The Savage Trail (15 page)

“Well,” Ben said, “you got the name, anyways.”

“John?”

Ben chuckled.

“I was thinking of Savage,” he said.

“Well, you always were slow, Ben,” John cracked.

Ben cut another chunk of steak, sawing it into a bite-sized square, and stuffed it into the corner of his mouth. John drank a swallow of warm beer, then cut into a boiled potato.

The waitress finished her silent recitation and slipped the rosary into the pocket of her apron. One of the women at the back table called to her.

“Elena, more tea, please.”

“Chure,” Elena said.
“Un momento.”

The other two men slurped soup from a pair of bowls. One dabbed a flour tortilla onto his plate, soaked it with juices, and popped it into his mouth. They looked like brothers, were in their thirties, and wore homespun shirts, work boots, and faded denims. They spoke in English, talked about some girls they knew. The fly paid them a visit and one of them swatted the air in front of his face.

John was eating fast; he kept looking out the front window.

Ben chewed his steak slowly, his back to the street.

“We could maybe stay the night and rest up, Johnny. With that extry money you got from the horse sale.”

“No, we'll go on.”

“Shit fire, John. Can't some things wait a damned day?”

“Some things can. Laundry, currying, a good foot soak.”

“You don't give up, do you?” Ben said.

“Not on important things. Every minute Hobart draws a breath is a minute too long for me.”

“Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“Mine is already too cold, Ben. Finish that steak and let's make some miles before sundown.”

“I'd like to air out my sweaty old bedroll, sleep on a soft mattress tonight.”

“Me, too.”

“But you won't.”

“We'll find us bunks in Fort Laramie,” John said.

“That a promise, Johnny?”

John nodded, finishing off his steak. The fly landed in a puddle of spilled beer. Ben brought a glass down on top of it, mashing the fly into a squish of blood and goo.

Within the half hour, the two men were riding out of Cheyenne, heading for Fort Laramie. The sun had slid from its zenith and was now burning their faces and eyes. They pulled their hat brims down and hunched over their pommels, the horses swatting at deer flies like a pair of hairy metronomes.
Swick, swish, swick, swish.
The gray flies drew blood on both Ben's and John's arms. The stings were just another series of annoyances among many as the summer sun boiled the beer out of their flesh, leaving a residue of attractants for the murderousdeer flies.

The road was well traveled and they passed numerous roads branching off to unknown parts—ranches, prospecting sites, other towns; they did not know. They nodded to people heading for Cheyenne, families, single riders, couples on wagons or pulling carts with burros. Toward late afternoon, the traffic thinned out and they rode across a quiet deserted land where hawks flew over broken country, their shadows rippling over rocks and uneven ground. Prairie swifts darted in pairs toward the east and buzzards floated high in the sky, whirling slowly in circles with only an occasional flap of wings.

“A man could get mighty lonesome in this country,” Ben said as the sun blazed at them head-on in its slow slide to the western horizon.

“It makes a man think,” John said. “Makes him feel mighty small.”

“Oh, I felt small when we was up in the mining camp,” Ben said. “All them mountains loomin' over our heads. But it's differentout here. The mountains don't seem so big, but the land, it just swallers up a man. Like there ain't no end to it.”

“It's a bigger country than I ever imagined, all right,” John said.

“Sometimes, when they're ain't no people about, none on the road, and all, it feels like we're the onliest ones still alive. Like somethin' come along and swept all the people away, blew the towns to dust. All that sage and chaparral, lizards and snakes, turkey buzzards and hawks. This ain't no place for people, I'm thinkin'.”

“People live here.”

“Where?”

“Off in the mountains or on the plain, I reckon.”

Ben shuddered, as if he had been struck by a sudden chill.

“Why would a man want to live out here?”

“Some folks like it quiet and peaceful, Ben. I don't mind it. And out on the prairie a man can see a long ways. In every direction.Might be some comforting to a lot of folks.”

