The Wounded Yankee Read online

  He spent the day buying a chestnut gelding and a pack-horse. The owner of the trading post took him for a greenhorn, but Zack’s time in business had made him an astute buyer, and he bargained until he got his outfit at a reasonable price. “If you’re going down toward the Bitterroots,” the trader mentioned as Zack was leaving, “there’s a pack train going to Virginia City tomorrow. Fellow named Beidler is takin’ ’em through.” He added with a shrug, “Indians ain’t been acting up lately—but a lone white man is pretty tempting for the devils. Beidler’d be glad to have you, I reckon. He’s only got one other man. You can find him in the corral over by the river.”

  “Maybe I’d better talk to him. What’s his first name?”

  “Don’t really know. He’s just called Dutch. He ain’t too big, but don’t give him any trouble—he’s about the toughest man in these parts.”

  Dutch Beidler turned out to be a cocky Dutchman with a bulldog face. He was eating corn dodgers from a paper sack when Zack rode up and dismounted and stated his business.

  Beidler was wearing a peaked hat with a flat round rim. He had a scraggly mustache and dark blue eyes that bored into Winslow, taking in the uniform. “Union Army?”

  “Used to be. Mustered out now.”

  “Come along if you want. Won’t hurt to have another gun along. Reckon you can shoot?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. We’ll pull out at first light.”

  The chestnut was feisty when Zack mounted up the next day while it was still dark. He almost threw Zack to the ground, and for a time it was a question of whether he could stay on. He managed to hang on, and finally rode the animal, smiling as he said, “Guess you’re ornery enough for a hermit like me. Matter of fact, that’s not a bad name—Ornery.”

  Dutch Beidler and his man, an Indian named Three Dog, had the pack animals loaded as Winslow rode up, and Beidler grunted, “Let’s make tracks.” He carried a shotgun, which Zack learned was almost part of the man’s body. That was the longest speech Beidler made that day, and Three Dog said less. It amused Zack, who murmured as he trailed the train of mules, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m studying to be a hermit. These two sure won’t bend my ear none.”

  That night squatting around the campfire eating beans and bacon, Beidler talked more freely. He cautiously sounded out Zack’s views on the war, and when he stated that he was opposed to slavery but would take no more part in the war, the stubby rider seemed to relax. “I ain’t got no dogs in that fight myself,” he confided to Zack. “Ain’t got but two cousins back in Tennessee, and they’re so sorry the Yanks would be doin’ everybody a favor to shoot ’em. Not much on slavery my ownself.” He asked where Zack was headed, then nodded, “I know that country. ’Bout half way betwixt Virginia City and Bannack.”

  “Think sheep might do pretty good?” Zack asked.

  “Don’t see why not—if you can keep the Injuns from eatin’ em.” He grinned across the fire at the Indian who was observing them with obsidian eyes. “Hey, Three Dog, Injuns like sheep?”

  “Mule more good,” the Indian replied, looking at the pack animals grazing a short distance away.

  “You heathen!” Beidler rapped out. “I catch you eatin’ one of my mules I’ll send you to the Happy Hunting Grounds!” He stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth and added, “Ain’t much market for sheep round here, Winslow. Most folks shoot what they eat—or raise a cow. You ain’t likely to get rich.”

  “Don’t aim to be rich,” Zack said. The day in the saddle had been hard on his rump, and he limped over to get his bedroll. He unrolled it, put it down back from the fire, and lay down on his left side with a sigh of comfort. “Just want a place that isn’t all cluttered up with people.” He grinned at Dutch, adding, “I aim to be a hermit.”

  Dutch grinned at that and took a gulp of coffee from his tin cup. “You’ll be that, all right, if you get back in the Bitterroot country. “Ain’t no white people atall between Virginia City and Bannack. Reckon you’ll have all the room you need.”

  They took a week on the trail, driving hard during the daylight hours, camping beside small streams at night. The climb over MacDonald Pass took the wind out of the animals, and they camped that night on the edge of a great timber range that rose up on the east. Three days later they rode into Virginia City, a small town of no more than five hundred people. Beidler said, “Soon as I deliver these goods we’ll eat someplace.”

