Wyoming Jones Read online

  He heard the gunfire again. It was east of him, deep in the sandy loess, the rolling Cheyenne country.

  Wyoming hesitated. It could be a meat-making party after a small stand of buffalo, in which case it would be better for him to get the hell away from their stand as soon as possible. Then he heard the unmistakable rumble of hoofs and to the east, topping a long slope, about a hundred head of cattle broke free and hurtled across the rolling grass country.

  Then Wyoming saw the Indians. A party of fifty or sixty. While Wyoming watched, the party came to a stop. A dozen braves broke away and headed after the cattle, and the others turned and rode back over the sandy slope and vanished. As soon as they had disappeared over the hill, Wyoming heard the gunfire again.

  A homesteader, he thought, or a wagon train.

  He kicked the stallion hard in the flanks and pulled the horse around to the southeast, hitting a hard trail and watching his left flank for some sign of the Indians. He rode until he was well beyond the side of the slope where the Cheyennes had disappeared, and then cut the animal back to the north.

  He topped a rise, drew the pony up short and slipped from the saddle. He moved forward through the knee-high grass to the top of the hillock and settled onto the ground.

  Wyoming gasped with amazement. In the middle of the sloping valley half a dozen wagons and tents were under attack.

  The Indians moved in the familiar pattern of grouping and rushing the wagons, breaking through the defense works between them and the beginnings of cottonwood log huts, and slashing their way through to the opposite side, regrouping, surrounding and attacking again. This strategy was proving successful because the defense shied away from the attack.

  Wyoming turned back to the stallion and leaped into the saddle. He didn't know what kind of people would build a settlement in the middle of Indian country, but something had to be done or they would all be slaughtered.

  He waited until the Indians had attacked the small community again and rode off to regroup; then he broke clear of the hillock, and leaning low in the saddle, beat the palomino hard with his rope in his dash for the protection of the nearest wagon.

  The Indians saw him at once, but Wyoming had chosen his moment well. Their horses were spent and there was no hope of getting to him before he gained the security of the first of the wagons.

  He flashed past the wagon, jerked his carbine from the boot and leaped for the protection of the wagon. A few shafts and a clap of gunfire followed him.

  He jacked a shell into the chamber and looked around at the Indians, who were getting ready for another surround.

  Wyoming turned to the man nearest him. "Pass the word. Hold your fire until they start in again. Wait until they're inside and then cut them down."

  "But we'll be firing across the middle space—shooting at our own people," the man answered. He was burly, bearded and thick-set. His eyes rimmed with red and the carbine he held was brand-new.

  "Do as I tell you, or everyone of you will die where you squat!"

  "Makes sense," another man said at Wyoming's side. "I'll pass the word." The second man began to work his way along the sides of the wagons and half-walled log huts. One by one the men and women turned to look at Wyoming. Most of them had not seen him ride in.

  He stood up. "Shoot slowly," he yelled, "and aim carefully!"

  The Indians broke and raced into the encampment of wagons, hastily thrown-up barricades of furniture, bundles of clothes, boxes and barrels.

  The Indian charge came closer, firing wildly, shooting carbines but not trying to aim. Others drew back on heavy strung bows and tried for more accuracy. Not a shot was returned from the wagons.

  At twenty feet, the Indians swerved into position to leap the barricades and enter the enclosed community.

  Wyoming leaped up and shouted. "Now!" He emptied his Colt, and heard the sudden wall of gunfire around him bellow out at once. The Indians faltered, but many of them came on, leaping over the barricades and entering the circle within the wagons. Wyoming grabbed the carbine and spun around. Both men on either side of him followed his move. "Fire slowly and make your shots count!" Wyoming roared.

  He brought down a brave, who fired uselessly in the air as his pony bucked and halted nervously. To his side, Wyoming saw the burly man down on one knee calmly aiming at a brave riding down on him. Both Indian and settler fired at the same time. The Indian went down. The interior of the wagon circle was filled with horses now and the steady fire of the whites. The Indians whirled and spun around, trying to ride down the settlers, but the men and women had their backs to the wagons and did not flinch. There was a scream from one of the braves and the others followed him out of the wagons. Half the Indian ponies trailed after the others.

