“Because he’s my enemy!” came the angry reply.
“Perhaps he is your enemy, but he is not ours. He fought bravely, and he let two of our warriors go when he could have killed them. Your actions are those of a coward. And a coward is usually also a liar. We will ask the white warrior and hear his side. A man who fights as he fought cannot be the bad man you led us to believe he was. You try to trick us with your lies, and with your firewater. You think we will drink the firewater and then act like fools!”
“Now listen here—”
Moss heard a thud.
“You will not speak more words until we have spoken with the white warrior!” the Indian’s voice spoke up.
Now hands were untying the ropes at Moss’s wrists and ankles. He groaned as men lifted him. He was placed on something soft. Then something was poured over his back and wounded arm, and he was sure his screams could be heard all the way to Canada.
“The firewater will help keep away evil spirits that make the wounded body sick and sometimes kill it,” a man told him. It was an Indian. “We will put bear grease on the lashes. It looks very bad for you, white warrior.”
“Why…are you…helpin’ me?” Moss groaned.
“You fought us bravely. And you let two of my warriors go when you could have used your gun on them. You will rest now.”
“Don’t…kill them,” Moss groaned.
“Why should we not kill them?”
“Save them…for me. I need…to do it…myself.”
“First we will learn the truth,” the Indian replied. “Perhaps it is you who will die after all, no?”
Moss strained to look up at the Indian. The man was smiling.
“Perhaps,” Moss groaned before passing out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Moss was awakened with a splash of cold water on his face. His first reaction was to jump up, but black pain shot through his left arm, intensified by the added pain and burning of his back. He got to his knees and cried out, then just sat there rocking, his left arm hanging limp. His limbs ached from his earlier straining at the ropes, and from the cold that had settled through his skin and muscles. He felt cold clear to the bone, yet feverish.
“It is time to talk!” a voice spoke up. Moss ran a hand through his hair and looked around, everything fuzzy at first. Then it all came back to him. The Indians had come and released him from Rand Barker’s torture. Had God sent them?
His vision cleared, as well as his mind, which only made his pain worse. He was now surrounded by Apache Indians, and looked into the face of one who had the marks of a leader. That one was standing, while the others sat in a circle around Moss.
“It is time to hear what you have to say,” the leader spoke up. “You are good fighter—brave man. Therefore we helped you, for now. The three white ones over there beat on you when you already seemed to be dying, and tied you so you were helpless instead of allowing you to stand up and fight like a man.”
Moss looked over at Barker, Weber, and Monroe, who all sat close together at a distance, surrounded by Apache guards. Barker glared at Moss, and Moss grinned.
“Your plan backfire, Barker?” he asked.
“That man’s no good!” Barker shouted back to the Indian leader. “I told you that before! He’s raped squaws and will kill any Apache in sight. He hates Indians! And he killed my wife! That’s why I wanted to kill him—why I asked you to help me!”
Moss turned to face the leader.
“Is this true?” the Indian asked, his dark eyes flashing and his black, straight hair hanging to his waist in a tangle. The Indian’s arms flexed in anger. Moss knew the Apache to be vicious killers, especially of men they thought cowardly or men who killed without just cause.
“None of it’s true,” Moss replied, holding the Indian’s eyes steadily. “For one thing, if I was an Indian killer, why would I have let them two warriors go back there? I could have shot them without no trouble at all. But I could see they was through with me, so I was through with them. I’ve never killed an Indian that didn’t attack me first.”
He grimaced in pain and looked down at his arm. It was difficult to tell how deeply it had been severed, as it was wrapped in mounds of bloody, dirty gauze. The thought that he might lose the arm passed through his mind, but now was not the time to fret about it. Now would be his only chance to get the cross back for Amanda.
“And have you raped squaws?”
