by Cole Shelton
Brett asked, ‘So what do you reckon happened?’
‘Tom had gone missing for three days. Mrs McBeath was frantic. We formed a search party. A couple of homesteaders found him at the foot of a cliff on the Wells Fargo stagecoach trail north of Red Butte. Face all smashed in, not a pretty sight, specially as a coupla buzzards had got to him. Our riders discovered his horse grazing on the cliff top. That’s what convinced the coroner to make the finding he’d fallen from his saddle and toppled over the cliff.’
‘So did that happen soon after he had his clash with Jorgenson?’
‘Real soon after,’ Quade said grimly. ‘By the way, that Kid Jorgenson’s still around. The rooster struts around Red Butte like he owns the whole damn town. Flamin’ upstart!’
‘Anything else you want to tell me?’
‘If there is, it’ll keep till tomorrow.’
Quade made ready to ride back to his spread. He frowned because there was something on his mind that he felt was needed to be said.
‘Uh . . . Mr Cassidy. . . .’
‘Yeah?’
Quade saw Harmony emerge from the cabin so he lowered his voice again and spoke quickly to Brett.
‘I don’t want you to take offence at this, but I’ve seen the way she’s been looking at you. And I’ve noticed your eyes, too.’ Bravely, he warned, ‘You might be a professional gunfighter and I’m just a common ole sodbuster, but if you don’t treat the widow right, you’d have to answer to me – and to my wife.’
Brett raised his eyebrows at this elderly homesteader’s sudden surge of bravado. He liked the man. He had guts.
‘I’m sure Harmony’s a mighty respectable woman so you and Mrs Quade can sleep easy,’ Brett assured him. He grinned now. ‘Besides, I’ve ridden a long trail. The only thing I have on my mind right now is shut-eye. See you in the morning.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Harmony had just lit her cabin lamp when Brett’s roan let out a warning whinny from the lean-to stable. The gunfighter took three steps to the window curtains and parted them. It was sundown. Tall pines made stark arrows against the crimson sky in the twilight world of shadows. Suddenly a shadow moved, then another. There were two riders this side of the old wagon Tom and Harmony had come west in.
‘We have company,’ Brett said. ‘Reckon our Cheyenne friends are back.’
‘Oh, thank God you’re here,’ Harmony McBeath whispered beside him, clutching his right arm.
‘Stay inside, Harmony,’ Brett told her firmly, ‘while I find out what the hell they want.’
‘Be careful,’ she whispered. ‘Please be careful, Brett.’
Picking up his rifle, he edged the door slowly open. Looking out through the thin crack between door and frame, he could only make out two riders, definitely the same ones who’d shadowed him on his way. According to Harmony, these were the Indians who had been here before. However, Brett figured there could be others concealed out there in the dusk so he was taking no chances.
‘Get that rifle you greeted me with,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes I will,’ she said, hurrying to the cupboard where she grabbed Tom’s old hunting gun.
‘And keep away from the window,’ he warned her.
He stood motionless in the doorway, rifle in hand, his eyes roving slowly over Harmony’s range. Still he saw no movement, but that didn’t mean more Indians weren’t there. As for the two he could see, they were etched against the fading light of day. Now he could play a waiting game, but he’d had enough of them. It was time to challenge these Cheyenne riders. He leaned his rifle against the cabin wall. He didn’t want it to come to gunplay but if so, his twin Colts would be sufficient.
A night owl hooted from the high branches of a pine as Brett walked slowly towards the two mounted Indians.
They both seemed surprised to see him and exchanged brief words. Maybe they’d judged he was merely a visitor and would be gone by now. If that’s what they’d thought, then Brett was doubly concerned. As Brett approached, the older Cheyenne warrior spoke sharply to the young buck, as if restraining him.
Brett halted ten paces away.
‘I am a friend of the Cheyenne people,’ he said in their tongue. ‘I once lived amongst you and I know your lingo.’
The Indian riders both stared at him, uncertain now. They hadn’t expected this. As for Brett, he was grateful for that winter in a Cheyenne camp. He’d not only learned their language, but some of their ways.
