Trouble Trail (9 page)

Yet more than enough for a surprise assault, especially with a third of the fighting force mingling with the people of the train, lulling their suspicions and ready to change from peaceable traders to savage killers on a signal. A shudder ran through Bigelow as he visualised the scene. The sudden rush from outside the circle, the change among the Indians in the circle. His people would have been demoralised, panic stricken and fallen easy meat to the Cheyenne band.

And the matter went deeper than that, although Bigelow did not know it. Nothing succeeds like success, even among unlettered savages. Should Sand Runner’s strategy work, he would have loot and coups to flaunt before his more peaceably inclined brothers, living proof that the white man was far from being invincible and that even a large wagon train guarded by soldier-coats fell before Sand Runner’s medicine-inspired thought—no chief dare claim he made up any plan without the divine assistance of the Great Spirit’s medicine.

‘How many men have you?’ asked the chief, as Resin knew he would.

‘Over seven hands,’ the scout replied. ‘Many of them with repeating rifles.’

A low mutter ran among the braves and they studied the wagon circle’s condition of readiness to meet any attack. Everything appeared to be prepared in a most unsatisfactory manner from the Indian’s angle. The wagonmaster was no novice at Indian-fighting and knew better than to relax or concentrate all his attention on the bunch which showed themselves. So he did not allow his people to relax and, aided by his blistering tongue, made the men watch their front instead of standing gawking at the conference on the slope and ignoring what went on in other directions. Any attempt at making a sudden rush upon such a ready train would be repulsed with much bloodshed among the rushers, for any hope of surprise had gone.

An Indian might be brave, but he was no fool and could add up odds with the ease of a professional gambler. One hundred and fifty to seventy meant the Indians possessed a two to one advantage, but the repeating rifles and other firearms owned by the white men reduced those odds and changed them out of the Cheyennes’ favour.

‘Can we make talk?’ asked the chief.

‘Who?’ asked Resin.

‘You, the soldier-coat chief and me.’

‘Where?’

‘Half-way. On my lodge-oath there will be peace while we talk.’

When a Cheyenne war-bonnet chief swore on his lodge oath, he aimed to keep his word, even if he had been educated at a mission school and in the face of knowledge of innumerable times when the white man gave peace-words and broke them.

‘How about it, Cap’n?’ Resin asked, knowing the above. ‘He’s got something else on his mind. Some tricky lil game Sand Runner thought up in case his idea for sneaking in on us didn’t work.’

‘Let’s talk then,’ Bigelow replied. ‘If this is a formal truce, do we remove our weapons?’

‘Not less you want to insult him. He’s treating us as men of honour who can be trusted.’

‘What’s happening, Calam?’ asked Eileen, watching the scout and captain walk up the slope after the shouted conversation.

‘Them Injuns, and that includes Beau Resin, dang his Comanche hide, are smart, Boston, gal,’ Calamity repLied. ‘Happen two different tribes come up against each other they don’t just bust in head down and guns roaring. They talk a mite first, learn how much power the other side’s got and how ready they are for war. Then they figger their chances and happen they don’t like the way the other side stacks up, they allow their medicine’s gone bad on ‘em and pull put. It sure saves a heap of grief.’

‘But do they always tell each other the truth?’

‘Only Indians I ever seed as liars were the ones we civilised,’ Calamity answered, spitting out the last word. ‘Don’t reckon there’ll be no war today. What’d you tell ole shiny-butt?’

‘Oh, a little white lie,’ smiled Eileen. ‘But it worked.’

On reaching the half-way point between his men and the soldiers, the war-bonnet chief dropped from his horse, strode forward a couple of paces and went into a heel-squat. At a sign from Resin, Bigelow sank on to his haunches and the big scout sat Indian-style. Bigelow knew enough about diplomatic tactics not to open the jackpot, but waited for the Indian to break the ground.

There appeared to be no hurry to get down to business. Resin took a pipe from his pocket, primed the bowl with thick black Burley shag tobacco. With the bowl full, he handed the bag courteously to the chief and glanced at the officer.

