Medicine Road (21 page)

The old man came scrambling awake, fumbling
sleepily in the blackness for his rifle. The mountain
man put a bony knee in his belly, pinning him back
on his blankets.

"Hold on, you old catamount! I told you it was me."

"It's you who? Who the hell is it? God damn it,
what's going on around here?"

"Shut up! It's Jesse. What in hell's the matter
with you?"

"The matter with me, you chucklehead? Don't
you know better at your age than to go around grabbing a man outen his sound sleep in Injun country?
I mighten've shot your leggings off!"

"You mighten," allowed the mountain man, "happen I hadn't've taken your gun out from under you
before I shook you up. Leave off your grousing for a
shake and pay attention. We're rolling outen here."

"You crazy, boy? What hour be it?"

"Four."

"What's the idee? You know I never holler catch
up before five-thirty."

"I want to be moving before broad light. That'll be
maybe an hour. There'll be light enough to catch up
by in fifteen, twenty minutes."

"I asked you what's the idee?"

"God damn it, you got a contract for hauling gun powder and supplies to Fort Bridger. And I get a
bonus for seeing that you do it without losing any of
it. We're back of time on account of that mangy
Black Coyote and his damn' deal with Brigham
Young. I'm thinking we'll have to roll soon's there's
light to see, and to keep rolling far and fast from
here on in. That is, providing we don't aim to let Watonga get set for us again."

Up to this point, the mountain man had been
making a very good case for himself, almost convincing Andy Hobbs he meant every word of his
tirade. But as usual, when things are going too easy
for man, Jesse overreached himself. Clearing his
throat, self-righteously he delivered what was designed as the coup-de-grace.

"But, mostly, Andy, old salt, I'm wanting to get
outen here before them hang-dog emigrants come
awake. I'm feared they might change-up their
minds and decide to tag onto us. And it's like you
said yourself. We just ain't got no damn' time to
mess with them. Come on, rustle your tail, old hoss.
Roust the boys out!"

The white-bearded wagon master cleared his
own throat in turn, spat contemptuously. "It's like I
said, all right, young 'un. But you ain't quite quoting the part of it I'm thinking about. If ever I heard
a young stud whickering over a bellyful of sour
oats, it's you."

"What the hell you mean, you bent-prod old
steer?"

"I mean it's sand-bottom clear that you tooken
your whack at that piece you had sighted amongst
them emigrants. It's just as clear that you missed it,
clean. Now you're peed about it and you're getting
the hell away before you have to face up to her in the daylight, or maybeso her old man. Sure funny how
a man'll get hisself all hot for something till she
turns him down. Minute she does, he lets on like she
smelled worse than a clabbered cheese bag to him
the whole time. You know what I think, boy? Hoss
apples, that's what."

"We going to roll early or ain't we?"

Jesse put the question sullenly, ignoring the oldster's center shot.

"Five's earlier than I like, let alone four. I'll split
the difference with you, Jesse. We'll toll at five."

"Thanks for nothing," muttered the mountain
man. "I'll see you at ten of."

"Going somewheres, meantime?"

"Reckon I'll sneak over and eye those Arapahoes.
Make sure they ain't moving out early, too."

"Make sure they don't trap you at it, Dan'l
Boone," cautioned the old man. "I don't hate you so
purely that I'd want to find your thick head stuck in
the Medicine Road on a sharp stake."

"I'll step soft," promised Jesse. "Just got me a
four-bit hunch that something's stirring over there."

At that, there wasn't a thing in the world wrong
with the mountain man's suspicion-save that it
was a little more than somewhat late. Long hours
gone, Tall Elk had sent her hastily instructed messengers down the back trail toward Wild Horse
Bend and the waiting Watonga.

Riding the head of the wagon line, Jesse tried
keeping his mind on the remaining road to Fort
Bridger, and his eyes on the hills around it. In the
path of the lumbering Conestogas now lay the old
familiar landmarks: Squaw Creek, Sioux Lick,
Paiute Butte, Black Timbers, fair enough places, all,
to harbor a red-hued reception committee eager to
readjust that little matter of the Jackpine Slash detour. Try as he would, however, the mountain man
couldn't hold his thinking to what hostile possibilities might lie off the bows of his axle-squealing
prairie schooners.