“I’ve never raped any woman!” Moss shot back. “It’s Rand Barker over there who’s the rapist! He robbed a train I was on up in Wyoming Territory. I had a lady friend with me—a nice girl that didn’t belong to no man, never been touched by a man. But Barker there dragged her off with him. And he raped her. You yourself know it’s bad enough for a white man to rape a squaw. But to rape his own kind makes him doubly guilty. There’s nothin’ lower than a man who’ll turn on his own kind. And that’s not the only way he turned on his own. He got a bunch of Sioux Indians to help him rob the train—promised them the guns that was on the train, even though he knew them Indians would probably use the guns against whites eventually. Now I’m sure you’d be all for them Sioux gettin’ the guns, but the fact remains that Rand Barker helped them Indians get the rifles—which is the same as a man turnin’ against his own brother. Can a man like that be trusted?”
The Indian turned to stare at Barker.
“Don’t believe him!” Barker protested, but his eyes betrayed the fear that was inside the man, and the Indian sensed it right away. There was only one reason for Barker to be afraid, and that would be because this man was telling the truth.
“The woman. She was yours?” the Indian asked.
“Not really. It’s kind of like when one of your own young girls glances sideways at you, and you get this kind of ache inside to make her your wife, you know?”
Their eyes held and then the Indian smiled. “I know.”
Moss smiled back. “I sure could use a cigar. I had some in my buckskin jacket.”
The Indian motioned to one of the other Apache, and the man retrieved the jacket for Moss.
Moss put the cigar in his mouth with his good hand, then struck a match on a nearby rock and lit it. He puffed it a moment, and it seemed to help the pain somewhat. He wondered what his back looked like, and rage built inside of him at Clyde Monroe, who had so gleefully whipped him. He glanced at Monroe, and the man smiled. Moss wondered if perhaps Monroe was insane.
“How do I know all of this is true?” the Indian asked.
“You check out Barker’s saddlebags,” Moss replied, with the cigar still at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll find the money he stole from the train—money that was part of a payroll for some soldiers. And you’ll find a Christian cross, with pretty stones in it. It’s quite valuable, and it belonged to the woman. She was real religious. The cross was a gift from her church in the east to a church in California, where she was headed. Stealin’ that cross is like somebody stealin’ one of your most precious objects of worship—like takin’ somethin’ from a sacred burial ground, or takin’ an instrument that belongs to one of your medicine men. It’s the same thing. The cross is strong medicine. He had no right takin’ it. You check his things and you’ll find it. I don’t doubt you might even find some of the woman’s clothes. It would be like him to keep them as a sort of souvenir to brag about to somebody later on.”
“He said you killed his wife.”
“Men like Rand Barker don’t take wives. They take other men’s wives. Or better yet, they take fresh ones—sometimes rape them, sometimes take them to Mexico to sell, where in the end they’ll still be raped.”
The Indian put his hands on his hips and walked a circle around Moss.
“Ask yourself why I was followin’ them,” Moss went on. “I was out for revenge. Rand Barker took an innocent young woman that I was interested in maybe marrying. And he took the cross, which was very precious to her. I come down here for vengeance, and to take the cross back. That young girl
is feelin’ shamed and soiled. The only thing I can think of to help her feel better is to get that cross back to her.”
The Indian paced some more. Then he motioned to two of his men. “See what is in their bags!” he announced.
“Now wait just a minute—” Barker started to protest. One of the Apache guarding him placed the end of a rifle against Barker’s neck.
“You will not speak!” he ordered.
The Indians ripped through the three men’s saddlebags, spilling out food and supplies, then shouting with excitement when they found several bundles of money, just as Moss said they would. Then one of them pulled out the crucifix and held it up in one hand. In the other hand he held up a pair of pantaloons. They were white and lacy, and Moss’s chest tightened at the sight of them. He wanted to cry and kill at the same time.
The leader walked over to inspect the items. He brought them back to Moss and laid them in front of the man. Moss picked up the cross and studied it closely. He’d never even seen it up close before now. It was dazzling: deeply carved and golden, filled with precious stones. He felt unworthy to even touch it. He laid it down and lightly touched the lace of the pantaloons. The Indians retrieved all the money they could find and laid it in front of Moss. Moss looked up at their leader.
