A Man Called Sunday (21 page)

“Somethin's dead up that creek,” Bogart commented, and studied the birds a few seconds before suggesting, “Let's go see what it is.” They turned off the trail and advanced no more than one hundred yards before coming upon the remains of two men, their bones picked almost clean. “I expect that's ol' Sloat's two partners,” Bogart said. “I ain't surprised. I told him Luke Sunday mighta got them instead of the other way around.”

Gazing thoughtfully at the three buzzards now picking away at the bones, Wylie remarked, “Looks like them three has got to the party late. I bet there was a helluva lot more of them birds when the meat was fresh.”

“Let's go,” Bogart said. “We got plenty of daylight left.” The image of the sandy-haired devil that had twice humiliated him came back to his mind to taunt him and he realized that he wanted to kill Luke Sunday worse than any amount of gold and silver the woman with him might have in that sack of grain.

* * *

The yellow-haired man that bedeviled Bogart's mind was, at that particular time, kneeling in the midst of a clump of large service berry shrubs on the bank of the river. His attention was captured by a party of perhaps twenty lodges of Indians crossing the river some fifty yards farther upstream. From that closeness, he was able to identify the party as Cheyenne. He would have preferred to remain hidden until the Indians had passed through, but there was a problem that might effectively prohibit that choice. His camp was on the other side of the river, only a few dozen yards from where the Cheyenne were now crossing. Behind him, in the trees, his paint pony waited quietly. However, he had left the spotted gray and his packs in his camp. Watching now, he could see the Cheyenne scouts riding close in to their people as the women guided the packhorses and travois across to the west bank. If luck was with him, his camp would not be discovered and they would never know he was there.
Unless
, he thought,
the gray decides to say hello
. So far, the horse had not done so.

Approximately thirty-five miles up Clark's Fork of the Yellowstone, Luke had come upon a sizable herd of deer, which was now two short of its original number. Both animals were shot at close range with his bow, a practice he always adhered to whenever possible to save precious cartridges. On this day he was glad that he had been faithful to that practice, for the Cheyenne party had appeared at the river no more than half an hour after he had shot the second deer and followed it into the berry bushes he was kneeling in at present. Now, as he watched the last of the Indians leaving the water and ascending the west bank, it appeared that he might escape detection, and he thought about the choices he would have had to choose between. He had been raised in a Cheyenne camp, by a Cheyenne woman, but he had scouted for the army with a group of Crow warriors. He had thought to be a friend to the Cheyenne people, but they had joined with the Sioux in a war against the army. He considered the Sioux his enemy, because they had killed his white parents. He might have had to fight these Cheyenne, or lose his supplies and the gray pony if he had chosen to run. He was thankful that the Indians had not been aware of his presence.

A moment later, he realized that he had given thanks too soon, for suddenly there appeared to be a disturbance at the peaceful river crossing, and the Cheyenne outriders wheeled their ponies to respond to the outcry. Raising himself a little to see more clearly between the branches of the bushes, he saw the cause for the village's sudden display of alarm. One of the scouts had circled wide to the left of the others and had discovered Luke's horse and his camp. There was no time to spend on his decision. He could simply withdraw from the berry bushes, return to his horse, and ride away, but he was not willing to lose the packhorse and everything he had just bought in Coulson.

As quickly as he could, he backed out of the clump of service berries, dragging the deer's carcass with him. As soon as he reached a place in the bank where he could step down, he knelt and pulled the carcass to a point where he could get his shoulder under it, then stood up with the deer across his shoulders. Hurrying to his horse, he hefted the carcass across the paint's withers in front of his saddle, then climbed up himself.

Warriors searched the trees and bushes cautiously around the campsite, alert for any attack, while others examined the horse and supplies they found near the remains of a recent fire. Above the buzz of curious conversation, one of the Indians exclaimed suddenly, and when the others turned to see why he had shouted an alarm, they saw him pointing toward the river. To their surprise, a man dressed in animal skins forded the river, riding a paint pony, with the carcass of a deer draped across in front of the saddle. As he came closer, they realized that he was a white man, and the warriors quickly readied their weapons.

