Massacre at Whip Station

by Dusty Richards

  He spit the tobacco out the window, then asked everyone if they were okay.

  There was a round of affirmatives, as well as sighs—most of them from the preacher. The two Mission Indians went to see to B.W., who was sitting on the floor where he’d been knocked flat from behind. They hefted him to a chair. Sarah surveyed her shattered window and the nicked furniture. Gert began picking up shards of glass so the dogs wouldn’t step on them. The dogs had retreated to B.W.’s little bedroom, where they barked at the gunfire.

  Clarity stood just behind the front door. She held her carbine with restless intensity. She had not moved toward the window. Had she gone there, she would have used the gun. It wouldn’t be shooting a man in the back if you hit him in the arm or leg or buttocks.

  Jackson walked over to her.

  “I want to thank you for what you did,” he said. He nodded toward the Serrano. “I’m guessing he’s grateful, too.”

  The shaman said nothing. He was no longer summoning the eagle spirit. He was looking out a window.

  “I’ll get your headdress as soon as it’s safe,” Gert promised.

  The man acknowledged her kindness with a nod.

  Sarah walked over to Clarity and their eyes met. “You have my deep thanks as well,” the woman said. She came a little closer. “You didn’t kill your fiancé by accident,” she added.

  Clarity did not look away but did not immediately reply. The subject was dropped when Joe spoke.

  “When the sun’s down, I’m going to track those cusses,” he said, opening the door a crack and craning out so he could see to the west.

  “Pa,” Jackson said, “those boys were organized.”

  “Not when they left.”

  “She surprised them,” Jackson said, jerking a thumb at Clarity. “She surprised all of us. But they wouldn’t’ve left without expecting pursuit and covering their flank.”

  “You’re right,” Joe said. “They’re army trained, they’ll use military tactics. Straight line reverse course, anticipating at least one of us to follow their trail. That’s not what I’ll do. Besides,” he said, “we got the next hour to consider. Stage is gonna leave with the Serrano on board. Has to. They’re expecting him on t’other end. So these boys’ll regroup and come at the stage hard next time.”

  “The stage—and you,” Jackson said.

  “They won’t see, hear, or smell me,” Joe assured his son.

  Sarah did not bother to protest, nor did Gert. B.W. was another matter. Malibu had brought over the lantern and held it at the spot where the driver had been pistol-whipped.

  “Joe, you were lucky to get outta that fix,” the driver said.

  “Luckier than you,” Malibu remarked. “Big bump.”

  “I was trying to help,” B.W. said, frowning at the Indian. Sarah handed him a damp cloth to press against his head. He winced with one eye as he dabbed at the injury, turning the open eye to Joe. “They could just as well have shot me.”

  “I don’t think Kennedy ever shot anyone,” Slash suggested.

  “He shot off his mouth enough,” B.W. said, starting as he carelessly shook his head and sent pain shooting through his skull. He blinked away the pain. “Hey, Slash—your leg’s bleeding.”

  Sarah shot a look at her son. There was blood on the front of his trousers, just above the knee.

  “It’s nothing, a little poke,” he said. “Someone left a knife in the hayloft.”

  “A knife?” Sarah said.

  Joe changed the subject. “Whip, you’re okay to go, yeah?”

  “I got a choice?”

  “Not actually,” Joe said.

  “How is he going to drive?” Gert asked.

  “I don’t need my head for that,” B.W. said.

  “You won’t say that when it’s bumping up and down,” Sarah warned him.

  B.W. shrugged. “Gotta do it, woman. That’s all there is.”

  Joe took a pouch from a wooden wall peg and slung it over his shoulder. The rattle announced that it was full of shot. He took a colt and a box of ammunition from a drawer in the kitchen. He shoved a flint into his shirt pocket. The gun went in his belt, the cartridges in his pocket. He went to the door with his shotgun, looked at the sun, then turned to his son and grandson.

  “Slash, what do you think about riding with B.W.?” Joe said.

  The young man grinned. Joe was puzzled.

