Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Henry stood back and admired the ladder he’d built leading up into the barn rafters. Tomorrow, he’d do the same thing for the rafters over on the other side.
He dropped his tools into the crate where Caleb insisted they be kept and went to stand by the open door. The snow wasn’t coming down as hard as before, but it was still falling. And everything in the valley was covered from ridge to ridge.
The wind whistled through the barn as he looked at the herd he’d driven up closer to the rise. The cattle were huddled together in one mass by the river, conserving their heat. Maybe they weren’t so dumb after all. At least, they knew that it was a good thing, staying close to each other.
He hadn’t been to Elkhorn in three days, and he was damn ready for some company.
He had to admit that loneliness could get to a fella.
He missed being around people. He missed ribbing Caleb about things.
Hell, he even missed his friend’s lectures and nagging.
He hoped Caleb would finally get around to bringing Paddy out to the ranch.
The constant chatter between the boy and Gabe was a noise he’d become fond of.
And if he was being honest with himself, there was somebody else he wouldn’t have minded seeing. A certain saloon owner with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.
Henry grinned to himself.
Belle Constant would probably tell him to stop moping and find else something useful to do.
The days were growing shorter, and that didn’t exactly make him feel any better. And this damn snow was starting to get him edgy about being stuck out here. When he was a boy and the snows fell, at least there was a camp full of people around. And the buffalo hunts always meant a lot of activity.
When it came right down to it, he and his partner in this ranch business were two completely different people. Caleb was a loner. Henry needed people around.
And he needed the freedom to move. Those six months in jail were the longest he’d ever been cooped up in one place.
There were times when those walls just closed in and he thought he’d go mad.
He saw fellas lose their minds in there.
Twice, when a fight broke out, they put him in “the hole” for a week.
Pitch dark and nobody to talk to but the rats he heard squeaking in the crumbling stonework and the rotting rafters above.
It was during those times—when Henry thought he wouldn’t last another day—that his mother’s Crow stories came back to him.
There was one set of tales especially that kept running through his mind.
It was about Old Man Coyote, who was both creator god and trickster.
And it was his mother’s sing-song voice that kept him company:
Where Old Man Coyote came from, nobody knows. But he was, and he lived.
Old Man Coyote spoke: “It is bad that I am alone. I should have someone to talk to…”
A gust of wind came out of the west and cut through him, trying to bring Henry back to the present. But part of him stayed in a winter long past, nestled warmly in a robe made from the furred hide of a buffalo.
His mother’s people traded unneeded buffalo hides at Fort Sarpy near the mouth of the Bighorn River, but he never lacked one to keep out the winter winds. She was long gone now, her face fading from his memory with each passing year. But he’d never forget her voice and her tender touch.
Or the feeling that he belonged somewhere.
Henry lost part of himself when she died.
So did his father. Russ Jordan had been buying and selling horses across the frontier for years, trading with tribes and settlers from Canada to the edge of Mormon country.
He traveled less after he married Henry’s mother.
Biiwihitche was an Apsáalooke, a Crow. As far as Henry knew, she never considered taking on the white man’s ways, and his father always seemed happy and content with his life.
He loved her and her people deeply. That never changed, even after her death.
When she was gone, Henry traveled everywhere with his father, learning how to live in the white man’s world. But the conflicts were growing sharper, and blood was being spilled all over the frontier.
He recalled the last journey he took with his father. It was eleven years ago. They’d gone to Fort Laramie to hear the Crow Chief Bear Tooth speak to representatives of the government.
Your young men have destroyed my timber and green grass and burnt up my country. Your young men have killed my game, my buffalo. They did not kill it to eat it. They left it where it fell. If I went into your country to kill your game or your cattle, what would you say? Would you not declare war?
It was on the trip back from there that Henry and his father came upon four white men attacking a Crow family who were also traveling.
They had camped peacefully beside a river.
Their supper was still cooking on the fire.
There had been no hesitation in Russ Jordan’s mind.
The two of them fought alongside the Crow against the white attackers, and his father was killed in the fight.
That was the first time Henry killed any man.
Bear trotted into the barn and sat next to Henry’s boot, leaning against him.
“And that’s one reason Caleb and I got along so good from the first day we was throwed together.” He patted the dog’s head. “He never asked about nothing. And some things I can never confess. Not till the day I die.”
Bear leaned harder against his leg.
“You don’t ask many questions neither, do you?” Henry said.
The dog thumped his tail once against the barn floor.
“Smartest thing about you.”
The dog abruptly stood, sniffing the air. A moment later, he ran out a few steps and stood looking out across the meadow.
Henry squinted through the swirl of falling snow and saw three riders riding in past the herd. He recognized the man leading the others.
“It’s all right, fella. It’s only Zeke Vernon.”
Henry pulled on his hat and stuffed his arms into his duster. He glanced at his rifle leaning against the wall inside the barn door but decided to leave it.
“Just a social call, Bear,” he said to the dog.
He went to meet them. The two riding on either side of the sheriff were deputies Henry had seen in Elkhorn.
“What brings you out here in this mess, Zeke?”
“Nothing good, Henry.”
“Why? You heard from Marlowe? Something happen?”
The deputies both had their hands resting on their pistols, and they exchanged a look.
“Nope.” The sheriff batted the snow off his stove pipe hat and jammed it back on his head. “Our business is with you. And it ain’t pleasant, neither. As I’m sure you already know.”
“Me?”
“Get your horse, Henry. We don’t want no trouble now. You’re coming back to town with us.”
“What for?”
“Frank Stubbs.”
“What’s that miserable sonovabitch complaining about now?”
“He ain’t doing no more complaining,” Zeke said gruffly. “His brother found him dead in that creek on yours and Caleb’s property this morning.”
Henry thought about that. “I’ll be honest. That’s one mangy dog I ain’t going to miss.”
The words sounded cold, but they were true. Frank Stubbs had spent months looking for trouble.
Still, Henry knew exactly how this looked. He’d threatened the man. Fought him in the alley next to the Belle Saloon. Half the county had probably heard him do it.
The sheriff was staring at him.
“So, did the drunken fool fall in and drown? Cuz I ain’t responsible for nothing like that.”
Zeke shook his head. “Stubbs got a hole in him. Shot in the back.”
A knot formed in Henry's stomach. Somebody had just made a whole mess of his life.
“You don’t think I did it.” Henry felt his blood firing up. “If’n you do, you’re as big a fool as him.”
“I got witnesses that say you done it. So let’s go. And don’t get cute about nothing.”