A Man Called Sunday (15 page)

“I said, is there anythin' else you wanna take?” he repeated. “'Cause this horse can carry a little more than what you pulled out here.” He took another look at the items she had selected. “Maybe you don't need some of these things. You could leave 'em and take some more of your personal things.” He nudged a heavy large gunnysack with his toe. “What's in this?”

“Corn,” she replied.

“Well, like I said, maybe you'd wanna leave it and take somethin' else instead.”

“No,” she quickly said, “I want to take it. I can't leave it.”

He was confused by her insistence. “What is it, seed corn?” She nodded. He shrugged and reached down to heft the sack up on the horse. “Damn!” he involuntarily blurted, for the sack was a good deal heavier than he expected. “This must be some special kind of corn. I'm gonna have to repack this stuff to balance the load. You got somethin' else you wanna pack on here?”

Surprised, she turned to look at the horse, for she thought she would be told that she had chosen too much. She hurried back to the wagon to select some of the personal items that she had thought to sacrifice, amazed by the efficient way in which he had fashioned the pack. While waiting for her, he took over her post as lookout. “Be quick,” he called back softly as the sun sank out of sight and the shadows faded into evening. “We've got to get outta here right now.” The river valley that had been bathed in twilight only moments before was now cloaked in darkness as if someone had suddenly blown out a lantern. He wanted to move out of the gully before the moon came up, knowing that the Sioux warriors would probably try to sneak in close to them while it was darkest. And he intended to be gone when that happened.

When all was packed and tied securely, Luke saddled the paint and helped Mary Beth up in the saddle. He saw at once that he had to adjust the stirrups for her shorter legs, which he did while she sat quietly as the Indian pony shifted nervously. “He'll be all right,” Luke assured her, “once he gets used to you.” Knowing that the horse was accustomed to more weight than that of the slender woman, he packed a good portion of their dried meat behind the saddle. Satisfied that they were ready, he said, “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

With his rifle in hand, he climbed up the back of the gully on foot. Near the end, where it reached the top of the bluff, he dropped to his hands and knees to search the darkness, upstream and downstream. He saw no one in the deepening night. About to rise to his feet, he stopped suddenly when a slight movement near a clump of berry bushes caught his eye. Unconsciously lowering his body close to the ground, he then remained motionless while locking his eyes on the bushes. In a few seconds, his suspicions proved to be accurate as a shadowy form emerged from the clump and moved stealthily toward him. Judging by his movements, he figured the Indian had not spotted him, so he very carefully backed away from the edge of the gully and drew his skinning knife, hoping to do what he had to quietly. He continued to edge his way back down the gully until he came to a spot that formed a little bit of a step that created a darker hole below it. Deciding he was not going to find a better spot, he crouched there against the sandy side of the gully and waited.

Behind him, he heard one of the horses snort at the bottom of the gully. It served to hurry the warrior, who was now at the top. Anxious to surprise the occupants of the camp, he stepped down in the rough trench, his carbine at the ready. Unaware of the demon awaiting him until it sprang up from the darkness to plunge the skinning knife deep into his gut, the Sioux warrior expelled a sharp grunt, as much a reaction of surprise as a cry of pain. Down they went, in a tumble, to land at the feet of the waiting horses, causing them to fidget nervously to get out of the way. Like an enraged puma, Luke withdrew his knife from the hostile's gut and drew it across the warrior's throat while the hostile struggled helplessly in his grasp.

A witness to the violent execution, Mary Beth sat rigidly in the saddle, terrified by the savage exhibition of hand-to-hand combat. She grabbed the saddle horn with both hands to keep from coming off the horse when it became excited by the two bodies rolling near its hooves. When the Sioux warrior was finally subdued, Luke dragged his body to the side, then freed Mary Beth and David's team of horses. He tossed their bridles in the wagon and glanced at Mary Beth. “Come,” he said, and jumped deftly on his pony's back. She did not follow at once when he started up the gully, still stunned by the horrible scene. “Come!” he repeated sharply, and she followed immediately, afraid not to. With the lead rope in hand, he started up the back of the gully, his rifle ready, in case the other two hostiles had moved faster than he figured. Once he was clear of the gully, he quickly scanned the bluffs, and when he was certain no one else had headed them off, he motioned for Mary Beth to follow. Much to her relief, the paint responded obediently to her urging.

