Hate Thy Neighbor Page 4

  “Where are they?” Kate said.

  “They’re mainly clustered along the Rio Grande, Mexicans coming up from Chihuahua,” Frank said. “That’s marginal land for farming, sand and sagebrush mostly, but they’re trying it.”

  Kate looked strained. “How many?”

  “Several thousand, men, women, and children, but the Rangers say there’s a rumor that white men are running the show down there.”

  “White men? Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I don’t know, Kate. But I sure don’t like the sound of it.”

  “Why won’t the Rangers do something? Do they know I’m pushing my range west to the Rio Grande?”

  “Well, you haven’t claimed the land yet, and nobody’s broken any laws. Sure the Rangers can run them off, but as soon as them big mustaches ride away the nesters will cross the river and come back.”

  “White men,” Kate said, frowning. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Yeah. It troubles the hell out of me, Kate.”

  “Me too. Why are they there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think they mean harm to the Kerrigan Ranch?”

  Frank smiled. “Kate, you’ve got thirty full-time hands, all of them good with a gun and Trace, Quinn, and me are pretty handy with the iron as well. I doubt you have anything to fear from a couple of white men and a bunch of ragged, shirttail Mexicans. We can run them off, real quick.”

  Kate worried the problem like a dog worries a bone. “Well, if they do mean us harm, I’m sure they’ll show their hand sooner or later.”

  “We’ll be ready when they do,” Frank said.

  Kate shook her beautiful head. “Frank, why do I feel so uneasy? And don’t say it’s because of the gray hair.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. How about Buffalo Bill? He’s a handful.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Kate sighed and got to her feet. “It’s . . . it’s like trouble is just going to drop out of the sky. Have you ever had that feeling?”

  Frank was inclined to say, “No I haven’t,” but he decided a small lie was in order. “All the time, Kate, but it usually passes after a while.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Kate said. But she seemed very unsure that it would.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was a half-wild Northern Cheyenne named Cloud Passing who brought the balloonist down to earth. In all his forty years the Indian had never seen such a thing in the sky and he decided that it bore a closer look.

  Three days after he’d arrived with Buffalo Bill, Cloud Passing was exercising his favorite pony on the range when the bright red balloon hove into sight and scudded across the sky, borne by a south wind. The Cheyenne figured that the flying creature presented an immediate danger and he raised his .44-40 Winchester, drew a bead on the strange, devouring beast, and cut loose.

  * * *

  The bullet splintered through the bottom of the basket, spaaanged! off the hydrogen cylinder, and plowed a nasty trench in the flesh an inch above Josiah Mosely’s left knee. Despite the glancing hit, the cylinder punctured in two places and rapidly lost gas. The balloon lost height, and the basket wildly rocked back and forth, forcing Mosely to drop to the floor. He clung to the wicker and hoped his death would be a merciful one.

  * * *

  Cloud Passing watched the flying monster hit the grass, bounce, and then scamper across the flat range, sometimes at ground level, more often as not a few feet in the air. His hunting instincts aroused, the Cheyenne galloped after the now running creature as he would a stampeding buffalo. He fired round after round from the shoulder, mercifully at the canopy, and yipped his hunting song.

  * * *

  Despite the bucking, careening basket Josiah Mosely was aware of a crazed Indian galloping alongside the balloon, shooting into the envelope.

  “Git the hell away from here!” he yelled, hauling himself above the basket rim.

  The Indian stared at him and his eyes got big. He racked the Winchester, aimed at Mosely, and pulled the trigger. Click. The rifle was empty. Controlling his galloping pony with considerable skill, the Cheyenne reversed the rifle and used it like a club to swing at Mosely’s head.

  And then an unforeseen disaster.

  Cloud Passing missed Mosely and, off balance, he leaned over too far, toppled from his pony, and fell headfirst into the basket. Sharing a few square feet with a bloodthirsty savage, his guns in carpetbags out of reach, did not appeal to Mosely. As the Cheyenne fell inside, the youngster jumped out, dropped about ten feet, and hit the ground with a thud.

