Blood Dance by Joe R. Lansdale Read Free Book Online

with us.
    “Ya know,” Johnston said, tossing a blanket over his shoulders, “times is changing. Soon that noisy railroad’s gonna wrap this whole country up in a ribbon of black smoke and steel. Ain’t gonna be a fit place to live unless yer a city slicker. Sure won’t be no place for a red divvil or a mountain man.”
    “This isn’t the mountains, anyway,” I said.
    “That’s a right smart bit of noticing ya done there, son. But it’s the kind of land a mountain man’s spirit would like. It’s big and it’s free—fer right now, anyways. Damn railroad,” Johnston added sharply.
    “I guess people got to go somewhere.”
    “I reckon. I figure me and them red divvils is a lot like the buffaler. Days is numbered.”
    I stretched out on my blanket and felt around my swollen eye. It was just a little puffy and I could see real well out of it. It itched, though.
    “Johnston, did you really eat all those Crow livers?”
    Johnston laughed. “I was wondering when ya were gonna get around to that. What do you think?”
    “I reckon you would, Johnston. I surely do.”
    “So do them Indins. How’s that eye?”
    “Better. Itches.”
    “Good sign. Reckon yer gonna have that red spot in it from now on. Have to start callin’ ya Red Spot.”
    “How far to the Hills?”
    “Not far, but their sign is pretty damn cold.”
    “I’ll find them. I’ve got an advantage. They don’t know I’m alive and looking for them.”
    “That’s an edge, all right.”
    I pulled the blanket tighter and rolled over on my side. I had a hand near my revolver—or rather, the one that the Sioux had" ahe Siou kindly donated. “Goodnight, Johnston” I said.
    “Goodnight. Hey, boy?”
    “Yeah?”
    “That shot ya made today. It was a good’un.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    And we slept.

9
    The morning looked to have been prepared by a medicine man. One who could turn winter skies to spring with a wave of his hand. The world was oddly beautiful. If it had not been for Bucklaw’s death, I think I could have forgotten Carson for myself. Just went on and lived life the best way I knew how.
    But there was the memory of Bucklaw, and it would not go away. Not ever.
    I would have no future until Carson, Mix and Taggart lay at my feet. The rest could go to hell. But give me those three and I could rest, feel that Bob Bucklaw and myself were avenged.
    We had more buffalo meat for breakfast and coffee. We stuffed ourselves good. Then we spent the rest of the morning salting strips of buffalo meat down, wrapping it up in hide and stashing it in our saddlebags. Johnston said it might get to tasting a bit on the green side, but it would be welcome when we had to move fast and were hungry. The waste was that there was still a lot of meat left over, and it would do nothing but rot in the field.
    · · ·
     
    A few days later we crossed the Belle Fourche fork of the Cheyenne River and moved into the edge of the Black Hills, the sacred lands of the Sioux.

Chapter Three

1
    We chewed some of the buffalo meat and avoided a fire. It was a crisp night up in the Hills—still warm for the time of year, Johnston assured me—and it would have been a good night for coffee. Instead, we drank water from the canteens.
    Somewhere out in the darkness, a night bird called a low, lonely note. The sound of it sent little critter feet up my back.
    Johnston perked up, pulled his Spencer over to him and propped it against his leg.
    “Something wrong?” I asked.
    “Jest tryin’ to decide if that was a bird or a red divvel.”
    We were surrounded by dark pines and rocks. Overhead, peeping through the thick growth of the pine limbs, were the stars. “Well?”
    “My guess,” Johnston said, “is that it’s a red divvel.”
    An arrow flew lickity-split out of the dark and planted itself with a thud and a squirt of blood in Johnston’s left shoulder.
    “Yep,” Johnston said, glancing at the arrow. “Sioux.”
    He jerked up the Spencer and shot over my head