Medicine Road (30 page)

Johnny, cinching down the grip of his stubby fingers on the two lead ropes and the bite of his best
buckteeth on his quivering lower lip, swung his
pinched face again toward the uptrail bend where
Jesse had disappeared.

With true Sioux sense of the properly dramatic,
the mountain man had, before leaving the camp
with Johnny, strung the unconscious Watonga up
on the holy pole from which he himself had just escaped. His only addition to the rawhide embroidery
the hostiles had sewed him up with had been to
clamp a snug Arapaho halter on the helpless chief.

Now, returning happily to the haltered Black Coyote, he had his message to leave with him. And he
hadn't been keen on Lacey's boy seeing him deliver
the little token of fond farewell, either. And for a very
quickly evident cause. The fact Watonga had recovered consciousness when Jesse got back to him didn't
dampen the mountain man's fine red enthusiasm one
morsel. Whipping out Tall Elk's gutting knife, he
took the awkward weapon by the back of the blade,
holding it like a skin-painting stick. As the chief's expressionless eyes followed him, he brushed the flies
off the sun-blackened chest, went carefully to carving
his parting Minniconjou pictograph thereon.

Jesse was no artist by the exacting Plains Indian standards, but when he had finished his tonguescrewed labors on Watonga's chest, the incisions
hurriedly rubbed with a little salt and trade tobacco
from the chief's own pouches, he had a readably
good design.

Any Plains Indian cub of eight or ten could have
told you it was an unmistakable Minniconjou Fox,
leg-hoisted and urinating upon an equally undeniable Arapaho Coyote.

Breaking around the trail head in a reaching dogtrot, Jesse loped up to the tearfully grateful Johnny
O'Mara and grabbed the halter rope of Watonga's
stud as the boy flung it hastily to him. Swinging up
on the crouching stallion, he immediately balled one
horny fist and drove it down between the nervous
brute's ears with a force that came near knocking the
ugly jughead off the scrawny neck. Watonga's war
horse, establishing a record for losing all interest in
the opposite sex and completely forgetting his own,
left off his goosy crouching, went to standing as broken and gentle as a second-string travois pony.

With his borrowed charger properly chastised,
the mountain man turned his attentions to the waiting Johnny O'Mara. "All quiet in the Land of the
Coyote!" He grinned broadly, cocking his head back
toward the Indian camp and giving his small redheaded companion a reassuring bear-paw thump on
the shoulder. "I don't like to crow, boy, but when
your Uncle Jesse quietens them down, they stay silent-like! You ain't going to hear no more Injun
peeps today."

The brag was no sooner out than it tripped headlong on its own boast. From up on the mesa trail, no
more than half a mile above Watonga's black lodge,
it came. Long, low, weirdly beautiful, the huntingsong of the buffalo wolf.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" The curse snapped off Jesse's
tongue like a shot bowstring. "Me and my big
mouth."

"What's the matter, Jesse? What was that?"

"Scout signal," grunted the mountain man.

"Gee, it sounded more like a loafer howling, huh,
Jesse?"

"Well, it was a kind of a loafer, boy. Like none you
ever seed, I allow." His companion's agreement
came acidly. "That loafer up there is near six foot tall
and carries a smooth red coat with a sprouting of
long eagle feathers around the skull."

"You mean Injuns, Jesse?"

"I don't mean field mice, young 'un. Shut up.
You'll hear quick enough."

On top of his gruff order, Jesse threw his head
back and howled dismally in reply to the Arapaho
signal. The call had just time to echo up under the
mesa rim before it was seized up and flung back
from above, attended, this time, by a whole discordant symphony of assorted wolf howls.

"Gosh! It is Injuns!"

"You got it figured, boy. Come on, toss me
Heyoka's lead rope. And get yourself set solid on that
scrub paint. Those're Black Coyote's boys. They're
back from the hunt somewhat sooner than I allowed.
About six hours somewhat I'd say. Aii-eee, Johnny
boy! We got us some big butt pounding to do now."

