Jarvis Cutler lifted the dead Loomis out of the cabin. He made a try
for Kelley's body, but the room had become a cave of flame, and he was
driven from the door. He wrung his hands, giving himself bitter blame
aloud, as he covered Loomis with his saddle-blanket, and jumped bareback
upon Duster to go to the post. He had not been riding a minute when
several men met him. They had seen the fire from below, and on their way
up the half-breed had passed them at a run.
“Here's our point,” said Cutler. “Will he hide with the Sioux, or
will he take to the railroad? Well, that's my business more than being
wagon-master. I'll get a warrant. You tell Lieutenant Balwin--and
somebody give me a fresh horse.”
A short while later, as Cutler, with the warrant in his pocket, rode
out of Fort Laramie, the call of the sentinels came across the night:
“Number One. Twelve o'clock, and all's well.” A moment, and the refrain
sounded more distant, given by Number Two. When the fourth took it up,
far away along the line, the words were lost, leaving something like the
faint echo of a song. The half-breed had crossed the Platte, as if he
were making for his kindred tribe, but the scout did not believe in this
too plain trail.
“There's Chug Water lying right the other way from where he went, and
I guess it's there Mr. Toussaint is aiming for.” With this idea Cutler
swung from north to southwest along the Laramie. He went slowly over
his shortcut, not to leave the widely circling Toussaint too much in his
rear. The fugitive would keep himself carefully far on the other side of
the Laramie, and very likely not cross it until the forks of Chug Water.
Dawn had ceased to be gray, and the doves were cooing incessantly among
the river thickets, when Cutler, reaching the forks, found a bottom
where the sage-brush grew seven and eight feet high, and buried himself
and his horse in its cover. Here was comfort; here both rivers could be
safely watched. It seemed a good leisure-time for a little fire and some
breakfast. He eased his horse of the saddle, sliced some bacon, and put
a match to his pile of small sticks. As the flame caught, he stood up to
enjoy the cool of a breeze that was passing through the stillness, and
he suddenly stamped his fire out. The smell of another fire had come
across Chug Water on the wind. It was incredible that Toussaint should
be there already. There was no seeing from this bottom, and if Cutler
walked up out of it the other man would see too. If it were Toussaint,
he would not stay long in the vast exposed plain across Chug Water, but
would go on after his meal. In twenty minutes it would be the thing
to swim or wade the stream, and crawl up the mud bank to take a look.
Meanwhile, Cutler dipped in water some old bread that he had and sucked
it down, while the little breeze from opposite hook the cottonwood
leaves and brought over the smell of cooking meat. The sun grew warmer,
and the doves ceased. Cutler opened his big watch, and clapped it shut
as the sound of mud heavily slopping into the other river reached
him. He crawled to where he could look at the Laramie from among his
sagebrush, and there was Toussaint leading his horse down to the water.
The half-breed gave a shrill call, and waved his hat. His call was
answered, and as he crossed the Laramie, three Sioux appeared, riding to
the bank. They waited till he gained their level, when all four rode up
the Chug Water, and went out of sight opposite the watching Cutler. The
scout threw off some of his clothes, for the water was still high, and
when he had crossed, and drawn himself to a level with the plain, there
were the four squatted among the sage-brush beside a fire. They sat
talking and eating for some time. One of them rose at last, pointed
south, and mounting his horse, dwindled to a dot, blurred, and
evaporated in the heated, trembling distance. Cutler at the edge of the
bank still watched the other three, who sat on the ground. A faint shot
came, and they rose at once, mounted, and vanished southward. There was
no following them now in this exposed country, and Cutler, feeling sure
that the signal had meant something about Toussaint's horses, made his
fire, watered his own horse, and letting him drag a rope where the feed
was green, ate his breakfast in ease. Toussaint would get a fresh mount,
and proceed to the railroad. With the comfort of certainty and tobacco,
the scout lolled by the river under the cottonwood, and even slept. In
the cool of the afternoon he reached the cabin of an acquaintance twenty
miles south, and changed his horse. A man had passed by, he was told.
Looked as if bound for Cheyenne. “No,” Cutler said, “he's known there”;
and he went on, watching Toussaint's tracks. Within ten miles they
veered away from Cheyenne to the southeast, and Cutler struck out on a
trail of his own more freely. By midnight he was on Lodge-Pole Creek,
sleeping sound among the last trees that he would pass. He slept
twelve hours, having gone to bed knowing he must not come into town
by daylight. About nine o'clock he arrived, and went to the railroad
station; there the operator knew him. The lowest haunt in the town had
a tent south of the Union Pacific tracks; and Cutler, getting his irons,
and a man from the saloon, went there, and stepped in, covering the room
with his pistol. The fiddle stopped, the shrieking women scattered, and
Toussaint, who had a glass in his hand, let it fly at Cutler's head, for
he was drunk. There were two customers besides himself.
“Nobody shall get hurt here,” said Cutler, above the bedlam that was
now set up. “Only that man's wanted. The quieter I get him, the quieter
it'll be for others.”
Toussaint had dived for his pistol, but the proprietor of the
dance-hall, scenting law, struck the half-breed with the butt of
another, and he rolled over, and was harmless for some minutes. Then
he got on his legs, and was led out of the entertainment, which resumed
more gayly than ever. Feet shuffled, the fiddle whined, and truculent
treble laughter sounded through the canvas walls as Toussaint walked
between Cutler and the saloon-man to jail. He was duly indicted, and
upon the scout's deposition committed to trial for the murder of Loomis
and Kelley. Cutler, hoping still to be wagon-master, wrote to Lieutenant
Balwin, hearing in reply that the reinforcements would not arrive for
two months. The session of the court came in one, and Cutler was the
Territory's only witness. He gave his name and age, and hesitated over
his occupation.
“Call it poker-dealer,” sneered Toussaint's attorney.
“I would, but I'm such a fool one,” observed the witness. “Put me down
as wagon-master to the military outfit that's going to White River.”
“What is your residence?”
“Well, I reside in the section that lies between the Missouri River and
the Pacific Ocean.”
“A pleasant neighborhood,” said the judge, who knew Cutler perfectly,
and precisely how well he could deal poker hands.
“It's not a pleasant neighborhood for some.” And Cutler looked at
Toussaint.
“You think you done with me?” Toussaint inquired, upon which silence was
ordered in the court.
Upon Cutler's testimony the half-breed was found guilty, and sentenced
to be hanged in six weeks from that day. Hearing this, he looked at the
witness. “I see you one day agin,” he said.
The scout returned to Fort Laramie, and soon the expected troops
arrived, and the expedition started for White River to join Captain
Brent. The captain was stationed there to impress Red Cloud, and had
written to headquarters that this chief did not seem impressed very
deeply, and that the lives of the settlers were insecure. Reinforcements
were accordingly sent to him. On the evening before these soldiers left
Laramie, news came from the south. Toussaint had escaped from jail. The
country was full of roving, dubious Indians, and with the authentic news
went a rumor that the jailer had received various messages. These were
to the effect that the Sioux nation did not desire Toussaint to be
killed by the white man, that Toussaint's mother was the sister of Red
Cloud, and that many friends of Toussaint often passed the jailer's
house. Perhaps he did get such messages. They are not a nice sort to
receive. However all this may have been, the prisoner was gone.