Shortgrass Song (41 page)

“We ought to bring some eggs for the missus,” Caleb added. “They ain't got no chickens up there.” He was eager to make the Hutchinson family his audience. He didn't mind riding through three hours of snow to have people listen to him play. He was glad the Smiley boys were at the White Rock Camp so he wouldn't have to share the audience with them. Besides, Ben was right, they were bad caterwaulers.

José García was pulling on his boots.

“Get some stew,” Mose said. “Then we'll go. Better bring blankets for the horses. They ain't got no shed.”

FORTY-SIX

Mary Hutchinson had put the children to bed early so she could rig something for Christmas. She stitched up the seams of her daughters' dirty little rag dolls, assembled some chipped cups and saucers for a tea set, and turned the tops of a pair of Henry's old boots into leather handbags with straps of plaited horsehair. She almost cried when she arranged the meager Christmas truck.

“Maybe we could tell them we figured wrong,” Henry suggested, “and Christmas is yet a week away. Maybe the freight will come by then.”

“Oh, Henry, they're not stupid. They know it's Christmas.”

Mary had a way of making him feel every little inconvenience was his fault. After all, he had brought them to this land of no trees and no people. But Henry knew it was the best natural grazing land in the world, and someday they would all reap the benefits of his dreams. His herds would multiply on free government grass. He would trade the sod house for a frame mansion with three bedrooms and a parlor. His daughters would go to college back east. Little Hank would boss a hundred cowhands. And they would all brag about the hardships they had endured.

In the meantime Henry had done everything he could think of to make Christmas pleasant. He had killed an antelope to roast. He had driven a wagon all the way down to the main branch of the Cimarron and brought back a load of wood so the children could gather around a real popping wood fire instead of a smoldering blaze of cow chips and twisted grass. He had knocked a board off the wheelbarrow and was, even now, whittling it into the form of a little rifle for Hank to play with.

“Well, the stuff will get here sooner or later,” he said. “Just think how happy they'll be to get treats when it isn't Christmas or somebody's birthday or anything.”

Mary didn't answer. She dropped her busy hands to her lap, turned her head to one side, and stared into a dark corner.

Henry looked at her. “You hear me? I say just think…”

Mary shushed him and held one finger in the air. “I heard something out there.”

“What could you possibly hear out there? The wind maybe.”

“No, I swear. I heard singing.”

Henry laughed. “Singing? By who? Christmas angels?”

But then Henry heard it, too. The voices of joy incarnate. Falsettos hooting to the rhythm of hoofbeats on the gallop.

“Who could it be?” Henry asked. He put the toy rifle down and reached for the real one on the mantel.

“It's got to be the Cimarron boys,” Mary said.

Henry took his hand down from the mantel. She was right. The Cimarron boys, God bless them. No one else around. The hooves were outside now, the voices still yelping joy.

“Henry, maybe the freight got through. The boys are bringing the presents!”

She reached for the latch, but the door burst in on her. It ripped free of the leather hinges, crashed against her head, and knocked her to the floor. Behind it came a coil of cold wind and the beard—the black beard matted with tallow and dirt.

Henry reached for his rifle, but bullets carried his blood into the sod chimney.

The matted beard clambered in over the door, pressing the breath out of the unconscious woman under it. He tore the curtain down from the corner. Two beds behind it. One of the girls had jumped out of her bed, into her sister's, he thought. Good. They made better targets together. Twin shots made his ears ring.

The Indians streamed in, still hooting. They picked the door up off the woman, howled for joy, and began cutting her clothes off. Barely conscious, she moaned and groped at the cloth they tore away. One Indian accosted the matted beard, who simply sank to the hearth beside Henry's body and sighed.

A short, ugly white man stumbled in over the Indians. “Kicking Dog's mad, Angus. Wants to know why you went and killed those girls.”

Angus took the rifle down from the fireplace hearth and handed it to Kicking Dog. “I told him we were after guns, not girls. Kids would just slow us down, and I hate a squallin' kid. I saved him the woman, didn't I? Tell him that.”

The translator had words with Kicking Dog. “He wants to know where the rest of the guns are.”

Angus picked up the carved replica Henry had made for Little Hank. He held it toward the Indian. “Here, take this one.”

Kicking Dog slapped it to the floor.

