Riding the Line

by Will DuRey

  Careless of any scrutiny from the cabin, Jim dismounted and knelt by the body of the heir to the Broken Arrow ranch. He lifted the young man’s head and saw that blood still seeped from a forehead wound. It was a sign that he wasn’t yet dead, so Jim gripped his shoulders in an effort to turn him and inspect the injury more closely. The bullet had not gone into his head. Instead, it had gouged in his brow a three-inch trail that disappeared into the hairline. A low moan escaped the wounded man, confirming that he was still alive, but Jim’s attention was now focused elsewhere. Shifting the wounded man had uncovered what lay beneath, had revealed the cause of the lump that Dean’s body had been draped over.

  It took only a brief glimpse for Jim to know that there was no hope of resuscitation for the Red Hammer rider. In death, Harvey Goode’s face reflected the torment he had known in his final moments. His mouth was open in a silent scream and his eyes were large, bulging in their sockets.

  Jim threw a glance over his shoulder towards the cabin, wondering at the identities of the men within, then he turned his attention to the girl on the pony.

  ‘Ride, Waktaya,’ he told her. ‘Get away from here.’

  Waktaya regarded the bodies in the snow, her face betraying no emotion, prompting in Jim Braddock the belief that she was not unaccustomed to such gruesome scenes.

  ‘Go,’ he insisted, and began the struggle to lift Dean Ridgeway off the ground. For the present there was nothing he could do for Harvey Goode; his body had to freeze under the snow but he meant to hoist Dean on to his horse and get clear of the cabin as quickly as possible. If he was discovered he would be at the mercy of those within the cabin.

  Lifting Dean wasn’t an easy task. He was a big lad and, being unconscious, a dead weight. The conditions underfoot added an extra and substantial handicap to the job. Riding boots were all well and good when astride a horse but were a hazard when walking in snowy and icy conditions. More than once Jim slipped, usually losing all the progress he’d made in trying to get Dean into an upright position. It was on the second occasion, when he’d hit the ground hard and uttered a rough oath in frustration, that he realized that the Sioux girl was still near at hand. The blanket in which she’d been swaddled had been discarded, was gathered in front of her across the pony. She sat erect in her buckskin dress, her eyes fixed with vigilance on the cabin. In her hands she held the rifle with which she had threatened Jim only hours earlier.

  ‘I told you to go,’ Jim snapped at her. ‘The people in there are killers. There’s no reason to put yourself in danger. Go.’

  In imperious manner the girl turned her head slightly in his direction.

  ‘I am Waktaya,’ she said, ‘The One Who Guards.’ There was a solemnity to her words that defied objection, a stateliness that demanded recognition. In that moment it seemed to Jim that the girl was announcing herself as a warrior, that she had attained a position she would never relinquish, that she could match his nobleness. If he was prepared to die to rescue his friend then she, too, was prepared to die.

  He dismissed the notion that he was doing anything noble; he was merely doing what Hec Ridgeway paid him to do: protecting his property. He wasn’t anxious to die for anyone. He didn’t want Waktaya to die either, so, as the best solution was to get away from this place as quickly as possible, he didn’t argue, he merely bent, grabbed Dean under the arms and hauled him to his feet. In Jim’s opinion the girl’s determination was misplaced. An old Hall single-shot wouldn’t deter the men in the cabin. They were killers and would emerge with guns blazing if they became aware of the presence of Waktaya and himself.

  They almost got away undetected. Jim was grateful for the dimming light and the cold; the approaching darkness provided a little cover while he endeavoured to get Dean on to the horse, and he figured the cold was keeping the killers clustered around the well-fuelled stove and away from the window. But a stumble and a collision with his horse betrayed the covert activity just at the moment when success seemed achievable.

  It was the boots, of course, that caused the catastrophe. He had hoisted Dean on to his shoulder and was preparing to throw him over the saddle when his foot slipped. He didn’t fall, nor did he drop Hec’s son but, during his clumsy attempt to stay upright, he barged Dean’s head against the shoulder of his horse with sudden force. Already skittish because of the frozen ground, the horse slithered and broadcast its nervousness with a sharp whinny.

  Jim cursed but, as happens in times of crisis, he reacted with unexpected speed and strength, launching Dean from his shoulder and across the saddle with unexpected accuracy. At the same moment he heard the report of Waktaya’s rifle and turned his head towards the cabin. He didn’t know if the result of her shot was the one she had intended but it gave them a few extra seconds to make their getaway.

  A man, Drum Hayes, had emerged from the cabin, gun in hand, to investigate the disturbance. Waktaya’s shot hadn’t hit him. Instead, the bullet had hit the kerosene lantern that hung on a nail near the doorpost. It exploded, spreading oil and flame in all directions. Some of it landed on the man, burning his face and setting alight his shirt. Drum yelled and stumbled back into the cabin without discharging his weapon, his hands busily beating at his clothing to stop the flames spreading. In his panic he collided with Gus Phipps, inadvertently blocking the doorway so that no one inside the building could get a clear shot at the newcomers.

  Waktaya was busy with the Hall, working to replace the spent cartridge with a live round which she gripped between two fingers of her left hand. Jim shouted to her as he swung a leg over his mount and settled himself behind the saddle.

