Blood Bond Read online

  Sonny was in no shape to reply. He lay draped over a log, his head nearly severed by the big razor-sharp blade of Bodine’s knife.

  “Boy, you better answer me!”

  Silence.

  “Tim! You better go check on Sonny. I think he’s done gone to sleep.”

  Forever.

  The man’s words echoed back to him over the rush of water. Bodine waited, as silent as death. His knife had been cleaned and sheathed. He wanted this one alive.

  He heard the man coming, making no effort to be quiet in his approach, stomping and cussing his way through the brush. As he passed Bodine’s position, Bodine stood up and hit him in the back of the head with a rifle butt. The man dropped to the damp ground, out cold.

  When the man woke up, he had a terrific headache and found his world was all upside down. His hands were tied behind his back and he was strung up by his heels, hanging from a tree limb.

  When he saw what Bodine was doing, just beneath his head, he started sweating. “Hey, partner! What you fixin’ to do?”

  “Build a fire”

  “I can see that! But you’re settin’ it up right under my head!”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re Bodine, ain’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “ ’Bout half raised by them damn no-count Injuns.”

  “That’s half right.”

  “What you gonna cook on that there fire?”

  “Your head.”

  “Aw, man! I ain’t done nothing to you. ’Sides, you cain’t do that to me—I’m a white man.”

  “So was the man I found over near Cutter.”

  The upside-down man had nothing to say about that.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ford.”

  “Well, Ford, you feel like talking to me?”

  “I’m talkin’, I’m talkin’!” Ford knew Bodine’s reputation, and knew that if Bodine said he was gonna cook your head, that was exactly what he was gonna do. In many ways, Bodine was more Injun than that damn no-good Two Wolves.

  “Who tortured George to death?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bodine walked to the rope and slowly lowered Ford until his head was about a foot from the unlit fire. Bodine squatted down and struck a match.

  “Wait a damn minute!” Ford hollered. “I remember. It was Clint Peters, Stan Martin, and two guys name of Bradley and Fergus.”

  “Who do they work for?”

  “Tom Thomas, I reckon. We all do. But mostly we’re hired by Whacker Corrigan.”

  “Who works for Thomas.”

  “Sure.”

  “Everything right on schedule for the attack on the Crow village by Thomas’s fake soldiers?”

  Ford moaned; almost a cry of anguish. “I knowed it wouldn’t work. I just knowed it.”

  “You tell me what you know, Ford. And when the Army gets here, you’re going to tell them, aren’t you?”

  “Whatever you say, Bodine. You got the matches.”

  Chapter 8

  Bodine kept Ford tied securely all the rest of that day, that night, and part of the next day, until he heard the Josephine making its way down the river. He then strung the man back on the limb, head down over the still-unlit fire.

  “Oh, I say now, Bodine!” The general protested the sight. “This is barbaric!”

  “So is the killing of innocent women and children. Talk to him, Ford.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say. Bodine made me say all them things he’s a-gonna tell you, General. I . . .”

  Bodine thumbed a match into a flame and dropped it into the tinder-dry twigs and small sticks.

  Ford started squalling as the heat reached his head, even though he was still several feet above the small flames. “I’ll tell you! It was all Thomas’s idee. I’ll tell you everything, General. Just get me down and away from this goddamn heathen!”

  Some of the soldiers started to move forward. The general waved them back. “Tell your story, man,” he ordered.

  When Ford had finished, and it was a quick telling, the general waved an aide forward. “Take this . . . person on board and get his story on paper. Have him sign it, have it witnessed, and then chain him, hand and foot, and lock him down.” He looked back at Bodine and sniffed a couple of times, a frown on his face. “What is that disgusting odor, Bodine?”

  “Dead bodies. I had to cut a couple of throats.”

  “You really love them damn stinking redskins, don’t you, Bodine?” a grizzled sergeant asked, hatred in his voice.