“Don't make him mad, Angus. Damn it, don't rile him.”

Angus laughed. “Oh, hell, Shorty, don't let him scare you. Tell him to look for the damned guns. There must be some more.”

The translation was made, and Kicking Dog ordered his four braves to find the guns. They argued, for their woman was almost naked now, but Kicking Dog insisted. They tore through shelves and drawers, threw blankets out of the cedar chest.

Angus stoked the fireplace as if he lived there. “Tell Kicking Dog I was right about Christmas Eve, Shorty. George Washington attacked the redcoats on Christmas Eve. Never knew what hit 'em. Damned Indians ought to learn to fight in winter.”

One of the braves hollered. He had found a revolver. But Kicking Dog was enraged.

“He's still mad, Angus. Says you promised bigger guns.”

“I thought they were buffalo hunters. I didn't know it was a family. Tell him next time I'll get him buffalo guns. Who the hell does he think I am? Santa Claus?” Angus laughed at himself through his matted beard.

An Indian kicked snow into the doorway and jabbered something to Kicking Dog.

Shorty's eyes bulged. “He says somebody's comin'! Eight riders, Angus!”

“Shit!” Angus jumped up. “Tell them Indians to git back to the Territory! Who in hell is out ridin' tonight?”

Mary Hutchinson was starting to regain consciousness when two of the braves grabbed her by the feet to drag her outside.

“No, not the woman!” Angus shouted. “No time!” He pushed the braves away from her and clubbed her savagely with his rifle butt, caving her head in.

FORTY-SEVEN

Caleb knew something was wrong the moment he saw the light from the open door of the Hutchinson house. His harmonica stopped playing and the singing died around him. Mose drew his pistol and spurred his horse. The cowboys charged the sod shanty and surrounded it.

Mose was the first in. Ben and Caleb went in after him, brandishing their revolvers. José García and the rest of the boys stopped to check the bloody body of the woman for signs of life.

“Oh, my God,” Ben said. “My God, they killed 'em all.”

Caleb thought he might throw up. The inside of the sod house swam before his eyes. “Who did it?”

“Had to be Indians,” Mose grumbled. “They was just here. We didn't give 'em time to scalp.” He looked down on the bodies of the two girls. “They must have taken the boy with 'em.”

“We've got to go after 'em,” Ben said. “There must be less of them than us, if we ran 'em off. Let's go git the bastards, Boss, they got Little Hank.”

“We'll git 'em. Let the moon rise so we can follow the trail. Look for the boy. He may have hid.”

“I hope so,” Caleb said. He avoided looking at the murdered girls and crouched between the beds to look under them.

The boy came scrambling out like a mouse, dashed for the door, then turned back when he saw the rest of the cowboys coming in. He darted around inside the house, terrified. Mose grabbed for him but missed. He turned into the corner beside the fireplace, crashing into pots and pans, cowering on the floor.

“Don't move!” Ben said. “Nobody move, you'll spook him.” He eased toward the frightened boy. “It's okay now, Little Hank,” he said, holding his arms open as if herding a calf. “Them Indians are gone. It's just us boys. You remember me. It's ol' Thin Ben. I let you ride my horse, remember? Look, here's Caleb. Remember the fiddle player?”

The boy shivered in the corner but glanced at Caleb and nodded.

“Come here and let ol' Thin Ben take care of you. Them Indians are plumb gone now.”

The boy suddenly jumped up and ran at Ben, wrapping his arms around his neck and his legs around Ben's skinny waist.

“Cover his folks up,” Ben said. “For God's sake, cover 'em up. Caleb, put a blanket over his sisters.”

The boys picked up blankets from the cedar chest and covered the bloody bodies.

“It's all right now, Hank. Them Indians are far away by now.”

“They weren't all Indians,” the boy said in a detached little voice.

The cowboys stopped and stared in wonder at the boy.

“The big one was called Angus, and the little one was called Shorty,” Little Hank said.

“Were they white men?” Mose asked. “Jones, ask him if they were white men.”

“Were they, Hank?” Ben asked, patting the boy's back. “Were they white men?”

The boy nodded.

“How many Indians were with 'em?” Mose asked.

“How many, Hank? Do you remember how many Indians?”

The boy shook his head. “A lot.”