  “Guess I’ll lay over at the hotel,” Zack said, and went to get a room. His wound had been irritated by the constant hours in the saddle, and he got a room in the one hotel the town boasted. The barber shop had a tub in the back room, and the barber had a Chinese fill it with hot water. Zack eased himself into it, grimacing when the hot water hit the wound, but after soaking for an hour, he felt relaxed. The wound, he noted, was knitted together well, and needed no bandage. He put aside the uniform and donned the clothes he’d bought in Helena—light blue breeches with a broad leather belt, a soft tan shirt, a black vest, a comfortable pair of soft leather boots. The store had not had a hat to suit him, so he left the barber shop and wandered over to the dry goods store to find one.

  He found Dutch Beidler inside buying shotgun shells. When the stocky Dutchman invited him to eat, he said, “Let me get a hat first.”

  He looked through the selection, finding none he liked particularly, and was about to buy one of the rather shapeless felt models, when the clerk said, “Got one here that we’ll never sell.” He reached under the counter and came up with an English derby. “Don’t know how it got mixed in with our stock,” the clerk added. “We sure never order nothin’ like this.”

  “Let me see.” Zack took the hat, which was a bowler type very common in the East. It was expertly made of beaver, he saw, dyed a light fawn color, and when he slipped it on his head it was a perfect fit. He glanced in the mirror on the wall behind the clerk and smiled at the reflection. “Beautiful hat,” he remarked. “But it’d be worth a man’s reputation to wear a dude’s hat out here.”

  Beidler’s face split in a rare smile. “Thought you was determined to be a hermit, Winslow? Now, a real hermit don’t give a continental what other people think about what he wears.”

  A rash streak of humor ran through Winslow, and he asked the clerk, “How much?”

  When the two left and walked into the cafe across the street, people stared at the hat. Zack was half regretful that he’d succumbed to the impulse and said as much to Beidler as they sat down, but Dutch didn’t agree. “Man ought to wear what he likes.”

  Zack looked up and read the sign on the wall: “If you don’t like our grub, don’t eat here.” He smiled. “Not much of a cook myself, Dutch, but this might be the last good meal I’ll have in a while.”

  “You serious about starting a sheep ranch?”

  “Well, it’s an idea. May not be a good one.”

  They talked about the possibilities, and when they were about to rise and leave the table, a well-dressed man with a round face and neat mustache walked in. He gave them a cursory glance and walked over. “Hello, Beidler. Didn’t know you were in town.”

  Beidler nodded, “Brought in a pack train from Helena.”

  His words seemed dry and short, and he made no effort to introduce the two men. “My name’s Henry Plummer. I’m sheriff of Bannack and Fairweather.”

  “Winslow,” Zack said, and took the sheriff’s quick grip.

  “Just come in?” the sheriff asked idly.

  “Yes. I came in with Dutch.”

  The sheriff waited for him to continue, but when Zack said no more, he nodded, saying, “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

  He sat down, and the pair left. When they were outside, Zack asked curiously, “Why were you so sharp with him, Dutch?”

  Beidler shrugged his shoulders and said shortly, “Don’t like him.” He changed the subject, and they strolled along the main street of Virginia City. Beidler was well known, and several times they were stopped b
y men who wanted a word. Beidler introduced Zack to them, and they were cordial enough, but were met with a cool reticence from Winslow. This happened several times, and when they got to the saloon where Beidler was headed, he asked, “You don’t take to folks much, do you, Zack?”

  “Not too much.”

  Beidler had spent most of his life in the West, and was accustomed to this sort of reticence. He had formed a good opinion of Winslow, and studied him carefully, saying nothing but weighing him in his mind. “You’re serious about this hermit business?”

  “I’ve had it with people, Dutch. I just want to be alone.”

  Beidler gnawed his lip, then said as he turned to leave, “Well, if a man wants to be left alone, that’s his right. Good luck.”

