The Indians were a shattered few, defiant but defeated. In their last gesture, the swan song of a warlike people, they had met and defeated Custer. They had wiped him out.
After Custer the combined armies of Terry, Crook, and Gibbon advanced relentlessly, and against the scattered forces of the Indian they had little trouble. The warfare of the white man was never understood by the Indian, and if he learned at last, he learned too late, for his power was already broken.
To an Indian, a battle was a war. He did not think in terms of campaigns, and the winning or losing of a battle decided everything, and when it was over he returned to his tepee and his squaw. He had not learned to cope with the superior barbarism of the white man’s warfare. The white man did not stop. He kept coming.
Yet somehow, even in defeat the red man contrived to come off best. Wrapped in his blanket like a Roman senator in his toga, he stalked from the scene. The future might rob him of his morale, it might break him down, but he walked from the field a victor. If he was conquered later, it was never in full battle array. He was conquered by the slaughter of the buffalo and the relentless march of the white settlers even more than by the Army. It is still true that in the last major battle between the armies of the white man and the warriors from the Sioux and Cheyenne villages, that the Indian won.
Matt Bardoul loved the country into which he was riding. The blind drive after wealth and power had never seemed to him to be either worthy or comfortable. His own driving energies and his desire to see what lay across the horizon had moved him west, and once he saw the long, waving sea of grass, the rolling aspen cloaked hills, and the mounting ranks of the lodgepole pine, his heart was forever lost to this lonely, beautiful land.
The Big Horns still lay across that horizon, a image in the mind rather than the sky. Riding his long legged zebra dun on the side hill away from the wagon train, Matt knew that whatever the result, whatever the cost, this trip was worth the effort. This was his land, these were his people.
Riding alone, away from the dust of the wagons, he let the dun pick his own way, while his mind began ferreting a way down the winding burrows of passion and feeling that disturbed the people of the train.
In the clear light of day he was compelled to admit that he had no reason for any suspicion beyond his knowledge of the men around Massey. There was every chance that everything was strictly honest and straight forward. Father De Smet had always claimed there was gold in the Big Horns, and Tate Lyon’s story might be true. If it was not true, why had they gone to such pains? Such effort?
Was he not prejudiced by his innate dislike of Massey? Or by Jacquine’s seeming preference for the man?
Pearson had proved, some six years before, that as an Army officer he was an inexperienced nincompoop and a coward, but that was six years ago, and time may bring many changes to a man for the better as well as for the worse. It was true that so far Colonel Orvis Pearson’s only gesture toward leadership had been just that … a gesture.
Seated upon a splendid horse, very straight in the saddle, he had removed his hat with a sweeping gesture worthy of Custer himself, and waved the wagon train on.
Logan Deane was a killer, but as he had admitted, he had killed men himself. On Deane he could reserve an opinion. For Batsell Hammer there was no need nor room for reservation. He was a renegade who stopped at nothing. He was a thief and a murderer, and known by all the frontier as such.
Abel Bain was worse. The huge, surly Bain was a wolf where Hammer was a coyote. He was violent, treacherous, brutal. However, Massey was new to the frontier, apparently, and he might not know about Bain.
That Spinner Johns had tried to kill him shortly after a talk with Massey, might be a coincidence. Johns was the sort who might try to kill anyone, and with slight provocation. If that fight had been an effort of Massey’s, the dark, handsome Clive had been grievously disappointed.
He was, he decided, building fantastic suspicion upon nothing at all. There was no way in which Massey could hope to gain. The warning in the stable might have come from someone who had tried for a place in the train and been refused.
At the next stop the situation might reveal itself more clearly, for then the elections would be held to determine the captains of the four companies.
In his own group, aside from his two wagons driven by Shedd and Tolliver, there were the wagons of Murphy and Ban Hardy, Aaron Stark with one wagon, Rabun Kline with one, and the three wagons of Lute Harless. Each of the latter was driven by a son of Aaron Stark.
Still another wagon had joined them when they moved out that morning. Curiously, he dropped back alongside to see who was the driver. A big, wide shouldered man hunched on the wagon seat, a man with a wide smile and a ready laugh. But as he looked at Matt his eyes were shrewd, intense.
He waved to Bardoul. “You in command?”
“Nobody is. The election is tonight.”
Matt touched the dun with a spur and cantered ahead until he drew alongside Murphy’s wagon. The big mountain man grinned at him. “Reckon this route will take us by the Stone Cup? Never forget the place. Holed up there three days once, standin’ off some thievin’ Crows.”
“Be good to get back,” Bardoul agreed, “I like the Big Horns.”
“Wonder where at that gold is? I’ve been runnin’ it over in my mind, an’ I can’t seem to figure it out. I never seen none, my own self.”
“You weren’t looking for gold, Buff. It could be there, all right. Personally, I don’t care. I’ve an idea of finding myself a ranch over in the basin and runnin’ a few cows.”
“Who does know where we’re goin’, I wonder?”
“Coyle, probably. Certainly Pearson an’ Massey. Then Lyon has been there, and Portugee Phillips will have been told. We’ll get the lowdown tonight, but until then nobody is supposed to know. Frankly, I haven’t even tried to guess.”
Murphy glanced at him. “Seen that girl of Coyle’s a few minutes ago. She was ridin’ a mighty pretty spotted pony. Said Clive Massey gave it to her.”
Matt offered no comment, and Murphy lighted his pipe and settled to driving. All morning Matt had avoided thinking of the girl, feeling that whatever consideration she might have given him had been erased by last night’s discussion at the hotel. Clive Massey, much in her father’s favour, would have all the advantage, nor was he a man likely to lose any time in making the most of the opportunity.
Studying his own position, Matt Bardoul could see that it was scarcely enviable. Colonel Pearson had studiously avoided him, which was understandable, for Matt alone knew of the man’s fearful incompetence. Brian Coyle, who had been Mart’s one friend among the leaders could be considered a friend no longer. As for Massey, he knew the man would like nothing so well as to see Bardoul out of the wagon train.
When they pulled up for a brief lunch, Bardoul loped the dun down to the fire. It had been Stark’s suggestion, eagerly accepted by the others, that his girls do the cooking for all, and that they have a community cooking, with each bringing a share.
Stark was sitting on a log near the fire when Matt swung down from the saddle and began loosening his cinch. “Howdy!” Stark called. “Who’s the feller tied on behind?”
The man walked up just in time to hear the question. He looked around the group, smiling widely. “Name of Ernie Braden! Mornin’ folks!” he boomed. “I reckon we’re all friends here! So you just call me Ernie!”
Stark glanced at his empty hands, took his pipe from his mouth and spat, but said nothing.
Braden picked up a cup and held it out to Sary Stark. “How’s about some coffee, Ma’am? From those purty hands of yours, it’ll seem plumb sweet!”
Lute Harless walked up with the three Stark boys. Jeb sat down on the log beside his father. “Wished night would come. I’d sure enough like to know where we’re headed!”
Braden looked around and winked. “I could give you a hint,” he said knowingly, “You ever hear tell of Shell Creek? That’s my bet!”
Buffalo Murphy stared at the fire, then he lifted his eyes, squinting at Braden. “You ever been to Shell Creek?”