“Not to me. I got to know there's a house over the next hill, with people in it, some stock grazin', a pond with catfish in it, and roads goin' by with people wavin' as they pass.”

“You better move back East, then, Ben. You'd go plumb crazy out here.”

Suddenly, Ben straightened in the saddle and peered straight ahead. He tried shading his eyes, but he was staring straight into the sun.

“Damn,” he said. “I thought I saw somethin' up ahead yonder.”

“What?”

“I dunno. Dust. Road twists and all them little buttes and such, it's hard to see a long way down this road.”

John looked.

He thought he saw a shift in the light, a haze where the sun shot small rays in every direction. The sun was blinding, but he looked off to the side and thought he saw a dust cloud waftingeasterly, reddish and yellow and amber, like whiskey in a cut glass when the light strikes it just right.

“It isn't anything,” John said, but he didn't sound too sure of himself.

“A lot of dust, looks like.”

“Ben, I've been seeing lakes and ponds and tall oak trees all afternoon. The light plays tricks on you.”

“Maybe. But that's a lot of dust for nothin'.”

“Cattle running, maybe.”

John saw that there was more dust than before, a larger cloud. It looked thicker toward the ground and then almost vaporousas it rose in the air.

“Look at Gent's ears, John.”

John saw Gent lift his head. His ears were twisting like weather vanes in the wind. His nostrils were distended as if he were sniffing the air, trying to pick up a scent.

“Maybe he sees that dust, too,” John said.

“Hell, it's getting closer. Buffalo?”

“I don't know. Could be. If so, we're right in their path.”

“Maybe we ought to ride off, way off, just in case.”

“Let's wait awhile, see if we can make out what's raising all that dust.”

John stood up in the stirrups. There was a lot of dust now. He could see it plain. Getting closer. His forehead knitted in thought. If a herd of buffalo was stampeding, they were sure in the way. They could be trampled unless they could ride away, outrun them.

“Can't see a thing, damn it,” Ben said. “Just a whole lot of dust.”

“Look away for a minute. Then, just look at the road, see if you can see anything moving toward us.”

“Good idea.”

Ben looked off to the side. So did John. John closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. There wasn't any dust anywhere else but straight ahead. And no wind to speak of. Just a light zephyr blowing down from the mountains.

“It's dust all right. Stirred up by animals or people. But it's not moving fast.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it doesn't look like something stampeding. Maybe a bunch of wagons or riders.”

“Could be, I reckon,” Ben said.

They rode on and the dust seemed to vanish only to rise up again, closer.

“I-I think I see somethin',” Ben said after a few minutes had passed by.

John narrowed his eyes and stared down the road, just below where the sun hung like a pale buttercup above the horizon.

Movement. Little dark specks. Dust spooling out behind whatever it was. Wider than the road. A puzzling sight just then, he thought.

“I see something, too,” John said. “Riders? Men on horseback?”

“Too far to tell just yet.”

Ben stood up in the stirrups to give himself a longer view. His horse snorted and switched its tail, flapping at deer flies.

A few more minutes passed by as the two men rode more slowly down the road. John was ready to spur Gent and turn him off to the west or even double back, if need be. He felt his muscles tauten and tingle with an electric surge that always came when there was danger.

“I see 'em,” Ben said. “They are riders, a whole passel of 'em. I count eight, no nine, no, maybe a dozen or so. Headin' straight for us.”

John saw them, too. They were fanned out, some on the road, some flanking either side of it. They rode in perfect formationas if they were after something he could not see. They were twenty or thirty yards apart. The horses were not running,but they were at a brisk walk, perhaps a trot, and they were kicking up dust.

The sun glinted off metal until it appeared as if the riders were setting off silver sparks of light that winked like stars shining in the daylight.

“Hell,” Ben said. “Them are soldiers. I can see their uniforms.Ever' damn one of 'em is dressed the same. And look, one of 'em's holding a flag of some sort.”

