“Nor are they mine,” Running Elk said. “They have killed our people, for no reason.”
“And now your blood runs hot and you want to kill them,” Mean to His Horses responded. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
“Yes,” White Bull said.
“Why should I trust the Crow?”
“Have you not talked with the spirits?” Running Elk asked. “Have they not told you that we are all brothers? Have they not told you that the white man will be driven away, and the land that they took will be ours?”
Mean to His Horses stared at the two young Crow Indians before him for a long moment, then he nodded.
“You may stay,” he said.
“Eiiiee yah, yah, yah!” White Bull shouted in excitement.
Although Mean to His Horses had accepted Running Elk and White Bull into his camp, when he went out on his first raid after their arrival, he ordered them to stay behind.
White Bull and Running Elk watched the raiding party ride off, angry that they had not been included.
“Why should we be left behind?” White Bull asked.
“Perhaps we must earn his trust,” Running Elk said.
“Or perhaps we should prove ourselves to him.”
“How can we prove ourselves if we are not allowed to go with him?”
“I will find a way. You will see.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Occidental Hotel was on North Main. A fine log structure, the hotel was built by Charles Buell. It advertised itself as the finest hostelry establishment between Chicago and San Francisco, and the boast was not without some justification. The lobby of the hotel was well appointed with overstuffed sofas and chairs, a dark blue carpet, and several brass spittoons. A chandelier and a few strategically placed lanterns provided some light, but not brightness.
There were several people in the lobby, but they were gathered in separate conversational groups speaking quietly, so that there was relative quiet. The desk clerk was sitting in a chair behind the sign-in desk, reading a copy of the
“Buffalo Bill Cody,” the desk clerk said, setting his paper aside as the three men walked up to the desk. “I heard that you had taken passage on the
“Hello, Paul,” Cody said. “May I introduce my two friends? This is Falcon MacCallister.”
“Yes, indeed, I have heard much about you, sir. And all of it flattering,” Paul said.
“And this gentleman is a writer who we can’t seem to get rid of. His name is Prentiss Ingraham.”
“Prentiss Ingraham?
“You have heard of me?”
“Indeed I have, sir. And I have read every one of your books. In fact, I have one here that I would ask you to autograph for me, if you would be so kind.”
“Why, I would be delighted to autograph your book for you,” Ingraham said, beaming in delight over the unexpected recognition.
The clerk reached under the check-in counter and pulled out a copy of
“Oh, you’ve chosen well,” Ingraham said as he autographed the book. “This is one of my personal favorites.”
That was the same thing he had said to the boat ticket agent about
“Mr. Cody, I saw in the newspaper that you are going to be holding auditions for your show. Up in Cinnabar, I believe?”
“Indeed I am,” Cody replied. “How about it, Paul? Do you want to try out for the show?”
Paul laughed. “Not unless you have a place in your show for hotel clerks,” he said. He turned toward a board filled with keys hanging from hooks, took three of them down and handed one to each of them. “These rooms are on the second floor near the front,” he said. “All three are together, two of them are adjoining rooms, and the third one is immediately across the hall.”
“Thanks,” Falcon and Cody said. Ingraham finished signing the book and then handed back to the clerk.
“Thank you, sir,” the clerk said with a broad smile. “I will treasure this.”
Like the lobby, the hotel room was nicely furnished. More spacious than most hotel rooms, this one had a bed, a settee, a chest of drawers, a chifforobe, and a dry sink. A porcelain pitcher and bowl sat on the dry sink.
After settling their luggage into the room, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham decided to take a turn around the town to see what it was like.
