Wolf Creek (2 page)

He raised his hand and made a futile attempt
to wave when he saw an Indian a dozen yards ahead of him. Doing so
from the middle of the street might get tongues to wagging on who
he was greeting so early in the morning. Wil saw Short Finger duck
down an alley. The Kiowa had seen him. Since he didn't turn his
back and pretend to ignore him, Short Finger was ready to deal.
Another touch to his pocket reassured him he had the pictures the
Indian wanted.

Or pictures the Indian
would
want.
Bad. The only problem he saw was that this was a one-time deal.

"You here, Short Finger?" He walked down the
alley. The sun had yet to light this back way, and he almost
tripped over the Kiowa.

Short Finger huddled down, arms wrapped
around himself. Wil saw the hide bag on the ground next to the
Indian and forced himself not to smile. The deal was as good as
done.

"You have them?"

"Right here." He took the envelope from his
pocket, opened the flap and drew out the top picture just enough
for the Indian to see. "It's powerful magic. I don't know if I
should trust it to you."

"All three?"

"Well, yeah, I got pictures of the three,
just as you asked." Wil stretched the truth here. He already had
the photographs when he approached Short Finger. "You must have a
powerful hate goin' on to want these."

"They killed my sons. All of them."

Wil forced himself to remain impassive. He
hadn't realized the depth of Short Finger's hatred and had just put
off the man's desire for the pictures as petty mischief. This was
heap big magic.

"I'm not sure I should let you have them.
This can turn itself right around and come back on you. The
pictures have stolen the souls of those three braves. Right here.
You've got proof of that." He drew the pictures a bit farther from
the envelope and let Short Finger see them. "Their souls are
captured by the camera."

"Mine now. You give to me." Short Finger
reached out, using the hand that proved the truth of his name. The
first two fingers had either been hacked off at the first knuckle
or had simply never grown right.

"That bag? You've brought what I want for an
exchange?"

He took the hide bag when Short Finger stood
and thrust it out for him. Wil began to get uneasy. Short Finger
rested his hand on the buckhorn-handled knife sheathed at his belt.
The way his stunted fingers drummed sounded like a death rattle. He
opened the bag, glanced inside, then passed over the
photographs.

"You have truly taken their souls and
captured them here?"

"That's what some people say. Me, I don't
know."

"You take plenty of pictures. I know. None
of them have souls." Short Finger exploded like a rabbit from a
brush and got to the end of the alley before Wil realized it.

"You use them carefully," he called after
the retreating Indian. "They're right dangerous."

He sagged in relief when he saw that his
warning failed to reach Kiowa ears. He retreated to the street now
filled with wagons rumbling along as freighters prepared for
another day of commerce. With almost tender fingers, he opened the
hide bag again and began examining what he had swapped the
photographs for. Intricate beadwork headbands, a dozen handmade
knapped flint arrowheads, a pair of six-inch long obsidian knife
blades, feathered ornaments befitting a Kiowa chief's war bonnet
and small stones that might have been turquoise or some other
bluish stone. They had holes drilled in them for a cord to make a
necklace.

Wil wasted no time getting to Pratt's
Mercantile. Waymon Pratt chewed out a young boy for not getting the
display set up yet. To catch the store owner's attention, Wil held
up the bag, then reached inside and pulled out part of a beaded
headband. For the first time he could remember, Wil saw a big smile
cross Pratt's face. The portly man motioned for Wil to go inside.
He cuffed the boy and ordered him to do better with the crates on
display, just to keep him occupied.

"You got it?"

"I do," Wil said. He spread the plunder onto
a counter. Pratt's fat fingers worked through the pieces. The ones
that caused him to pause were the bits of stone with the holes
drilled in them for a necklace. He finally pushed it all back in
Wil's direction.

"This is shit. There's not a decent piece in
the lot that I can sell back East."

"A shame," Wil said. He began to replace
everything in the bag, not saying a word but taking his time when
he got to the stones. "Yup, it's a real shame, but since you got
first refusal, I can sell these in good conscience."

"Sell them to who? There ain't nobody else
in Wolf Creek that'd take them off your hands."

