The Indian Ring (23 page)

Less than a decade earlier, people started referring to killers, bank robbers, bandits, and the likes as owl hoots. Then, the expression started that someone was
riding the owl hoot trail
, meaning he'd left a straight and narrow path for the life of a criminal. A cowboy in the Indian territory in 1870 explained that Indians used the sounds of hooting like owls to signal to each other when white men they were going to go into battle with were nearby. Some cowboys started calling them owl hoots, and because of so much being done in the shadows by criminals the nickname got transferred to them.

Robert Hartwell, on the other hand, was not frightened. He felt he was too superior to Joshua Strongheart. In his eyes, Joshua was impure, a half-breed. While it was a major source of pride for Strongheart to be that way, to a racist and elitist like Hartwell, it was disgusting. He often described Joshua Strongheart, not by his name, but as “that blanket nigger,” or that “red nigger.” However, Hartwell always thought he was superior to any man. The fact that he was very tiny and slight and plain-looking while Strongheart was very tall, muscular, and handsome, increased the hatred all the more.

As Joshua rode forward on his proud, prancing mount, Eagle, he understood this about Robert Hartwell. He knew this man was singularly responsible, probably even more than William W. Belknap, for building and strengthening the Indian Ring. The Indian Ring really was strengthened by the inaction or head-turning of some in the halls of power in Washington, D.C. Some invested money in the many larcenous Indian Ring trading posts operated by crooked handpicked sutlers. Belknap may have been the commanding general who got the credit or blame for the infamous Indian Ring, but Hartwell was his command sergeant major. He ran the operation, and he expanded the scope of the racist organization, which became an embarrassment, actually a disgrace and black mark
on the U.S. government. Those who turned their heads in Congress and in the Grant administration were either investors, friends of investors, racists, or extremely selfish people in power who did not care about the decimation of the red man just so inroads could be made into their territory for westward expansion or mining exploration.

Joshua Strongheart rode that gulch toward a confrontation with pure evil times two. He found their tracks. Robert Hartwell had decided they should return to Cañon City, so he could recruit a new gang of toughs and then go after Strongheart again. They were exiting Pine Gulch, and Joshua assumed they would turn north toward Cañon City when they got back to Grape Creek.

He started galloping Eagle north, crossing over ridges at low points and saddles. His horse was half-Arabian and could go for hours in this heat without breaking a sweat. Often Eagle had walked other horses into the ground trying to keep up with him all day. On top of that, Hartwell and Marks could only travel as fast as Brandy's speed walking would allow. Joshua knew that Robert Hartwell would not even consider letting Brandy ride double with him. He was too haughty and above anybody else in his mind.

Strongheart would be waiting for them once again when they came northeast along Grape Creek and the showdown would happen. Joshua decided if he ever survived anything in his life, he must survive this fight. He was representing his mother's people. He was representing his father's people. He represented the country he loved. He knew there were horrible things perpetrated by people in America, such as broken treaties, slavery, and many types of discrimination. He also experienced discrimination and hurtful, hateful remarks toward him at times in his life, by not only white children and adults, but red ones as well. Why? Because those narrow-minded
people saw him as a half-breed, a mongrel. He took great pride in the blood that coursed through his veins, and he knew that America became great because of the assimilation of many societies all poured into the one giant melting pot called America. He decided one of the factors that made America a great nation was because it was a nation of mongrels like him. He felt that his mother was one of the best examples white society could offer, and he also felt like the father he never met was one of the best examples that red society could offer. This tall, good-looking Pinkerton agent had a noble profession, and now he was on his most noble mission. He did not hate Robert Hartwell. He wondered what could possibly motivate a man to be so evil. However, he felt he was on a mission to strike down hatred. The gun hand with Hartwell, in Joshua's mind, was as guilty as Robert Hartwell because he enabled the hatred to continue instead of fighting against it.

Robert Hartwell and Brandy Marks came around a bend a few miles south of Cañon City. The sun was straight overhead, and a pair of breeding golden eagles sailed on the thermals high overhead. In lazy arcs, they swirled around watching the battle brewing down below. They saw Joshua Strongheart standing in the middle of the gulch. Eagle was ground-reined under some trees one hundred yards away. He wore his six-shooter, held his carbine in his left hand, and had another Colt .45 belly gun tucked into his gun belt in the front. So here it was. If Hartwell or Marks stopped now, they would be thought of as yellow, so, unspeaking, both kept moving forward, inching forward toward an appointment with destiny. They stopped at thirty feet.

Strongheart said, “You have a fine horse, Hartwell. I will hold fire, if you want to let him move away.”

