired under their neck. Lew didn’t fire at them. He could, perhaps, have brought down the animals but that would only be a disadvantage to Charlie and him. A combination of mounted and dismounted Indians would soon see them overpowered. Unhorsed Indians would lead to hand-to-hand fighting and, if it came to that, while heavily outnumbered he and Charlie couldn’t win. Their deaths would be slow and painful. Better to go down fighting, be killed quickly by a bullet or an arrow.

  Out of the long grass rode another brave. His hair was raised from the crown of his head by a bone ornament and his face was marked with two yellow lines that ran from cheek to cheek across his nose. As his pony leapt over the prostrate form of Lew’s horse his arm swung in a violent arc, a tomahawk clutched in his hand. With his attention focused on the wide riders, Lew had no time to bring his rifle round to fire at the new attacker. Instead, he bent low, hoping to avoid the deadly swipe and so give himself the opportunity to draw a bead on his attacker as he passed. Unfortunately, he didn’t get low enough. The flat blade of the tomahawk smacked against the crown of Lew’s head, pitching him face dow
n on to the ground.

  Seeing his companion on the ground, Charlie aimed at the back of the man who had felled him. He pulled the trigger. There was an ominous, empty click. He jerked the mechanism and tried again. The result was the same. He dropped the rifle, drew his six-gun and fired two shots at the receding Indian. Charlie grunted with satisfaction when he saw the tomahawk fall from the man’s right hand. The brave grabbed at that shoulder with his left hand, brushing against the single feather that hung there.

  Knowing the Indian was now out of distance for his handgun, Charlie picked up Lew’s rifle and sighted along the barrel. He fired only one shot but it struck home. With arms flung wide the Indian’s body bent backwards in an unnatural arc. Almost gracefully he toppled from his pony and lay still on the ground.

  Charlie turned his attention to the remaining Indians. Only four remained, gathered in a line ready to recharge their quarry. Five of their comrades lay dead around the white man’s makeshift defences but this latest death had a dramatic effect on them. For several moments they conferred, moments during which Charlie reloaded his rifle. But the fight was over. One of the four rode slowly forward to collect the body of their last fallen comrade; their leader, Charlie supposed. Then, at funereal pace, they rode away. Charlie pulled Lew’s horse to its feet, then climbed on its back and stood in the saddle so that he was able to see them ride away, confirming the fact that the warriors had had enough.

  Lew began to moan. Charlie got down, collected a water canteen from the saddle of his dying horse and poured a little of the contents over his partner’s face. There was a split in Lew’s skull: nothing too serious but he’d lost some blood and his hair was sticky with it. For the moment, it would have to stay that way; there wasn’t enough water in the canteen to justify washing his head. While Lew came to his senses Charlie picketed his horse a few yards from where they’d made their stand. There was only one thing to be done with his own horse and he didn’t want to spook Lew’s when he did it.

  It was a full hour before Lew felt able to travel. Even then his head was still pounding but they couldn’t hang around any longer. If the Indians came back for their dead they would probably bring more braves with them. Lew and Charlie thought it unlikely they’d be able to fight them off a second time.

  They determined to head for the nearest outpost, Fort Laramie. Even though it should have been the next stop for the stagecoach they’d robbed, they figured there was no reason for anyone to suspect that they were responsible. They’d be coming in from a different direction and they’d been attacked by Indians. Lew had a dead brother and Charlie a dead horse to prove it. But they wouldn’t get to Fort Laramie before nightfall; with only one horse progress would be slow.

  As night fell they lost that horse, too, its leg breaking when it stumbled into a gopher hole hidden by the long grass. On another day the loss of their animals and equipment would have been a cause for concern, as it was they were in high spirits from having survived a skirmish with Indians and, too, they had money-filled saddle-bags. Any grumbling they did was solely about the inconvenience of having to carry their own saddle-bags and weapons.

  The thought of replacing his gear was a source of pleasure for Charlie. He was thinking about the fancy rig he’d once seen used by a Mexican caballero. The cantle and pommel with its silver-topped horn were high, so that the whole saddle looked like a comfortable seat. The leathers were wide, patterned and interlaced with silver ornaments. Charlie had admired it as soon as he saw it and, had the owner not been surrounded by a dozen of his own vaqueros at the time, he would have been happy enough to kill the man for it.

  They walked in silence for several miles, Charlie’s thoughts occupied with ways to spend his money while Lew was making plans of a more practical nature. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘When we get to the fort we tell them we’ve just finished trail-herding to Abilene and now we’re heading for Wyoming, where we hear tell there are a lot of big ranches looking for cowboys. Indians attacked us out on the Plains and we lost everything but what we’re carrying. Best not to mention Clem. If anyone comes across the bodies of him and the girl we don’t want them tying us in with them. Once it’s discovered that the stagecoach has been robbed and a passenger kidnapped it won’t take the law long to figure out it’s her.’