The older Indian said slowly, ‘We do not know you.’
‘My paleface name is Brett Cassidy,’ the gunfighter stated. ‘In Chief Meturato’s camp I was called Hair-on-Face because in those days I grew a beard.’
The older Cheyenne considered this carefully. He was in no hurry to reply but finally he said, ‘I have heard of Chief Meturato. His camp is many moons ride from here.’ Thinking some more, he said, ‘my name is Avonaco.’
‘Leaning Bear in my lingo,’ Brett informed him, still hoping to keep things on a friendly basis.
‘My son’s name is. . . .’
‘I speak for myself,’ the younger buck interrupted, his tone sharp. He leaned forward over his pony’s head and said quickly. ‘Ocunnowhurst.’
‘Yellow Wolf,’ Brett translated.
The buck’s eyes narrowed. He had two weapons, a rifle in a skin sheath and a hunting knife hooked under his belt. Unlike his father, he was far from impressed this white man had spent time with his people. Rather, hot resentment blazed from his eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ Brett demanded.
Yellow Wolf replied scornfully, ‘Cheyenne warriors do not need to answer paleface questions.’
‘But this is paleface land,’ Brett pointed out.
Ignoring Brett’s statement, Yellow Wolf spat into the earth.
‘Where is woman who lives here?’
‘So that’s what this is all about,’ Brett said slowly.
Leaning Bear told him, ‘My son has come here to talk to her.’
Brett knew Yellow Wolf had come for more than talk. Harmony had read the real intent on his face and he could read those piercing eyes right here and now. This Cheyenne brave was on a mission. He wanted a woman and having set eyes on Harmony he desired her. If he succeeded, she wouldn’t be the first white woman to be kidnapped and taken as a squaw. Twice, when he was in the Army, they’d rescued two such women from Indian villages and brought them back to Fort Glory. The women were never the same again. It wasn’t going to happen to Harmony McBeath.
‘My woman does not wish to talk to Yellow Wolf,’ Brett asserted.
‘Your woman? She is not your woman!’ the Indian buck challenged. He sneered, ‘You have not been here with her!’
‘So you’ve been watching,’ Brett accused.
‘You lie,’ Yellow Wolf insisted. ‘She is not your woman!’
The gunfighter bristled, his hand itching to lift his right side gun. It would be so easy for him. Just one bullet and Yellow Wolf would be dead before he toppled from his cloth saddle. But he didn’t want to make things worse between the homesteaders and the Cheyennes.
‘She is my wife,’ Brett said coldly. ‘I have been away hunting.’
Leaning Bear nodded sagely and spoke to Yellow Wolf. ‘My son wastes his time and my time too.’
But the young warrior was in no mood to listen to his father’s counsel. He’d seen the white woman, more times than she knew, and he wanted her. It was more than desire. Having told other braves in his camp he would bring her home, his standing among them was at stake. Failure meant scorn from his peers.
Yellow Wolf slid snake-like from his pony’s back to the ground and set his face for the cabin.
Brett barred his way.
Shaking with rage, Yellow Wolf pulled his hunting knife from his belt. Crouching, he brandished the blade as Brett stood his ground. Suddenly the Cheyenne lunged at him. Brett could have easily lifted a gun and blasted him but instead he sidestepped Yellow Wolf and grabbed his right wrist. Locked to
gether, the two men swayed in the dusk. Brett twisted the Indian’s wrist, forcing his fingers open. The hunting knife slipped from his grasp, falling between them before thudding into the dust. Old Leaning Bear never moved, merely sitting astride his pony watching as Brett rammed his knee into the younger man’s belly. Yellow Wolf yelped as pain raced through him, then screamed again when Brett’s two fists landed in his chest, both close to the heart. The Cheyenne faltered, tried to trip Brett with his left foot but the gunfighter hit him again, this time square on the jaw. Glimpsing his knife protruding from the earth, Yellow Wolf tried to scoop it up. However, Brett booted it clear of the Indian’s grasping fingers. Straightening up, Yellow Wolf walked straight into Brett’s right fist that squashed his aquiline nose. That’s when he tumbled. He crashed to the ground at Brett’s feet where he lay clutching his broken nose, blood oozing between his fingers.