Even though it was dark there in the bluffs, she felt as if she was exposed to anyone in the valley, and expected to hear gunshots ring out at any minute. A few yards ahead, Luke looked back briefly at her before walking his pony along the bank until entering the water at a low spot about twenty yards above the gully. Walking the horses slowly to minimize their splashing in the knee-deep water, he led Mary Beth down the river. After they had made their way about a hundred yards downstream, Luke felt they were clear of any ambush by the other two warriors. He rested the heavy Henry rifle across the gray's withers since he had no saddle, and consequently, no scabbard for the rifle. What happened next was dependent on the disposition of the remaining Sioux warriors, he decided. He could not guess what they would do when they found the body in the gully. He had taken a toll on their small scouting party, reducing it to two warriors. He hoped they would consider their medicine bad on this scout, pick up their dead, and break off their pursuit, but there was also the possibility they would follow, determined to avenge their dead. For this reason, he remained in the river, hoping to disguise their trail.

Mary Beth finally relaxed to let her body adapt to the gentle motion of the paint pony. She had been rigid for so many tense moments that she now ached in her legs and back. It was going to take some time, however, before the picture of the killing just witnessed would leave her mind. It was stronger even than that of David's gaping throat, and she wondered how many of these brutal scenes she could live through before she was driven out of her mind. Then she thought of the many things left behind in the wagon to be stolen or destroyed by savages. And the horses, what would become of them? She had seen both of them follow the Indian ponies out of the gully and down to the river's edge, but they had stopped there, content to drink and graze. She would never see them again, and she hoped that they could survive on their own. There was very little left of her and David's life, a few sentimental trinkets, some dishes, some clothes, a few other things. She suddenly felt tears inching down her cheeks as she found herself in hopeless despair, and though fearful of the man leading her down the river, she was more afraid to be without him.

Luke continued down the river for almost a mile before coming to a low bank covered with short grass. Figuring this to be as good a place as he was likely to find to leave the river, he turned the gray toward the west bank and climbed up out of the river. He dismounted and waited for Mary Beth to catch up. “You doin' all right?” he asked. “Just got your feet wet a little, I reckon.” She only nodded in reply. He took a minute to check the packs on the sorrel. “Looks like nothin' got too wet. I ain't sure those other two ain't found out we're gone yet, but if they were of a mind to come after us, we shoulda heard somethin' from 'em by now.” She remained silent, nodding only to acknowledge understanding. He went on. “We'd best make as good a time as we can while we've got a clear night. I don't know how much longer this weather is gonna favor us. It's mighty unusual for this time of year. We're gonna leave the Powder now and head on a more straight line for where we're goin'. If we head west and a little north, we can strike the Pumpkin by daybreak, now that we ain't slowed down by a wagon.”

It didn't occur to her that he had said more words at one time than he had ever spoken before, so she was unable to recognize his clumsy attempt to set her mind at ease after the shock of their narrow escape. “If we still ain't seen any sign of 'em after a couple more hours, we'll stop and rest the horses—and get you a little somethin' to eat.” He felt reasonably sure that, if there was no sign of the two Sioux warriors by the time they reached Pumpkin Creek, he could stop worrying about them. Hopefully, they would see fewer trails left by other hostile parties since that should place them about three or four days northwest of the big Sioux camp. If he could believe reports the Crow and Shoshoni had told General Crook, Sitting Bull was camped somewhere along Rosebud Creek, and would probably move toward the Big Horn. The mental image of General Crook led him to thoughts of the scout who had caused him to lose his job.
It should have been Bill Bogart in that saloon back at Fort Fetterman instead of Sonny Pickens,
he thought. But he had not been given a choice when Pickens took a shot at him. He had not given Bill Bogart any thought for quite some time, and he wondered why he came to mind now.
I've got a strong dislike for that son of a bitch,
he thought.
It's a good thing I'm done with him, else one of us would wind up dead for certain
.