“A guidon,” John murmured, recognizing the yellow-and-bluepennant that flapped like a broken wing.

“I wonder what they're after,” Ben said. “Injuns?”

The troop of soldiers drew closer. John could see their hats and their faces. They were following a man with bars on his shoulders. They made a Vand were coming at him like a humanspear. He saw their gloves, then, the glistening hides of their horses, horses that were all the same color. The men all carried rifles, and he saw that they were wearing sidearms.

“No, Ben, not Indians,” John said, slowing Gent to a halt. “Pull up.”

“What? Why? What are they huntin' all spread out like that?”

John let out a breath as Gent stopped, held steady, his musclesquivering at the sight of all those horses.

“From the looks of them, it's a patrol. And it sure looks like they're comin' for us.”

Ben stopped his horse alongside John.

The soldiers were less than four hundred yards away. There was a flash of light as one of the soldiers, riding alongside the leader, pulled a pair of binoculars down from his eyes.

“What makes you think they're comin' for us, John?” Ben asked.

John looked at Ben.

“Because we're the only ones out here,” he said.

And then he could smell the dust as the breeze changed direction.It smelled of horse sweat and man sweat, sage and chaparral. It smelled of ancient wars and warriors, and it clung to his nostrils like the cloying smell of death.

20

The lieutenant, who was leading the cavalry troop, drew his pistol and aimed it straight at John.

“You hold up right there,” he shouted. “Get your hands up.”

Ben's hands went up first. John slowly raised his arms and waited.

Soldiers swarmed around them, some with drawn pistols, others aiming Spencer rifles at Ben and John.

The lieutenant hauled up on his reins and stopped his horse beside Gent, so that he was staring straight into John's eyes.

“Identify yourself,” the lieutenant snapped.

Before John could answer, one of the troopers reached over and jerked John's rifle from its scabbard. Another pulled his pistol from its holster. Soldiers did the same with Ben.

Off in the distance, a hawk voiced its piping
scree, scree
as it sailed over the bronzed land.

“I'm John Savage.”

“And you,” the lieutenant said, shifting his gaze to Ben.

“Benjamin Russell.”

The lieutenant looked Ben and John over, his eyes as cold and pale blue as arctic ice at dusk. He was military trim, with no facial hair, his sideburns razor cut. His uniform was coveredwith a patina of dust, like those of the men under his command. There was dust on all their faces, as well, and their hands and faces were burnished dark from days in the sun and wind.

“Where are you from?” the lieutenant asked.

“That's hard to say,” John said. “Why do you ask?”

“Mister, you answer and answer quick. I don't have to give you a reason and I'm not going to.”

“We come up from Coloraddy,” Ben said. “Before that . . .”

“Ben, you don't have to answer this man,” John said. “And, sir, you have no right to hold us at gunpoint and take our weapons. I demand that you give them back and leave us be. We're civilians.”

One of the troopers edged his rifle closer to John. There was no mistaking the threat.

“This is a military district, mister,” the lieutenant said. “We have the right to detain you, and that's just what we're going to do. Sergeant Dillard, put these men in irons.”

Sergeant Dillard nodded to two other men, who rode up and produced handcuffs.

“Put your hands behind your backs,” Dillard ordered.

Ben did as he was told.

John reached out for the nearest trooper and grabbed him by the throat. Dillard rode up, pistol in hand, and clubbed John on the back of the head. Hard. John slumped in the saddle.One of the troopers wrestled John's hands behind his back and slipped on handcuffs, tightened them until the rings bit into John's skin.

“Wake him up,” the lieutenant ordered. He saw that Ben was cuffed and nodded to Dillard.

“Let's move out. Back to the fort.”

They rode into the sunset. Four troopers flanked John and Ben. Two others held the reins of their horses. They rode into the night, flankers out, scouts riding point under a starry sky, the Milky Way a carpet of strewn diamonds, the moon just a sliver above the horizon.