Rocky Mountain Retribution (The Ames Archives Book 2)

by Peter Grant

  “No, I won’t, but I can hold you prisoner until I get him.”

  “You’re lyin’! From what I just saw, you don’t have enough men to spare to do that.”

  Walt had heard enough. As Morley replied, he lined his rifle barrel at a point just to the right of the window, aiming low to try to wound the man, rather than kill him. He pushed the trigger forward to set it, so that it would break with a pressure of mere ounces. His trigger finger tightened, slowly… carefully… gently…

  The rifle boomed, smoke billowing from its muzzle. A scream came from inside the barn, accompanied by a scrabbling sound. Jacob, Sam and Nate broke from behind the farmhouse and sprinted for the open doors of the barn, guns held ready. They disappeared inside.

  Within a few seconds, Nate appeared at the door. “You got him, boss!” he called. “Nice shootin’. Your bullet went through the wall into his guts. He’s still alive, but not for long.”

  Walt cursed. He’d wanted to take Morley alive, and able to talk. He struggled upright, leaving his rifle lying on his dead horse, and ran towards the barn. He found the others gathered around a gasping, writhing figure on the ground, holding his stomach. His gun had been taken from him. A shattered hole through the wood of the barn wall, low down, showed that Walt’s aim had been good: but he hadn’t known that a thick, strong support pole was behind that spot. The big, heavy slug had been deflected upwards and sideways, inflicting a fatal wound.

  Morley looked up at him. “You bastard!” he gasped, his voice agonized. “You… you’ve killed me, damn you!”

  “Someone had to, some day,” Walt agreed. “I guess I was elected. Where’s Parsons?”

  “You… go to hell… he’ll send you there… if you find him…” the man gasped. “I… shoulda had… someone on watch, but… Parsons said…”

  Whatever else he was going to say was lost in his final convulsion. His hands fell away from his torn, bloody belly. His head fell back onto the dirt floor of the barn with a dull thump as his eyes rolled upward, and his breathing ceased.

  “He’s gone,” Nate observed unnecessarily. “Isom took a bullet in the leg back there. Let’s see if he’s all right.”

  They hurried back to the bunkhouse. A shivering, dark-skinned woman was crouched in the doorway of the end room, covered only in a blanket she’d pulled around herself. She was talking to Isom, but broke off as they approached, tensing as if preparing to flee.

  “It’s all right,” they heard him assure her. “They’re with me.” He looked at them. “This is Doli. She’s Navajo. She’s a teacher at the school on the reservation, an’ knows some English. Those men caught her two days back. She was escortin’ a group of young girls to a dance. They shot her horse an’ put a bullet through her calf, but the girls got away. They brought her here, an’… well, you know.” He spat in disgust.

  “Yeah,” Walt said flatly. “Well, they’ll never do that to anybody again.”

  “Th-thank you,” the woman said unexpectedly, her voice nervous, scared. “My father is Nastas. He is at the reservation. Can you tell him?”

  “How far away is that?”

  “Two hours by horse.”

  Walt made a swift decision. “Sure, we’ll send word to him. I’ll go myself. We’ll treat your leg, and also Isom’s, then you can rest in the main house until he comes. I reckon neither of you are going to be riding anywhere for a while.”

  Tears came to her eyes. “Thank you for killing those men. Thank you!”

  “Any time at all,” Isom assured her, patting her knee awkwardly, only to pull his hand back hastily as she hissed in pain. “Sorry!”

  “Jack, get another blanket from the bunkhouse,” Walt ordered. “No—on second thought, they’ll be as dirty as the men who lived there. Get a clean blanket from the main house and help Doli here to cover herself, then help her and Isom in there. I’ll get my medical kit from the pack horse.”

