Shores gazed to the northeast and saw no sign of anyone on their back trail. To the east were specks that might be antelope. He shifted to gaze to the west and nearly jumped out of his skin.
Red Fox was a yard away, hunkered on his heels.
“Is there something you want?” Shores snapped, embarrassed at being caught off guard.
“Tell Red Fox about Great Father. Washakie say Great Father friend. Say Great Father help Shoshone. But Great Father make Shoshone stay reservation.”
Washakie, as Shores had learned on his arrival at the Wind River Reservation, was a Shoshone chief of immense influence who always did all in his power to maintain peaceful relations with whites. “You’re living on the land Washakie said your people want to live on. I should think you would be grateful.”
“Reservation like fence. Keep Shoshone in. We told where go, when can hunt. Not like before white man. Shoshone go anywhere, do anything.” A wistful smile spread across the old warrior’s face. “Red Fox happy then.”
“Those days are gone. More and more whites will come. More and more towns and settlements will spring up. There will be more ranches, more farms. But the Great Father will protect your tribe and not let anyone take the land he has given to you.” Or so the official line went. As a dinner guest of the Indian Agent at the Wind River Agency, Shores had been dished an earful about the Indian problem and its solution.
Red Fox abruptly stood up. “Brother John hear?”
“Hear what?” Shores pivoted in a circle. The specks that might be antelope were still there. He saw nothing else.
“Buffalo.”
It was Shores’s understanding the big herds were a lot farther south at this time of year. “Are you sure?” He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the great shaggy beasts since leaving Cheyenne.
“Sure.” Red Fox extended an arm.
They were specks at first, no larger than the antelope, and partially hidden by the immense dust cloud they were raising. But as they rapidly drew near, they swelled in size.
So, too, swelled the accompanying thunder of hundreds, possibly thousands, of hooves.
Shores grinned. He was ten the first time he ever set eyes on a buffalo, at the time, and still living in Texas. A farmer had come into town and mentioned seeing an old, decrepit bull out near his cornfield. Shores and several other boys had rushed to the spot and found the buffalo on its side, wheezing like a bellows. Shores would never forget how huge it was: six feet at the shoulder and twice that in length, with curved horns that could shear through a person like a hot knife through butter.
“Brother John?” Red Fox said.
Shores recalled how one of the boys had beaned the buffalo with a rock. He and the others had joined in, as boys that age were wont to do, and spent the next half an hour stoning the buffalo to death. When it finally stopped breathing, they congratulated one another on their mighty feat and ran off to tell their parents. That weekend there was a church social. Buffalo meat was the main dish.
“Brother John!”
Shores looked up. The herd was a lot closer and moving a lot faster than a herd normally did. It dawned on him they were stampeding—straight toward the wallow.
Chapter Seven
Colorado-Nebraska border
Eli Brandenberg was worried. The Hoodoos had stayed overnight at his place, something they had never done before. Kid Falon had spent much of it drinking and now was in a surly mood. Eli had to walk on eggshells around the little gunsman, which didn’t sit well with Eli’s nerves.
Then there was the grave business. Eli took it for granted the Hoodoos would do their own burying. But no. Brock Alvord had called him over after sunset, slid two dollars across the table, and said, “For the diggin’.”
Eli honestly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You expect me to bury those buff boys?”
Kid Falon, who had been about to deal cards, glanced up. “Do you have a problem with that, you louse-ridden soddy?”
“No problem at all,” Eli lied, smiling to give the impression that burying bodies was something he did every day of the week and twice on Sundays because he loved it more than breathing. “It’s just that they’re both mighty big, and I’m kind of puny. I could use some help draggin’ them out.”
Brock Alvord might be a horse thief, but he wasn’t near as mean as the men who rode under him. “Ben, Noonan, give him a hand.”
It never ceased to amaze Eli how Alvord could boss around the likes of the sidewinders who rode with him, and they never seemed to mind. Kid Falon was the worst of the bunch, but the others weren’t daisies. Big Ben Brody, who hailed from Arkansas, was a bear in human guise. Brody wasn’t all that handy with a six-gun but he had been known to wrap his huge arms around gents he wasn’t fond of and crush them in a hug. John Noonan, the quiet one of the bunch, was from the backwoods of Missouri, and a deadlier man never lived. He was good with a pistol, rifle, and knife. It was said he had a habit of making love to women whether they wanted to make love or not. Curly Means had the sunniest disposition this side of St. Louis but would shoot a man in the back as quick as look at him. Curly also had a thing about dogs. It seems that when he was a boy, a dog had bit his leg clear down to the bone and left a scar that never healed. Ever since, Curly had amused himself by killing every stray dog he ran across, usually by dragging them by the neck until they were dead.
That men like these took orders from Brock Alvord was all the proof Eli needed that Alvord was as tough as they came. But there was more to it than that. Alvord had brains. He was smarter than most outlaws. His notion of stealing horses only from Indians was a stroke of genius, in Eli’s estimation. Then there was the business of their hideout. Everyone knew they had one, but no one knew where it was. Some claimed the Tetons. Others that it was off on the prairie somewhere.
But all that hardly mattered to Eli as he spent hours raising blisters on his hands. The ground was hard as rock, and once below the sod he had to chip away with a pick to make any kind of progress. He dug until well after midnight, then rolled the bodies into the holes and covered them.
Now here it was, eight the next morning, and Eli was fixing breakfast for his unwanted guests. His palms hurt like hell. Whenever he gripped the big wooden spoon to stir the hominy, he flinched. He was also making johnnycakes. He had eggs stored away, but he would be damned if he would share them. The same applied to his bacon.
The Hoodoos had spread out their bedrolls and slept on the floor. They were up early, although Big Ben Brody had refused to stir until Brock Alvord had upended a glass of water over his head. Brody came up wet and sputtering. Eli thought he would tear into Alvord, but all Brody did was grin.
“Sometime this year with that food!” Kid Falon barked. “We’re expectin’ company, and we want to be done when they get here.”
This was news to Eli. It explained why they’d stayed the night. But he would just as soon they mounted up and went elsewhere. Having them around was like having a pack of wild dogs move in. He never knew but when one of them might take it into their head to bite him.
Curly’s smile, it seemed, was carved into his handsome face. Strolling to the door, he opened it wide and breathed deep of the crisp morning air. “Do you know what’s better than bein’ alive?” he asked.
When none of the Hoodoos replied, Eli took it on himself to say, “No. What?”
“Nothin’.” Curly laughed and pushed his hat back on his thatch of curls. “When the time comes to have my wick blown out, I’ll be one mighty sad hombre.”