The Savage Trail (13 page)

“Red Eagle says so.”

“Me heap ready,” Red Eagle said. “Many braves in camp. Good. Strong.”

Red Eagle knew but a few English words. He understood even fewer, Ollie knew. Unless they spoke sign with him, he didn't understand most of what Ollie and his men talked about among themselves.

“Army,” Ollie said, “can we trust these redskins?”

Mandrake shrugged.

“Long as you keep 'em away from the firewater, they seem like they want to clean out them miners. But I don't know. They're all pretty hard to read. When they jabber amongst themselves, you can't tell what they're thinkin'.”

“They got to take blame for what we aim to do.”

“I know. They don't mind.”

“Good,” Ollie said.

“Red Eagle says he can mount up twenty braves. Should be enough.”

“I want to talk to Fry.”

“He's supposed to meet us in town sometime after sundown,” Army said.

“Where?” Ollie asked.

“The Hitchin' Post Saloon. Ain't nothin' but a little old cabin what used to be a store. They got some boards and barrelsthey use for a bar. They make their own whiskey and from what I hear, you drink enough of it you go blind and you get a headache like somebody beatin' on your head with ball-peen hammers.”

“We'll take our own whiskey there.”

Army grinned. “So Rosa's got some in her saddlebags, does she?”

“Army, do you think these red bastards mean to double-crossus?” Ollie spoke softly, keeping his gaze on Red Eagle. Ollie even smiled so that the Indian could not guess what his words meant.

“I think that bastard's got something up his sleeve. Oh, I think he means to keep his part of the bargain. But I think he and his braves have got a lot more on their minds than wiping out some gold diggers.”

“Look at the bastard,” Ollie said, his smile widening. “His eyes are as black as two piss holes in the snow. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw my horse.”

“Don't worry. Me and Dick are going to keep a close eye on that bird.”

“Maybe he ain't the onliest one who's got plans for afterward,” Ollie said.

“What do you mean?” Mandrake asked.

Ollie took his gaze away from Red Eagle and looked straight at Army.

“Redskins with carbines make me mighty damned nervous,” he said.

Mandrake's throat went dry as his hands broke out in a clammy sweat. He was thinking that they were sitting down with the Devil, and the trail to the gold stretched a long way from that little mountain where they were all hiding out, waitingfor everything to come together. He didn't say anything to Hobart, but he was wondering if Red Eagle understood a lot more English than he owned up to.

When he looked at Red Eagle, there were those piercing eyes, black as a pair of gun barrels, and no sign of what was going on behind them in that savage brain.

17

The noon sun, a pale yellow cauldron shimmering with lashing fire, blazed down on Cheyenne when Ben and John rode in, leading two saddled horses. Several people on the street eyed them with suspicion, then hurried to their destinations.One man who didn't look away or turn tail and scurry off sat on a large nail keg outside a hardware store. John rode up to him, with Ben following.

“Howdy, mister,” John said. “I'd like a little information.”

“Howdy to you, stranger. What kind of information?”

The man wore a faded pair of overalls, smoked a corncob pipe, and sported a grizzled beard that was streaked brown and red to match the hair that spewed from under his battered felt hat. John could smell the tobacco smoke from a dozen feet away. It bore the fragrance of freshly cut apples.

An old woman wearing a large sunbonnet walked up to a pump, carrying a wooden pail. She bent down and worked the handle up and down until water flowed from the spout. She held the bucket under it and shooed away a dog that trotted up, rib bones showing through its yellow hide.

“We got some horses and saddles to sell,” John said, “and don't want to answer a lot of questions.”

“I see. You horse thieves?”

“You got a blunt manner to you, mister.”

“Blunt gets right down to the nub of things, don't you think? Now, if you want to pussyfoot around, maybe you oughta ask somebody else about selling them horses.”

The man pulled a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and started poking it between a pair of top teeth. The yellow dog trotted by, looked up at the man, then tucked its tail between its legs and scooted off. The old woman walked away from the pump, water sloshing in her pail. Her ankles were swollen from arthritis and her sunbonnet brim flopped up and down as a gust of wind rivered down the street. Her dress billowed out and then sagged back to her plump frame like a collapsing tent.

“Well, sir, they's the stables. But that one horse belongs to old Roscoe Bender, and I doubt he sold it to you. Don't know who them other two belonged to, but I seen 'em around. You might have bought 'em and you might not have.”

“You can sure talk a man's ear off, all right. But you don't give out any information, old-timer. I'm short on both time and patience, but if you have someone in mind to buy a couple of horses and some firearms, I'd be mighty obliged if you were to tell me of such a man.”

“You ain't from around here, I reckon.”

“No.”

“But you're already engaged in some sort of commerce 'thout knowin' who to deal with.”

“You're some philosopher, I'll grant you that,” John said.

“Ain't philosophy. I'm a studier on human nature. You boys don't look much like horse thieves or owlhooters, but you got one questionable horse there and two others I seen around. Now let me see. Who might pay for such 'thout askin' a whole lot of questions?”

The man slid his hat back on his head and made a show of scratching his head as if he were studying on a real puzzler of a question. But John already knew that there was such a man, there always was in every town, and that this cantankerous old blabbermouth knew just who it was. So he waited while the scratching went on and then finished up.

“You could take 'em over to the livery stables, but that's where Roscoe keeps that horse. Maybe them other two boards up there, too.”

“I'm just about to shoot those two saddle horses I got and leave them here so you can clean up the mess,” John said.

“Well, now, that'd be a shame to kill two good horses just for spite.”

“That sun's mighty hot. We're tired and we're hungry, so I'd do just about anything to speed up this conversation. If you have any information, I'd be mighty glad to get it. You want a commission on the sale, is that it?”

The man laughed and slapped his knee.