Luke held up his hands in a sign of peace, and called out to them in their native tongue, “You look like you have traveled hard and fast. I think you might want to stop at my camp and eat this fresh-killed deer to give you strength to continue your journey.” He continued to approach the astonished village with no sign of caution. “There is enough. I have killed another deer on the other side of the river, in the trees. You can send some of the younger boys to get it.”

While the others simply stood staring at the unexpected visitor, one warrior spoke out. “This white man is a fool. We will kill him and take his horses and his deer.” His remarks were followed by a general scattering of grunts of support.

“No, wait,” one of the Indians said. An elderly man who had come with them from the Little Big Horn after being separated from his village in the fighting there. “This man is not our enemy. His name is Dead Man, and he came to warn us when the soldiers attacked Two Moons's village on the Powder River.” Old Bear made his way through the people crowded around Luke's camp to greet him. “Welcome, Dead Man,” he called out. “Your gift is most welcome, too, for we have seen very little game in the last two days.”

Luke wondered if his immediate sigh of relief could be heard by the mob of Indians staring at him. His expression, however, conveyed no uncertainty. “Good to see you, Old Bear,” he said. “I was not there, but I have heard about the fight with the soldiers at Little Big Horn. I am glad to see that you are still well.”

The general tone of the people gathered around changed at once with the thought of roasting a couple of deer when seconds before they were preparing to fight. Luke slid the carcass off into the waiting hands of several women. Then he dismounted and led the paint over to his packhorse. A young man, who had been holding the gray's reins, handed them to Luke, smiling as he stepped away. Luke nodded in return, thinking that his gamble had saved his belongings as well as his scalp, but he was not sure it would have worked if Old Bear had not been there.

The carcass of Luke's other kill was retrieved, and they were both prepared for roasting. The Cheyenne party decided to make camp there for the night to enjoy the feast, and Luke talked long into the night with Old Bear and some of the other men. He learned of the battle at the Little Big Horn. Old Bear told him that they had been in a big camp with the Lakota villages of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. The soldiers were foolish to attack them, he said, for they were heavily outnumbered. “Where do you go now?” Luke asked.

“We know that the soldiers will come now in great numbers, too many for us to fight. Too many of our people, both Lakota and Cheyenne, have gone to the reservations to live on the white man's scraps instead of joining us in this fight. So we left the camp on the Little Big Horn and scattered so the soldiers can't chase us all.” To answer Luke's question, Old Bear told him they were heading north to Canada, planning to cross the Yellowstone at a place Luke knew as Canyon Creek. “We do not wish to fight any white men,” Old Bear said. “We will pass in peace if they will let us.”

The next morning as the Cheyenne were preparing to leave, two of the women came to Luke with the two deer hides rolled into a bundle. “You keep them,” he told them. “You will need them.” They thanked him and returned to their packing.

Old Bear came then to say good-bye. “The day of the Cheyenne is over,” he said. “The land that was ours since Man Above gave it to us is no longer ours to hunt in as He intended. You must decide which world you would belong to, the white man's or your Cheyenne brothers'. But if you choose to live with the people who raised you, Owl Woman's people, then you cannot stay here, for the white man will not let you.”

“You may be right,” Luke said, “but I must think about this some more. Maybe I'll see a sign that will tell me what I must do.”

It was obvious to Old Bear that Luke was not ready to join his party at this time. “Well,” he said in parting, “I wish you well, Dead Man. I hope you find your medicine soon.”

Luke remained by the campfire, watching until the last of the Indians had disappeared from his view. There was a feeling of sadness left with him after Old Bear had gone, for he could not help thinking about the plight of the Indian now that the white man had discovered the wealth of the plains and the mountains. Already the buffalo were all but wiped out, replaced on the Montana plains by cattle. The fertile river flats were staked out for farming.
So where does that leave you?
He couldn't say. He had lived like an Indian all his life, with the Cheyenne and the Crows, but he was born a white man, and the little bit of a white man's life he had seen during the last month had caused him to wonder. Suddenly he felt a strong desire to see Mary Beth again. He could not explain it. He just knew that it was important to him to make sure she was safe. He shrugged the feeling off, thinking it would pass, and began to prepare to move on to another part of the river, hoping to find the herd of deer again. When his packhorse was loaded and he had saddled the paint, he rode out of the camp, but instead of heading south, which was his original intention, he headed north, back the way he had come. “I guess I made a decision,” he told the paint.

