A Man Called Sunday (7 page)

Now it was Freeman's turn to pause and consider that. He had hoped that the lieutenant might suggest the possibility of some military protection beyond Fort Fetterman. A few days before, he had been determined to continue, even after the other wagons turned back. Now he was not so confident that it was the safest thing to do. He glanced at Mary Beth and found an expression of genuine concern on her face. “Well, sir,” he said to Findley, “I 'preciate what you're telling me. I reckon I'll talk it over with my wife before we decide.”

“You're kinda gambling on that land still being available, aren't you?” Findley said.

“Well, maybe a little, but my brother is hoping to buy up as much of that land as possible, and he'll have a place for us.”

“You folks must be well fixed for finances,” the lieutenant remarked.

“My brother is,” Freeman was quick to reply. “He was one of the lucky ones at Last Chance Gulch up at Helena. Mary Beth and I don't have but a little to make a start.”

“I wish I could promise you an escort to the Yellowstone,” Findley said, talking mainly to Freeman's wife, “but you're welcome to go with us to Fort Fetterman.”

“We'll talk it over,” Freeman said, “and if we decide to keep going, we'll be ready to roll in the morning when you pull out.”

“Good enough,” the lieutenant said, and walked with them to the door.

The discussion between David and Mary Beth Freeman started as soon as they were outside the station door. With no knowledge of the country beyond the North Platte River, the young couple found it a difficult decision to make. Married just eighteen months, they had never been faced with a choice that might mean the difference between life and death, so their deliberations continued until bedtime that night. With Mary Beth's assurances that she was willing to risk facing whatever dangers might lie beyond Fort Fetterman, David decided to prepare his wagon to roll at first light. “There's a chance for a good life ahead of us with your brother and the others,” Mary Beth said, “and a dead certainty that there's nothing behind us in Cheyenne.”

Chapter 4

Roll call proved Lieutenant Findley correct in his speculation that his men were too short of cash to finance any serious drunks. Every man was accounted for, even the teamsters, with only the few cuts and bruises usually associated with the rough saloons in Medicine Bow. Among those who did have enough money to buy more than a couple of drinks was Jake Bradley. Complaining of a bad head, he pulled his horse up beside Luke's paint to wait for the wagon train to pull out of Medicine Bow. “I swear,” he commented painfully, “that bartender musta put some kinda poison in that whiskey, as bad as my head hurts this mornin'. How come you ain't sufferin' like me?” He paused a moment when he encountered the disinterested gaze from the ever-stoic scout. “Where were you last night, anyway?” It occurred to him that he had not seen Luke since he joined a group of the army teamsters at a back table.

“I went to bed,” Luke replied indifferently.

Jake shook his head in mock amazement. “I swear, you're a regular hell-raiser, ain't you?”

“I had a drink,” Luke responded dryly. “That's all I wanted.” In Jake's opinion, there was something untrustworthy about a man who didn't like to get drunk every now and then, and he said as much. To which, Luke responded, “I got things I need to buy with my money, and one of 'em ain't a head like you're totin' on your shoulders this mornin'.”

“Damn,” Jake replied with a forced chuckle, “next thing I know, you might take up preachin'.”

“I might,” Luke said in the emotionless tone Jake was becoming accustomed to, “if somebody offers to pay me to do it.” He turned the paint's head toward the column of wagons that had now begun to pull out, and nudged the Indian pony into a comfortable lope. Jake sighed and followed.

Luke returned David Freeman's nod when the two scouts rode past his wagon. He had not given the couple in the wagon much thought beyond wondering what they were doing in Medicine Bow. It appeared now that they were going to Fort Fetterman with the train. It didn't concern him, so he didn't waste further speculation on it as he loped past on his way to the head of the column.

“You know a better way back to Fetterman than hauling these wagons through those mountain passes?” Lieutenant Findley asked when the two scouts pulled up beside him.

“The only easier way is to go around those mountains,” Luke answered, “but it'll be a sight longer trip.”

“How much longer?” Findley asked.

“Two days, maybe,” Luke said.

Findley took a moment to decide. He wasn't sure how much he could rely on the new scout's knowledge of the country. Deeming it better to trust that the wagons could make it back the way they had come, he decided not to venture farther west in an effort to bypass about fourteen miles of canyons and peaks. “We'll go back the way we came,” he told his two scouts, and sent them out ahead of the column. It was all the same to Luke.

* * *

The column proceeded with little trouble through the Little Medicine country, slowed down only by the multiple river crossings. Trailing along behind the army wagons, which were pulled by four-horse teams, David and Mary Beth Freeman were able to maintain their position with their two horses. Once, however, at a particularly difficult crossing, they were hesitant to commit their team to the water after the army wagons had churned up the riverbed so badly that their wheels were sunk almost to the hubs. It was at this time that they had their first encounter with the sandy-haired scout dressed in animal hides.