  He looked to where Tom was leading the animals past his dead horse and into the farm yard. “Nate, see if you can heat water for Doli to have a bath. Tom, put our horses in the corral. Pablo, ride to those cottages further up the valley. Ask if there are any women who’ll help Doli. She’ll feel better with them around her instead of just men, I reckon. See if they can spare any clothes that will fit her. I’ll pay for them, if need be. Once she and Isom are cleaned up and their wounds are dressed, we’ll eat, then I’ll saddle one of Morley’s horses and head for the reservation.”

  * * *

  Walt sat in the front room of the farmhouse that evening, slowly cleaning his rifle by lamplight. Isom lay on the floor nearby in a makeshift bed, snoring gently after taking a dose of laudanum against the pain of his wound. Doli was in the main bedroom, with her father by her bedside.

  The four Navajo warriors who’d escorted Nastas, big, imposing men armed with old single-shot rifles, knives and tomahawks, had arrived with death in their eyes. They’d been itching to chop the dead men into pieces, in belated revenge for what they’d done, and had been very disappointed to learn that Walt’s men had already buried them. They’d worked off some of their anger by reducing the filthy bunkhouse to splintered planks, then setting fire to its remains. The ashes and embers still smoldered.

  Walt’s men and the four warriors had set up camp in the house and the barn’s hayloft. Their horses were in the barn and the corral, and they would take turns to watch over them through the night. The men were getting along very well, aided by the Navajos’ gratitude for their having rescued Nastas’ daughter. They’d killed a cow and grilled steaks for supper, washed down with black coffee and two bottles of tequila from Morley’s stocks. Walt had poured out the contents of the rest of the bottles. He didn’t want drunkenness to imperil the so far peaceful relations between them.

  He looked up as a scraping sound came from the bedroom. Doli appeared, limping, leaning on her father’s arm. Walt scrambled to his feet and offered her the armchair he was using, and she sank into it with a grateful smile. She was dressed in a long robe that her father had brought for her.

  Walt pulled out upright chairs from the table, one for Nastas, one for himself. They settled down on either side of the woman. Her father began to speak in Navajo, and Doli translated.

  “My father says he is very thankful to you for coming here when you did. They did not know where those men had taken me. Their tracks were hidden among all the others on the trail.”

  “Please tell him I’m very glad we were able to help you. I’m very, very sorry this happened, but at least those who did it have paid with their lives.”

  Her eyes flashed fire. “Yes! It was good to hear them die!” She turned to her father and translated.

  “My father asks, what will you do now? Will you go away, to hunt this man who killed your wife?”

  “Yes, I will. I’ll have to leave Isom here, though. There’s no way he can travel on horseback until his leg is healed. I’m worried about that. There’s no-one here to look after him, and I can’t afford to leave any more of my men with him.”

  There was a muttered conversation in Navajo. “My father says, I should not travel either, because my wound had become… how do you say? It was… yellow thing?”

  “Pus. It had become infected.”

  “Yes. Infected. I was very glad you had medicine with you to clean it. It hurt, but it looks much better now. I will also stay here for a while, with my father, and we will look after your friend.”

  Walt breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s great! Thank you very much. I’ll leave you the carbolic acid I used to disinfect your wounds. Isom knows how to use it. I can buy more in the next town we come to.”

  “Where do you go now? How long will you be gone?”

  “We’re heading for Taos. I found letters here from the man I’m looking for, that he sent to the man I shot in the barn. They came from the same address that I’d found somewhere else. Now that I know he’s there, I can hunt him down.”

  “When you have killed him, will you come
back?”

  “Yes, I will. I don’t think Isom will be well enough to ride for a few weeks yet, so I’ll come to tell him what happened, and take him back with me.”

  “Will you have enough men without him?”

  “I hope so. That’s the way of war. One makes do with what one has.”

  She had been translating back and forth for her father as they spoke. Now he said several sentences in Navajo. “My father says that you speak of war as if you know it. Are you a soldier?”

  “I was. I wore gray back in the Civil War. My side lost.”

  More conversation in Navajo. “My father offers one or more of his warriors, to go with you and fight alongside you. He says that would be only right, after one of yours was hurt saving his daughter.”