  Wyoming ran across the interior to the opposite side and slammed against a wagon wheel. He steadied the carbine on a spoke and fired methodically. Two more of the retreating Indians fell from their horses and lay still.

  As if by signal the settlers stopped their firing. Wyoming turned around. Men and boys were already roping the wild Indian ponies while others carried the wounded toward the wagons and waiting women. Wyoming did not stop to look around. He knew the Cheyennes would come in again and he began loading his Colt and the carbine.

  "My name's Perkins, mister," a voice said. Wyoming looked up. It was the man who had agreed with Wyoming's plan of defense and told the others.

  Wyoming ignored the outstretched hand and glanced briefly at the small circle of hard-eyed men that surrounded him, thanks and appreciation plainly written on their faces. "No time for anything but gettin' ready for them to come back, Mr. Perkins," he said. "Load up all the shooters you have and get set. I don't think they'll like the idea of our gettin' so many of them in the trap, but the Cheyennes are the proudest of all the Injuns, so they'll come back inside again and face us down."

  The men dispersed in the wagon circle and told the others what Wyoming had said. Wyoming leaped to the top of a wagon where he could see the Indians, and studied their movements. There were not more than twenty-five of them left. He glanced back into the center area. Nearly a dozen Cheyennes lay dead in the dust. "Perkins!" Wyoming shouted. "Right here," the little man said. "Get the best shooters you have, put them inside the wagons and tell the others to stay down underneath. There ain't enough of them left out there to really give you a lot of trouble if they come back inside. No use taking a chance on hitting your own people."

  "All right," Perkins replied. He turned to the burly man that had questioned Wyoming in the beginning. "Jesse, you get on the other side in your own wagon, I'll take my place inside the log wall. Tell Pete and Isaac to take the west side and I'll get Murphy, Trunddel and Lithon spread around here. That makes eight of the best men, counting yourself, mister," Perkins said to Wyoming.

  Before Wyoming could reply he saw the party of Cheyenne drawing up to a point and hunching themselves forward on their bareback ponies for the rush into the wagon circle.

  "Here they come!" someone yelled. There was a flurry of activity as the men picked to do the shooting scrambled into position and the others dove for the protective covering of the wagon bodies.

  Wyoming set himself beneath the box springs of a high broadwheeler's driving seat, pulled the Colt and checked it. His mouth was dry. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed his hat back.

  The Cheyennes came straight in, a three-feathered brave at the point, waving his carbine and screaming at the top of his lungs. Wyoming slipped the Colt back into his holster and snatched up the carbine. He leveled it slowly, leaning the barrel on the rim of the boot box, and brought the Indian into his sights. He squeezed off the trigger, but missed.

  He leveled again, this time bringing the Indian down a little lower in his sights, aiming for a gut shot. He squeezed off and looked up. The Indian jackknifed forward over the head of the pony and slammed into the dust. The others swept past hun. Wyoming whirled around and called to the settlers. "Pour it on 'em, I've got their
leader."

  The guns of the settlers spoke together. The line of Indians wavered as four slipped from their ponies and then faltered altogether. Fifty yards from the edge of the camp, the Indians ground to a stop. "Give it to 'em!" Wyoming shouted. "We've got them on the run!"

  Those that had hidden in the wagons turned their guns on the Indians, stunned now and undecided whether to press the attack since their chief lay dead.

  The decision was made for them. Every gun in the settler's camp roared. Those under the wagons and hidden in the encampment turned their fire on the wavering line of Cheyennes. The Indians fell back, turned their horses and disappeared over a sandy hill.

  Wyoming found the palomino tied to a wagon spoke, and swung into the saddle. Perkins and several others hurried up. "Hold on, friend," Perkins said. "You ain't leaving before we get a chance to thank you properly."