Chapter 8

Maybe by coincidence, the man Luke Sunday had brought to mind a hundred miles away was at that moment sitting by a campfire at Goose Creek, grousing with his partner, George Wylie, after receiving a brutal dressing-down by Major Potter. “By God,” Bill Bogart complained, “that pompous little banty-rooster ain't got no call to blame me for none of that whuppin' them hostiles put on the soldiers. I ain't the only one that thought the Injuns would run instead of fightin'.”

Wylie only shrugged and made a face in response. He figured it would profit him little to point out that Bogart had been the one who assured Major Potter that the Sioux and Cheyenne were running like scared rabbits. It had only enforced a general belief most of the army officers already held, and it led to a major portion of General Crook's forces getting caught with their pants down while they stopped to rest and let their horses graze beside Rosebud Creek. Had it not been for the vigilance of the two hundred and sixty Crow and Shoshoni warriors that had come to fight with Crook's forces, and their firm belief that Crazy Horse would stand and fight, Crook's army might have been massacred. The Crows' and Shoshonis' counterattack gave Crook time to collect his forces to stop Crazy Horse's advance. And now Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull had moved on toward the Big Horn, while the soldiers had withdrawn to Goose Creek to await reinforcements. “I reckon he jumped on your ass pretty hard at that,” Wylie finally commented.

“Threatened to fire me, he did,” Bogart fumed. “The son of a bitch, he better not be standin' anywhere close to me the next time we get caught in a hot battle with them Injuns. He just might get unlucky enough to catch a stray bullet.” He started to say more, but realized that it might not be the kind of talk to bandy about casually. It wouldn't do for the wrong person to overhear him, so he changed his tune. “I expect he needn't worry 'bout firin' me. I just might quit.” It was no more than boastful talk, for he would hang on as long as the army would pay him. “Hell, I'm tired of talkin' about the bastard. I'm gonna turn in,” he told Wylie, and got up to leave.

With a bladder filled with coffee, he walked down toward the officers' latrine to relieve himself. Enlisted men and scouts were not permitted to use the latrine, but Bogart customarily did his business in the bushes behind the tent. Ordinarily, he would relieve himself wherever he happened to be standing, but he was warned against that practice, and instructed to retreat a respectable distance from the common camp. It irritated him to do so, but he complied reluctantly. It was just one more thing that added to his dislike for officers. There they were, camped out along Goose Creek, and they dug a hole in the ground and built a wooden seat over it, so the officers wouldn't have to stand out in the open to answer nature's call.

He encountered one officer on his way to the latrine. By unfortunate coincidence, it happened to be Major Potter. “Son of a bitch,” Bogart muttered under his breath. Then with an attempt to remove the scowl from his face, said, “Evenin', Major,” and paused to let the major pass in front of him.

Potter halted abruptly when he saw who it was. “Oh, Bogart,” he said. “I was going to send for you in the morning. This will save us both the trouble. Your services as a scout will no longer be required. You can pick up any pay you've got coming at the end of the month.”

“Fired!” Bogart sputtered. “You're firin' me?”

“You're not the only one,” Potter replied unemotionally. “We're letting a few other scouts go as well. That partner of yours, George Wylie, is one of them.”

“You can't fire me,” Bogart stormed. “I'm the best damn scout you've got!”

“No use to make it hard on yourself,” Potter said, his voice still calm. “It's already done.”

“Why, you prissy-ass son of a bitch, I oughta stomp your ass in the ground. You got no call to fire me.”

“Now you've gone too far,” Potter threatened, heating up and drawing his frail statue up in indignation. “You're going to find yourself in irons if you don't close your mouth and get out of my way.”

With fists clenched and every muscle in his body tensed to the breaking point, Bogart could barely restrain himself. The urge to strike out at the major was overwhelming, and the knowledge that there were too many people around for him to get away with it left the oversized bully sputtering helplessly while Potter continued on his way to the latrine. Still fuming, Bogart walked after the major, but went around behind the tent as was his original intention. But instead of relieving his bladder, he edged up to the back corner of the tent to listen for voices inside. When he heard none, he drew his bowie knife and slit the corner of the canvas, large enough for him to peek inside. Potter was alone. The picture of the diminutive officer seated on the wooden structure was sufficient inducement to squash him like a bug. His desire to take out his anger on the unsuspecting officer was too strong to ignore, and the time was right. He didn't expect to be presented with another opportunity to catch Potter alone and vulnerable. He would worry about the consequences later.