“No, sirree, sir, I'm not a commission man. Just an old boy puttin' in his time on this good earth. You might want to ride down here a few blocks to Juniper Street, turn right, and go to the edge of the prairie. They's a little log house yonder and some corrals, a kind of fleabag tradin' post what's owned by a gent goes by the name of Lenny Renfrew. He buys and sells all sorts of junk and he's likely there now, just waitin' for two dust-covered horse traders like yourselves to show up and make him an offer.”

“I thank you kindly, mister,” John said. “Now, do you want a couple of dollars for your trouble?”

“Nope. I done did all my drinkin' in my youth and I got plenty of grub in the larder. I generally see everybody what rides through here and gets my satisfaction in tryin' to figger out where they come from and where they be a-goin'.”

“We don't offer that kind of information to strangers,” John said.

Behind him, Ben snorted. He had been enjoying the exchange,but now he mopped his brow with an already soggy bandanna and tapped his new horse in the flanks, ready to move on.

The man cackled and waved the toothpick at John.

“You be careful, son. If you stay in Cheyenne, look out you don't get skinned. Ain't everybody here as kindly as me.”

“I'll keep that in mind. Thanks again for the directions.”

“You watch out for Lenny. He's one what will skin you if you ain't careful. He might not be as bad as some of the fat politicians we got here, but he'll do until one of them rascals comes along.”

“If the town's so full of skunks, how come you live here?” John asked, drawn to the taciturn man somehow.

“Hell, I helped build this town. Worked on the railroad. Crew boss said this was as good a place as any for a town, so they started drivin' stakes. Hell, it warn't a bad place before the shysters and the no-accounts come in. Still ain't a bad place, considering some other towns I been in back in my time.”

“Well, good luck to you, mister,” John said.

“Don't need none.”

“How's that?” John asked.

“Luck's what you need when you ain't got brains. I still got them. And I don't gamble or drink hard likker, so don't need a bit of luck, good or bad.”

“Suit yourself,” John said.

“Yair, well, that's what I generally do, young feller. You mind your business with Lenny, and you'll come out all right.”

“John, let's get on over there,” Ben said. The horses were restless, pawing the ground with their hooves, switching their tails at flies, tossing their manes.

“Yeah, Ben. So long, old-timer.”

The old-timer lifted a hand, but he said not a word. Ben and John rode off to find Lenny.

“That old feller,” Ben said, “you and him seemed to get along.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Notice anything, ah, peculiar about him?”

“His orneriness, I reckon.”

“Nope, that ain't it.”

“What is it, then?”

“He reminded me of your pa.”

“My pa? Hell, he doesn't look anything like my pa.”

“Nope, he don't look like him, but he sure acts like him. Talks like him, too.”

“I didn't see it,” John said.

“Well, I thought I was listenin' to your pa back there. Come back to life.”

John started to shake his head, then thought about the old man. Ben had a point. His father had been a man of few words. And Daniel Savage had been a good judge of character,just like the old-timer. He tried to put his father's face on the old man, but it didn't work. Yet, when he recalled the conversation,he allowed that Ben was probably right. Dan didn't waste words and he could size a man up better than most. He had picked a pretty good bunch to go mining with him.

“You got a lot of them same qualities, Johnny,” Ben said. “Every day, I keep thinkin' you get to lookin' and soundin' like your pa.”

“Aww.”

“It's true,” Ben said.

If that were so, John thought, it wasn't deliberate. He had never tried to look or act like his father. But he supposed some things rubbed off from father to son. He couldn't see it himself,but he knew Ben paid attention to such things. He studied people. He was a good poker player. He read books and he spent time alone, thinking. Which was something John had never fully understood. At times, Ben would go off by himself to smoke, and sometimes John would join him and they would talk about things they never spoke of in camp with the other men, or with his parents. He held Ben in high respect, mostly because of those times when they had talked together about books and philosophy, nature, the universe itself.

LENNY'S RAMSHACKLE HOUSE LOOKED LIKE A JUNKYARD. THERE were parts of buggies, leaf springs, axles, wheels, wagon tongues, even weathered oxen yokes lying about like the wreckage from a wagon train, many of the metal parts rusted and broken, seemingly of no use to anyone.

There was a sign propped up against one end of the porch. The sign was old, weather-beaten, the paint faded and scoured by wind and rain. It read: HORSES BOUGHT & SOLD. SADDLES. TACK. BRIDLES. FEED. They could see a pole corral out back, a fenced pasture and loose shingles on both sides of the house. A man sat on the sagging front porch smoking a clay pipe, a bottle of whiskey sitting next to his rocking chair. He had some leather traces spread across his lap along with a leather punch and a mallet.

Ben and John rode up close. John looked down at the man, who cocked his head and removed the pipe from his mouth.

“You Lenny?” John asked. “Lenny Renfrew?”

“I might be. Who's askin'?”

“We have some horses and saddles to sell.”

“You got bills of sale?”

“No,” John said.

“Hmm. Well, since I know the owners of three of those horses you're riding, I might ask them to verify they sold 'em to you.”

“Two of the former owners are no longer with us,” John said. “As for Roscoe Bender's horse, we made a trade.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He killed my friend's horse and we took his. Fair trade, wouldn't you say?”

“Is Roscoe still among the living?”

Ben laughed.

“He's among the tenderfeet,” John said.

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Renfrew said.

“That mean's Roscoe Bender is afoot, walking back to Cheyenne. It'll take him the rest of the day, easy. Anyway, we're not selling his horse. That should make it simple for you.”

“I dunno,” Renfrew said.

“Well, I'll make it easy for you,” John said, drawing his pistol. He put the barrel up against the head of one of the outlawhorses, cocked it. “I can just drop both of them right here. You're welcome to the meat and the leather on them.”