Kinch Riley and Hickok and Cody Read online

  “Leave him alone!” she shrieked, her eyes blazing. “He’s not for sale!”

  “Out of the way, girlie,” the farmer growled. “I’m lookin’ at this here boy.”

  “You keep your filthy hands off my brother!”

  One of the attendants, an older man with spectacles, swiftly intervened. “You’ll have to excuse her, sir,” he said to the farmer. “They’re brother and sister, and they prefer not to be separated. She’s really a very nice girl.”

  “Don’t want no girl,” the farmer grumped. “Got my mind set on a boy.”

  The farmer selected Jimmy Callaghan instead. Walking away, the Irish youngster looked back over his shoulder at Katherine and Augustus. He gave them a sly grin and a slow wink, as if to say the farmer had made the mistake of his life. They disappeared into the crowd.

  Within the hour, eleven children had been adopted. The farmers and townspeople gradually drifted away, leading the new additions to their families. Crocker and his staff herded the remaining children back aboard the train. The engineer tooted his whistle and the stationmaster signaled from the end of the platform. The locomotive lurched forward with a belch of steam.

  Otto Richter was standing at the rear of the train. He swung aboard the last passenger coach just as the conductor was about to shut the door. He moved through the vestibule and into the coach, and found Turk Johnson eating a bag of peanuts. He slumped wearily into the seat.

  Johnson cracked a peanut shell. “Any luck, boss?”

  “No,” Richter said stiffly. “They pulled their usual brother-and-sister act. That girl’s enough to scare anyone off.”

  “What if nobody adopts ’em?”

  “We have our orders, Turk.”

  “Be a shame,” Johnson said, munching absently on a peanut. “You know, after we’ve brought ’em all this way.”

  Richter nodded. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  The Orphan Train crossed the line into Nebraska.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE LAST day of the royal hunt was an extravaganza of bloodsport. The Grand Duke Alexis was sated with killing, having downed thirty-three buffalo in five days. Cody arranged entertainment of a different sort.

  The Indians rode into camp late that morning. Spotted Tail, chief of the Brule Sioux, led a hundred warriors mounted on fleet buffalo ponies. His band was currently at peace with the government, but he trusted no white man beyond certain limits. His warriors pitched camp on the opposite side of Red Willow Creek.

  Phil Sheridan was of a like mind. He ordered Custer to turn out the troops, and two companies were kept on alert at all times. Custer’s reputation was that of a man who could start a war simply for his own amusement. Yet the Sioux respected his ability as a field commander, and even more, his physical courage. The Grand Duke was safe with Custer in the role of watchdog.

  Cody thought the vigilance unwarranted. Late yesterday, with the day’s hunt ended, he’d sensed that Alexis was bored with killing buffalo. He talked it over with Hickok, and together, they’d convinced Sheridan to make the last day a memorable day. Cody knew that Spotted Tail’s band was camped on the Republican River, some thirty miles to the west. After dark, he had made the ride aboard Buckskin Joe and counseled with the Brule chief. The upshot was a hundred Sioux braves gathered opposite the army compound.

  Spotted Tail was intrigued by the idea of a great chief from a distant land. He had some vague notion of a vast water to the east, what the whites called the Atlantic Ocean. Cody impressed on him that Alexis was somewhat like the Great White Father in Washington. Though Spotted Tail was mystified about the faraway place known as Russia, he nonetheless grasped that the Grand Duke was the ruler of a powerful tribe. Still, it was Cody’s skill at bartering, rather than Spotted Tail’s curiosity, that brought the Sioux to Red Willow Creek. He had promised the Brule leader a hundred pounds of tobacco.

  Sheridan considered it extortion. “For God’s sake!” he fumed. “How am I going to justify a wagonload of tobacco?”

  “All in a good cause,” Cody said. “President Grant wanted the Grand Duke looked after. Today’ll be the icing on the cake.”

  “Well, it’s expensive icing, Mr. Cody.”

  “No more so than turnin’ out the regiment for escort duty. Besides, Spotted Tail and his boys wouldn’t have come otherwise. I’d say we got ourselves a bargain.”