Wil nodded sagely, snugged the rawhide cord
and started to leave.

"Wait," Pratt called. "Who're you selling
them to?"

"Nobody in town. Nobody you'd know."

"That freighter. The one from Wichita. He's
the one buyin' that?"

Wil touched the brim of his bowler and said,
"Good day to you, Pratt. I've got to hurry. My buyer's fixing to
leave any time now."

"It
is
that no account muleskinner!
Tell me it isn't."

"All right, Pratt. I'll tell you it isn't,
though it pains me to ever lie."

"Like hell it does, Wilson Marsh. Get your
ass back here."

"You're interested now? You did refuse. I
gave you first refusal, not second. I'd have to get at least as
much as—" He put his hand over his mouth. "Almost revealed a
confidence there."

Twenty minutes later, Wil left Pratt's
Mercantile a hundred dollars richer. He hadn't expected this much
for a pile of old beads and arrowheads. The Kiowa bought metal tips
for their arrows now, likely from the very freighter he had used as
a cat's-paw to get Pratt interested in dickering. He headed for Asa
Pepper's saloon for a celebratory drink, then slowed when he saw an
urchin huddled down in the doorway leading to a dozen cribs where
the soiled doves performed their services for the cowboys and
soldiers who frequented the town. Wil knew more than a few of them,
having taken photographs to sell. One madam had asked for a
complete collection of all her ladies of the evening to use for a
catalog in what she thought was an upscale brothel.

"Come here. Yeah, you."

The little girl cowered. Her wide eyes
darted around, a trapped animal looking for escape.

"Your ma's Lilybeth, isn't she?"

The girl solemnly nodded. If Wil hadn't
blocked off any possible escape she would have bolted.

"She's in a family way?"

Again all he got was a single nod. He
fumbled about in his pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar gold piece
just paid him by Pratt. With a great show, he held it up, let the
sun glint off it, then quickly palmed it. He thrust out his
fist.

"Put your hand under mine. Go on. I won't
hurt you."

The girl hesitantly reached out. Wil slowly
opened his fist and drew back. The gold coin now rested in a small,
filthy palm.

"You give that to your ma. Don't you go
tryin' to spend it now, you hear? You give it to her so she can get
some decent food 'fore your baby brother comes."

"Might be a sister." The girl finally spoke.
Her voice was as timid and frightened as she looked.

"You're right. It might be a baby sister.
You give that to your ma and you take real good care of your baby
brother—or sister."

He didn't wait to see what the girl did. Any
thanks would have fallen on deaf ears. He neither wanted nor
expected it. Stride longer now, he got to the saloon and went
inside just as Asa tapped a new keg of beer. For once, it didn't
taste bitter. Not at all.

***

A little tipsy, Wilson Marsh made his way
from Asa Pepper's back to his studio. From the glare of the sun and
how it hammered down on the crown of his bowler, it was nigh on
noon. He had wasted the morning, and it felt good. Damned good. He
patted his vest pocket where most of the money from the Short
Finger-Pratt deal still rode. Asa had given him a hard time about
his tab, but the saloon keeper never let him have too much credit,
so a single coin had taken care of not only his bill but the rest
of the morning's drinking.

He slowed when he got near his studio. A
moment of panic seized him. Then he hiccupped, smoothed his shabby
coat and tipped his hat to a jaunty angle. With more confidence
than he felt, he went to the front door where a cavalry officer
stood impatiently. He had stripped off his canvas gloves and
clutched them both in his left hand so he could swat his right palm
repeatedly as if he killed flies. The image made Wil giggle. He
swallowed such drunken mirth when he saw the fierce look the
officer gave him.

"Good afternoon, Major. Are you waiting for
a portrait? A fine-looking officer such as yourself needs a—"

"Are you Wilson Marsh?"

Wil almost denied it and kept walking. The
only run-ins he had were with the local law. Satterlee and Gardner
had it in for him. So far he had kept clear of the cavalry, though
he had ridden with Captain Dent and not been appreciated.

"I am the town photographer. What is it you
want from me, Major?" He let the sentence hang just a moment.

"I am Major Joab Putnam, acting commander,
Fort Braxton."

