Logan's Word: A Logan Family Western - Book 1 (Logan Family Western Series)

by Donald L. Robertson

  “Don’t know much about the owner of the Shamrock Saloon. Name’s Cecil Starit. His games are straight, and he treats the boys right—never seems to take advantage of them when they’re drunk. But that’s all I know about him. He’s been in town a couple of months, like all the other townsfolk. He’s friendly, but doesn’t talk much.”

  Josh led the roan out of the corral and swung up into the saddle. The big horse bowed his back, crow-hopped a couple of times, settled down, and stamped his feet impatiently.

  “That leaves the King 7 Saloon,” Nance continued. He patted the horse a couple of times on the neck. “Watch your back in there. A man by the name of Wesley Pierce owns it. He’s another one not a lot is known about. He showed up from back east with everyone else in town, when the fort opened. Big man, kinda dark complected; always wears black. He wears two pearl-handled guns, both tied down. He can use them, too.

  “A drifter accused him of cheating. The man had a bullet through his brisket and he hadn’t even cleared leather. Pierce is a man to keep your eyes on. Ruffcarn always seems to stop in at the King 7 when he’s in town.”

  The roan stomped his feet again, shaking his head against the bridle.

  “Seems anxious to be on his way,” Josh said.

  “He’s a good horse; plenty of wind. He’ll work for you all day and never look back.”

  “I appreciate the use of him. It gives mine a chance to rest up. We’ve still got a long trip ahead of us when we finish here.

  “Tell Teresa thanks for the hot breakfast. A man forgets how good it is to slide his boots under a real table for a hot meal. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “One other thing, Josh,” the old ranger said, “keep an eye on the creek beds. The Comanches like to lay up along the creek during the day. I wouldn’t want to lose my new foreman the first day on the job.”

  Josh raised a hand as he turned the roan out of the ranch yard. The sun was just beginning to climb over the hills behind him. He watched the bright yellow beams quickly descend from the red clay and gray boulders on the hillsides to the golden grasses that waved in the valley.

  The light green of the long-leaved mesquites flowed down the hills to give way to the deeper greens of the oak and pecan trees along the Jim Ned. It was no wonder Bill Nance was willing to fight for this valley. This was home for him. He’d raised a family here, had buried his wife here. Josh understood what having a home-place meant.

  Josh reached the hilltop and let the roan out into a lope. The horse needed to burn off a little of the wild edge before he settled down to the day’s travel. After a few minutes, he slowed him to a fast walk. The roan moved along, smoothly covering the distance—not as smooth nor as fast as Chancy. That Morgan was a fine horse. Josh, while keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings, thought back to the day the colt had entered the world, fighting and kicking. He was pure Morgan stock.

  That little colt was up on his shaky legs almost immediately. Those big eyes took in his new world with brash confidence as he wandered around the stall investigating everything, then he turned around, raced back, and butted the flanks of his ma for his first meal. Right there Pa said, “Josh, this colt’s your’n for life. You take good care of him, and I’ve a feelin’ he’ll take care of you more’n you know.”

  They moved through the mesquite on the hilltop, far enough back from the crest to prevent their silhouette from catching any unfriendly eye. Continuing to keep a constant lookout, his mind wandered again back to Tennessee.

  Grandpa Logan had always admired good horse flesh. He would have been tickled with the enthusiasm of the colt. Josh remembered that old man as if it were yesterday; a tall man, with wide shoulders, though a little stooped with age. He could still feel those huge hands that lifted his four-year-old body with ease and the security he felt when he was with his grandfather. He loved his grandfather’s stories, told around the fireplace at night after his mother and father had finished reading to them.

  His grandfather had gone west, from North Carolina, with Daniel Boone. They had opened the Wilderness Road to Kentucky. It hadn’t been without cost. Many had died from disease, some from mishaps that befall men in the wilderness; a slip of the axe, a broken leg while out hunting or scouting alone, and Cherokee arrows. Josh could still remember hearing about Daniel Boone and his famous rifle.