  “He already asked my permission to sit in the box,” Jackson said.

  Joe smiled proudly. “Good man. That means—Jackson, you stay put. And Malibu, can I count on you and Sisquoc staying here?”

  The Mission Indian nodded once.

  Sarah crossed her arms. “Pa, what are you doing?”

  “Going hunting for rats.”

  “And how do you expect to stop an ambush on the stage?” she asked.

  “He’s Joe O’Malley!” B.W. cheered.

  “And Joe O’Malley is outnumbered,” Sarah protested.

  “Maybe I can discourage ’em before they get to the stage,” he suggested.

  “‘Discourage,’” Jackson said. “You mean pick them off?”

  “Just the horses,” Joe replied.

  “It’s a sound plan, which is why I’d like to come with you, Mr. O’Malley.”

  Everyone in the station turned toward the door. The speaker was Clarity Michaels.

  Reverend Michaels strode toward her. “That is reckless and unwarranted,” he said firmly. “We are leaving together on the stage.”

  “Where I’d be useless, not to mention helpless,” his sister replied in kind. “You heard what that man Kennedy said. They hit Mr. Ocean when they were aiming at a horse. That could happen again.” The woman exhaled, decided. “Mr. O’Malley was right, what he said a minute ago. Those men will be more careful and better prepared the next time they attack the stage. I wish to be outside, not inside, when that happens.” She turned to Joe. “We’ll be following them, correct?”

  The older man studied her. “I’ll be doing that. Didn’t say you could come.”

  “Do I need your permission to ride hereabout?” she asked.

  Gert grinned. Sarah made a face at her daughter. Gert turned away but the grin remained.

  Joe rethought his own position. “That was some impressive shooting.” He looked her up and down with a plainsman’s eye. “You ride as good as you shoot?”

  “The question, Mr. O’Malley, is can I shoot while I ride? The answer is yes.”

  He smiled a little. “You got riding clothes?”

  She tried not to smile. “If you will be kind enough to get my trunk, I can be ready before the sun is down,” she answered.

  Joe looked at Slash.

  “I’ll get it,” the young man volunteered. “Which—”

  “Black with a brown leather band,” Clarity said quickly.

  “Back box,” B.W. added. He shook his head, then turned back to Joe. “And I still think you’re loco for going, let alone with Miss Michaels.”

  “The showman P. T. Barnum had a tiger, in a cage. To onlookers, it was just a large cat.”

  The people in the station looked at Fletcher Small. The man had not moved from his seat at the table since the riders had arrived. He had been listening, an ear turned to the front door, writing busily in a notebook. The journalist stood now.

  “No one asked, but I agree with the lady,” he said to the room, but he looked directly at the woman. “I have never met or even read about a woman who could shoot like Clarity. There’s a story in it. But that story doesn’t unfold inside a stagecoach—a cage.”

  “I’m not interested in notoriety,” the woman said.

  Small shrugged. “A newspaperman reports news, not preferences.”

  “I’ll trouble you to watch your manners with our guests,” Jackson said. “The woman wishes her privacy.”

  “As well she should, or else why make the hard journey all the way out to the continental wilderness,” Small said. “Yet a story such as this could make the subject mon
ey, if they were of a mind. And money helps buy privacy.”

  “That’s enough, sir,” Jackson cautioned.

  Small nodded agreeably and returned to the table where he began rolling a cigarette. The reverend gently took his sister’s arm and drew her aside.

  “See what you’ve done?” Merritt Michaels said softly.

  “I’ve prevented a kidnapping,” she replied. “Maybe saved men’s lives.”

  “That is not what I mean,” the pastor told her. “It was my understanding, sister Clarity, that we did not wish to draw attention to our actions—or our whereabouts.”

  “Murray, Kentucky, is a long way off.”

  “We made the journey,” her brother pointed out. He pointed toward the door and the yard beyond. “Until now, we did not know who those people wanted.”

  “The Roches are not made of such solid stuff,” she replied. She nodded slightly toward the reporter. “And this one? How will any story he writes reach so far?”

