Two Indians and A Dead Man

By C. Forrest Lundin

A rifle cocks behind him. Now he knows why the horse baulked.

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Someone behind him pulls the hammer back on a rifle. Now James understands why his horse didn't want to move. 
Two Fingers McCracken doesn't want James's money or supplies; the Metis wants help. The man who kidnapped his daughter knows McCracken's face. James agrees to help. The Civil War veteran doesn't realize the situation is far more complicated than he first thought. 
Emmalee McCracken is a pawn in a bigger struggle than anyone anticipated. But getting out alive and staying out of jail will take all James Madison Robertson's intellect. And keeping Emmalee in Oregon may prove to be beyond him. 
Based on a real situation that happened in 1880, two towns in Union County, Oregon engaged in a vicious battle to get the railroad to come their way. The conflict resulted in harsh feelings that persisted into the 20th century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paper Gold Publishing OLD
• Release date: Jul 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386559894

C. Forrest Lundin

There are many Alaskans who crave privacy. It's hard to get some of them to come out from under the camo. Sean  has been pulled out, but not without a fight. Musician and author he has seen the dark side of the Last Frontier. 

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Copyright © 2016

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Copyright Notice:

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Author's Note: If you drive through this country, you will be amazed at what our ancestors accomplished.

License Notes:

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and buy a copy for yourself. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Artwork: MacFarlane

Dedicated to: Hey, Dad! This one’s for you. Love and miss you bunches.

Acknowledgment: All the residents of that amazing place.

And thanks to Wikicommons for a picture of a

leopard Appaloosa

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Epilogue

Other books by C. Forrest Lundin

About the Author:

Chapter One

The jingle of the animal’s tack was much louder than he liked, the sound alien in the forest. James was trying to get the miserable horse to descend into the draw. Sun would be setting soon, and he wanted to be sitting beside a fire with the coffee on before that happened. Still wishing he’d kept the mare he traded off in Mormon country, James tried to soothe this animal by stroking its nose.

The gelding tossed its head and snorted, a steadfast refusal to set hoof on the game trail leading down into the valley of the Grande Ronde River.

All day the animal had carried him up and down the steep hills of the rugged mountains between Fort Boise and Oregon. As he and Norman Kent had spent much of their hurry up and wait time in the military discussing the great State of Oregon, James had an idea in his head of the area he was hoping to find.

Norman, who’d already reached the age of twenty-three by the time the war ended, swore to James, he’d been crazy for ever leaving Oregon to fight a war that never seemed to end. James wondered how he’d managed to stay alive long enough to reach twenty-one himself, which happened the day after the ceasefire was official.

They went their separate ways. Norman back to Oregon, and James to Louisiana. At the time, Norman tried to talk him into moving out to Oregon, but James felt it his duty to go home and try to rebuild.

Joining the Union Army was not a mistake; he believed in the Union and fighting for it. His attempt to return home to New Orleans was the biggest mistake James ever made, however. To the carpet baggers, he was nothing but another damned secessionist. To everyone James had once counted as a friend, he was a traitor.

He couldn’t win.

At least when he sold out James managed to get a tidy sum for his property. Thanks to his service to the Union, James didn’t suffer as others did. It was easy for him to understand why his friends and family all thought of him as a traitor—because it was true. He’d betrayed the Confederacy by not believing and giving the effort his all. So, he sought a new start. James sold everything he owned except for a horse, took the money and left town in the dead of night. The one person who knew he was selling out and heading west was his old army pal. As the traveled miles added up, his conviction that this was the correct thing to do solidified. A few more days, and James hoped to reunite with Kent.

And it might happen if the damn animal would cooperate. Somehow, this last leg of the journey was proving to be the most difficult despite the gelding being as sure-footed as a mule on the almost vertical sides of the mountains.

You miserable spavined hunk of horse flesh, what in the name of God is wrong with you? James thought it was a legitimate question. He had stopped several times to rest the animal while traversing the steep hills. But then, he’d learned early in their acquaintance it also had the temperament of a mule—pig-headed as hell.

Weary and fast losing hope of a hot meal, he stepped in front of the horse the seller had dubbed an Appaloosa and tugged the animal’s head down. Will you stop being such an almighty pain and quit fighting? It can’t be more than a mile to the bottom, and we can both spend a decent night.

When the horse pulled backward almost jerking his arms from their sockets, James felt a flash of anger. He lifted the ends of the reins and somehow managed to keep from slashing the horse across the muzzle with the loose ends.

The sickening sound of a cartridge finding its way into the breach of a rifle alerted him to the danger the horse had understood.

A voice growled out of the scrub brush, Don’t abuse him. The horse knew I was here.