  The rifle was a long-barreled flintlock. Unlike the British muskets, the barrel had grooves cut inside it that spiraled toward the muzzle. The spiraled grooves bit into the .32 caliber lead ball, forcing it to spin as it traveled down the barrel. This provided much greater stability to the bullet and gave it great accuracy out to two hundred yards or more, much to the dismay of Boone’s enemies. Daniel Boone, it was said by some, could shoot a tick off a bear at 200 yards. Thus the name for his rifle, Ticklicker.

  When his grandfather saw the Cumberland Mountains of Tennessee he knew he was home. Daniel persuaded him to continue, to what later became Boonesboro. The next spring, however, he returned to Tennessee. On Short Mountain, in the eastern Cumberlands, he built his cabin.

  Grandpa Logan brought his new bride, against the wishes of her well-to-do parents, from North Carolina. Together, they made their home. Josh’s Pa, his aunt, and all of his uncles had been born in the cabins built on that land. The Indians burned them to the ground twice. The family rebuilt their home each time, and there they stayed. Yes, Josh understood the meaning of a home-place and the need to defend it.

  Josh reined the roan over to the hillside. He eased him into a thicket of scrub oak, just close enough to see beyond the crest of the hill, but camouflaged from view by anyone in or across the valley.

  Camp Wilson was still more than a full day’s ride to the north. He’d been riding for a couple of hours and figured to give the horse a break. He didn’t want the Comanches nor the Circle W bunch to suddenly appear over the hill while he was out of the saddle.

  Everything was quiet. Down the creek a pack of coyotes were playing near their den. He could see the half-grown pups jumping high in the tall grass, probably chasing a mouse. The two adults lay in the short, green grass under the trees, taking advantage of the breeze that labored to cool the late summer morning.

  Josh’s gaze was attracted up the creek by a flock of turkeys that came dashing out from under the trees. They had been calmly chasing grasshoppers, a staple in their diet. Now they ran quickly into the tall grass and broomweeds on the valley floor. He could occasionally see a bronze colored back or red head of a gobbler as they ran through the grass.

  He turned in the saddle and opened his saddlebags. He pulled out his binoculars, two extra Colts, and a bandolier filled with .44 caliber rimfire cartridges for the Winchester. He draped the bandolier over the saddle horn, checked the loads in the two Colt revolvers, and slid them under his gunbelt. The Winchester Yellow Boy held seventeen rounds. There were five rounds in each revolver. That gave him some pretty impressive firepower. It also didn’t take into account the two boxes, of fifty rounds each, for the Winchester or the extra loaded cylinders for the revolvers in the saddlebags. He didn’t want a fight, but Pa had taught him to be ready if one came his way.

  Josh checked the thicket along the creek with the binoculars. The turkeys had been in the edge of the pecan trees chasing grasshoppers. They wouldn’t have left that quickly unless something spooked them. He waited. He’d seen this game played many a time. The one who moved first usually lost. Probably whoever or whatever had scared them still had no idea he was on the hill. If it were Indians, they would wait till everything quieted down before they moved. The Comanches would be watching the hillsides like hawks. If he moved now he would be spotted. Movement in the war could bring instant death. Here, it might not be as quick, but you would be just as dead. He waited.

  Thirty minutes passed. The coyotes had seen the turkeys. They had watched tensely for a while, all play forgotten. Now the adult coyotes stretched and laid back down. The young ones went back to their previous game. Forty-five minutes went
by. The roan was getting restless, and Josh had just about decided the turkeys had been spooked by an animal, maybe an armadillo rooting around in the leaves.

  Josh eased the binoculars up and checked the valley; nothing. He took one last look at the coyotes, then swung the binoculars back—there they sat.

  He counted twelve Indians. They must have been in the dry creek bed, hidden by the high banks. They were all mounted on splendid horses. Each horse was painted in black Comanche warpaint. Most had a bow, though he could see a couple of rifles. One of the warriors was pointing directly at him. He was over seven hundred yards away in an oak thicket with just his head over the crest of the hill.

