He said goodbye to the brigadier and Maureen on a sunny afternoon. Maureen's final word was a tart, "You ought to marry that girl, sir. She said there's no longer a Mr. Parker, and she's a grand person."
Rather abruptly, Charles said, "Traders don't make good family men."
He didn't get as far as he'd planned the first day. In midafternoon, passing through the Salt Creek Valley, Kickapoo Township, Satan threw a shoe. By the time a local blacksmith replaced it the sun was going down. Charles put up at the Golden Rule House, a place Duncan had talked about with enthusiasm:
"It's only been open a short time but it's already famous up and down the river. The proprietor's a generous young fellow. He'll cut the price of your meal and pour whiskey free if he's had a few himself. If he keeps on, he'll go bankrupt. But it's wonderful while it lasts."
So it proved. The atmosphere in the converted house was noisy and convivial. The owner, though just twenty, was one of those authentic characters who gave the West its flavor. Already well under the influence by six o'clock, the young Kansan regaled his guests with a long story about driving an Overland coach and suddenly being attacked by a huge band of Sioux. He claimed he drove them off with a combination of shouted threats and rifle fire, saving coach and passengers.
Charles shared a table with a huge, amiable man about his own age, who introduced himself as Henry Griffenstein. He said he hailed from one of the German settlements in the upland section of Missouri known as the Little Rhineland.
' "That's why I'm Dutch Henry to my friends. Right now I'm bullwhacking wagons to Santa Fe. Who knows what I'll be doing next year?"
Charles chewed a chunk of buffalo steak, then pointed his fork at the talkative young man tending bar. "I don't think I believe that story. Especially the number of Sioux he got rid of. But he's a damn fine storyteller,"
"Damn fine stage driver, too," Dutch Henry said. "Besides that, he's handled freight wagons and scouted for the Army. He rode Pony Express at fourteen — he says."
"How'd he get in the hotel business?"
"He and Louisa opened the place after they got hitched in January. I don't think he can last cooped up like this. He's too full of ginger. Not to mention the gift of gab."
"Gather 'round, boys," the young man shouted, waving his customers in. "I want to tell you about riding with the Seventh Kansas Cavalry in the war. Jennison's Jayhawkers. Real hard cases. We — wait, let's all have a refill first."
He poured generous drinks for his listeners, wobbling noticeably as he did so. From the way he knocked back his whiskey, Charles judged him to be something of a hard case himself.
"What'd you say his name was?" he asked Dutch Henry.
"Cody. Will F. Cody."
On horseback with their pack mules in single file, the Jackson Trading Company rode over the autumn prairie, bound for the land beyond the hazy blue horizon to the south. They rode beside the same trampled buffalo trail they'd followed to Indian Territory the year before. In the northwest, dark gray clouds raced toward the apex of the sky. Every half minute or so the clouds lit up, white within.
Above the traders a hawk rode the air currents. Red-tailed and dusky gray of body, she sank and soared in great spirals, her heavy wings spread to their full fifty inches.
Charles alternately watched the hawk and the storm clouds. Wooden Foot said the hawk was looking for mice and gophers, either of which she could see from high above. Suddenly the hawk turned, flexed her wings hard and flew straight away into the rough air beginning to blow out of the north. Charles wondered if something had alarmed her.
The land here undulated, so that the prospect ahead was that of a series of continual rises, none higher than six feet. It was late afternoon. At about the same hour two days ago, they'd crossed the Smoky Hill Road, on which wagons still creaked west with as much speed as their drivers could manage, smelling winter in the crisp September air. At Fort Riley, an officer had told Charles that something like a hundred thousand emigrant wagons had traveled through during the summer.
You wouldn't know it here. They'd ridden past an isolated farm at sunset yesterday. Two youngsters had waved at them from the feed lot, and Boy had laughed and gurgled long after the children were left behind. They'd seen no human beings since. In an old Harper's Weekly picked up at Riley, Charles had read an amazing article about the great mountain chain of Asia, the Himalayas. "Special from New Delhi by Our Roving Correspondent." He was fascinated by the description of that remote region, which surely couldn't be emptier than this prairie under the brow of the approaching storm.
The wind picked up. High as Satan's knees, the dry, brittle grama grass seethed. It struck Charles that the piebald was nervous. The other animals were too including Fen. The border collie kept running in circles ahead of them, barking.
The dog loped away down the other side of the next rise and disappeared. Only the disturbed motion of the grass marked his trail. Charles studied the sky again. "I wonder why that hawk all of a sudden —"
He stopped, noticing more agitation in the grass. It rippled as though an invisible man was rushing toward them, creating a path but remaining unseen.
"It's Fen," Wooden Foot said above the whistling wind. "Wonder what the devil's biting him?" He reached for his rifle scabbard. "Boy, stick close."
Boy nudged his horse toward the trader's. "I'll have a look," Charles said, touching Satan with his boot heels.
The piebald trotted about fifty feet to the summit of the rise. Grit and bits of windblown grass flew into Charles's eyes. He squinted and shielded his eyes with his hand as he topped the rise.
At the bottom, a line of nine men sat on ponies, waiting.
From the center of the line Scar gazed up at him. He and the others wore leggings painted with red stripes, and red paint on their faces, arms, and bare chests. Each wore the Dog Society cap, with a narrow beaded band and feathers from a golden eagle and a raven; the feathers were gathered and tied so they stood up straight. Each man had an eagle-bone whistle on a thong around his neck and carried bow and arrow plus a trade rifle or musket. It was full war regalia.
Scar saw that register on Charles's face. He grinned and pumped his rifle up and down. The others barked and howled.
Wooden Foot and Boy came riding up behind Charles. "Oh my God, Charlie, this is it. This ain't no accident. I shouldn't of tore that clout off him. He's been waitin' all summer. He knew we'd prob'ly come back this way."
Charles started to ask whether they should signal for a parley. The fiery spurt and bang of an Indian rifle made the very idea foolish.
MADELINE'S JOURNAL
September, 1865. Sim's boy Pride brought me another of those foul-smelling rocks, this one from his own land. Told him I did not know what they were. Must ask Cooper if he ever deigns to visit again ...