Read Blood at Bear Lake Online
Authors: Gary Franklin
Blood at Bear Lake (22 page)
“I do.”
“Well, you'll find the Injuns just where you said. Funny how all the different tribes come here, but they don't fight amongst themselves when they do. Why is that, do you wonder?”
“It's because those waters are sacred to the Great Spirit Manitou. It would be an insult to him if they was to hog the spring. Indians are funny that way.”
“Whacha mean âfunny'?”
“I mean they respect their gods more than they hate their enemies. That kind of funny.” He got the impression that the livery man did not really understand what he meant by that, but in truth Joe did not care. The fellow had given him an idea where he might find the horses he needed. That was what mattered.
“I'll leave my things here if you don't mind,” he said. “Might be away for a spell, but I'll be back sooner or later.”
“Everything will be here when you come, whenever that is,” the hostler said.
Joe left a fistful of U.S. currency with him to take care of the Shire and the mule, then headed toward the Indian campground above the sacred springs.
58
THERE WAS A small band of Arapaho camping above the sacred spring.
Joe climbed a pale red gravel slope, then descended into a pine-scented grove where generations of Indians had camped when they made their pilgrimages to the spring.
Now the Arapaho eyed Joe warily as he approached them, probably suspicious all the more because he came on foot.
“No Engliss. No Engliss. Go 'way.”
Joe spoke to them in the universal sign language of the plains. “I am Man Killer. You know me.”
One of the men, a young man with bulging muscles and a scowl, said, “I am Running Calf. What want you here, Man Killer?”
“My horse is played out. I have many miles to go. I have money to buy a horse from you, Running Calf. Good horse. Mountain horse. I will pay.”
“What would we buy with white man's money?”
“Tobacco. Much tobacco. Whiskey.”
“We are not permitted to buy whiskey. The whites here will not sell it to us. You know this, Man Killer.”
Joe smiled and signed back, “But they will sell to me.”
Running Calf smiled as well, and Joe figured he had as good as bought his horse now.
It was not that easy. There were still the painstaking negotiations to complete, and it would have been unwise to try to shortcut the process. As it was, Joe considered himself lucky to get out of there in under two hours.
He had expected that, but was disappointed that the band would sell him only one horse. The group was not traveling with any mounts to spare, and throughout the negotiations complained that two of them would have to ride double because of being a horse short.
Joe knew good and well someone would be riding two to a horse no farther than Manitou. They were sure to steal another horse there. Or likely more than one. Not that it would have been polite to mention that.
On second thought, he realized that the good folks of Manitou were probably safe from horse theft by the Arapaho. The Indians would not want to make themselves unwelcome here lest they all be evicted from the sacred waters.
With a hidden grin, Joe speculated that it would be some good burgher out east in Fountain or maybe Colorado City who would lose his horse. No matter. He needed a horse. He needed it now. And if some pork-eating son of a bitch had to lose his horse so Joe could buy one, so be it.
“Yes,” Joe finally signed. “Two kegs. I will leave them there.” He pointed. “Under those trees will I leave them.”
“And the tobacco, Man Killer?”
“There. Same with the whiskey. I will leave seven twists.”
“Ten. Leave ten.”
“We agreed on seven. Are you not a man whose word is good?”
There was a stir of unease among the rest of the band, but Running Calf seemed unfazed. “Seven, yes,” Running Calf affirmed.
Joe grunted and bobbed his head, then brought out tobacco and offered it all around before filling his pipe. Running Calf pushed a twig into the fire, then held it for Joe to ignite the tobacco.
The horse looked like a good one. Joe figured to use it hard.
He would be riding Indian style, with just a blanket instead of a saddle. No stirrups. No bridle, just a single rein tied around the gaudy paint's jaw. And no more gear than he could carry draped on his own person.
“I will get the whiskey and the tobacco, then collect my horse,” he signed.
“Let it be so.”
Joe's knees popped like Chinese firecrackers when he stood after squatting so long. He turned and headed back toward Manitou.