Too tired and cross to be careful, James lowered his arm and glanced over his shoulder. If you want the damn beast, take it. All I ask is you leave me my bedroll.

That’s not what I seek here. I need assistance, and you can give it if you choose.

James started to turn to view the man who was addressing him when the voice stopped him.

Stay where you are. I need your agreement to hear me out before we meet face to face. I have the devil of a problem and can do nothing further on my own.

With his free hand, James reached up to stroke the horse’s head, scratching between its eyes. He wondered if it were possible to slash his attacker with the reins and swished them once in front of him.

Do not do it. And do not reach down for the pistol. I want your help but will shoot you if I must. I have a daughter. A bastard who believed himself entitled to do as he liked stole Emmalee from me. I want my child back.

That shouldn’t be too difficult. Go to the sheriff. I’m sure they will help.

A sigh from the other man drifted away on the breeze which filtered up through the draw. The man who kidnapped my child is white. I am Metis. There is no help for our kind. He will use my daughter and toss her away like a rag. That is why I need another white man to help me. And the one who stole her knows my face. It cannot end well. I only want to find my girl and go home to Canada. It was a mistake to come here.

May I turn around now?

There was another sigh before, You may.

James swiveled around and watched the man emerge from the brush beside the trail. Dressed in tanned skins decorated with beadwork, the man looked full blood native. I see why you believe yours is an impossible task. But why should I help you? How do I know you are telling the truth?

The man took one step forward and allowed James to see his left side. A jagged rip in the hide shirt revealed a deep wound, and it appeared to be seeping blood. I did not make this injury to myself. As you can see, it was done from the back. Only a coward does this.

It was James’ turn to sigh. I suppose. Can we get down off the side of this damn mountain and find a flat place to camp for the night first? If the horse moves along now, I’ll tend that for you once we settle down.

He will come without any more disturbance. The stranger walked toward the beast and clucked his tongue. Ears pricked forward, the gelding took a tentative step onto the trail as the man explained, I am called Two Fingers McCracken. Who are you?

James moved to the side and let Two Fingers walk the animal down the path. James Madison Robertson, lately of New Orleans, at your service. I’m planning to become a permanent resident of Oregon. So I hope helping you won’t mean I can’t stay here.

I pray your hopes reach fruition. If that is the case, we will both have what we wish for without paying with our lives.

That sobering thought kept James quiet as they traveled down off the mountain side and into the Grande Ronde River Valley.

Chapter Two

Two Fingers took care of starting the fire. Halfway down the draw they’d picked up the other man’s horse. A wiry dun-colored mare, it had a rawboned looking mule as a companion. There was a substantial pack on the back of the mule.

James thought it best to leave interrogation until after he tended Two Fingers’ wound and the animals were secured. Questions could wait until later; dinner was far more important, and James was game to help out.

From the mule’s pack, he watched the Metis produced two carcasses. One looked to be a varmint of some kind and the other, a bird. He’d planned to resupply somewhere in the valley but was down to his last hunk of moldy cheese so James wouldn’t look the gift horse in the mouth.

The meat resting on sticks over the coals smelled so good it was all he could do to keep the saliva in his mouth. It would be bad manners to drool all over the food.

To take his mind from temptation, James got to his feet, walked over to his saddlebags, and removed the leather roll inside. He had saved a few things: sutures, needles, a scalpel, and a probe in case it became necessary to remove a bullet. All else, including the black doctor’s bag, sat in the bottom of his old closet in New Orleans.

Of course, he doubted it was still there. By now the new owner could have tossed the case or sold it. James didn’t care. He never wanted to have that responsibility thrust on him again. Once was sufficient. A change of occupation to a rancher or owner of a hotel, or maybe a mill would do.

In the war he had gained a reputation for being something of a dab hand at treating wounds. He never told anyone his father was a doctor, or that he’d been accompanying the man on cases since he was able to manage a team. Something which allowed his overworked father a little time to nap after a difficult night.

James turned to the fire and squatted beside the pit. He opened the case and laid out the catgut he would use to sew Two Fingers up. The coffee had boiled, and James dangled the needle over the fire pit from a stick. Picking up the pot with a glove around the handle, he poured the hot liquid over the needle and suture.

What is that? Are you going to use it on me?

From what I see, you need a stitch or two. I’ve got the stuff sterilized, so let’s get this done.

I’ll pray that you know what you are doing.

Well enough. I sewed up enough people in the war. Get on your stomach on the blanket, and I’ll get you back together.

With his other gloved hand, James held his bandana between his thumb and forefinger while drenching the remainder of the cloth with hot coffee. He noted the look the other man gave him and grinned.

Boiling is boiling. It doesn’t matter a lick what the liquid is as long as it’s heated to a rolling boil. Now, lie down and get that shirt pulled up.

