The Broken Bow, page 20
Clovis’s eyes were fixed on the stars overhead, staring into space without a blink or show of pain of any kind. To make sure that he was dead, Gladdy felt through Clovis’s coat, searching for a heartbeat, searching for something moving that would prove him wrong. “I can’t get you no help out here.” He pulled his hand off Clovis’s chest, looked around him again, hoping to see a cabin, or a sod house with a lamp burning in the distance, or hear a dog bark, alerting him to the location of a farm somewhere nearby. There was nothing, not the slightest sound. Just Gladdy’s own heartbeat racing with nowhere to go. His breath made a thin cloud of steam like the departing train. He screamed as loud as he could, let out all of the primal anger and fear that had built up inside of him for a long time, then jumped up and down and stomped his feet. Before he knew it, tears were streaming down his face. Sad tears for Haden. Angry tears for Frank and Clovis. Sad tears for himself. He screamed again, then collapsed to the ground next to Clovis. “Damn, you, Clovis. Why’d you have to go and leave me out here. Now what the hell am I going to do?”
Gladdy didn’t do anything for a long time. He sat on the cold ground, his arms clung to his chest to help keep himself warm, doing nothing but staring at his boots. His mind wandered in and out of his childhood, nothing more than Haden’s shadow, where he remained on the trip across the ocean, through the war, and after, right up until the day Haden had died. Then, lost, and set on revenge, he had stumbled in with Frank and Clovis, and now here he was, alone again, not so long after losing Haden. He knew he should just stay that way, alone, on his own, by himself. “But I don’t know how,” he said aloud to no one in particular. And no one answered him back. Clovis was stiff, starting to freeze, unable to urge him on or give him the confidence to get moving on his own. Not that he would have anyway. Clovis hadn’t thought about anything but himself. Now it was Gladdy’s turn. He took another deep breath, stood up, and steadied himself as he stood over his dead boss.
Gladdy had thought he would trick Clovis into thinkin’ he was in charge then leave when the gettin’ was good. Except that was a lie to himself and he knew it now. He was never gonna leave Clovis. He would have followed him to Aberdeen and done whatever Clovis wanted him to. Go after Trusty Dawson, then ride all the way back to St. Louis to collect the bounty because that’s what he did. He followed other men because he couldn’t lead himself. “Look where that got you, Gladdy O’Connor. Just look at yourself now.” He was disgusted with himself and the situation he had put himself in. He stomped the ground again and nearly slipped on the ice and fell. He could have hit his head on the same rock that had killed Clovis. Then where would he be? Dead. That’s where. In hell, heaven, or somewhere in between. But he didn’t fall. He caught himself, steadied himself again, and stood flatfooted on the frozen ground. He exhaled and gritted his teeth. “I can’t stay here and die,” he said. This time, the wind answered him back, pushing a breeze across his face, bringing with it the sound of something new into the world: the distant roll of another train heading his way.
Gladdy looked down at Clovis knowing he had to decide what to do. Staying in the spot, giving the man a decent burial, then leaving seemed the right thing to do. Except the ground was frozen and he didn’t have a shovel. He didn’t have anything to dig a hole with. It was December, he reasoned, with the worst of winter yet to come to these parts. More snow and ice. That would cover Clovis up, or a coyote would wander by and help himself to a meal of a toe or a finger. Gladdy shivered at the thought, but there was nothing he could do about it. The train whistled again; the blast riding more confident on the night air as the locomotive chugged closer. Gladdy looked down at Clovis again, sad at the situation that he had found himself in, knowing he had to go. He leaned down and rummaged through Clovis’s coat and pulled out his wallet. There was twenty dollars in it and a piece of paper stuffed in between the bills. He pulled out the paper and held it close to his face so he could read it: Meet Glo Timmons and Red Jack Lewis at the Ward Hotel. Room 313.
