Demons of Eden Mark Ellis(1)

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arms. She murmured into the old woman's ear, then both of them burst into tears, hugging
each other in shared grief.
"Her mother," Autry explained. "Spotted Hawk was their sole support."
He gestured to a low-roofed, ramshackle building op the street. Light shone from the
windows, and violin music floated in the air. "Our local public house. If we tell your story
in there, it'll be all over Amicus within the hour. Save you from having to say the same
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thing over and over again."
Autry opened the leather-hinged door and stepped aside, allowing the others to enter.
Only a few people were inside, but the big room smelled of sweat, tobacco and potent
homemade whiskey. Two men stood on either side of the rough-hewn slab of pine that
served as the bar.
One, a scrawny fellow with a luxuriant waxed mustache, was obviously the tavern
keeper. The other man had his back to the door, and all they could see of him was a
massive, leather-clad torso and the rear of a black-haired head.
A small middle-aged man with a balding pate and a parsimonious face was sawing
vigorously at a fiddle. Judging by the musician's vacant stare, the patrons of the
establishment could have started hacking away at one another with tomahawks and he
would have gone on playing, perhaps shifting a little to avoid bloodying his shoes.
Autry spoke to both men at the bar. The big man turned, giving Ryan and his people a
cool, appraising stare. He was an Amerindian, wearing a beaded-diamond-and-triangle
design on his shirt. It was the ancient symbol of the Sioux. His black hair hung in two
braids halfway to his waist.
The tavern keeper filled seven mugs from a jug of amber liquid. With a word of thanks,
Ryan took a long, satisfying swallow, as did Doc and Jak. As the corn liquor burned its
way into their stomachs, Autry silenced the musician with a wave of his hands.
"I've heard some of the story from Felicity," he told them. "Let's hear the rest of it from
you."
In simple, unadorned language, Ryan told how they had come across the scene of torture
and murder. At the mention of the Red Cadre, the barkeeper sputtered, the ends of his
mustache fluttering.
"Oh, shit," he choked out. "Chillin' four and stealin' one of their boats—Hatchet Jack will
slit you from crotch to eyeball with a dull deer antler. He'll burn this place to the ground
to get you!"
Autry cast him an angry glare. "Shut up, Micah. The Cadre knows better than to molest
us."
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"Why is that?" Krysty asked. Though she held a mug of liquor, she had yet to taste it.
"Amicus does too much trade with the local Cheyenne and Lakota," Autry replied. "Too
many of the tribes live here, at least part of the year." He nodded toward the big man.
"Like Little Mountain."
Little Mountain was staring hard at them, in a way most Indians would have considered
impolite. Ryan met that stare.
The man blinked, then touched his left eye. "Ochinee," he rumbled.
"One-eye," Autry translated. "Little Mountain isn't fluent in English."
The big man turned to Autry and spoke quickly in Lakota. Autry's face registered
surprise. "Says he knows of all of you," he told them. "Claims his chief met you, and that
you're mighty warriors."
Ryan and J.B. had met a number of tribesmen during their years with Trader. "Who's his
chief?" J.B. asked.
Autry asked Little Mountain the question. After the Sioux had replied, he translated,
"Yutan-kin-Mahipiya. Never heard of him."
Little Mountain's eyes shone with agitation. He spun on one deerskin-shod heel and made
for the door. Autry called after him in Lakota, but the man either didn't hear him or didn't
care to respond.
"I told him to watch out for the Cadre," Autry explained. "Guess he's not worried."
"Maybe he's not," Mildred said, "but I am. Will the Cadre bottle up the pass? Are they
that vengeful?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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