Watching the river crossing with minimal interest, Luke sat his horse on the far bank while the teamsters, encouraged, complained, and cursed the horses as they struggled to pull their loads to the other side. He let his gaze wander to the small farm wagon, pulled by two horses, that was waiting its turn to enter the water. His advice had not been solicited by the lieutenant as to the best place to ford the river. Instead, Findley had chosen to ford where wagon trains had always crossed this particular river. If Luke's opinion had been asked, he would have suggested a crossing about fifty yards upstream where the river bottom was firmer. Seeing David Freeman hesitating now as the last army wagon descended the bank to follow those before it, Luke guided his horse toward the smaller wagon.

“I ain't so sure my horses can pull us across,” Freeman volunteered when Luke came up beside him.

“I ain't, either,” Luke replied. His dry comment did little to encourage Freeman to act. Both husband and wife stared at the rangy scout, the uncertainty shining in their faces. “Follow me,” Luke said, and started upstream along the riverbank. When Freeman hesitated, Luke looked back and prompted, “Come on.” David hauled back on the reins and pulled his team around to follow the man on the paint Indian pony, not sure if he should or not.

About fifty yards upstream, Luke wheeled his horse to a stop on a sandy stretch of the bank. “Just follow me and you won't have no trouble,” he said, then guided the paint into the water.

David followed and found the crossing to be much easier than he had anticipated. “Why didn't the soldiers cross here?” he asked Luke when he drove past him.

“'Cause they're soldiers, I reckon,” Luke replied. “That's the same crossin' they've always used. That's the way soldiers do everythin'.”

Once his wagon was up on the opposite bank, David called after the scout, now riding back toward the head of the column. “Much obliged.” Grateful to the quiet man for making a crossing that had promised to be difficult much less stressful, David was drawn to observe Luke Sunday more closely during the remaining days of the journey to Fort Fetterman. “He's a strange one,” David remarked to his wife. “He doesn't talk very much, to anybody, but when the lieutenant wants to know something, he always asks Sunday, instead of the other one.”

“He may not be very sociable,” Mary Beth said, “and he looks like a wild Indian, but he certainly came to help us cross that river. I know we don't know the man very well, but the soldiers seem to trust him.” She paused. “As much as you can trust any drifter, I guess.”

“I was thinking how valuable a man like him might be to come along as a guide to the Yellowstone if the army decides they can send a few soldiers to escort us through the Powder River country. He sure seems to know the land.” He didn't express it to Mary Beth, but he was really thinking that Lieutenant Findley might have spoken truthfully when he said there would be no troops spared to escort them beyond Fort Fetterman.

* * *

The trip back to Fetterman was uneventful as anticipated with the exception of a light snowfall in the Laramie Mountains that added to the already poor conditions of the canyon floors. The layer of snow had to be broken by the cavalry escort before the wagon teams could plow through the frozen slush beneath. The trip of about eighty-five miles from Broken Bow required over a week to complete, two full days of which were spent on the fourteen-mile stretch through the mountain passes. Food rations were depleted when they were still a couple of days short of their destination, but fortunately Luke and Jake tracked a small herd of deer that had sought shelter in a narrow pine-covered ravine. They were lucky enough to kill three of the herd before they scattered up the mountainside. The carcasses were a welcome sight for the hungry soldiers, and Luke made sure to cut a sizable portion of the fresh meat to take to the couple in the farm wagon.

“I thank you for seeing that we got some of this meat,” David Freeman said when Luke walked the venison over to their wagon. Luke merely nodded in reply as he handed the rump portion to him, turning at once to return to his campfire.

“Yes, thank you,” Mary Beth called after him. “That was very thoughtful of you, and we appreciate it.” Luke turned long enough to nod in her direction, then continued on his way.

As he stood beside his wife, holding the generous chunk of venison, David was prompted to chuckle. “He's a sociable cuss, ain't he?”

“Sometimes I want to shiver when he looks at me,” Mary Beth commented, “with those eyes that look like they're dead.”

Her remark reminded David of something he had heard from one of the soldiers and caused him to chuckle once again. “You know what the Crow Indians call him? Dead Man, that's their name for him.”

“Well, that's a good name for him. That man frightens me,” Mary Beth said. Then after a moment, she added, “But I'm certainly glad to get the meat.” After another pause, she reflected, “I guess I could have offered him some of our coffee.”