  “Newspapers circulate their reports widely now, by wire,” the clergyman said. “One never knows where they will land, especially if it is as special as he says.”

  “Mr. Small does not and will not know our final destination,” Clarity said as her trunk arrived on Slash’s back. “Now please—I must change clothes.”

  The reverend gripped her upper am. “I urge you not to do this.”

  Clarity glared at him and he released her. She withdrew from her brother’s side and followed Slash and the trunk to the small room where B.W. had been. The young man shut the door, depriving Clarity of ventilation but giving her privacy. He returned to the room where his father was using blacksmith’s tongs to pull broken bits of glass from the window frame. He was glad they had built heavy shutters for all the windows. They were meant to protect the interior from sandstorms, which could be long-lived and violent. If necessary, they would surely slow a bullet.

  Slash went to get a drink from the indoor bucket. He had just filled his tin cup when, quicker than he had ever known a woman to dress, he saw Clarity step from the room. She was garbed in an ankle-len’th brown riding skirt and a white blouse.

  “That’s a sidesaddle outfit,” Jackson noted.

  “Would you prefer I ride that way?” Clarity asked.

  Small laughed without looking up from his notebook, where he was taking this all down. Reverend Michaels stalked over, standing between the reporter and his sister.

  “Do you not even care that you could be putting a woman’s life in danger?” he demanded.

  “Sounds like she can take care of herself,” the reporter answered.

  “That isn’t the point. We are trying to start a new life.”

  Small looked up through the swirling smoke of his cigarette. “Seems to me, preacher, that you are looking to continue your old life—just somewhere else. This lady, she is the one bent on doing something new.”

  “You hardly know her!” the parson charged.

  “That appears, then, to make two of us.”

  Reverend Michaels stormed away, toward his sister, then turned and went to the kitchen where Sarah busied herself with cleaning the supper dishes. She was purposefully trying not to engage in this matter any further.

  B.W. stood, winced with both eyes this time, and grunted disapprovingly.

  “I’m not taking sides here,” he said, “but you folks act like this is a church picnic. It’s not! Ask Dick Ocean!”

  “We know this is no picnic,” Joe said softly. “We know a great deal, in fact, about what this isn’t. What we have to find out is what this is.”

  B.W. struggled to follow that. While he did so, Joe looked out again and made sure that darkness had fully settled upon the compound. Satisfied, he asked Jackson to ready a pair of horses.

  “Young Thunder for the lady, one of those that came with the stage for me,” he added.

  “Why?” B.W. asked. “They’ll be tired.”

  “That’s what I want,” Joe replied. “We won’t be riding hard and I don’t want ’em putting up a fuss and making noise. Nighttime brings out the worst in this territory. And when Thunder is rested, if we’re still out there, he’ll give the lady the speed to overtake anyone who might need overtaking.”

  That was true, B.W. had to agree. Just one screeching owl or darting hare could turn a fresh, alert horse into a frightened foal.

  Jackson left and Joe motioned for Clarity to stay where she was. It was dark inside the house and everyone had known not to turn on the lanterns or feed the ebbing fire in the kitchen. Joe eased into the near-blackness outside and shut the shot-peppered door behind him. With seasoned eyes, he turned an arc slowly from the entrance to the stable. He knew every contour of those structures and he looked for any sign of change that might indicate a concealed man or gun. He didn’t think there had been time for anyone to dismount and double back—but he did not want to bet his life or that of Clarity’s on the enemy being panicked or unprepared.

  The ears listened, not quite as sharp as they once were but still aware of every kind of animal that came out at dusk. He could distinguish where their dens or warrens or burrows were, and what kinds of sounds they made with their mouths, or with their feet or tails on sand or brush. He could tell animal sounds from Indians imitating animal sounds. There was always the chance that roaming Apaches might come by, take it upon themselves to raid the stables. It had never happened here, but then young bucks were always looking for new ways to prove their courage.