With a last doubtful look at the cloth and the needle, Two Fingers did as James commanded. He didn’t wince when James cleaned out the wound with the wet rag and sewed the flesh together.

James rose from his position astride the other man and again poured a little of the hot coffee over the needle before tossing the remainder of the catgut into the flames. The instrument went back into the leather folder, and he carefully returned the kit to his saddlebag. On turning back to camp, he saw Two Fingers was removing the meat from the fire. Chuckling, he watched his companion pour a little of the coffee over a flat rock before placing the cooked bird and meat on it. Do you think there’s enough coffee left for us to have a cup? he asked.

Yes. And we can split the bird and the meat. Now, you have questions to ask me as I have for you.

In a moment. If I don’t put some of that in my mouth, I may drop dead in front of you.

With a short huff of breath, Two Fingers passed James a stick with a portion of bird and a hunk of meat on it. There was no need to blow on it to cool it down. The length of time he’d spent doctoring Two Fingers had allowed the food to reach an eatable temperature.

James was unable to stop until he had cleaned the stick of every last morsel. As he poured a cup of the black coffee, he nodded to the other man’s tin mug. Two Fingers held up the cup while James poured the liquid.

Staring across the coals at Two Fingers, James blew on his coffee before he took a sip and said, Tell me, what the hell is a Metis? I’ve never heard of that tribe before. And why do they call you Two Fingers when you seem to have all your digits?

The other man’s eyes never left James’ face as he took a sip of his own steaming brew. The Metis aren’t a tribe as the Cayuse or Snake. We are unique to Canada. Some of us are a mix of Indian and Scot, others are French and Indian. I am of Scots and Cree blood. Emmalee is more white, as her mother was only a quarter Cree. In Canada, there are many Metis.

After slurping up another mouthful of the black coffee, James nodded his understanding of the matter. Why the Two Fingers handle? he asked again.

McCracken grinned. It is the manner in which I used to drink my whisky, two fingers’ worth at a time.

Used to? You don’t drink now?

Two Fingers shook his head. Not for a very long time. I got into a brawl, and someone got hurt because I had much more than two fingers. When I went home, I returned as a man of God. My purpose in coming here was to preach the gospel, particularly to those of native blood. But Satan set a trap for me, and I foolishly fell in. Now, my daughter is gone, along with my faith. When I get Emmalee back, we are going home. There is nothing here for me. He shrugged. So, Mr. Robertson, why did you leave New Orleans? And if you are a doctor, why hide it? I am sure there are more than enough people to treat here in the wilderness.

James lowered his eyes to the coffee in the cup then took another sip before raising his glance to Two Fingers. If I was a doctor before, that doesn’t make me one now. A lot of men and women know how to sew up people. As for New Orleans, the war changed everything, and I found it wasn’t possible to return to my old life. I knew a man in the conflict from Oregon. I hope to find him and start a new life here.

The other man nodded in acknowledgment. If you are finished, we need to cover the coals and douse the fire. I have found it is better for my rest to be difficult to find in this country. There are those who look for travelers to further their fortunes.

James rose. Taking hold of the handle of the coffee pot, he poured the dregs of the beverage over the glowing coals. Two Fingers had a point. So far, he had been lucky, the other man hadn’t. As the Metis knelt to cover the fire with loose dirt, James looked down at the man’s back and decided to help Two Fingers rescue his daughter.

Chapter Three

How am I supposed to find her? What, rather, who am I looking for?

That is a reasonable question. McCracken finished filling the coffeepot from the water skin. He leaned the container back against the pack and put the filled pot in the coals.

James liked the efficient manner in which the Metis got things done. The central portion of the fire crackled and put out warmth. James squatted in front of the flames, trying to wake.

Two Fingers had scraped a part of the coals between two flat rocks. Both the skillet and the coffee pot now rested on the cooking portion of the blaze. From the amount of sliced salt pork in the pan, James anticipated getting some.

The other man had yet to answer his question, but James didn’t push. There was time enough to discuss it after he had a cup of hot coffee and food in his belly.

He watched Two Fingers pick up a leather bag which looked a great deal like a nosebag for the animals. Mr. Robertson, come hold this so I may water the animals. They may not get to the stream until late in the day.

Both knees popped when James pushed to his feet. With a sigh, he recalled how limber he had been at twenty. Growing old was not easy. He wasted fifteen years trying to rebuild his life in New Orleans. His youth should have been spent elsewhere, working to build a new life. Don’t they need to be watched while drinking? They could drown.

The Metis put a few inches of water from the skin into the bag, capped the large container and looked at James. "The mule must be last. He will try to suck all of it at once.