  Now they all seemed to be focused on him. How the heck could they have spotted him? He glanced at the sun’s location and realized they must have caught the flash from the sun’s reflection when he turned the binoculars back from the coyotes—what a greenhorn mistake.

  “Well, horse, if we move, they see us; if we don’t, they ride up here to check out the flash. Either way, we’re in for a fight. So let’s not keep ‘em waiting.”

  He had spotted a ravine just deep enough to protect him and the horse. It was about four hundred yards farther across the mesa. There was little cover around it for about fifty yards; just some scattered mesquite. It would give him a good field of fire, protect his horse, and put the Comanches in the open.

  He swung the horse toward the ravine. Instantly he could hear the whooping of the Comanches as they saw the movement. They recognized a single horseman; an easy prey.

  Josh galloped up to the ravine, leaped off his horse, and led him down into the bottom of the draw. He tied him to an exposed tree root, grabbed his saddlebags, and climbed quickly back to the edge of the ravine. He had just laid out the bandolier, extra revolvers, and extra cylinders when the Comanches came charging up over the hilltop.

  He resisted the temptation to fire. Josh knew the Winchester’s capability and his own. When the Indians galloped over the crest they were about three hundred yards away. He might have been able to drop one at that distance, but if he did, he would be giving away his advantage. A killing shot at that range would alert them. They would split up, circle him, and attack from several directions. He wanted them together and close. If he could get them into the clearing, he stood a good chance of at least wounding and maybe killing three or four. That would give the others something to think about.

  They had spread out, almost in a skirmish line. It was breath-taking to watch as they dodged through the trees and prickly pear patches at full gallop. They were yelling and whooping as they came, confident that they had run their prey to ground. Josh had been on both sides of this type of attack during the war; he calmly waited as they rapidly closed the distance.

  A shot was fired, cracking harmlessly above his head. He marked the Indian who fired and calmly chose him for his first target.

  They broke into the clearing, their black war paint glistening in the morning sun. Josh waited one more moment, centered the front sight, and squeezed the trigger. Dust leaped off the chest of the Indian who had fired the first shot as he was catapulted from his horse.

  With a quick thrust of his left hand, he levered another round into the Yellow Boy’s chamber, aimed, and fired. The Comanche on the far end of the skirmish line rolled off his horse. Josh swung to the opposite end of the line, quickly centered the sight on a huge brave, fired, and swung to another, knowing instinctively his bullet had found its mark.

  He felt his hat fly off as an arrow swept it from his head. The Indians were now within forty yards; time for one more shot with the rifle. He picked out the nearest brave, and, firing too quickly, missed. Josh filled his hands with the big Colt .44’s.

  They were close. He could hit them with a rock. At this range, after years of practice with the revolvers, he was deadly. The Indians had started turning their horses to parallel the ravine. Several were sitting erect, firing their bows as they swept past. Others were completely hidden on the opposite side of their horses, firing under their horses’ necks, while riding at a full gallop. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he couldn’t help but admire this superb display of horsemanship.

  Josh watched coolly, his mind detached, as the Colts barked their message of death with deadly accuracy. Arrows flew all around him. He felt a tug and burning in his right arm, but he didn’t stop. He was bare-headed; a tall determined man, fighting against what most folks would consider insurmountable odds. He calmly fired the Colts.

  As they swept past, now out of range of the revolvers, Josh picked up the Winchester once again. Those men meant to kill him in a most painful manner. He couldn’t let them get away. The rifle spoke twice. One Indian fell. Another Comanche jerked, grasped his horse’s, mane and managed to stay mounted.

  They were gone. Where moments before there was bedlam, now there was only an eerie, dust-covered stillness. Josh quickly filled the rifle with six more rounds, then he replaced the cylinders of the two revolvers.

  Now he had a moment to survey the battlefield. From just inside the line of trees to within twenty feet of his position, he counted five Indians. He knew he had hit at least two more.

