Cheyenne Saturday - Empty-Grave Extended Edition (3 page)

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It was close to seven in the morning when Kelly moved through the camp. Up ahead, Watson's tent with the ten-foot flaps opening into the lantern-lit interior was already beginning to rouse itself and serve whisky to shaking old men and drunkards.

Simpson and Garrity, two of Watson's gang, sat on either side of the huge opening, their Colts low and ready, and watched Kelly approach.

“Morning, Kelly,” Simpson, the larger of the two, said, a small grin forming on his thin lips.

“How do, Kelly,” Garrity said.

Kelly ignored them and marched into the tent. He stopped to let his eyes grow accustomed to the light and stared around, searching for Slocum and Little. In the middle of the tent were three rough wooden planks laid side by side and stretched across sawhorses in a rough circle. This was the bar, and behind it, on still other planks, was row after row of cheap whisky in bottles of every imaginable size and color. Red-eyed bartenders in undershirts had begun laying in the day's supply of drink in anticipation of the night's crowd. The grassy floor had been stomped into a mire for ten feet around the bar where the Johnny-Jacks had pushed and shoved their way to the front the night before. In one dark corner several men lay flat on their backs sleeping off heavy loads of grog. In another corner, wearing knee boots and gingham dresses and clustered around rough tables, the women sat on rawhide stools, waiting.

Slocum and Little were seated at a nearby table, and it was obvious that Little would not ride scout that day. His head lay peacefully on his arms and Slocum stood beside him, looking down uncertainly at the inert figure. He looked up at Kelly's approach, and relief passed over his face. The big Irishman moved down the side of the bar toward the table, unseen by Watson and the half-dozen of his men clustered together on the other side of the circle of rough planking.

“I see you kept your word, Irishman.”

So intent was Kelly on the tableau of an unconscious Little and a hovering Slocum that he did not notice the tall Texan leaning against the bar. The Texan pushed forward and barred Kelly's way. “I reckon you want satisfaction now,” he said. He was grinning good-naturedly and he began to unbuckle his gunbelt.

Kelly was staring absently at the slumped figure of Little, already thinking of what man he could send out as scout to relieve Jake Reeves and be depended on to bring an honest report. There wasn't a one. “Not now, Texas,” he said gruffly. “I'm busy.”

He pushed past the tall man, who looked after him with thoughtful eyes. “Can't you sober him up, Slocum?” Kelly said.

Slocum glanced at Watson and his men. “He ain't drunk, Mr. Kelly. He's been pistol-whipped.”

Kelly jerked up. “Who done it?”

Slocum nodded in the direction of Watson.

“Get him over to the doctoring tent, lad,” Kelly said grimly.

Slocum nodded and hefted Little over his shoulder. His boots sinking into the mud, he struggled past the tall Texan and out of the tent.

“Who did it?” Kelly demanded of Watson and his men. “Which one of you yellow-bellied scum was afraid to shoot—but beat that lad with his gun?”

“Hold on Kelly,” Watson said harshly. “There was a little misunderstanding, and then your scout tried to pull a knife.”

“Asa Little would never give a man a chance if he had pulled his knife,” Kelly said. “And I said if he pulled his knife.”

“Come on and have a drink, Kelly,” Watson said with a shrug.

“Who whipped my scout!” Kelly roared. “Step out and whip me, if one of you dares to face up to a man!”

The men glanced at each other. Then one of them stepped out, a thick-set, wide man. “Kelly, I've had enough of your bellowing. I whipped your scout. Now what'n hell you think you going to do about it?”

Watson had moved a safe distance away. The Texan leaned at the bar, sipping his whisky and watching the scene.

Kelly moved in on the thick-set man and knocked him sprawling. “Get up!” he roared.

At a sign from Watson the other men circled Kelly, removed their guns, and reversed the butts. The big Irishman charged, his fist catching one man and knocking him cold. But as he moved, the others got behind and around him and began to hammer at his head.

The Texan finished his drink, removed his hat and stepped into the fray. He reached one man on the back of the head with his own gun-butt, and was slugged in return by one of Watson's men. Kelly slammed a man back against the planking, and tore down a whole section. The Texan landed heavily against the inner bar, and bottles and crocks of whisky fell with a crash. He bulled his way back to where three Watson men were hammering at Kelly and, in turn, began methodically chopping at the Watson men.

