Blood Dance (5 page)

“Reckon I don’t blame them much.”

“Me neither. Pa Sapa, as they call The Black Hills, are sacred lands promised them forever by the soldier boys and the old boy in Washin’ton. Short promise.”

“They found gold.”

“They’d have found another reason. Indian’s days is numbered, pilgrim. Just like mine are. Ain’t much in mountain man business no more. Places are getting trapped out. Goddamned ignorant pilgrims movin’ in all the time. No offense.”

“That why you left the mountains?”

“Part. Just got the wanderins for one. Guess maybe I even thought I’d get me a gold strike.” He laughed out loud. “Damn stupid to dig rocks out of the ground, pan dirt out of the streams. More stupid that they’ll give you money fer it. Well, I ain’t no miner. I found that out right quick. Never even got around to diggin’ in the dirt. Little pannin’ is all I did, and I didn’t shine to it none.”

“Know what you mean.”

“I did some scouting here, too. A year or so back, for Captain V.T. McGillicuddy.”

“Johnston?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Reckon I didn’t do nothin’ but kill some Indins. Would have done that anyway.”

I smiled. “Yeah. When I feel better, I’d like to bury the dead.”

“Already have. Rest a bit, then we’ll get going.”

I closed my eyes and slept.

When I woke up, Johnston handed me a Winchester and the Sharps the Sioux had been so frantically trying to recover. I put them on the seat beside me.

“Them that robbed the train took all the weapons,” he said. “I picked these up for you. Reckon them Indin’s won’t mind the loan.”

“Thanks.”

“Plenty of shells for the Winchester, but that Sharps uses .50-130 loads. That sort’s expensive. That brave probably stole it. Just a handful of shells was all he had. Here.”

He handed over the ammunition for both weapons. I held them for an awkward moment, then slipped them into my shirt pockets until I could do better.

“You get one of the Winchesters for yourself?”

“Naw. They cock right smart, but I’ll stick to this here Spencer. It can fetch a red divvil far as I can smell ’em. And I tell ya, my nose is some powerful.”

“I think I can stand now,” I said. I made a clumsy rise to my feet, kept a hand on the edge of the seat.

“Reckon you’ll be going after them that bushwhacked you and your friend?” Johnston said.

“Something like that.”

“They headed back to Pa Sapa. Got some good space on you. They’ll be hard to track.”

“I’ll try anyway.”

Johnston pursed his lips. “I sorta figured on goin’ up to Canada, but the cold’s gettin’ to my old bones these days. Nice winter for a change in the Hills. Figure I’ll just ride back with you.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “And thanks again for patching me up.”

“Didn’t really have anything else to do at the time. Come on, pilgrim, let’s get going.”

The man who rode with me had become a Western legend among both white men and red: hero of mountain men, scouts and trappers.

Liver-Eatin’ Johnston had earned that name because of a vengeance he had taken out on the entire Crow Nation. The story had been muddled through the years, but it was general knowledge that Johnston’s Flathead wife and unborn child had been killed on the Musselshell by Crow braves, and Johnston, returning from trapping to find the bodies, set out on a blood train. Legend says he tracked them down, killed and scalped them, then cut out their livers and ate them raw.

The Crow, being a proud people, set upon Johnston in an unusual manner. Chief of the Crows, Big Robert, decided to send twenty men, one at a time, after the Liver-Eater. He felt this was more honorable than sending a pack.

Over a period of fourteen years Johnston met, killed, scalped, and devoured the liver of every one of those braves.

By that time there was a new chief, Gray Bear, and he made a truce with Johnston.

The story grew from year to year, but there was no doubt in my mind that there was something to it. I had seen him kill and scalp those Sioux, and he looked like a man well-trained in his business. I couldnen ss. I c’t help but wonder if Johnston ate their livers after I’d passed out.

Later, when we left the train, I noted that he had buried all the whites, but not the Indians. I didn’t take notice to see if their ribcages were slit open. But I did ask him why he hadn’t buried them, too. Johnston said, “They don’t bury white men, and I play by their rules.”

Glancing over at Johnston, seeing that big, fiftyish, red-headed man riding tall in the saddle with bloody Sioux scalps dangling from his belt, I figured that he was, in fact, capable of cutting out a man’s liver and eating it raw.

