Wyoming Jones Read online

  "You go," the nearest brave said. "No stop in Cheyenne country. For white to come back, White Wolf promise death."

  Wyoming scrambled painfully onto the Indian pony and nodded. He spoke in Cheyenne. "You tell other whites in tipi—"

  The braves slapped the rump of the pinto, not bothering to hear the rest of it. "You go!"

  The range animal jumped back, whirled and sped across the valley to the south.

  Wyoming rode until darkness, stopping only to shoot and skin out a rabbit and roast the game over a fire. When it was full black, he turned the pinto back over his own trail, angling further to the east until he was well off the main Indian trail from the camp.

  He slipped off the horse, hobbled it to a cottonwood and began working his way back toward the village, moving fast, skirting the brush, but sticking close and following the north star. He got to the edge of the valley before midnight, and in another hour was in view of the Indian village.

  He grunted. The Indian camp was awake and full of activity. He moved to his left, keeping to the water side of the camp, and worked in closer. He moved swiftly, bending low, the Colt ready in his hand. He knew if the Cheyenne caught him again there wouldn't be any questions asked.

  He had worked his way underneath the ledge of the creek for what he judged to be about half the distance through the village, when he paused and listened. He was closer to the activity now. The voices of the braves covered his ascent to the top of the creek bank, and he sneaked a look through the tall grass.

  Five wagons full of buffalo hides were drawn up in the center of the village. Four white men, their faces covered with full growths of beard, were distributing brand-new carbines from a packing case. Wyoming could see White Wolf standing with the other subchiefs, flanked out on either side of Dull Knife.

  For nearly an hour, the four whites broke open case after case of the guns and handed them out to the milling Indians. Wild shots sparked the night air.

  When they were finished handing out the guns, the whites made the peace sign with the chiefs circle and climbed to the wagon seats. The Indians quieted and turned to stare at the wagons as they pulled out of the village.

  Wyoming eased down off the edge of the creek bank. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, his hand gripping the bone handle butt of the Colt. There was no mistake. The hides were those he and Curly had taken. Not only had he identified many of the hides because of the special way Curly had of drying and stretching them, but two of the wagons had been badly burned and had charred wheels and tongues.

  He slipped down to the bed of the creek and made his way back to the pinto.

  It was dawn before he reached the Indian trail well south of the village. He washed his face in a cold stream, cleaned his shoulder wound, whose soreness was easing, and took a position behind a small cluster of oaks and thorny brush.

  He heard the wagons moving up the trail long before he saw them. The first wagon moved heavily through the brush, crackling dry timbers, rumbling over rock and straining uphill. A double team of Indian ponies pulled the weight. Wyoming waited until the man was directly beneath him. The driver was still wrapped in a buffalo robe against the night air, a wide-brimmed black hat covering what features were not hidden under the coarse heavy beard.

  "Whoa up!" Wyoming yelled.

  The man jerked upright and turned to look for the owner of the voice, his hand reaching for a Colt on his hip.

  "You can't see me," Wyoming said. "You make a move for that shooter, I'll take your head off. Now get down off that seat."

  The man was reluctant to move, still searching for the source of the voice.

  Wyoming cocked the Colt. "I said get down!"

  The man scrambled off the wagon.

  "Raise your right hand slow-like and drop that piece in the grass."

  The man dropped the gun.

  "Now you just move around to the back of that wagon and bend over like there was something wrong with the wheel; then yell for the others. And I'd put a lead through your brain quick as I'd look at you if there's any funny tricks."

  "Why don't you come out so I can see who's talking so big," the man said, moving around to the back of the wagon.

  "So long as you're down there and I'm up here with this iron, I don't have to. Now, you start hollering for the others, and it better be good, too."

  "Hey, Slick!" the man bellowed. "Slick. Tell Red and Zack to come help me out. I'm stuck."

  Wyoming could hear the voices of the others calling back and forth through the hot, quiet day along the trail. In the distance he could hear the others approaching the first wagon.

  "What's the matter, Tate?" One of them asked. "I don't see anything."

