Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  WOLVES IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  “We’re with the territorial militia,” Fry informed him. “We’re making calls on every settler in the valley to see how many fighting men we can call on if we were to have Indian trouble.” He flashed a wide smile for Cochran’s benefit. “Are there more menfolk living here that we can count on in a pinch?”

  “Ain’t nobody here but me and the missus,” Cochran said. “Hell, they coulda told you that in the settlement—saved you a ride all the way down the valley.”

  Fry’s smile returned. This time it was genuine. “No trouble at all. We had to ride down here anyway, to chase the war party off.”

  “War party? What war party?”

  “Why, the one that’s fixin’ to burn your place,” Fry replied and nodded to Pitt.

  Without hesitating, Pitt turned the rifle that had been resting across his saddle, pointing it directly at John Cochran’s forehead. The look of surprise became a permanent feature of the dead man’s face as Pitt’s rifle ball made a neat black hole just above Cochran’s eyes.

  HERO’S STAND

  Charles G. West

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

  Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, March 2003

  Copyright © Charles West, 2003

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66286-1

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For Ronda

  Table of contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  “Damn you, Caldwell! I told you to hold your fire till we got a little closer. Now they’re scattering.” Simon Fry jammed his heels into the sides of his big bay gelding, at the same time shouting orders to the rider on his right. “Pitt! Cut them two off before they get to that ravine.” Jack Pitt had not waited for instructions and was already quirting his horse mercilessly as he raced to intercept the two Indian women trying to escape. Fry charged toward two young Indian men who were now on their ponies and riding straight toward the hills to the west. In spite of his annoyance with Caldwell for jumping the gun, Fry leaned forward, low on his horse’s neck, a look of determination etched on his otherwise expressionless face. “Mendel!” he roared as two more of the surprised Indians scrambled to escape up the valley, one a woman leading a horse that was pulling a travois. Mendel Knox, needing no further orders, tore off after the two, whooping at the top of his lungs, a wide grin spread across his face.

  The surprise had been so complete that the gang of white men might have ridden almost into the Indian camp before they were discovered had it not been for Caldwell’s premature shot. Even so, Simon Fry’s band of outlaws was too close to give the startled Indians any chance to avoid the murderous assault. Quick as they were, the Indian ponies had no time to spring into full gallop before the white men began to cut the riders down. The narrow valley soon echoed with the sharp charter of rifles as one brave after another was riddled with lead.

  Wiley Johnson, following close behind Fry, searched frantically for a clear target, but Fry blocked his view of the fleeing Indians. Yanking sharply on the reins, Wiley swerved off at an angle to get clear of Fry’s horse, almost trampling the body of the woman killed by Caldwell’s first shot. His horse jerked away to avoid the body, and Wiley, almost thrown from the saddle, regained his balance only to find a terrified toddler in his path. The child screamed in horror as it tried to run for its life. Startled at first, Wiley reined back. But when he realized what had spooked his horse, he spurred the animal straight toward the screaming child in an attempt to trample the life from the toddler. Having a natural tendency to avoid the child, the horse balked, almost unseating Wiley for a second time. Furious at having nearly come out of the saddle again, he turned and shot the infant, then galloped away after the horses.

  It was all over in a matter of minutes, and the riders gathered back at the Indian campsite. Fry wasn’t satisfied that the job was complete, however “There’s another one around here somewhere. I counted eight, and I don’t see but seven dead Injuns.”

  “By God, you’re right,” Jack Pitt said. “There was eight of ’em, all right. The other’n musta crawled down that creek bank.”

  “Check down yonder, Pitt,” Fry said. “Somebody look upstream.”

  The raiders split up to search the creek banks while Fry watched from the Indian camp. Only minutes passed before Trask yelled out, “I got him! Here he is!” No sooner had he sung out his discovery than he followed it with a sharp yelp of pain as an arrow thudded into his shoulder. The cornered Indian quickly notched another arrow but had no time to release it before Mendel put a bullet between his eyes.

  “Damn, Trask,” Fry muttered when he rode up to the wounded man, now dismounted and sitting on the creek bank. “That was mighty damned careless.” Fry sat on his horse, looking down dispassionately at the arrow protruding from Trask’s shoulder. “How bad is it?”

  Wincing with pain, his teeth tightly clenched, Trask tried to gingerly pull his shirt away from the shaft. Each time he bumped the arrow, it caused him to suck his breath in sharply. “I don’t know,” he whined, “but it hurts a damn plenty.”

  “Mighty damned careless,” Fry repeated, then called back to the rest of the men, who were already rifling the bodies of the dead. “Clell, better come take a look at Trask.”

