Wild Thunder

“Yeah, I believe so,” Tiny said, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “And would you look at the meat and pelts on the travois he’s draggin’ behind his horse? I’d say his hunt went quite well today, wouldn’t you?”

“Much better’n ours,” Clem growled out, chuckling.

Tiny looked over his shoulder at the other cowhands. “Want to have some fun?” he shouted, yanking his rifle from the gun boot at the side of his horse.

Everyone shouted and nodded. They hollered and whooped as they waved their rifles in the air.

“You aren’t going to kill him, are you?” Clem said, hesitating at taking his own firearm in hand.

“Naw, but when we get through with him, he’ll wish he was dead,” Tiny said, laughing throatily. He looked over his shoulder again. “Come on, men. Follow my lead. It’s been awhile since we’ve had such an opportunity as this. The damn Injun should’ve known better than to go hunting by himself. He’s at the mercy of Tiny Sharp.”

“What are you going to do, Tiny?” Clem asked, still hesitant about joining the others.

“Are you with us, or ain’t you?” Tiny said, giving Clem a threatening scowl.

“I’m with you all the way,” Clem said, seeing that he had no choice.

“What’s got into you today, Clem?” Tiny asked as they thundered onward toward the Indian who had taken notice of them and had turned his horse and travois around, in an attempt to get away.

But the weight of the travois stopped a hasty enough retreat. It was heavy with butchered meat and pelts that had been taken from the animals that the brave had killed today.

“It just seems like we get closer and closer to bein’ found out by Chuck,” Clem said, finally lifting his rifle from his gun boot. “We take chances every time we do something that ain’t proper. Take the dam for example. Damn it, Tiny, we should’ve destroyed it and gone on about our business. All I’m interested in is my paycheck. Nothin’ more.”

“You can’t tell me that your heart ain’t pumpin’ a hundred miles an hour at the thought of havin’ fun at this here Injun’s expense, now, can you?” Tiny said, laughing into the wind when Clem smiled over at him.

“I thought not,” Tiny said, then leaned lower over his horse as he rode in a faster gallop toward the Indian.

When he felt that he was close enough, he straightened his back, raised the rifle into the air, and fired off a warning shot to the Indian.

Tiny laughed boisterously when the Indian stopped and leapt from his saddle and began running away from the advancing men on foot.

“You’d better stop or I’ll blow your damn head off!” Tiny shouted at him.

The Indian stopped with a start, turned slowly around, then stood with a stubbornly lifted chin and glared at Tiny as he halted his horse only a few feet away.

“Why do you stop me?” the Potawatomis brave asked, holding his hands away from his sides, so that the men could see that he wasn’t going for his sheathed knife at his right side.

Tiny looked over his shoulder. “Bring his horse and travois of meat over here!” he shouted at his men. “We’ve some meat inspectin’ to do.”

Tiny was aglow inside at this opportunity to get back at Strong Wolf by being able to take his anger out on one of his braves. It had not taken long for Tiny to decide that if the soldiers refused to make Strong Wolf pay for having stolen his dynamite and for having blown up the dam, then it was up to Tiny to do what he could.

And to hell with Hannah, he thought to himself, wherever she was. It served her right if she was lost. The stubborn bitch. Tiny saw her as just a mite too big for her breeches. The way she rode horses, she was unlike any lady he had ever seen. And she had a mouth on her that could scald a cat!

“What are we to do now?” Clem said, wrenching Tiny from his deep thoughts.

Tiny slid from his saddle as the Indian horse and travois were brought closer. He patted the horse, ran his hand over the animal’s withers, then went back and knelt down beside the travois.

He studied the meat and pelts. For just one man, this Indian had been lucky at hunting. Tiny imagined that this meat was for the brave’s family. The pelts were either for trading, or to be used for the comfort of the brave’s family during the upcoming wretched months of winter.

He pushed himself back up from the ground. With his rifle clasped tightly, he went to the brave who was dressed in only a breechclout and moccasins. He turned and gazed at his men.

“We have us a thief in our midst!” he shouted. “This Injun is guilty as sin of stealin’.”

“Bird in Ground is no thief,” Bird in Ground said, his dark eyes wide with surprise over having been wrongly accused.

Tiny turned slow eyes to the brave. “Bird . . . in . . . Ground . . . ?” he said, then mocked the Indian by saying his name over and over again.

Then Tiny sobered and leaned into the Indian’s face. “I’ve heard of strange names before, but this one takes the cake,” he said, chuckling.