Gladdy slid the paper back into the wallet, stuffed the wallet inside the pocket of his own coat, then helped himself to Clovis’s sidearm, a ’73 Colt Army. He would have taken the gun belt and accompaniment of cartridges, but Gladdy wasn’t a two-gun belt kind of man. One gun had always been enough for him. But he wasn’t gonna leave a gun out in the middle of nowhere to rust away. He might need it.
“I’m sorry it turned out this way for you, Clovis,” Gladdy said, as he stowed away the Colt. “You had a run of luck that went from bad to worse. Your head was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What happened to you could have happened to me, and I know it. If there’s a life after this one, I hope you get what you deserve, good or bad. That’s the only prayer I know to say for you.”
The train drew closer and Gladdy hurried to the tracks, hoping like hell there was a car he could hop into if the train wasn’t moving too fast. If he didn’t continue his own dose of bad luck and fall off as he was trying to get on. But what choice did he have? None. He couldn’t stay there, and he knew it. He had to leave out on his own, and by God, he swore to himself, it was gonna stay that way. No more bosses for him.
The train came along pretty quick, and it was a long one, an ore train pulling four-wheeled, open-top jimmies. Lots of them. They went on for as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the dark. There weren’t any other kind of railcars, none that would offer Gladdy shelter from the weather and the wind. It was either stand there and watch the train roll by, then walk to Aberdeen or pick a car and stay as warm as he could. He decided that walking was a bad idea, so he started a slow jog, eyed a car with a handle that didn’t seem to have anything sticking out of the top, then chased after it until he caught the handle and pulled himself up off the ground. It would have been a harder jump and climb if he had been loaded down, but as it was, he was able to climb inside the empty car and settle into a corner. He didn’t look back. Didn’t give Clovis or Frank another thought. Not right then. He had to figure out how to make himself comfortable.
Aberdeen, South Dakota, December 1888
It was a longer ride to Aberdeen than Gladdy thought it would be. There were all sorts of annoying starts and stops that had to be made along the way. He was cold, stiff, thirsty, and near starved for something to eat by the time he realized he was in the right town. The train yard, like most train yards was on the outskirts of town, and he had to be careful not to get caught coming out of the car. Train police didn’t care much for free riders.
It was early in the morning, just after the rise of the sun. The air was cold, but not so cold it hurt your face when the air touched it. He might have just got used to winter. There wasn’t a lot of snow on the ground, and to Gladdy’s relief, there weren’t too many people around, either. Peering up over the lip of the jimmy, he saw a man standing at the back of the locomotive, his head up, talking to an engineer leaning out the window. He went to the other side of the car and slid out as quietly as he could. Once on the ground, he sneaked his way out of the train yard without alerting anyone to his presence. Gladdy was proud of himself. He squared his shoulders, held his head up high, then stepped up on the boardwalk, looking for the closest place to grab up some breakfast. He was so hungry he could eat two cows. Once he had his stomach satisfied, he figured he might treat himself to a bath and a shave. He had twenty whole dollars in his pocket thanks to Clovis. Then after that, he might just find him a girl or two, before wanderin’ over to the Ward Hotel, wherever that was. He wasn’t in too big of a hurry to put himself back in Theodore Marberry’s services. Heck, he might not. He might just make his own way. Aberdeen looked like a hustling, bustling place. Surely a man like him could make a respectable life for himself there without answerin’ to no one or trailin’ after a card cheater or a womanizer.
Gladdy felt pretty good about himself and his prospects right then, but if he would have thought back over his life, he would have seen that those good feelings never stayed around too long, and for some reason, bad luck or whatever, he always found himself staring face to face with some kind of trouble he couldn’t figure a way out of on his own.
Chapter 21
White Earth River, Dakota Territory, December 1888
Oliver rolled onto the ground, then scurried behind a thick oak tree, doing his best to make himself a difficult target. He couldn’t hide his breath, small immutable puffs that pulsed once or twice, then rode the wind, vanishing into the sterile whiteness. The Indian said nothing, tried to melt into the tree bark like one of his brother owls, but he was too tall, wearing dark clothes in bright sunlight, unable to disappear or fly away on silent wings.