  ‘Ride,’ he yelled, ‘and don’t stop.’ Shots followed them as they rode away but in the gloom even gunmen like Gus Phipps and Choctaw Jennings were unlikely to hit moving targets. They rode as quickly as conditions permitted, though Jim continually cast looks behind, certain that the killers would mount up and give chase. The snow-covered ground was not only a handicap against speed, it also left a trail that could be followed by a child.

  They ran on for a mile, Jim hanging on to the seat of Dean’s pants to make sure he didn’t fall off, but he knew they couldn’t travel like this for much longer. Not only was he slowed down because his horse was carrying double, but he was unsure what extra damage he was doing to Dean. Travelling head down in juddering fashion wasn’t an aid to recovery. He looked behind but there was no immediate sign of pursuit.

  Up ahead, Wakataya, who had opened up a gap between them, had pulled her pony to a halt. Jim wasn’t sure whether or not he was annoyed by her wilful disobedience.

  ‘I told you to keep going,’ he said when he reached her. There wasn’t much rancour in his tone. She said nothing but her silence and the long look at the figure hanging head down across Jim’s horse expressed eloquently her thoughts. They could not continue in this manner.

  Jim voiced his regret that they hadn’t been able to get Dean’s horse from the little stable behind the cabin, but he had a plan in mind. They were heading in the direction of Fetterman’s Pool; the creek where they’d met the Red Hammer riders was a little distance ahead. He explained his idea to Waktaya. It meant leaving her with the wounded man while he rode on to the creek with her pony in tow so that their pursuers would believe they were still together. When he got to the creek he would make it appear that they had ridden south along its bed, heading down towards Big Timber and the ranching communities. Instead, he would go north then circle back to rejoin her and Dean. If the killers were unable to find them then it was reasonable to assume that they would hightail it out of this country as quickly as possible. It was the belief that they wouldn’t want a posse on their tail that reminded Jim of the conversation he’d had earlier that day with Harvey Goode. Perhaps the men at the cabin were those who had killed Deputy Brix and who were already being chased by Sheriff Stone’s posse.

  They found a suitable place where, by dismounting on to boulders so that they left no feet marks on the ground, Dean was unloaded and n
estled in a niche where the Sioux girl would watch over him until Jim returned. The growing darkness would hide them from the pursuers and, wrapped in Waktaya’s blankets, Jim was certain the young man would survive until they could get him back home.

  He didn’t tarry, time was essential and he wasn’t sure how far behind the killers would be. He didn’t want to be in their view when he reached the creek; everything depended upon him fooling them into believing their quarry was on the trail to Big Timber.

  ‘I’ll return as soon as possible,’ he told the girl; then from the boulder he leapt into his saddle, gathered up the loose reins of the Sioux girl’s pony and rode away into the closing night.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the time he’d pushed aside Drum Hayes, who was stumbling, shouting and swatting at his burning clothes with windmilling arm movements, Gus Phipps was able to fire only two shots at the fleeing riders before conceding that anything more would be a waste of ammunition. Choctaw Jennings reached his side and fired a token shot, then asked,

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘What does it matter who they were,’ grunted the one-eyed outlaw, ‘let’s get after them.’ Gus turned back into the cabin, needing to collect his coat before giving chase in the ice-cold night.

  Drum Hayes, finally content that he was neither injured by the burning oil nor in danger of his clothes rekindling into flames, spoke against pursuit.

  ‘What sense is there in giving chase?’ he grumbled. ‘You won’t catch them.’

  Choctaw was unconvinced. ‘Their trail will be easy to follow. You can see hoofprints in the snow a mile ahead.’

  ‘We can’t let them get away,’ chipped in Gus Phipps. ‘They’ll tell someone we’re here. They could be with the posse.’

  Drum Hayes, scoffing at the idea, taunted Gus:

  ‘I reckon with one eye closed I would still be able to recognize an Indian girl. How many posses have you heard of that included a squaw?’

  Choctaw, whose knowledge of the incident consisted of little more than a glimpse of two fleeing horsemen disappearing into the night-time gloom, looked to Gus for confirmation of Drum’s words.

  ‘Is that right, Gus, they were Indians? I didn’t know there were any still living around here.’

  ‘Who knows who lives in these wild places,’ grumbled Gus, still eager to set off in pursuit.

  ‘What do you think they were after?’ Choctaw asked.

  ‘A cow, probably.’ Drum spoke with casual authority, as though his reading of the situation was indisputable. ‘Looking for some meat to see them through the winter. No reason for them to be suspicious of an occupied cabin, and who are they going to tell if they are? They came raiding, which means they are as much wanted by the army as we are by the law.’

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Stick to our plan,’ Drum said. ‘Now that Frank is dead we’ll head west, get across the border into Idaho and lie low there for a while.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Gus Phipps said. ‘We shouldn’t let them ride away. We should make sure they don’t talk to anyone.’

  ‘They were going in the direction we’ve left behind,’ Drum replied. ‘We’d be wearying the horses for no reason. Forget about chasing them. We’ll quit this place at first light.’