He was also the man who had doctored me, fed me, and probably saved my life. He was also riding back into the Black Hills with me, and I couldn’t help but believe it was because of my wounds. He was behaving like a friend.

Thinking of friends made me think of Bucklaw. Lying back there beside the tracks in a shallow grave made me think of Major Carson, Mix and the others.

I would heal.

I would bide my time.

Eventually I would find them.

And they would pay in blood.

We traveled slowly, without particular concern or worry. Once, Johnston sniffed out a hunting party of Sioux—he had actually sniffed them out like a dog raising its nose to the air and taking in the scent—and we had gone into hiding. We dismounted, grabbed the horses’ heads, and twisted the animals to the ground. Biting on the horses’ ears, holding their nostrils, we watched as a half-dozen Sioux passed within a hundred yards.

Had they come up from behind us and hit our sign, there would have been hell to pay. But as they were in front and upwind, we got away without a fight.

Couple days later we came upon a herd of buffalo. The beasts were over five hundred yards away, but there wasn’t any mistaking what they were. It was a pretty exciting sight. I had only seen buffalo a few times, and had never hunted them. I had eaten the meat several times, and thought it was tasty.

“That’s a nice stand of meat,” Johnston said.

“Didn’t realize they were so plentiful in these parts,” I said. “Looks to be thirty or forty head.”

“Forty-five. But they ain’t all that plentiful. Biggest herd I’ve seen in awhile. ‘Tween them red divvils and us white divvils, we done about wiped ‘em out. Even worse is them goddamned hide hunters. Kill ‘em and let the meat rot in the fields.”

“I sure wouldn’t let one rot right now. I’m so hungry I could even stand another pan of your biscuits.”

Johnston looked at me and said in all seriousness, “Hell, I make good biscuits.”

“But for every meal?”

“Now there’s gratitude fer ya.” He gave me a sly look. “You nail one of them critters and we’ll eat buffaler steak tonight.”

I took the Sharps Johnston had given me and pressed it to my shoulder. I was still weak and that eighteen-pound rifle felt as if it weighed forty.

“That would be one hell of a shot from there,”

Johnston said. “Mean, considering you couldn’t shoot an Indin in horseback a few days ago.”

“You saw that?” I lowered the rifle.

“Did.”

“Well, this isn’t no revolver, and if you’ll remember, I had been sick.”

“Dear me, why didn’t ya say so. Give one of ‘em a harelip.”

“Reckon I might just do that if you’d shut your trap.”

He grinned at me. “Go right ahead.” I didn’t like it, but I could tell Johnston knew right then and there that I was not a veteran buffalo hunter. I later found out that most of the hunting was performed from the ground using a hickory wiping stick as a rifle prop.

I set my sights, touched a finger to my mouth and then to my earlobe to get the windage. I got my aim again and fired.

A big bull buckled its front legs and went down.

“A lucky shot,” Johnston said.

“Yeah, and the more I shoot the luckier I get.”

“I say that old bull is pop-shot, and will likely as not ram yer fool head off when ya get close.”

“You’re just jealous of a good shot. Mad that you were wrong.”

“Come on, bean head, let’s have a closer look.”

The herd had finally rumbled away having picked up our scent. I later learned that buffalo are pretty nearsighted and not very smart. A hunter could sometimes drop one after another of the beasts without arousing suspicion. But when they get wind of you, they’re gone like last year’s youth.

We rode out to the bull I had shot. It lay on its side, tongue hanging out, eyes rolled up in its head.

“You can have the tongue for yourself,” I said, “and the liver, of course.”

Johnston didn’t laugh.

When I dismounted, he warned, “Watch his feet, kid. Way they’re a stickin’ straight out like that shows he’s probably jest pop-shot.”

“Gotta be right, don’t you, Johnston?”

“He’s just stunned, Lard Brain.”

I grinned and called for Johnston to toss down his knife.

“Have it yer way,” he said, and threw the Bowie at my feet.

I bent over and grabbed the bull by the hair of the head, straddled its neck, and shan neck, tarted to work.

No sooner had that blade pricked the beast than it stood straight up, bouncing me over its back and onto the ground.

I rolled to my feet just as the bull charged my horse.