Brett picked up the knife and walked to Yellow Wolf’s pony where he lifted the ancient rifle from its sheath. Then he stood back as the battered Cheyenne buck first sat up, then clambered slowly and painfully to his feet. Brett didn’t need to say anything. Yellow Wolf was not only returning to his village empty-handed, but even his weapons had been taken from him. He would take years to live this down and Brett watched as he trudged crestfallen to his pony. His body had taken such a beating it was difficult for him to mount up. In fact, it took two attempts before Yellow Wolf was able to sit on his cloth saddle. His eyes were glassy.
The sun had almost drifted below the western ridges when the old Cheyenne, Leaning Bear, left his son and rode over to where Brett Cassidy stood with the captured weapons.
Brett said, ‘He needed to learn a lesson, Leaning Bear.’
‘You are wearing two guns,’ the old Indian observed. ‘I thank you for not killing him.’
‘He’ll be sore but he’ll be fine.’
‘Tell your squaw that she will not be bothered again by my son.’
Brett assured him, ‘Both of us wish to live in peace with the Cheyenne people.’
‘It is good to live in peace, but white people need to stop acts of war.’
‘Tell me what you mean, Leaning Bear.’
‘White men have been seen shooting buffalo and deer on our lands,’ the Indian warrior said. ‘That is stealing Cheyenne food.’ After a long silence, Leaning Bear then continued, ‘They have also stolen our women.’
‘How did this happen?’
Leaning Bear said, ‘Twice white men have entered our lands and taken our women. Three squaws were captured while checking fish traps in a river outside one of our villages. They were just taken. Their bodies have not been found. They must still be alive. We did not know where they were, but the men of that village started talking of war. Then, just days ago, six women, some of them maidens who have never been with a man, were grabbed from my own village. Our men were out hunting, leaving the women with some old men, even older than me. The white men came with guns. The women were forced into a wagon and taken away. When our hunters came home, they followed the wheel tracks to a big canyon. We call it Valley of Snakes.’
So Preacher O’Toole’s ‘vision’ wasn’t merely the ravings of a man who’d imbibed too much. He really had seen a wagon-load of Indian women, all taken from their Cheyenne homelands.
‘Rattler Canyon,’ Brett supplied.
‘That is the place,’ Leaning Bear confirmed. ‘Our warriors entered this canyon. Many white men live there. We say Valley of Snakes is Cheyenne land. We have allowed your people to build their cabins there, but when those white men saw our braves tracking the wagon through the canyon, they forgot Cheyenne generosity. They opened fire on our warriors. Two were shot dead. Another wounded. He will walk with a limp for the rest of his days. We do not know where our women were taken. Will they become slaves, like some black-skin people we have heard about?’
‘Leaning Bear, I know you speak the truth and I’m telling you these white renegades will be punished,’ Brett promised.
‘My people are angry, the drums of war are being heard in some villages and our young men, like my son, Yellow Wolf, are ready to raid and kill.’
‘These white renegades are not the settlers in Lonesome Valley,’ Brett pointed out. ‘The people who live here on their small farms are peaceful.’
‘Young braves painted for war will just seek to kill whites and this valley, being close to Cheyenne land, will be where they will strike first,’ Leaning Bear predicted. ‘Hear me, Hair-on-Face, you are a good man. But good and bad alike die in war. In last few weeks, some Cheyenne bucks have made raids on this valley, maybe taken some sheep or cattle for food, but what you have seen is nothing compared to what many young braves are planning.’
‘Listen to me, Leaning Bear. I know you are a wise man. You know if there’s a massacre in this valley, then the bluecoat soldiers will come in and destroy your people and seize your land. I don’t want this, neither do you.’
‘But if white men keep taking our squaws, nothing will stop war.’
‘Father!’ Yellow Wolf finally spoke up. He’d been chastened, he’d lost a fight and the anger was still there, making his voice tremble. ‘When the moon is full, a war party will ride.’ Defiantly, he told both men, ‘I will ride with that war party.’