  * * *

  Dragged behind the wind-driven balloon, Cloud Passing hurtled at breakneck speed across the flat, a prairie equivalent of the Nantucket sleigh ride so feared by the old whaling men. The Cheyenne had never traveled at such a pace, even on Buffalo Bill’s steam train, and he yipped and screamed his delight, his long hair whipping behind him in the wind blast every time the balloon soared high into the air. Cloud Passing held onto the rim of the basket and, grinning, willed the flying creature to go faster.

  * * *

  The two horsemen were not pleased to see Josiah Mosely, and the one with the hard blue eyes was the most belligerent. “Was it you doing all that shooting?” he said.

  “Hell no,” Mosely said. “It was some crazy Indian.”

  “Was he shooting at you?” the long-haired man on the beautiful white horse said.

  “Hell yeah,” Mosely said. “Look at my damned leg.”

  Neither horseman seemed impressed by the young man’s wound, and the older man said, “He wasn’t one of my Indians, was he?”

  “I don’t know,” Mosely said. “Who are you?”

  “Buffalo Bill Cody, young man, and this here is Frank Cobb, and I want to hear some respect in your tone. You didn’t harm him, did you?”

  “Who?”

  “My Indian.”

  “I don’t know whose Indian he is. I do know that he shot my balloon out of the sky and then tried his best to murder me.”

  Bill nodded. “Sounds like one of mine all right. Where is he?”

  Mosely pointed south. “That way. He’s riding the balloon and is probably in Mexico by now.”

  “What’s this damned balloon you keep talking about?” Frank Cobb said.

  “I rode in one before, up Kansas way,” Bill Cody said. “It was an interesting experience, but I’ll tell you about it later. Meantime I’m going after my Indian.”

  “I’ll join you,” Frank said. Then to Mosely, “What the hell is your name, youngster?” After Mosely gave his name, Frank said, “Get up behind me. I’m keeping you close.”

  “I can’t ride a horse,” Mosely said.

  “Just git up and hold on,” Frank said, and then, mimicking Mosely’s high tenor, “‘I can’t ride a horse.’ Damn it, boy, everybody in the world can ride a hoss.”

  “I must have been marked absent when they were giving the lessons,” Mosely said.

  Bill said, “Boy, for a pilgrim you’re one uppity cuss. Be warned. Out this way sass can get you shot quicker’n scat.”

  * * *

  A dead cottonwood and a sudden drop in the wind snagged the balloon and held it in place. Cloud Passing jumped out of the basket, his heart thumping in his chest. Still excited by the ride, he pulled his knife and did some kind of whooping, prancing dance around the wreckage.

  He was still dancing when Frank Cobb and Bill Cody showed up twenty minutes later. Josiah Mosely had fallen off Frank’s horse a mile back and completed the journey on foot, carrying his recovered carpetbags and rubbing a bruised butt.

  Bill Cody drew rein and said, “Yup, he’s one of mine, all right. That there is Cloud Passing, and he’s one mean, nasty Indian. He’s a Northern Cheyenne Dog Soldier and he says he put a bullet in Tom Custer at the Big Horn massacre.” Bill shook his head. “Damn it all, Frank, it’s gonna to take me all day to get him calmed down.”

  Frank Cobb swung out of the saddle and waited until Mosely arrived. “He th
e Indian who tried to kill you?” he said.

  Mosely nodded. “Yes, that’s him all right.”

  Frank nodded and his eyes moved to Bill Cody. “The law says I have to hang him from the cottonwood, Bill,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “I understand,” Bill said. “In Texas when an Indian tries to murder a white man it’s a hanging offense. It’s the same all over. Only thing is, I set store by that Indian, Frank. Most of the real mean Cheyenne are dead.”

  Frank drew his Colt and took the coiled rope from his saddle. “You know the law. Then let’s get it done.”

  “No!” Josiah Mosely yelled. “You can’t do that. What’s wrong with you people? You just can’t hang a man.”

  “I can and I will,” Frank said. “He shot at you and wounded you. His guilt is clear.”

  “It was an accident,” Mosely said. “The Indian thought he was shooting at a big red bird, not a white man.”

  Frank’s eyes hardened, not a good thing to see. “You told us the Cheyenne tried to murder you and now you say he didn’t. Either you’re lying, or you’re trying to cover for the Indian. Which way does the pickle squirt?”

