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I worked all the next morning to make sure of my quota, then covered the actual sites of my test digs. I could only do so much, for the signs of prospecting remain for years to the experienced eye. It would not catch the eye of some passing rider, though. At least I hoped that it wouldn't. The memory of those two deer shooters was still fresh in my mind. Anybody that would waste game wouldn't have any qualms about stealing my gold. When I was done I was not satisfied with my work, so I hung the following sign on a pole,
These doins belong to Jess Clay.
Leave 'em be LEST YOU WANT TO FACE ME.
—Jess Clay
Big Horse was downright playful when I saddled him up to head for Salt Lake City. I think he had been bored and was anxious for the trail. He bunted me with his huge head and then tried to pluck the buttons off my shirt. I scratched his ears and told him what a big fool he was, and he shook his head in agreement.
I had forgotten to ask Carter for directions, and now I cursed my stupidity. Now that I was actually on the trail, I was impatient to get there. I had memorized a map back in Oregon, and now I headed in the general direction that I wanted to go. It never dawned on me that I would be traveling through what was known as the Hole in the Wall country.
The high meadows I was traversing must have belonged to John Carter. The grass was cured on the stem, and Big Horse took an occasional chomp as we walked along, much the same as I would with a handful of peanuts. I let him have his head, for he liked to travel as much as I did, and his instincts for direction were just as good as mine.
When we topped a small rise, a thunder of hooves greeted us. Buffalo! Whether Big Horse had done this before or not was not known, but he was instantly in pursuit. These big animals were getting scarce, and this was the first chance I had ever had at one. I lined the horse up to overtake a small cow and readied my revolver.
This was one of the hunting methods the Indians used. As you overtook the bison you shot into the heart. White men had adapted the method to pistols, but it was a hard way to go. You would think an animal as big as a buffalo would be hard to miss, but I had read all the stories in the newspapers. When Smith and Wesson was trying to land a contract with the Russian government for their top break pistol, they took Grand Duke Alexis and other dignitaries on a hunt. On the first try, the Grand Duke missed with all six shots. Later he did connect, and so did Smith and Wesson, for they got the contract with the Russians.
This was not as bad a performance as it sounds, for a young army officer with the group not only missed his first buffalo, he shot his horse in the head! That young officer's name was George Armstrong Custer.
I was in hopes my luck would be better. Big Horse seemed to know what he was doing, so I looped the reins around the horn and leaned over to get a better shot. This called for a reverse lead because the horse and I were going faster than the bison. Just before I came abreast of him I squeezed the trigger, and the buffalo went down with a thud that shook the ground.
Big Horse circled around and approached the animal from the rear like he had been trained for it, and who knows, maybe he had.
I got down and shucked my knife and looked the critter over, wondering where to start. Even this cow was big, bigger than anything I had ever had call to butcher. With a deer you start by opening up the stomach, so naturally that is what I tried to do. That cow must have been sleeping on a gravel bank, for the matted hide was filled with tiny grains of sand and rock that threatened to dull my knife before I had gained three inches.
The clop of hooves caused my to look up. For a minute I thought I was in for serious trouble. Indians! This was my first trip through the West, but I had heard many stories. As far as I knew, this was Ute country, but the tribes wandered a good bit, and for all I knew these might be Blackfeet, Crows or Paiutes.
The three men had me in a crossfire if it came to it, and I was wishing I had reloaded the empty chamber in my Colt. Two of them were fierce looking but not painted. The third was a handsome looking young man with odd stripes of paint down his cheeks. He loudly proclaimed something in a guttural language. As he spoke, his hand clasped the handle of his belt knife as if in threat.
Anything seemed to be worth a try, so I asked, "Any of you boys speak English?"
In reply came more gibberish and the shaking of a lance. Well, okay. With a care to keep my hands well away from my gunbelt, I tried to mime the idea of splitting the buffalo between all of us, for there was more than enough to go around. Sign language has never been my strong forte. It was again met with menacing looks.
I tried again, attempting to pantomime the act of peeling off the heavy hide and giving it to them. "For papoose and
squaws," I slowly said.
