A Man Called Sunday (6 page)

“Yeah, that's why I came lookin' for you.” Clarke had already heard the complaints from both Major Potter and Bill Bogart, and their account of the killing at the hog ranch. He had a feeling there was another version of the incident, so he had made it a point to talk to a Sergeant McKim, who claimed to have been a witness to the fight. “You ain't makin' it easy for me to keep you on the job,” Clarke commented.

“If you're talkin' about that little set-to at the hog ranch last night,” Luke replied, “I didn't start it. And it wouldn't have been much more'n a little knife fight if that sidekick of Bogart's hadn't tried to kill me. He didn't leave me much choice.”

“Well, that's pretty much what Sergeant McKim told me,” Clarke said, “and that's the only reason I talked Major Potter outta sendin' a detail of soldiers to slap some irons on you and haul you off to the guardhouse. It's a damn good thing I'm in good with General Crook. That's the only reason you're still on the payroll and not in the guardhouse.” He didn't tell Luke that he had convinced the general that Sunday was the best scout he had, Indian or civilian.

“When I saw you ridin' along the bluffs, I figured you was comin' to fire me,” Luke said. “I figured I'd be movin' on before a bunch of soldiers came lookin' for me.”

“You're lucky the army has got more important things on its mind right now than a little shootin' between two civilians off post,” Clarke said. “You're still on the payroll, but there's a lot of folks that think you shouldn't be. I'm gonna send you with a column of wagons to pick up supplies at Medicine Bow. I figure it might be a good idea if you were gone for a couple of weeks to let things between you and Bill Bogart simmer down a little bit.”

* * *

It was not with a great deal of enthusiasm that he greeted an assignment to accompany a wagon train leaving the fort to pick up supplies at Medicine Bow on the Union Pacific Railroad. On the other hand, he could see that it was a wise decision on Ben Clarke's part. He wasn't satisfied that his trouble with Bill Bogart was over. It was bound to come bubbling to the surface again, but he felt sure there would be no challenges from the bully for a fair fight of any kind. Next time it would likely be a bullet in the back. If he hadn't needed the money, he would have struck out for some other part of the country.

One of the other scouts retained by Clarke was also sent with the wagons, Jake Bradley. Bradley was the only one of his scouts that had no real animosity toward Luke, as far as he knew. There was really no need for scouts at all. The trail south to Medicine Bow was well known by the teamsters, but it was a matter of routine to send scouts with every expedition.

On a chilly morning in early spring, the train, consisting of twenty-five wagons with canvas, set out from Fort Fetterman. A fifteen-man detail headed by Lieutenant James Findley was assigned to escort the wagons. Another wagon train set out the same morning, this one bound for Fort Laramie and accompanied by Bill Bogart, and was a far easier trip than the road to Medicine Bow. “Looks like ol' Bogart got his pick of the trains,” Jake said, well aware of Bogart's favored status with the major. “I ain't surprised you got the trip to Medicine Bow, but what the hell has he got against me?” The Medicine Bow Road was a rigorous test for horses and men alike, crossing the Laramie Hills, four river crossings, and miles of canyons and treeless flats. Luke listened to Jake's complaints, but voiced none of his own. He was at home in all parts of the territory. Some just took a bit more effort to survive in. As far as he was concerned, all life was like the different parts of the country—sometimes it was easy, sometimes hard. Still, he felt it was part of his job as a scout to advise the lieutenant, so he did.

“I expect it ain't necessary to tell you that it's better'n a fifty percent chance some of those mountain passes are still piled up with snow,” he told Findley. “It's awful early in the spring yet. You might wanna take another way around the Laramies.”

As his column formed up, Lieutenant Findley paused to consider Luke's advice. He had never ridden with either of his two scouts, so he was not inclined to put complete faith in the pair until he had more experience with them. Based on what little he knew about Luke Sunday and Jake Bradley—one a potential troublemaker, the other a lackadaisical ne'er-do-well—he was inclined to stick to well-known trails. “We're going to follow the common road to Medicine Bow. What I want from you two is to range a mile or two ahead, so you can let me know if there's anything for me to be concerned with. I don't expect any trouble, but I damn sure don't wanna be surprised by some stray hostile raiding party. Understood?”