  Zack realized Beidler felt rebuffed, and for a moment he wavered. Then he hardened his jaw, turned and stalked away to his room. Maybe I’m a fool, but a hermit I’ll be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHOIYA

  A cold wind swept down off the hills, numbing Zack’s lips as he manhandled the last rafter of his cabin. He had raced the weather, working through the blistering heat of August and September, cutting and trimming logs, hauling them out of the timber to his site, notching them and moving them into place.

  Raising the walls alone had been the hardest job, but he had done it single-handedly, a feat that gave him a touch of pride as he admired his handiwork—the neat fit of the notches and the narrow gaps between the logs. The first logs had been fairly easy, but as the walls rose, he had been forced to devise new methods. The usual way was to lean two poles against the top of the wall; then two or three men would roll them up until they were locked into the pre-cut notches by two men on the walls.

  Zack had created a block-and-tackle system whereby he could fasten both ends of the log to ropes, then inch by inch skid them up the poles and slip them into place. It had taken a long time, but he had cut the notches carefully and the logs fit tighter than any log cabin he’d seen. It gave him a keen sense of accomplishment.

  He could have had help. On his trips to Virginia City for supplies during the summer, he had met Parris Pfouts, owner of a supply store. Pfouts was a Christian, and was trying to start a church. He had often suggested recruiting some men for a cabin raising. “Zack,” he had said, “don’t be so stubborn. You’ve got your logs all cut—now let some of us give you a hand.”

  “I reckon not, Parris,” Zack had said. And when Pfouts had pressed him, he said shortly, “I’ll take care of myself. Don’t need anybody.”

  “Why, that’s wrong! We all need somebody. That’s the way men are.” The five-foot-five Pfouts was a frank, honest man of fifty, neat and smooth shaven. “You’ll not survive with that attitude,” he went on, his dark eyes filled with compassion.

  Zack had refused his help—also Dutch Beidler’s, who had moved to Virginia City. “Don’t know anybody I’d rather have help me, Dutch,” he had said when Beidler offered, “but I’ve made up my mind to do it alone.”

  “You’ve made up your mind to do more than that, Winslow,” Beidler had said, studying him. “You’ve shut the whole world out.”

  Zack shook off the memory of Beidler and Pfouts’ disapproval as he surveyed his work. The cabin perched on a rise that swelled up out of a small fold of hills, giving a view of the rolling hills that fell away toward the north. To the east the Tobacco Root mountains shouldered their way upward through the evergreens. Directly in front, Hollow Top Mountain, capped with glistening white snow, stood 10,500 feet high, and to the west the Pioneers completed the ring. When he picked this spot, he felt the mountains were citadels, giants that crowded their big shoulders together to form a wall between him and the world.

  Virginia City was too close to his liking, but it was a tiny place, not likely to crowd him, and Bannack was seventy miles to the west. A few trappers roamed the hills for rough fur, and one fairly large Indian camp lay ten miles south of his place. He had run onto it almost by accident while hunting elk. The hair on the back of his neck raised up as several of the braves encountered him. One of them, a tall Indian named Fox, spoke some English. Zack had kept his rifle handy and shared some of his sugar and coffee. Fox had seemed pleased enough to invite him to meet the chief, Black Pigeon, a short, bulky man with a hatchet face. He was not overly hospitable, but Zack was careful to give him a gift—a Bowie knife he’d bought for his own use. The gift had brought a light into Black Pigeon’s eyes, and an invitation to visit the camp.

  The solitude had been just what Zack had desired. The creek on the northern boundary of his land was clear and cold, even in summer’s heat. Game abounded, and as he worked by day and soaked up the brooding silence of the woods and mountains by night, he felt the bitterness slip away.

  That same sense of well-being flowed over him now as he rolled into his bunk after devouring a steak cooked over the campfire. In the distance he could hear the mournful sound of a timber wolf. Above, the stars glittered in the clear sky, piercing the velvet blackness. Part of a moon moved solemnly over the sharp peaks of Hollow Top colliding with a veil of clouds. Finally he drifted off to sleep, his last thought, Got to go to town tomorrow.

  He was up at dawn, ate cold meat and hot coffee, and hitched the mules to the wagon. “Hate to leave the place.” But he would be in town only part of the day. The thought that he might be able to finish the cabin in a week cheered him.

