Lakotah Justice Page 4

  ‘Miners shouldn’t be in the Black Hills. That’s Sioux land.’

  Colonel Flint exhaled loudly as though he’d been holding his breath a long time.

  ‘There’s gold there, Wes. An agreement isn’t going to hold back the prospectors.’

  ‘That’s the army’s job, isn’t it?’

  ‘The army’s job is to do what government orders it to do, And we’re ordered to protect the miners.’

  ‘Even though it was the army generals who signed their names to the treaty six years ago?’

  ‘I know where your loyalties lie, Wes. Perhaps it won’t come to a war. Those tribes that remain along the Platte seem content. Sometimes a band of Sioux or Cheyennes come to the fort to trade. There’s no trouble while they’re here. From the hills they watch the wagons that pass through their land but there hasn’t been any aggression. No reason why that should change.’

  ‘I saw a party of Shoshones yesterday,’ said Wes, ‘about half a day south of here.’ He told Colonel Flint what he’d seen along the North Platte. Colonel Flint rubbed his jaw.

  ‘Bit far east for Shoshones, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘They weren’t anywhere near the wagon trail so I figured they were on a raiding trip against the Sioux. Probably after horses.’

  ‘Seems likely,’ said the CO.

  Wes was about to ask about the terrain ahead, if the rivers were crossable or if any trails had been blocked by winter landslides, when the sergeant opened the door again.

  ‘Mr Clayport to see you, Colonel.’

  Curly Clayport worked for Wells Fargo. He was supervisor of the stage depot in the civilian settlement a couple of miles from the fort, and the epitome of a key Wells Fargo employee – energetic, astute and prepared to put the needs of the company before all else. He was a broad-shouldered man, not quite six feet tall, clean-shaven and devoid of most of the hair from the middle of his head.

  He came into the room on the heels of the sergeant. Wes and he had met on several occasions and liked each other, but the Wells Fargo man was barely able to acknowledge the scout’s presence, so eager was he to speak to Colonel Flint. His movement was brisk, his words tumbled out like rocks in a landslide.

  ‘Colonel, we’ve got a problem. The stage from Deadwood hasn’t arrived. It should have been here late afternoon yesterday.’

  Unflustered, Colonel Flint gave his opinion.

  ‘Coach timetables aren’t my affair, Mr Clayport. Won’t be the first time the coach has been delayed by a lame horse or a broken wheel. No doubt it’ll turn up in due course.’

  ‘I suspect it’s more serious than that, Colonel. I think it’s been attacked by Indians.’

  ‘Indians! Now what makes you think that?’

  ‘Because two men have just ridden into the settlement who are lucky to still have hair on their heads.’

  ‘What men?’

  ‘Strangers. Came in from the south. Riding Indian ponies because their own mounts were killed in the attack. They claim they fought off a dozen of the devils in the long-grass country.’

  ‘I rode in from the south,’ said Wes, ‘and the only warlike band I saw was a party of Shoshones. They weren’t travelling quickly enough to have attacked a stagecoach north of here and then fight those men in the south.’

  He rubbed his jaw. Any hint of hostilities was bad news for everyone who hoped to settle in the area and for the people crossing the continent in wagons. He also knew that it was common practice to blame the tribes for any misdeed. Not that he was laying such an accusation against Curly: the Wells Fargo man was simply worried about a stagecoach for which he was responsible and repeating what two strangers had told him.

  ‘Might be interesting to hear their story,’ Wes suggested. ‘Find out why they were attacked.’

  ‘I’d agree with you, Wes, if we were laying blame for both attacks on the same group, but that ain’t the way of it. Weren’t Shoshones that attacked those men,’ said Clayport, ‘those were Sioux ponies they were riding. This is Sioux country. If the stagecoach has been attacked by Indians then it could mean a full-scale uprising.’

  Such a thought brought an instant response from Colonel Flint.

  ‘Sergeant, get Captain O’Malley here at once.’

  O’Malley was given instructions to take six men and ride the trail towards Deadwood to find out what had befallen the stagecoach.

