Sunset digested that before replying. “I have heard of you, Hoodoo. For five winters you steal many horses from many tribes. I never hear you cheat anyone.”
“I’m not stupid. The first time I did, word would get out, and soon there wouldn’t be an Indian this side of the Divide who would want anything to do with me or my boys. So long as I’m honest, I’m trusted.”
A second johnnycake proved too much for the Cheyenne to resist. He ate slowly, thoughtfully, smacking his lips when he was done. “Very well. I will trust you. But if you trick us, my cousins and I will count coup on you.”
Kid Falon snickered and went to say something, but again Brock Alvord shushed him. “Let’s hear about this herd. Who owns it? Where can we find it? And most important, how many horses and what kind?”
“This many.” Sunset held up all his fingers and thumbs six times. “War horses, not travois horses. They belong to a Crow.”
Eli wasn’t much on Indian lore, but he did know they took powerful good care of their best horses, the mounts they used when they went on the warpath. Some warriors went so far as to bring their favorite war horse into their lodge at night so it couldn’t be stolen or set on by meat eaters.
“This Crow have a name?”
“To the whites he is Looks With His Ears. He belongs to the Kicked In The Bellies band.” Sunset then went on to relate where the band could be found. “They will stay there another moon, maybe two, then move on. You have until then to steal the herd.”
“Tell me about the horses.”
Eli didn’t listen to the rest. He was more interested in what the other Cheyenne were up to. Indians were big eaters, and these four were typical. They gobbled down the rest of the johnnycakes and held out their hands for more. “I ain’t got any,” Eli informed them more gruffly than he should have, and one scowled and fingered his rifle. “Hold your britches though.”
Some years ago, Eli had made jerked venison that didn’t turn out right. The meat had a rancid taste. He had stuffed it in a cabinet and forgotten about it, but now he took out the strip of deer hide the jerky was wrapped in and placed it in front of the four moochers. “Help yourselves.”
The meat had mold on it, but that didn’t stop the Cheyenne from biting off big chunks and chewing hungrily. Grunting, they grinned at Eli to show their gratitude, and he grinned back, thinking they had to be the biggest idiots ever born.
Brock Alvord and Sunset were talking and smiling. Eli assumed the palaver was going smoothly. So he was all the more stupefied when Sunset suddenly yipped like a coyote, leveled his Winchester at Brock Alvord’s chest, and fired. How Sunset missed, Eli might never have known had he not seen Kid Falon’s Colts streak above the table and blast in unison.
The Kid’s reflexes were so unbelievably swift that, having seen Sunset start to level the Winchester, he had drawn and fired before the warrior could squeeze off a shot. The slugs from his pearl-handled Colts cored Sunset’s sternum and smashed him and his chair back a yard, spoiling his aim.
The yip had been a signal for the other Cheyenne. They spun, firing as they whirled, working their rifle levers rapidly.
Big Ben Brody yelped and flung himself, and his chair, out of the hail of lead. Curly Means and John Noonan met it head on. Apparently they had expected treachery, because they were on their feet before the warriors turned, Noonan fanning his six-gun, Curly firing from the hip. Eli saw Noonan jolted by a bullet. Kid Falon and Brock Alvord were also blazing away, and it abruptly dawned on Eli that he was in the line of all that lead.
Eli dived for the floor and felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. He cried out, and his cry was echoed by one of the Cheyenne. Bodies thudded as more shots boomed. Then quiet descended.
“Stinkin’ vermin,” Kid Falon spat.
Cautiously rising, Eli peeked over the counter. The three warriors had been shot to ribbons. The Kid and Curly were reloading. Noonan was examining a wound low on his left side. Big Ben was on his knees, swatting at the clouds of smoke that hung in the air like acrid fog.
Brock Alvord looked fit to explode. He stormed over to Sunset, sank onto a knee, and gripped the Cheyenne by the throat. “Why?” he raged, shaking him. “Why the hell did you do that?”
Sunset wasn’t long for this world. Scarlet ribbons trickled from his mouth. Feebly, he attempted to draw his knife, but Brock angrily stomped on his wrist, pinning his hand.
“Answer me, damn your hide!”
Eli knew what the Cheyenne would say before Sunset choked it out.
“The bounty.”
Livid with fury, Brock stood, thumbed back the hammer to his six-gun, and shot Sunset in the forehead. He thumbed back the hammer a second time, but it clicked on a spent cartridge. Beside himself, he hiked his boot and stomped on the Cheyenne’s face again and again and again. When he stepped back, breathless, it was a pulped ruin.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Curly Means said. “We can’t trust anyone from here on out.”
Eli straightened and was spiked by agony. He touched his shoulder, and his fingers came away sticky with blood. Dizziness assailed him, and he staggered around to a chair and oozed into it, his legs so much mush. “I’ve been shot!” he bleakly exclaimed. He envisioned being planted next to the buffalo hunters and groaned.
Curly ambled over. “How bad is it?” He had a folding knife in his left hand. Opening it, he carefully cut Eli’s shirt to expose the wound. “You must have been born with a four-leaf clover in your mouth.”
“I’m done for, and you poke fun?”
“Hell. You’ll outlive me and the rest of the boys put together. The slug missed the bone and went out your back without leavin’ much of a hole. You’re not bleedin’ that bad either. You were lucky.”
Eli didn’t feel lucky. He felt like he had been kicked by a mustang.
Noonan’s wound was a lot worse, but he dabbed at it with his bandanna, tucked his shirt back under his pants, and said, “I’m ready when the rest of you are.”
“Ready for what?” Eli said weakly, but no one was listening. The Hoodoos were gathering up their saddles and their effects, and Big Ben was shoving the few johnnycakes left into his saddlebags.
“You’re leavin’?”
Brock Alvord walked over. “I’m sorry, Eli. There might be a whole war party nearby. We can’t stick around and chance bein’ trapped in here.” He patted Eli’s good shoulder. “I’m sure you understand.”
Eli did no such thing. “What about me? I can’t fight off a war party by my lonesome! You owe it to me to stick and help out.”
Kid Falon’s right Colt blossomed out of thin air. “Foolish talk like that can get you planted. We don’t owe you a blessed thing, soddy.”
Brock shook his head. “Put that away.” He reached into a pocket and counted out one hundred dollars in United States notes. “I was fixin’ to give this to Sunset, but his loss is your gain. It should make us even.” Throwing his saddle over his back, he jangled out on the heels of his compañeros. They weren’t letting any grass grow under them.
Eli sat there. He trembled all over but not from fear. Throwing the bills onto the table, he struggled erect. “No sir! No sir!” Rage made him reckless. Clutching his shoulder, he shuffled to the doorway.
Over under the lean-to beside the corral, the Hoodoos were hastily preparing to ride out. Their horses were some of the best they had stolen in recent years, animals that could go forever and a day and not tire.
“Wait!” Eli stumbled toward them. “Take me!”
Kid Falon laughed. Big Ben Brody shook his head.
“Let me ride with one of you!” Eli grasped at a straw. “Drop me off at the first town you come to.”