“Did they say any Indian names?” Mose asked.

The boy buried his face in Ben's neck and muttered.

“What did he say?” Mose asked.

“He said, ‘Kicking Dog.'”

Caleb gasped. “I knew an Indian called Kicking Dog,” he said. “When I was about as big as him.” He pointed at Hank. “He was Arapaho, but he rode with the Cheyenne dog soldiers.”

“Maybe another Indian with the same name,” Mose said. “Don't matter. We'll git 'em. Jones, you'll take that boy back to the ranch. Frazer, you and Kid Loftus go with him. Bring a wagon back here in the mornin' for the bodies.”

“What about the rest of us?” Lee Silvers asked.

“Silvers, Garcia, Parker, Holcomb—you'll follow the trail with me. By God, we'll git 'em. Let's lay the bodies out straight before we leave. They'll git stiff. Better put the door back on, too. Wolves.”

FORTY-EIGHT

There were no landmarks for Caleb. Even the moon was useless, hanging directly overhead. Only stiff needles of grass stuck out of the snow.

Mose and his men had followed the trail of the seven murderers for hours at a trot. It was easy to see in the snow and moonlight. Caleb didn't know where they were, or in which direction they rode, but he assumed they were heading south and east, toward the unassigned strip of the Indian Territory between Texas and Kansas known as No Man's Land. Maybe they were already there. Thank God Mose knew the way.

What if there was a fight? What if Mose got killed? Who would lead them back? What if you get killed yourself, fool?

The one trail became seven at midnight. The raiders had scattered, leaving single sets of hoofprints.

“The two white ones will probably come back together,” Mose said. “They're the ones I want. Comancheros. You boys pick a trail and follow it. See if it joins with another one. If it does, come back here where the trails fork. If you find a camp, don't do anything. Just come back here. If you don't find anything after an hour, come back here. I want every man back when the moon is three-quarters across. Understand?”

The boys nodded and split their forces.

Caleb followed the trail that went farthest to the south. It was easy to track. Five Spot seemed to sense that he was following it; she stayed just to the left of it and trotted with her neck out, head cocked, as if to watch the trail with one eye.

Caleb rode with his hand on his pistol grip, straining to see in the dark. A wolf howled, and he wondered what it meant. The howling of a wolf always had to mean something: rain, snow, trouble, death. Maybe it was an Indian imitating a wolf.

How long had he been riding? An hour yet? He glanced at the moon. No, not even ten minutes. There were no horizons. He rode across a circle of snow and grass that rolled smoothly under him minute upon minute, mile upon mile. Only twenty minutes now, at most. He would buy a watch with his winter pay. Maybe the trail would meet another. Then he could turn back to tell Mose.

It seemed closer without the boys near. But he had a blanket to wrap himself in if it got too cold. Who had the eggs? Why hadn't he thought of it before they parted ways? Sam Parker had two dozen eggs packed in wadded newspaper in his saddlebags. He was hungry. An egg would go down easy right now. Thirsty, too. He would get down for some snow when he turned back.

Thirty minutes now? Yes, at least. An Indian must have made this trail. Probably heading for some camp in a canyon ahead. He wouldn't mind finding a camp about now. He wouldn't mind finding anything. He knew Mose would not let up until some justice had been served. How long would it take?

Thin Ben was in bed. Little Hank was probably there with him. Poor little fellow. His mother, father, two sisters. He had seen it all. That had to be worse than even his own time with the ridge log.

Caleb yanked the reins back. A trail had crossed the one he followed. The prints were those of cloven hooves. Buffalo. A little farther up, another buffalo trail crossed. Then a great tangle of buffalo tracks poured down from the north, mincing the smooth surface of the snow to mush.

He got down, pulled the mare out of his light. The hoofprints he followed fell on top of the buffalo tracks. He could continue, but the trailing would go slow. The tracks were hard to pick out. How long had he been gone? An hour? Almost. Ten more minutes would serve Mose's orders well enough.

He trailed on foot now, looking for the round curve of the shod hooves over the splayed prints of the bison herd. The moon lit the little ridges of snow like the brief shining paths of fireflies in the forest. His back ached from stooping, his eyes blurred. He couldn't find the trail anymore. It seemed his eyes were weakening.