Whirlwind

Chapter 2

Once Han was clear of the farm and on the open trail, he could read the tracks of the men he was pursing a little clearer. Back at the farm they had been mixed up and overlaying each other, but now he could plainly distinguish one from the other. Five riders, of that there was no doubt. He dismounted and peered closely at the hoof marks. There were Cheyenne who had been raised to this game who might be able to deduce everything from those marks in the dirt up to and including the colour of the riders’ hair and what they had had for breakfast, but Han was not all that much of a tracker. He could just about discern that the horses had been in no hurry and proceeding at a pretty leisurely trot, but that was all. That and the fact that these were big horses, shod by white men. This did not prove of course that the riders were white, but it was a clue.

Han rode on, sometimes at a trot but mostly at a canter for two hours. Dusk was setting in and he was wondering where he might camp up for the night. Off to his left, he saw the flicker of a small fire. It was unlikely to be the men he was pursuing, they would surely be much further ahead by now, but even so he decided to take a look. It was just possible that they had finished some business in the south and were heading back again. He dismounted and led the pony along of some rocks, hoping to approach the fire quietly.

About a mile from the campfire, Han realised that there was no need for caution. A man had begun chanting; an eerie sound that carried clearly to Han on the still, evening air. These were Cheyenne! He remounted and trotted forward towards the camp.

There were seven young men seated around the fire and one standing up; presumably the one who had been declaiming a spirit chant. They watched as Han approached. He must have made a strange sight. Although obviously Indian, he was dressed in white men’s clothes; the only concession to his own origins being the bow, quiver of arrows and his long hair, which was held back by a beaded headband.

Han halted a few yards from the men. They were all in their early or mid twenties. Judging by the amount of weaponry laying around, these were Dog Soldiers. They belonged to a military caste and followed a code of chivalry as strict as that of the Japanese samurai. There had been a number of skirmishes with the army lately and these men were some of the fighting force of the Cheyenne. He wondered what they would make of an Indian dressed up in white man’s clothes, but he needn’t have worried. The men had apparently heard of him. The one who was standing up greeted him.

“You are… Whirlwind?”

He had hesitated for a moment, because among themselves, some of the Dog Soldiers had another name for Hohanonivah. They called him, “The boy who learned to be white”. This was not the sort of name to used however to a man’s face, leastways, not unless you wanted to provoke a deadly quarrel.

Han made the signs of greetings to the men, saying, “I am Whirlwind. The Great Spirit has smiled on the hour of our meeting, my brothers.” He wondered if he had over-reached himself. He was not technically a warrior and perhaps using the word “brothers” had looked like boasting to them. If so, then they didn’t give any sign. Instead, the man who was standing, invited Han to sit down and share meat with them.

His command of Cheyenne was good enough for him to be able to follow most of the conversation between the seven men. Han gathered that they had been in a skirmish with the bluecoats and were now heading north towards a meeting with other bands of warriors under the leadership of Dull Knife. At length, they asked him what he was doing and where he was going. He told them of the death of his parents, which caused shaking of heads and expressions of regret. The Jacksons had lived in Cheyenne territory for forty odd years and had always been neighbourly with any man; red or white. Esther had helped deliver babies and Patrick had run lessons at some villages. Although they were Christians, they never tried to draw anybody to their religion, believing as they did that there was only one God and whether he was worshipped as the Great spirit of the Indians or the Lord of Hosts of the Bible made little difference.

“Do you know who did this?” asked one of the men.

“No. There were five men and they are going south. I thought you might have seen them.”

“White men? Five?”

“I don’t know if they are white. I think so.”

“We have seen them, but they have not seen us. I know two of them. They have been here before. You need to be careful. These are wolves.”

The Chenyenne word that the young man used was “ho’nehe”, which means literally “wolf”. However, in idiomatic use it conveyed a man who had the soul of a beast. It was not a flattering term, but told Hohanonivah all that he needed to know.

“How long since you passed them?”

“Two days. You will need to ride hard to overtake them.”

“I will ride hard. And I will overtake them and then kill them all.”

This was the sort of talk which was pleasing to the ears of the young men around the fire. It showed them that Whirlwind might have been raised by white people, but that he had not really learned to be white at all. A blood vow of this sort was precisely what any of them would have made in similar circumstances. They invited Han to sleep around their fire that night, an offer which he gratefully accepted.

Han Jackson lay in the darkness thinking about his parents, both those who had raised him from his birth and the couple who had taken care of him for the last ten years or so.

While Han was was thinking of Patrick and Esther Jackson, a man fifty miles away also had them on his mind. Tom Sweeney was sitting a space away from the others with his back to the fire, brooding about the turn events had taken in the last few month or so. He had picked up with the Holt brothers and found them exhilarating company for the first few weeks. It had gradually dawned on him though that there was something wrong with the pair of them. It was not that they were violent; Sweeney was himself no mean hand with a knife and gun and had killed more than one man with both weapons. The Holts though were in a class of their own.