“It is as you say,” the man told him. “The man called Barker tricked us into thinking you were the one who should die. But he is the one who will die!”
“Wait!” Moss spoke up as the Indian started to walk toward Barker with his knife pulled. “Killin’ is my job…my privilege!” He squinted with pain even as he spoke. He’d been trying to ignore the throbbing in his arm, but he knew that if he didn’t get some whiskey in his belly soon the pain would be unbearable. The Indian walked back to Moss.
“You are gravely wounded. And you are weak. How would you propose to take them?”
“You help me up…put my gun on me…and give them their guns,” Moss replied. “I can…take all three of them.”
The Indian frowned, and Sollit Weber chuckled. Weber’s fears were alleviated now, as well as those of the other two men. At the hands of the Apache, they would have no chance. But Moss Tucker planned to kill them himself, and he was badly wounded. None of them figured there was any real danger.
“It is a foolish thing you ask!” the Indian told Moss.
“You’ve never seen me use my gun in a one-on-one gunfight,” Moss told him. “And when I’m mad I just get faster. Now I’m too weak to take them on bodily. And I’m not a man to tie another man down and murder him without him havin’ no defense…no matter how bad the man is. So that leaves…only one alternative. Them three are mine…and I aim to have the pleasure of gunnin’ them down while they’re standin’ on their own feet lookin’ me in the eye.”
“One at a time then,” the Indian told him.
“No. All three at once.”
This time Rand Barker laughed, and Clyde Monroe cackled, rubbing his hands together.
“And if you lose?” the Indian asked.
Moss looked from the Indian to Barker, then back to the Indian.
“I lose…they go free.”
Their eyes held, and then the Indian glanced slyly over at Barker.
“For a time,” he replied. “Whoever remains will get a head start. But it would be wise for him to quickly get out of Apache country. News travels fast among us when there is a coward in our midst. Especially when the coward is white!”
Moss smiled to himself. If he lost this gunfight, any man who remained would probably not get far before running into more Apache.
“And the cross?” he asked the Indian.
The dark man knelt down, picked up the crucifix and studied it closely, holding it in hands gnarled and creased by time, wind, and weather.
“Some of my warriors will take it to the soldiers if you die. Would the soldiers see that the woman gets the cross?”
“I expect they would. They all know the story.”
The Indian laid the cross down.
“What about the money?” Moss asked.
The Indian stared at the bundles of greenbacks a moment. Then he spit at it.
“The Apache has no use for the white man’s money! It is his lust for money that makes the white man evil! I will have nothing to do with the evil this money brings! And where would I spend it even if I kept it? The white man will not let us go into his fancy stores. And if we keep it, the white man will hunt us for it. No. It will be given to the soldiers with the cross.”
Moss threw down his cigar.
“Help me up…and get my gun,” he told the Indian.
Two warriors helped him to his feet, and Moss cried out when one of them touched his wounded arm. For a moment everything spun around him and the black pain swept through him like a giant wave from hell itself. He clung to one of the Indian bucks until the dizziness went away. He longed for some whiskey, but that would have to wait until the killing was done. His senses were already dulled from the pain and loss of blood. He broke out in a cold sweat, and the terrible burning in his back seemed to get worse. But he concentrated on Amanda and what Rand Barker had done to her; it helped ease the pain and get his mind on vengeance. He thought about the crucifix, and wondered if he should pray for help in this thing he was about to do. But he decided that was something a man didn’t ask God for—help to murder someone. He suddenly wondered if there was any hope of him getting to heaven.
“Slim chance,” he mumbled, his breath coming in short gasps now while an Apache buckled his gun belt for him.
Moss took out the Peacemaker with his right hand to make sure it was loaded, spinning the cartridge with his thumb while holding it in the same hand. He tried not to think about the fact that he could not move his left arm or hand at all.