  ‘Then report straight back here. But first,’ said Colonel Flint, ‘question those two men at the settlement. Find out all you can about that attack.’

  ‘Do you mind if I tag along,’ asked Wes Gray. ‘If there’s trouble brewing I need to warn Caleb as soon as possible.’

  Neither Colonel Flint nor Captain O’Malley had any objection, so Wes remounted Red and rode side by side with the captain to the settlement. Other than a few words of introduction they rode in silence.

  It came as no surprise to either man to find that the two Indian ponies were tied to the hitching rail outside Jed Clancy’s store. Clancy’s store was the biggest building in the settlement and served a dual purpose. The larger part was a store that stocked dry goods and provisions, clothing and farming equipment, guns and ammunition, and acted as a barter post for the outlying farms. The other part was a saloon with a high counter and room for four small tables.

  Clancy and his wife ran the enterprise between them, each fulfilling the roles of storekeeper and bartender as required. Their services were also retained by Wells Fargo to provide food and whatever comfort they could for the stagecoach passengers. The arrival of a full stagecoach was the only time all four tables were in use.

  Before stepping inside, Wes looked over the ponies at the rail. He recognized the paint markings on the animals and the designs on the blankets over their backs as typical Sioux.

  Three men lounged against the bar behind which both Jed Clancy and his wife stood. Two of the four tables were occupied. At one was slumped a solitary man, unconscious, his head, shoulders and arms resting on the table, a part-empty whiskey bottle close to his right hand and a part-full glass near his left.

  A poker game was in progress at the other table although, truth be told, the five men seated around it and those standing on both sides of the counter were more engrossed in conversation than in the turn of the cards. The subject under discussion was Indians. The death of a handful at the hands of two resourceful newcomers was a cause for celebration and boasting, but the sudden appearance of a cavalry officer in their midst brought the conversation to an abrupt halt.

  Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz were among the five playing poker. When questioned by Captain O’Malley they stuck to the story they’d concocted along the trail. They were cattle drovers from Abilene hoping to find work in Wyoming. Without warning they had been attacked by a bunch of Indians. Their horses were shot from under them but they managed to fight off the attack by killing most of the Indians. They had rounded up a couple of ponies and made their way to Laramie, knowing there was a fort near by.

  When O’Malley seemed satisfied with their story Wes Gray asked some questions of his own.

  ‘What were they after?’

  Charlie Huntz looked quizzically at the scout and pushed a stubby hand through his unruly red hair.

  ‘After? Our scalps, I suppose.’

  ‘Ain’t it enough that we’re white and they’re Indian?’ asked Lew.

  ‘Not usually. Most times they’re after some sort of prize, something to take back to the village that will increase their own wealth and importance.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as pelts or weapons or horses. Did you have pack animals with you?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I told you,’ said Lew, his voice betraying annoyance at Wes’s questions, ‘we’re cattlemen moving on to Wyoming. We had nothing but the horses under us and the clothes we’re still wearing.’

  Wes looked at the pile of dollar notes in front of each man. If the two men had travelled north without much in the way of
goods they certainly had a sizeable bankroll. Still, their story of having recently completed a trail drive could account for that. He knew that drovers on long drives earned good pay. If these two hadn’t squandered it on women and whiskey they were a rare breed, but it happened.

  ‘Perhaps they were after our horses,’ said Charlie.

  ‘If that was the case it’s unlikely they’d shoot them. Not much honour in dragging a dead horse back to the village.’

  ‘Don’t suppose they intended to kill the horses. Likely they were aiming for us. Horse just got in the way of the arrows.’

  ‘You don’t know the Sioux. If your horses were the prize they were never in any danger of being hit by an arrow.’

  Lew was becoming edgy. Charlie was a good man, a good friend, but he didn’t always think before speaking. The fellow in buckskin was beginning to make Charlie grope for answers, provide an explanation which he didn’t have. Any minute now Charlie was likely to say something incompatible with the story they’d told. He growled at Wes.

  ‘Are you calling us liars?’