Even as he rode back toward the Yellowstone, he was still trying to make up his mind if he was just being a fool. He didn't dare to imagine himself as anything more than a friend to her. After all, he surmised, she might be terrified to know he was even thinking about her, for he remembered how afraid of him she had been when they had first started out for the Yellowstone. He unconsciously reached up and felt his cheek with his fingertips. Why had she felt a compulsion to kiss him? Was it any more than a simple good-bye?
So, what am I going to do if I go back to that farm? What am I going to say is my reason for returning?
Still he rode on, lost in a feeling of helplessness, for he had never experienced these emotions before, emotions that most men had dealt with at a much younger age.

Chapter 12

“I declare,” Vienna Pitts proclaimed when she walked into the barn, “I believe you've got some kind of magic touch. That cow is givin' more milk than she ever has, ever since you've been doin' the milkin'.”

Mary Beth laughed. She did have a gentle touch that the cow seemed to appreciate, and consequently gave more milk. “I think she must be afraid of you,” Mary Beth suggested. She didn't go further with the thought, but she suspected it might be because the poor cow was in fear that the big woman with the rough hands might jerk one of her tits off.

“I don't know why she'd be afraid of me,” Vienna replied. “I ain't ever done nothin' to cause her to be.”

Mary Beth shrugged and changed the subject. “I'm about finished with the milking. As soon as I skim the cream, I'll fill the pan and go over to the house to churn it.”

“I wonder if Jack could make us a churn,” Vienna said. “His daddy keeps promisin' to make us one, but he doesn't ever get around to doin' it.”

“Too bad,” Mary Beth said. “I had a good one, but it got left behind with the wagon.” A brief reminder of that terrifying night flashed through her mind when Luke had instructed her to leave all that was unnecessary to their immediate survival with the wagon. It was only for an instant, however, and she said cheerfully, “We could probably make one ourselves.”

Vienna smiled broadly. “I reckon we could at that,” she said. “Hell, between the two of us, we can do most anything that John and the boy can do. You go on up to the house. I'll put that jug of blue-john in the spring box for you.”

Mary Beth skimmed the cream from the big pan of fresh milk and poured it into a smaller pan. She covered it with a cloth to keep the bugs out of it while she walked it across the garden to John and Doris's house. Both dwellings were built of logs, but they referred to John and Doris's as
the house
to distinguish it from their cabin. As she made her way across the rows in the garden, she smiled to herself. It had been a good thing to move in with Vienna. Both women thought so, for they were both hard workers and confident in their independence from men. Occasionally, Luke Sunday came to mind, usually when Vienna brought up his name, and she would pause to wonder where he was and what he was doing. Vienna insisted that he would one day return to see her, but she was not sure that was what she wanted. She had been widowed far too recently to think about life with another man.
It would be interesting, though,
she thought, then scolded herself for thinking it and offered a silent apology to her late husband. Even if it was merely idle speculation, she was afraid it would be impossible to break Luke to the matrimonial harness, if that was her objective. She would most likely have to head for the mountains every time she needed him, so she put it out of her mind as she came to the last rows of the garden. It was idle thinking, anyway. She was happy in her new role as a partner to Vienna.

Mary Beth walked in the kitchen door to find Doris soaking some beans for supper that night. “I came to borrow the churn,” she said, and set her pan on the kitchen table.

“Help yourself,” Doris replied cheerfully. “You know where it is.”

While Mary Beth was preparing her cream to be churned, young Jack came into the house, looking for a cold biscuit to carry him until suppertime. “Between you and your pa,” Doris commented casually, “it's a wonder there's ever anything like a cold biscuit around here.”

“It's your fault, Ma,” Jack responded. “You bake 'em too good.” He started to say more, but was stopped by something he saw through the open front door. “Who's that up at the road talkin' to Pa?”

His question got an immediate response from both women, for visitors were rare on their farm. All three went to the front door to see. “Nobody I've ever seen before,” Doris said as she squinted, trying to identify the two riders, leading two packhorses. “Probably somebody trying to find town and took the wrong road.” She continued to stare at the strangers, wondering if John was going to invite them to stop for a cool drink of water, or a cup of coffee. She hoped not, because she would have to hop pretty quickly to fix something. “They sure seem to be talking about something.”