‘Got anything to smoke, Cap’n, there’s going to be some time to pass.’

‘Will a cigar do?’ asked Bigelow.

‘Light her away,’ drawled the scout, rasping a match on his pants seat and firing the tobacco in his pipe.

For almost five minutes none of the trio spoke, but smoked. in quiet enjoyment. At last the chief removed his pipe, knocked out the remaining embers and doused them in the hard palm of his hand. Although Resin did not move, Bigelow could almost feel the big scout sense in a manner which said, ‘This is it.’

‘This is Cheyenne land,’ the chief announced.

‘Not by treaty,’ Resin countered. ‘The Cheyenne old man chiefs gave their sacred oath that this area would be left open to passage of white man’s wagons. Are you going against the oath to the Great Spirit?’

‘Great Spirit sides man with most warriors,’ answered the chief.

Bigelow stared as he heard the Great Plains version of Napoleon’s statement that God favoured big battalions. However, the captain did not speak, but left the handling of the matter in Resin’s hands.

‘We have the most guns,’ Resin pointed out.

A pause followed while the chief digested the unpleasant and unpalatable fact that the white men carried superior arms in a long-distance fight. He gave a low grunt, spat reflectively and remarked. ‘Sand Runner war chief, not make any treaty with white brother.’

‘So?’

‘So
Tshaoh
, Sand Runner make fresh treaty with soldier. coat chief here. If he can make-um that is.’

‘How about it, Cap’n?’ asked Resin.

‘I’m permitted to negotiate temporary terms to ensure the safety of the train.’

‘That means “yes” or “no?” ’ asked the Cheyenne.

‘Yes,’ answered Bigelow.

‘You make-um talk in small words so I know ‘em. Talk best left to
Tshaoh
, him savvy what Indian understand.’

‘What does Sand Runner want?’ asked Resin, hiding the grin which rose inside him and getting down to business.

‘Him want tribute from wagon train. Get it, not make trouble, leave ‘em alone all time.’

‘That can be arranged. But no guns, powder, bullets or lead.’

‘Ugh! Not want-um. Want money.’

‘Money!’ grunted Resin, coming as near as Bigelow had seen to showing any emotion.

‘Fifty dollars for each wagon,’ replied the chief and went on with a touch of pride, ‘At mission school me learned to count white-man style.’

‘We’ve forty-six wagons,’ Bigelow breathed. ‘That would be two thousand, three hundred dollars.’

‘Yeah,’ answered the scout. ‘But what in hell does a bunch of Cheyenne want with money?’

‘You pay-um?’ asked the chief.

There was one possible reason why the Cheyenne wanted money, although Resin doubted if it could be. However, a man did not hand over such a vast sum to Indians, or anybody else, without giving the matter plenty of thought.

‘We’ll give you blankets, see-yourselves,* some knives, axes, decorations for your women and shoot you forty-six horse-loads of meat,’ Resin said.

‘No good. Want money or make-um plenty hell same as teacher feller told us at mission school.’

‘No money!’ Resin said flatly. ‘And that’s final. You can tell Sand Runner I said so.’

‘I tell him. Him not like. That plenty good tobacco,
Tshaoh
.’

Taking out his tobacco pouch, Resin handed it to the chief. ‘Help yourself. They don’t have it in the Spirit Land and that’s where you and plenty of your men’ll be headed happen you try forcing us.’

Helping himself to half the tobacco, the chief returned the pouch to its owner. ‘Think well before you refuse and ask no more questions.’

‘Which same stops us asking why they want the money, Cap’n,’ drawled Resin. ‘How about Sand Runner’s offer?’

‘You already gave my answer.’

‘We don’t pay and that’s final.’

‘Not think Sand Runner’s plan would work when he made it,’ admitted the chief calmly, and with just a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Sand Runner was a mite too much of the bright-idea Johnny-come-lately to suit his taste apart from the detail about the aspiring Cheyenne war leader. ‘Speak Long to the Comanche Great Spirit,
Tshaoh
, and make your war medicine. You’ll need it.’

