Read Online Winter Rain by Terry C. Johnston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry C. Johnston
Ads: Link
warrior came to live among the whites, instead of living among his own.
But in the end some of those old friends abandoned the country. Some went west, some back to the east, where it was rumored the white man numbered like the stars above Shoshone country. Still, Big Throat and Sweete had stayed on, guiding for the pony soldiers who marched against the Lakota and Shahiyena warrior bands. It was good work for the friends of the Shoshone to do—this tracking and guiding, leading the soldiers against the camps of the Snake’s most hated enemies.
Only Big Throat and Sweete had stayed on in this country spread high and wide beneath the setting sun that now dipped out of the clouds like a raindrop slowly loosening itself from a cottonwood leaf. For a moment the land flared red-orange as the sun appeared, then lost itself almost as quickly behind the far foothills and vaulted peaks.
Gone was the day.
Like the rumor said of Big Throat. He was gone east, back among his original people, the ones he belonged to before he had been adopted by the Shoshone.
It could not be true: that Brid-ger would give up on this land and go back to the places where the white man clustered together in great groupings that reeked of his offal and the air hung gray in the sky. Out here the wind blew free enough that the land cleansed itself when a Shoshone village packed up and moved on.
But stories had Brid-ger gone from the high plains and snowy mountains for good. A grand era had come to an end.
This, Two Sleep had decided, he must see for himself.
So he took this journey to Brid-ger’s fort where the soldiers came to roost from time to time. That way Two Sleep would find out if the rumor was true.
For many days Two Sleep traveled without seeing another human being. Only the sweep of the red-tailed hawks circumscribing lazy loops against the sky. Only white-rumped antelope bounding off from the path Two Sleep had chosen, then stopping to look back at the solitary rider. No others ventured into this shimmering heat rising off the parched land—until the Shoshone spotted the two horses weaving like black water striders a’dance among the rising waves of heat along the far horizon.
It had proved to be this white man traveling alone along this road. A brave thing, Two Sleep decided. If he met the wrong Indians …
But at this time of the year, this far west—why, the Lakota and the Shahiyena were far to the north, hunting. Still, the Arapaho were a different matter. They were a fickle, funny people.
They were almost as amusing as the white men Two Sleep had learned to gamble with, learned to drink with. Whiskey and cards—the white man’s two most potent gifts to the Shoshone. He thoughtfully considered those gifts as he watched the solitary white man drag his saddles from the weary, rain-soaked horses down in the willow.
Two Sleep was compelled to draw closer to the stranger than he had wanted, mostly because of the thick, sluicing rain that seriously hampered his visibility. But as well, the Shoshone knew the rain cut down a man’s ability to smell danger, as well as softening the ground and everything on it so that the warrior would not betray himself in this stalk.
Yes, he loved the card games: monte and euchre. And with much practice at them in the shadow of Brid-ger’s fort, Two Sleep had become better than most of the whitemen he played. Better than them all, except that sour-faced Sweete. Never could read the man’s cards in that face. Sweete kept his hand too much a secret behind that impassive face.
Two Sleep wanted to get close enough to read this stranger’s face, to see if the white man packed along any whiskey in his spare packs. Two Sleep would show himself if there was a chance to drink some of the man’s whiskey. He would walk boldly in and announce his presence without fear, use some of his white-man words learned at the game table in Brid-ger’s fort.
Words like
goddamn:
the wagon the cursing white teamsters
But in the end some of those old friends abandoned the country. Some went west, some back to the east, where it was rumored the white man numbered like the stars above Shoshone country. Still, Big Throat and Sweete had stayed on, guiding for the pony soldiers who marched against the Lakota and Shahiyena warrior bands. It was good work for the friends of the Shoshone to do—this tracking and guiding, leading the soldiers against the camps of the Snake’s most hated enemies.
Only Big Throat and Sweete had stayed on in this country spread high and wide beneath the setting sun that now dipped out of the clouds like a raindrop slowly loosening itself from a cottonwood leaf. For a moment the land flared red-orange as the sun appeared, then lost itself almost as quickly behind the far foothills and vaulted peaks.
Gone was the day.
Like the rumor said of Big Throat. He was gone east, back among his original people, the ones he belonged to before he had been adopted by the Shoshone.
It could not be true: that Brid-ger would give up on this land and go back to the places where the white man clustered together in great groupings that reeked of his offal and the air hung gray in the sky. Out here the wind blew free enough that the land cleansed itself when a Shoshone village packed up and moved on.
But stories had Brid-ger gone from the high plains and snowy mountains for good. A grand era had come to an end.
This, Two Sleep had decided, he must see for himself.
So he took this journey to Brid-ger’s fort where the soldiers came to roost from time to time. That way Two Sleep would find out if the rumor was true.
For many days Two Sleep traveled without seeing another human being. Only the sweep of the red-tailed hawks circumscribing lazy loops against the sky. Only white-rumped antelope bounding off from the path Two Sleep had chosen, then stopping to look back at the solitary rider. No others ventured into this shimmering heat rising off the parched land—until the Shoshone spotted the two horses weaving like black water striders a’dance among the rising waves of heat along the far horizon.
It had proved to be this white man traveling alone along this road. A brave thing, Two Sleep decided. If he met the wrong Indians …
But at this time of the year, this far west—why, the Lakota and the Shahiyena were far to the north, hunting. Still, the Arapaho were a different matter. They were a fickle, funny people.
They were almost as amusing as the white men Two Sleep had learned to gamble with, learned to drink with. Whiskey and cards—the white man’s two most potent gifts to the Shoshone. He thoughtfully considered those gifts as he watched the solitary white man drag his saddles from the weary, rain-soaked horses down in the willow.
Two Sleep was compelled to draw closer to the stranger than he had wanted, mostly because of the thick, sluicing rain that seriously hampered his visibility. But as well, the Shoshone knew the rain cut down a man’s ability to smell danger, as well as softening the ground and everything on it so that the warrior would not betray himself in this stalk.
Yes, he loved the card games: monte and euchre. And with much practice at them in the shadow of Brid-ger’s fort, Two Sleep had become better than most of the whitemen he played. Better than them all, except that sour-faced Sweete. Never could read the man’s cards in that face. Sweete kept his hand too much a secret behind that impassive face.
Two Sleep wanted to get close enough to read this stranger’s face, to see if the white man packed along any whiskey in his spare packs. Two Sleep would show himself if there was a chance to drink some of the man’s whiskey. He would walk boldly in and announce his presence without fear, use some of his white-man words learned at the game table in Brid-ger’s fort.
Words like
goddamn:
the wagon the cursing white teamsters
Similar Books