Trusty wasn’t sure where the shot had come from, just knew the direction. He had his Colt aimed at the blank nothingness, waiting for another shot to erupt, to attempt to silence Oliver. He didn’t have to wait too long. A bullet hit the tree in front of the Indian, shattering bark like it was made of glass. Shards of black ice exploded, flying in every direction. The shot echoed outward, bouncing off the flat, frozen ground with nothing to stop it. The blast went on and on like it would never end; thunder looking for a storm to join and celebrate. Oliver stood fast, wasn’t hit, was well protected from the shooter at the moment, but Trusty wasn’t sure he was safe at the corner of the barn. If he could catch sight of who was shooting, he would have a better idea of what to do next.
Jonah Farley opened the cabin door, alerted by the gunshots. He stood back, out of sight, so he wasn’t a target himself, and shouted, “You all right out there, Dawson?”
“Stay inside, Farley,” Trusty answered. He could see a rifle barrel sticking out of the door.
Oliver was shivering, waiting like a halted rabbit for a shadow to pass over him. Silence followed Trusty’s order to Farley. Only the wind had anything to say. It picked up a howl, carried some snow, piled it into the substantial drifts on the side of the barn, and screamed past the small encampment, chasing the thunder of the gunshot. There would be no storms anytime soon; the sky was clear and cold without any clouds in sight.
The shooter followed up with another shot.
This time cold hard wood shattered just above Trusty’s fur hat. Splinters rained down onto him, but he didn’t flinch. He was focused on the ridge where the shot had come from. A puff of hot gun smoke blew to the north on the wind, showing the shooter’s location for the first time, if only for a brief second. Long enough. Trusty fired back even though he knew he couldn’t penetrate the rise in the ground that the shooter was hiding behind. He fired again, motioning with his free hand for Oliver to join him.
Oliver understood that he was being covered and darted from one tree to the next, making his way toward Trusty.
The shooter fired again, followed Oliver’s path, hitting the next tree dead in the center. More bark chips scattered into the air, then fell to the ground, falling like icicles from an eave, spiking upward in the ground when they landed. Trusty responded with another shot even though he was starting to worry whether he had enough cartridges to cover Oliver. Farley must have seen his breath and fired a shot from his rifle toward the ridge. A small explosion of snow jumped from the ground. Oliver hurried to the next tree.
With only three shots left, Trusty motioned for Farley to keep shooting. He wanted to see if he could get a better line of sight at the shooter, take a real shot at him. With his Colt pulled back, Trusty started to edge to the other side of the barn. Once there, he scurried to a tree, sure that the angle he was at protected him from being shot—if there was only one shooter. He zigzagged his way up a hill that would allow him a clear shot behind the ridge.
Trusty was certain that he was in the clear until he heard a twig snap behind him. Please let it be a wolf, he thought, freezing, not taking another step.
“Drop the gun,” a deep male voice said.
Damn, not a wolf.
Trusty hesitated for a moment. He had a knife sheathed inside the buffalo coat, but that was the only weapon he had on him besides the Colt. He had just gone after firewood. He didn’t think he’d need an armory to protect himself.
“You heard what I said, Marshal. Drop the gun.”
The shooting stopped. Wind pushed between him and the man behind him. There was no other noise than the beat of Trusty’s heart in his ears. “You know me, but I don’t know you.” It wasn’t Plumright. The voice was distinct, different. Not a West Point, east coast military man with a grudge to settle.
“Drop the gun. I’m not telling you again. Then turn around slowly.”
Trusty drew in a deep breath, then did as he was told, letting the Colt slip from his hand, hoping that Oliver and Farley were okay, that they would come for him, back him up, and get him out of the jam he’d found himself in. The Colt landed on top of the snow and sunk in a few inches.
Trusty turned around to face the man who had him in his gun sights.
An Indian stared back at Trusty, ten good feet from him, holding a Henry rifle aimed at his chest. “You look surprised,” the Indian said.
“I expected you to be a white man.”
