Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 (23 page)

From one cabin came no bright flash of riflefire. Tall Bull wondered on it. He slowly inched his pony in its direction when a pair of warriors pitched flaming brands through the window. Perhaps no one lived there in that square lodge, the Cheyenne chief thought.

Then he saw a flicker of movement, something against the darkness, a ghostlike tongue of motion against the flames leaping to secure the cabin's interior.

She burst from the cabin door, screaming, the back of her long dress aflame.

He put heels to the pony, waving off a half-dozen young hot-bloods who were headed toward the screaming woman.

Tall Bull lusted her blond hair. He had first claim to her, after all, as their war leader. He knocked her down with the pony as he swept past her, reining up in a skidding halt.

He was on the ground in the next instant, yanking the blanket from back of the pony, flopping it over the woman, slapping and smothering the flames.

Her face became a queer mix of gratitude and utter revulsion mixed with utter terror—those liquid eyes peered up at his as he fought to hold her down once the flames were out. The stench of her singed hair stunk no worse than the heavy woman smell of her.

These white women do not segregate themselves as do Cheyenne women when their time of the moon comes, he thought quickly. I must not let her touch my weapons or my war medicine while she is bleeding from her woman-place.

But he would have her now. And she would bear him many fine young sons. This woman whose man was not home to protect her, this fair-haired, blue-eyed white woman who kept screaming, shaking and thrashing as he bound her.

Tall Bull liked fight in a woman. It made the coupling that much more a pleasure.

He found himself already hard for her when he spread her white legs there in the shadow of her burning cabin and drove himself deep as she writhed beneath his fury.

Chapter 18

Early June 1869

North Platte was one of those Nebraska towns that rode the wild boom and bust cycle like a prairie tornado thundering down on a settlement out of nowhere, bringing sweet times then leaving havoc in its wake, gone as suddenly as it had made its appearance on the horizon.

Erected in that strip of land where the North and South Platte rivers joined twenty-some miles northwest of Fort McPherson, the town was originally laid out for the Union Pacific Railroad by General Grenville Dodge in 1866. With the railroad gangs, along with speculators and the assorted gamblers, drummers and whores who accompanied the rails west, North Platte grew to be quite a place for a short time.

By 1869 fame had abandoned the place, like any other homely maiden left waiting at the altar. The winds of the prairie had claimed some of the more rickety vacant buildings, toppling them. Those still left standing looked more like the gaping eye-sockets of a buffalo skeleton. Only two dozen places fronted the entire main street: a motley collection of log and clapboard buildings including the jail, three mercantiles, a bevy of watering-holes, and three hotels.

Most notorious of the three was the California Exchange Keg House, owned by Dave Perry, who advertised his offerings in the local paper, knowing how every issue was read and reread by hundreds of eager, thirsty soldiers downriver at Fort McPherson. His hotel, saloon and dance-hall proved the liveliest—the best-known of meeting places in North Platte.

“Says here in the paper that the place has ‘… the choicest brands of wines, brandies, gins, whiskeys and liquors of all kinds to be had west of Chicago,'” Captain William Brown read to Bill Cody as they eased their mounts to a halt at the rail outside Dave Perry's California House.

“Let's just hope the whiskey is cheap and the music loud.”

“You aren't fixing to get me in trouble again, are you, Cody?”

Bill slapped him on the shoulder as they stomped onto the muddy boardwalk out front. “Carr didn't dare trust you to get supplies this time did he, Captain? So, we're free to drink on our own time today.”

“I'm still here in an official capacity.”

Cody stopped at the door, showing Brown in. “You brought me with you to help you welcome that new passel of Pawnee scouts Sheridan is sending us, right?”

Brown nodded, stopping at the bar to size up the place as Cody leaned back against the rough-hewn bartop. “Pawnee scouts, yessir. Sheridan's idea—to fight Indians with Indians.”

Cody snorted. “Who's gonna lead 'em? Your army officers or their war-chief?”

Brown finally got Cody's try at humor. “Carr said I was to be on the lookout for two brothers who command the Pawnee detail: Major Frank North and his brother, Captain Luther North.”