  Wes noted the other’s tone. ‘No. Trying to find a reason for the attack. There’s been no trouble with tribes for some time so we need to know what’s riled them. If this is an isolated incident then it’ll help to know what caused it. We don’t want it escalating into something bigger. War with the Sioux isn’t good for anyone.’

  Jed Clancy spoke up. ‘Don’t think it is an isolated incident, Wes. The Deadwood stage hasn’t arrived. Seems likely the Sioux have hit that, too.’

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions, Jed. Nobody knows what’s happened to the coach. The captain and his troopers are heading north now to investigate.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ said Lew Butler, ‘that you’re mighty keen to prove the Indians innocent.’

  ‘No. Just keen to prove the innocent innocent. It don’t pay to decide in advance who did what. When we find the stagecoach we’ll find out what happened.’

  ‘We told you what happened to us,’ said Charlie. ‘We got attacked without reason. Our dead horses and a bunch of dead Indians are lying out there in the long-grass country to prove it.’

  Dead horses maybe, thought Wes, but no dead Indians. Their comrades would have been back for the bodies. And anyhow, dead bodies would only prove there had been a fight, not the cause of it. Lew Butler spoke.

  ‘The army should be out there killing all of them. Murderous devils. There ain’t none of them should be left alive.’ As he spoke he sensed a sudden change of atmosphere in the room, a sensation that he’d said something dangerous. He couldn’t think what it could be. He’d expressed the same sentiment earlier when recounting details of the fight to the gathered citizens.

  But Wes Gray wasn’t a stranger to the people who lived near Fort Laramie. His history was well known. Now, as he straightened up, his shoulders seemed to broaden and his arms to relax as they hung by his side, his right hand lying carelessly close to his revolver.

  ‘That’s a mean attitude,’ he said to Lew Butler. ‘There are good Indians and bad Indians just as there are good whites and bad.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I’ve never met any good Indians. They’re all blood-lusting, pox-riddled curs. The world would be a better place if they were all swept from it.’

  The silence in the room was intensified by the ticking of a sturdy cabinet clock on the wall behind the counter. When Wes spoke his voice was low but carried a threat that made some men move away from the table where Lew Butler sat.

  ‘My wife is Arapaho.’

  For some moments Lew didn’t know how to react. He glanced at Charlie Huntz, at Jed Clancy, at the nearest of those with whom he’d recently played poker. All expressions were grim, as though they expected a burst of violence that would lead to someone’s death. Fearlessly, Lew had faced a man with a gun on several occasions but now, for the first time, he felt a damp line of sweat forming on his upper lip. As the dark eyes of the man in buckskin stared at him with undisguised hatred, he felt the cold grip of uncertainty in his stomach.

  He looked at the cavalry captain and thought he saw in his face a flicker of decision: that being an officer he ought to demonstrate his authority and prevent violence. A second ticked by, two, then the silence was broken from an unexpected quarter. The voice was slurred but the words were distinct.

  ‘I’ve got an Indian wife, too, and that man’ – everyone in the room was looking at the drunk who had been slumped over the table and whose right arm now pointed in accusatory fashion at Wes Gray – ‘is the one I blame.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wes Gray’s accuser was unkempt, his features not only grubby and shadowed with bristles but ruddied by too much whiskey. The alcohol was also responsible for the unsteady, watery look in his eyes. His dark hair stuck out in irregular fashion which, despite his inebriated condition, gave him a somewhat boyish appearance that somehow softened the gruffness of his comment. Despite the man’s sullen appearance and manner Wes had no difficulty in recognizing Jim Taylor, whose homestead he’d planned to visit before rejoining the wagon train.

  The men had met three years earlier when Jim Taylor and his new wife, Alice, had been part of the wagon train being led to Oregon by Caleb Dodge. Unlike his current practice of not meeting the wagons until they were due to cross the Blue, Wes, at that time, travelled with the wagons all the way from Independence. So he became a familiar figure to the emigrants and struck up an acquaintance with Jim and Alice, which included taking evening meals with them when his duties permitted.