  The first man pointed. "There's a no good son of a bitch sittin' up there on a rock that's thrown down on us."

  "Don't reach for that gun!" Wyoming called, and took the hat off the first man. "Drop your belts damn fast"

  "How the hell you going to hijack us—"

  "I ain't after nothin' but that new-stocked carbine one of you has—and answers to some questions."

  The men stood together, their guns lying at their feet "Now move over to the bit of grass and sit on your hands," Wyoming ordered. The men moved to a small clearing and sat down on their hands, cursing and mumbling.

  Wyoming moved out of his position and down the incline into the open.

  Wyoming picked up one of their Colts and dropped his own into his holster. "My name's Wyoming Jones," he said. "About a week ago, me and a buddy named Curly had a place up in the Montana country. We spent over four months shootin' and skinnin' out these hides—" he slapped the nearest wagon—"and this wagon is mine. I bought it in Fort Lawson this spring."

  "We were sprung on kinda sudden by a bunch of Red Cloud's Sioux—which was funny, since we had Red Cloud's permission to hunt in the Oglala hunting grounds, and paid him hard cash to take out just so many buffalo hides. We gave him fifty cents a hide, and figured we could get three to four dollars for prime skins, so we only took the best and didn't do too much shootin'." He slapped the wagon holding the skins. "They're mine and Curly's hides." He cocked the Colt. "When the Sioux attacked us, I figured something had happened somewhere that made them mad at the whites, and it was just a gamble that didn't pay off. Indians can be liars, like everybody else. Curly was shot in the neck with an arrow and would have been burned alive when they set fire to our hut if I hadn't put him out of his pain."

  "What's all this got to do with us?" demanded the one called Zack, who seemed to be the leader.

  "I got away after taking a shaft in my shoulder," Wyoming said, pointing to the bound wound, "and I lost my carbine in the fightin'. I got picked up by White Wolf when I made friends with his squaw on the trail. And then you show up, swappin' carbines with the Cheyenne for my hides, and carryin' my carbine."

  He stared at the men. "Somebody better start doing some talking. I had to kill my friend, and I lost everything I owned. I want to know how you four fit into it. And I'll know the truth when I hear it."

  He raised the Colt.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Drop that gun, friend or take some lead in your back!" U In that instant, Wyoming knew he had made a mistake. There had been five wagons in the Cheyenne camp. He did not hesitate. He dropped down behind the wagon and fired into the four men who scrambled toward him. A rifle bullet sang past his ear, taking out a chunk of wood from the nearest wheel. He saw Red, and then Zack, fall. He fired again and Slick stumbled, gagging, holding his throat, and then fell. The big man was on him then. Wyoming threw up his boots and caught the man in the groin, threw himself to the right and around the wagon. The man at his back had not stopped firing. He was in the same position that Wyoming had been in, and to search him out, Wyoming would have to look right into the sun.

  He gunned the big man in the leg to immobilize him and then turned his attention to the stranger hidden in the brush and trees above him.

  A shot sang within an inch of his head. He
dropped to the ground and snaked his way underneath the wagon. The double team of Indian ponies were stamping nervously at the shots. The lead reins to the teams were hanging on the ground where the driver had dropped them when Wyoming had stopped the first load of hides. He fired at the ground next to the lead pony's hoofs and the animal jerked upright and lunged against the leather. Wyoming fired again. All the horses lunged now, jerking the wagon through the trail.

  Wyoming fired at the ponies again and they bolted, pulling the wagon after them in their fright. Wyoming grabbed the front axle of the wagon and felt himself being dragged across brush and growth as the ponies plunged through the wilderness.

  A continuously ringing fire kicked the dirt up around the dragging man's feet and body. A hundred yards from the trap, Wyoming let go and the wagon rolled over him. He spun sideways into a shallow wallow and lay still.

  The thrashing of the horses pulling the wagon continued for half a minute, followed by a splintering crash. Afterwards Wyoming could hear the steady beat of the horses as they plunged wild and free down the dusty wagon trail.