  Before Bodine could reply, the general had whirled on the man. “Sergeant Whitehall, I have lost a great many personal friends on the western frontier. But I do not hate all Indians for that. Many of their ways not only seem savage to us, they are savage. But we are taking a way of life from them. You can hardly expect them to welcome us with tea and cookies. You joined the Union Army fresh out of Texas and fresh out of the Confederate Army. How did you feel when the Yankee reconstructionists invaded Texas and took control of everything?”

  “I hated ever’ damn one of them and still do!”

  “Bear that in mind before you start cursing Indians. Now get my horse and let’s start moving. We’ve got a way to travel.”

  * * *

  They made a cold camp that night, the meal consisting of hardtack and water, and were ready to move out long before dawn the next morning. Two Wolves had slipped into camp and was sleeping beside Bodine when he awakened. Chuckling, Bodine took his blood brother to meet the general.

  “How in the name of Billy Hell did he get into camp?” the general exploded.

  “Walked in, General,” Two Wolves told him. “Your guards were very alert, never fear. But being alert to a white man is a much different thing than to an Indian. It is as Bodine pointed out to me before we undertook this quest: the fake soldiers would never have slipped up on the camp of Big Face. The braves of Big Face would have killed them all long before they got into position. But even I agreed it was better handled this way.”

  “Then you believe this will show the Indians that we are to be trusted to do the right thing.”

  Two Wolves smiled in the pre-dawn darkness. “No, General. It will not. The Indian is going to be pushed and shoved and herded and killed regardless of what happens here. When you take the Cheyenne away from their round tipis and put them into square houses, that will be the end of the family as we believe.”

  “But that’s nonsense, Two Wolves. You’re an educated man. You know that is foolish!”

  Two Wolves shrugged. “The red side of me knows it is not foolish; the white side knows it is. But we will do our Ghost Dancing many times before you finally win, General. And I assure you, General, the Arrow-Keeper has been very busy of late.”

  “The Arrow-Keeper?”

  “Ma huts,” Bodine explained. “They were once four arrows of great quality and workmanship. They are kept in the Arrow-Keeper’s lodge, wrapped in a piece of coyote fur. To see the arrows, one must bring gifts and have a valid reason to see them. Such as war.”

  “I see,” the general muttered. “Were four arrows?”

  “War is coming, General,” Two Wolves predicted. “You see, we lost two of the sacred arrows to the Pawnees many years ago. That is why such misfortune has fallen on us. Already some of the Cheyenne women are packing. On the trek to war, the entire camp moves. And the women have been praying to the Sacred Hat—Is si wun. If many more promises are broken, war is sure to come.”

  “And which side will you be on, Two Wolves?”

  “I don’t know, General. I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  General Forsyth held his troops back while the fake soldiers destroyed the Crow village with cannon fire and heavy raking from the Gatling guns. The sixty-odd men, all dressed up like the Army, then mounted up and went charging into the burning and smoky village.

  They found nothing.

  “We been had,” the commander of the fake soldi
ers muttered.

  “No,” one of his men said, looking at the ridges around the village. “We been captured!”

  “What the hell do you mean, Josh?”

  Josh pointed and the commander’s eyes followed his finger.

  The ridges were lined with troops from General Forsyth’s command.

  Their predicament was summed up very profanely. The commander then dropped his rifle to the ground and put his hands into the air. He was still cussing as the regular Army made their way into the burning camp.

  * * *

  General Forsyth ordered the fake soldiers to be bound together, with their hands tied behind their backs, and special hand-picked men—Sergeant Whitehall not among them—to escort the prisoners, riding the prisoners’ horses, back to the river to await transportation to Fort Buford to be tried in a court of law.

  “We’ll never be tried in no court, General,” one of the fake soldiers said with a grin. “And you know it.”