The lieutenant's orders were fine by Luke. He merely nodded his understanding. Jake took it upon himself to speak for them both. “Sure thing, Lieutenant. We'll keep our eyes open. You never can tell, what with the weather lettin' up a little bit now, some of Sittin' Bull's boys mighta snuck back figurin' to catch us when we ain't expectin' it.”

Findley favored Jake with a patient smile. He didn't expect to meet up with any trouble this close to Fort Fetterman and Fort Laramie. “Just see that you do,” he said. He stared at the broad back of the sandy-haired scout named Sunday as the two men went to their horses. He didn't know much about the man except the fact that he had shot one of the other scouts, but Captain Egan had praised him for rescuing one of his men after the Powder River raid. He had also heard of an altercation where Sunday had dragged another scout into a campfire and threatened to kill him. So he wasn't sure if he had a dependable scout or a troublemaker along on this detail. One thing for sure, he decided, the man seemed to have no friends in the entire regiment. He sighed and returned his attention to getting the wagons under way.

Findley was wrong about Luke's lack of friends. He had one friend in the camp, one eternally grateful to him. Luke had gone by the hospital the night before to see how Bob Rivers was getting along. Bob had been in good spirits in spite of the stump where his right leg had been. “I'm already gettin' around pretty good on these crutches,” he had said, “and the carpenter is workin' on a peg leg for me. I'll be dancin' a jig over at the hog ranch by the time you get back from Medicine Bow. Wait till them gals see me spin around on my peg leg.” Bob's comment caused a sight seldom seen by any of the soldiers or scouts at the fort when a smile of amusement formed on Luke's ever-serious face. When he got up to leave, Bob had grabbed his sleeve and his expression sobered. “Don't think for a minute that I ain't grateful for what you done for me. I'll never forget it, and that's a fact.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Luke had nodded, his somber expression returning. “Well, take care of yourself,” he had muttered, and quickly took his leave.

* * *

As Lieutenant Findley had anticipated, there was no trouble encountered on the trip to Medicine Bow Station as far as hostile Indians were concerned. As Luke had cautioned, however, there was still heavy snow in the canyons of the Laramie Mountains, which made for a difficult passage, even for empty wagons. It caused Findley to give some thought to the return trip to Fort Fetterman with loaded wagons. The going proved somewhat easier once the hills were behind them and they passed through the Little Medicine country. The last forty miles took them across the Laramie Plains and involved four difficult river crossings, poor grass, and no wood for their campfires. There was a great deal of complaining from the army teamsters and cavalry troops by the time the column reached Medicine Bow just before noon.

It had been a while since Luke had been to Medicine Bow. The last time the town had been little more than a shipping point on the Union Pacific Railroad. This time there was considerable growth in the station in the form of saloons, bawdy houses, a general store, and an army warehouse. There were not many permanent residents in Medicine Bow, and most of them worked for the railroad, or managed the local business establishments. Standing apart, some several hundred yards from the freight depot, Luke noticed a lone wagon, obviously encamped, and a team of two horses hobbled nearby. Close by the wagon, a man and a woman sat before a campfire. The scene struck Luke as peculiar.
Maybe they're waiting to catch an eastbound train,
he thought,
after they found out they couldn't make it in this hostile land
. He paid it no further mind while he pulled his paint pony to the side and watched the troopers prepare to bivouac while the lieutenant went to the depot to arrange for receipt of the supplies.

“Lieutenant, sir,” Sergeant Branch, the ranking enlisted man, said, as Findley started toward the door. “Some of the men are wantin' to know if it's all right to visit one of the saloons to cut some of the dust in their throats. It's been a long, dry ride for the last two days.”

Findley paused, not surprised by the question, but somewhat amazed that any of them had money to spend. Although the men had been scheduled to receive their pay a day before leaving Fort Fetterman, he had ordered a delay in their payday until the detail returned there. Consequently, he felt assured that the men would have very little money to spend on whiskey, or anything else, and there would be little danger of desertion, always a concern with troops stationed at Fort Fetterman with its lack of creature comforts. In addition, the delayed payday was incentive to return to their base. Giving Branch a stern look, he said, “All right, Sergeant, but you can tell them anybody not fulfilling their duty might find themselves making the trip back in chains, walking behind the last wagon. I want these wagons loaded first, a guard detail set for tonight, and the detail ready to roll after first light in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Branch replied. “You don't have to worry about that. I'll see that your orders are carried out. I doubt if anybody's got the price of more'n one or two drinks, anyway.”