This actually made sense to the outlaw leader, and he dismounted and removed the bridle, hanging it over the
saddle horn. Eagle gave a whinny and the big black horse trotted to him, and the two started sniffing each other. They soon were grazing side by side.

Strongheart said, “Hartwell, the one thing you have done good is take good care of that horse.”

The little man thought that it was a correct statement and made sense. It was all he cared about.

Joshua said, “Did you notice that your horse is not pure white? It is pure black. You notice that mine is black and white, and you can look at them. They are getting along fine, grazing side by side. Too bad you never noticed things like that in your life before now. I will tell you this: When you are dead, I will see the horse goes to an owner that will care for it really well.”

A shiver went down Hartwell's spine, and he did not know how to respond. He now suddenly felt fear, so he lashed out. Hartwell simply yelled, “You go to hell, Strongheart!”

Joshua said, “Nope, be too crowded in one minute with you two there.”

That was their signal and all three seemed to start their draw simultaneously, and Joshua's gun boomed first. Then he fanned his and felt his left leg jerked backward as a bullet slammed into his shinbone. His leg really hurt, but he refused to go down and kept firing. He hit Brandy Marks in the stomach with the first shot, and the man was struggling and panicking trying to get his wind back. The pain was the worst he'd ever felt.

He looked at Hartwell, who had started tearing at his shirt, his eyes bugged out in panic and terror. He saw a bleeding bullet hole in his left chest and another in his lower abdomen above the groin. He could not breathe, but suddenly he could.

Looking at Strongheart he said, in shock and disbelief, “I'm going to die!”

Joshua said, “You wanted to hate. You're going to get plenty of hate where you're going. You deserve to die, Hartwell.”

Robert Hartwell felt the worst fear he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back in his head and his face slammed into a rock as he fell forward.

Brandy stared daggers at Joshua as he crumpled into a sitting position, holding his intestines in with both hands.

“You kilt me, Strongheart, damn you to hell,” he said, with blood and some greenish liquid trickling out of his mouth. Then he looked over at Hartwell's body and added, “Well, I rode for the brand.”

Strongheart said. “You picked the wrong brand to ride for, stupid.”

Marks grinned, looked back at the victor, and nodded affirmatively, shrugged his shoulders, and fell forward on his face, dead.

•   •   •

It was late afternoon when Joshua Strongheart, bandage and splint on his lower left leg, rode across the Arkansas a little above the walking bridge. He led the big black Thoroughbred and his pack horse through the cooling rapid water, and over to the Hot Springs Hotel. There was a small crowd waiting to greet him.

His boss, Lucky DeChamps, was there with a cane, Andy Vinnola, Zach Banta, and several deputies and friends he had made. Joshua rode up to them, and they were grinning.

Andy spoke first saying, “Those three you let go were picked up by us as soon as they crossed the river. They are at the jail and have been singing like canaries. They told us about what you did.”

Lucky said, “Another bullet?”

Strongheart looked down at his leg and chuckled, saying, “Another scar.”

Lucky laughed.

He said, “Where is Hartwell's body? I assume you keeled him, too,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Strongheart grinned. “Sorry, boss, didn't want to load the body. I got a bullet in my shinbone, and besides I figured that buzzards, coyotes, and worms need to eat, too.”

Another tall, handsome man stepped out from behind Lucky wearing a broad smile. It was Strongheart's friend, Chris Colt. He stepped forward and the two shook hands, nodding in mutual understanding that only two warriors could comprehend.

He said quietly, “The people want to know what you say, Joshua.”

Strongheart grinned and said, “Tell the chiefs, it is done, my friend. Sorry for the friends you lost, Chris, but I'm glad that Crazy Horse sat on you.”

Chris nodded and shook again, and walked away toward his horse. Soon, the leaders of several red nations would have the news that the leaders of the Indian Ring were no more.

Lucky said, “We need to get you to the doctor.”

Joshua handed the lead line of the pack horse to his boss, and held the lead line now to the big black Thoroughbred.

He said, “I have to run an errand, Lucky. I'll meet you at the sheriff's office.”

Strongheart said to Zach, “Zach, there's a good half dozen saddle horses grazing up in Reed Gulch just waiting for some rancher to take them in and give them a home. I'm sure you can find one for them.”

Zach, grinning, said, “Wal, I reckon they might like livin' up yonder with them Black Mountain cowboys, if them horses don't mind not bein' chased by a durned posse every
month. Ya know some horses get used to that excitement and die of boredom when they jest have to chase cows and such.”

He winked at Strongheart.

Lucky took the line and rode away from the hotel.

