The leaves had turned, the grass had gone all brown, and the winds that blew down from the Big Horns were raw and cold. When a man starts riding out in that kind of weather it makes him wonder what he’s done with his summer’s wages.
We went out of the Hole-in-the-Wall and lit a shuck for Fort Laramie. We had been riding no more than an hour when we crossed the first set of tracks—a dozen ponies, unshod, heading west, and a bit south.
“No travois,” Corbin said, “so they’re not just moving to another camp. No women or kids along.”
“Might be a hunting party,” Cotton Madden suggested.
We rode on, but just before sundown we came on another bunch of tracks, also headed a little south of west … only four riders this time.
Nobody was taking any bets, but we were all doing some serious contemplating. So far, it didn’t mean a thing, but there’d been talk here and there of the Cheyennes getting together, with rumors of them going on the warpath.
Fort Laramie was the biggest army post I’d seen. It lay on the flat in a bend of the Laramie River, named for a French-Canadian trapper, Jacques La Ramee, who was killed by Indians in 1820. The fort had first been a fur-trading post, back in 1834, and folks bound west had stopped off there for many a year.
It was quite a place, with a lot of buildings of all sorts scattered about, maybe half of them around the parade ground, the rest seemingly located without any plan. The hills around were brown with autumn, and most of the trees along the river had already shed their leaves.
We rode up to the sutler’s store, dismounted, tied our horses, and went inside. There were three men at the enlisted men’s bar, only one of them a soldier.
The bartender moved over to us, polishing a glass. “Rye,” I said, “and some information.”
He filled our glasses, then squinted through the cigarette smoke, resting both hands on the bar. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“We’re expecting a herd of cattle … a small herd. A man named Tarlton will probably bring them.”
“Cattle? We haven’t seen a herd of cattle, not since I’ve been on the post. Only cattle I’ve seen was driven in here for our own use.”
One of the men at the bar, a stocky man in buckskins, turned half around. “Tarlton? The cattle buyer from Abilene? He rode out of Abilene before I did—that’s a month ago.”
Corbin tossed off his drink. “We’ve got troubles, Chancy,” he said. “He should have been here before this.”
“Any Indian trouble?” I asked.
“None to speak of,” the man in buckskins answered. “Of course, you know how it is with Indians, if they get notional. Where were the cattle headed?”
Well, I hesitated. I knew the army looked with no favor on cattlemen moving into Indian country. “Up the country,” I said finally.
“You’d better have your own army then. The Sioux don’t take to the white-eyes moving in amongst them.”
“I thought that was Cheyenne country.”
“Sioux, Cheyenne, it makes no difference. They’ll have your hair if you try to live in that country.” He paused. “A man might make peace with the Cheyennes, although they are great fighters when given cause. But I don’t believe the devil himself, nor the good Lord, for that matter, could make peace with the Sioux. They live to fight, and believe me, friend, they fight well.”
Of their fighting ability I had no doubt, but I hoped to live among them in peace. The buffalo were going, anybody could see that, and maybe we could trade with the Indians maybe even get them to ranching on shares.
What worried me right now was Tarlton. He should have arrived near Fort Laramie by now, or he should have gone on north, and we had cut no trail coming south.
We went outside. It was pleasantly warm in the sunshine, cool in the shade. I glanced at the sky, and it gave promise of fair weather. But I had no idea what to do. Seems to me a lot of folks want to be leaders, but almighty few of them realize that decisions don’t come easy. We could wait here, hoping Tarlton would show up, or we could scout toward Nebraska, or even send out a man to ride west and try to cut any trail they might have made.
Finally I decided to sit tight and keep my boys together. Meanwhile I would try to find out if any patrols or army details had been sent out, and to learn what they knew. That meant caution, for if the army had to notice us officially, we’d be in the soup for sure.
I couldn’t stop thinking of Tarlton. He was a good man, but he was a city man. I had no idea who he had with him, or how good they were, and I knew a good part of my own success had been because of the men I’d had with me. Especially because of the uncanny skill of Jim Bigbear and the steadiness of Tom Hacker. But every man had done his share.
Also, the more I heard of the Sioux and the Cheyennes, the more worried I became for the herd and the men left with it. I not only wanted to find Tarlton, but I wanted to be back with the outfit. The Indians would surely know where they were, and might come down upon them at any time.
We went back into the sutler’s store and bought what we could, letting him hold it for us until we decided to leave. To the other things, we added ammunition. I had no idea how much we’d need, but I bought a thousand rounds.
The sutler stared. “You figuring on starting a war?”
“Buffalo huntin’,” I lied. “I heard there was a big lot of them over west and to the south.”
Probably he didn’t believe me, but he let us have what we wanted.
We stayed at the post for two full days, checking every rumor we heard, talking to the soldiers who returned from the routine patrols. But all the while we heard nothing.
When the news came it was bad—very bad.
I was sitting with Corbin at a table in the sutler’s saloon when Cotton came in. He crossed right over to the table and pulled back a chair. “Chancy”—he spoke in a low tone, but I could see the others watching, guessing something was in the wind—”I seen a cowhide hangin’ on a fence yonder.” He jerked his head to indicate the direction of Hog Town. “It’s carryin’ a Lazy TC!”
“You sure?” I asked it, but I was only buying time to consider, for I knew he was sure. No cowhand was apt to mistake something like that.
“I’m sure,” he said. “I’d have started askin’ folks about it, but decided I’d best get back here and report to you.”
“Good man,” I said. “Let’s go over there.”
We got up and went outside to our horses. As we mounted up, I glanced over by the commissary. There was a man standing there watching us, and there was something vaguely familiar about him, but I gave it no special thought at the moment.
The Hog Ranch was a saloon, trading post, and hotel just off the post at the western end. Later it would become a more elaborate setup, I suppose, but right then it was a pretty miserable place, offering the soldiers some rot-gut whiskey, a change of food, and occasionally, a woman or two imported from bigger towns where they hadn’t been able to stand the competition. Officially, it didn’t even exist, but every man on the post knew it was there, and knew it as a hangout for some rough types.
We rode up and dismounted in front of the saloon. Cotton glanced toward the fence, and whispered to us. “They’ve taken it in. The hide’s gone.”
We walked into the saloon, and a much less knowing man than any of us could have seen that they had staked us out and all but nailed our hides to the wall.
The bartender was a big man, inclined toward jowls and belly, with sleeves rolled up and a dirty apron on. At the end of the bar a sour-faced man with a tied-down gun was standing. Two other men sat at a table, and one of them had his hand under the flap of his coat. Two more men came in the door behind us as we stepped in and looked around.
“There was a hide on the fence out there,” I said. “I want to know where it came from.”
Nobody said anything at all. They just looked at us, waiting.
“Somebody might have found a stray,” I said, “and I am going to take it that way if you tell me where you got it.”