Medicine Road (25 page)

There could be only one reason for the mountain
man's presence. He meant, somehow, to sneak in
and release that damned brat of Lacey's. That gave
Tim his idea. The idea was a revolutionary one for a
totally bad man, but Tim O'Mara was a born revolutionist. If he could some way beat Jesse Callahan to
that triumph, could in some way manage to free the
boy and return him to the white settlements, he
would then be in a position to share in some of the
hump fat of heroism that would undoubtedly reward that rescue.

The hog's bulk of Tim's body was free of the fat of
sentiment. The Mormon hireling would as quickly
have shot the boy as saved him, providing the pay
was better that way. As it was, if he could get the
captive boy out of the Arapaho camp, Tim would be
as welcome in the white settlements as salt in a thin
stew, and not just welcomed but in all likelihood
pardoned for his apparent part in the Wild Horse
Bend massacre. As far as his own bulging neck went,
Tim was gambling less than nothing in any attempt
he might make to free Lacey's boy. His Arapaho
brothers were carrying him along only until they
might find the time to serve him up in style-the Indian taste for traitor meat being what it was. On this score the captive white man had no illusions, nor
was the worry attendant on that score any great
problem. The only problem in Tim's whole, sly
world at the moment was how to break away with
that little red-haired drip-nose of Lacey's. Come
sundown that afternoon at Portola Springs that
problem would be taken care of, too, and along this
latter line the Mormon had some particular ideas.

Skull, his constant guard, had always had a sort of
mutual rascal's admiration for the squat renegade.
In matters of tactical execution-the business of
how best to incise a scalp skin for the neatest removal of the hair; how, most cleanly, to cut a live victim's tongue out, or burn his toes off while not
damaging the main foot in the least; how, with the
greatest efficiency, to open an opponent's bowels in
dark-of-the-moon knife fighting, and such other little vital niceties of frontier survival-in such matters
the settlement-bred Big Face was an acknowledged
genius. In his youthful, fresh way, Skull looked up
to Tim. His was the clean-cut, clear-eyed, inspired
admiration of the ambitious tyro for the finished
master butcher.

Of late, this touching admiration of Skull's had
taken the course of allowing his bull-shouldered
charge camp freedom at the end of the day's ride. At
the same time. Tim was not entirely dazzled by this
generous treatment. To the student of red psychology of Tim's rank, the motives of Watonga's protege
in this apparent kindly action must bear yet a bit
more probing. There was always the matter of
counting the big coup. Bored with the routine dullness of mothering a doomed captive, helpless and
with his feet tied, the young brave had begun turning Tim loose in the hope the desperate white man might make a break for freedom. Although it went
by the name of Comanche charity among the plains
tribes, ley de fuga by any other name was the same
law. A prisoner ran-he got shot. And nohetto, there
you were. Oh, maybe not shot. Maybe knifed, or
lanced, or skull clubbed. Whatever looked like the
most fun at the moment. Anyway, killed. And with
that, wagh! You had your coup. Always remembering that where the guard was a young man without
particular reputation, and the prisoner was a rascal
of Big Face's considerable record, it wasn't just an
ordinary one. It was the big coup.

The Arapahoes surprised the captive emigrant
guide by halting early, five miles short of Portola
Springs, surprised and delighted him. An advance
scout party had ridden back from Crow Mesa, a
high, barren grassland that formed one wing of
Coulter's Meadow, with the news of a fine herd. Watonga had ordered his lodge up on the spot, called
an immediate council. After a brief session with his
sub-chiefs, it was decided not to try for the buffalo
until tomorrow. Meat and powder were both too
low. No chances of a hurried or careless stalk were
to be considered.

Gray Bear and Elk Runner, the senior hunters,
were sent out to tail the herd and figure the best
plan for tomorrow's hunt. The rest of the camp busied itself readying weapons, cutting favored ponies
out of the horse herd, staking them close in to the
cooking fires for quick use in the morning. Old pte
was best hunted in the misty hours, and from the
backs of fresh, strong ponies.

The unexpected confusion of preparation wasn't
the only smile fortune had ready for the hapless
Tim. Johnny O'Mara was kept pretty much to Wa tonga's lodge, within hand's reach of his fierce red
foster mother. In this camp, the chief's lodge had
been pitched against a heavy fringe of cedar
timber-timber that stretched, unbroken, along the
canon's floor for the back four miles of trail. And,
now, Tall Elk was hustling overtime, completely
busy with the dressing of the last of the meat and
the heating of the tunkes (red-hot stones, dropped in
the paunch skin cooking bags to heat the water for
boiling meat) for the pre-hunt feast.

