Charles West - Lawless Prairie

“Maybe I’d better ride on ahead and take a look around before we go ridin’ into those trees,” Clint decided. “As much Indian sign as we’ve seen today, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was someone else camping there already.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Karl concurred. “Joanna and I will stay back here below this ridge till you call us in.”

With his rifle cradled across his arms, Clint held Rowdy to a comfortable lope until he reached the edge of a line of cottonwoods that bordered a river. Walking the buckskin slowly through the brush and trees, he looked the bank over for the best place to camp. He had just about settled upon a spot when he noticed that Rowdy’s ears, seldom still, were now pricked up as if he heard something. Could be he senses something , Clint thought, animal or man. I’d best take a look.

He dismounted, looped Rowdy’s reins over a berry bush, and with his rifle ready, walked farther along the bank. By then the approaching evening dusk had descended upon the riverbank and the daylight faded away, affording him the cover of darkness. He had walked no more than a few dozen yards when he discovered the cause of Rowdy’s concern. Through the trees that skirted the water, he saw the faint flicker of a flame. That’s what I was afraid of , he thought, and cautiously edged his way to get a better look.

Before moving any closer, he paused to check the wind, concerned that a horse might announce his presence. He determined that he was downwind, so he kept moving forward until he reached a large cottonwood that afforded ample cover while giving him a better look at the camp. He was immediately relieved to see only two horses and apparently one man sleeping on the other side of a small campfire. From the look of things, he wasn’t sure whether he was an Indian or not.

He considered whether he should hail the camp or go back and get his horse and then ride in. Even if he was a white man, Clint had no way of knowing what manner of man would be traveling through Indian country alone. Maybe, he thought, it might be wiser to go back for Karl and Joanna, then move downriver a mile or so, and let this traveler be. Probably the smartest , he decided, and turned to retrace his steps.

Making his way through the darkened trees, he returned to his horse to find Rowdy still fidgeting nervously. “It’s just me, boy,” Clint said in an effort to calm the horse. “Looks like a peaceful traveler. We’ll just let him be.”

“I’m right glad to hear that, friend.” Clint whirled at once, his rifle before him, searching for the source of the words. “Take her easy, there,” the voice came again, “you ain’t got nothin’ to fear from me.”

Although he still couldn’t tell which tree the man was behind, Clint relaxed his defensive stance. He figured if whoever it was intended to shoot him, he would already have done so. As soon as he did, a gnarled little knot of a man stepped out from behind a tree, dressed head to foot in buckskins. He carried a Remington Rolling Block rifle, and when he rested the butt on the ground, the muzzle of the long heavy barrel was even with his shoulder. As speechless as if a gnome or a forest spirit had suddenly materialized from the darkness, Clint stood gaping at the little man.

“I seen you when you was ridin’ across that ridge back yonder,” the man said. “These days, it’s a good idea to check on who’s checkin’ on you, so I circled back around here while you were takin’ a look at my camp.”

Clint couldn’t help but chuckle, even though he’d been outfoxed by the harmless-looking little man. “I reckon that’s fair enough,” he allowed.

“What in tarnation are you doin’ out here? Ain’t you heard about Little Big Horn?”

“No. What about it?”

The elfish little man explained that there had been a terrible battle on the Little Big Horn, and that Colonel George Custer had suffered a massacre. Though mildly shocked by the news, Clint figured there was nothing he could do about it now. “My name’s Clint Conner,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of friends back yonder behind that last ridge, a man and his daughter. We were fixin’ to make camp, on our way to Yellowstone country,”

“Billy Turnipseed,” the little man replied, stepping forward to shake Clint’s hand. “Go on back and get your friends, and you’re welcome at my campfire. I done et, but I’d be proud to boil you some coffee—if I had some coffee beans. You ain’t got some by any chance, have you?”

Clint laughed again. “Yeah, we’ve got some coffee. I’ll go fetch my friends.” He slipped his rifle back in the saddle sling and stepped up on Rowdy.

Billy backed away to give him room to turn the horse. “I’m thinkin’ you might be the feller that shot them Injuns over near the Belle Fourche. I heard that Red Hand said that man rode a buckskin horse like this one, and had a woman with him.” Clint checked the big horse momentarily, wondering whether that might change things. Billy grinned and said, “They said he had a Spirit Gun that didn’t miss.” He turned to go to his camp. “Go get your folks, and we’ll drink some coffee. I ain’t had no coffee in a long time.”

When Clint led Karl and Joanna into the little clearing by the riverbank, Billy Turnipseed had recharged his fire and moved his saddle back away from it. After the introductions were made, Clint and Karl took care of the horses while Joanna ground some coffee beans, and soon the coffeepot was boiling away. Although Billy had already eaten, he reconsidered and accepted Joanna’s offer to share their supper. She made a thick soup by boiling some of the deer jerky with dried beans, thickened with a small amount of flour. It was good eatin’, Billy testified.

While they sat around the fire, finishing the coffee, Billy told them how he happened to be a lone trapper and hunter in the midst of several Indian tribes that were growing more and more hostile. “I’ve rode the Powder River valley, up and down, back and forth, for over fifteen years by my calculations—at least as nigh as I remember. I’ve trapped over as far as Three Forks, up the Milk and the Musselshell, and the Missouri as far as Fort Benton. But mostly, I’ve been after buffalo for the last few years.”

“How is it you don’t have any trouble with the Indians?” Karl asked.

“I get along fine with the Injuns,” Billy said as he wiped the remains of his soup from his whiskers and licked his fingers. “Lived with ’em for a few years—old Angry Bear’s Lakotas. They even give me a name, Sung ma< he tu.”

“What’s it mean?” Karl asked.

Billy giggled. “Coyote,” he said. “Old Angry Bear said I weren’t much bigger than a coyote, but I could take a buffalo down just the same.”

Clint found the spry little man entertaining, with his shaggy beard draped across his wrinkled face from ear to ear like a tablecloth spread over a knotty oak table. “Don’t the Sioux resent you killin’ buffalo?” he asked.

“Nah, not me. They know I just kill what I need to get by. I ain’t doin’ it to sell the hides.” He winked at Joanna and said, “Ever’ once in a while, though, I take a couple of extra hides to swap for coffee and tobacco.”

“Which way are you headin’?” Clint asked when there was a lull in the conversation.

“South,” Billy answered, “goin’ to Fort Laramie. Maybe trade them hides you seen under my blanket.”

Clint laughed. He explained to Karl and Joanna that Billy had placed his blanket over a bundle of hides to make it look like a man sleeping while he circled around to Clint’s horse. “Well, I didn’t know how friendly you folks were,” Billy confessed.

“Maybe you can give us a little help,” Clint said. “None of us know the country we’re ridin’ through. We camped last night on a river, took us all day to get here. Is this the Powder?”