59
RIDING BAREBACK SAVE for a blanket folded and thrown over the animal's back, and with his Henry rifle balanced across his lap, Joe put the paint horse into a lope and held it at that gait up the twisting, tortuous climb toward vast South Park, the Bayou Salado.
He passed magnificent rock formations, stands of dark timber where majestic elk lurked, and expanses of grass that was belly deep. He pushed the horse hard as miles and miles fell behind.
At the top of the pass, he urged the paint even harder. He was killing it. He knew that he was. But Fiona . . . Fiona. He would gladly slaughter this and a thousand horses more to save one drop of her precious blood.
Joe pressed the horse hard, barely allowing it rest, throughout the day and into the night.
At night at that elevation, the cold was bitter and he had brought no coat or blanket to fend it off, but Joe acted like he did not even notice. He continued to push for every bit of speed he could get from the flagging animal.
As dawn was breaking behind him, Joe stopped to let the paint horse roll and briefly rest.
He himself found a spot out of the brisk wind that almost constantly blew up here. He stretched out in the warmth of the sunshine and caught a nap. He would need all the strength and stamina he could muster before this ride was done. Somewhere out on the plains far to the east, Ransom Holt was in a coach speeding to deliver Peabody's blood money.
Joe had to reach her first. He
had
to.
had
to.
When he woke, he walked to the rim of the near vertical scarp that marked the eastern edge of South Park. He stood with eyes shaded, watching the shift of dark cloud shadow across the pale, rolling miles of grass that flourished on the floor of the vast bowl that was South Park. After a few minutes, he grunted softly to himself and nodded.
“There,” he said aloud.
The paint's ears swiveled toward him and it raised its head, sprigs of sun-yellowed grass hanging out of its mouth.
“Good news for you, hoss,” Joe said as he leaped again onto the paint's back. “There's a bunch o' mountain Utes over yonder. Might be I won't have to ride you t' death after all. Now come help me find my way down off this high rock. I know it can be done. I've done it before. So let's find the path and git along, shall we?”
60
“GREETINGS, BROTHER,” JOE signed as he approached the Ute camp. He rode into the middle of the camp and dismounted without waiting for an invitation. “Spotted Wolf, is that you? You are growing old and gray. Fat, too.” Spotted Wolf was as lean as his namesake.
The tall Indian grinned. “Old with wisdom, Man Killer.” He stepped forward and clasped Joe's hand. “Welcome, my brother. Are you hungry? Do you thirst?”
It hadn't actually occurred to Joe, but . . . yes. Now that he thought of it, he was famished. “I could eat a buffalo, I think, and then I would ask when do we begin the meal.”
Spotted Wolf and the other men of the band laughed, and then he took Joe into his lodge, where the old warrior's two young wives waited on them.
“Where is your old woman?” Joe asked. “The last time I saw you . . .”
“Dead,” Spotted Wolf said with a shrug. “These two”â the smile returnedâ“they are not dead, eh?” The gray-haired Ute cupped his crotch and chuckled.
“I am glad it is well with you, old friend.” Joe started eating the rich stew served by Spotted Wolf's wives.
“And with you, Man Killer?”
Joe briefly explained the mission he was on.
“You would find this man and kill him?” Spotted Wolf said.
“He took what was mine,” Joe said. “I will kill him or he will kill me. We shall see.”
Spotted Wolf grunted his approval of Joe's intentions.
While his second bowl of stew was being prepared, Joe said, “My horse is a good one but he is tired and I have far to go. I would buy horses from you, friend.”
“Buying horses, that is a serious thing. It needs much thought.”
Dammit, Joe thought. Spotted Wolf had him over a barrel and intended to take advantage of him.
“I have no time, my brother, but I have much money to pay.”
“Bah! Money. Why would I need money, Man Killer?” He held his hand palm up and indicated the earth around the place where they sat. “Will money buy this? No? Here is all a man could need.”
“You see what I carry,” Joe said. “No packs of goods this trip. Only money.”