Now he forced himself to breathe deeply and concentrated on only one thing: the gunfight. Rand Barker was fast. And he was rested and unharmed. He had no idea if the other two were any good with a gun, but it was unlikely they came anywhere near Rand Barker in speed. So his first concern would have to be Barker. Once Barker was hit, the other two would be easy. Moss counted on having time—time between drawing and shooting Barker, and the time it would take for the other two to draw and react. They were not professionals. They would hesitate. Barker would not.
Now guns were being given back to the three prisoners. Barker eyed Moss steadily, realizing the match he was up against. Moss Tucker could not be taken for granted, even though he was wounded. Moss Tucker had a temper—and a vengeance to satisfy. Barker was certain his two companions would never survive the gunfight, but that mattered little. In fact, it would be nice if they did get killed. If Barker were the only survivor, perhaps he could talk the Indians into giving the money back to him. At the least, he could go on down to Mexico and spend the money the others had kept; they were all to meet in Mexico eventually. Rand Barker did not know that Moss had sent men after the rest of his gang. Barker also had money hidden inside his shirt and pants, and under his saddle. Things wouldn’t work out half bad if he could just kill off Moss Tucker.
Moss studied Sollit Weber for a moment, enjoying the flush of nervousness on the young man’s boyish face.
“What’s it feel like to know death is only minutes away, kid?” he asked the young man.
“Shut up, Tucker!” Weber snarled.
“You’ll pay for the trick you pulled on me, you bastard!” Moss growled back. Dizziness swept over him again, but he held his ground and forced himself not to show it.
Clyde Monroe just stood staring and smiling. The three men spread out slightly, all eyeing Moss closely now, and Moss backed up slightly.
“I’m ready any time you are, Barker!” Moss grumbled.
“You mean I get to go first?” Barker asked with a sneer.
“You bet!” Moss replied. The thought of Amanda struggling and screaming while this man beat and raped her burned in his gut now. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. There had to be no hesitation—not even for the
slightest fraction of a second. “Alert! Alert! Stay alert and ignore the pain,” he told himself. Perhaps he would die of his wounds. But dying would have to wait until later. First he must do this. First he must kill Rand Barker.
There! Barker went for his gun. Their timing was almost simultaneous. But Moss Tucker did not hesitate. There was such little difference in the time they fired their guns that the onlookers were certain they went off at the same time. But Moss Tucker’s went off first, and Rand Barker’s bullet whizzed across the top of Moss’s shoulder, led astray by the jolt to Barker’s body when Moss’s bullet hit him square in the center of his chest. The rest was easy for Moss. A surprised Sollit Weber stared in disbelief after a quick second shot from Tucker’s gun hit him. The young man staggered backward and fell dead, his boyish face now turned to stone, the blue eyes staring up emptily.
Clyde Monroe had not even drawn his gun. He’d been so certain that Barker would take Moss Tucker, that he’d figured it wouldn’t even be necessary to draw. When Moss’s bullet found its mark in Monroe’s chest, the man just stared, and then actually laughed. Moss fired again at the crazy man. A large hole appeared in the man’s forehead, and the laughter stopped. His body slumped to the ground.
For at least a full minute the only sound was the wind. Sweat trickled down the side of Moss’s face, even though a chilly wind caused him to shiver. He stood there shirtless and rigid. It was over. He’d killed Amanda Boone’s rapist and saved the precious crucifix. Now the problem was to get it back to her. He’d rather hand it to her personally and see the look on her face. But now that he’d done his killing, he had time to remember—remember the pain, and the fact that his arm was severed deeply, perhaps through the bone itself. Now all of his other senses returned. The pain hit him, and he reeled from the still-fresh wounds, the savage whipping, and his too cold body. He was suddenly spent and sick. He slumped to the ground while the Apache just stood and stared, overwhelmed at Moss Tucker’s performance with a gun.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lawless Love Page 19
