Trouble Shooter. Ernest Haycox
said, in a rather quick way: "He's smart. Seems to smell the grading jobs that won't make money for him. Twenty years from now when this Country settles up he'll have his interest in it—coal and cattle and land. Some men draw money to them. He's that kind."
"Watch me," broke in Overmile.
"What?"
"I know cows and I know grass. Been lookin' at this territory. When I'm through workin' for the railroad next year this is where I squat. I got an eye on a pretty spot across the hump there in the valley of the Little Laramie. Come back in twenty years and see my beef roamin' these hills with me under my fig tree."
They rode like this for a good while, each man contemplative and silent. They were young and the ferment of ambition was in them. But Archie Millard's face held a set, dismal expression. He said: "Twenty years? Well, men pray, but there are no answers. Twenty years is a black tunnel, Who knows if it's daylight at the other end?"
At noon they stopped for water and a long rest. The shape of the land here was all rolling, broken by buttes and small domes and outcrops of round, disintegrated rock. The stage trail led through a low pass, leaving the Medicine Bow peaks over against the west. Scrub trees and a few strands of the fragile-looking aspen grew along the way; the hills were as green as they would ever be. In the afternoon they came upon the Fort Collins road, struck a feeder of Cache Creek and around five o'clock arrived at the Virginia Dale stage station, pitching camp there.
Virginia Dale had the reputation of being the best station on the Overland stage route, its low log buildings and its corrals and barns sitting pleasantly beside a creek running down from the Medicine Bow range. The ruts of the stage road were still deep here, yet dimming perceptibly. The hurrying rails of the Union had done that, cutting out the stage line section by section, thistation which once was so lively with the traffic of those big coaches rolling up around the prow of the Black Hills set more or less idle now under the spring sun, kept alive only by the freighting trade between Denver and Cheyenne.
A lank man came out of the main house and walked over to the camp, showing them an interest which was neither friendly nor unfriendly. He said: "Hello, Archie," barely nodding at Peace and Overmile, He gave the troopers one careless look.
"Mormon Charley still here, Reese?"
"Out on a hunt right now. Back tonight."
Millard turned his fine big body half about. There was a girl looking at him across the yard. She stood in the doorway of a small cabin farther down the creek and Peace, sending his glance that way, saw merely a round, dusky face. Immediately afterward she retreated into the cabin. Millard said: "I'll see you later," and went over there in long strides.
"Mormon Charley's girl?" asked Peace.
Reese shaved himself a thin slice of plug tobacco, "Yeah—that's Cherry."
Overmile and Peace swapped glances. Reese saw that.
He snapped his knife shut and returned it to his pocket. "She's good enough for your damned lieutenant, boys. Half Injun or not."
Peace strolled over the little meadow, Overmile with him, and sat down on the porch of the stage house. Shadows crawled out from the Medicine Bow, turning this little valley blue. The troopers mess fire sent its fresh wood-smoke odor keenly across the air. Reese came up. He said: "Supper?"
"Yes," agreed Peace. "All three of us."
Reese shook his head. "Just two. Millard always eats with Mormon Charley and the girl."
"Know his ways pretty well, don't you?" asked Peace.
"Should," said Reese, "He's regular with his visitin'."
He went into the house and began to yell through it in an Indian tongue.
"Another squaw man," pointed out Overmile.
"Reese? Yes, I knew that." Peace scrubbed his shoulders against the back of the chair. Millard had gone into Mormon Charley's cabin. He was still in there, with a quick twilight laying its successive layers of powder-blue satin across the sky. A few men began to collect around the yard; a peaceful Ute and his woman came out of a ravine, bent over on their ponies, and made camp down by one of the corrals.
Peace said: "When did all this start, Leach?"
"Last November in Cheyenne. Mormon Charley came to Fort Russell to see General Stevenson. Brought the girl with him. Archie saw her. Her mother was an Arapahoe woman who died a good many years ago. Charley raised the kid, never takin' another squaw. Sent her to a school in St. Louis for a few years."
"Pretty?"
"Wait till you see her."
"No matter," grumbled Peace. "It isn't the point. Here's a man who graduated at the top of his class in West Point. Smart and cool—and the best soldier along the whole line of posts. His father was a general. So was his grandfather. In time Archie will be. Now look at it. We've got to stop this, Leach."
Overmile smiled softly "How do you do things like that, Frank?"
The supper bell rang. They went inside and sat up with half a dozen other men to antelope steak, fried trout and fresh biscuits served with wild honey. Soft darkness flowed around Virginia Dale. Reese's Ute woman circled the room, moccasins making no sound, and lighted the lamps. Outside, the troopers' fire was a pear-shaped shield of mellow light. They were singing "John Brown's Body." A little wind stirred the room.
At eight o'clock that night Mormon Charley walked into the room, a compact man with bright magpie eyes glittering out through an enormous mat of a beard. He wore a buckskin suit black from the swipe of many a greasy hunting knife across it; and his manner was the manner of all mountain men, blunt and a little wild. Even as he talked he seemed to be listening for other sounds. His eyes were never still.
"Back for another year, Frank?"
"Till the road's finished," said Peace, and shook Mormon Charley's hand cheerfully.
Mormon Charley shook his head. "Country's no damned good now. Buffler's gone, no price to be had for beaver skins. Wagon tracks all over tarnal creation and a thunder buggy snortin' through the hills like God's judgment, skeerin' game an' puttin' a bad smell in the air. I'm an old man. Jim Bridger's old, Bill Williams he's dead, Kit Carson's turned civilized and lives greaser style in Tows; Whar's the fun gone?"
"Let's make a little talk," said Peace.
Mormon Charley's restless, bead-bright eyes flickered around the room, touching everything, Reese stood in a corner, listening. A few other men were there, listening.
"You come to my lodge," said Mormon Charley and led the way out. "Reese," he grunted, "is more Injun than a real Injun is. Where's Archie?"
"At your place."
They crossed the meadow to Mormon Charley's small log cabin. A single lamp burned on a center table, its light not quite reaching the corners of the room.
Mormon Charley said, "How, Archie," in a swift, hearty way, and added, "Cherry, let's git some coffee boilin'."
But for a moment the scene in here was dull and quiet. Peace's glance ran over to a shadowed corner where Millard stood. Even in this dimness he saw how strained and desperate Millard's face was. It held no hope, yet a wild desire was there, too. Then he turned his curious attention to the girl who remained by the table. And received a definite shock.
This Cherry who was half white and half Arapahoe was a fairer Indian woman than he had ever seen, fresh and slim and on the edge of beauty. Her hands touched the table and her head was tipped down, avoiding the glance of these men out of modesty. Her cheeks were rather oval and her hair ran blackly and smoothly back on her head. She wore a plain dress and a plain waist; a small gold chain circled her neck, with a little gold locket lying against well-formed breasts that stirred to a sudden, disturbed breathing.
Overmile said: "Hello, Cherry," his drawling voice very gentle.
Her chin lifted, and Peace was further astonished at the even melody of her speech. She said, "I'm glad to see you, Leach." But it was to