Spotted Wolf began loading tobacco into his pipe, suggesting they were about to begin serious negotiations. His eyes, Joe noticed, kept coming back to the Henry rifle that lay on the robes beside the place where Joe was sitting.
Probably there was not an Indian in these mountains who owned a repeating rifle. To have a Henry would give a man much prestige among his peers.
An hour later, Joe was the owner of a string of five tough little Indian ponies. He could have gotten more for the Henry if he had been willing to haggle longer, but time was more important to him than any number of horses would have been.
“It is well,” Joe said once they had shaken hands on the swap. “I will go now, brother.”
“You will not stay? We would speak of the good times when we were young,” Spotted Wolf said.
“I must go now. Catch this man who took what was mine. Perhaps I will come back by and by. We will sit by the fire, we two old warriors. Drink a little. Tell some lies. It will be good. Come now. I would choose my horses from your herd so that I can go and do what must be done.” He stood and headed for the lodge entrance.
61
JOE RODE THROUGH the night, through the burning heat of the following day, and far into the chill of night again.
Riding one horse and leading the others, he pushed each animal to exhaustion, then paused only long enough to change the jaw rein to another horse and race on again.
By the time he approached Bear Lake, it was nearing dawn and he was down to two horses, the others having been worn out and abandoned to fend for themselves.
Joe was not sure where he might find Fiona, but he knew where he could start looking. He headed for the trading post run by an old friend.
Heedless of the hour, he slipped down off the delicate gray he was on at the moment. His legs felt wobbly beneath him after so long on horseback, but he forced them to carry him to the door of the shack where Ezra did business.
Pounding on the door with his fist, Joe shouted, “Open up in there, old man. You got company.”
About the third or fourth time he pounded for entry, he heard a drowsy voice respond, “Open it yourself, y' damn fool. It ain't locked.”
Feeling completely chagrined, he tried pulling the latch string. Sure as hell, the door opened easily.
When he stepped inside, he was immediately struck by the scent of tobacco, whale oil, and cinnamon. A small lamp with the wick trimmed low burned atop a counter. Behind the counter Joe could see two things, one being the bushy eyebrows and big nose of Ezra White, and the other being the muzzle of Ezra's old flintlock rifle.
“Ez, put that thing down before it blows up in your face an' makes you even uglier 'n you already are.”
“Joe? Izzat you, Joe Moss? Well, I'll be a sonuvabitch.” The rifle muzzle was quickly withdrawn behind the counter.
“Oh, hell, Ez, you already are that.” Joe entered the crowded store, and Ezra turned his lamp up.
The old trapper was bedded down on a pallet behind his store counter. He had company, but Joe could not tell what tribe the young girl was from. She was naked. So, for that matter, was Ezra, but Joe had seen him bare-assed before.
“What're you here for, Joseph?”
“I'm lookin' for a man, Ez. I'm thinking you should know him.”
“What's his name?”
“Charles.”
“That his first name or his last?” Ezra glanced down at the naked teenager curled up at his side. He cuffed her on one ear and said, “Where's your manners? Git up an' brew us some coffee, woman.”
The girl grabbed up her dressâShoshone, Joe thought after getting a look at the sparse beadwork on her antelope-skin dressâand scurried off about her chores.
“Charles is all I was told,” Joe said. “Could be either.”
“There's a man . . . Jedediah Charles . . . has a shack a couple miles from here. If you don't mind me askin', Joseph, does this here have anything to do with the heap o' cash money Jedediah says he's expectin' to get any day now?”
Joe nodded, his expression grim. “It do.”
Ez cocked an eye at Joe for a moment, then asked, “Mind telling me are you here to deliver that money?”
“That ain't what I'm wanting of him, Ez. He has something that's mine. I figure to take it back.”
Ezra grunted, then asked, “Need any help?”
“No, but I thank you for askin'.”
Ezra grunted again, louder this time, then stood and reached for his britches. “Come over here. I'll show you how to find him.”
Joe felt a tightening in his throat as he hurried to Ezra's counter. Close. He was so very close to Fiona now.
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