"What the hell have you been reading, penny dreadfulls?"
I did a double take at this. The meanest one of the trio, the one with the paint on his face, had just spoken in English!
"How come you didn't answer me before, instead of letting me look foolish?" I asked.
"A good joke is hard to find out here. We found one."
"Damn sorry business, that's all I can say." I was just about hopping, for I didn't like being the butt of their joke.
"Squaws and papoose," the good looking brave snorted. "You can always tell a white man's talk."
"Well, what the hell do you call them?"
"Women and kids. What else?"
I shook my head in resignation. "Do you want some meat or don't you? You can have the hide, too, if you want it. My name's Jess Clay, by the way."
"I'm Peter Running Deer," the painted one replied. He didn't offer the names of the other two. "Thanks, we could use some meat. We are away from the reservation, so we don't have any women along. We're just traveling, living off the land for a while. In school I learned that America is the land of the free, but that is just for white men. The Indian is supposed to be penned up on a reservation like an animal. That is why we are out here. The time will probably come for us too to be penned up, but that time is not now."
With a chuckle Peter showed me how to make the first cut of the buffalo hide all the way down the back. As they worked they started a tiny cooking fire and broiled fresh buffalo liver. I had a small sack of salt with me, and the result was heavenly. I traded most of my share of fresh meat with them for dried jerky, for it was much more compact for traveling.
We spent the night right there. That evening, as soon as we were sated with buffalo meat the fire was extinguished, even though it could have been covered by the average bandana. It is a stupid trick to sit around and stare into a campfire, for not only are you blind when you look away but you alert your enemies for miles around. If you are not aware of having any enemies around, that's the sure sign that they'll strike.
In the morning we parted company, for our paths led in opposite directions. Just as I was mounting to depart, Peter gave me some sobering news.
"I saw you working up on Elk Creek. So did a couple of white men. They watched you though a glass from the west. You better watch your back. White men's metal makes them do crazy things."
"You never look for gold?"
"The yellow ore only brings trouble. It makes the white man steal and kill and break treaties. It is beneath the Indian to toil at this. Plus I'm too darn lazy. I'd rather hunt and fish."
"So long, Peter."
"So long, White Eyes; our paths will cross again."
The Indian's warning had given me pause for thought. I had not expected trouble after making peace with Big John Carter. He had mentioned rustlers—anyone that would steal my gold would probably heist cattle as well. And the two deer; I was suddenly sure that the same bunch was responsible for all these maladies. I had thought that this was a friendly neighborhood. It was obvious that I was sadly mistaken.
To be on the safe side, I took a big S-turn on the next leg of my journey. Once I thought I saw a wisp of dust on my backtrail, but I saw no more sign. Big Horse gave no indication, and I had come to trust his instincts. He was like a close working bird dog. If I paid attention to his actions, I was warned of what might be approaching. Big Horse would pick up his ears at something he was anxious to see, be it game for me to shoot or something good for him to chow down on.
Whenever he laid his ears back I knew there was trouble in the wings. He wasn't one to whinny, and a simple wave of my hand would keep him quiet. He gave no acknowledgement of trouble now, perhaps because the range was too great.
I went through a pass between two close lying hills and then cut back along the shoulder and waited. An hour later, Big Horse's ears picked up, and I motioned him to be quiet. Sure enough, before long I heard the clop of shod hooves coming through the pass. Two riders came into view, slinking unshaven men with an aura of the unclean about them. I waited until they had passed from cover,
then I cocked my Single Action Army. The wind, which usually blew a gale through these parts, had died off for a breather, and the sound of that hammer brought the two up short. I was sitting on a low rock that gave me visibility and good cover.
"You boys looking for me?"
"Wh, who are you?" inquired the squirrelly one of the two. "We're just riding over to Salt Lake for a night on the town." He seemed to get a sudden inspiration, for he added, "We work for John Carter."
"Is that right?" I acted like I was some old impressed. "He is quite a fellow, isn't he? You know, I spoke with Big John last week, and he told me he was having some rustler
trouble."
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