When the five of them had fetched up at the Jacksons’ farm, they had just been looking for a bit of cash money. The old man had been an awkward bastard and there was no denying it. He had made a run to the house, probably to fetch his gun, when Jed Holt had brought him down with a vicious blow to his head. Then he had dragged the old man to where Eli was holding his wife with a razor sharp Bowie knife at her throat. Jed had told him that if he didn’t tell them where his money was hid, then the old woman would get her throat cut. He had caved in at once and told them what they wanted to know. When one of the others had been sent off to the house and returned with a heap of gold coins, Sweeney though that that was the end of it; that Eli and Jed would just turn the old folk loose and they would all ride off. Not a bit of it!

Jed nodded to Eli, who then slowly and deliberately cut the woman’s throat. The blood gushed down the front of her dress and he could see the look of satisfaction in Eli’s eyes as he watched the griefstricken old man howling with anguish. Then Jed, who was still gripping the man fast from behind, shot him twice in the back and the old fellow fell dead next to his wife.

Tom Sweeney was not a squeamish man, but this coldblooded killing almost caused him to protest. Almost, but not quite. He had a feeling that the Holts would not take kindly to anybody objecting to any course of action they saw fit to take or, for the matter of that, anybody bolting from their little team. So for now, he was staying with them, but only until he could see a safe way of getting clear and going back to working on his own.

While he musing to himself along these lines, a hand suddenly clapped onto his shoulder. He reared in surprise, spilling his coffee and turning round fearfully to find Eli Holt looming above him. They might be right hefty looking fellows, but both the Holt brothers could move as silently as rattlesnakes when they were minded to.

“What you doing sitting here alone, Sweeney?” enquired Holt jovially. “You come and join the rest of us now. Unless you don’t favour our company?”

“No, no, nothing of the kind. I’s just thinking.”

“Thinking?” said Eli Holt, as though this was not an activity towards which he was well disposed, “Thinking? You’ve no call to be exerting yourself in that direction, my friend.”

Sweeney stood up and went back to the fire with Eli. The other man laid his arm around Tom’s shoulders in a friendly fashion, but it felt heavy and constricting to the frightened man, as though a large and dangerous animal had draped itself on his back with a view to ripping off his head.

When they got to the fire, Sweeney sat himself down and Eli caught his brothers eye. He made an imperceptible shake of his head, to which his brother responded with the slightest of nods. This exchange was unremarked by the other three men. The Holt brothers seldom had to speak out loud one ot the other to lay their plans. They had both noted Tom Sweeney’s reaction to the death of the Jackson’s and now a death sentence had been passed upon him. If he did but know it, Tom Sweeney had less than twenty four hours to live.

***

Han set out at dawn the next day. The party of Dog Soldiers were anxious to be off and about whatever business they had. They parted amiably from Han, wishing him well and invoking upon him the protection of Maheo, the supreme deity of the whole tribe. The others watched him ride south and then remarked in tones of great satisfaction that Hohanonivah had not learned as much of the white man’s ways as one might think, even after spending ten years with them. Any one of them might have sworn a blood oath of that sort to avenge a relative’s death. Indeed, three of the party had already made similar vows, having like Han lost family members killed by the white men. There was no doubt in their minds that Whirlwind’s spirit was unmistakably Cheyenne. With which reflection, they headed north to join the war against the bluecoats which was brewing up in Wyoming.

The encounter with the Dog Soldiers had cheered Han a little. His grief was none the less raw, but it had been good to have some human contact, the first since his parents’ death. He rode hard that morning, interspersing long canters with spells of trotting. He ate in the saddle and then eased up on the pony a little after noon, allowing her to dawdle a little from time to time. There would be no purpose in laming the creature out here in the middle of nowhere.

When the afternoon was well advanced, Han saw in the distance a huddle of wooden buildings and soddies. It was no more than a hamlet by a stream, but it might be that he would hear news there of the men he sought. When he reached the place, he could see that although it numbered no more than two or three dozen buildings, it had a saloon of sorts. This was a low wooden building with a row of bottles affixed to the porch in order to indicate its function. This was a wise move in a district where the literacy rate was at that time running at around 0%.

Inside, the place was smoky and dark. It was no more than a single, large room, with a few tables and an arrangement of planks at one end which served as a bar. A half dozen men were sitting round; eating, drinking and talking in low voices. They all fell silent when Han entered the place. Although he did not realise the fact, he presented a strange and exotic figure to the inhabitants of the sleepy little hamlet, most of whom had in any case little reason to love Indians. As he walked towards the back of the place, looking for the owner, one of the men at the tables stood up and moved to intercept him.

“Redskins don’t get served here, boy. We get enough trouble with you people without you getting liquored up and all.”

“I’m not looking for a drink. I’m not old enough, anyways.”

“You sassing me boy?”

“No sir,” said Han, still reasonable, “I’m looking for some men who might have passed through this way.”

The man took Han’s peaceful manner as weakness and felt encouraged to push him about a little. He shoved the young man in the chest, saying, “Ah get out of here, injun!”