Leaving the back corner of the tent, Bogart inched his way to the front while watching the open space between the latrine and the cavalry encampment. It was dark enough at this point that even his bulky figure would hardly be noticed, but he knew he had to hurry before one of the other privileged few authorized to use the facility might feel the urge. With his knife still in hand, he pushed the tent flap aside and entered.

“What in hell are you doing in here?” Potter demanded, trying to maintain his indignant aplomb while his trousers were still down around his ankles.

“I came to see if you needed anybody to wipe your scrawny little ass for you,” Bogart snarled, his face a mask of evil delight, his knife concealed behind his leg. “And I wanted to see if there was anythin' between your legs that proved you was a man.”

Only half-finished with the business he had come to do, Potter leaped up from his wooden throne, while frantically trying to pull his trousers up. In the process, he did not take notice of the bowie knife in Bogart's hand. “By God, I'll have you hanged for this intrusion,” he managed to spit out before Bogart stepped up close and thrust his knife to the hilt up under his breastbone. The force of the blow was so powerful that the slender officer was lifted off his feet to drop back across the toilet, gasping for breath.

Far too lost in the moment of triumph to be concerned with being caught, Bogart took his time to enjoy the execution. “Who you gonna hang now, you little bastard?” he taunted the dying man. “I'm fixin' to scalp you, and when they find you, they'll think an Injun done it.” Then ignoring the futile efforts of the stricken officer to protect himself, Bogart clamped both hands over Potter's face, shutting off air to his nose and mouth, muffling his screams of agony, while the dying man flailed frantically for his life. After a couple of minutes, Potter's body relaxed into death. The bug was squashed. To make sure, Bogart continued to hold his hands over his face until positively certain his victim was dead. Then he yanked the knife out of Potter's body and proceeded to lift the scalp from his head.

Once the savage ritual was accomplished, a sense of urgency returned, and he went at once to the tent flap to see if anyone was approaching. There was still no one close by, so he returned to stand over the pitiful remains of the major who had cost him his job, and he favored the body with a grin of satisfaction. He glanced down at his knife as he was about to replace it in its sheath. Seeing the blood on the blade, he wiped it on Potter's shirt before putting it away. He turned then to leave before anyone showed up to use the latrine. It was at that moment that a sense of urgency of another kind came to remind him that he had never rid himself of the coffee he had consumed, and the reason he had happened to bump into Potter in the first place. Now that his body was no longer locked in a sense of passion, the urgency to empty his bladder took preference once more. Hurrying to the tent flap again for another quick look just to make sure, he then returned to empty the complaining bladder on the still corpse lying across the rough toilet seat. Content with himself, he slipped out of the tent and disappeared into the night.

* * *

“Where you been so long?” George Wylie asked when Bogart joined him at the makeshift camp they shared close to the horse herd.

“I told you I had to take a leak,” Bogart replied.

“Musta been a helluva one,” Wylie said with a chuckle.

“Yep, it was mighty satisfyin'. I ran into our favorite officer, Major Potter, and we had a little talk.” He looked down at Wylie and grinned. “Now, this oughta tickle you real good. Me and you ain't got no jobs no more.” This captured Wylie's attention immediately.

“What are you talkin' about?” Wylie asked, not understanding. “Startin' when?”

“Startin' right now,” Bogart said. “He told me we wasn't needed no more.”

“Damn!” Wylie swore. “Just you and me? Any of the other scouts cut loose?”

“Well, he said there was some of the others let go, but he didn't say who or how many, but I figure there ain't no use to hang around here. Hell, I'm ready to head outta here right now.”

