Lakotah Justice Read online

  At first there was nothing but silence and Wes wondered if he had misread the situation. Then one of the mounted braves laughed and soon they were all laughing. All except the one who had been unseated, who knew the truth of the matter. Still smiling, Wes looked at him under the bodies of their horses. After a moment the unseated warrior grinned, filled his hands with dirt and threw it over his own head.

  Wes got to his feet and withdrew the Arapaho pipe that he carried in his saddle-bag. Mingling the few words of Sioux he knew with the universal sign language of the Plains tribes, he told them that their kinsmen, the Arapaho, called him brother and knew him by the name Medicine Feather. He had come, he told them, to smoke with the brave warriors of the Sioux.

  The name Medicine Feather was not unknown to them, nor was the fact that he had travelled with ‘Blanket’ Jim Bridger. With some ceremony Jim Taylor and Wes were escorted into their village.

  It was a small village of less than forty lodges, which spread a quarter of a mile along the same stream of water that eventually ran down to the Mildwater valley. It was a warm day and the skins were rolled up from the bottom of the lodges to let air circulate. Here and there men lay on the ground enjoying the warmth of the day and watching the women at work. Others tended their horses or sat cross-legged in conversation with their friends. All of them stood when they saw the approaching group with the white men in the middle.

  Wes and Jim first saw Sky as they made their way to the lodge of the chief, Kicking Bear. She was stretching hide with three other girls and her big brown eyes watched them with an interest that was deeper than mere curiosity. Her shy smile illuminated a keenness for knowledge. From the interest their visit had generated Wes suspected they were the first white men to visit this village, which could mean that they were the first wasicun (white people) Sky had seen. She wore a doeskin dress decorated with buffalo hair and small coloured stones. The unadorned moccasins on her feet were made of the same material. Her long black hair was greased and plaited in the general style. She had high cheekbones, a straight, proud bearing, and was as slender and as graceful as a fawn. Her eyes followed them to the very entrance of Kicking Bear’s tepee. Wes noted how Jim returned the look.

  News of their approach had been sent on ahead to Kicking Bear and he greeted them adorned with a headdress of eagle feathers that reached to his ankles, a display designed to impress the visitors and to advertise to his own people that he was welcoming them with honour.

  ‘Hohahe,’ he began, which Wes knew was a greeting of welcome, telling them he was glad they had come. In a little speech from which Wes identified the words wasicun and Lakota it was clear that Kicking Bear was voicing a desire for Americans and Sioux to be friends. Five men formed a line beside Kicking Bear; older men, the village council, gathered around silently, heads held high, blankets folded over their arms as though an emblem of their position in the tribe. They sat in a circle outside Kicking Bear’s tepee and a pipe was passed around.

  Wes told the gathered Sioux that he and Jim had come in friendship. They had recognized Jim as the man living alone by the creek which, in the ways of the Lakota, was a bad thing. He needed a wife. He should choose one from the girls of Kicking Bear’s village. It was clear to Wes that Jim had already made his choice. His eyes had continually strayed to where the girl with the big brown eyes worked tirelessly at the deerskin.

  ‘Her name is Apo Hopa,’ Wes told Jim after making enquiries, ‘which roughly translates into Beautiful Dawn.’

  ‘Like a pink sky,’ said Jim.

  ‘That’s just a part of it,’ Wes told him. ‘Her name captures all the good things of a new day. The first birdsong; the fragrance of the forest; the sun warming the earth beneath bare feet. All the sights and sounds and smells that please and carry a promise of pleasure. Her birth must have been regarded as the start of something new and good for her family.’

  When Jim and Apo Hopa married a few weeks later Wes was not present. He’d moved on, keeping his appointment at the Blue with the new train of migrants. The wedding wasn’t much of a ceremony, nothing more than the presentation of a gift to Grey Moccasin, Sky’s father, which consisted of a couple of store-bought blankets and a pot or two. Then Apo Hopa clambered up behind Jim and he headed his horse back home. No doubt Grey Moccasin could have got more if his daughter had chosen someone from the tribe, but having a daughter married to a white man raised his importance to a degree that ten horses couldn’t equal.