  ‘What about the money?’ asked Charlie, his mind preoccupied with fancy rigs and dance-hall girls. ‘Do we split it now?’

  ‘No. We can’t go into Laramie with such a stash. What we’ll do is take a bundle each, like it’s our pay-off at the end of a profitable cattle drive, but the rest we’ll hide and collect after we’ve rested up a few days and got ourselves fitted out with horses and equipment.’

  By now they’d left behind the long grass and were on the gentle slopes of the higher ground looking for a watercourse that they could follow to the North Platte. It was almost total darkness when they found what they were looking for.

  ‘Let’s bed down here for a few hours,’ said Lew, whose head was aching from the blow he’d taken. ‘We’ll get under way again at first light.’

  Charlie agreed. Charlie always agreed with Lew. Lew was a thinker and a planner and they hadn’t yet come to harm. Well, mused Charlie, there was Clem, of course, but if Clem hadn’t disobeyed Lew by bringing along the girl they never would have crossed paths with those Indians and Clem wouldn’t be dead. No, he thought, it wasn’t Lew’s fault. If they hadn’t been slowed down by the girl they would have been miles away from that riverbank. He sniffed, audibly, then stopped.

  ‘Smoke,’ he said softly.

  The same thought occurred to both outlaws. In this wilderness, where there was smoke there were people and where there were people there were horses. Lew rubbed his face hoping to wipe away the nagging pain, then ushered Charlie ahead. Though the sky was clear of clouds, the waning moon cast little light on the land and Lew and Charlie moved ahead stealthily, crawling along the ground to draw close to a stand of cottonwoods they’d identified as the likely location of a campfire.

  Now and then a night breeze fluttered, stirring the foliage, carrying the sound of fast-flowing water from the stream below. Lew motioned for Charlie to hold his position while he moved to the other side of the dell in which the cottonwoods grew. As he was circling in a wide arc he came across two ponies. They were tethered on the far side of the grove, near the river. One, a dull grey, turned its head in Lew’s direction. The other, light-coloured with feathers tied in its mane and paint-marks on its flanks and legs, gave a nervous snicker.

  Alerted by the pony’s warning the two people sitting cross-legged by the small fire reached for their bows and arrows. They stood and moved in the direction of their ponies.

  Behind them, Charlie Huntz stepped into the clearing.

  ‘Horses,’ he said ‘Just what we’re looking for and guess what, you ain’t gonna need them any more.’ He pulled the trigger, once, twice and the two boys, for indeed they could have been no older than fourteen, died where they fell.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wes Gray rode into Fort Laramie before noon and stepped down from his big horse outside the office of the commanding officer. He was no stranger to the fort. On more than one occasion he’d been hired by the army to act as guide for an expedition or translator at a parlay with an Indian tribe. His knowledge and skills were legendary, his advice, especially on Indian affairs, always sought.

  Wes smacked his broad-brimmed hat against his leg to loosen the dust that had collected during his ride. He stepped on to the porch and paused, took a look around the outpost to familiarize himself with its layout. In terms of buildings, nothing much had changed in the year since his last visit, but, to his surprise, there were more soldiers in evidence. He figured it could simply mean that there were fewer out on patrol but it troubled him that the increase was more likely a show of force designed to further Washington’s desire to push the tribesmen on to reservations.

  He opened the office door and stepped into a room which, i
n contrast to the glare and heat of the sun outside, was dark and cool. A sergeant, seated behind a cluttered desk, looked up from the pile of documents he was checking.

  ‘As I live and breathe,’ he exclaimed, ‘Wes Gray. What are you doing back here? Bringing through more settlers?’

  ‘That’s right. Got a wagon train heading for California. Thought I’d drop by and pay my compliments to the colonel.’ Wes’s reasons for coming into the fort weren’t purely social. Letting the army know they were in the vicinity meant that patrols in the area would keep an eye on them and pass on any information that could affect their safety.

  The sergeant stood and rapped with his knuckles on a door behind his desk. Without waiting for an answer he opened it.

  ‘Wes Gray out here, sir.’

  ‘Send him in, Sergeant.’ Colonel Flint was a trim man in middle-age. His hair was short and dark as was the moustache and beard that encircled his mouth. His eyes, too, were small and dark but gave the impression of a man alert to his surroundings. His smile of welcome was genuine when he saw the buckskin-clad scout.

  After exchanging greetings, Colonel Flint confirmed Wes’s initial impression. The regular troops of the Fourth Infantry had been augmented by a company of the Second Cavalry.

  ‘The fort is bursting with men,’ he announced. Wes asked the obvious question.

  ‘Are you expecting trouble?’

  Colonel Flint shook his head. ‘Nothing imminent but we need to be prepared.There are signs of increasing unrest among those bands hostile to the idea of settling on a reservation. Further north there’s been several incidents with miners. Some have been killed.’