Standing close by, and hearing the conversation between the lieutenant and his sergeant, Jake Bradley turned to Luke and grinned. “That don't sound like a bad idea,” he said. “I reckon I've got enough to buy a couple of drinks myself. Whaddaya say?”

Luke gave the idea a moment's thought before replying, “I reckon, maybe one or two, but not till after supper.” Unlike the soldiers in Lieutenant Findley's detail, he and Jake had received their pay on the scheduled payday. His hesitation was due to his natural tendency to hold on to his money to ensure the ability to purchase things he needed to survive, like coffee beans and cartridges for his rifle. He was not completely sure he liked scouting for the army, especially after his first engagement at Two Moons's village. And he was convinced that he might quit his job if he continued to witness a similar lack of good judgment on the part of other officers in command. If that happened, he was going to need his money.

“I reckon I can wait till then,” Jake conceded reluctantly. His attention turned then to the wagon parked near the railroad tracks. “I wonder what those folks are waitin' for. I can't tell a helluva lot from here, but the woman don't look too bad, does she? She looks pretty young, too. They look like they've been travelin' a ways, and there ain't nobody with 'em. Sure seems strange.” Not really interested, Luke glanced briefly at the couple by the wagon before turning away, intent on watering his horse before the teamsters and the cavalry troops muddied the one available creek with their horses.

* * *

John Burnett looked past Lieutenant Findley to see the man and woman approaching his office. He paused then in the process of verifying the paperwork on the shipment of supplies to be loaded to inform Findley, “Here's some folks that's been waitin' to talk to you, Lieutenant,” he said, and nodded toward the open door. Findley turned to follow Burnett's gaze, then stood waiting.

“Lieutenant,” Burnett said when the man and his wife entered the small office, “this here's David Freeman and his missus.”

Findley extended his hand to Freeman. “Lieutenant James Findley,” he said, then nodded toward the woman. “Ma'am,” he acknowledged. “Did you want to talk to me?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Freeman replied. “I'm hoping you'll let me hitch on to your wagon train when you head back north. Mr. Burnett said you'd most likely be pulling outta here in the morning.”

“Well, I expect that's so,” Findley said. “We'll be heading out in the morning, right enough.” He looked the man and his wife over carefully. “Where is it you're heading?” Before Freeman could answer, Findley asked, “How'd you get this far by yourselves?”

“We weren't by ourselves when we got to Medicine Bow,” Freeman replied. “We came here with four other wagons, all of us heading for the Yellowstone and the Gallatin Valley, but the others turned back, decided it was too dangerous to try to get through.”

“But you didn't,” Findley said. “Maybe it would have been smart to listen to your friends and go on back to where you came from.”

“Cheyenne,” Freeman said. “There ain't no future for us back there. The piece of land I was trying to farm was dry as a bone. The little creek we had all but dried up. We had to get out or starve. I got word from my brother in Montana Territory and he said there were some fellows building a new town, called Coulson, just starting up on the Yellowstone. It's gonna be an important town for certain—just right for a steamboat stop, and the railroad is coming that way before long, too. My brother said him and a few others were moving east to get closer to the town. According to him the river flats around there are fertile and prime for farming, and he said there ain't no real trouble with the Indians there anymore.”

Findley paused to think about that for a few moments. Maybe the man was right, as far as Indian trouble was concerned. The army, and General Crook's command in particular, was making ready to take to the field again, in concert with two other columns, to entrap the Sioux and Cheyenne in the Powder River country. Maybe this town of Coulson that Freeman referred to was far enough removed from the Powder, Tongue, and Big Horn to be out of harm's way. The problem for a lone wagon like Freeman's was to make the journey through the Powder River Valley safely, so he didn't have to ask what Freeman was looking to him for. “I understand why you're trying to get to the Yellowstone,” he told him. “But this detail, this wagon train, is only going from here to Fort Fetterman. Now, I have no objection if you want to go with us that far, but I must warn you that you'll be on your own from Fort Fetterman on. There will be no troops available to escort you to Montana.”