  The Sioux weren’t opposed to sharing the land with white settlers, they were opposed to being told that they could no longer hunt or live or travel on land that had been open to them for generations. They were in awe of the machinery and weapons that the white people brought and were happy to deal with any white people who were prepared to share their possessions and obtain goods for them. Grey Moccasin, no doubt, regarded Jim Taylor as an unending source of white man’s goods.

  It was another year before Wes visited again. From the ridge where he’d first shown Jim the valley he could see all the work that had been undertaken. Crops were growing, another shed had been built and yet another was in the process of being built. He could see Jim at work on the building as he rode down to the cabin. When he was within hailing distance he gave a shout and waved his hat so that even if Jim hadn’t yet recognized him he would know it was someone with peaceable intentions. Even so, when he reached the rail that designated his yard from open range, Jim grabbed his rifle and held it in a threatening manner.

  Apo Hopa was a step behind, her right arm outstretched to rest on Jim’s left, signifying that the gun wasn’t necessary. Wes had seen her only once yet she’d recognized him long before Jim had. She raised her face to Wes and again he was struck by the grace of her movement and the allure of shyness in her big brown eyes. Looking at her gave him pleasure and he thought she should have been called Tacicala, which is Fawn.

  If Apo Hopa’s face displayed pleasure at Wes’s arrival, Jim Taylor’s showed only wariness. Even when he recognized the scout it took several seconds before his finger moved from inside the trigger guard. Wes raised his open hand, showing his palm to Jim and Apo Hopa, and said ‘Hau,’ before stepping down from the saddle.

  ‘Fee?’ Apo Hopa gestured towards the house after the first greetings had been exchanged.

  ‘She means coffee,’ said Jim. ‘Goddammit, been here a year and all she can manage is half a word.’

  ‘So you’re fluent in Sioux?’ Wes expected a grin or a chuckle in response but Jim’s jaw remained tight, unappreciative of the scout’s humour.

  ‘All I get is “fee” or signs and grunts.’

  ‘Well you both look well on it.’ Wes spoke a few words in the Lakota tongue to Apo Hopa. She smiled and giggled and turned back to the house to get the coffee.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ Jim asked, his eyes dark with blunt suspicion.

  Wes wasn’t able to provide a true interpretation, it was a phrase he’d picked up from Jim Bridger, something he used when he wanted to say something nice to a Sioux girl. Of course acting blindly on something Blanket Jim told him could prove dangerous, he being an inveterate practical joker, but so far it hadn’t landed Wes in any trouble.

  ‘Just told her she looked very pretty. You don’t object, do you?’

  Whether he did or not wasn’t clear. Jim’s answer was nothing more than a grunt as he, too, turned towards the house. Over dinner Wes learned about their winter hardships. For five weeks the snow had been so deep that they hadn’t been able to leave the cabin. They’d lost one of their cows and a horse. The horse had died in the shed he’d built for the livestock, but the cow had disappeared before he’d got them rounded up.

  ‘Indians,’ Jim Taylor said. ‘Probably killed it and ate it while we were freezing in this cabin.’

  Wes didn’t want to argue with him but his words were out without any thought of offending him.

  ‘If you were huddled up against the cold they would be too.’

  ‘Huh. Col
d don’t bother them. They are used to it.’

  Wes knew that that was nonsense. He’d wintered in Indian villages and knew that there was little they could do but survive. He threw in some logic.

  ‘If the snow was too deep for you then it had to be too deep for them, too.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘I don’t know how they do it but they can move about wherever and whenever they want to.’

  Again, Wes tried to put some humour in his answer.

  ‘Then you should get Apo Hopa to show you how it’s done.’ Wes looked across at her. He figured she would know by the tone of their voices that they couldn’t agree about something and, by the way she dropped her look from his, Wes was sure she knew that it involved her people.

  Jim Taylor cast a long, puzzled glance in his wife’s direction, as though Wes had said something too deep for his understanding. Eventually he spoke, his words delivered with a gruff solemnity which was meant to carry the conviction that his livestock had ended up in Sioux bellies.

  ‘Cow never even turned up in spring when the thaw came.’

  ‘Wolves,’ declared Wes. ‘Wolves would have got it.’

