Wyoming Jones

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wyoming sat on the floor, the carbine resting on the " sill of the window. Just beyond range, the party of Red Cloud's Oglala Sioux circled his sod hut, shouting and making gestures. Grinning, Wyoming counted the five Indian ponies and five Sioux braves that lay dead between the hut and the circling Indians.

  "They fixin' to come again?" a voice said in back of him.

  "Yep," Wyoming replied. He was a thin, wiry man, not more than thirty, but with heavy lines already creasing his face. "If they don't do nothin' but try and drag off their dead, they'll come in again."

  "They set fire to the wagons out back and chased the stock."

  "Did they fire up the hide racks?" Wyoming asked, the grin fading from his face.

  "No they ain't touched the hides."

  Wyoming watched the dozen or more remaining braves carefully, waiting for some sign they would come in again. "How much ammunition you got left, Curly?"

  Curly examined the cartridge boxes. "Enough to take on every Injun that figures to have my hair," the older man replied. He was thickset; an exact opposite of Wyoming Jones, who was well over six feet tall.

  Wyoming pulled himself up straight, leveled the barrel of the carbine on the sill and took aim at a prancing brave. He fired not expecting to hit either the Indian or the pony, but wanting to get his range. The shot stirred up dust fifty feet short. The braves wheeled their ponies around and shouted with renewed anger. Wyoming settled back. Suddenly he hunched forward again. One of the braves was advancing toward the outer limits of the carbine's range, pointing to the ground and sneering.

  "Just come a little closer, you red-skinned bastard, and I'll—" Wyoming squeezed the trigger and looked up.

  The rider leaped safely away from his falling horse, anger and shock filling his hoarse shouts. The tall man slipped another shell into the chamber and leveled down quickly on the Indian. Even from such a great distance, he could see the blood spreading down the Indian's chest He fell over his horse and remained still.

  "One more," Wyoming said.

  "I guess they'll come in for sure now." Curly replied. "Couple of 'em have come to my side."

  "I hate like hell to kill them ponies," Wyoming said. "But it's the only way to get at 'em, the way things stand now."

  "I don't feel bad about it. Anything Sioux—especially Red Cloud's Sioux, is better off dead. Horse, man and dumb beast alike," Curly said, spitting out of the window. "They might pull back and try something at night."

  "Sioux don't like to fight at night," Wyoming replied. "They don't do it unless they got powerful medicine working for 'em." His eyes never stopped their searching of the braves, looking for some sign that they might be about to attack. "And since this looks like a wandering meat making party, it ain't likely they got the right kind of medicine along with 'em." He shook his head. "Curly, hand me that Sharps. I'm going to see if I can't get me some red meat with that cannon."

  Curly passed the heavy buffalo gun and turned away from his window to watch. Wyoming loaded the single-shot, long-barreled rifle and placed it on the window sill.

  He pulled his eye down to the sight and caught the nearest brave in the V, squeezed the trigger and looked up. "Damned if I didn't git him, Curly. Right in the head!"

  "Keep goin'," urged his partner. "They might get disgusted and hightail it out of here for help. Then we can take to the trail ourselves."

  Wyoming reloaded the buffalo gun again and sighted down on a solitary brave apart from the others. He fired and saw the man drop to the ground. "Damned if this ain't my favorite shootin' gun from now on!'

  "Here they come!" Curly yelled and immediately Wyoming heard the steady firing of his partner in back of him. A moment later the Sioux on his side of the hut charged toward the hole-in-the-ground structure. Dropping the single-shot Sharps, Wyoming picked up the carbine, held himself in check until the horsemen were in range and began firing.

  He shot for horses, bringing the riders down and making them easier targets. But that required two shots per man, and they were coming: in fast. He switched his aim a little higher, bringing the Indians down into the sights. He squeezed off—again—and a third time. He missed twice and got the last one.

  The carbine was empty. And the riders were coming in hard. Wyoming Jones drew his Colt and waited for them to come into the shorter range of the side arm. The braves were firing shafts now, and shooting carbines. The arrows whistled past Wyoming's head, missing him by inches as he dodged and ducked, aiming quickly and firing fast.

