“What’s that?”
“White men.”
Piercing whoops accented the old warrior’s point. Shores forked leather and applied his spurs. In Cheyenne he had been assured the Sioux were much farther north this time of year. Apparently someone had forgotten to tell the Sioux. He glanced back to gauge whether the warriors would try to overtake them right away or chase them into the ground and was amused to see one of them nocking an arrow to a bow. The range was far too great. Or so he assumed until the shaft left the string and arced in a precise trajectory that ended with it embedding itself in the earth less than five feet behind him.
“Damn.” Shores had heard tales about Indian prowess with a bow. Claims they were taught to use one when they were barely old enough to hold it. Claims a grown warrior could unleash ten to twenty shafts in the span of a minute. Claims of incredible accuracy when firing from horseback. He had chalked them up to the usual frontier penchant for hot air, but after the attempt he had just witnessed, he was willing to admit he might have been hasty in his judgment.
Another shaft was loosed, this time at Red Fox. It missed, although not by much. The Shoshone reacted by laughing and taunting their pursuers.
After that, the Sioux concentrated on trying to narrow the gap. Shores and the Shoshone concentrated on increasing their lead. They did, but not by much.
Shores remembered hearing that grass-fed mounts lacked the stamina of grain-fed animals, and he was optimistic his claybank could outlast the mounts of the hostiles. As for the paint, if it tired and lagged, Shores didn’t know what he would do. He needed Red Fox’s help in tracking the Hoodoos, but he would be damned if he would sacrifice his life for an old Indian. Hell, he doubted he would do it for another white man. Not if it meant falling into the clutches of dusky demons who delighted in inflicting unspeakable tortures.
Red Fox’s cry brought Shores out of himself. He didn’t know what to make of the forms dotting the prairie ahead. Then it hit him: They were buffalo. The herd had stampeded itself out and was milling about.
Red Fox smiled and shouted something, but Shores didn’t catch what the old man said. He thought the Shoshone would veer east or west, but to his consternation Red Fox reined toward the center of the herd.
Madness, Shores thought. Then he realized that by mingling with the buffalo, they might shake the Sioux. But it had to be done just right, and the chance of a mishap was high.
Red Fox started whooping and hollering and waving an arm. Shores followed suit. But the buffalo were slow responding. They had just run miles and were tired, which made them less prone to spook . . . until a bull snorted and bobbed its immense head, and, like a shaggy, churning wave, the entire herd galvanized into motion and resumed stampeding.
Shores and the Shoshone were in among them within moments. Shores had buffalo to the right, buffalo to the left. Their driving hooves hammered the ground like anvils, almost drowning out the grunts that came from all sides. Their musty, sweaty scent was overpowering.
A horn came perilously close to ripping open the claybank. Shores had never been so scared. Not even when he was eight and he’d gone down into the root cellar and was confronted by a coiled rattlesnake. Not even when he was twenty and a criminal he had cornered in a darkened room pulled a knife on him. He was so scared, he couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything other than ride and hope to God he made it out alive.
Dust was everywhere once again. Shores glimpsed Red Fox grinning that inane grin of his. He glanced down into the dark eye of a buffalo and saw the eye blink. It made his skin crawl. Why, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was being so close to creatures he had no business being this close to. Their size, their power, their strangeness chilled his soul.
Shores lost track of how long they ran with the herd. It seemed hours but couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes. Then Red Fox yipped and motioned and reined to the east, toward where the herd was thinner. His breath catching in his throat, Shores did likewise. He had to trust the old Indian’s judgment. This was far beyond the realm of his own experience, far beyond anything he had ever done or ever contemplated doing.
The buffalo let them pass unhindered. None of the great shaggy heads turned to rend and rip.
Shores glanced back but couldn’t see the Sioux for the dust. Which meant they couldn’t see him either. He glanced toward Red Fox, but now the Shoshone was also lost amid the billowing cloud.
Panic nipped at Shores, but he fought it down. They had been veering east, so he continued east. At least, he hoped it was east. It was hard to be completely sure.
Tense seconds ensued. Shores was about convinced they had become separated, when the dust parted and he saw Red Fox galloping through the last of the buffalo. Another few moments, and Shores was in the clear. They raced eastward for another half a mile without slowing, then drew rein.
The herd still thundered south. Nipping at its heels like a pack of wolves, visible at random moments, were the Sioux.
Red Fox smiled and made a comment in his own tongue.
“What?” Shores asked.
“Stupid Sioux,” Red Fox said and laughed.
Shores didn’t share the old man’s glee. Their search had barely begun, yet twice this day he had been delivered from what he took to be certain death. What next? he wondered. And couldn’t suppress a shudder.
Denver, Colorado Territory
Artemis Leeds had just finished renting a buggy to a handsome young couple who wanted to take an afternoon ride along Cherry Creek. He was out in front of the stable, watching to gauge how the young man handled the rig, when something jabbed him in the side hard enough to make him wince.
“I told you we would return.”
“Mr. Gunther, I presume,” Leeds said without turning. “Do us both a favor and leave before I report you to the police.”
“For what? Talking to you?”
“You and I have nothing to discuss.” Enough people were passing by that Leeds was confident Gunther wouldn’t lay a hand on him. He had half a mind to march off to the Chief of Police and lodge a formal protest, but instead he turned and entered the livery. “I don’t care to have you set foot on these premises again.”
Leeds thought that would be the end of it. He heard hinges creak and turned to find Gunther’s two associates closing the double doors. Gunther, smirking, had that polished cane of his across one shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Oh, my ears work fine, stableman. It is you who did not hear me yesterday when I said I need to find the boy who works for you. But I will give you one more chance. Where is he?”
“He never came back,” Leeds bluffed. “If he has the nerve to show up after all this time, I’ll fire him. I can’t abide shirkers.”
“And I can’t abide liars.” Gunther strolled closer. “You see, an acquaintance of ours has gotten word to us that he saw the boy and several others in this very stable this morning. I would have come sooner, but I was off looking for one of your employee’s friends, an Italian named Anthony Fabrizio. You know him too, do you not?”
“I don’t keep track of all of Charley Pickett’s wayward acquaintances.” Leeds saw the man called Hans lift the heavy bar. “What does he think he’s doing? It’s not closing time. Put that down!”
Hans paid no attention.
“You do not seem to appreciate the seriousness of the situation,” Gunther said. “My employer, Mr. Radtke, is most determined to find Fabrizio and Pickett. Most determined.”
“You say that like it should be important to me.”
Gunther took another step. “It never ceases to amaze me how some people refuse to listen to what others are saying.”