‘
Ka-Dih
favours those with repeating rifles,’ Resin replied, mentioning the Great Spirit of the Comanche. ‘Remember that well, brother.’

A grin twisted the Indian’s lips. ‘You sure you not full Indian?’ he asked and came to his feet.

Turning, the chief walked back to his waiting horse and went afork it in a single bound, plucking the buffalo lance from the ground where he had stood it. He gave a wild whoop, whirled the horse in its own length and rode back to his party. Swinging their horses away from the train, the Cheyenne galloped out of sight over the rim.

Will they tell Sand Runner not to attack?’ asked Bigelow as and Resin walked back towards the waiting soldiers.

‘He’d know near on as soon as we did,’ Resin replied. ‘There’d be wolf-scouts watching the camp from the moment the others appeared, only you don’t spot wolf-scouts, that’s their job.’

‘Lord!’ Bigelow breathed. ‘And I nearly let them walk into camp. You must think I’m a helluva fool.’

‘Nope, just inexperienced. We all make mistakes, that’s why they put them big, burnable mats under spittoons in fancy saloons. You ever figger how me, or young Dave Grade’d make out handling the kind of work you’ve come to do natural—until we learned how to do it?’

‘I never thought of it like that.’

‘Shucks, making a man captain don’t turn him into an expert on every blasted thing under the sun,’ grinned Resin. ‘Not until he’s been out and learned some about it.’

‘Take the men into the circle, Mr. Grade,’ Bigelow ordered. ‘Rendezvous with me at Mr. Killem’s fire after standing them down, and you, Muldoon.’

‘Yo!’ Muldoon replied.

On entering the wagon circle, Bigelow walked to Eileen and smiled at her.

‘Thanks for passing on Vint’s knowledge.’

‘I’ve a confession to make, Wade,’ Eileen smiled. ‘And take your hand off my arm, Molly’s coming and I don’t want to annoy her, I’ve just lost the marks from the last time.’

‘So you and Molly did tangle?’

‘Never you mind. Vint never mentions his work, not to any great extent, in his letters, Wade.’

‘Then how—?’ Bigelow began.

‘Calamity gave me some of her sage-advice and I acted on it. Only I thought that—’

‘That I’d be too bow-necked a shiny-butt to take her advice,’

‘Something like that,’ Eileen admitted.

‘You probably guessed right,’ grinned Bigelow. ‘Anyway, Miss Canary’s sage advice was well worth having. She’s quite a girl—and so are you, Boston. I wonder what Molly would do if I kissed you right in front of her?’

‘I don’t know what she’d do,’ Eileen answered. ‘But I know what I’d do. Calamity gave me some sage advice on that, too.’

oooOooo

* Mirrors.

CHAPTER NINE

A COUNCIL of war gathered around Killem’s fire, with the same men attending as had been present before the Indian-alert and augmented by the presence of Muldoon. After serving coffee, Calamity, Eileen and Molly kept tactfully in a woman’s place in the background. Bigelow outlined Sand Runner’s proposals and then awaited his more experienced subordinates’ comments.

‘That’s the first time I ever heard of a free Indian asking for money, sir,’ said Lieutenant Grade with all the wisdom of twenty-three years of age at his back.

‘Or me,’ Muldoon agreed. ‘Happen they was tamed Injuns on a reservation I’d like it some better.’

‘Reckon you refused, Cap’n?’ asked Killem, idly whittling a stick, which was a sure sign to those who knew him that he regarded the situation as being grave.

‘I did.’

‘So we’ll likely be having fighting soon, sir?’ asked Muldoon.

‘Possibly, Sergeant.’

‘Then could I make so bold as to suggest we start wearing our campaign hats, sir? ‘Tis shady to the eyes they are when doing fine sighting along the barrel of a carbine.’

‘You’re officer of the day, Mr. Grade,’ Bigelow said with a wry smile. ‘Make whatever dress arrangements you feel are needed.’

‘Yes, sir!’ answered Grade eagerly. Wearing official blouse and kepi might look smart and formally soldier-like, but they were sure hell to fight in under the hot plains sun.