  “Please thank him, but that would be a problem. For a start, how would they be able to speak with us? I know Plains Indian sign language. Do you use it?”

  Her face broke into a smile. “Yes, some of us do. Where did you learn it?”

  “I crossed Kansas years ago, and learned it from a scout. I met up with Kiowa and Cheyenne there, and Arapaho too. Satank of the Kiowa gave me my Indian name.”

  Her eyes grew round with surprise. “The great war chief and medicine man? He gave you a new name?”

  “Yes. He called me ‘Brings The Lightning’.”

  She turned to her father and broke into rapid Navajo. He looked at Walt with new respect in his eyes. “He says, even out here, we have heard of Brings The Lightning, and how he shot the medicine bundle out of Hunting Wolf’s hands at a great distance. The tribes still speak of it. It is one of the tales we tell to our young warriors, to warn them not to be hot-headed. Hunting Wolf challenged Satank, and boasted of his medicine. You killed his medicine that day, and he died with it. Your medicine was stronger.”

  Walt was staggered. He’d never imagined that word of the fight would have spread over the six-hundred-odd miles between where it had happened, almost six years ago, and the Navajo reservation. He said as much.

  Doli laughed. “My father says, even though some are friends and some are enemies, we know much of what happens with other tribes, just as they know what happens with us.”

  “That’s good to know. Tell him, another problem would be that we must go into towns. His warriors wouldn’t be able to follow us there.”

  Nastas looked crestfallen, but nodded. “My father understands. He hopes there will be other times when he and his men can ride with you.”

  Walt rose and crossed to the table, which bore the weapons his men had taken from those they’d killed. They’d cleaned them while they waited for his return. He picked up a Winchester Model 1866 rifle. “Tell your father that we took four repeating rifles from the men who died here, and revolvers too. I’ll give them all to him. He and his warriors can use them to defend you and Isom while you both heal.”

  They both looked pleased. Nastas took the rifle from him and examined it, working the action with a broad smile on his face. “My father thanks you.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Tell him I was very taken with his horses. They’re wonderful animals.”

  “Yes, they are. We Navajo breed good horses. We captured our first from the Spanish, and some of us have kept their line as pure as possible. My father is one of them.”

  “I’m going to set up a horse ranch when this is over. Perhaps I can buy some breeding stock from you.”

  Nastas nodded firmly when his daughter translated. “We do not like to sell our best, but we will to you. It will be a way to repay you.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Isom sat up in his bed as Walt picked up his saddlebags. “You be careful, boss, you hear me? I’m worried about you without me there to help.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “You said Morley an’ Parsons seemed to be writin’ to each other every week. It’ll take you up to a week to get to Taos, then you still got to figure out where he is. That address is in town, so he must send a rider to pick up his mail. He won’t be livin’ there, not if he does like last time an’ has a place outside town. He might figure something’s wrong if he don’t get Morley’s next letter.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know when Morley last wrote him, but I’m hoping Parsons won’t worry too much if he misses one week’s letter. After two weeks, he’ll figure something’s wrong, but I don’t think he’ll suspect me. He’ll reckon Morley took a fall from his horse, or something like that, and he’ll send someone to check on him. That’ll give us time to find him.”

  Isom smiled coldly. “If anyone comes lookin’ for Morley, I should be well enough by then to hand him his needings.”

  “I’m counting on it. Meanwhile, take care of that leg, and don’t try to do too much, too soon. That bullet went very near the big artery. If it’d cut it, you’d have been dead in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah. I was lucky that it went clean through, in an’ out, so you didn’t have to probe for it. That might have cut the artery, too.”

  Walt winced. “I don’t even want to think about that!”

  “Neither do I. Don’t worry about me. These Injuns will look after me while I’m healin’. They seem like good people—nothin’ like the Comanche, that’s for sure! Did you know Doli’s a widow? She was just tellin’ me, while you all got ready. She has a little daughter back on the reservation. She protected those gals when the bandidos shot at them. She sent them on ahead of her, so they could escape. Damn, that took guts!”

