Cheyenne Saturday - Empty-Grave Extended Edition Read Online Free Page B
Author: Richard Jessup
right back, Ellis,” Kelly said. He turned into the tent and dismissed the Texan from his mind, his attention now wholly focused on his problem. How badly was Asa Little injured, and could he ride scout to relieve Jake Reeves? And if he couldn't, who was there to replace him?
Even if he had to go himself, Kelly had to have information on the whereabouts and plans of the renegade Goose Face.
Chapter 2
GOOSE FACE didn't mind the stench of the buffalo dung he had so carefully smeared over his body to cover his own scent. Bent over and nearly on all fours beneath the weight of a bull buffalo's hide, complete with skull and horns, the young Cheyenne ignored the herd grazing around him and concentrated on the scene nearly twenty miles away across the plains. The railhead camp, with its city of tents and spirals of smoke from big campfires, delighted him.
He studied the scene with the eye of one well experienced in attack. It was useless to come up from across the plains and attack the white men head-on. They would be warned and ready for him, and he and his hundred followers would be wiped out in the first sally.
Though the young Indian did not understand much that motivated the white man, he had learned enough from the trader who had taken him in after the massacre of his village to know that this day, this night, was important to them. The greeting staged earlier by the white men for the iron horse confirmed his meager information that today was some sort of feast day for the men who broke trail for the smoking horse. He had learned from the scout taken during the night that it was Sad-a-day, and he remembered that the old trader never failed to drink whisky on Sad-a-day.
What bothered Goose Face as he moved through the herd of buffalo was the number of soldiers. He was torn between the pleasant dream of killing so many of the killers-of-his-people and the honest respect he had for them as fighters. These soldiers, the young Cheyenne knew, had just finished fighting a war between themselves and there was nothing so dangerous as a brave who has learned the tricks of battle, and who does not flinch at death.
Now, even as Goose Face watched the railhead encampment, the spur of rails had inched closer to him and the herd of buffalo. Suddenly his eyes gleamed. He had his plan.
He turned and worked his way back through the herd to where he had hobbled his pony. He slung the buffalo hide to the ground and leaped on his swift broomtail stallion and trotted of in the direction of the rise that had caused Liam Kelly so much anxiety.
Behind him, the rails inched closer and closer. The buffalo closed in after him, nuzzling the deep plains grass and one another.
* * *
Goose Face's men lay in wait in the depth of a shallow gully that, during early spring, would run full and wide and empty into the North Platte, but was now dry and loamed with hard red dust. There was no shade, and the men sat cross-legged in the shadows of their broomtails and talked among themselves. To one side Jake Reeves lay sprawled in the sun, bound hand and foot and pegged spread-legged to the ground. No one watched him any more, for Jake had ceased to struggle during the night. The blood from a head wound, inflicted by Goose Face in extracting information, had long since clotted over and the spill had dried into the dust.
Farther up the draw, twenty or more of the ragged renegade band were grouped around a tall brave who was gesturing to the others and talking slowly. The circle of men listened to Singing Bird, a wandering Blackfoot who had been driven out of his village for theft, and did not respond to his tirade.
Some of them turned away without a word. Others followed, and when Singing Bird tried to make them listen, his eye caught sight of a pony standing above him on the edge of the dry bank.
Goose Face stared at the man below. “So,” he said between his teeth, “you would have us sneak into the white man's camp and steal like the thief
Even if he had to go himself, Kelly had to have information on the whereabouts and plans of the renegade Goose Face.
Chapter 2
GOOSE FACE didn't mind the stench of the buffalo dung he had so carefully smeared over his body to cover his own scent. Bent over and nearly on all fours beneath the weight of a bull buffalo's hide, complete with skull and horns, the young Cheyenne ignored the herd grazing around him and concentrated on the scene nearly twenty miles away across the plains. The railhead camp, with its city of tents and spirals of smoke from big campfires, delighted him.
He studied the scene with the eye of one well experienced in attack. It was useless to come up from across the plains and attack the white men head-on. They would be warned and ready for him, and he and his hundred followers would be wiped out in the first sally.
Though the young Indian did not understand much that motivated the white man, he had learned enough from the trader who had taken him in after the massacre of his village to know that this day, this night, was important to them. The greeting staged earlier by the white men for the iron horse confirmed his meager information that today was some sort of feast day for the men who broke trail for the smoking horse. He had learned from the scout taken during the night that it was Sad-a-day, and he remembered that the old trader never failed to drink whisky on Sad-a-day.
What bothered Goose Face as he moved through the herd of buffalo was the number of soldiers. He was torn between the pleasant dream of killing so many of the killers-of-his-people and the honest respect he had for them as fighters. These soldiers, the young Cheyenne knew, had just finished fighting a war between themselves and there was nothing so dangerous as a brave who has learned the tricks of battle, and who does not flinch at death.
Now, even as Goose Face watched the railhead encampment, the spur of rails had inched closer to him and the herd of buffalo. Suddenly his eyes gleamed. He had his plan.
He turned and worked his way back through the herd to where he had hobbled his pony. He slung the buffalo hide to the ground and leaped on his swift broomtail stallion and trotted of in the direction of the rise that had caused Liam Kelly so much anxiety.
Behind him, the rails inched closer and closer. The buffalo closed in after him, nuzzling the deep plains grass and one another.
* * *
Goose Face's men lay in wait in the depth of a shallow gully that, during early spring, would run full and wide and empty into the North Platte, but was now dry and loamed with hard red dust. There was no shade, and the men sat cross-legged in the shadows of their broomtails and talked among themselves. To one side Jake Reeves lay sprawled in the sun, bound hand and foot and pegged spread-legged to the ground. No one watched him any more, for Jake had ceased to struggle during the night. The blood from a head wound, inflicted by Goose Face in extracting information, had long since clotted over and the spill had dried into the dust.
Farther up the draw, twenty or more of the ragged renegade band were grouped around a tall brave who was gesturing to the others and talking slowly. The circle of men listened to Singing Bird, a wandering Blackfoot who had been driven out of his village for theft, and did not respond to his tirade.
Some of them turned away without a word. Others followed, and when Singing Bird tried to make them listen, his eye caught sight of a pony standing above him on the edge of the dry bank.
Goose Face stared at the man below. “So,” he said between his teeth, “you would have us sneak into the white man's camp and steal like the thief
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