There was but a short half hour of weak daylight
remaining. If Tim could elude Skull, snatch Johnny
out of Black Coyote's lodge, and get into the dark
timber, it might go many minutes before either fugitive was missed. Minutes in which fast horses could
be snaked out of the pony herd. Snaked out and
scrambled astride of. Scrambled astride of and
kicked in the rump. And quirted for their scrubby
lives down the back trail.

Given twenty minutes' start, full night would
come before any considerable pursuit could catch
up mounts and get on the trail. Given full night and
two fast ponies, Tim would smile about his chances
of keeping Watonga's coyotes from cornering him
and Lacey's kid. He was a real lad, Tim O'Mara. One
with a big head. The marrow fat in those sly skull
bones had greased his way out of more than one
narrow squeak in his twenty-odd years of dealing
with such as Black Coyote. Woyuonihan! Tim respected himself.

With daylight, once well away from his pursuers,
he and Johnny could hole up, riding nights only. Or
even walking, if it came to that. In any event, making it safely into old Bridger's fort with the cursed
kid alive and unharmed. If they should encounter Jesse Callahan along the escape trail, all right. If
they didn't, all right, too. Either way, the desperate
long bow that the renegade had drawn on his
chance to avoid certain destruction at the hands of
his former red fellows and to win a haven of safety
and forgiveness with the frontier whites at Fort
Bridger would bury its arrow to the fletching in the
fleeting and tricky target of complete success. Humhun-he! Pay the brave honors to Tim O'Mara, you
red heyokas. There was a real chief, that Big Face.
Even if he had to say it himself!

The condemned Mormon could see the holes in
the blanket of his plan quite easily. They were as
plain as the pock pits on a Pawnee's nose. Even so, a
man in Tim O'Mara's position couldn't look too
closely at a plot's complexion. Given one was dealing with captors like Tall Elk and Watonga, his best
chance in a year of waiting wouldn't pile any higher
than two bone-dry buffalo chips.

When Skull finally untied him to let him off the
pony, Tim put on a good act of being mortally
weary. Crawling weakly over to it, he collapsed beside a down log whose butt lay hidden in the fringing woods not thirty paces from Black Coyote's
lodge. In turning around three times, like a choosy
dog before lying down, the captive was careful to
select a final spot where his outflung right hand lay
less than inches away from a broken cedar snag,
thick as a man's wrist, two feet long, sun-dried to
iron hardness.

Skull, lance-scar grin going full blast, idled over
and slumped on the far side of the log. A great actor,
Skull. One of the best. In twenty seconds his snores
were rattling the cones off half the cedars in the forest. Back of the snores, his pouchy eyes showed a hairline slit of glittering pupil between the heavyclosed lids. Wagh, what the hell? Skull always slept
with the eyes a little open.

To Tim, lying panther-tight on the far side of the
log, it made no difference if Skull were really asleep
or not. He would be in a minute.

The renegade's eyes flicked left, out across the
busy camp, right, over to the chief's deserted lodge,
back again to the cedar chunk at his slack fingertips.
Skull had time to pop his eyes open-if not his
mouth. The cedar chunk bounced off his parchmentwrinkled temple, backed by an arm and shoulder of
bear-like power and weight. Skull went down behind the log, scarred grin working widely and
loosely, empty eyes staring straight up, dead as a
water rat in a blacksnake's belly.

Tim shaded thirty seconds getting over that log,
grabbing Skull's trade musket and knife. Bellying
into the cedar tangle, he cat-footed his way up to the
back of Watonga's lodge. Once there, the business of
slitting the rear skins and popping through into the
lodge's interior added another five seconds.

"Psstt. Shut up, Johnny," he hissed at the startled
boy. "It's me, Tim. Come on, boy. You and me are
getting outen here. You grab my shirt tail and foller
along. Jump it now, and no noise!"

Johnny, rolling up off the pile of buffalo robes
he'd been lying on, started crawling toward the
waiting Tim. Halfway he stopped, felt inside the
front of his faded shirt, started crawling back
toward the robes.

Tim was after him like a light streak, nailing him
as he reached the furry pile. "You damn' little louse
head. What're you up to? One damn' peep outen
you, boy, and I'll brain you."