Time and again, as the interminable morning
wore away, his Indian hunch kept herding his
thoughts back to the emigrant camp at Paiute Crossing. Damn a man's mind, anyway. He still knew he
had fumbled something back there, and it wasn't
anything about Lacey, or even about Tim O'Mara. It
was something with those accursed Arapahoesmost particularly that hawk-faced squaw. There had been something about her he should have tumbled to. Some one, shifty thing that kept skipping
around the back of his head and wouldn't stand
still long enough for a man to get a membranous
look at it.

An hour after noon halt, with the wagons rolling
steadily over the hard-packed going, and with him
and Andy Hobbs out-riding the lead Conestoga, the
wagon master suddenly remembered something.

"Thunderation, Jesse! I just thunk of something.
Here . . . " The old man dug inside his shirt, bringing
forth a wadded scrap of yellow paper. "I was supposed to give you this. That emigrant boss's woman,
the purty gal with the yellow hair, she brung it over
while you was sneaking around that Arapaho camp
this morning. I ain't read it."

Jesse took the paper, unfolding it, and studying
the enclosed writing, the frown ridges building up
heavier by the second.

"What's the trouble, boy, bad news?"

"I dunno," answered Jesse sullenly.

"What the Sam Hill you mean, you dunno? You
can read, cain't you? What's she say?"

"No," gruffed the mountain man shortly.

"Well, hell! That's nothing. Lots of women have
said no. Don't let that throw you. It's their favorite
three-letter word."

The mountain man handed the paper back to
Andy Hobbs. "I didn't mean she said no," he mumbled, flushing. "I meant, no, I cain't read."

"Oh." The old man took the paper, spreading it
proudly on his saddle horn. "Well, that's nothing,
neither. I allow there ain't nobody in this here train
what can, saving me. Let's see, here.... Uh, 'Jesse,
darling'. . . that's the way she begins it. Hmmm, now how does it go? Let's see, here ... say!" The oldster
broke off, eyeing Jesse suspiciously. "God damn
you, did you get that piece, or didn't you? Jesse, darling! Hmpfhh! You sneaky bastard. And all the time
here I was feeling sorry for you. Allowing you'd got
your ears slapped back. Why, you ungrateful ...

"Read the letter, you horny old goat! Never mind
if I whapped the gal or not."

Andy Hobbs, glancing at the mountain man, took
due note of the way his blue eyes were darkening,
decided to read on with strict attention to Lacey
O'Mara's ideas, foregoing his own with commendable good taste-and faultless good judgment.

Jesse, darling-

I wanted to see you to tell you that I'll be waiting
for you at Fort Laramie. It's funny how everything
seems to brighten up at once.

When I got back to the fire, that Indian woman
was still there and she had made little Kathy much
better. And then, guess what, Jesse! She said she
would travel with me and take care of the baby until my folks met up with hers. Her tribesmen are
buffalo hunting somewhere down on the Black Fork.

Isn't that wonderful? I know that when you see
us in Laramie, Kathy will be fine and strong.

I love you, Jesse darling. Remember me.

Lacey

P.S. Be careful of Tim when you come. He left
camp early this morning after waking me up to tell
me he knew all about you and me and that he was
going to fix it so no white man would ever want me.
He couldn't know about us and he has always been
a bad talker. I'm afraid of him, Jesse, but I know I
won't need to be once you're back with me.

The wagon master handed the crumpled note to
the mountain man, along with a tentative grin. "Boy,
I'm sorry I razzled you. You're fixing to marry that
yellow-haired gal, ain't you?"

Jesse accepted the note and the apology. "Yeah,
Andy, I allow I am. We're plumb in love and she
ain't got no use for Tim O'Mara."