  Clell Adams looked up and grimaced, obviously more interested in searching for something of value on the still-warm corpse before him. Being the oldest of the pack that ran with Simon Fry, i
t had more or less fallen upon him to do the doctoring for the gang. He had no training for this position, and he had never volunteered to tend the wounded, but he was old enough to be a daddy to Hicks and Caldwell—the two youngest—so he pretended to know what to do. With some reluctance now, he rolled the Indian’s body over in case he had missed anything, then got to his feet.

  “Damn, Trask,” Clell remarked as he stood over him. “How’d you let that happen?”

  “Dammit, Clell, that don’t matter,” Trask spat back at him. “Just git the damn thing outta my shoulder.” The deepening lines on Trask’s face bore evidence that the pain was becoming intense, and there was more than a bit of concern in his eyes.

  Finding very little of value on their victims, the other men gathered around Clell and his patient. Clell knelt down beside Trask and gave the arrow a stout tug, evoking an immediate yelp of pain from the wounded man. “She’s in there pretty solid,” Clell stated. Then, with a none-too-gentle touch, he rolled Trask over on his side. “Didn’t come clear through, though.”

  Alarmed by the indecisive expression on Cell’s face, and frightened by the throbbing in his shoulder that seemed to increase with each beat of his heart, Trask stammered, “Wh-whad-daya gonna do? My shoulder’s gittin’ stiff as a board.”

  Clell scratched his head as he considered the question. “Well, I seen a feller with an arrow in his side once back in ’61—Blackfoot arrow, it was. It wouldn’t come out, either. So a couple of his partners held him down while another feller drove that arrow right on through. When the head come out, they broke it off. Then they pulled the shaft out the way it come in.”

  “Oh Lordy,” Trask groaned.

  “Only way it would come out,” Clell added. “Feller died, though. Them Blackfoot had put something on that arrowhead. Made the wound swell all up until it puffed out like a ripe gourd.”

  “Oh Lordy, Lordy.” Trask sighed and lay back against the bank, convinced that his outlaw days were coming to an end. His eyes rolled back until there was almost nothing visible but the whites. His face, as stark as a hatchet blade, blanched nearly as pale as his eyes, and he began to slowly roll his head from side to side in anticipation of the pain that was certain to come.

  Growing more impatient by the moment, Simon Fry stepped down from his horse and pushed a couple of curious spectators aside. After taking a closer look at the arrow, he reached out and gave it a quick tug. The force was enough to lift the slender Trask a foot off the ground, but the arrow remained firmly embedded. Dropping the screaming Trask back to the ground, he said, “Drive it through. We can’t hang around here all day.”

  “Gimme a hand here, boys,” Clell said as he looked around the creek bank for a suitable rock to use as a hammer.

  Almost gleeful in their eagerness to participate in the procedure about to be performed—especially one that promised to greatly add to Trask’s suffering—Mendel and Wiley pounced upon the unfortunate man, each taking an arm and pinning him to the ground. The abruptness with which they attacked him caused the already suffering Trask to cry out in pain.

  “This is gonna hurt like hellfire,” Mendel promised, making no attempt to hide the wide grin on his face.

  “That’s a fact, Trask,” Wiley agreed. “We’re gonna see how much sand you got now. ’Course it might be a waste of time. You never know what kinda shit that Injun rubbed on that there arrowhead.”

  “Wiley’s right,” Caldwell chimed in. “I heared a feller tell about gittin’ jumped by a band of Blackfoot on the Popo Agie. He said them Injuns had mixed up a terrible potion—dog shit, coyote piss, rotten meat, and I don’t know what all—so even if you got the arrow out, that mess would kill you, anyway.”

  Receiving little comfort from his comrades, Trask began a continuous low moan, his eyes rolled back like he was trying to look at the top of his head.

  “What the hell kinda Injuns is these, anyway?” Clell asked. “Blackfoot?”

  Impatient to mount up and get under way once more, Fry replied, “No, Snakes. Now get on with it.” His concern at the moment was whether or not these eight dead Indians had been part of a larger band nearby.

  Clell nodded. Selecting a flat rock the size of a dinner plate, he bent over Trask again. “All right, hold him steady, boys.” He started to administer the first blow to the arrow shaft, then paused a moment. “Maybe a couple of you other fellers better grab a’holt of his feet. I don’t wanna git kicked in the head.”

  Hicks and Caldwell each sat on a foot, and Clell was now ready to drive the arrow through. Trask screamed out in agony as the first jarring blow sent a searing pain through his body, causing his back to arch up from the sandy creek bank. He withstood three more excruciating blows from Clell’s stone before he fainted dead away. Clell continued to hammer, finally splitting the wooden shaft, but the arrowhead refused to budge. Defeated, he sat back on his heels and peered at the unconscious man. “Hell, Fry, it ain’t comin’ out. It’s up agin somethin’ solid—bone, I reckon. All I’m doin’ is drivin’ it in deeper.”