A reeling man fell hard against one of the thick tent poles and half the tent fell in on the fighters. The women began to scream, and when neither Kelly nor the Texan could find anyone to swing at, they scrambled out from underneath the canvas. They stood outside the stricken tent and looked over each other solemnly, sucking at their knuckles.

“I forgot my saddle and hat in the tent,” the Texan said gravely.

He turned and scooped up one edge of the tent and disappeared.

Kelly waited. There were sudden loud smacking sounds, a crash of bottles and the heavy thud of a man going down. Then silence.

The edge of the tent was lifted and the Texan emerged with his saddle and his hat, replacing his Colt in its holster. Kelly's face was heavy with chagrin.

“I want you to know, I didn't ask you to help me!” Kelly said, “I could have handled those toughs without your help.” 

“I know you didn't ask me,” the Texan said mildly.

“And it don't change anything between us,” Kelly insisted.

“Not a thing,” the Texan said agreeably. He dropped his saddle into the dust and began unbuckling his belt. “Now be all right?” 

“No, I got work to do.” Kelly said regretfully.

“All right, I'll be around somewhere, I reckon.” The Texan picked up his saddle and began to walk off.

“Wait a minute!” Kelly called as he hurried to the man's side. “You told me you was working for Watson. How come you lit in against him?” 

“I didn't say no such thing.” The Texan said.

“You asked me how to get to Watson's.” 

“That's what I asked you.” 

“God damn it, man!” Kelly roared. “I ain't going to stand here and quibble with you—”

“Then don't.” 

“If you didn't come here to work for Watson, and you didn't come here to work on the railroad, what in hell did you come here for?” 

“I don’t figure that’s any of your business, Irishman,” the Texan said politely but firmly. “But it won't hurt none to tell you. You might know the man I'm after.”

“Oh, are you lookin' for somebody who works in this camp?”

“That's right.”

“Who?”

“He calls himself Lefty Hayes.”

“Lefty Hayes!” Kelly said. “He works for Watson. He's Watson's right-hand man.”

“That's what they told me down in Independence and in Omaha,” the Texan said levelly.

“Whatcha want with him?”

“Goin' to kill him.”

Kelly shook his head sadly. “Son,” he said, “you're a big, strapping lad, and you've shown yourself to be fair-minded and capable with your fists, but Lefty Hayes is faster than a rattlesnake with that gun of his'n.”

“I heard.”

“Are you fast?”

“I ain't dead yet.”

“No, you ain't, lad, but you might be if you try to kill Lefty Hayes.”

“Well, one way or the other, I'm gonna try.”

“I can't stand here talkin' to you. I've got work to do. You got anyplace special to go while you're waitin' for Lefty?”

“Nope.”

“Walk with me over to the doctorin' tent while I see how my scout is farin'.”

“All right,” the Texan said.

“I could sure use a man like you.” Kelly eyed the Texan. “It's a great thing, lad, to be part of buildin' a railroad—not just any railroad, but one that will build a strong country.”

“Seein' as how I just spent nearly five years doin' everything I could to tear that country apart; I don't guess I got much interest.” They moved through the tents.

“You wore the gray, eh, lad?” Kelly's voice was gentle. “I can't say that I blame you for feelin' bitter. It was a hard-fought war.” 

“I don't feel bitter,” the Texan said simply. “I just ain't a railroad man.” 

“We have a lot of Confederate lads workin' side by side with their former Union foes.” 

“The war's over for me,” the Texan said shortly. “Except for one little piece of unfinished business.” 

“Lefty?” 

“That's right.” 

“I reckon we oughtta introduce ourselves, lad,” Kelly said. “I'm Liam Kelly, bucko in charge.” 

“How do, Mr. Kelly. I'm Nathan Ellis.” 

The men shook hands. “Texas, eh?” Kelly said, indicating the boots and the hat.

“Texas,” Ellis said.

Kelly scratched at his chin. “You wouldn't be one of those lads who sneaked supplies into the Confederacy under the noses of the Yankees, would you?” 

Ellis grinned. “We did manage to get a few wagonsful of stuff to the boys.” 

Kelly grunted. Texas had sided with the South in the conflict, but had not been as actively engaged in actual fighting as the others, its role being principally the supply of men and material, much of it brought overland from the Pacific coast. It took hard, tough men to cart guns and ammunition nearly two thousand miles across the southern deserts, fighting Indians and raiders every step of the way. His estimation of Nathan Ellis rose another notch.

