Stamping Ground by Loren D. Estleman Read Free Book Online Page B

squaw’s loins. When the story was repeated to him, thetribal shaman prophesied that a son would be born who would lead his people to greater glories than had ever been known, a son who was destined to be a god, yet who would remain on earth to guide the Cheyenne to their rightful place as conquerors of the land.
    â€œIt did not help matters that the boy proved himself a superior athlete long before the time came for his test of manhood, nor that when that time came he fulfilled all of the requirements with ease. Sent east to study the white man’s world, he returned after three years seething with hatred for the entire race. He commanded the right flank of his uncle Kills Bear’s warrior band in the Custer fight and proved himself an adept tactician as well as a born leader of men. Had the Little Big Horn never happened. Ghost Shirt might have enjoyed limited authority for a number of years and attained the rank of chief sometime in middle life. As it is, he has risen too fast too soon. He is a rash young man with more power than he knows what to do with. Unfortunately, of late he has been finding uses for it.”
    â€œIs he as crafty as they say he is, or just lucky?”
    â€œCraft and luck are difficult things to separate. A man must have a little of both if he is ever to be successful. Ghost Shirt is fortunate. Moreover, he is brilliant. It is a dangerous combination if you are not on his side.”
    â€œYou’re describing a young Sitting Bull.”
    â€œOr a young Napoleon,” said Jac.
    He thought about it, then shook his head. “No. Not like Sitting Bull. He at least has learned to temper his distaste for the white man with wisdom. There is no wisdom in Ghost Shirt’s brilliance. Only hate. He cares not for the future of his people, only for revenge. He will be the ruin of the Cheyenne nation. You have a saying for it: He burns down the barn in order to destroy the rats.”
    Pere Jac was silent for a time. A dead seed came rattling down between us from the cottonwood’s upper branches. A crow had come to light upon a high twig and began to scold us raucously. A newcomer, screaming for those alreadythere to leave. Thus harangued, I understood for a moment the feelings of Ghost Shirt and his followers. But only for a moment.
    â€œYou are to kill him?” asked Pere Jac.
    I hesitated, thinking at first that he was talking about the crow. “No,” I said, catching his drift. “We’ve strict orders to bring him back alive for execution in Bismarck.”
    â€œThat is a foolish thing. Dead, he is a threat ended. Alive, he remains an open sore. There is always the hope among his people that he will return to lead them. If we are able to capture him, our troubles will just be beginning.”
    â€œLook at the bright side. We won’t live long enough to take him prisoner.”
    He laughed and brushed at the sparks that had showered from his pipe down onto his leather leggings. “You are right, Page Murdock,” he said. “We are going to get along.”
    We basked in the warmth of that for a while. Then the sound of galloping hoofs shattered the late morning stillness and Hudspeth, the loaded pack horse tethered behind his own mount, reined to a dusty halt in front of us and heaved himself out of the saddle, nearly going down on one knee as he landed on his feet with a jarring thud. His nose was flame-red and his eyes held an urgent glitter. He barely gave us time to scramble out from under the tree before he thrust a crumple of paper into my face.
    â€œThis was waiting at the telegraph office,” he announced. “It’s from Judge Flood. A force of twenty injuns ambushed a patrol out of Fort Ransom last night and killed Colonel Broderick and twelve others. Ghost Shirt was leading them.”

Chapter Five
    â€œWhy?” I looked up from the scrap, torn and wilted from being jammed into a pocket and carried across eight miles of