* * *

The wagon train rolled into Fort Fetterman in time for supper on the night of April 15, where they found the post busy making preparations for a June campaign against the hostiles. His mission completed, Luke went immediately to find Colonel Reynolds, assuming that he was still assigned to the colonel's troop. He found the colonel's headquarters tent, but not the colonel. Instead, he found Bill Bogart and another scout, a man called Wylie, whom Luke had had very little contact with. They were standing leisurely by a campfire, drinking coffee, and talking to a major Luke had never met. Of slight build, almost dainty in fact, the officer stood in sharp contrast to the hulking Bogart, who glowered darkly at Luke when he stepped down from the saddle. “This here's Sunday,” Wylie commented dryly, as if he had been the topic of their discussion with the major.

The officer looked Luke up and down as if evaluating him. “I'm Major Potter,” he said. “I'm in command of this troop now. I think Ben Clarke wanted to talk to you as soon as you got back.”

Luke nodded thoughtfully. Clarke had mentioned a Major Potter, but Luke wasn't interested enough to wonder why Colonel Reynolds was no longer in command. “You happen to know where I can find Ben Clarke?” he asked.

“Where he's usually at,” Bogart quickly answered for the major, his tone thick with sarcasm, “pretty damn close to General Crook.”

Luke ignored the caustic remark, looked at Major Potter, and said, “Much obliged. I'll go find him.” He stepped back up in the saddle.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Bogart commented to Potter, “I'm sure surprised he even showed his face around here again after he killed Sonny Pickens and what he done over on the Powder when we fought them Sioux.”

Potter stared after the man a few moments longer before speaking. “Captain Egan seems to think Sunday's a hero for going into that camp after Private Rivers.”

“Yes, sir,” Bogart said. “I've heard talk about that, about how he slipped into that camp and saved Rivers, but I think them Sioux was long gone by the time he got there. Besides, I expect if them Injuns was Cheyenne, like he claims, he wouldn'ta had to sneak in to bring that boy out. And I was there when Colonel Reynolds was tryin' to sneak up on that village. Captain Egan's hero was tryin' to tell ever'body that it was a Cheyenne village, when the colonel and ever'body else knew it was a Lakota camp, full of rifles and ammunition. Ain't that right, Wylie?” He paused for Wylie's nod of affirmation. “He's hooked up with Sittin' Bull and that crowd of Sioux somehow, 'cause he sure acted like he didn't want us to attack. And I ain't heard nobody say they saw him shoot at any of them Injuns.” He paused again to judge the effect his words might have had on the major. “I can tell you I'm gonna damn sure watch my back around him,” he continued.

Potter seriously considered Bogart's condemnation of the man. Having just been given command of the troop, after Colonel Reynolds's reprimand and relief of command, Potter was not interested in having any source of friction under him. Reynolds had been censured and threatened with court-martial for his failures in his attack on that village on the Powder, and the damning fact that he had left wounded men behind when he withdrew. He formed a picture of Luke, dressed head to toe in animal skins, his sandy hair the only thing that prevented his passing for an Indian. He had come into the job as a scout with a group of Crows, but could it be possible his sympathies, as well as his allegiance, lay with the Sioux? Maybe he might be a threat to warn his Sioux friends of an impending attack.
That wouldn't be good,
Reynolds thought.
So why risk it?
He decided then to reject Luke as a scout, for it was obvious that Bogart and Wylie didn't trust the man.

* * *

Ben Clarke glanced up from his camp, about thirty yards from General Crook's tent, to see the rangy scout approaching his fire. He waited for Luke to dismount before greeting him. “I saw you come ridin' in—took you a little bit longer than I figured. Have any trouble?”

“None worth speakin' of,” Luke answered. “There was a lot of snow in the mountains. That slowed us down, else we'da most likely been here two days ago.” He moved up close to the fire and squatted on his heels. “A major back there—I done forgot his name—said you wanted to see me.”

“Major Potter,” Clarke said. “He took over for Colonel Reynolds. Yeah, I wanna send you back to Red Smoke's village to bring those Crow scouts back here. This parade is gonna be ready to move in about four days, so they need to be here now.”

Luke nodded his understanding. “Oughta be back here in two days,” he said. Red Smoke's camp was on the North Platte, about halfway between Fort Fetterman and Fort Laramie. It would take him but one day to reach it.

“Good,” Clarke said. “Get yourself somethin' to eat tonight, and start out at first light in the mornin'. The general wants to get all those back that went home after the battle on the Powder.”

“I'll tell 'em,” Luke said. “It'll be up to them whether they wanna come back or not.”

“You even think like an Injun,” Clarke commented with a chuckle. “Tell 'em they'll be paid and supplied with ammunition.”

Luke shrugged. “I'll tell 'em,” he said, well aware of an Indian's tendency to change his mind if the day didn't suit him.