‘What do you think Sand Runner will do now, Beau?’ asked Bigelow.

After relaxing his stand on the subject of
Dress Regulations
, Bigelow figured he might as well go the whole hog and adopt a less formal attitude towards the big scout; whose knowledge and aid might prove invaluable.

‘Fight!’ came the one word but encyclopaedic reply.

‘Right now?’ asked the captain, looking around the camp and noting its condition of readiness.

‘Nope. Night’s too near on us. Most Injuns don’t fight in the dark, figure a man gets killed at night might not be able to find his way to the Spirit Land. ‘Sides, it’ll be long gone dark afore they whomp up another mess of war-medicine, us having spoiled their last boiling.’

‘Sand Runner may not be able to persuade the others that his medicine holds good after his failure to get into the circle, sir,’ Grade remarked.

At that moment the men heard a distant crackle of shots, the deep booming of a Dragoon Colt and the sharper crack of a carbine, the Dragoon’s roar sounding again after the carbine’s shot. Silence dropped on the men and Bigelow remembered that none of the party he had spoke with carried firearms. His eyes went to Resin and the scout gave a low grunt.

‘Happen all I heard’s true,’ Resin drawled, ‘Sand Runner’s just done some persuading. They do say that he uses an old Colt Dragoon that throws flame like a cannon.’

‘Who is this Sand Runner?’ asked Bigelow.

Slowly Resin filled his pipe and lit it, while none of the others offered to make any reply. Sucking in a lungful of air, he breathed it out again and then answered the captain’s question, without helping any.

‘Don’t ask me. I’ve never seen him. Nor have any of the scouts at the fort.’

‘That’s true enough, sir,’ Grade admitted. ‘We know most of the Cheyenne war leaders: Wooden Leg, Two Moons, Iron Thunder, Wolf Voice. But not Sand Runner. He came into prominence two years ago when he led a bunch that wiped out a company of infantry up along the Rosebud. Since then his name’s grown bigger every month, but he never shows at any of the peace meetings.’

‘He’s always in the background and out of sight when white men are about, sir,’ Muldoon went on. ‘I was with the colonel when he went to talk with the old man chiefs. We’d orders to try and speak with him, but the others allowed it was his medicine not be seen by white folks. Far as I know, every white who’s seen him wound up dead.

‘Won’t the Cheyenne talk about him?’ asked Bigelow.

‘Not if it’s medicine business,’ Resin replied. ‘They take their religion a damned sight more serious than most white folks do.’

‘And what was the shooting about?’

‘Likely somebody reckoned Sand Runner’s medicine’d gone bad on him,’ Resin guessed. ‘Which’d be the same’s calling a real proud gun-fighter a liar; fast and deadly. From the sound, Sand Runner done made his point.’

‘So he’s still their leader?’ asked Bigelow.

‘I’d say that,’ agreed the scout.

‘Then he’ll attack us.’

‘Likely.’

‘When?’

‘Dawn, maybe. That’s a favourite time for Injuns to attack, when folk’s good and slowed down from just waking,’ Resin replied. ‘It all depends on how many Sand Runner has to convince his medicine’s still strong. Only that Sand Runner’s a smart cuss, he’ll likely have something slick up his sleeve.’

‘Like what?’ asked Bigelow.

‘That, Cap’n,’ drawled Resin, ‘is what we’ll have to wait to find out.’

‘You figuring to sit talking, or going to do something?’ asked Calamity, coming forward with the coffeepot.

‘Just talking for now, Calam, gal,’ Resin replied. ‘No point in figuring or doing until we know what’s happening.’

‘Are they still watching us?’ Bigelow inquired after drinking his coffee.

‘Sure,’ Resin answered, jerking a thumb in the direction of the slopes at the rear of the camp. ‘I got two of their wolfscouts spotted now.’

‘Are there more of them?’

‘Likely two more at least.’

‘Could you find them in the dark?’ asked Bigelow.

‘The two I saw, happen they stayed in the same place after dark, which same they won’t. A man don’t get to he a wolf. scout without he’s slicker’n a bad-hunted buffalo-wolf.’

