Read Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0) for Free Online Page B

to Indians. He also knew where and how to dispense favors; and so during the course of his wandering from army post to army post he had given away a blanket here, a rifle there, and occasionally a bottle of whiskey. And he gave them to warriors.
    Making no outward show of friendship with the Indians, he still managed to become known among them as a friend. Finally, and discreetly, he began trading in whiskey and rifles, always selling to those he knew personally, always careful to let no other white man know of his activities.
    And then he met Medicine Dog.
    Medicine Dog was a man consumed by hatred for the white man, and particularly for the horse soldiers. He had been born of a Sioux warrior and a Bannock woman; his parents had come together in the vicinity of Bozeman when the Bannocks, numbering about five lodges, had drifted back to their ancient hunting grounds for a few weeks in the spring.
    Noted first for his skill at stealing horses, Medicine Dog had soon won a reputation as a great warrior. He had fought against Crook on the Rosebud, and participated in the Custer massacre, but these were only the latest of the many battles of which he was a veteran. After the Custer fight on the Little Big Horn, when some of the Sioux had fled to Canada, he had drifted westward to his mother’s people, the Bannocks. Within a few days he was associated with a group of malcontents eager to promote a fight with the white man.
    With three others, Medicine Dog had ridden to a rendezvous with Iron Dave Sproul, to trade for whiskey and guns. And Iron Dave recognized in the strange Indian those qualities of leadership with which a rare few are gifted.
    As the three Indians started away after completing their trade, and as Medicine Dog prepared to follow, Iron Dave called him back. Medicine Dog drew up, then slowly walked his horse back, his black eyes glittering.
    “You,” Iron Dave said, “some day big chief. You need guns, you come to me.”
    The Dog had merely looked at him, then turned and rode away, but Iron Dave knew he had planted a seed.
    A month to the day, Iron Dave looked up from his desk to see Medicine Dog standing looking at some blankets for sale. It was the first time he had been in the trading post that Iron Dave then operated next to his saloon. After a while, the Indian went out and squatted by the edge of the porch.
    Iron Dave followed, seating himself on one of the chairs against the wall. He took out a cigar and lit it. Then he asked, “What do you want?”
    “Guns…for six men.”
    “All right.”
    The Dog turned his head. “Suppose I kill white man?”
    Iron Dave squatted on the ground, and with a forefinger he traced a brand in the dust. “My horses and my wagons are marked so,” he said, and glanced up at the Indian. “The rest are your business.”
    He gave Medicine Dog the guns, and fifty rounds of ammunition for each. That had been the beginning.
    A few weeks later, when word reached Iron Dave Sproul that an old competitor was planning to open a place across the street from his, Iron Dave got word to the Dog, and when the competitor’s wagons came north of Pyramid Lake they were attacked suddenly, the stock driven off, the wagons burned. And with the wagons several barrels of whiskey, the gaming tables, poker chips, cards, and other equipment.
    His occasional trips into the desert or mountains were easily explained. He was, he admitted, an amateur prospector. He did not profess to know much about ore, but he liked to prospect. Usually he brought back samples, which he discussed over the bar with miners or prospectors or soldiers.
    The fact that he usually drove a wagon or a buckboard he accounted for by commenting that, after all, he was a city boy. He would leave the burros to those who liked them. He preferred to travel in comfort. He usually drove into the Santa Rosas, and everybody knew there was ore there.
    His occasional gifts or sales to Medicine Dog enabled the Dog to become a big man among