  “Perhaps not,” the general conceded. “But you’re going to be damned uncomfortable for several days. I can assure you of that. Now empty your pockets. I want all your cash on the ground.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me. And when we’re through with the horses, they’ll be given to this Crow village as partial reparation for the damage you thugs have done. Now do it!” he barked the orders.

  Bodine and Two Wolves stood in the background, smiling. They both knew it was a small victory, one that the historians would never know of; and even though the odds of anything ever legally happening to the captured men in the employ of Tom Thomas were slight, it was still counted as a victory.

  “Know him?” Two Wolves asked Bodine, looking at the man who had commanded the fake army.

  “His name is Walker. He’s a gunhand from down Texas way, so I hear. Rode with Bloody Bill Anderson’s bunch for a time. He’s pure scum.”

  “He keeps staring at you.”

  “He knows me. Right now he’s thinking how much he wants to kill me.”

  “You keep on making enemies, you’re soon going to pass me in that department.”

  “I’m sure getting there. Let’s get out of here, Brother. Our job is done.”

  “Speaking of jobs? . . .”

  “I guess I’m out of one. That should make Lieutenant Gerry happy. How about you?”

  “I’m a no-count Indian, Bodine. I’ll just go back to the mountain and see what happens.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen your father?”

  Two Wolves’ face tightened. “My father and I don’t see eye to eye on most things, Bodine. But when the whites try to take the land that was given him by the President, he will have no choice but to fight.”

  “Those are the words of Medicine Horse?”

  “No. They are my words!”

  * * *

  The Army’s Yellowstone expedition of 1875 continued on without further trouble. The Bighorn River, 127 miles above the Tongue, was reached on June second. The expedition stopped at Pompey’s Pillar, and conditions along the river worsened from that point on. On June seventh, the attempt to navigate farther was halted and the order was given to turn back. When the Army passed the position of the destroyed village, they could see where the Crows had rebuilt their camp along the banks of the Yellowstone—and the camp had grown.

  General Forsyth made the recommendation that the mouth of the Tongue would be an excellent spot for a fort—right in the middle of Indian country and easily accessible by boat. The general further stated that a good wagon road through the Yellowstone Valley was necessary.

  By the time Forsyth got back to Fort Buford, Walker and his men had been released. No charges were to be brought. That the men had been wearing Army uniforms was unfortunate, but not against the law, since all insignia had been removed, and there was no law against a civilian militia acting on their own against hostiles. Indeed, it was written in the Constitution of the United States that a militia was allowed. Their only mistake was in mistaking the Crow village for that of the Sioux. Apologies would be made and monies given to the Crow for the destruction of their village.

  Walker’s Militia was therefore legal and could be allowed to stand ready to repel hostiles.

  “Damn!” Bodine told his father upon hearing the news.

  “We’re alone in our anger, son. Just like we have always been. But think about this, boy: No Indians have bothered us in fifteen years. Many others have not been so fortunate. We can’t blame the whites for the way they feel, and really, no one should blame the Indians for their actions.”

  “Dad, I’m not placing blame. I just think this whole country is about to explode. For sure, the town of Cutter is going to be wiped from the map.”

  “That would be no great loss,” the rancher said, considerable heat in his voice. He had lost several hands in gunfights in that haven for thugs and gamblers and assorted other scum of the West.

  “I agree, Dad. But it won’t stop there. A Sioux victory against Cutter would only fan the flames for braves like Lone Dog.”

  “Is the gathering over in the Rosebuds?”

  “I doubt it. I’m going to find Two Wolves. We’ll ride over there for a look-see.”

  The father arched an eyebrow but offered no other comment, vocal or otherwise. If his son was going to ride into the jaws of danger, the elder Bodine knew he could not stop him. Matt Bodine had been riding into the snarling mouth of danger since he was ten years old—usually with Two Wolves at his side.

  That his son was hated by many whites was not news to the elder Bodine. And it didn’t seem to bother his son one whit. Others might talk behind his back, but they were damn cautious about what they said to his face.