Brett glanced up at the rising moon. There were two nights left before the moon was full. Time was running out.
‘I will do what I can to find and return your women,’ Brett promised.
‘Do this and we will live in peace once again.’
‘So long,’ Brett said.
There are no words for ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’ in the Cheyenne tongue but Leaning Bear raised his hand in a gesture of respect. He then spoke briefly to his son and turned his pony. The young buck lingered, fixed his dark, brooding eyes on the white man, spat into the dust and joined his father.
Together they retreated, taking the track that led back to the road.
Brett opened the cabin door and saw Harmony framed in the lamp glow. She was white-faced and trembling. Still holding her hunting rifle, she ran to Brett and clutched his arm with her free hand.
‘I was watching through the curtains, Brett,’ she said, holding on to him. ‘When he came at you with that knife, I was so scared for you.’
‘They won’t be coming back,’ Brett said.
Harmony breathed a sigh of relief. ‘You sound very sure.’
‘As sure as a man can be.’
‘You seemed to be doing a lot of talking,’ Harmony said, her fingers finally trailing away from his arm, ‘but I couldn’t hear a word that was said.’
‘I once learned their lingo so we all understood each other.’
‘But the young buck took exception to what was said?’
‘His name was Yellow Wolf and he had his sights set on you.’
She shivered. ‘I knew as much.’
‘I decided to put them both off once and for all.’
‘How did you do that?’ she asked.
‘I told them you’re my woman,’ Brett recalled for her. ‘Well, more than that. I said you were my wife.’
A flush of red sprang to Harmony’s cheeks and she gasped, ‘Oh!’
‘Figured that would convince the young buck he was wasting his time,’ Brett explained. ‘At first he didn’t get the message, but he did by the time I’d taken his weapons and sent him on his way.’
She breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘I’m very grateful, Brett. I might not be your wife, but you certainly deserve some of my home cooking.’
‘Looking forward to it, Harmony.’
Night closed over Lonesome Valley as Harmony cooked the evening meal. She fried cutlets of corned beef, heated potato and vegetables from her garden and bread pudding. It had been a long time since she’d entertained a guest for supper and she hesitated before reaching in the pantry for the small bottle of wine she’d been given last Thanksgiving. They shared the meal. She spoke at length about how hard it was to be a widow on a homesteader�
��s acreage, but he sensed her determination to realise the dream she and Tom had in coming here. He said little about himself. He mentioned his army service, the year in a Cheyenne camp, but little else.
After all, what does a professional gunfighter talk about to a decent woman?
Outside, a chill wind coming down from through the pass swept across the valley, making the pine branches sway, ruffling the grasses and raising dust along the trail. Clouds edged across the face of the moon.
‘You said you’re meeting Will here tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘At first light,’ Brett confirmed.
She hesitated. ‘So – so you’ll be staying here tonight?’
‘If that’s OK?’
‘Yes, yes, of course it is.’
Harmony looked across the table. Brett Cassidy was seated in the glow of the lamp, drinking coffee she’d just made for him. She remembered that afternoon in Jericho Creek, remembered how she’d looked at him in that fleeting moment he’d drifted past the wagons on his way out of town. After he’d ridden past, she’d felt a touch of guilt at even looking that way at a man who wasn’t her husband. She was glad no one had noticed her.
But she looked at him now, more lingeringly.
She admired him for keeping his promise to Tom. It was like he was keeping his promise to her too. Yet she was fearful. The hopes of every settler in Lonesome Valley were invested in this man. But how could one man, even a professional gunfighter, get rid of Delaney and his gang? Surely there were too many of them for one man. And no one would ride with him. Not that he would ask. In any case, none of the homesteaders had the stomach for a gun battle with Delaney’s killers. The only exception would most probably be Will Quade, but he was too old, too slow. Delaney’s men would fill him with lead for sure and there would be another grave and another grieving widow in Lonesome Valley.
She prayed they wouldn’t kill Brett Cassidy. Despite his reputation, he was outnumbered, a man alone against a bunch of murdering swine.