This would have been a bad mistake at the best of times, but getting crosswise to Hohanonivah less than twenty four hours after he had been bereaved was really not the smartest move anybody could have made. He said nothing to the man in front of him; just stared at him appraisingly. Then, unexpectedly and with no warning at all, he clamped his right hand tight round the fellow’s throat and ran him backward towards the wall, knocking a chair over as he did so. The man’s feet scrabbled for purchase, as he tried to avoid falling over backward. When they got to the wall, Han slammed the man into it hard enough to set his ears ringing. He plucked the pistol from the fellow’s holster and threw it across the room. Then he drew his own piece with his free hand, cocking it with his thumb as he did so, and pointed it in the general direction of the other men in the room, one or two of whom had sprung to their feet.

There was no telling how matters might have developed if the owner of the joint, an elderly and good natured man, had not come through from the back and sized up the situation pretty swiftly.

“Now then, now then,” he said affably, “What are we all about here? Who started all this to-do?”

Han was surprised when one of the men volunteered, “It was Mike of course. He started twitting the Indian and then laid hands upon him.”

The barkeep tutted disapprovingly. “I have done told you not once but many times, Mike Parker, you and me will be falling out if you keep up this habit of starting trouble in my place. And you, young man, you put up your weapon. I’ll have no gunplay in here.”

Han released his grip upon the man’s throat and then tucked the pistol back in his belt.

“That’s more like it,” said the man behind the makeshift bar, “Now what can I do for you? Mind, I can’t serve you with intoxicating liquor unless you are twenty one years of age, which I would take oath is not the case.”

“I don’t drink alcohol. I wouldn’t put a thief in my mouth to steal away my brains.” Han was echoing his parents, who had been staunch Methodists and firm teetotallers. He had no idea how strange such words sounded, coming from the lips of an Indian.

“Yes, well,” said the owner of the saloon, “What a mercy that most of the men round these parts are not of the same mind. Tell me, if you are not looking for a drink, what are you here for?”

“I’m looking for five men who might have rode through here a couple of days since.”

There was a stirring of interest at this among the other customers. “Well now, you don’t say so?” said the barkeeper. “Five men, hey? Well boys, what do you say? Can we help his young fellow?” There were grunts of assent. “But first, maybe you could tell us what your interest in them is?”

“They killed my parents,” said Han flatly.

“Did they, by godfrey? When was this?”

“I found them dead yesterday. Patrick and Esther Jackson, two of the best people that ever drew breath. It is my intention to find those who did this.”

“The Jacksons?” said the owner of the bar thoughtfully. “Might you be the boy that they took in after that dreadful business up at Sand Creek?”

“I am.”

“Well if you’d said so earlier, it might have saved a little chasing round the woodpile, so to speak. I knew your parents years ago and I am right grieved to hear of their death. I heard that you were as devoted to them as if they was your own flesh and blood.”

“I was. Now I aim to bring them justice.”

The old man pulled over a chair and invited Han to set down, while he related the case to him and told what he knew of the men who had killed his folks.

While Hohanonivah Jackson was being furnished with fuller and further particulars of the men who had murdered his adopted mother and father, those men themselves were having a pretty lively time of it, not forty miles away.

Now most men feel doubtful and guilty about their actions from time to time. It’s only natural, even among the most violent and depraved types out on the scout. An unprincipled rascal will shoot a man dead and then a day or two later, he falls to thinking about the dead man’s wife and children. Did he have to kill that person? Could he not have reasoned things out and so avoided bloodshed?

The reason is that most everybody knows deep inside the difference between right and wrong, good and evil. A man might ignore his conscience and lead life on the rip, but still and all, he knows that he is not conducting himself as his mother might have wished when he was being raised. Eli and Jed Holt were exceptions to this general rule. Whether it was something in their blood, or whether their raising had been at fault; it is impossible at this late stage to say. But the fact is that neither of them were precisely right in their minds.

About thirty years before the events which are related here, a doctor in Germany coined a word to describe a type of person he had come across in his practice. The word was “psychopatisch”, which translates into English as “psychopath”. The Holt brothers were perfect examples of the breed. Here were two men who had never known shame, guilt, love, friendship or compassion. The only regret either of them ever experienced was regret for missed opportunities.

Eli and Jed regarded this dreadful affliction as a blessing rather than a curse, freeing them from, as they saw it, a host of petty restrictions which prevented those around him from fulfilling their potential. Of course, this absence of ordinary human emotion would have been a terrible handicap had they wished to become doctors or teachers; in their careers as road agents, bank robbers and hired killers though, it was an absolute Godsend.

About the same time that Han Jackson was approaching the little settlement by the river, the Holt brothers and their accomplices were trotting south without being in any particular hurry. Tom Sweeney had been feeling uncomfortable ever since he had woken that day. He sensed a tension in the air, like you get sometimes before a thunderstorm. Jed called out to his brother, “Eli, what do you make to that?”

They all looked to where Jed had indicated. A body of men, perhaps fifteen or so, were heading towards them at a brisk trot. They seemed to be heading straight for them, but for what purpose, it was impossible to say. The five of them reined in and waited. They hadn’t long to wait, because when the posse spotted them, they speeded up considerable and galloped towards the Holt brothers and their three companions.