  He parted the grass and searched the area. He saw nothing. He moved slowly and cautiously, and climbed into a better position and waited.

  Gradually the forest sounds started up again. Wyoming slipped out of his cover and gained higher ground among several rocks. He would have a good view of the whole area now. He slipped off his hat and raised his head cautiously.

  There was a scream. A man with bright yellow hair was leveling a rifle at the man Wyoming had shot in the leg. "No—no!" the man yelled.

  Wyoming shot quickly. He knew the range was too great for the Colt. He stood up in the open and fanned the gun, emptying the side arm. The blond man ducked and raced for the brush. Wyoming ran after him, tripped and fell over a vine, rose and raced on again. He ran past the wagon drivers and into the brush after the blond man.

  He broke onto a small clearing in time to see the rump of a dappled gray brush through the trees and disappear from view.

  Wyoming scouted the area for more than two hours, but found no sign of the gray or of the blond man. He walked back to the location of the trap and studied the four bodies on the ground.

  One of them groaned. Wyoming went to the man's side. It was the wagon driver he had shot in the leg, whom the fifth man was going to murder. He knew his sudden, but futile, firing of the Colt from such range had prevented the blond man from getting the wagon driver in the heart. The wound was just off center. He was alive, but not for long.

  Wyoming loosened the man's shirt and wiped his sweating face.

  "What's his name?" he asked softly. "He tried to kill you to keep you from talking. What's his name? You must tell me."

  The wagon driver's lips quivered. He opened his eyes. "Ar— Ar—" He gagged and blood flowed out of his mouth. Wyoming wiped it away. "Arky—" the wagon driver managed.

  "Arky who?"

  "Arky." The man shook his head. "Arky San—tone." The man shuddered. "Christina—" he said, and then he died.

  Wyoming had all of them buried before the sun was down. Not too deep, but underground.

  He pulled the four remaining hide wagons deep into the brush, unhitched the Indian pony teams and scattered them. He selected the best of the saddle horses, a big heavy-chested palomino stallion, and sheathed his oak stock carbine. He let the other horses run with the Indian ponies and reined the stallion up to the top of the rise that overlooked the trail, and took a long look at the countryside.

  He searched out marks of identification, the jagged tip of a curiously formed hill in the Black Hill group; a tall pine that was at least ten feet at the base; a solid face of bald, rugged rock shaped somewhat like the cheek of a man.

  Some day he might come back for the hides, if there was time, but he knew that it was unlikely. The Indians would find them and wonder about the strange ways of the whites, leaving the wagonloads of prime hides in the hills.

  He slapped the palomino on the neck. "Let's go, horse. I figure it's a long ride down to San Antonio, where we can start asking questions about a man with yellow hair that answers to the name of Arky."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In a few days Wyoming was well out of the Black Hills region and had skirted the Dakota Badlands well to the south before making a line to the east. It was his intention to move down to the fork of the Big Platte before crossing over into the sandy country of southern Nebraska and then straight south into Dodge City.

  The riding was not hard, and he made steady time on the big golden palomino. Someone had certainly taken a lot of time in breaking and training the big horse. Wyoming had never ridden an animal that responded so quickly to a command, and after a brief test on a hard-packed stretch above the Platte, Wyoming learned he had a damn fast pony under him. He named the big stallion Boss and was sorry that Curly was not with him to enjoy the pony.

  He had thought a lot of Curly in the long days since his escape from their hide-hunting camp. He glanced down at the fine strong neck of the stallion. Curly had not given him much in the way of possessions, he thought, since he was riding another man's horse. And the only material things Curly had ever actually given him were the Colt on his hip and the carbine in the boot. But there had been so much more.