"Do tell. Come on in, Major."

Wil got the door open. He kicked a folded
piece of paper to one side. He always stuck it under the door when
he left the studio. If it was disturbed when he returned, it meant
someone had come a' calling. It was a simple way to protect the
sanctity of all the blue pictures he had taken. Even so, he glanced
toward the floorboards in the corner. Beneath them in secure
containers were the original photographic plates. The place could
burn down and those plates would be secure.

The major looked around the studio and
sniffed, as if the chemical odors offended him. From the way he
held himself, most everything offended Joab Putnam. He had a face
that was hatchet-thin and a long nose that jutted out like a knife
blade. His blond hair was curly and seemed to float as a stray gust
of wind blew through the door. Such flowing locks looked better on
a woman, but Wil wasn't likely to tell the man that. He wore a
bushy mustache that quivered as his upper lips registered new
displeasures as he walked around.

The man was tall, thin as a rail and his
quick, nervous movements warned of a spring pressed so tight it
might erupt at any moment. What direction such an explosion might
go depended on the man's choler.

"You have the look of an academy
graduate."

"You have a sharp eye, sir."

"I'm a photographer. That's what people pay
me for." Wil neglected to mention he recognized the ring on the
man's bony finger. "You said you are the acting commander at the
fort. What's happened to Lieutenant Colonel Vine?"

Putnam made a vague gesture, then slapped
his gloves across his palm. He stood a little straighter, as if
watching his post ride past in review before speaking again.

"He has returned to Washington to visit
family."

"Always a good family man, but . . ."

"But? Are you impugning his integrity,
sir?"

"Not at all, Major. It's just that the post
has been needing a real officer to command it. A West Point man
like yourself. Discipline has been lacking." Wil watched closely
for the proper signs that he hit the man's reason for being. It
came to him in a rush how to deal with the major. "And, from what I
can tell, as a civilian only, mind you, Vine lacked gumption. He
should have used his troopers to better end."

"How is that, sir?"

Wil saw he had the major's attention now—and
his agreement.

"What good is having a cavalry unit and
letting it rust away with garrison duty? He should have been in the
field, bringing glory to the troops and himself. Distinguish
yourself in battle, I say."

"Like General Custer."

"The Boy General. Yes, Major, that Medal of
Honor he won was deserved." Wil ignored the court martial. "To
sally forth, to go into battle with pennons flying, the bugler
giving the order to charge."

"I see that I have found the right man for
this mission."

"I'm not a soldier, Major Putnam. I am only
a humble photographer, following in the footsteps of the great
Mathew Brady and others."

"Exactly!" Fire lit the man's pale blue
eyes. His thin lips curled into a cruel smile, and Wil thought he
grew a couple inches in stature as ambition burned him alive. "I
need photographic evidence of my prowess—of my
men's
prowess—in battle against the savages."

"Haven't heard of any trouble. Old Mountain
has settled down peaceably enough, off the traditional Kiowa
hunting land. How they got him to agree to that is anybody's
guess."

"They stir," Putnam said as if calling to
the heavens to inform God and all the angels. "They prepare for
war."

"How's that?"

"The Kiowa and the Cheyenne conspire to
unite against all the settlers. They are plotting to eradicate
every white man in Wolf Creek. Then they will sweep across the
plains for larger towns."

"That's a prospect to strike fear into all
our hearts." Wil wondered what the hell the officer was going on
about. The Kiowa were settled down now, and even if Cheyenne came
this far south and east, an alliance likely divvied up buffalo
hunting and wasn't to take scalps.

"Pack your equipment. You will ride with C
Company as we meet the redskins in battle."

"C Company? Captain Dent's company?" This
gave Wil pause. Tom Dent was always polite, but it was a cold
polite that iced his bones and made him wish he was somewhere
else—anywhere else. "He still riding with the half-breed?"

"Do you mean Charley Blackfeather? Yes, he
is scouting for the captain. I don't know the ʼbreed personally, of
course, but Captain Dent is high on his ability to track and scout.
It's good we have some who are traitors to their kind, though in
this Blackfeather's case, it can only be said that he is half a
traitor."