  “Hello, Pfouts,” Zack said as he entered the store.

  “Well, the hermit himself! Glad to see you, Zack.”

  “Still working for the rich, I see.”

  “If the Lord so wills.” Parris was a devout Calvinist, and his calm belief that nothing could come to a man except what God designed baffled Winslow. “We have a real preacher coming to church next Sunday. I’d like you to come.”

  Zack shifted uncomfortably, for he liked Pfouts, but the pressure from the storekeeper caused him to say, “Give up on me, will you? I’m just not religious, Parris.”

  “All men are religious. We all choose our gods—and all of them are weak except one.”

  Not wishing to argue, Zack said, “That’s all right for you. But when I saw men at Shiloh killed like cattle in a slaughterhouse, I decided God didn’t have anything to do with us.” He gave Pfouts a curious look. “How could a merciful God allow war and sickness?”

  “Those are not from God, Zack,” Pfouts replied. “Every good gift comes from Him, but man made a wrong turn. Now it is through Jesus Christ we must be made into what God intended.”

  The dignity and simplicity shone out. Zack studied him. He had heard little preaching, but no man had impressed him as Parris Pfouts did. Yet he felt only a desire to drop the subject.

  “You have any lime, Parris?” he asked abruptly. “And I could use some cedar shakes for my roof.”

  “Ah, the lime we have—and Tod Cramer’s got a little mill over on the Ruby River.” He carried the sack of lime and a few other supplies out to Zack’s wagon, then pointed. “Take the trail down to the crossing. There’s a road that winds through the woods and leads right to the mill. Tell Tod I said to give you a good price.”

  “Thanks, Parris. Maybe next week I’ll have you and Beidler out to christen my house.”

  “We will come, Zack.”

  He found the mill with no difficulty and bought the shakes and enough rough-sawn boards to floor his loft and the cabin. Cramer was an older man with bright blue eyes and a wrench-like grip. “Pfouts tell you about the preacher that’s comin’, Winslow?” he asked as Zack handed him the cash for the shakes. “Hear he’s a real devil killer! Like to have you come to the service.”

  “Maybe sometime.” Zack was noncommittal and drove away, anxious to get back to the job. By dark he had finished most of the roof. The next day he nailed the last shingle on, and spent the rest of the day working on the fireplace. He’d stopped by Alder Creek every time he’d crossed it, bringing back flat stones for the job. For the next four days he worked steadily, laying the stone
s carefully, and installing the large hooks that would support his pots. The outside stack was built of short lengths of small logs and lined with a mixture of mud and lime.

  On Saturday he completed the job and let it cure for three days, using the time to cut the openings for two windows. He had bought windows with glass from Pfouts, wanting the place to be filled with light. Finally he fitted the door and installed the latch.

  On Wednesday evening, he cooked beans in a black pot over his first fire, and fried an elk steak in a frying pan over the hot coals. He’d wrapped a potato in mud and let it cook in the hot ashes. There was no furniture, so he sat on the floor, never so content in his life. The steak sizzled in the skillet, the beans bubbled in the pot, and when he cut the potato open, the steamy white insides gave off a mouth-watering aroma. He ate slowly, washing the food down with draughts of black coffee, and finishing the meal with an apple.

  After he washed his dish and fork, he rolled up in front of the fire, watching the sparks fly upward, and thinking drowsily, “Just make me a table, a chair, and a bed—and I’m set to get me a few sheep. Then just lie back and do nothing.” But later after he went to sleep, he dreamed of Emma, of her laughing eyes and firm body. When he awakened, the fire had died to blackened ashes and the room seemed small and insignificant.

  The next day he went hunting. He shot a doe, came home and dressed her, then started working on his furniture. There was no hurry, so he built it well, using some of the lumber he’d bought from Cramer for the table. He smoothed out the roughness carefully, and did the same with the floor. He had planned to make only one chair, just to make sure that his determination to be alone would be obvious to a visitor; however, when he finished his bed, he made two more chairs just for the pleasure of it.