  “Damn the bargain,” Custer interrupted waspishly. “We should have ordered him in and had done with it. He could hardly refuse.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Hickok countered. “I wouldn’t exactly call the Brule tame Injuns.”

  Custer, like Hickok and Cody, wore his hair shoulder-length. He was the most flamboyant general in the army, not to mention the youngest, and overly proud of his reputation as an Indian fighter. He cocked his head with a haughty smirk.

  “Hostile or tame, who cares?” he said derisively. “Give me a regiment and I’ll ride through the Sioux nation. Brule, Hunkpapa, Oglala, the whole lot!”

  “Gen’ral, you might be surprised,” Hickok said. “They’re a pretty scrappy bunch.”

  “Wild Bill, I’m disappointed in you. I thought you enjoyed a good fight.”

  Sheridan silenced them with a look. “Gentlemen, I suggest we defer that discussion for another day. Our mission at the moment is to entertain the Grand Duke.” He glanced at Cody. “How do you propose to go about this?”

  “Let’s have a powwow,” Cody said lightly. “The Grand Duke’s never met a real live redskin. We’ll let him palaver with Spotted Tail for a while. That’ll make a story when he gets back to Russia.”

  “No doubt,” Sheridan said dryly. “And after their … powwow?”

  “Got it all fixed. Spotted Tail and his boys will show him how the Sioux hunt buffalo. Ought to be a regular lollapaloosa.”

  “All right, Mr. Cody, bring on the vaunted leader of the Brule. Tell him I expect him to earn all that tobacco.”

  “Yessir.”

  Cody swung into the saddle. He forded the creek atop Buckskin Joe and returned some ten minutes later with the Brule chief. Spotted Tail was in his early fifties, with flat, dark features, and an eagle feather affixed to his coal-black hair. He rode a magnificent chocolate-spotted pinto.

  Alexis, along with Hickok and the generals, waited by an open fire in the center of the compound. Cody, acting as interpreter, introduced the Grand Duke and the Brule chief with great fanfare. Once they were seated on the ground, a camp orderly served everyone coffee in galvanized mugs. Spotted Tail laced his coffee with four heaping spoons of sugar.

  “Perhaps he would prefer vodka,” Alexis suggested. “I think he does not like our coffee.”

  “Not that, Your Highness,” Cody said. “Injuns have just got a powerful sweet tooth, that’s all. Liquor wouldn’t be a good idea, anyhow.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “Well, no tellin’ what a drunk Injun might do. Tends to make ’em a little loco.”

  Spotted Tail drained his mug. He smacked his lips with satisfaction and rattled off a guttural question to Cody. The scout turned to Alexis.

  “I told him last night where you’re from. He wants to know if you have red men in Russia.”

  “None quite like him,” Alexis observed thoughtfully. “The Tatars from the east overran Mother Russia in ancient times. My ancestors drove them back perhaps three centuries ago. Some still live in the province we call Siberia.”

  Spotted Tail listened to the translation with great interest, nodding sagely. Then he spoke at length, gesturing off to the east, and Cody repeated his words. “He says his country has also been overrun from where the sun rises. Only in his case, it was white men who took the land. He says the whites are as leaves on the trees—too many to fight.”

  “Is he not a warrior chief?”

  “One of the worst there ever was. ’Course, now he’s what’s called a ‘peace chief.’”

  “I do not understand this … peace chief?”

  Cody b
riefly explained. Spotted Tail was a famed war chief who had fought the encroachment of white men on Sioux lands from 1854 to 1868. But finally, convinced it was a fight that could not be won, he signed a peace treaty and led the Brules onto a reservation in southern Dakota Territory. He had kept the peace for almost four years.

  The Brules, Cody went on, were allowed to leave the reservation and hunt buffalo along the Republican River. Among army men, Spotted Tail was considered the wisest of the old war chiefs, for the people of his band would survive the deadly conflict on the Western Plains. Yet, despite having yielded to the whites, he remained exalted as a warrior among all the Sioux, even with tribal leaders who continued the struggle. One of those was his nephew, the young war chief of the Oglala band, Crazy Horse.

  “What a strange name,” Alexis remarked. “Why is he called Crazy Horse?”

  “I don’t rightly know. Maybe it’s because he’s always on the prod. He does like a fight.”