  “I was angry when I said he tried to kill me,” Mosely said. His celluloid collar had sprung away from its front stud and his round glasses were dusty so that he had to peer at Frank. “I made that part up.”

  “How did you get the leg wound?” Bill said.

  “A bullet came up through the basket, bounced off the hydrogen cylinder, and then hit me.” Mosely flexed his leg. “See, it doesn’t even hurt.”

  “I bet it hurts like hell,” Frank said. He looked up at Bill Cody, who was still mounted. “What’s your opinion on this situation?”

  Cloud Passing had stopped dancing and, his head craned forward, he watched the proceedings with interest. He had enough English to realize that the man with the steel eyes wanted to hang him, the little man with the bloody knee was trying to save him, and Buffalo Bill didn’t care either way. The Cheyenne had lost his rifle and had only his knife, but he was determined to put up a fight. Hanging was a white man’s way to kill a warrior, and Cloud Passing despised it.

  “Hell, I reckon we give the Indian the benefit of the doubt, Frank,” Bill said. “The kid is right, Cloud Passing thought the balloon was a big bird and took a pot at it.”

  Frank considered that, but a man of his time and place, he said, “Then so be it. Bill, I’m releasing the Indian into your custody. But if he even so much as threatens a white man again I’ll string him up. Are you in agreement with that?”

  Bill doffed his hat. “Frank, we’ve made a gentlemen’s bargain, and I will stand by it. Now go poke the Indian with a stick or something. I want to know if he’s safe to handle.”

  Frank swung into the saddle. “He’s your Indian, Bill,” he said. “You poke him your ownself.”

  After he settled his plumed hat back on his head, Bill Cody said, “Young feller—what’s your name again?

  “I didn’t put it out, but it’s Josiah Mosely.”

  Bill said, “Ah, Josiah, as fine a king of Judea as ever was.” He glared sternly at Mosely. “Do you read your Bible, boy?”

  “When I have the chance I sure do,” Mosely said.

  “Good. Then you ain’t afeerd of having your suspenders cut since you’re most certainly headed for heaven an’ all. Go poke that Cheyenne with a stick, see if he’s tame enough to return to civilized folks.”

  “Mr. Cody, I’ve already had one brush with the Indian, and I don’t fancy another,” Mosely said.

  Frank Cobb said, “Get up behind me, boy.” And then to the worried-looking Bill, “One time I heard tell that you can tame a wild Indian by grinning at him. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Buffalo Bill Cody accepted a glass of whiskey from Kate Kerrigan and said, “Thank you, dear lady. I need this after my terrible ordeal.”

  “You mean with the Cheyenne warrior Frank told me about?” Kate said. “I’m so glad it didn’t come to a hanging. On principle, I’m against hanging people unless they really deserve it.”

  “It was dreadful, just a dreadful experience,” Bill said.

  “Do tell, poor, brave Mr. Cody,” Kate said. She picked up the glass of ruby wine a maid had just poured for her. “Now you have me intrigued.”

  Bill gulped his bourbon and looked hopefully at Kate. “Winifred, another drink for Mr. Cody, please,” she said to the maid. “I think at the moment he is feeling rather low.”

  “Low, indeed,” Bill said, cradling his refilled glass as though it was a fragile child. “Of all the languages of all the world, low describes Bill Cody best.”

  It was time for prompting. “So, what happened?” Kate said.

  A log dropped in the fireplace and sent up a shower of orange sparks, and Winifred lit another oil lamp against the growing darkness.

  “I grinned at Cloud Passing, that’s my Indian’s name, for two solid hours by my watch,” Bill said.

  “Grinned at him, Mr. Cody?” Kate said. Her hair flowed like molten copper over the alabaster swell of her breasts, and the emeralds in her ears flashed green fire. The smell of her expensive French perfume drifted in the air like a breath of paradise.

  “Yes, dear lady, grinned at him, on the advice of Frank Cobb,” Bill said.

  Kate frowned. “Frank told you to do that?”

  “Yes. He said it’s a natural fact that grinning at a wild Indian can calm him down tout suite, as the French fur trappers say.”

  “Hmm,” Kate said. Then, “Winifred, remind me to have a word with Mr. Cobb at the first available opportunity. And then what happened, Mr. Cody?”