Fifteen minutes later, Strongheart rode into Scottie Middleton's. The young man was digging holes for his aunt in her flower garden, when she and the boy looked up and saw Strongheart ride up leading the big black Thoroughbred.

Joshua said, “Mount up.”

The horse was so tall Scottie had to grab the skirt above the stirrup, jump up, put his knee in the stirrup and pull himself up so he could grab the saddlehorn. Then, he quickly replaced his right knee with his left foot, swung his right leg up and over the saddle. His aunt had tears in her eyes.

Strongheart said, “A man needs a horse, not a pony. He's yours.”

Scottie got tears in his eyes and said, “Thanks, Mr. Strongheart! Thank you. Thank you! What's his name?”

Joshua grinned, saying, “Whatever you want it to be.”

Scottie smiled and said, “I'm going to name him after you!”

Joshua said, “Strongheart?”

“No,” Scottie said, “I'm going to call him Hero.”

Strongheart got a lump in his throat and winked at Scottie, tipped his hat to the woman, and rode away at a trot.

He really felt pain in his shin now, and wondered if he got into ragweed, too. His eyes were burning a little and watering a little bit.

He rode toward his meeting with his boss, where he would get his leg nursed and find out what his next adventure would be.

Joshua Strongheart knew one thing. He felt really good about himself.

All the items mentioned about William W. Belknap in this novel were true historical facts.

Additionally, Beautiful Woman's recounting of the Battle of the Little Big Horn was based on research I have done by checking into the true accounting of the battle. Instead of reading remarks from those wanting to fulfill presidential aspirations or rewriting military history, I read an accounting and statements by the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho who actually took part in the battle. They were there, and these were people who did not even have a word in their language for lying. They are Americans, too. Our government has sometimes forgotten that fact. Sitting Bull did, in fact, take part in a sun dance ceremony shortly before the battle, did cut fifty pieces of flesh, and did have the vision described where many soldiers appeared with their heads toward the inside of the circle of lodges, meaning they were killed by the red combatants.

Additionally, George Armstrong Custer did cut his hair
short before the battle because his wife had had a nightmare seeing a Lakota warrior holding his scalp high in the air. He carried the shorn locks in his pocket, and the Lakota did not even know he was there until after the battle. Tom Custer's body was found with his heart removed, and Rain-in-the-Face did cut it out and eat it, as he promised he would.

Zachariah Banta in Cotopaxi was real, and many of his descendants had that same quick wit, dry humor, and ran cattle all around the Cotopaxi area for many decades before finally moving the ranching operation to southwestern Texas in the early twenty-first century via Zach's great-great-great-grandson Byk Banta. Byk still runs his cattle ranching operation from the back of a horse.

Sheriff Frank Begley was the sheriff of Fremont County, Colorado territory in the 1870s, one of many in a long line of fine lawmen in southern Colorado.

The Underground Railroad was real and enabled thousands of escaped slaves to be channeled into northern cities and Canada.

Except for Brenna Alexander's home and other obvious exceptions, all the locations and local histories mentioned herein were actual places and many still exist today. I have ridden my horse over almost every piece of land mentioned in this book and in my other westerns, so you will know it is real and not a Hollywood movie set. Please come along and join in sharing with me the rest of the tales about Pinkerton agent Joshua Strongheart in his future adventures also from Berkley, a division of Penguin Random House. Strongheart's friend Chris Colt was the hero of ten westerns I also wrote for Berkley's parent company, Penguin, and they have all been rereleased in eBook format by Speaking-Volumes.net. Chris Colt will be featured in future Strongheart novels, too. Watch for the fourth novel in the Strongheart series,
The Rider of
Phantom Canyon
, which will be coming along before you know it.

Family illnesses and the subsequent passing of my wife kept this sequel from being published closer to
Strongheart
and
Blood Feather
, but hopefully that is all behind us now and you will be seeing more from Strongheart very soon.

Until then, partner, keep your powder dry, an eye on the horizon, an occasional glance at your backtrail, and sit tall in the saddle. It does not matter if your saddle is a computer desk chair, La-Z-Boy, porch swing, or deck chair on a cruise ship. Many of us grew up with the spirit of the American cowboy and pioneer woman. It is good to keep a door to our past open, so we know where our strength, courage, and tenacity came from. It is the legacy of honor forged from the steel characters blessed by God, who created some of his mightiest warriors in the American west. It is indeed the backbone of America. To this day racism is still a problem in some quarters in America, and it is also a convenient excuse for those who want to stir up trouble for political gain.

If you need me, I will be on my horse up in the high lonesome coming up with more stories for you. That is where I get my tales. They are up there above the timberline written on the clouds, and I swear that handwriting looks
perfect.