"Well, she's a looker." His companion nodded.
"And that little boy of hers is cuter'n a fuzz-tail buffalo calf. I allow you'll be right happy, providing you
can work around that lunkhead, Tim."

"He don't bother me no more'n a mule marble in
a wagon corral," the mountain man muttered.
"What gets my nanny is that slant-eye squaw. She's
been bothering me right along and now this damn'
fool gal of mine has to go and leave the red slut suck
in and tag along with her and the kids. Damn it, for
some reason I can't help fretting about that squaw."

"Cain't say as I blame you, young 'un. But I allow
it's just the look of her that's got you breaking
bother wind. Hell, she just plain looks bad. That sixfoot build. Them wild eyes. That slit-ear mouth.
Why, even the twisting way she limps around is
enough to spook a tame steer."

Andy Hobbs's rambling words sprung the trap of
Jesse's reaching mind. That god-damned Arapaho
squaw! The one that'd been sucking around Lacey.
That one. He'd never seen her walking. Only riding
in on her pony, then squatting at Lacey's fire. And
now Andy said she walked crooked. What was it his
Sioux foster folk had used to call Black Coyote's
wife? Wasn't it Ousta? Hell, that was it. Ousta. The
Sioux name for One-Who-Limps. The Limper. The
Lame One. Aii-eee!

He threw Heyoka on her haunches with a hack amore twist that nearly wrenched her head off at the
withers. Wheeling on the advancing Conestogas, he
dug his heels in. Going for the wagons, with the
mare belly-flat, he stood in the stirrups, roaring like
an arrow-shot bear.

"Hold up! Hold up! Corral! Corral!"

By the time Andy Hobbs got his breath and
kicked his old gelding to follow the mountain man,
Jesse had the lead vehicles circling.

With the corral made, the red-haired trapper
talked, and hard. The astonished muleskinners just
sat their seat boxes and gaped. You couldn't even get
your mouth half open, let alone spit a word sideways out of it, the wild-eyed mountain son was
barking his orders that fast.

"Boys, we got us some tall riding to do. And, happen you like the sound of it, I reckon some high
fighting. Get all this and get it straight. There ain't
going to be no repeats."

Caught up by the big-shouldered mountain man's
intensity, the Missouri teamsters nodded mutely,
none thinking to interrupt the hard gallop of words
that followed.

"That big buck squaw which rode into our camp
with them old chiefs last night was Watonga's wife.
That village is Black Coyote's!"

Morgan Bates, as usual the first to put tongue to
what went on in his head, drawled his challenge,
tight-mouthed: "Well, what of it, Jesse?"

"Just this!" Jesse jumped his answer. "Andy remembered something a minute ago. He handed me
a note from that yellow-haired gal that was with
them emigrants. That's the one with the little redhead boy. That note said this here squaw ... Black
Coyote's wife, now, mind you ... was traveling with the emigrants. She give the yellow-hair gal a yarn
about tagging along to take care of her other little
kid, the one that's puny, the little dark-hair gal. I allow you can all figure what's coming. Them red
scuts will sandbag that bunch of farmers sure as
we're standing here picking our noses. I allow the
squaw is aiming to grab that red-head boy. Her and
Watonga can't have no kids of their own. I remember that from hearing it camp-talked when I was
amongst the Sioux. Watonga, he's dying to have a
son. And, boys, that hard-face squaw ain't against
dying to give him one!"

"I reckon there'll be more dying than her," vouchsafed Morgan Bates, "less'n we put a hump in our
butts. How you aim to work it, Jesse?"

"Leave Andy and two men here with the wagons.
You and me takes the other ten. Maybeso we can
catch them emigrant folks before Black Coyote does.
It ain't no secret I got more stake in that train than
just saving them farmers. I'm saying that, right now,
and asking any of you boys what don't want to go,
to sing out. Nobody ain't going to hold nothing
against you, neither. You ain't getting paid for shooting coyotes."

"Hell, I'm tired of muleskinning." Morgan Bates's
careless shrug picked up a following of quick grins
around the listening circle. "Happen we can peel a
coyote for variety, I'm for it."