Саймон Бествик - The Devil and the Deep - Horror Stories of the Sea

“They might cause us some difficulty,” Uncle JoJim said.

Charley hadn’t noticed the three riders until Uncle JoJim had pointed, and he was embarrassed. True, the wind was blowing from the south. So it was all right that he hadn’t heard anything. But he should have seen them.

“Are they from Council Grove?” he asked.

“They’re strangers,” Uncle JoJim said. “But when they saw us, they changed direction. So they might intend to ask for our help. Or they might intend to rob us. Either way, it will be obvious if we try to avoid them. And they might take offense.”

Bird King tossed his head and stamped on the limestone. He had sensed Charley’s unease.

“If we just rode away,” Charley said, “what could they do?”

Uncle JoJim made a low noise in his throat. “The boy and the man with the red beard have long rifles in scabbards. But those aren’t good from horseback. They might also have pistols, but they aren’t yet close enough to use them. Although they will be soon.”

“We should run, then,” Charley said.

“No. The man with the black beard has a Spencer carbine on a strap. He carries it across his chest, so he can aim it quickly. Cavalry soldiers used that gun in the war between the Northern and Southern whites. So if we ran, he could fire at us from his horse if he wished. And he would have seven shots.” Uncle JoJim adjusted his hat again. “We should wait. If they want help, we can offer it. And if they want to steal, we can give them our chickens.”

Charley’s throat tightened. “What if they want your shotgun? And what if they don’t like mixed-blood people?”

Uncle JoJim, still looking toward the three riders, gave a slight smile. “A shotgun is good at close range. Even for a man with one arm. And one barrel is still loaded.” Now he looked at Charley, and his smile vanished. “If it leaves its scabbard, you must run for home. Tell Bird King Yicí! And don’t stop until you’ve called the Kaw from their houses. Do you hear?”

Charley struggled to speak through his tight throat. “I hear,” he said.

Now Uncle JoJim looked behind them, and Charley’s gaze followed his. The plume of gray smoke was still there.

“Maybe we’ll be lucky,” Uncle JoJim said. He turned back to squint at the approaching riders again. “Maybe these men won’t be crazy.”

Charley thought that was a strange thing to say, and he was about to ask Uncle JoJim what he meant. But then he too looked back at the riders, and saw that their horses had started to gallop.

“Speak only if they speak to you first,” Uncle JoJim said. “And be polite.”

Charley tried to take a deep breath and found that his chest was as tight as his throat. “I’ll do my best,” he said in a small voice.

Uncle JoJim adjusted the brim of his hat yet again.

“Do better than that,” he said.

The three riders stopped just short of the flat patch of limestone. Their horses, a sorrel gelding for each of the men and a roan mare for the boy, snorted and stamped. The horses were loaded with bulging saddlebags, bedrolls, and coiled ropes.

The two men were lanky and sun-scorched, and both wore crisp, new, flat-crowned hats. The one on the left had blue eyes and a reddish beard cut short, while the one in the center had dark eyes and a black beard that covered his throat. The man on the left had an expression that Charley guessed indicated amusement. But he couldn’t read the expression of the man in the center.

The boy, on the right, had eyes the same color of blue as the man on the left. Straight blond hair poked out from under his straw hat. His complexion was paler than the men’s, and his cheeks and nose were freckled. Charley thought he looked about thirteen. His expression suggested both wariness and curiosity.

All three were dressed in a fashion similar to Charley and Uncle JoJim, in sturdy canvas trousers and linen shirts. But the white men’s clothes, although dusty, looked almost as brand-new as their hats. And in addition to the long rifles in scabbards and the carbine across Black-beard’s chest, each of the men had a Colt pistol jutting from his belt.

Black-beard spoke first.

“I see you are Injuns,” he said. “However, since you wear white men’s clothing, I assume you speak English.” His voice had a deep rasp, as if he had swallowed a fistful of dirt.

“We do,” Uncle JoJim said. “I am Joseph James, Junior, and this is my cousin’s grandson, Charles Curtis. How may we assist you?”

Black-beard’s eyes widened, and he exchanged a glance with Red-beard.

“My goodness,” he said. “That was well spoken. And you both have white names, though your skins appear red. What odd sort of Injuns might you be?”

“I am mixed-blood, Osage and Kaw,” Uncle JoJim said. His voice was calm, and just loud enough to be heard over the wind. “I also possess French blood, but I don’t know those relatives.” He nodded toward Charley. “His blood is similar to mine, on his mother’s side. He has Potawatomi on that side as well. But his father is white. Mister Curtis went to fight in the Northern and Southern war, and though we’ve been told he survived, he has not yet returned.”

Black-beard gave a low whistle. “Osage, Kaw, Potawatomi, French, and English? That’s about as mixed as mixed can be. No wonder you’re riding the prairie without other companions. You don’t belong anywhere, do you?”

Uncle JoJim was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “We live among the Kaw.”

“Yet I don’t imagine they consider you to be of their tribe,” Black-beard said.

Uncle JoJim was quiet for yet another moment before he said, “That’s true.”

Charley felt a hot rush behind his eyes. Then he heard himself blurt, “Uncle JoJim and I are both descended from White Plume!”

The bearded men each gave Charley a cold stare.

The freckled boy’s nose crinkled. “Who’s White Plume?” he asked in a thin, nasal voice.

“Hush, Joshua,” Red-beard said. His voice was thin and nasal, too.

Uncle JoJim leaned toward Charley. “You should hush as well.”

Charley clenched his jaw. Bird King whickered.

“I know of the Osage,” Red-beard said then. “But what the hell is a Kaw?”

“They are also called the Kanza,” Uncle JoJim said. “Their reservation is not far, close by the town of Council Grove.”

The freckled boy looked across at Red-beard. “Pa, I think the Kanza tribe must be what Kansas is named for.”

Red-beard leaned over and spat on the ground. “I reckon,” he said. When he looked up again, his upper lip had pulled back from his teeth. “And I told you to hush.”

“I’ve heard of the Kanza,” Black-beard said. “Folks in St. Joe say the Kanza fought off a Cheyenne war party a few weeks ago. That so?”

“It is,” Uncle JoJim said.

The man looked Uncle JoJim up and down, then turned his gaze toward Charley and did the same. Despite the hot afternoon, Charley had to push down a shiver.

“Hard to believe,” Black-beard said.

Uncle JoJim’s eyebrows rose. “It was a strange day. But young Charles and I had no part in the fight. The Kaw chief sent us to Topeka to alert the governor, so he could send a militia.”

Red-beard gave a high laugh that made Charley think of coyotes. “That must have been a sight! A short, one-armed Injun and a half-breed pipsqueak riding into Topeka and yelling for the governor. I’m surprised nobody shot you.”

Uncle JoJim looked at Red-beard. “It was a strange day,” he said again. Then he looked back at Black-beard. “How may we assist you?”