  There was the time they rode into a cattle camp in the Wyoming country and Wyoming had tangled with a big tough cowboy. It was the first and the last time Wyoming had ever taken a beating in a fist fight. Curly had stood to one side and watched the boy beaten unconscious and then dragged him to the water cistern and splashed him awake. "Son," Curly had told him, "I let that fellow wallop you so you would remember what I'm telling you. When you got to fight, fight! Don't stand around and give the other fellow a chance. You don't want to fight unless you have to, but when you do, then's when you do what I tell you. There's elbows, and knees and feet and a good head for buttin' that can do a hell of a lot more damage than your fists. And when them things don't work, boy, you grab something handy and use that."

  Curly finally let him wear a gun when he was sixteen. He had handed over the new Colt, loaded, and had given Wyoming one rule. "Don't draw unless you figure to kill. Don't do no woundin'; shoot for the heart and keep shoot-in' till you're empty."

  The carbine had come later. And the practice to use both the long gun and the short side piece was endless. They would spend long days, from sunrise until sundown, working over Wyoming's draw with the Colt. And when it was over, Curly would make him work hard on the carbine.

  By the time he was eighteen, Wyoming could empty his Colt in a three-inch square at thirty yards and he could handle the carbine falling away from a target, pumping shells into the chamber and firing on the run.

  There was work on horseback; learning how to gauge your animal's endurance, testing him for speed and courage, breaking the horse and training him. Work with the rope, work in tracking game, buffalo, and the silent work of hunting with traps in the icy streams of the Colorado mountains.

  There were trips into towns too. From the far Wyoming country to the deep southern edges of Texas, the old man and the boy had wandered. At first, Curly had promised Wyoming that he would help him find his folks, but time wore on and the real folks of Wyoming Jones became unimportant to the growing boy. Curly was his pa, and Wyoming was Curly's son. They rode that way—sharing whisky, cold, heat, exhaustion, and working their way across the wastes and the endless green land.

  But now Curly was dead, and Wyoming had killed him.

  He slapped the big stallion on the neck and dropped out of the saddle into the shade of a cottonwood tree and pulled the saddle from the animal's back. He set about making coffee for his noon break to escape the heat of the day, removing his boots and relaxing, but still with his thoughts on Curly.

  They had often talked of the time when some danger would overtake them. There was no sentiment about going together, as much as they liked one another. Both of them figured it would be Indians. And of all the Indians, probably some lone Ap
ache sitting atop some butte would put lead into them and they wouldn't even know about it until they felt the wrench of the blow in their belly or chest. So when the Sioux attacked them and fired their hut. both Wyoming and Curly accepted it, even though they had a deal with the Oglala to hide-hunt.

  Wyoming straightened and stared into the baking plains before him. But it had not been Indians. Not really. It had been someone called Arky and he could learn about him in San Antonio.

  Anger flared in his chest. He slipped his boots on and grabbed the saddle. He started to call the stallion and then relaxed. Curly's voice spoke to him over the years. "One more thing, son: when you're in a bind, think it out and do the logical thing. Just think it out and you'll sure as hell see the right thing to do."

  The right thing, Wyoming knew, was to remain in the shade of the cottonwood and rest the palomino and relax, and make better time in the cool of the day.

  He dropped the saddle and slipped his worn boots off again.

  In the distance he saw a buzzard circling over the stinking carcass of a range animal. The vulture moved in a slow spiral that was without haste.

  Wyoming closed his eyes and focused on the image he held tightly in his mind. The picture of a skinny, yellow-haired man with two Colts strapped to his legs. He held that picture until he dropped off to sleep.

  In the distance the buzzard settled on the rotting flesh of a snake-bitten rabbit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wyoming heard the gunfire and pulled himself up, not sure whether it was a dream or reality. He glanced toward the stallion. The pony was granite-still.

  This had been no dream. Moving quickly, he got up and threw the blanket and saddle over the horse's back and cinched it tight. He pulled on his boots, kicked out the fire and emptied the coffee pot before tying it on the saddle pack. He slipped his foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself gently into the saddle, speaking softly to the stallion to keep it quiet. All the time his eyes never stopped moving and his ears strained to hear the gunfire again. The sun was well past the noon mark. He had slept for nearly two hours. He checked his guns, standing still and murmuring reassuringly to Boss.