  Then, somewhere between the Blue and the Platte river crossings, disaster struck. Walking at the side of their ox-drawn wagon, Alice’s dress got caught up in a wheel and she was dragged under in an instant. Even though the pace of the wagons was no greater than three miles an hour it wasn’t easy to stop the team. Alice was crushed and died where she lay.

  Two days later, to distract Jim from the loss of his wife, Wes took him hunting. They rode far, to the valley of Mildwater Creek, and the first moment he looked upon it Jim decided to travel no further westward. Wes didn’t discourage him for he himself had often looked upon this valley with the thought that it was where he would choose to settle when the urge to wander the West had left him.

  However there were drawbacks to living here, which he didn’t keep from Jim. First there was the dangers of isolation. Not only was the simplest accident a risk to life when there was no one else around to help, but the lack of someone else to talk to had been known to send tough old mountain men crazy. Then there was the vagaries of the weather: the summers were hot and the winters bitterly cold. Through it all he would have to work the land and tend his stock just to survive. Jim was not to be deterred. Next day he pulled his wagon and livestock from the line and settled in the V-shaped piece of land where the Mildwater Creek meets the South Platte River.

  Alone he worked, ploughing and planting his crop. He built his cabin, corralled his horses and put his milk cows to pasture. For weeks at a stretch he saw no one. Occasionally an army patrol arrived bringing news of events outside his valley, especially when there were rumours of unrest among the Indians. Sometimes bands of curious Sioux watched him from the hills. They didn’t interfere with him but their presence worried him. When Wes next visited the valley he tried to solve Jim’s problem.

  ‘They’re your neighbours,’ he told him. ‘Go and visit them. Make friends. Choose a wife.’

  ‘A wife?’

  ‘Sure. Marry one of their women and they’ll know you mean them no harm. Learn their language. Understand their ways. Her family’ll come a-visiting from time to time. It’ll be company for you.’

  It was a proposition that Jim found difficult to accept. Lingering thoughts of Alice formed a barrier against remarrying, but his major problem was an inability to grasp the notion that a village of tribesmen were his neighbours, not his enemies. None the less, Wes took him to a nearby village of Ogallalah Sioux.

  There was little risk in such a visit; two men weren
’t any sort of threat to an entire village, besides which Wes knew that the Sioux were as curious about the ways of the white people as the whites were of theirs. Of course, when they got to within a mile of the village a band of braves encircled them shouting threats and war-whoops, but it was merely a demonstration, a means of showing their own bravery while testing that of their visitors. Wes told Jim to sit still.

  ‘They’ll be looking to count coup by touching us with their sticks.’

  As if he’d been waiting for the explanation a young buck urged his horse forward and ranged alongside Wes. He swung his feathered stick at Wes’s shoulder but the scout wasn’t prepared to suffer such ignominy. Strictly speaking, counting coup only occurred in battle, a product of the inter-tribal wars. It was a means of showing a warrior’s bravery by touching an armed enemy with nothing more than a stick. The arrival of the white man’s gun had changed the rule. To show disdain for the weapon that avoided the need for hand-to-hand fighting, it was permitted to touch any armed American, a practice that the white people found undignified if not downright frightening.

  At the last moment Wes ducked under the stick, getting low enough to reach down to grab the Indian’s foot. With a quick movement he heaved him over the side of his horse. No Indian likes to be unhorsed but Wes wasn’t looking to embarrass anyone; just the opposite: he was hoping to make friends. So, as the Indian fell from his horse, Wes allowed himself to fall to the ground too, in such a manner that the other Indians thought his clumsiness was the cause of both men being dumped in the dust.

  To emphasize his own humiliation Wes filled his hands with dirt and threw it in the air so that it came down over his own head.

  ‘A-Hey,’ shouted Wes, and laughed. His action was something of a gamble, but not one where the odds were stacked against him. If the mood of the group had been warlike their reception would have been much more hostile. From his experience with other tribes of Plains Indians, he knew that, other than tales of bravery in battle, there was nothing that Indians liked better than a campfire story that would make the elders laugh. Everything depended on the reaction of the Sioux braves.