“I am the man you have been looking for.”
“Charlie Littlefoot?”
“That’s what I am called at Fort Yates. Out here I have no name. I am only a lonely runner sliding along on top of the Mother trying to stay alive and outrun the men who wish to see me to the Great Beyond.”
“I understood your Indian was Hadakah.”
“Some names fit a boy, but not the man he grows to be.”
“The pitiful last ain’t the kind of moniker anyone would like,” Trusty said. “I know a thing or two about that myself.”
Charlie Littlefoot scowled and said nothing. He was a big man with big feet. Another expectation that Trusty was wrong about—he had expected a small man with small feet. Charlie looked to be about six feet tall, two hundred and fifty pounds, with long wild black hair tumbling out from underneath a thick beaver fur hat. He wore a buffalo coat, mukluks, and there were no other weapons showing on his outside dress. His face was free of a beard, but it looked red, burnt by the ice and snow, frost bit. Little beads of ice had made themselves at home in his thick eyebrows.
“That man doin’ the shooting with you?” Trusty said. He cocked his head toward the ridge where the shots had come from.
“No,” Charlie said, shaking his head, “there are three men. Plumright and two others that joined up with him from the east. I know nothing of them other than they are well-armed and look like they know what they are doing. One of them is circling around behind the cabin. The other is taking up another spot a hundred yards or more to the right of Plumright. The captain is doing the shooting while they get in position. They have more ammunition than you and your partner do.”
“He’s not my partner.” Trusty stared at Charlie, not breaking eye contact with him, trying to judge his intentions. Indians were hard to read. “You seem to know a lot.”
“They were tracking Oliver. I tracked them. I knew of this cabin, have slept in the barn on more than one night. Death has visited the inside of that cabin one time too many. The walls are coated in blood and look to be coated in more. The barn has been my home until I decided what to do. But now I have been found.”
“It smells pretty bad in there.”
“That is the least of your problems.”
“My problem, at the moment, is that I am unable to defend the men who are with me while you hold me at gunpoint.”
“What do you expect me to do? You have been sent to apprehend me and take me back to the fort for trial, for something I did not do. I will hang for a crime I did not commit. Am I supposed to walk up to you and turn myself in? No, I don’t think so. I . . .”
A gunshot interrupted Charlie’s words. He stopped, froze, became still as a tree. Charlie and Trusty both looked in the direction where the shot had come from. It was the other man, a hundred yards away from Plumright. Trusty could only hope that Oliver was safe in the barn, or in the cabin with Farley by now—who at that second, fired off a shot in retaliation.
“I don’t know what kind of man you are, Marshal,” Charlie continued. “Are you a fair man? A man of his word? Or are you a man like I have come to know in my time at the fort? A man who carries a gun, and wears a badge on the outside to make up for what he is not on the inside? Are you a coward or a man of honor? I do not know. Oliver fled your company, but yet you protect his life with your own. You confuse me, Trusty Dawson.”
“Amanda asked me to help. She asked me to find you before Plumright found you. Marshal Delaney, the U.S. Marshal sent me to the fort, and then out here not only to find you, but to find the truth. Even that man in there, Jonah Farley, thinks you are innocent. I don’t know about that, but Plumright seems determined to silence you. That gives me cause to question him more than I question you. Amanda Plumright was seriously concerned about your welfare.”
Charlie didn’t flinch at the mention of Amanda Plumright, the reason why they were all there in the first place. “I kept a lookout for Plumright. I knew he would come looking for me. It is better to be behind your enemy instead of ahead of him.”
“We all thought you were in Canada,” Trusty said.
“I am here. That’s all that matters.”
“Seems to me you have a choice to make.”
“I know what my choices are. I know who my enemies are,” Charlie answered. “I just don’t know who this man standing before me is, a man who wears his name like a badge but speaks with his heart.”
“My name is Sam. I never asked to be called Trusty any more than you asked to be called Hadakah. It came with the job.”
Another shot. Another answer back from Farley.