  “Cloud Passing sat down.”

  “Sat down, Mr. Cody?” Kate said.

  “Yes, dear lady, he sat down and wouldn’t move.”

  “And what did you do, Mr. Cody?”

  “Poked him with a stick.”

  “With a stick, Mr. Cody?”

  “A cottonwood stick.”

  “And then what happened, Mr. Cody?” Kate said.

  “The Indian went wild again, way wilder than before. He waved his knife and sang his scalping song and I thought I’d have to shoot him.”

  “Shoot him, Mr. Cody? Kate said.

  “I reckoned it might come to that, the waste of a good Indian, but I gave grinning another try, and after an hour or so Cloud Passing finally calmed down. Fact is he calmed down so much he stretched out and went to sleep. I think the excitement of the day was just too much for him.”

  “And where is Mr. Cloud Passing now, Mr. Cody?” Kate said.

  “He’s in the kitchen tent, dear lady, quiet as a church mouse after one of the cooks gave him a pan of cornbread. Cloud Passing is right partial to cornbread.”

  “I’m glad it’s all over now, Mr. Cody,” Kate said. “It troubled me most singularly to see you so distressed.”

  “And I thank you for that, Kate.” Bill said. “I think I’ll feel better if I—” he held up his glass.

  “Of course,” Kate said. “Winifred, another whiskey for Mr. Cody.” She smiled. “Should I offer one to Mr. Cloud Passing?”

  Bill Cody shook his head. “Never give firewater to an Indian, dear lady, especially a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. They get drunk very quickly, and then bad things happen.”

  “Ah, words of wisdom from Mr. Cody,” Kate said. “Winifred, did you pay attention to that?” The maid dropped a little curtsey and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m full of them,” Bill said.

  “You’re full of what, Mr. Cody?” Kate said.

  “Words of wisdom, dear lady,” Bill said. “Words of wisdom.”

  * * *

  “You can bed down here for tonight,” Frank Cobb said. “I told Mrs. Kerrigan that the bunkhouse has a space, but she said you’re a guest and must sleep in a guest room. You don’t walk in your sleep, do you?”

  “Not that I’m aware,” Josiah Mosely said.

  “Good, because sleepwalking around t
hese parts can get you shot, and so can snoring. Wes Hardin once told me he shot a man for snoring, but I think he was joshing me.”

  Mosely smiled. “You don’t like me much, Frank, do you?”

  “Like or not like doesn’t come into it. I’m suspicious of any man who trespasses on KK range in a flying machine.”

  “It’s a balloon,” Mosely said. “I’m sure one day there will be flying machines, but not in our lifetime.”

  “Good, because I don’t hold with stuff like that. Man was intended to stay put on the ground and ride. That’s why God gave us horses.”

  “Oh, is that why,” Mosely said, upending a carpetbag on the bed. “I’ve always wondered about that.”

  “Well, now you know,” Frank said. Then, “What the hell! That’s a British Bulldog revolver. I’ve only seen them in hardware stores.”

  Mosely said, “I know what it is. I have two of them. They belonged to a man named Lancelot Purdon. He taught me the rainmaker’s profession.”

  “Did he teach you how to shoot them?”

  “No. Professor Purdon never shot guns.”

  Frank picked up the revolver and said, “This is a .44 caliber and—by thunder it’s loaded! Hell, if you pull the trigger by mistake, this could put a real bad hurting on you, Mosely.” Frank unloaded the Bulldog and dropped the rounds one by one onto the bed. He said, “Where’s the other one?” Mosely retrieved the gun from its carpetbag and handed it over. Frank unloaded that one and laid both on the bedside table. “Keep the shells separate from the gun and never the twain shall meet,” he said. “Play around with these and you stand a good chance of blowing off a finger, or worse.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Frank,” Mosely said. “I guess those are dangerous weapons.”

  “In the wrong hands, and I mean in the hands of someone like you, they’re downright dangerous,” Frank said. “And if, God forbid, you ever took to carrying them, some wannabe gunman will take it into his head to crawl your hump and call you out. Then it’s bang, bang and you’re dead as a six-card poker hand. You understand me, boy?”