  “Tom Thomas has made the statement that he’s going to nail your hide to the barn door, boy.”

  “He’s got it to do. Do you know him, Dad?”

  “Not really. I’ve spoken to him and seen him on several occasions. There is something about him that makes any decent person want to back up. It’s like when you look into the eyes of a rattlesnake.”

  “There’s an answer for that, too.”

  “What?”

  “Shoot the snake in the head!”

  Chapter 9

  “We won’t be welcomed there, Brother,” Two Wolves said. “They won’t be disrespectful to us, but they will let us know that the gathering is none of our business.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Bodine said, tightening the cinch on Rowdy. The stallion had puffed up the first time, as he did nearly every time Bodine threw a saddle on him. It was almost as if the horse thought it would be funny to see Bodine fall out of the saddle. And maybe he would. “I just want to see how many tribes are there.”

  “I can tell you that now. Sioux, Cheyenne, and a few Pawnee and Arapahoe. Contrary Belly is there. Black Wolf and Last Bull. White Shield. Wolf That Has No Sense. Lone Dog. Chief Comes in Sight. Many more.”

  Bodine smiled at him. “We’ll just mosey over like we didn’t know it was going on. We’ll act real surprised to see them.”

  “I’m sure we’ll convince them of that.”

  They rode off the mountain and headed for the Rosebud Mountains, to a spot Bodine remembered, not far from the banks of the Little Bighorn.

  “Are we going to visit Cutter?” Two Wolves asked, a smile on his face.

  “Maybe on the trip back. Why? Are you looking for a five-dollar woman, Brother?”

  Two Wolves gave him a dirty look and muttered some decidedly choice words about Bodine’s character, among other things.

  “Why did you ask about Cutter, Brother?”

  “I thought it might be nice to see it one more time before Lone Dog destroys it.”

  “You know something I need to know?”

  “Lone Dog has left the hunting grounds of the Sioux. With about a hundred or so young braves—not all of them Sioux.”

  “Some Cheyenne?”

  “Regrettably, yes. Twenty-five or so.”

&nb
sp; “Do you know where they are?”

  Two Wolves shook his head. “No. And I made it a point not to try and find out. I’m walking a narrow enough line as it is.”

  “You’re going to have to step to one side sooner or later.”

  “I try not to think about that. Hold up. I smell dust in the air.”

  They were traveling west, and the winds were blowing from the west. It brought with the breeze the smell of dust.

  Bodine and Two Wolves headed deeper into the timber and dismounted, standing by their horses, holding their heads to keep them from whinnying when they caught the smell of other horses.

  “Field glasses in my saddlebags, Two Wolves. Right side. See what you can find out. I’ll hold the horses.”

  Two Wolves ran down to the thinning timber line. He was back in a moment and stuffed the field glasses back into the saddlebags. “Too late. They’re on us. Some of Walker’s Militia.”

  “How many.”

  “Ten. Heavily armed and looking like they’re hunting trouble.”

  “You want to try to run for it, Brother?”

  “Not this time, Brother. Not this time.”

  They stepped away from their horses, two tall young men who looked enough alike to have sprung from the same loins. Two Wolves carried a Colt .44, holstered, and Bodine knew he was very, very good with it. He held a Winchester in his hands, the hammer eared back.

  “There they are!” came the shout. “I told you I seen that damn trouble-makin’ Injun.”

  Bodine and Two Wolves separated, putting more distance between them.

  The horsemen faced them in the thin timber, all spread out in a line. Two Wolves had recognized them by the dark brown shirts they had taken to wearing.

  “So we meet again,” Bodine said. His hands were by his sides, very close to the butts of his .44s.

  “We ain’t got no truck with you, Bodine. Not unless you just wanna buy in. But we’re takin’ that damn Injun in for questionin’.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Two Wolves bluntly made his own intentions clear. “Be that as it may, why should you want to question me?”

  “He talks right pretty, don’t he?” A man grinned the words.