With all three horses hitting a flat gallop, Jesse set
himself to figure a little Arapaho algebra. Well, one
thing was easy, even before you started sweating.
There wasn't any question of what trail to take. The
first five miles back to Cedar Flats was as laid out
and one way as a fairground racetrack. But that
wasn't getting your figuring done. After Cedar Flats,
it was another ten miles to Rockpile Meadow, and
then another ten on out to the Medicine Road. If you
ever got that far, you had a chance of running into
some white pack outfit working between Fort Bridger
and Laramie. That, or maybe Andy Hobbs and the
muleskinners coming up from old Gabe's. That last
chance was about as fat as a she-grizzly coming out
of her winter sleep sucking six early cubs. But fat or
lean, ribby or raunchy, just about your best chance,
at that.

There could be no doubling back, no laying hidden out to let the hostiles run by you. The canon, all
the way, was so narrow a trade rat couldn't have
stuck his big toe out from one side of it without
some trailing Arapaho would stomp on it going by.
Second place, there was no cut-off along the way.
The only opening in the 100-foot canon walls in the
entire twenty-five miles was the mouth of Carson's
Creek Gorge at Cedar Flats. As far as Jesse knew,
that ran into a blind box three miles from the flats. It
came squarely down to a stretch-out race, with the
odds a 100 to two against him and the kid reaching
the Medicine Road.

The biggest hitch was their horses. The mountain
man had planned to rope a string of the best ponies
out of the big Indian herd at the camp, lead and ride
them in relays, thus giving him and the boy fresh, fast mounts the whole way into Fort Bridger. The
unexpected return of the buffalo hunters had gutted
that. They'd had to cut and run with only Johnny's
short-legged paint, Watonga's spooky stud horse,
and the good gray Heyoka.

On the stud horse he had slung two parfleches,
one loaded with the pick of Black Coyote's possibles:
a few pounds of jerked buffalo beef, a couple of pints
of good powder, fifty galena pills, plus, hastily slung
across the boy's saddle horn, Watonga's fancy old
Hawken rifle; the other parfleche he had crammed
with something his Indian eye had spotted in the
chief's lodge and which his Sioux soul hadn't been
able to resist-fifty pairs of beautifully worked Arapaho moccasins, the net proceeds of Tall Elk's long
summer evenings, lovingly packed for the winter
trade at Deseret. In the optimism of fresh horses and
a six-hour start, Jesse had allowed he might as well
turn that profit as not. Arapaho moccasins were the
best on the plains, went whizzing at three dollars a
brace anywhere a mountain man could get his paws
on a pair. Too much the born trader, Jesse Callahan
could not turn down a $150 gain for two minutes of
extra packing! Not when he and Lacey and the boy
would need every cent they could get to set up in
California, anyway.

Now, with equal decision and eye for the future,
the mountain man went out of the moccasin business. Slowing the galloping stallion, he seized the
near parfleche, slashing the rawhide cross-strap
through. The next second Johnny's pony and the
trailing Heyoka were bucking through a $150
shower of handmade Arapaho foot skins, and Jesse
was grimly lacing the remaining parfleche hard and fast to his saddle horn. Right now, the going price of
two pints of powder and fifty rifle balls was higher
than a fort full of fancy Indian footgear.

Looking back to check how Johnny had survived
the moccasin spattering, the mountain man handed
himself the luxury of a short grin. The damned
sprout was all right. Grinning right back at him,
there. Quirting his little pony along, busy as a monkey on a dog's back, and withal, hanging onto the
cumbersome four-foot barrel of Watonga's elegant
Hawken as though his life depended on it-which it
sure as thunder might, come another five miles.

Jesse patted the worn butt wood of Old Sidewinder, his own treasured Hawken, hurriedly recovered from among the plunder in the chief's
lodge. By God, if he went under, he'd take a few
along with him. Given the boy to pour and prime,
with two top guns to handle, he'd make the red sons
come! Happen he could find the right spot to hole
up when the time came, he'd throw a good part of
them for keeps. This comforting plant had put down
about half its first, tender root in Jesse's mind when
it curled up and died, a-borning.