  The funny thing was, Joe didn’t dislike Apaches. He had lived like them long enough to respect their ability to survive. Keeping a tribe alive meant more than hunting and making war on rival tribes. The Indian way also included taking and keeping white women. Part of surviving is making your enemy watch out not just for their own lives but the lives of their families. Taking a white wife or mother, little son or daughter, forced settlers to bring war to the Indian camp. They rarely arrived, the Indians lying outside the camp in ambush, expecting just such a move.

  That was the reason Joe didn’t like Gert socializing with the Pechanga, Apaches, Serrano, Mojave, and other tribes, why she was confused by his disapproval. Joe and the Indians were alike, it seemed to her.

  The station and its surroundings were devoid of human activity, other than Jackson in the stable. Joe stepped out a little farther. He made a point of dragging his boots on the dirt, hoping to get a reaction, a movement, a sound from anyone who might be watching. No one bit my foxtail, as his own father used to say about the British and the cap he wore during the War for Independence.

  A cooling wind blew from the east, adding smell to the senses he could use. Joe was not just alert, there was a familiar burn low in his belly. He often wondered if animals felt that fire, too, when they were prepared for action, even if an attack didn’t come. Or was that only a human thing? Did animals just simply run to or from danger using only the muscles and instincts God gave them?

  He wondered what it would be like to not think and worry. Since he’d been in from the frontier, running this place with his son and daughter-in-law, it seemed like that was mostly what he did.

  Standing there for several minutes, Joe sensed nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual scent of something dead blowing from the coyote hunting grounds to the west. A little bit of wet fur, probably a mountain lion, came from the stream behind the station. Joe liked it that the cats came to drink. They left the barn alone and scared away other predators.

  Joe stood there and waited for his son to bring the horses. If there was someone watching—including someone hidden out on the rise to the north—they might hear them and likely figure out what was up. Especially because Jackson wasn’t bringing the team of four the stage would need.

  “You really think someone is out there, Pa?” Jackson asked.

  “No,” Joe said.

  “I’m guessing they didn’t know this terrain well enough to risk coming around at night,” Jackson added.

  “I was thinking that myself,”
Joe replied. “They never expected to have to ride it in the dark. That’s also gotta be worrying them about hightailing after the stage, which gives us an advantage.”

  Jackson regarded his father’s eyes, which caught the rising full moon.

  “Pa, you sure about this?” Jackson asked. “This is a matter for Butterfield, for the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  “I agree with that, son,” Joe said. “But like it or not we’re the agent of one and the other’s corrupted. We got no choice.”

  “Our contract says nothing about armed enforcement of Butterfield rights.”

  “I guess I shoulda read it,” Joe confessed.

  Jackson couldn’t help but smile and sigh. That was Joe.

  “But I know the Butterfield people,” the older O’Malley went on. “They don’t like anything that disrupts service. If a station can’t protect the stage and its passengers and cargo, move them along in a timely fashion, Butterfield may not blame the station exactly, but they might move the route somewhere safer. Closer to Fort Yuma, Fort Mason—longer route but not as risky. That passage wouldn’t include Whip Station.”

  Jackson had to concede the point.

  “As for the Indian Bureau,” Joe said, “we always knew they can’t be trusted farther than a snake can spit. I’m more worried about whatever these boys have planned. That’s something we have to find out.”

  Again, though Jackson did not want his father riding out on this hunt, he could not disagree with the man’s reasoning.

  Joe went back inside and swapped out his shotgun for a carbine. It was less gun, easier to handle. He told Clarity they were ready to go, then went back outside. He slid the gun in the holster Jackson had fixed to the saddle. Then he mounted the lead horse, White Paint.

  “We gotta move B.W. out as close to his regular time as possible. Soon’s I’m gone, help see to that.” The older man turned toward the house. He was about to call Clarity when the woman walked briskly to Young Thunder, put herself in the saddle, and settled in. She took a moment to make sure both her Colts were easy draws.

  Both men were impressed by her speed and her easy handling of the revolvers.