  "I ain't leaving," Wyoming replied. "I'm going to ride out and make sure them devils don't have any ideas about coming back."

  "What about our cattle?" one of the men said. "We lost every head we owned."

  Wyoming examined the Colt before answering. "You're lucky to be here at all, mister, let alone worrying about your cows." He slipped the iron into his holster and pulled at the palomino.

  "Don't get the idea we don't appreciate what you done," Perkins said, laying a hand on the animal's neck. "When we lost Hurly, our wagon boss, we sort of lost our nerve. If you hadn't come along to stiffen our backbones a little, I reckon we'd still be fighting—and a losing fight at that."

  The others nodded agreement, hard men, dirt-streaked faces and red-eyed from the dust and gunpowder. Perkins continued. "We ain't frettin' too much about the cattle. Are you sure you don't need some help?"

  Wyoming shook his head. "I'll be back."

  He swung the big animal around and spurred it in the flanks. The stallion answered with energy and leaped a barricade and pounded west after the trailing dust of the Cheyenne. If the Indians had any ideas of returning, the least he could do would be to show the settlers how to set up a defense. He glanced back once just before he topped the big rise to the west. The pitifully small circle of wagons, beds, half-finished, logs walls and the poor defense barricades looked lost in the broad expanse of the plains. Settlers, he thought with irony, like his own family years before. He dropped over the rise and loped the golden animal west and north, alert now for signs and the trail of the Cheyenne. He rode after the Indians for the rest of the day and late into the night before being satisfied that they had broken off the fight and were going to be satisfied with the herd taken from the settlers. He turned the stallion around and in the light of a shallow quarter-moon that broke over the rims of the flats, turned toward the settlers' camp. . . .

  It was near dawn when Wyoming rode back into the community. It was quite different. Someone, probably Perkins, he thought, had taken over and buried the dead, whites and Indians alike, in a freshly established graveyard on the big rise. There were crosses marking the settlers' mounds of earth.

  The wagons had been drawn into a tighter circle; the beds and furniture barricades had been removed and there were smokeless fires where the women and girls prepared food. The interior of the community was clean, and except for the sad expressions on their faces and the wail of a woman who had lost a man in the fight, there was silence.

  Wyoming rode into the community and was greeted by a dozen of the men, still carrying their guns and waiting for his word.

  "Well, Mr. Perkins," Wyoming said, slipping off the palomino, "it looks as if they've gone for good. All they wanted was your cattle."

  The men relaxed.

  "They were heading northeast when I left their trail and headed back. You won't see any of them for a while, I reckon." Wyoming started pulling the saddle from the stallion.

  A man stepped up. "Here, let me do that for you."

  The man pushed Wyoming to one side good-naturedly while another shoved a cup of coffee in his hand.

  "When you want to rest," Perkins said, "I'll show you where you can bed down. In my wagon, over there." He pointed to a schooner much larger than the rest.

  "Thank you, Mr. Perkins." He sipped the coffee. "If ever I seen a bunch of folks that needed some protection, you're it."

  "What do you mean by that?" Perkins asked.

  Wyoming nodded. "I'm afraid I haven't told you my name. Wyoming Jones." He shook the little man's hand and acknowledged the nods from the others.

  "Well," Wyoming said cautiously, "I don't mean no offense to you folks, but the way you were fighting them Indians sure didn't look as if you knew what you were doing."

  "We didn't," a man nearby said heavily. "There isn't one of us here ever saw an Indian before. We just moved out from Illinois with Tinker Flynn, who organized this party and rounded us up to come out in a group and settle. Tink was the only man that knew the country and the land—"

  "Farmers?" Wyoming asked.

  Perkins nodded. "Most of us. And the cattle wasn't just beef stock. They were milking cows."

  "What happened to Tink?" Wyoming said. "Did the Indians get him?"

  The men were silent. Several of them turned away, but not before Wyoming saw a sudden hard expression in their faces.

