Wind Walker (76 page)

Gabe said, “What’re you tellin’ us?”

The major ran fingers through his graying goatee. “I haven’t got the authority to take any action against the duly constituted government of Utah Territory.”

So Bass said, “Maybeso we ought’n go ahead on an’ do what Mary Bridger suggested we do in the first place, Major.”

Chilton turned to him with a stony, disapproving gaze. “And start an Indian war?”

Setting his jaw, Scratch snarled, “No Injun war. Just takin’ a li’l revenge on some Marmons—”

“You can’t do that!” Chilton snapped.

Glaring at the officer, Titus said, “It’s Jim’s right. His family’s been hurt. An’ his wife is Washakie’s daughter. Best you soldiers l’arn it’s the way of Injuns to hurt back them what hurt you. Likely them Snakes are north of here right now, huntin’ buffler, makin’ meat for the winter. Jim’s father-in-law could put ten times the warriors on the war trail than you got soldiers here.”

Chilton turned from Bass to Bridger and pleaded, “I haven’t got enough men to stop that sort of bloodshed if you get it started. Nonetheless, my superiors will order me into the field to put down the Indian troubles, which means I will be forced to fight Washakie and you too.”

Bridger appeared to chew on that a long moment. Finally he said, “You’d have brung your soldiers to fight us?”

“Brigham Young is governor of Utah Territory,” Chilton explained. “If he screamed and hollered that Washakie’s warriors were killing and plundering Mormon settlements, the Department of the Army would send me into the fight … against the Shoshone, and against you.”

Then the major leaned forward on his crude desk littered with sheets of foolscap and maps, saying, “Besides, Mr. Bridger, you ought to think about who you would be leading Washakie and his warriors against.”

Jim glowered at the officer, saying, “Mormons: the folks what stole ever’thing from me an’ burned down the rest.”

“No,” Chilton argued. “Those Indians would be murdering and plundering the settlements of innocent farmers and their families. You wouldn’t be taking revenge on the men who robbed you and murdered your employees. You and Washakie would be taking your revenge on innocent folks … folks just as blameless as you claim you are, Mr. Bridger.”

Gabe twitched in anger, “I ain’t to blame for gettin’ robbed of everything—”

“Damn you!” Bass snarled.

Chilton jerked aside to stare at Titus, saying, “Mr. Bridger, maybe I should go ahead to arrest you and your two friends here and now before you incite more trouble than we could ever put a stop to.”

“Trouble with you, Major,” Titus growled, “your preachin’ words about hurtin’ innocent folk only works on the hearts of good men like Jim Bridger here. That’s why I damn you—because one way or ’nother, you know the sort of men you have standin’ afore you right now. We’re men what got a code of honor … honor what wouldn’t ever let us hurt no innocent women an’ children—not even a man innocent of what his leader’s done to Jim.”

“Like havin’ his gunmen murder some of our friends,” Shadrach said as he finally stepped out of the shadows at the corner of the room. “Bastards cut us down without givin’ ary a one of ’em a fighting chance. That’s cold-blooded murder!”

“To my way of thinking, that business at the ferry is an entirely different matter than the one involving how they
seized Jim’s fort,” Chilton argued. “But bringing in the actual murderers would be a hopeless task. Who is to say which of those Mormons killed your friends, which of them are to stand trial for murder?”

“You can’t even make a try to bring ’em back here for a trial?” Bridger demanded.

“No,” Chilton said. “Not when those men were acting with what is called duly constituted authority. I would be undertaking a fool’s errand.”

“We’re the damned fools,” Bass growled, “fools for thinkin’ this here army ever gonna help us do what’s right.”

Chilton arose from his chair. “Mr. Bridger, it’s far better you worry about what crimes you’ve been accused of.”

Gabe stared at the major in disbelief. “My crimes?”

“From the sound of things,” the major expounded as he inched around the side of his desk, “that posse was operating with a writ to arrest you and bring you back to Salt Lake City for a trial on charges of inciting the Indians against the outlying Mormon settlements.”

“Like hell I did!”

Chilton glared at Bridger, saying, “I’m not so sure of you anymore, Mr. Bridger. You might well have incited those Indians against the Mormons … because you’ve stood right here in front of me and talked about leading Washakie’s warriors against Brigham Young’s Mormons!”