‘Hum! I thought we might get rid of their scouts and pull out during the night, travel as fast as we could through the darkness—’

‘Which’d be twice too slow for a Cheyenne war-relay to follow, and follow they would. Then hit us at dawn, when all our folks were tuckered out.’

‘Amen!’ drawled Killem piously.

‘Then what do we do?’ asked the wagonmaster, ‘sit and wait?’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Resin. ‘That’s just what we’re going to do—or so it looks to them scouts.’

Calamity came forward and squatted by Resin’s side. ‘Tell us about it,’ she suggested. ‘I’ve never knowed you flap your lip unless you aimed to do something at the end of it?’

‘How good are our folks with their wagons, Sam?’ the scout asked the wagonmaster.

‘Good as any I’ve seen.’

‘Good enough to harness their teams in the dark, without making a helluva noise doing it?’

The wagonmaster did not reply for a few seconds as he thought out the implications of the question. Then at last he nodded. ‘I reckon they could.’

‘Then I say we get every thing ready to roll in the morning afore daylight,’ Resin said. ‘And as soon as it’s light enough to see start them rolling out.’

‘Will that help?’ asked Bigelow.

‘Injuns are funny. They get a plan all figgered out and stick to it. But happen things go wrong, they’re plumb likely to get discouraged and give it up. So they all plan an early morning rush on the circle and expect us to fight from it. When they come in, find us pulling out fast, they could get to thinking their medicine’s gone bad on ‘em. Won’t be so eager to push home their attack then.’

‘It could work,’ Grade remarked.

‘Can’t think of a better idea off-hand,’ Killem went on. ‘Them scouts won’t be too all-fired eager to stay out on the places when they see us settle down for the night.’

‘I’m counting on it,’ Resin replied, then stopped his next words and looked at Bigelow. ‘The final decision lies with you, Cap’n.’

Bigelow did not answer immediately. Never had he been faced with such an important decision. The fate of well over a hundred lives, including one which had become very important to him, depended on the decision he made. If they stayed in a defensive circle the Indians might not attack, but they would hang around the camp, pin down the travellers and this area did not have water for a prolonged stay, nor did the train carry sufficient food for an extended siege. Yet if they broke the circle and Resin’s plan failed, they would be vulnerable to a mass assault that might easily cost every person—including his Molly—their lives.

Looking at the Scout’s face, Bigelow tried to read something from it but could not penetrate the inscrutable mask. Yet Resin would never suggest an idea he did not expect to have a better than fair chance of succeeding.

Some officers, as Bigelow knew, might have asked their subordinates to take a share of the responsibility, even to the extent of requesting Grade and Muldoon to sign statements to the effect that they took the share of arranging the plan. Bigelow could not bring himself to do that. If the decision had to come, he intended to make it himself.

Then his eyes met Eileen Tradle’s and he saw the way she smiled and nodded. Eileen must guess at his problem, but was signalling to him that she thought he could safely follow Resin’s plan.

‘We’ll give it a whirl,’ Bigelow said. ‘Now let’s get down to. arrangements. The more we plan now, the less confusion in the morning.’

After the men separated to pass word of the arrangements, Calamity, Molly and Eileen fetched in the six-horse team and hobbled it close to the wagon. While they worked none of them spoke, but at last the work ended and they had time to stand and think.

‘Will it work, Calam?’ asked Eileen.

‘Could do. Like Beau says, Injuns are funny critters. If they see we’re doing the plumb unexpected they may not make a solid attack. If they do make it—’

Calamity let her words trail off and the other two girls realised just how serious she regarded the situation, Six eyes looked at each other and then Eileen gave a shrug.

‘Oh well,’ she said, which if not very explanatory, covered her feelings.

‘Can you shoot, Boston?’ asked Calamity.

‘A little.’

‘Got a gun?’

‘Papa sent Vint a shotgun and shells along. I can use that.’

‘Less chance of loosing off and missing with shot,’ said Calamity calmly. ‘How about you, Molly?’