  “Would Spotted Tail ever join his nephew in battle?”

  Cody smiled. “Well, sir, I just suspect not. You see, he’s crazy like a fox.”

  Spotted Tail, who understood more English than he pretended, nodded wisely. The Grand Duke caught the sly look, and the two men exchanged a quick glance. Then Spotted Tail held out his mug for more coffee.

  Alexis thought the Brule leader was indeed crazy as a fox. Old and crafty, a man who fought no fight he could not win. And in doing so, won.

  * * *

  The hunting party forded Red Willow Creek early that afternoon. Spotted Tail and the Grand Duke, flanked by Hickok and Cody, rode out front. Sheridan and the generals were a short distance behind.

  To the rear, perhaps a hundred yards off to the west, were the Brule warriors. They rode in a loose phalanx, their lances and carbines glinting in the afternoon sun. Off to the east, two troops of cavalry rode parallel with the Indians. Their orders were to provide a protective escort for the Grand Duke.

  Some while later the party topped a low hogback ridge. Spread out before them was a wide plain bordered on the south by a broad, steep-walled arroyo. A herd of a thousand or more buffalo dotted the prairie, grazing on winter grass the color of coarse straw. The arroyo appeared to be a mile or so beyond the herd.

  The purpose of today’s outing was to present a spectacle few white men had ever seen. The Grand Duke Alexis was to witness the manner in which the Plains Tribes traditionally hunted buffalo. Even more, he was to observe the skill with which ancient weapons were used to down the shaggy beasts. The Brule Sioux prided themselves on being great hunters.

  “Watch close now, Your Highness,” Cody said, pointing off to the band of warriors. “See that short, stumpy feller on the chestnut stallion? His name’s Running Dog and he’s a holy terror with a bow and arrow. Keep your eye on him.”

  Spotted Tail waved his coup stick overhead, then motioned forward. The warriors urged their ponies off the ridge and rode out onto the grassy plain. They split into two columns, kicking their mounts into a steady trot. One column fanned east of the herd and the other angled off to the west They gigged their horses into a gallop.

  The herd wheeled away from the headlong charge of yipping horsemen. Running Dog rode in the vanguard of the western column, maneuvering his pony with the pressure of his knees. As he pulled alongside a large cow, he drew his heavy ashwood bow to full curve and released a steel-tipped arrow. The arrow sliced into the cow behind her right shoulder and drove clean though, exiting below her left leg. The cow faltered in mid-stride, wobbling to a stop. She collapsed onto the ground.

  “Amazing!” Alexis bellowed, standing in his stirrups. “The arrow passed all the way through.”

  “Told you he was a terror,” Cody said, grinning. “Now keep your eye peeled for a tall feller on a bay gelding. Goes by the name of Black Elk. He’s hell with a lance.”

  The herd swerved west as the lead buffalo neared the arroyo. The warriors yipped louder, still hugging the flanks at a gallop, and drove the herd back toward the ridge. Black Elk kneed his gelding into position, singling out a huge bull. His lance was ten feet long, with a steel head honed to a daggerlike point. He leaned forward, adding the momentum of a charging horse to the weight of the lance, and thrust the point into the bull’s heart. He reined aside, leaving the lance planted to the hilt as the bull slowed to a walk. Then, already dead on its feet, the bull crashed to the earth in a thick puff of dust.

  “Stuck him good,” Hickok said with some admiration. “Never saw it done better.”

  Alexis looked astounded. “There is a majesty in such a feat. To kill … savagely.”

  “Sight to behold,” Cody agreed. “Not one I’d want to try. Takes some powerful doing.”

  The balance of the afternoon was spent watching warriors attempt to outdo one another. Their horse-back skills were a thing of wonder, almost magical, and not one in five missed with the bow or lance. Yet none of them were able to match the hunting powers of either Running Dog or Black Elk. They downed forty-nine buffalo, and unlike white men, who killed for sport, nothing would be wasted. The winter robes and freshly butchered meat would be hauled back to their village on the Republican River.

  By sundown the evening meal had been served to the royal party in the dining tent. Troopers stacked logs on the firepit in the center of the compound, and presently a blazing bonfire lit the camp. Orderlies rushed to arrange a row of chairs outside the dining tent, with a commanding view of the area around the fire. The evening’s entertainment was to be an authentic scalp dance, performed by Spotted Tail and his Brule Sioux. Alexis was given the place of honor.

