I slapped the spurs to my horse and leaped him among them. As I did so, I kicked back with my right spur raking the horse nearest me on that side. Instantly he began to pitch, turning the small group into turmoil.
My horse swung to my bidding and I held my aimed rifle on the head of the leader. “All right, gentlemen!” I said. “Do you ride or do I shoot?” Oh, they did not like it! They did not like it at all! But they rode. Glumly, bitterly, they quieted their mounts and they turned their backs on me. One of them growled, “We’ll be meetin’ again, mister. This here ain’t over.” “I sincerely hope not,” I replied.
“You’re a surly, impolite, and dirtynecked crowd, and somebody should teach you some manners.” They rode off and I watched them go until the shoulder of the hill concealed them, and then I wheeled my horse and ran him down the trail for a good half mile at a dead run, not wanting to open a shooting war with five men out on the shortgrass plains. When I could, I turned up the slope and worked around behind the hill where the outcropping was.
I had an idea whoever was up there, if it was not all imagination, had witnessed the recent meeting, and would be wondering about it.
Now I had need of care. The way before me was plain enough, but I wanted neither to be shot by those I wished to help, nor by those searching for them, so I took my way along the reverse slope, angling along toward the crest, hoping to top the ridge somewhere back and to the north of the rocks.
Several times I drew up to look carefully around. My own position was exposed, but the bulk of the hill lay between myself and my enemies. No one else was within sight. Nearing the crest, I dismounted, and rifle in hand walked slowly forward.
There was the sort of place I sought right before me. It was a slight break in the crest where erosion had cut out the sandy earth from around the rocks and brush, leaving a gap. I went to it. Trailing the reins of my horse, I crept forward on my belly and looked across the ridge.
The outcropping looked like a cluster of small stone buildings from here, with broken rock all about, and some brush as well as cedars. Beyond, I could see nothing. If watcher there was upon those hills yonder, he was well hidden, as I was.
As for the outcropping, if it was not now the refuge of those I sought, it certainly had been, for crossing the ridge right below me and angling toward the rocks was a dim trail, the sort that might have been left by one horse.
The afternoon was well advanced and there was no time for delay. Nor as far as I could see was there reason for it. Leading my horse, I crossed over the slope and walked into the circle of rocks.
They stood side by side, facing me, a rather tall young woman of perhaps nineteen or twenty, and a lad of about thirteen. They stood together, their backs against the flat side of a great square block of sandstone. She had auburn hair and hazel eyes and was dressed in what had been a handsome riding outfit of a style much in fashion when I was last in Europe. The boy wore buckskins and a sombrero. He had black hair and black eyes and he carried a rifle much too long for him.
“How do you do?” I said. “I’m Ronan Chantry, and if I can be of assistance, I’d be pleased.” “I’m Lucinda Falvey, and this is my friend, Jorge Ulibarri. He’s helping me to reach the Mandan settlements.” “The Mandans!” I exclaimed. “But… but the Mandans are far and away to the north!
Hundreds of miles!” “That’s true,” she replied quietly, “but that’s where I must go. My family have friends in French Canada. If I can reach them, I believe I can arrange to return to my home in Ireland.” Frankly, I was disturbed. I had not imagined anything of this sort, and had no particular desire to go riding off to the country of the Mandans.
Not that I did not know something about them, for I did, indeed. They were a tribe of Indians who lived in well-built mud lodges in the land of the Dakotas, on the Missouri River.
“We had best get you out of here,” I suggested, “before those men come back. They were pursuing you, weren’t they?” “They were… and are. They followed us from Santa Fe, but so far we’ve given them the slip.” She volunteered no further information and I asked for none. She was a lady in distress and I was, I hoped, a gentleman. And she was, obviously, a lady. Moreover, it was equally obvious she was Irish, as was my own family … not to say that my line was innocent of other blood. My noted ancestor, Tatton Chantry, the first of the name to visit these shores, had set us all an example by wedding a most lovely lady whose family was of Peru. She was the descendant of a Spanish grandee who married an Inca princess.
“I have friends farther along the way,” I said.
“We’ll catch them, and then it’ll be time enough to make plans.” She looked at me with great severity. “You have evidently misunderstood, Mr. Chantry. My plans are made. I go to the Mandan villages.” “Yes. Of course.” We mounted, and rode down the long hill toward the trail. They had two excellent riding horses, fine stock with more than a little of the Spanish Barb in them, and a packhorse as well. What the packs contained, I had no idea. But in view of the long journey before them, I hoped it was food. However, looking at the young lady, I would almost have wagered my last cent that it was clothing… and not the clothing of the trail either.
We rode swiftly. Their animals were in better shape than mine and were in any case better horses, so we made good time while watching the country for the five men.
Rather hesitantly, I inquired if she knew their identities or motives. She denied knowledge but somehow I only half believed her and warned her we were in danger.
“Oh, them!” She was scornful. “I saw it all. You sent them packing, and if they come upon us, you’ll do so again. I have no doubt of it. They fairly trembled when you spoke to them!” Well, now. That was not exactly the way of it, but how could I use what eloquence I possessed to prove to this lovely lady that I was less fearful than she imagined? They had gone, and I was nice enough to know it was simply because I had a momentary advantage. Had it actually come to a scrimmage, their leader would have been dead… but I would be dead also. It was an event that I did not contemplate with any enthusiasm.
She rode sidesaddle and she rode it with dash and beauty. She carried her head high, and if there was fear in the world, certainly she was unaware of it.
Yet there were questions that must be asked. “The man who rode with you? Who was he?” She turned her eyes to me. “He was, as my father was, one of the Irish Brigade. It was he who brought me to my father in Mexico, and when my father was killed, he offered to help me escape.” “You must tell me about that,” I suggested.
“All in good time,” she replied quietly.
She drew up suddenly, as did the lad and I.
Seven Indians sat their horses in the trail before us, seven Indians, armed and ready.
CHAPTER 10
Suddenly, one of them pushed forward and it was Walks-By-night. “We ride to meet our friend,” he said.
“I am pleased that you have come. Had there been fighting, you could have shared the coups with me. I would be honored to fight beside the dog soldiers of the Cheyenne.” They were pleased, although they wanted not to show it.
They formed around us as a guard of honor and together we rode toward camp.
Yet a far different camp it was. My friends and their Cheyenne companions had come up with the main body of the Cheyennes for whom they had been looking. The camp was a dozen times larger than before, and there were at least fifty warriors in camp, fine-looking men, all of them.
It was immediately apparent that Walks-By-night was a considerable personage among them, not a chief, but a warrior, hunter, and orator of prestige.
The horse herd must have numbered several hundred head, tough little mountain ponies most of them. Many were excellent stock, and I found myself appraising them thoughtfully for my own horse was feeling the effects of hard riding on no other food than grass.