“He claims I armed the Bannocks,” Jim protested. “They was the ones been causing trouble with no help from me—”

“The army can’t help you,” Chilton cut off the debate. “And if you give me any reason to believe you’ll cause problems in the future—any of you—I’ll have you sleeping in the guardhouse until you can whistle a different tune.”

Titus leaned in. “You threatenin’ to arrest us, army boy?”

Chilton wheeled on him. “You’ll be the first, you arrogant, disrespectful scalawag.”

Bridger seized Bass’s arm, but Scratch didn’t move. Instead, he looked at Jim for a moment and said, “That ain’t necessary, Gabe. I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to get throwed in their jail. I may be a scalawag—just like the soldier says—
but this here scalawag is smart enough to know this here’s a empty stretch of stream, boys. No beaver comin’ to bait here. I say we go.”

“Go where?” Chilton demanded, his voice surly.

“I say we go back to Fort Bridger,” Scratch suggested.

“Why would you want to do that?” the major asked.

Turning to Gabe, Titus said, “Because that’s where them Marmons gonna go first when they come back lookin’ for Jim Bridger.”

The major asked, “Why are you so sure the Mormons will send another posse to arrest Bridger when they’ve failed once already?”

“Because I know Brigham Young ain’t gonna sit still till he’s got Bridger locked up down in his City of the Saints,” Titus explained. “He’ll send ’nother war party to find Gabe awright.”

“And?” Shadrach asked, a smile growing huge on his face as he stepped forward to join his two friends.

Bridger laid a hand on Bass’s shoulder, another on Sweete’s, then said, “That’s when they’ll find us waitin’ for ’em.”

“I think you’re a damned fool, Mr. Bridger,” Chilton said, wagging his head.

“A fool what’s had nearly his whole life stole from him by some God-spoutin’ bastards,” Jim growled. “Now, I’d sure appreciate it if’n you’d tell me where I could find this Mr. Hockaday you told me about when I first got here to see you.”

“The surveyor?”

“Yeah, him. Where can I find this surveyor?”

“We’ve put him up in the barracks,” Chilton answered without enthusiasm, starting back to his chair. “I don’t really think he can help you, since that would involve him going back with you into Utah Territory to survey your claim.”

“I think Mr. Hockaday deserves the chance to turn me down hisself,” Bridger said firmly.

“It’s up to him, although he is a government employee,” Chilton declared. “If he wants to put himself at risk, I can’t stop him.”

“Why’d this surveyor be puttin’ hisself at risk?” Titus asked.

The major explained, “Because he would be caught with Mr. Bridger here.”

“Ain’t no Mormons gonna catch me,” Jim said. “They tried once, a hunnert fifty of ’em. I got away from Blackfoot an’ Sioux, Cheyenne an’ Pawnee too. Ain’t no soft-headed Mormons gonna catch me.”

“Mr. Bridger,” Chilton warned, “for the last time I’m suggesting in the strongest of terms that you stay well clear of your fort.”

“Why?”

“Fort Bridger lies inside the boundaries of Utah Territory, where you—like it or not”—Chilton sighed—“are a wanted man.”

“Mr. Hockaday?” Titus Bass addressed the surveyor as the man emerged from his simple A tent pitched just outside what was left of the charred stockade of Fort Bridger. “You any good with a gun?”

John M. Hockaday shifted the shooting pouch on his shoulder and tapped the hunting rifle he held across his body. “I’ve been known to hit my share of game.”

Bridger stepped up to him. “You ever shoot at a man before?”

The surveyor swallowed hard, but there was no fear in his eyes. “No. Never had to shoot at a man, white or red.”

“You’re a good sort, Hockaday,” Bass replied as he flicked his gaze at the distant rider laying low against his horse’s withers. “Chances are, if’n you was born earlier, you’d been out here years ago. I figger you’d do to ride the river with.”

“That some sort of compliment?”

“Damn right it is,” Sweete said as he walked up with the six other old mountain men, who had returned to the ruins with Bridger the latter part of October, camping their families in a protected valley miles away.

Grim-faced, they were all bristling with weapons as they
turned, the sound of galloping hoofbeats becoming distinct, peering at the lone horseman racing toward them. The gray-bearded man dressed in buckskin leggings and a heavy blanket capote pushed back the hood at the same time he yanked back on the reins and skidded to a halt by Jim Bridger.

“They comin’ on down the valley?” the trader asked the horseman.

He swung out of the saddle and said, “More’n three dozen of ’em, Gabe.”

“Doesn’t sound like good odds,” Hockaday said grimly, looking over the old trappers.