  Quickly he eased down into the ravine and checked the roan. He would be in real trouble out here without a horse. The roan was nervous and glad to see him.

  “How you doin’, horse?” Josh asked. He moved up close and rubbed him on the neck. “Just thought I’d make sure you’re okay.”

  He pulled out two arrows that had stuck in the saddle. Neither had penetrated the tough leather of the saddle. There was a shallow gash along the roan’s right flank where an arrow had sliced a little too close. Other than that he was fine. Satisfied with his inspection, he moved back up to his firing position.

  Josh scanned the hill for any movement that might indicate the remaining Indians were preparing for another attack. There was none, but he didn’t kid himself. They hadn’t gone.

  There were too many of their brothers lying on the hill for them to leave. The Comanches weren’t ones to press a losing attack, but they would do everything in their power to give their brothers a proper burial. Comanche braves feared few things, but they did fear their angry brothers coming back from the dead and haunting them.

  One of the braves he’d shot with the revolvers moved. Josh could see him clearly. He was no more than thirty feet away. Josh remembered that one in particular. He’d been hidden behind his horse, shooting his bow from under the horse’s neck. All Josh could see, when he fired, was his face and right shoulder.

  Well, he couldn’t just leave him to die. It was one thing to kill a man in battle, but quite another to let him lie there and bleed to death. Josh checked the hill once again, stood, and walked toward the Indian. The Comanche heard Josh, rolled over, and watched him approach.

  Josh had never seen a more fierce countenance. His face was painted almost completely black, except around his eyes. They were circled in white, starkly contrasting with the rest of his face and the red blood covering the left side of his head. His hair was slicked back with buffalo dung and tied to one side of his head. It was his eyes that caught Josh’s attention. They were blue. This was a white man under the dirt and sun-browned skin.

  “You understand English?” Josh asked, the Winchester leveled at the man’s chest.

  Probably no more than twenty-five years old, he calmly appraised Josh. “Yes.”

  Chapter 5

  “You’re a white man,” Josh said.

  The Indian made a wiggling motion with his index finger. “I am Snake People—Komantcia,” he stated proudly.

  “Where did you learn to speak English?”

  “From priest who stayed with us two winters.”

  “What happened to him?” Josh asked.

  “Priest go back to mission in Mexico.

  The Indian couldn’t take his eyes off the Winchester. He was obviously mystified at it firing so many times without reloading. Josh moved closer to examine the head woun
d. The wound had bled a lot, as head wounds were apt to do, but it looked like he’d only been grazed; at the worst, a possible concussion. He would live.

  The question now was what to do with him. It was obvious the Indian would try to kill him the first chance he had. He may have been white once, but he was all Comanche now.

  “You killed many warriors,” the Comanche said. “How is it your rifle can shoot so many times without stopping?”

  Josh kept a keen lookout. He didn’t want those other Comanches to surprise him while he talked to this one. “It’s a Winchester. It fires many times without reloading.”

  “How many?”

  “Many,” Josh said. He could feel the animosity this man felt for him. Two days, two enemies; the way things were going, by the end of the week he’d have half of Texas after him.

  The Indians came riding slowly through the mesquites. They had caught the riderless horses and were leading them as they walked their horses toward Josh. When they reached the first fallen brave, two of them dismounted, picked him up, and tied him over his horse. The remaining braves kept watchful eyes on Josh.

  The wounded Indian stood. The bleeding had slowed, but was still coursing down the side of his face. He was a tall man. The muscles rippled across his scarred and tattooed chest as he fought to maintain his balance.

  Josh had no idea what they were going to do. Besides their bows, several of them carried lances, with feathers and scalps dangling from them. Carefully, keeping a close watch on all of them, he slung the Winchester into the crook of his right arm. He could bring the rifle into action instantly from that position.

  They all eyed the rifle in wonder and desire. Each would have traded all of their horses and wives to own it.

  “What’s your name?” Josh asked.

  The Indian pulled himself to his full height. “I am Eyes of Hawk. I spotted you on the hillside. It is for my far way of seeing that my father named me.”