  “You’re in for a treat,” Cody said, leaning closer to the Grand Duke. “The Sioux set some store by the scalp dance. Pretty near a holy thing.”

  “This ritual?’ Alexis asked. “Do I understand they perform it to celebrate killing their enemies?”

  “Yessir, that’s a good part of it,” Cody replied. “’Course, there’s times they’ll honor the bravery of the poor devils that got their scalps took. Ought to be quite a show.”

  Sheridan laughed. “You can credit what he’s saying, Your Highness. Cody knows the show business.”

  “Show business?” Alexis said doubtfully. “I am not familiar with the term, General.”

  “Stage show,” Sheridan explained. “Something like an opera without the music. Our Mr. Cody is a bit of an actor.”

  “How interesting.” Alexis said, turning to Cody. “I see you are a man of many parts. Where do you perform these stage shows?”

  “New York City, mostly,” Cody informed him. “The hostiles hole up during the winter and scouting gets a little slow. I generally go back East a couple months.”

  Ned Buntline, the dime novel writer, also penned plays based on Cody’s frontier exploits. Last year, for the first time, Cody had gone East to appear in a stage production. He was a scout by profession, but he enjoyed what he thought of as a dalliance with the stage. He liked the money as well.

  Alexis glanced over at Hickok. “Are you also a showman, Wild Bill?”

  “No, sir, it ain’t my callin’,” Hickok said with a sardonic smile. “I leave all the playacting to Cody. He’s the Shakespeare of the bunch.”

  Cody groaned. “You’ll have to excuse him, Your Highness. He’s just a mite jealous.”

  Before Alexis could reply, Spotted Tail and his Brule Sioux appeared at the edge of the compound. Their faces were streaked with war paint, and they were armed with tomahawks and stone-headed war clubs. Drums throbbed ominously in the distance and several of the warriors loosened blood-curdling howls. They began stomping around the fire to the beat of the drums.

  Alexis idly wondered if Buffalo Bill had orchestrated the performance.

  CHAPTER 5

  A HAWK floated past on smothered wings, briefly silhouetted against a bright forenoon sun. The weather was crisp, creeks rimed with patches of ice, a brisk wind out of the north. The rolling plains swept onward like a saffron ocean of grass.

>   Cody held the reins of four spirited cavalry horses. The open carriage was double-seated, with the heavy springs designed for cross-country travel. Hickok shared the driver’s seat, and like Cody, wore a high-collared mackinaw. Sheridan and the Grand Duke were in the back seat, bundled in greatcoats and woolen scarves. A buffalo robe was thrown across their legs.

  Alexis was still nursing a hangover. Two nights ago, to celebrate the end of the hunt, he’d over-indulged himself on champagne. To the delight of everyone in camp, he had joined Spotted Tail and the Brule Sioux in their scalp dance. He proved to be agile, despite his size, and he’d introduced some Cossack leaps and whirls that fascinated the warriors. Spotted Tail pronounced him a great chief.

  The next morning, the army broke camp. North Platte, a town some fifty miles to the north, was the nearest railhead. A private train awaited Alexis, and the trip to the depot would consume the better part of two days. From North Platte, he would travel to New York City, where wealthy socialites planned a formal ball in his honor. The Russian battle fleet, which had escorted him to America, was anchored off Manhattan Island. He was to sail for his homeland in a week’s time.

  Today, their second day on the trail, Alexis seemed somewhat improved. Last night, when they camped thirty miles north of Red Willow Creek, he had switched from champagne to vodka. All morning he’d been sipping from a flask, and the stronger spirits worked a curative effect. Champagne, he explained without irony, was an insidious drink, whereas vodka restored fire to a man’s soul. His rosy cheeks seemed to prove the point.

  “Unusual weather,” Sheridan said, trying to make conversation. “We’ve had only one snowfall of any significance this winter. Not typical of the plains.”

  “Come with me to Moscow,” Alexis said with wry good humor. “I daresay there is several feet of snow on the ground. We Russians pride ourselves on the harshness of our winters.”