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Authors: Charles G. West
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be considering whether he was even going to acknowledge the statement, he finally responded with a simple, “Is that a fact?”
“Yessir,” Clay replied. “Badger—I don’t know his first name. O.C. Owens said I might find him over here.”
“I don’t know that he’s got a first name,” Bridger said, “and I’ve knowed him for twenty years.” He continued to look Clay over for a few moments more. Then deciding that Clay was most likely looking for Badger for peaceful reasons, he took a few steps away from the entrance and pointed toward a group of lodges close by the riverbank. “Them’s Red Cloud’s people. Find Little Hawk’s lodge, and Badger will most likely be nearby.”
“Much obliged,” Clay said, turned and nodded to the sergeant, then stepped up into the saddle.
“That’s a right fine-looking sorrel you’ve got there,” the sergeant commented.
“Thanks,” Clay replied, smiling. “The fellow I gothim from still wishes he hadn’t let him go.” Red snorted in agreement, and leaped forward at the touch of Clay’s heels in his sides, showing off for the benefit of those watching, as he pranced shamelessly away from the tent.
Clay guided the big chestnut stallion toward the group of lodges pointed out by Jim Bridger, aware of the eyes that silently watched his progress. He knew very little about the wild people who inhabited the lands west of the Missouri, only tales occasionally brought back east from mule skinners who made the long trip hauling freight—and newspaper accountings of Indian raids upon helpless settlers. So he felt an uneasiness that made him want to keep his hand resting upon the stock of his Winchester as he guided his horse around small groups of warriors talking around their campfires. As he approached each group, the talking stopped while every pair of eyes turned toward him. Not sure if he should appear cordial or polite, he just kept his eyes straight ahead while he passed.
There was a gathering of six men seated before a tipi decorated with drawings of warriors on horses chasing buffalo. One of them was a white man, and Clay had no doubts that this was the man he sought. Sitting Indian-style on the ground, eating from a bowl carved from bone, was the man known simply as Badger. At first glance, one might mistake him for an Indian. He was dressed much in the same fashion as his companions—entirely in animal skins, except for the weathered old campaign hat with the front and back brim turned up. Upon closer inspection, one would notice the stubble of a beard, more gray than the black of his shoulder-length hair. Upon even closer inspection, one would realize that the clear blue eyes were not those of an Indian. And those eyes werewatching Clay closely as he rode up, although his face gave no indication of even a passing curiosity.
“Mr. Badger?” Clay inquired, stepping down from the saddle.
Badger’s five Lakota companions, all silently staring at the lone white rider up to that point, now turned as one to watch Badger’s response. “I’m Badger,” was the simple reply.
If Clay had expected a more cordial greeting, he would be disappointed, for the crusty old scout held a cool reserve for strangers, especially white strangers. Already feeling the coolness of his reception, Clay stepped closer to the men, and said, “O.C. Owens said that you might be able to help me.”
“That so?” Badger replied. “And who might you be?”
Badger listened, unblinking and expressionless, as Clay told him who he was and the mission he had taken upon himself to find the Indians who had stolen his sister. If Clay’s story provoked any compassion from the rough scout, it was not obvious to the eye. Badger’s first reaction to the account of Martha Vinings’s abduction was that she and her husband weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. It seemed simple logic to him that, if a man sneaked into a bear’s cave to steal his food, “He might oughta expect
“Yessir,” Clay replied. “Badger—I don’t know his first name. O.C. Owens said I might find him over here.”
“I don’t know that he’s got a first name,” Bridger said, “and I’ve knowed him for twenty years.” He continued to look Clay over for a few moments more. Then deciding that Clay was most likely looking for Badger for peaceful reasons, he took a few steps away from the entrance and pointed toward a group of lodges close by the riverbank. “Them’s Red Cloud’s people. Find Little Hawk’s lodge, and Badger will most likely be nearby.”
“Much obliged,” Clay said, turned and nodded to the sergeant, then stepped up into the saddle.
“That’s a right fine-looking sorrel you’ve got there,” the sergeant commented.
“Thanks,” Clay replied, smiling. “The fellow I gothim from still wishes he hadn’t let him go.” Red snorted in agreement, and leaped forward at the touch of Clay’s heels in his sides, showing off for the benefit of those watching, as he pranced shamelessly away from the tent.
Clay guided the big chestnut stallion toward the group of lodges pointed out by Jim Bridger, aware of the eyes that silently watched his progress. He knew very little about the wild people who inhabited the lands west of the Missouri, only tales occasionally brought back east from mule skinners who made the long trip hauling freight—and newspaper accountings of Indian raids upon helpless settlers. So he felt an uneasiness that made him want to keep his hand resting upon the stock of his Winchester as he guided his horse around small groups of warriors talking around their campfires. As he approached each group, the talking stopped while every pair of eyes turned toward him. Not sure if he should appear cordial or polite, he just kept his eyes straight ahead while he passed.
There was a gathering of six men seated before a tipi decorated with drawings of warriors on horses chasing buffalo. One of them was a white man, and Clay had no doubts that this was the man he sought. Sitting Indian-style on the ground, eating from a bowl carved from bone, was the man known simply as Badger. At first glance, one might mistake him for an Indian. He was dressed much in the same fashion as his companions—entirely in animal skins, except for the weathered old campaign hat with the front and back brim turned up. Upon closer inspection, one would notice the stubble of a beard, more gray than the black of his shoulder-length hair. Upon even closer inspection, one would realize that the clear blue eyes were not those of an Indian. And those eyes werewatching Clay closely as he rode up, although his face gave no indication of even a passing curiosity.
“Mr. Badger?” Clay inquired, stepping down from the saddle.
Badger’s five Lakota companions, all silently staring at the lone white rider up to that point, now turned as one to watch Badger’s response. “I’m Badger,” was the simple reply.
If Clay had expected a more cordial greeting, he would be disappointed, for the crusty old scout held a cool reserve for strangers, especially white strangers. Already feeling the coolness of his reception, Clay stepped closer to the men, and said, “O.C. Owens said that you might be able to help me.”
“That so?” Badger replied. “And who might you be?”
Badger listened, unblinking and expressionless, as Clay told him who he was and the mission he had taken upon himself to find the Indians who had stolen his sister. If Clay’s story provoked any compassion from the rough scout, it was not obvious to the eye. Badger’s first reaction to the account of Martha Vinings’s abduction was that she and her husband weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. It seemed simple logic to him that, if a man sneaked into a bear’s cave to steal his food, “He might oughta expect
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