  The Indians were taking heavy fire. Wyoming had shot seven of what he figured were about a dozen, but the remaining riders were near now. Their ponies were stepping on the bodies of the dead braves, the riders screaming their defiance and hurtling toward the sod hut.

  The Colt was empty. Wyoming slammed the shutter and bolted it. The rain of bullets and shafts beat a tattoo on the Cottonwood logs. Working quickly, Wyoming reloaded the Colt and carbine, pressed up against the wall to avoid the splintering wood of the shutter.

  Curly emptied his Colt and slammed the shutter.

  "Make it fast," Wyoming said coolly. The screaming braves were beating on the shutters and the thick log door.

  The door swung open just as Wyoming spun the chamber on the Colt. He brought it up and fired. A Sioux fell into the one-room structure and was immediately followed by another. Curly fired and killed the Indian instantly with a forty-five in the head.

  Both men were backed up against the wall, opposite each other, guarding the door. No more Sioux appeared in the opening.

  They waited, Colts up, ready to fire.

  "What are we goin' to do. Wyoming?"

  "Wait and see what happens."

  "Can you see what they're doing?"

  "No."

  "I'm going to try and close the door." Curly said. "Cover me."

  Curly dropped to his knees, and, still holding the Colt high, cocked and ready, inched his way forward.

  There was the thung! of a shaft, and the hunter jerked back. The arrow buried itself into the floor where Curly had been moments before.

  Wyoming fired rapidly, fanning the hammer, filling the door with a hail of lead. Curly dove under the line of fire, kicked at the door with his boot, slammed it closed and held it with his boot until Wyoming could slide the bolt. They both backed up against the walls and reloaded again.

  Ears straining against the silence, their heads ringing from the hollow explosions of their guns, the two men waited for the Sioux to make their next move. Neither paid any attention to the two dead Indians sprawled on the floor of the hut.

  The sun had dropped and the night had been on the Montana Territory for more than two hours when Wyoming turned back from a crack in the wall of the hut. "See anything?" he whispered to Curly, who had been peering out into the darkness on the other side.

  "Nothing."

  "Think they've gone, Curly?"

  "No, I don't," the old hunter replied, and Wyoming could hear his partner spit. "You know what they waitin' on?"

  "I reckon. But—"

  There was the distant, distinct thud of a shaft burying itself in the logs of the hut. Through the cracks of the wood they could see the flicker of flame.

  "Well," Wyoming said. "I guess we make a run for it."

  Both men began stuffing their pockets with loose cartridges. They checked their carbines and Colts carefully and filled canteens with water. Wyoming splashed his face and let the water trickle down inside his shirt. They stood side by side now in the darkness that was growing lighter as their hut caught flame and the August-dry timbers roared.

  "Door or window?" Wyoming asked.

  Curly snorted in disgust. "How many times do I have to-tell you. When you're caught in a situati
on, speed is what counts, not tricks." The old man snorted again. "Looks like all my years of teaching you how to take care of yourself don't mean a thing. Window! Why, boy, them Injuns would slam a shaft into you before you could heist a leg over the sill. Speed, boy!"

  Wyoming grinned under the old man's reproof: "Why, you gamy old coot! You just want to see how many redskin bastards you can take to hell with you."

  "They damn sure are going with me too, boy," Curly said with a chuckle. "But that don't give you no leave to forget what I spent the best part of my young life trying to teach you."

  Wyoming pointed to the flames. "Don't look like it came to much, Curly. Don't look like you was much of a pa to me at all if you got me squared off with a bunch of black-hearted Sioux and the damn roof burning down around my head."

  "Just you mind what I said. Speed's the thing that keeps a man alive in this country. Speed with his guns, speed on his horse, getting something the first time. In this country, boy, you don't often see a feller gettin' a second chance, so you gotta learn to—"

  Wyoming finished the phrase for him. "Do it dead center the first time, shootin', fighting lovin', or runnin'."