‘I’ve no gun and can’t shoot, but I know how to reload.’

‘That’ll do us then,’ Calamity grinned. ‘We’re riding my wagon tomorrow.’

‘But my aunt and uncle?’ asked Molly.

‘They’ll be all right. One of ole shiny-butt’s soldiers’ll be with ‘em.’

‘Come with us, Molly,’ Eileen said in a pleading tone. ‘I—l know it sounds silly, but I feel sure we’ll be lucky if we stick together.’

Calamity laughed. ‘Damned if I wanted to admit it afore you well-eddicated city gals, but I feel the same way.’

‘And what if the plan fails?’ Molly asked.

Slipping an arm around the little schoolteacher’s shoulders, Calamity gave her a gentle squeeze.

‘Then we’ll know our medicine’s gone bad on us, gal—and I’ll make damned good and sure the Injuns don’t get either of you alive.’

‘Will the Cheyenne destroy everything if they succeed?’ Eileen asked.

‘Likely,’ Calamity replied.

‘Oh!’

‘Hey, now, cheer up, Boston, gal. Hell, we’re not licked yet.’

‘I know,’ Eileen smiled. ‘Now you children be good and go play while I write a letter.’

‘A letter?’ Molly gasped.

‘A funny, silly letter to my husband,’ Eileen explained. ‘Telling him how much I love him, how sorry I am that I never gave him children to carry on our family name, how I’ve been a prideful fool, and how a girl I wouldn’t have thought fit to hire as a scullery maid, much less call friend, taught me humility and—oh, a lot of silly things. I know Vint will probably never get it. But I feel that if I write it, all will go well with us.’

‘Go write it,’ Calamity said gently. slipping her other arm around Eileen’s shoulders. ‘We need all the luck we can get going for us. How about you, Molly?’

‘I—I’m frightened, Calam,’ Molly replied. ‘Afraid of death, of dying before I fulfil myself as a woman, before I even know what
it
is like.’

‘There’s a way of finding out,’ Eileen told her, ‘I’d talk to old shiny-butt and see what he can do about it.’

‘Before we’re married?’ Molly gasped.

‘Happen things go wrong tomorrow, gal,’ Calamity said dryly, ‘you won’t need to worry about that.’

Without another word Molly turned and walked off into the darkness. Eileen left Calamity’s side and went to the wagon where she found a pencil and paper. Sitting in the light of the fire, she wrote her letter. For a time Calamity stood alone, for Killem’s men were all preparing for the next day. A brooding silence hung over the camp, oppressive when one remembered the laughter and noise that usually rang out around the fires. At last Calamity gave a shrug and walked towards Eileen.

‘To hell with it, Boston,’ she said. ‘So we’re due to be massacred comes morning. I aim to enjoy life while I can.’

‘You may have a point, Calam,’ Eileen replied, folding the letter and placing it in the bosom of her dress. ‘Unless these folk are livened up, they’ll be licked before they even start in the morning.’

‘Old Jack Topman plays a mean fiddle,’ Calamity remarked.

‘Have you heard the Deane boy play a jew’s harp?’

‘Nope, but I figger it’s time we did.’

Together the two women from such different environments went around the camp and brought to bear the force of their personalities. At first the musicians they found did not seem inclined to perform, but were bullied and cajoled into doing so. Inside ten minutes of the music starting, the people of the train had forgotten their troubles and started dancing as if they had no cares.

‘Calamity’s a living wonder, so’s Boston,’ Bigelow told Molly as they stood side by side in the shadows and watched the dancing.

‘And me?’

‘You’re a darling,’ he said and his arm slid around her waist. ‘Molly—’

She looked up at him, then her arms went around his neck and her mouth met his hungrily, passionately, far different from the gentle pecks handed to him on other nights.

‘Molly!’ he breathed once more.

‘I spoke to Calamity and Eileen earlier,’ she breathed. ‘Just after the dance started.’

‘Well?’

‘Calamity’s wagon will be empty all night,’ she whispered and took his hand to lead him towards the wagon.

Half an hour later Molly knew what
it
was like.