stout horse, all right.” He remembered to give a silent thanks to the lieutenant who had originally owned him—glad that the horse had been the personal property of the officer, and consequently, had no army brand. “Is this where I can find the commanding officer?”
“Usually,” the private replied. “But he ain’t here now. He’s out at the peace talks.” When Clay’s blankexpression told the soldier that he didn’t know what the young man was talking about, the private explained. “There’s a big powwow going on with a bunch of the Injuns. He’s over to that. Sergeant McCoy is inside. More’n likely he can tell you most anything you need to know.”
“Thanks,” Clay replied, and stepped up on the porch.
Sergeant Lionel McCoy was polite—friendly, even—but there wasn’t much help he could offer. The two men Clay inquired about, Robert and Charley Vinings, had been to see the colonel some time back. They had asked for help in finding Martha, but the colonel could offer very little assistance. Due to the fact that their cabin was over four days’ ride from Laramie, and there was little chance in overtaking a war party after so much time had passed, the colonel could see no wisdom in mounting a patrol to ride that distance. Since they had been camped in Sioux country—and weren’t supposed to be there, he reminded them—the best he could offer was to inquire about the woman during the peace talks. McCoy told Clay that many bands of Sioux had gathered to talk of peace with the army. The colonel had asked about a white woman captive, but none of the chiefs had any knowledge of one in any of their villages. Beyond that, there was very little the army could do.
“What about the two men?” Clay asked. “Do you know where they are now?”
“I’m sorry, mister. I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what their plans were when they left here. One of ’em was pretty hot about it, as I recall. I reckon he expected the colonel to send about a dozen patrols out lookin’ for the lady. The colonel tried to explain that it would be a useless waste. We don’t have the manpower to go chasing all over creation lookin’ forone woman.” Realizing that his tone might be reflecting a sense of indifference on the part of the army, Sergeant McCoy added, “You might check with O.C. Owens at the sutler’s store. I saw them hangin’ around there before they left.”
“Much obliged,” Clay said, and took his leave.
O.C. Owens, a wiry man in his early sixties, barely glanced up from the counter when the tall young man walked into his store. O.C. had spent most of his life trapping and trading among the Indians before failing eyesight and frazzled nerves reduced him to clerking in the sutler’s store. And he had seen enough young greenhorns, fresh off the pilgrims’ trail, to recognize one without close inspection. “Mornin’ to you, sir,” he offered politely as Clay made his way through an array of blankets and trinkets—meant for Indian trade—as well as stacks of canned goods and boxes of dried apples to supplement the soldiers’ fare. “What can I do for you?”
“Mornin’,” Clay returned. “Are you Mr. Owens?”
“I am.”
“I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for two fellows from Virginia. Sergeant McCoy said you might be able to help me. He said they were hanging around here for a while.” O.C.’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and his face took on a cautious look—a look that Clay would learn to expect in this part of the country when a stranger came asking questions about anybody. Clay went on, “One of ’em’s my brother-in-law. My sister was stolen by some Indians, and I’m trying to find them.”
O.C. hesitated a few seconds while he appraised the straightforward young man. Finding no deceit in the young man’s eyes, he said, “They was here, all right. Did some tradin’ with me. Vinings was the name, if Irecall.” When Clay nodded, O.C. continued. “So the
“Usually,” the private replied. “But he ain’t here now. He’s out at the peace talks.” When Clay’s blankexpression told the soldier that he didn’t know what the young man was talking about, the private explained. “There’s a big powwow going on with a bunch of the Injuns. He’s over to that. Sergeant McCoy is inside. More’n likely he can tell you most anything you need to know.”
“Thanks,” Clay replied, and stepped up on the porch.
Sergeant Lionel McCoy was polite—friendly, even—but there wasn’t much help he could offer. The two men Clay inquired about, Robert and Charley Vinings, had been to see the colonel some time back. They had asked for help in finding Martha, but the colonel could offer very little assistance. Due to the fact that their cabin was over four days’ ride from Laramie, and there was little chance in overtaking a war party after so much time had passed, the colonel could see no wisdom in mounting a patrol to ride that distance. Since they had been camped in Sioux country—and weren’t supposed to be there, he reminded them—the best he could offer was to inquire about the woman during the peace talks. McCoy told Clay that many bands of Sioux had gathered to talk of peace with the army. The colonel had asked about a white woman captive, but none of the chiefs had any knowledge of one in any of their villages. Beyond that, there was very little the army could do.
“What about the two men?” Clay asked. “Do you know where they are now?”
“I’m sorry, mister. I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what their plans were when they left here. One of ’em was pretty hot about it, as I recall. I reckon he expected the colonel to send about a dozen patrols out lookin’ for the lady. The colonel tried to explain that it would be a useless waste. We don’t have the manpower to go chasing all over creation lookin’ forone woman.” Realizing that his tone might be reflecting a sense of indifference on the part of the army, Sergeant McCoy added, “You might check with O.C. Owens at the sutler’s store. I saw them hangin’ around there before they left.”
“Much obliged,” Clay said, and took his leave.
O.C. Owens, a wiry man in his early sixties, barely glanced up from the counter when the tall young man walked into his store. O.C. had spent most of his life trapping and trading among the Indians before failing eyesight and frazzled nerves reduced him to clerking in the sutler’s store. And he had seen enough young greenhorns, fresh off the pilgrims’ trail, to recognize one without close inspection. “Mornin’ to you, sir,” he offered politely as Clay made his way through an array of blankets and trinkets—meant for Indian trade—as well as stacks of canned goods and boxes of dried apples to supplement the soldiers’ fare. “What can I do for you?”
“Mornin’,” Clay returned. “Are you Mr. Owens?”
“I am.”
“I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for two fellows from Virginia. Sergeant McCoy said you might be able to help me. He said they were hanging around here for a while.” O.C.’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and his face took on a cautious look—a look that Clay would learn to expect in this part of the country when a stranger came asking questions about anybody. Clay went on, “One of ’em’s my brother-in-law. My sister was stolen by some Indians, and I’m trying to find them.”
O.C. hesitated a few seconds while he appraised the straightforward young man. Finding no deceit in the young man’s eyes, he said, “They was here, all right. Did some tradin’ with me. Vinings was the name, if Irecall.” When Clay nodded, O.C. continued. “So the
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