  "All right, so I been preaching at you ever since I found you wandering around lost on the Wyoming grass after your ma and pa was kilt. If it hadn't been for me," Curly said with annoyance, "you wouldn't have lived this long."

  The two men were silent, both thinking back to the day Charles Pilsen Hill—or Curly—found the skinny-legged ten-year-old boy. Curly had given the boy love and affection—and he had also given him facts about the land and how to survive. He'd given him a name, too, for the boy had been too hurt to remember his real one. Curly had not hesitated to "knock hell" out of Wyoming any time he thought the boy was getting out of hand, and the boy responded to the old hide hunter and mountain man with fierce loyalty and pride. There wasn't a better hide man in the West, nor better Injun fighter, nor a better rifle shot—and Curly taught it all to Wyoming Jones.

  "I take it you ain't going to thank me for raising you," Curly said with a growl.

  "No, I ain't," Wyoming said. "I figure it was a pretty good deal all around. I got a pa and you got a son."

  "Well, it's a good thing you didn't thank me or I'd've knocked hell out of you."

  "I know that. Don't you think I'll ever learn when you got an itch to wallop me one. I got sense you ain't beat out of me yet, Curly. But it wasn't so bad in the long run."

  "No," Curly said softly, "it wasn't so bad, son."

  They waited. There was no escape, they were reluctant to open the flaming door and start their last minutes. "You want to pray or something, Wyoming?" the old man asked.

  "Never did before; ain't no use bellyaching now," Wyoming replied. "We'll get the door open first, then go through together. You right, me left. Get away from the fire, so they can't see you against it, and don't shoot unless you have to—and see an Injun. Don't make it easy by showing them where you are."

  Curly harumphed loudly. "Listen to the boy talk. Why, it sounds like the egg telling the chicken what to do!"

  "Ready?"

  "I reckon," Curly said. He spit on the floor. "Any time, son.

  Wyoming walked to the door, shot the bolt and swung the door open. He leaped back. Half a dozen shafts whistled through the opening. There was a heavy staccato burst of shots.

  "Circle and come up on the far side of the creek," Wyoming said. "Get into that low chaparral and cut south for Fort Reno. I'll meet you there."

  "I'll buy you four quarts of whisky, boy," Curly said.

  "Are you ready to light out?"

  "Good as ever."

  "Let's go then."

  They grinned at each other and swung into the open doorway, jumped through and nearly fell back from the intense heat of their blazing cabin. They were met with a hail of shafts and bullets two steps from the door. Wyoming dropped low and raced forward into the darkness, not knowing if he was running into a shaft or a carbine bullet, and not caring. His mouth was open, sucking in air. His Colt was up and ready, the carbine in his other hand, finger on the trigger held away from his body so it could be swung easily and a shot snapped off. The bullets and shafts followed him for twenty feet. He kept moving, almost blindly now.

  Dimly, as if from far away, he heard shouting and screaming. That must be the Injuns, he thought, and kept moving. Something tore at his shoulder and he realized he was hit. But he kept moving and suddenly there was the streaked face of an Indian five feet before him, drawing back on a bow. Wyoming lunged to one side, falling down, firing the Colt as he hit the ground. The brave dropped, the arrow burying itself in the ground.

  Wyoming dug his feet into the grass, lunged forward into the pit behind the deadwood tree and sank down on top of the brave's body. His shoulder ached and he dared a glance down now and saw a reedy shaft dangling from his left shoulder. He jerked it out, not feeling the pain in his excitement—and then realized he had dropped the carbine.

  There was a movement to his left. He whirled and fired the Colt. The gagging sounds of a dying man came to him, and he saw in the firelight of the burning cabin the whitened face of the brave.

  There were shouts further to the right of him. He jerked up to a crouch and started around.

  He was outside. He had made it, but there was plenty to go yet. He did not think of Curly. His mind was feverish with the nearness of death. He spun around and slowly, biting his lower lip in his desperate eagerness for flight, forced himself to survey his position.