Curious as well, Mary Beth was trying to decide if she had seen one of the men before. The large one with the full reddish-brown beard looked slightly familiar, and she wondered if he might have been one of the scouts that rode with General Crook. Probably not, she decided, for what would he be doing here? As they continued to watch, Jack decided to go out to join his father. He had started for the door when they were startled by a sudden discharge of a pistol. Before their horrified eyes, John Freeman doubled over and fell to the ground. The big man with the reddish beard pointed his pistol down at the body and fired another bullet into the mortally wounded man. Then both strangers turned to look toward the house.

“Pa!” Jack cried out, unable to believe what he had just witnessed. His mother screamed out her husband's name and sank down on her knees in horrified shock. Her son, distraught and confused, yelled out for his father again and started to run to help him.

“No! Jack, no!” Mary Beth screamed, and grabbed the boy by his arm. “They'll kill you, too!” Although as terrified as they were, she was sane enough to know that they were all going to lose their lives if they didn't do something to defend themselves. “It's too late to help your father now,” she told the boy. “We've got to save ourselves.” She looked around her frantically, searching desperately for something that would tell her what to do. “Guns!” she exclaimed. “Get John's guns! We have to keep them from coming after us.”

Jack ran to the front room and got the shotgun from over the fireplace, pausing only a second to look toward the road again to see if the two men were coming. When they did not immediately charge toward the house, taking their horses to the barn instead, he ran into the bedroom and got the sack of shotgun shells from the bottom drawer of the dresser. Then he loaded the gun and crouched at the front window, ready to shoot.

Mary Beth looked around at the doors and windows while trying to calm Doris, who was sobbing hysterically. She knew they could not defend themselves against the two men with only one shotgun. “Doris,” she pleaded, “we've got to get out of here.” She tried to lift the bereaved woman to her feet, but she was not strong enough to do it.

“They're comin'!” Jack called out from the front room when he saw them come out of the barn.

“Jack!” Mary Beth shouted. “Come help me with your mother!” When he ran to assist her, she said, “We can't stay here! Help me get her on her feet. We'll go out the back door and run to the cabin. We've got a better chance there. Vienna's got a rifle, and I have a pistol. We can defend ourselves there.”

Together, they got Doris on her feet and headed her toward the back door. Mary Beth took one last quick look out the front door to discover the two men cautiously approaching the house, no farther away than thirty or forty yards. “Run!” she told Jack and Doris, and they went out the back door. She was right behind them.

They were met almost in the middle of the garden by Vienna Pitts, who had heard the shots fired. “What is it?” Vienna cried, alarmed by the three fleeing for their lives. Gasping for breath, Mary Beth told her what had happened and urged her to run as well. “They shot John?” Vienna asked, scarcely able to believe it. She put her arm around Doris's waist to help support the devastated woman. “Come on,” she yelled to Mary Beth and Jack. “Get in the cabin and bar the doors! We can stand 'em off there.” Once back inside, she gave orders for their defense. “Mary Beth, take that window in the front room; Jack, take that shotgun and watch the side window. Doris, if I give you a pistol, can you sit by the window on the other side and sing out if they try to come in that way? With tears streaming down her cheeks, but no longer sobbing uncontrollably, she nodded and said that she could. “Good girl,” Vienna said. “I'll be watchin' the back door.” She stood firm for a moment, watching to see that everyone got in their places. “All right, good!” she said. “Let the bastards come.” She picked up her Winchester rifle and positioned herself by the door. They settled in for the siege they knew had to come. However, it did not come as soon as they expected.

Back at the house, Bogart and Wylie approached the front door, mindful of the windows and the potential for a rifle or shotgun to suddenly appear over the sill. Cautioning Wylie to be ready, Bogart prepared to kick the front door open. One sharp thrust from his heavy boot sent the door flying open. When there was no response from inside, he peeked around the doorframe. “There ain't nobody in there,” he called to Wylie. “I'm goin' in.” Wylie hesitated for a few moments, just in case Bogart missed someone hiding in a corner, and then followed him inside.