“Major and captain, is it?”

The officer waved the burly bartender down their way. “Both served with honor during the war—though neither one of 'em has regular army rank.”

“But you look every inch a soldier,” exclaimed the bartender to Brown. “Dave Perry's the name.” He held out his hand.

“Captain William Brown, Fifth Cavalry, sir,” Brown replied. He motioned to his companion. “Bill Cody, chief of scouts for the Fifth.”

Cody could smell the strong stench of old whiskey on the bartender's breath. Perry's eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, as if he was of the kind to punish a bottle hard, day in and day out. The man moved with that kind of looseness that spoke of too much whiskey sloshing about in his ample belly. The scout put out his hand, willing to try at friendly.

Perry eagerly shook hands with Cody. “Pleased to meet you both. What you drinking today?”

“Whiskey—make it a bottle,” Cody was quick to answer. He didn't like the cocksuredness of the man, the way he strutted just by talking. Better to be wary of this kind, he thought as Perry turned to snatch up a bottle.

Brown laid a single eagle down on the bar.

“You'll be wanting change, Captain?” Perry asked behind that loaded grin of his. “Or, will you be drinking up your ten dollars' worth?,” he asked with undisguised scorn for the young man.

Brown opened his mouth, but Cody spoke first. He wanted out of the man's way, knowing even with his few years on the frontier there were two types of drunks. The friendly ones, and the mean ones. If he did not know a man who had been punishing the bottle hard, better to stay out of that man's path.

“Keep our tab open, Mr. Perry,” Cody snapped a little too quickly. The scout turned, and was about to drag the bottle and two glasses from the bar, when Perry stopped him.

“You got yourself a chip on your shoulder, I'll bet, Mr. Cody.”

Bill felt the first boil of hate stirring in his belly, something simmering like anger ready to ignite. He stopped a few feet from the bar, then turned back on Perry.

“You got your nose stuck in the wrong place, shopkeeper.”

“Shopkeeper, is it?” and Perry roared. A few of the patrons laughed as well. “Far as I can see, I'm proprietor of a thriving establishment, thanks to the railroad and the army.” He leaned across the bar in Cody's direction. “No thanks to young jackasses like you who feel froggy enough to go spouting off at the mouth.”

“Anytime you want to find out how froggy—”

“I think you both just got off to a bad start,” Brown sputtered, coming between the two, attempting to nudge Cody off toward an empty table.

Perry kept that same implacable grin on his face as he wiped a dirty hand-towel across the rough bar. That frozen grimace reminded Cody of a rusted iron hinge no longer capable of movement.

“Mr. Cody, I imagine you're just feeling what we in the business world call the squeeze of authority.”

“No—I'm feeling nothing more than the need to whip some of the smart out of your fat ass.”

Perry laughed again, and when he finished, the smile had disappeared. He laid the towel down as he rumbled to the end of the bar. “For days now we've heard the Pawnee scouts were coming in to join up with you soldiers out at McPherson. Talk had it that your bunch of scouts hasn't been doing the job up to the standards of the army. I hear the Pawnees coming in to save your ass from the fire, Cody.”

“No goddamned Pawnee needs to help William F. Cody—”

“Let's just sit and have our drinks in peace, Cody!” Brown lunged for the scout.

Perry was pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, past his thick forearms. “Hear it said the North brothers gonna show you and your ragtag bunch of civilian scouts how to catch some Cheyenne. About time it is too.”

Cody turned, mechanically, shoving the bottle and glasses into Brown's reluctant hands, then turned back like a mainspring, lashing out with the right fist. It caught Perry square on the jaw, staggering the bar owner two steps, making him blink his eyes in disbelief.

Cody swallowed, startled that the man had not gone down with that blow, the best the scout had to give. His right hand hurt where the knuckles had smashed against Perry's cheekbone, like a mule stomped on it. A small cut had been opened there on the barkeep's cheek, the only sign of any damage to the hulking man.

The young scout drank deep of the smoke-filled barroom air as he set his feet. He knew it was bound to be a tussle just staying on his pins—realizing Perry wasn't the out-of-shape, larded barkeep normally found back with the bottles and glasses and the smoked mirror. What was beneath Perry's apron was every bit as hard as Cody's hand was sore.

