A narrow main street was choked with mud, the boardwalk rotted through and lined by canting houses. A row of outhouses occupied the city square. Even the big vegetable garden at the far end of the settlement looked untidy, what with its straggly bean and tomato poles and mounds of rotting compost rearing from the ground.
A herd of perhaps fifty horses and mules jostled one another in a wide, cockeyed corral. Dogs of all shapes, sizes and breeds ambled along the streets. The air smelled richly of pig and cattle manure.
Doc sniffed and murmured, “Ah, the very best of domestic cologne.”
As they followed Autry and Felicity into the settlement, a few of the dogs winded their unfamiliar scents and set up a ferocious racket. A couple of them trotted forward, stiff legged and growling, to sniff at the companions. Everyone kept on walking.
When they neared one of the tepees, a flap opened and a toothless old woman with yellow braids and a buckskin shirt looked out anxiously. Felicity saw her and ran into her arms. She murmured into the old woman’s ear, then both of them burst into tears, hugging each other in shared grief.
“Her mother,” Autry explained. “Spotted Hawk was their sole support.”
He gestured to a low-roofed, ramshackle building op the street. Light shone from the windows, and violin music floated in the air. “Our local public house. If we tell your story in there, it’ll be all over Amicus within the hour. Save you from having to say the same thing over and over again.”
Autry opened the leather-hinged door and stepped aside, allowing the others to enter. Only a few people were inside, but the big room smelled of sweat, tobacco and potent homemade whiskey. Two men stood on either side of the rough-hewn slab of pine that served as the bar.
One, a scrawny fellow with a luxuriant waxed mustache, was obviously the tavern keeper. The other man had his back to the door, and all they could see of him was a massive, leather-clad torso and the rear of a black-haired head.
A small middle-aged man with a balding pate and a parsimonious face was sawing vigorously at a fiddle. Judging by the musician’s vacant stare, the patrons of the establishment could have started hacking away at one another with tomahawks and he would have gone on playing, perhaps shifting a little to avoid bloodying his shoes.
Autry spoke to both men at the bar. The big man turned, giving Ryan and his people a cool, appraising stare. He was an Amerindian, wearing a beaded-diamond-and-triangle design on his shirt. It was the ancient symbol of the Sioux. His black hair hung in two braids halfway to his waist.
The tavern keeper filled seven mugs from a jug of amber liquid. With a word of thanks, Ryan took a long, satisfying swallow, as did Doc and Jak. As the corn liquor burned its way into their stomachs, Autry silenced the musician with a wave of his hands.
“I’ve heard some of the story from Felicity,” he told them. “Let’s hear the rest of it from you.”
In simple, unadorned language, Ryan told how they had come across the scene of torture and murder. At the mention of the Red Cadre, the barkeeper sputtered, the ends of his mustache fluttering.
“Oh, shit,” he choked out. “Chillin’ four and stealin’ one of their boatsHatchet Jack will slit you from crotch to eyeball with a dull deer antler. He’ll burn this place to the ground to get you!”
Autry cast him an angry glare. “Shut up, Micah. The Cadre knows better than to molest us.”
“Why is that?” Krysty asked. Though she held a mug of liquor, she had yet to taste it.
“Amicus does too much trade with the local Cheyenne and Lakota,” Autry replied. “Too many of the tribes live here, at least part of the year.” He nodded toward the big man. “Like Little Mountain.”
Little Mountain was staring hard at them, in a way most Indians would have considered impolite. Ryan met that stare.
The man blinked, then touched his left eye. “Ochinee,” he rumbled.
“One-eye,” Autry translated. “Little Mountain isn’t fluent in English.”