  He was about a hundred feet from the cabin. The woodpile! His mind cleared at once. There was a thick tangle of thorny brush to his back and to his right would be the opening onto the hut. Then to his left, there was nothing but clearing down to the water.

  Feeling naked, he slipped out of his position behind the deadwood tree, exposing himself to the brilliant light of the burning hut, and ran low and fast toward the creek. A shaft barely missed his head, and the ground was studded with the tufts of dirt made from the bullets.

  He was near the hide racks now. Just a little more, and he would gain the stream. He stopped for breath, diving behind one of the racks and stared back at the burning building.

  He whirled and brought up his good arm as the burning edge of a knife scraped his forearm. The brave brought up his knee for a kick into Wyoming's groin, and missed. Off balance from the attempted kick, Wyoming butted his head into the brave's chin and sent the Indian sprawling. He shoved the Colt up against the man's head and fired.

  There was the unmistakable whinny of a horse. Wyoming looked desperately, and then moved from one to another of the racks that held the four-months' collection of buffalo hides he and Curly had scouted, shot, and skinned out. The pinto had been tied to a rack. Wyoming moved in quickly and slipped onto the pony's back, jerked at the leather and wheeled.

  There was a scream—loud and piercing, that of a man dying a horrible death.

  Wyoming spun around. A group of Indians were carrying Curly, who had been lashed to a pole, closer to the flames. They threw the old hunter to within a few feet of the inferno.

  Curly screamed again, writhing and twisting in his attempt to get away from the fire. He managed to flip over, getting his face away from searing flames, and Wyoming saw the broken end of a shaft sticking out of his neck.

  Wyoming's face twisted with fury. He jerked the Colt and kicked the pony in the ribs. The animal skittered forward, shying away from the flaming logs, but moving at top speed within a few yards of them. Wyoming hauled hard on the leather and spun at right angles past the front of the flames. He shot Curly in the head as he passed, then swung away and emptied the six-gun into the startled nest of braves.

  Bending low over the animal's neck, Wyoming kicked the Indian pony in the ribs and raced headlong toward the creek. He splashed across it and disappeared into the dense thicket of the chaparral.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wyoming did not ride directly south after entering the chaparral. He penetrat
ed the dense growth for several miles, then swung the pony abruptly east and away from the Powder River, and rode steadily until the gray dawn broke over the upper reaches of the Black Hills in the Dakota Territory. His left arm was stiff, but he had managed to stop the bleeding. Over and over he cursed himself for pulling the shaft out so violently, tearing the flesh and enlarging the wound. The shoulder had bled heavily for several hours and only when he stopped and bound the wound up in the buckskin sleeve of his shirt, did it clot

  He tied the pony securely when the sun began to break over the eastern edges and settled himself beside a spring. He cleaned and loaded the Colt and grunted with pain as he untied the shoulder and examined it, twisting his neck and probing into the clotted, tender hole with a finger. A trickle of bright red blood spurted out, and he grunted with relief. No infection yet. He washed the leather sleeve out in the spring, slit it and made a spiraling strip of leather out of the buckskin and bound the shoulder tightly again. Finished, he drank a little water and lay back on the ground. He was asleep in thirty seconds, the Colt cocked and held across his chest. . . .

  Wyoming woke with a start, but he did not move, nor did he open his eyes. He strained his ears, listening for the sound to come again. He heard a slight movement to his right, soft and unhurried. It could be an animal, but he had found no tracks near the spring; and only a man would think to cover his tracks.

  He opened one eye cautiously and was surprised to find it was pitch black. It took him an agonizing moment to realize that he had slept through the day.

  The movement came again and he was sure it was close at hand, to his right.

  He jerked up, leveled the Colt—and in the instant between squeezing the trigger and sighting, he saw a girl standing beside the forked limb of a Cottonwood.

  She spoke to him in Sioux, and he replied in Comanche. They stared at each other. She was young, but he could not tell much more about her in the soft starlight and the blanket of darkness from the brush covering the spring. She spoke again and he caught a few words. He spoke this time in Cheyenne. "I am a friend of the Sioux."