  Walt couldn’t help being impressed. “It sure did. I guess it also made it easier for her to cope with… you know. If she’d been a virgin…”

  “Yeah.” Isom’s voice was flat, hard. “It woulda been much worse. It was bad enough as it is, but given time, I reckon she’ll get over it. She’s strong.”

  “Yeah. You can help her do that. I’ll come back in a few weeks, or send word. Don’t leave here until you know where to join me.”

  “How long do you want me to wait?”

  “I’d say up to thirty days. I’ll write to you care of general delivery at Animas City, north of here, same as Parsons used to do to write to Morley. Send one of the farm workers to check for messages there, every week or so.”

  “I’ll do that, boss. Go get Parsons. That’s all that counts.”

  Walt walked outside, strapped his saddlebags on his horse, and swung into the saddle, looking around at his men gathered in front of the farmhouse. “Is everybody ready?”

  “Sure, boss,” Jacob replied, and the others grunted their assent.

  “Then let’s ride. It’s a long way to Taos.”

  Parsons looked up from his desk as two riders clattered into the yard outside his home. He heard them dismount at the hitching rail in front of the house as he stood up and went to the front door.

  “Hi, boss!” Travis greeted him. “We figured to surprise you.”

  “You have. I didn’t expect to see you for two months yet. What brings you here?”

  “We finished all the work you gave us,” Shelton informed him, grinning. “We figured we’d come back to visit for a while, eat some more of Maria’s cookin’—she beats hell outta the gal up there—an’ ask you what else needs doin’. We also figured to find ourselves some female company down in Taos for a day or two.”

  “You’ve done well. You didn’t have any trouble with squatters? Morley said he had to run off a few.”

  “Only one family, boss, an’ after we explained the facts o’ life to ’em, they couldn’t leave fast enough. Their wagon was a-rockin’ from side to side as they headed out, an’ they were whippin’ those hosses somethin’ terrible. Why, anyone’d think they’d seen the devil or somethin’!” He raised his eyes to heaven in mock piety.

  “They saw you. That’s bad enough!” Travis retorted with a grin.

  Laughing, Parsons said, “Come inside. Jaime will take care of your horses. I’ll tell Maria to cook for two more people.”

  As they carried their saddlebags into the house, Shelt
on glanced up at the roof. “I see you ain’t got someone up there these days, boss.”

  “No. Ames is in New York, and no-one else is likely to bother us. Besides, it’s mid-winter. A sentry would freeze unless I changed him every hour or so, and I don’t have enough men to do that. Anyway, no-one with any sense travels long distances in this kind of cold unless he has to. The only people on the roads are folks like us.”

  * * *

  Walt pushed his way through the beaded curtain masking the entrance to the Cantina de Flores, and looked around. It was crowded with people, every table filled with diners, the bar lined with drinkers. He grimaced. That would complicate matters.

  A passing waitress called loudly over the din, “You wish to eat, señor?”

  “Yeah, but there’s no place.”

  “We are always full for lunch. Come back in half an hour, señor. Then there will be room.”

  Walt nodded, and backed out through the curtain, looking around. Taos was a smaller town than Albuquerque, without many people on its streets, belying the bustle in the cantina. He decided to stroll through the central district, to get a feel for the layout.

  When he returned, more than half its customers had left the cantina. He sat down at a table, ordered food, and added, “I need to talk to Carlos, the owner.”

  “I will tell him, señor. What is your name, please?”

  “Just tell him Marisa sent me.”

  The waitress’s eyes grew round. “I will do so at once, señor!”

  Carlos arrived before the food. “You wanted to see me, señor?”

  “Marisa sent me. My name’s Walt Ames. You should have a letter for me from her.”

  “I do, señor. There is also the matter of a sum of money.”

  “Yes, there is, but I want to see the letter first. I pay for results, not for blank paper.”

  Carlos grinned. “You need not fear that with Marisa, señor. She keeps her word.”