Back trail, a scant two miles, a yammer of Arapaho wolf howls blossomed high and sudden. Yellow Leg and the buffalo hunters had come home.
Hearing the Indian howls, Johnny belabored his
pony up even with Watonga's scrubby stallion.

"Hey, Jesse! Here they come, huh? That's them,
ain't it?"

"That's them, boy. But they ain't coming just yet.
Kick hell outen that pony, Johnny. We can win another mile, maybe two, before they cut the chief
down and get lined out after us. They been running
buffalo and they'll have to catch up and change horses. That'll take five minutes. Ride, boy. You
ain't even trying. Whang your pony across the butt
with that gunstock. He'll go if you larrup him.
Hang on!"

With the shout, Jesse demonstrated his instructions by belting the boy's pony across the rump
with his own Hawken's butt. The little paint
squalled and jumped, churning his short legs.
Johnny hung on and kept up the belting.

For the next two miles they ate big trail. Then the
runt pony began to fade. Come the open of Cedar
Flats, he was done. The mountain man, figuring
they had four miles on the hostiles, shouted to
Johnny to pull up in mid-clearing. As the boy did so,
Jesse ran Heyoka up alongside the blowing pony.

"Pile over on Heyoka, boy. Hang onto that pine.
That's the idee. You all set?"

"Sure. Where we going now, Jesse?"

Never you mind"-the mountain man slapped
the stud horse with his rifle-"you jest burr onto
that saddle horn and leave the mare take her own
way. She'll follow me as long as there's a jump left
in her."

In the next fifteen minutes they made three of the
ten miles to Rockpile Meadow, were topping out on
Spanish Saddle. This cross ridge, the only considerable rise in the floor of Carson's Canon, gave the
long view of the back trail offered in the full length
of the defile. From it, Jesse could look back and
down on the distant clearing of Cedar Flats.

He kicked Watonga's stud on over the crest of the
ridge, haunch-slid him to a stop on the far side.
Waving back to Johnny, he sang out: "Hi there, boy!
Get that mare down offen the skyline. Hurry on!"

As Johnny brought the mare slicing down the trail, Jesse caught her cheek strap to keep her from
plunging on down the roof-steep decline.

"Here, young 'un. Set tight on the mare and clutch
this stud's lead rope. Keep it up short. Don't let him
get to smelling around Heyoka. She's apt to nip him
good and likely belt his ribs in, too. And we ain't in
no place to be putting on no two hoss courtship on
this here six-foot ledge. You get the idee?"

The boy peered over the trail edge at the thin
stream of Carson's Creek eighty feet below, gulped,
tried a laugh that came out a gurgle, reassured the
mountain man. "Yeah, sure, Jesse. All right. Where
you going now?"

"Back up on the ridge and take a belly flop. You
know. So's I can see the Injuns crossing Cedar Flats.
Our hosses have got to have a blow, too. They can
take it right here as good as the next place. This way
we'll get them a breather and give me a chance to
see how far back the hostiles are. We can't see them
again short of the Medicine Road. Hold them
hosses, now, boy!"

Slipping around the panting mounts, the mountain man backhanded the gray mare a sharp crack
on her sooty nose.

"Stay, Heyoka! You move a muscle toward that
stud, I'll hamstring you clean up to your croup."

Seconds later, the red-haired trapper was bellying
up on the ridge and squinting over its granite spine.
A half breath after that he was popping his eyes bigger than sourdough flapjacks. He had figured to
have close to fifteen minutes for the horses to blow
out before the pursuing Arapahoes would hit Cedar
Flats-and found he had the shag-tail end of one.
And he used part of that rolling down off the ridge
to leg it for Johnny and the horses.

Cripes! The last of the red buzzards had been
slamming, hell-for-yellow-lather, across the clearing
before he'd gotten his eyes over the lip of the ridge,
had disappeared in a cloud of red dust and
distance-thin wolf yammers before he could get his
sight properly squinted.

"Last one away's a hind-tit pig!" he yelled at
Johnny, crawling aboard Watonga's startled stud
with the yell. "Hit the trail, boy. We're back in
business!"