  Wyoming sipped the coffee and looked at Perkins. "Well, Perkins," he said slowly, "you didn't ask me to join your fight. I volunteered, and I volunteered to scout for the party after they left, so I don't guess you owe me a damn thing." He picked up the saddle and began arranging the blankets on the back of the palomino.

  Perkins and another man moved to stop him. "We don't mean any offense, Wyoming," the old man said. "Maybe you better tell him, Jesse."

  The burly man hesitated. "We're farmers," he said flatly. "Most of us come from southern Illinois and Indiana. Maybe you know things ain't been too good."

  Perkins interrupted. "This Tinker Flynn fought in the war of the rebellion, but he didn't come home afterwards, and lots of folks thought he was dead or lost. Well, about a year ago he showed up back home. He had been out West here, working on the railroads and with cattle ranchers driving their herds up to Dodge City and to the railhead. He was a big strapping fellow, and though a lot of folks remembered him as being a little wild, when he showed up back home he was tame as a house cat And he had lost his left arm at the shoulder."

  The stallion had been taken by a boy to graze with the other horses, and the three men walked toward Perkins's wagon. A young girl served Wyoming beans and bacon and then disappeared around the back wheels of the wagon.

  Perkins and Jesse settled down with coffee while Wyoming ate hungrily.

  "Tink ups and marries one of the local girls and begins to outfit a wagon. Soon word got around that Tink knew where there was farming land the like you never saw before, and all you had to do was go out and take it. Of course there were Indians, but you were safe if you stuck together, and there was always the Army.

  "Well, Tink talked to a few of the people and pretty soon some of the younger folks decided to go with him. Then more decided. And before you know it, seems like every family in the county was packing up their wagons and selling off their holdings to go with Tink."

  Perkins gazed into the fire. "Ain't it funny, Wyoming, how ideas will get hold of people sometimes. There were lots of folks that didn't have to go. They had things squared off and paid for and were pretty comfortable. But the thought of owning land and seeing a new place before they died—well, it just got a hold of them."

  Wyoming waited in silence.

  "Fifty-seven wagons started out," Jesse said quietly, "with Tink in the lead. He knew where to stop for the best grazing of the cattle, where to find water, what towns to avoid and what places would welcome us. And he knew where he was going, too. We took his orders without questioning him once. He was the boss, and by God, he never once took advantage of it. When we got to the Missouri, there was a lot of families felt they had gone far enough. There was good land close to the river, so about half of them stayed.
The rest of us came on along with Tinker." The big man looked around.

  Wyoming scraped the plate clean with a piece of bacon and took another cup of coffee. Without raising his eyes, with his voice soft, he asked, "What happened to Tinker Flynn?"

  "That's what we're telling you," Jesse said slowly. "You asked us how we got caught by them Indians."

  "We was all at Tink's funeral when they come up on us," Perkins said. "Even the outriders on the cattle and the scouts link had came in for the burying."

  Wyoming waited but neither of the men spoke again. Finally he finished the rest of the coffee. If they didn't want to tell him any more, he wasn't going to ask. He stood up. "You said something about sleeping in your wagon, Perkins."

  Perkins said, "You just crawl up in there and pull yourself onto them comforters. If any of these kids wake you up, we'll take a strap to them."

  Perkins stood up and shooed a group of children away that had gathered to look at the Indian fighter. They scattered like chickens.

  Wyoming nodded to the two men and crawled up into the wagon. He took off his boots and pulled his hat down over his eyes. Curly would have liked a good fight with the Cheyennes, he thought. With Curly along, Wyoming reasoned in his half conscious state of exhaustion, they could have wiped out every Cheyenne in—

  Wyoming was asleep.

  He woke up slowly, heavy-headed, his mouth feeling dry and his tongue as thick as the heel of his boot. He lay still, not yet sure where he was, and then let it all come back to him slowly. He opened his eyes and saw that it was dark. There was a distant flicker of light on the canvas walls of the schooner, but he was in no hurry to get up.