Bass patted the surveyor on the shoulder. “I figger you can find yourself a place to lay into, place where you can stay outta the way, somewhere back inside the walls. Keep your head down an’ you won’t catch a stray ball—”

“I’m not going to hide from this fight,” Hockaday interrupted with firm conviction.

With a smile of admiration, Scratch replied, “Like I said, you’re a good man. Stay close to me an’ we’ll show these Marmons how to shoot center.”

Knowing full well that he might be venturing into what could well turn out to be a deadly confrontation, government surveyor John M. Hockaday nonetheless had accompanied Bridger, Bass, Sweete, and the other ferrymen on their return trip from Fort Laramie following their unproductive talks with the dragoons about righting the wrongs committed by Brigham Young’s “Avenging Angels.” In a matter of a few autumn days, Hockaday had completed his survey of Bridger’s claim on Black’s Fork—a site both Jim and Louis Vasquez had long ago claimed the Mexican government had given them title to back in the days prior to that brief war with Mexico. Rod by rod, Hockaday had carefully measured the ground Bridger had heretofore marked with piles of stream-washed stone. By the afternoon of November 6, the surveyor had completed his duties and been paid what Bridger could afford. As it turned out, Hockaday had reveled in the company of the old trappers and preferred staying around the gutted ruins of Fort Bridger for a few more days
rather than immediately returning to Fort Laramie. Those few days turned into nine by that midafternoon of the fifteenth, when the sentry came racing up with his news.

Bass and Bridger turned the sentry back around with orders to keep a watch at the far end of the valley, more than four miles off—not returning to the burnt-out hulk of the post until he was certain of the riders’ destination.

“They got wagons too,” the sentry declared as his winded horse tugged at the reins he looped around one hand.

That news worried Titus. He turned to Bridger. “They’re comin’ to settle in, Gabe. First they burn you out, take ever’thing the two of us own. Them wagons mean they come back to stay—just like folks with a eye to settle down in Oregon.”

His brow wrinkling beneath the brim of his hat, Jim looked at the sentry. “Was there any women along?”

“Didn’t spot a one, but … couldn’t rightly tell.”

Shad stepped up to ask, “Possible they got their women inside the wagons?”

With a shake of his head, the sentry said, “Ain’t nowhere to hide anyone in them wagons. They ain’t covered with bows—just got oiled sheeting tied over their plunder an’ sech.”

“Three dozen of ’em—all men,” Titus reflected. “An’ they’re gonna come sashayin’ on in here—figgerin’ there won’t be a soul around, Gabe”

“Let’s fix us a li’l surprise for ’em,” Bridger declared.

On the face of it, most men wouldn’t have dared face more than three dozen armed Mormons with only ten men. But, nine of these weren’t your ordinary settlement folk. No, not these double-riveted, iron-mounted, battle-scarred mountain men. Their sunburned, wrinkled, lined, and weary faces were nothing less than the war maps of their lives—and the light aglow behind their eyes now as they prepared to go into battle once more was like a lamp turned on all the victories they had won and the coups they had earned. As things stood, they knew they were outgunned … but this bunch sure as hell wasn’t outmanned. Scratch looked around the small
group of friends for a moment, his heart growing stronger. One of these old hivernants was clearly the equal of five, six, or more of those Mormon thieves riding back in to occupy what was left of Bridger’s post.

Jim sent Shad with three of the men off to the timber on the north side of the meadow and another three just south of the half-standing walls. Then he and Bass took Hockaday and secreted themselves just inside the charred ruins of the corral, where they hunkered down out of sight and watched to the west, up the fork, for the first sign of the invaders. It was here in the cold they waited and shuddered as the shadows inexorably crawled with the low tracking of the late-autumn sun, and when the sentry returned with word that the Mormons were near, they waited some more.

“There!” Bridger whispered harshly, the breathsmoke spewing from his lips in the freezing air.

“It’s yours to open the dance, Jim,” Titus reminded. “This here’s your show.”

Gabe turned to look at him. “You lost almost as much as me when they drove us out, Scratch. This is gonna feel good to us both.”

He patted the scratched, nicked, octagonal barrel of “Ol’ Make-’Em-Come,” his .54-caliber flintlock rifle. “Ever since last August, I been waitin’ to get them thievin’ murderers in the buckhorns of my sights, Gabe. That’s a mite long for a man to wait for justice—don’t you think?”