He had size and strength on the young scout. Cody had only speed.

The young man ducked, driving a right into the man's belly. It was tough, but Perry still winced a bit, the wind driven from him. Cody jabbed with the left, hard beneath Perry's ribs. A second time, searching for the kidney. Then he pushed off backward just as Perry went for the clench.

The man's big hands clawed for Cody's head, raking across the long, deep scalp wound still pink and healing from the Spring Creek fight.

Cody pulled his head free, seeing stars, reeling a moment.

Perry was on him quickly. Popping a big first against Cody's jaw. A second then a third time, each sharp jab sending the young scout backward a step.

Cody felt an eye puff up. A cut opened across one cheekbone. It stung almost as much as his pride.

“You had enough, Mr. Cody?”

He shook his head, his neck feeling loosened, like thick mud beginning to set along a creekbank. Not able to hold his head up, and with it growing heavier all the time.

“Stop this!”

He heard Brown hollering, stepping in front of him. Cody shoved the officer out of the way.

“He's the one who can stop it, Captain,” Perry replied.

“No need to stop,” Cody said, a lip growing puffy. “I ain't pounded you into this floor yet.”

Perry laughed as Cody came on, swinging, connecting at times, lunging and falling against a table as Perry stepped aside. He knew he had to control his temper—figuring that was how he would defeat the bigger man.

“Had enough yet, Cody?”

He got to his hands and knees, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, the one eye he had left to see out of glazing over. Slowly he raised himself on the table and turned to find Perry standing near.

“Had to come in here and see for myself,” Cody said quietly. “Heard this place was run by a fat coward made his living off the railroad and who word has it waters his whiskey down to serve for hardworking soldiers.”

Cody watched the big man's cheeks flare. Not that he had called him fat, or a coward. But to attack the man's honesty was the ticket. And whiskey was the most sensitive of subjects when it came to a saloon owner.

Perry came on like a cannon loosed from its moorings. At the last moment Cody stepped aside, foot out, fists clenched together, and chopped down on the man's neck. Perry collapsed on the table, splintering it and a chair on the way down.

He rose, even more angry as Cody backed against the bar. Perry licked at the blood leaking from his lower lip. The scout inched along the bar, feeling his way behind him. Lunging for Cody, Perry met instead a chair that split apart as it crashed against his shoulder. The barkeeper stood, massaging the side of his neck.

“You're sport enough, Cody—but you're afraid of these fists of mine, ain't you?”

He nodded. No sense in denying it. “True enough, Perry. You've hammered me like iron on an anvil. But I ain't done in.”

What Perry did next surprised Cody. The saloon owner sighed, volving his neck a bit. “You punch good for a youngster without much meat on his bones. I'll bet you get good when you grow up. You may not be done—but Dave Perry is willing to call it a draw.”

Bill Cody squinted that one good eye, fidgeting a moment, wary of a ruse. Perry was backing away. Some of the patrons were patting him on the back, others picking up tables and chairs and gaming chips, slowly going back to their cards. And here he stood, still flush with hot adrenaline firing his veins.

“Perry.”

The barkeeper turned. “I said you should let it go, Cody.”

He licked his own puffy lips. “I'll run any man into the ground says I can't find Cheyenne for General Carr's cavalry.”

Perry chuckled, a wry grin crossing his face. “I'll bet you can find them Cheyenne can't you, Bill Cody? Way you stand up and don't give in—I'll bet you can find them Cheyenne at that.”

*   *   *

“In the name of God, General—I beg you let me ride with your men!”

Tom Alderdice stood before Major Eugene Carr and his staff officers in the rosy streaks of dawn's first light Seamus Donegan felt sorry for the man.

“I quite understand your situation, Mr. Alderdice,” Carr tried to explain.

“I can carry my own weight, General. I was with Forsyth last summer.”

“Mr. Donegan told me that before he brought you here this morning.”

“Then you know how I want to give them back—”

“You're distraught right now, Mr. Alderdice.”