  “Shit!” Fry exhaled in disgust. “Well, break it off close as you can and tie a rag over it. I reckon he won’t be the first son of a bitch walkin’ around with an arrowhead in him.”

  Clell shrugged, took out his knife, and went to work on the splintered arrow shaft. “What about what Caldwell said? About that shit they put all over the arrowhead?”

  Fry shrugged his indifference. He was already thinking that Trask would now be a liability.

  Jack Pitt, an amused observer to this point, spoke up. “Hell, there ain’t likely anything on that arrowhead. This sure as hell weren’t no war party, and I don’t reckon that Injun would wanna put anything on his arrow that would spoil the meat if he was huntin’.” Knowing Fry’s concerns, Pitt looked at his partner and added, “He’ll be all right, just stiff and sore for a while.”

  This seemed to satisfy Fry. “All right, then. Throw some water on him, and let’s round up them Injun ponies. It’s best not to hang around here any longer.”

  After Trask was revived, he was helped up on his horse by Clell and Hicks. Protesting feebly, he was roughly seated, after which Pitt informed him to hang on or fall off and be left behind. Knowing Pit was deadly serious, Trask lay on his horse’s neck, his good hand wound tightly in the animal’s mane. They rode toward the south end of the tiny valley, driving the Indian ponies ahead of them, hoping to find a pass that would take them through the mountains ahead.

  Pleased with the stroke of luck that had permitted them to encounter the small party of Indians, Fry was already appraising the newly acquired horseflesh. It couldn’t have been any better: eight horses, one per man. He, of course, would claim first pick, so he looked the little herd over carefully. He smiled to himself when he reviewed his day’s work—eight horses and eight dead Indians, not counting the baby. Nice and neat.

  * * *

  Simon Fry and Jack Pitt had been together for quite a few years: since the spring of ’67, in fact, when both men had followed the rush for gold to California. They were not as fortunate as some who had gotten there earlier and skimmed fair amounts of dust from the many obscure streams that showed a hint of color. Both men had soon become disenchanted with the hard physical toil of placer mining. Being of like mind and disposition, they had begun to look for an easier way to obtain the precious flakes that drove so many to labor in the clear, rushing streams.

  Fry had never held a fondness for hard work, preferring to use his brain instead—a quality that had enabled him to rise to a vice presidency in a St. Louis bank. His impatience to await the time-honored rewards for long, faithful service to that institution had prompted him to take certain shortcuts to attain his financial goals. He was doing quite well for himself until the senior vice president, Jonah Henderson, had accidentally caught him in the process of diverting funds to his personal account. Faced with ruination, if not prison as well, Fry had offered to cut Henderson in as a partner. But the senior officer was an honest man
and had consequently informed Fry that he was bound to report his findings to the board. Without hesitation, and with no feelings of remorse, Fry had laid Henderson out with a poker. Leaving the senior vice president lying on the floor of the bank with a fractured skull, Fry had decided it was an opportune time to join the many adventurers harking to the call of gold in the West. And like many who left the East for reasons less than noble, he had left his real name behind as well: abandoning the disgraced name of Steadman Finch to the gossips of St. Louis, he had taken on the name of Simon Fry.

  In Jack Pitt, Fry had found the perfect partner. Big and physically strong, Pitt was a deep-thinking man of few words. And although Pitt normally did his own thinking, he was not averse to letting Fry call the shots as long as he didn’t disagree in principle. Unlike Fry, Pitt had never held an honest job, having always found it easier to take what he needed from the physically inferior. The two had established an equitable partnership from the first.

  Being smart enough to see that only a small percentage of honest prospectors gained the vast riches that everyone hoped for—and ruthless enough to take advantage of honest men—Fry and Pitt gave up the pan and sluice box and sought their fortunes with powder and ball. As Fry so eloquently expressed it, a pick and shovel were not the only tools with which to mine. A Winchester rifle and a Colt revolver worked just as well and raised one hell of a lot less sweat.

  At first, the two combed the mountain streams, seeking out isolated claims and murdering any unlucky miner who happened to cross their path. As time went on, they picked up additional partners from the riffraff who followed the gold strikes—unprincipled men like themselves, who had no qualms when it came to splitting a lone prospector’s skull for a little sack of yellow dust. Their gang of cutthroats grew to eight, an optimum number according to Fry. Any more, and they might become unmanageable; yet they were enough to deal with those prospectors quick to grab their rifles. If they had been a military unit, Fry would have been captain and Pitt his lieutenant. The rest were expendable.