"I ain't going to peep, Tim," the boy whispered. "I
got to get something. It must've slid out of my
shirt...." He was rummaging in the robes as he
talked, coming up shortly with a bright Green River
skinning blade. "Here it is, Tim. See?"

"Come on, boy. Crawl after me. And, remember,
you make a sound and we're both shot and scalped."

Johnny nodded, big-eyed, scrambling across the
lodge floor to follow his rescuer through the knife
slit. His feet were just disappearing through it when
the teepee entrance behind him grew black against
the graying twilight.

In Tall Elk's hand was a short stone maul used in
pounding the dried buffalo beef before throwing it
into the paunch skin to boil. Indian-wise, the squaw
made no outcry, slipped back out the front flap of
the lodge and on around its side, gliding soundlessly as some monstrous black ferret.

The Arapaho woman had not seen Tim, expected
only to startle the white boy in a clumsy escape try.
The training of a chief's son could not begin too
early. Ya Slo must be taught that a good warrior always looked to his rear the last thing. She came
powder-stepping around the lodge as the Mormon,
meaning to carry the excited boy the first part of the
way, was swinging Johnny over his shoulder.

With the game in full sight, Tall Elk broke her silence. The first hint Tim had that his scheme had lost
the blessing of Wakan Tanka was the explosive grizzly snarl of the Arapaho war challenge. This cry, patterned after the coughing roar of the wounded
silvertip, short, harsh, deep bass, was like no other
sound on the plains. Hearing it, the white renegade
wheeled in time to see the immense squaw towering
over him, buffalo maul back swung for the real coup.

Tim O'Mara's erratic mind was faulty only on the
longer hauls. In short spells it worked like gun
grease in a dry barrel. Rolling backward, he twitted
the slight form of the boy between himself and the
striking squaw. Tall Elk, swerving her falling arm to
avoid braining Johnny, was thrown off balance.

Instantly the burly Mormon had her locked in a
bear grip, the two of them rolling and growling in
the flying cedar needles with all the fury of fighting
dogs. Johnny, scudding free of the tangle, dove for
the sanctuary of the teepee slit, making it just as Watonga and a dozen braves swept around the lodge.

Their arrival saved nobody's skin but Tim
O'Mara's. Unable to unsheath the knife he had
stolen from Skull, he had lost his own grip on Tall
Elk's maul arm. The raging squaw was on the point
of pulverizing the renegade's head when Black Coyote and his warriors piled into the melee.

It took a good half of the braves to seize and subdue Tall Elk, the remaining half surrounding the recumbent Tim. The white man lay where he was,
making noble effort not to twitch an eye, knowing
the least move might put his trigger-nerved, erstwhile business associates on top of him.

The squaw was raving out her story to Watonga,
and, when she had finished, the huge chief nodded
to the Mormon.

"You heard the woman, Big Face. But you tell
great stories, too. Good for a laugh, always. So talk
now. Now it is your turn. A laugh is never bad before
food. Go on. Our ears are uncovered. Let the braves
have a laugh before they put their lances through
your liver."

Tim ran his eyes around his audience, found it
creepily attentive. Licking his thick lips, he arose and stepped forward, raising his right arm in the
gesture used to request polite listening.

The glitter-eyed circle laughed, nodding the one
to the other. Waste, good. Old Big Face was all right.
He wasn't going to cheat them. He was a real talker.
You had to admit that. A real windbag. And no can'l
wanka, no coward. Not Big Face. H'g'un, courage,
Big Face! Go on.

In the moment of silence before he began talking,
the Mormon traitor made his gamble and played it.
It was dark now. Skull's death might well go unnoticed until morning. He had cached his guardian's
gun back in the timber, had his knife hidden under
his shirt. Wagh! Short odds, sure. So what? All a man
had left now was his mouth.

"I grew lonely with only Skull to be with. None of
you, my true cousins, would talk to me. A lonely man
longs for talk. And then I thought of the boy in the
teepee. My heart is big for a man child, like any Arapaho's. That big. This Tall Elk will let no one near the
boy. And as you know this boy is the son of my white
squaw. I thought the boy would want to talk, too, to
hear his own tongue. Skull left me, saying he was going back in the timber and make a buffalo dream for
tomorrow. Skull honors me. You all know that. So I
gave him my honor word. But I was lonely. So I came
to the boy. The squaw was working in front so I had
to come in the back. Nohetto, there you are."