“Damn,” Wylie swore again softly. He hadn't expected anything this drastic to happen. He knew Bogart wasn't on the major's list of favorites, but he figured Potter was just riding him. He wasn't really planning to fire him. And he sure didn't think
he
was in any trouble. “You know, that ain't right. I'm thinkin' we oughta go talk to Ben Clarke about this . . .” He paused. “Or Potter.”

“You might could talk to Ben about it, but Potter ain't gonna be talkin' to nobody about nothin' no more. And like I said, I'm figurin' on ridin' outta here tonight. You goin' with me?”

“Damn,” Wylie swore once more. He knew Bogart well enough to recognize a hint of mischief in his tone. “I was just fixin' to crawl under my blanket. Can't you wait till mornin'?”

“I reckon I could, but I ain't,” Bogart replied, already in the process of packing up his gear. “I ain't fond of hangin' around where I ain't appreciated. You goin' or not?”

“What'd you do?” Wylie pressed, certain now that his big friend had somehow gotten into trouble. “You didn't step on ol' Potter's toes, did you?”

“I did worse than that, so that's why I'm leavin' tonight,” Bogart said. “I don't plan to be around here when they start askin' questions in the mornin'.”

“Anybody see you jump on him?” Wylie wanted to know. He was trying to make up his mind whether to go with Bogart or not. If it was true that he no longer had a job, there was no use in remaining there at Goose Creek. If Bogart was set on getting away from there right away, he must have done some serious work on the major, and there might be an army detachment on his tail by morning. On the other hand, if nobody saw him do whatever he did to Potter, then they might think they just left camp to get a start somewhere else. Wylie knew that he needed a strong friend like Bogart, and that's why he had jumped right up to take Sonny Pickens's place when Luke Sunday shot Sonny. He wasn't confident on his own, and Bogart had taken to him right away.

“Ain't nobody seen me,” Bogart answered him.

Wylie hoped that was true. “Well, I reckon I'd best be gettin' my things together, if we're gonna get outta here tonight,” he said, and started rolling up his blanket. He paused while tying the rawhide cords and asked, “How bad did you hurt ol' Potter?”

Without saying a word, Bogart grinned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an object rolled up in a bandana. He unrolled the bandana and held the gruesome object up for Wylie to see. It took a moment, but then Wylie suddenly realized it was a scalp. In that moment he was aware that he had no choice but to go with Bogart. He now knew too much.

Bogart picked up his saddle and rifle. “Let's get our horses saddled and cut outta here before somebody finds that little bastard,” he said. “We need to put a little territory between us and Goose Creek.”

“Right,” Wylie replied, and picked up his saddle. “Where are we goin'?”

“Let's just get away from here first. Then we'll decide what part of the territory suits us best—somewhere we can make a helluva lot more money than what the army pays scouts.”

No one seemed to notice, or care, that the two scouts were saddling their horses and riding out of camp in the early evening. Not even the picket they passed as they headed across the open prairie was interested enough to question them. Bogart smiled to himself as the campfires faded away in the darkness behind them, knowing he had gotten away with the brutal murder.
They'll play hell trying to track me down,
he thought, confident in his ability to hide his tracks. It was not the first murder he had gotten away with, and as he rode on into the night, he was reminded of the time a deputy marshal had attempted to question him about a bank holdup in Oklahoma Territory six years before. He actually had nothing to do with the holdup. He just didn't like the deputy marshal. He despised lawmen as much as he hated army officers. He had to chuckle when he thought about it, because they never knew for sure who shot that deputy in the back, although they had a pretty good idea. Didn't make any difference, anyway, 'cause he was long gone when that posse came after him.

They continued on until the horses began showing signs of tiring, so when they came upon a creek that emptied into the Tongue River, they camped there for the rest of the night. Secure in the belief that no one was on their tail, they slept past sunup the next morning until Wylie rolled out of his blanket and rekindled the fire. Owing to their hasty departure the night before, there had been no opportunity to acquire any extra supplies, but between them they had some coffee and a small amount of salt pork, which Wylie soon had over the fire. “One of the first things we got to do is go huntin',” Bogart commented when Wylie offered him a couple of strips of bacon. “I'm a big man and I need a helluva lot more than this to eat.”