Johnston jerked up his Spencer and slammed two shots into the animal’s head, quick as a wink.

The bull changed course suddenly, went about thirty feet and fell, skidded on his nose and died with a kick.

I got up on one knee and looked at Johnston.

“It’s a good thing that there buffaler was dead. Bet them live ones is real mean.”

We dined on buffalo, biscuits and coffee cooked on a buffalo chip fire. We finished eating just before sundown, and by the time night had rolled in, we had the fire put out. Wasn’t any use inviting any Sioux to sit down to supper with us.

“Ya know,” Johnston said, tossing a blanket over his shoulders, “times is changing. Soon that noisy railroad’s gonna wrap this whole country up in a ribbon of black smoke and steel. Ain’t gonna be a fit place to live unless yer a city slicker. Sure won’t be no place for a red divvil or a mountain man.”

“This isn’t the mountains, anyway,” I said.

“That’s a right smart bit of noticing ya done there, son. But it’s the kind of land a mountain man’s spirit would like. It’s big and it’s free—fer right now, anyways. Damn railroad,” Johnston added sharply.

“I guess people got to go somewhere.”

“I reckon. I figure me and them red divvils is a lot like the buffaler. Days is numbered.”

I stretched out on my blanket and felt around my swollen eye. It was just a little puffy and I could see real well out of it. It itched, though.

“Johnston, did you really eat all those Crow livers?”

Johnston laughed. “I was wondering when ya were gonna get around to that. What do you think?”

“I reckon you would, Johnston. I surely do.”

“So do them Indins. How’s that eye?”

“Better. Itches.”

“Good sign. Reckon yer gonna have that red spot in it from now on. Have to start callin’ ya Red Spot.”

“How far to the Hills?”

“Not far, but their sign is pretty damn cold.”

“I’ll find them. I’ve got an advantage. They don’t know I’m alive and looking for them.”

“That’s an edge, all right.”

I pulled the blanket tighter and rolled over on my side. I had a hand near my revolver—or rather, the one that the Sioux had" ahe Siou kindly donated. “Goodnight, Johnston” I said.

“Goodnight. Hey, boy?”

“Yeah?”

“That shot ya made today. It was a good’un.”

“Thanks,” I said.

And we slept.

The morning looked to have been prepared by a medicine man. One who could turn winter skies to spring with a wave of his hand. The world was oddly beautiful. If it had not been for Bucklaw’s death, I think I could have forgotten Carson for myself. Just went on and lived life the best way I knew how.

But there was the memory of Bucklaw, and it would not go away. Not ever.

I would have no future until Carson, Mix and Taggart lay at my feet. The rest could go to hell. But give me those three and I could rest, feel that Bob Bucklaw and myself were avenged.

We had more buffalo meat for breakfast and coffee. We stuffed ourselves good. Then we spent the rest of the morning salting strips of buffalo meat down, wrapping it up in hide and stashing it in our saddlebags. Johnston said it might get to tasting a bit on the green side, but it would be welcome when we had to move fast and were hungry. The waste was that there was still a lot of meat left over, and it would do nothing but rot in the field.

· · ·

A few days later we crossed the Belle Fourche fork of the Cheyenne River and moved into the edge of the Black Hills, the sacred lands of the Sioux.

We chewed some of the buffalo meat and avoided a fire. It was a crisp night up in the Hills—still warm for the time of year, Johnston assured me—and it would have been a good night for coffee. Instead, we drank water from the canteens.

Somewhere out in the darkness, a night bird called a low, lonely note. The sound of it sent little critter feet up my back.

Johnston perked up, pulled his Spencer over to him and propped it against his leg.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“Jest tryin’ to decide if that was a bird or a red divvel.”

We were surrounded by dark pines and rocks. Overhead, peeping through the thick growth of the pine limbs, were the stars. “Well?”

“My guess,” Johnston said, “is that it’s a red divvel.”

An arrow flew lickity-split out of the dark and planted itself with a thud and a squirt of blood in Johnston’s left shoulder.

“Yep,” Johnston said, glancing at the arrow. “Sioux.”

He jerked up the Spencer and shot over my head before I cousouold move. He was already coming up to a half crouch when the Indian stumbled out of the dark and fell at my feet on top of his bow.