Several times he saw sign of Indians, and once, in the distance, a lone brave. Another time, two warriors and two squaws.
Despite the discomfort of riding, he scouted around. For the first time he saw no drunks in Massey’s company. The men were riding in their wagons, every sense alert.
He turned his dun abruptly and rode over to Brian Coyle. The big man’s head came up sharply, and there was cold hostility in his eyes. “I’ve nothing to say to you,” he said coldly, “nothing at all.”
Anger brought hot blood to Matt’s face. “Regardless of that, I’m going to warn you. What you saw happen between Hammer and Sperry was the beginning. There will be more trouble, and a lot of it.”
Coyle’s face hardened. “If there’s any trouble in this wagon train,” he said, “it will come from you. We know you now, Sun Boyne!”
Matt laughed, but he was angry. “You’re a fool, Coyle! Nothing but a damned fool! There’s men on this train who have known me for years. Whoever started such a story as that, ought to be horsewhipped!”
There was no backing down in Coyle. “We’ve got your description, right down to the last notch!”
“May I see it?”
Coyle pulled out a paper from his shut pocket. “There!” he flared. “Read it! Won’t do you any good to tear it up, that’s just a copy.”
“Over six feet in height, weight two hundred pounds or more, dark hair and eyes … .” Matt chuckled. “This could be a description of more than one man. Why, for that matter it could be a description of Clive Massey!”
“Massey?” Astonished anger flared in Coyle’s eyes. “Why, that’s absurd! It’s … !”
“Is it?” Matt stared down at his hands. “Is it foolish? Think back a bit. Even your fine Colonel Pearson knows me. He knew me years ago … is there anyone on this train who knew Massey before he came to Deadwood?”
The instant he framed the words, he became sure of their truth. It would explain his feeling about Massey, that he was a gunman, a killer. It would explain a lot of things.
Brian Coyle was staring at him, his face wearing a mixed expression of doubt, dismay, and growing realization. “That’s absurd.” He repeated the words but there was no emphasis in them.
Matt wheeled his horse and raced back to his own company. On the way he reined in suddenly alongside of Reutz. “Listen,” he said, “if you’re believing the same thing the others are, get it out of your head. Even Pearson will tell you you’re wrong. But Massey’s our man!”
Dusk was coming by now and the wagons were circling for a halt. Riding swiftly ahead, he swung down and strode into the circle around the fire Jeb Stark was building. Quickly, he explained. He was still talking when a shot rang out.
When they reached the scene of the fight, Elam Brooks lay on his face, blood staining the grass. Only a glance was needed to tell that he was dead.
Bat Hammer stood over him, his eyes ugly. Beside him were Buckskin Johnson and Clive Massey.
Massey’s face was horribly swollen and puffed. He glared around. “I saw it all,” he said flatly, “it was an even break!”
“Where’s Elam’s gun?” Ben Sperry demanded. “I don’t see no gun.”
“It’s under him,” Massey said. “It fell from his hand.” He swung his eyes around at them. “You all go back to your wagons. I will attend to this.”
For a second, Matt hesitated. The commission in his pocket could be drawn out. In one instant he could take charge here. Yet actually, he knew nothing. Of course, if Brooks’ gun was not under his body, he could arrest Bat Hammer for murder, but that would only put the rest of them on guard. With the others, he turned away. He saw Ben Sperry staring after him, about to speak. Then he turned away and said nothing, so Bardoul walked back to his own wagons.
His head throbbed, and he leaned both hands on the back of the wagon. For a long time he stood there, his head hanging.
“Twenty-eight miles today,” Stark was saying, “the best we’ve done yet.”
“What crick is this?” Jeb asked.
“Fork of the Crazy Woman. By tomorrow night we should make Clear Creek if the going is this good.”
Lute Harless walked up and joined them, glancing briefly at Matt. He hesitated, staring over at him, worrying about what he should do. The story that Matt Bardoul was Sun Boyne had swept the camp, and many had accepted it as gospel, never questioning the description they had picked up in Fort Reno. Somebody had started the story before they reached Reno, and when the description fitted, they accepted the whole rumour as fact. Lute Harless was troubled. He had liked Matt Bardoul and trusted him, and although he had heard the rumour, he remained uncertain. Finally, he sat down on the ground and waited for the food to be handed around.
He was disturbed in more ways than one. Elam Brooks had been killed, and Lute liked and trusted Elam. He was a staunch man, well known and liked, and his killing seemed to imply that all they had feared was to come about as they had expected.
He was confused and irritated. Thoughtfully, he stole a look at Aaron Stark. Buffalo Murphy walked into the ring of light, not seeing Matt. He stared around belligerently, but noboay made any comment, so he dished up some food and sat down beside Ban Hardy.
Matt’s side hurt him and he felt ill. The kicks in the head had given him a mild concussion, and his head throbbed.
He scarcely saw the old Indian move past him and stop at the edge of the firelight.
Murphy was the first to see him. He lifted a hand. “How!” he said, in greeting.
The old Indian looked around. “How,” he said mildly. He gestured. “Many white man come. Too many.”
Murphy chuckled. “That’s right as rain! This was a good country before it got all cluttered up with white men!”
The Indian looked at him sourly. “No white man need tell me what my eyes can see. The white man came to a land of grass and trees, to a land of clear, cold streams where the buffalo roamed in their thousands and the beaver filled the streams. They came to a land rich and beautiful, and what have they done? They descended upon the land like starving wolves and they have slaughtered the buffalo for their hides and left the meat to rot upon the prairie, they swept the beaver from the streams and ripped the metals from the earth, and where the white man has been, the streams are fouled with mud and the poison from their mines.
“Where there were forests there is now a wilderness of stumps and useless brush, and the rain washes out the soil from around the roots, and the few trees die. Where there was grass, there is desert; where there were buffalo, there are vast and empty plains swept by sun and wind. No longer does the beaver tail slap the water in quick alarm. His people are gone from the clear waters, his dams are broken. So my people are dying also, and you white men will sweep on across the land digging and killing and ripping up the long grass lands until finally you reach the waters in the west, and then you will wash back upon yourselves. You will return upon the land you have raped and looted and fight like snarling, starving dogs filled with hunger and hatred.
“Where you found forests, you leave desolation; where you found plenty, you leave famine; where you found prairies waving with tall grass, you leave a desert. Finally, you will turn back upon yourselves and fight over the scraps until all is gone and you turn and stare about in astonished wonderment at the land you have ravished, and you will say, ‘Great Spirit, what have we done?’ ”
“He’s crazy!” Harless said, staring at the old man.
Murphy tugged at his beard. “Maybe. I think the old boy makes sense.”
“I have been to your great cities, white men. I went with the great Red Cloud, but what did I see? Only a mad rush for wealth, all fighting and wrangling and hurry, and I found no contentment there, no peace. There is no calm in your people, there is no majesty, you are a people of thieves who sell your daughters for money and barter your souls for gain.
“I shall not live to see the end, nor will you, for the land you have stolen from the Indian is rich, and the looting will take years. The spirit of looting within you will not end, and you will come to call your greed a virtue. You will call it energy and industry, and he who steals the most will gain the praise of his fellow man until finally a day will come when you will look back and see with eyes like mine, and then you will understand.