“I'll be right back, Ellis,” Kelly said. He turned into the tent and dismissed the Texan from his mind, his attention now wholly focused on his problem. How badly was Asa Little injured, and could he ride scout to relieve Jake Reeves? And if he couldn't, who was there to replace him?

 Even if he had to go himself, Kelly had to have information on the whereabouts and plans of the renegade Goose Face.

Chapter 2

GOOSE FACE didn't mind the stench of the buffalo dung he had so carefully smeared over his body to cover his own scent. Bent over and nearly on all fours beneath the weight of a bull buffalo's hide, complete with skull and horns, the young Cheyenne ignored the herd grazing around him and concentrated on the scene nearly twenty miles away across the plains. The railhead camp, with its city of tents and spirals of smoke from big campfires, delighted him.

He studied the scene with the eye of one well experienced in attack. It was useless to come up from across the plains and attack the white men head-on. They would be warned and ready for him, and he and his hundred followers would be wiped out in the first sally.

Though the young Indian did not understand much that motivated the white man, he had learned enough from the trader who had taken him in after the massacre of his village to know that this day, this night, was important to them. The greeting staged earlier by the white men for the iron horse confirmed his meager information that today was some sort of feast day for the men who broke trail for the smoking horse. He had learned from the scout taken during the night that it was Sad-a-day, and he remembered that the old trader never failed to drink whisky on Sad-a-day.

What bothered Goose Face as he moved through the herd of buffalo was the number of soldiers. He was torn between the pleasant dream of killing so many of the killers-of-his-people and the honest respect he had for them as fighters. These soldiers, the young Cheyenne knew, had just finished fighting a war between themselves and there was nothing so dangerous as a brave who has learned the tricks of battle, and who does not flinch at death.

Now, even as Goose Face watched the railhead encampment, the spur of rails had inched closer to him and the herd of buffalo. Suddenly his eyes gleamed. He had his plan.

He turned and worked his way back through the herd to where he had hobbled his pony. He slung the buffalo hide to the ground and leaped on his swift broomtail stallion and trotted of in the direction of the rise that had caused Liam Kelly so much anxiety.

Behind him, the rails inched closer and closer. The buffalo closed in after him, nuzzling the deep plains grass and one another.

* * *

Goose Face's men lay in wait in the depth of a shallow gully that, during early spring, would run full and wide and empty into the North Platte, but was now dry and loamed with hard red dust. There was no shade, and the men sat cross-legged in the shadows of their broomtails and talked among themselves. To one side Jake Reeves lay sprawled in the sun, bound hand and foot and pegged spread-legged to the ground. No one watched him any more, for Jake had ceased to struggle during the night. The blood from a head wound, inflicted by Goose Face in extracting information, had long since clotted over and the spill had dried into the dust.

Farther up the draw, twenty or more of the ragged renegade band were grouped around a tall brave who was gesturing to the others and talking slowly. The circle of men listened to Singing Bird, a wandering Blackfoot who had been driven out of his village for theft, and did not respond to his tirade.

Some of them turned away without a word. Others followed, and when Singing Bird tried to make them listen, his eye caught sight of a pony standing above him on the edge of the dry bank.

Goose Face stared at the man below. “So,” he said between his teeth, “you would have us sneak into the white man's camp and steal like the thief you are!” 

Caught, Singing Bird tried to bluff his way out. “Many of us do not like attacking the white man.” 

“You do not like attacking the white man,” Goose Face said, nudging his pony down the bank.

“I challenge any brave in my hatred of the long beards!” Singing Bird shouted.

“You sing like the bird and are named justly,” Goose Face said angrily. “A vulture!” Moving swiftly, he slipped his knife into Singing Bird's stomach and, with the bone-handled hilt flat against the man's skin, twisted it.

Goose Face withdrew the knife, wiped it on the buckskin trousers of the slain man and turned to face the emotionless stares of his men. More than half of them were Cheyenne who had been cut off from Black Kettle during raids. There were many Sioux, as many Pawnee and some Arapaho and Crow. All of them had tasted the treachery of the white man and were dedicated to his death, but all of them had not come to Goose Face to join forces against the long beards. Many of them, like Singing Bird, had been cast out of their villages for violating tribal taboos. But if they swore allegiance to Goose Face—who promised nothing but hardship and war in his sworn vengeance against the whites—the past crimes that brought them into the young renegade's party were forgotten. “Is there another who thinks he has enough coups in his lodge to challenge the will of Soft-and-Running-Deer?”