  ‘Sioux,’ said Jim. ‘Thievin’ Sioux. Well if they come around here trying to steal anything else they won’t all get home again.’ He threw a meaningful look at Apo Hopa but she didn’t raise her head. Wes figured she’d heard him rant on the subject before and that, even if she didn’t know the words, she understood his meaning well enough. His only reason for visiting had been to bring some friendly company but it didn’t seem to be working.

  After they’d eaten Wes offered to lend a hand with the chores. Sullenly, as though suspicious of Wes’s motive for helping, Jim declined. None the less, when Jim went to the barn, Wes stepped into the yard and set about splitting logs for kindling. He hadn’t been at it long when he heard his name called and from the shadow of the barn door Jim beckoned. They climbed into the hay loft from where, lying flat, they looked out of the open loft doors. The land to the north rose to a wooded ridge and for a several moments they gazed at it without speaking.

  ‘Do you see them?’ Jim asked.

  Wes did. Six Sioux braves, not attempting to hide, looking down on the homestead.

  ‘Ogallalah,’ said Wes.

  ‘They want Sky,’ said Jim.

  ‘Sky?’ Then Wes realized he was talking about Apo Hopa. He recalled the day he’d interpreted Apo Hopa’s name and how Jim had likened it to a pink sky. Sky, it seemed, had stuck in Jim’s mind. He spoke it now as if it was her true name. He doubted if Jim had ever used her Sioux name. Probably didn’t remember it, and it was a clear fact that he had made no effort to become friends with her people.

  Jim spoke again, keeping his voice low as though anything higher than a whisper would carry to the warriors on the distant ridge.

  ‘The one on the pinto. He’s the one who’s after her. Always up there.’

  The Indian described by Jim Taylor was at the front of the group. He had a strong, athletic body. The tops of eagle feathers showed above his black hair, which hung loose to his shoulders.

  ‘Don’t they come down to the house?’ Wes asked. Jim turned his head sharply, his eyes wide.

  ‘They’ll kill me if I let them get near the house. Kill me and take Sky.’

  ‘They’re not looking for trouble,’ Wes said. ‘No paint. If they haven’t painted their faces they’re not looking to fight.’ It was clear that Jim didn’t agree.

  Wes was worried by Jim’s behaviour, worried that the loneliness of the life he’d chosen was akin to the cabin fever that affected the old fur trappers. His concern stretched to Apo Hopa’s safety, although he had seen no sign of mistreatment by her husband. Even so, it was clear to Wes that the strain of a solitary life had affected Jim’s reason. Although unfounded, his distrust of the Sioux had begun to control his life and distort his thinking.

  When the party of Sioux rode away Wes, too, prepared to leave. It was in his mind to talk to Sky, try to learn more about Jim’s behaviour both towards herself and towards visitors to the homestead, but the opportunity never arose. Jim, seemingly as suspicious of Wes’s intentions towards Sky as of those of the Sioux on the ridge, made sure they were never alone. However, on a couple of occasions Wes caught Sky watching him in that way she had, that mixture of acceptance yet seeking knowledge; of shyness yet knowing all.

  When he left them she filled his canteen at the water pump by the trough. The tips of her fingers brushed the back of his hand as she handed it to him. Perhaps it had been accidental. He hadn’t been back to find out.

  Now, as everyone turned to listen to him, Jim’s drunken utterance dissipated the tension that had grown between Wes Gray and Lew Butler.

  ‘Sioux. You can’t trust them. They’re just waiting for an opportunity.’

  Captain O’Malley crossed the room to the table which Jim Taylor still slouched over.

  ‘An opportunity for what?’

  Jim looked up at him, squinted as though trying to focus on the officer’s face and said,

  ‘Attack.’

  ‘What do you know, Jim?’ Wes asked. ‘Have you had some trouble?’

  ‘They watch me. All the time. They’re up in the hills watching.’

  ‘Why? What do they want?’

  Jim laughed, a bitter sound. He refreshed the contents of the shot glass with more from the bottle and threw it all down his throat. His eyes held a look that wasn’t just affected by whiskey.

  ‘Sky,’ he said. ‘One of them wants her and means to kill me to get her.’