Like two bears at a campsite, the two killers ransacked the house, looking for anything of value, but hoping to find the treasure that Bogart had created in his mind. There was no fear of an ambush by Luke Sunday, for they had seen no sign of the paint pony that he always rode. In the corral behind the barn, they had discovered three horses, and the man out by the road had told them that Sunday had been there, but left several days before, and there was nothing of value inside his house. Convinced that the man was lying, Bogart had shot him. But now, after nearly destroying the cabin, Bogart was nearing a frenzy of frustration. “Where the hell is the rest of the family?” he wondered aloud. “That bastard didn't live here by hisself.”

“I expect they might be yonder,” Wylie said, peering out the back door. “Looks like another cabin down below that garden patch.”

The comment caught Bogart's immediate attention and he shoved past Wylie to see for himself. “By God, you might be right.” He stepped off the back stoop and walked to the edge of the garden. “Yes, sir,” he said with a malevolent grin, “that's where they are, all right. It looks like they ran a herd of cattle across them corn rows,” he said, looking at the obvious signs of their hurried escape. “Little footprints, too, like women leave.” He gave Wylie another grin. “Like that pretty little woman ridin' in that wagon that Luke Sunday ran off with. But Sunday ain't around, so they ain't got nobody to protect 'em from the bogeyman.” He laughed at his attempt at humor. “Let's go see if they ain't hidin' somethin' down there.”

They hadn't reached the halfway point in the garden when suddenly the blast of a shotgun came toward them, raining birdshot that clipped the young corn around them. Both men dived for protection behind a corn row. “Damn!” Bogart swore. “You hit, Wylie?”

“No,” Wylie answered. “Nowhere except on my arms.” He paused a minute to further examine himself. “Ain't nothin' bad. Wasn't nothin' but birdshot, and I reckon they's too far away. Stings like hell, though.”

Inside the cabin, Vienna was quick to tell Jack that he would have to let the men get closer before his shotgun would be effective. “I shoulda fetched the buckshot,” he said. “I was in too big a hurry.”

“That's all right,” Vienna told him. “It gave 'em somethin' to think about. They'll know better'n to come walkin' in this house.

Vienna was right. Flat on their bellies in the garden, Bogart and Wylie were rethinking their plan. It would seem to be no more than an inconvenience if the only weapon they had to worry about was a shotgun, and it firing birdshot to boot. Bogart, irritated to be held at bay by a bunch of women, decided to see if he could talk them out. “Hey, you in the cabin,” he yelled, “come on outside where we can see you, and won't nobody get hurt.”

“Hey, you in the corn patch,” Vienna yelled back, “go straight to hell.”

Further irritated with the response, Bogart roared, “You got a smart mouth on you, lady, and it might just get you in trouble. If you know what's good for you, you'll get yourself, and whoever else is in there, out where we can see you. We don't mean you no harm. We just want what we came for. You got money hid here, and the sooner you come up with it, the sooner we'll be on our way.”

“You don't mean us no harm?” Vienna echoed. “You've already killed one of us, so get on your horses and get off this land, you murderin' bastards.”

Bogart spoke softly to Wylie. “Back outta here and go around to the back.” When Wylie began inching backward, Bogart called out again. “Lady, you ain't thinkin' straight. Me and my partner are gonna start shootin' that cabin to pieces if you don't come outta there right now, and that little shotgun ain't gonna do you much good.”

“Is that a fact?” Vienna yelled. Then she moved up to the edge of the window and rested her rifle on the sill. “How 'bout a Winchester?” she asked as she fired off a round toward the sound of the voice. “Will that do any good?”

“You crazy bitch!” Bogart blurted when Vienna's rifle slug kicked up dirt a few feet from him, causing him to jump. Rapidly developing a rage, he pulled his rifle up and emptied the magazine, showering the window and door with lead that sent shards of wood flying from the window frame, and Vienna and Mary Beth to the floor for cover. By the time he finished reloading the empty magazine, he heard shots from Wylie's rifle at the back of the cabin. A few seconds later, answering fire came from the cabin from three different weapons: rifle, shotgun, and what sounded like a heavy revolver. There were at least three inside to contend with, and from the tracks he had seen in the garden, a couple of them had to be women. The one boot print had been not much bigger than the women's, from either a small man or a boy. It frustrated him to be held at bay by such a harmless bunch. Then, too, he had no way of knowing how many, and who, were already in the cabin. In frustration, he fired a few more rounds at the log cabin.
This ain't getting me anywhere,
he thought, so he backed away from the corn row and went to join Wylie behind the house.