  Wes was beset by two emotions. The first was concern for Jim Taylor. He was disturbed by the change in him. He was haggard, his skin grey-coloured, his cheeks empty and slack, further evidence of the loneliness fever he’d witnessed the last time they’d met. The other feeling he had was one of exasperation. What he knew about the Sioux made the truth of Jim’s last words unlikely. In Sioux society it was the woman who chose the man. If she wasn’t happy with the one she chose she could leave him and pick another. There were no recriminations. The husband had to let her go. It was a sign of weakness to try to hang on to an unwilling wife. So, if Sky preferred another man she would have gone to him. Jim Taylor’s head dropped on to the table again.

  ‘He’s talking nonsense,’ Wes told Captain O’Malley.

  ‘Who is this man?’ asked O’Malley.

  ‘A homesteader. His spread is across on the South Platte.’

  ‘Deep in Sioux country?’

  Wes nodded agreement.

  ‘Then his information is vital. If he says the Sioux are on the move we must believe him.’

  ‘He didn’t say the Sioux were on the move.’

  ‘He said they were in the hills.’

  ‘The Sioux are always in the hills. They are hunters and most of what they hunt lives in the hills. Jed,’ Wes turned his attention to the storekeeper and indicated the sleeping figure of Jim Taylor, ‘how long has he been like this?’

  ‘Came in this morning, bought some supplies and loaded his wagon. Then set to with the bottle. He’s been drinking ever since.’

  ‘Does this happen regular?’

  ‘Does now. When he first started turning up here he used to be in, loaded and out again with little fuss. Then he began hanging around, supposedly hoping to hear news about the Indian situation. But it soon became apparent that he just wanted to hit the bottle. Hardly converses with anyone. Like he’s afraid to let people know his business. Sometimes he stays here overnight. Well, you can see why.’

  ‘Does he come often?’

  ‘Usually once a month. Soldiers have taken to calling him the Squaw Man.’

  He cast a wary look at Wes lest he’d taken offence, offered a defensive kind of shrug and hurried to explain.

  ‘They reckon he’s gone mad. Won’t let them dismount when they call by his place. Orders his woman into the shack and won’t let her out ’til they’ve gone. Just stands there holding his rifle while the officer passes on
any news or gossip as he sees fit.’

  ‘Comes in here alone?’

  ‘Sure. Never brings the Indian woman with him.’ He looked at the untidy bundle that was Jim Taylor. ‘I’ll get a bucket of water. That’s usually what it takes to revive him.’

  Curly Clayport pushed his way through the batwing doors.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be heading north, Captain? Colonel Flint ordered you to find out what happened to the stagecoach.’

  ‘I know my duty, Mr Clayport. As it happens we’re just about to leave. Mr Gray, are you coming with us?’

  Wes nodded. As he passed the table where Lew Butler and Charlie Huntz sat, he stopped. ‘I ain’t forgetting what you said. If I hear you insult my wife or her people again I’ll kill you.’

  Supposing them not to be above shooting him in the back he backed out through the batwing doors and climbed up on to Red.

  Clara Clancy, Jed’s wife, spoke to Lew and Charlie.

  ‘You picked the wrong man to upset. They say he knows more ways of killing a man than all the tribes from Chicago to the Alamo. Still, he’s gone now. He’ll find the missing coach. He’s the best tracker this side of the Missouri and all the best trackers are this side of the Missouri.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘His name. Why, that’s Wes Gray. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Wes Gray,’ Charlie repeated softly.

  He and Lew Butler exchanged worried looks.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was late afternoon when the patrol found the deserted stagecoach, its doors open and its skittish horses trying hard to chew grass and leaves despite the handicap of bridles, harness and the inability to separate themselves from each other. Captain O’Malley ordered two troopers to unharness the beasts from the coach and tend to them while the rest of the party searched for the driver and the shotgun guard.

  The six-horse team hadn’t wandered far from the scene of the hold-up and it required only a brief inspection of the bodies of Ben Garland and Jake Welchman to prove that they hadn’t been killed by Indians. The busted strongbox was evidence enough that robbers had waylaid the coach. Wes dismounted and checked around for signs.