  With Dean Ridgeway secure and warm in the nest that Waktaya had built for him after Jim Braddock’s departure, she turned her attention to the wound in his brow. He had been lucky. He would have been killed if he had delayed bending to remove Harvey Goode’s coat a moment longer. The bullet would have struck him between the eyes, entered his head and shattered his brain. Instead, it had caught only the top of his brow and the angle of travel had caused it to hit the hard frontal bone, which had deflected the lump of lead up and over the top of his head. All that the bullet had achieved was to render him unconscious and leave a gouge reminiscent of a blow from a Sioux war axe. Packing it with ice had stopped the bleeding and prevented it from swelling but it still looked black and ugly against the young man’s ashen face.

  Waktaya had worked anxiously, her senses keen for any indication that their pursuers were approaching. To a large degree the sound of hoofbeats would be muffled by the snow; the riders could be close before she heard them, so it was necessary to be vigilant while she worked, scan the trail that she and her charge had travelled to catch the earliest sight of them. When Jim had ridden off she’d expected them to be only moments away, but minutes had passed without any indication of pursuit.

  Dean Ridgeway stirred, his eyes opened, then screwed closed when he moved his head. When he moaned, Waktaya rushed to his side.

  ‘You must be quiet.’ She spoke in a hushed tone. ‘Horsemen are hunting for us.’

  Dean regarded her with curiosity. ‘Who are you?’

  Her words didn’t answer his enquiry, but she hoped they would have more meaning for the invalid.

  ‘Jim will soon return. Until then you must be quiet.’

  With consciousness returning, however, Dean began seeking answers to other questions; Waktaya provided none. Although she was now certain that no one from the cabin was following in their wake she was still uninclined to curtail her vigilance. In the past, enemies had attacked her village while it slept and she was determined that that would never happen to her again. The mere thought of it brought to her mind the tumult of thundering hoofbeats, bugle calls, shouts and gunfire, and she pictured the ugly faces of soldiers intent upon wiping the Sioux and every other tribesman from the world. Not content with defeating the warriors, they had continued the slaughter by setting ablaze the tepees in order to force out the old, the women and children. Those who weren’t killed fled from the village and those who were caught were either killed outright or used for other sport. She remembered the four who had raped her and left her for dead. She would never forget them, nor would she ever let soldiers touch her again. She would kill them until they killed her.

  The authorities had told the tribes that everyone would be protected if they moved on to a reservation. Waktaya didn’t believe it; she knew that no court would punish a wasicun who attacked anyone from her tribe.

  Her hand had settled on the handle of the knife she carried beneath her blanket and her eyes on the sleeping American. He was young and, at the moment, unthreatening, but would she still be safe with him when he recovered from the effect of his wound? She had seen the looks cast in her direction by the soldiers at the reservation and now she didn’t trust any of them at all. Not even Jim Braddock, which was why she had been so confused by her grandfather’s words.

  As he lay in the cave he’d grasped her hand and whispered low so that it had been necessary for her to lower her ear to his lips to hear him.

  ‘He’s the one I came to find,’ the old man had said, his eyes shifting towards the wasicun standing at the mouth of the cave. ‘Now, his tepee must be your tepee.’ He’d smiled before closing his eyes. Then his breathing ceased and from that moment Waktaya was alone in the world.

  Since the death of her father she had honoured no man more than Grey Eagle but her spirit rebelled at his last utterance. True, Jim Braddock had given her no cause for alarm, had helped to raise her grandfather to his resting place, but she didn’t want to share his home or his life. When he returned with her pony she would ride away. They would part trails at this point and he could take the wounded man back to his home. But if she were to do that another horse was needed. She had no knowledge of how long their journey would be, but too far, she suspected, for them to ride double. An idea formed in her mind, of a last gesture to write off any debt she might owe the American.

  Among her bundle of possessions was a bow and a handful of arrows. She gathered these in her hands, then nudged the sleeping American.

  ‘Your friend will be here soon,’ she told him. ‘Remain silent. I’m going for your horse.’ Before he could form a reply she’d readjusted the blanket around her shoulders and disappeared from sight.

  The moonlight was bright and the track
s that had been made on their easterly dash formed a clearly lit pathway back to the cabin.

  Although she didn’t expect to encounter any horsemen now, she was confident that if any were abroad she would see them long before they spotted her. If not, they would discover her skill with the bow.

  Two horses had created enough hoof marks to make it possible for her to place her feet in already broken snow, which speeded the pace at which she was able to cover the ground. After veering on to the higher ground for the last portion of the journey to avoid approaching the cabin from the front, she was soon looking down on the collection of buildings. She paused awhile, surveying the site for movement, watching the smoke rising from the tin spout. This was confirmation that the outlaws were still inside. Satisfied, she began the descent towards the rear buildings.

  At the far side of the house, where the privy was situated, the snow had been kicked by a succession of visitors, but the snow that lay between the back of the cabin and the stable was undisturbed. Even though Waktaya’s footprints were small, they were, inevitably, clear to see. She had to work quickly and quietly and hope to get away without those inside learning of her visit until it was too late for them to do anything about it.

  The horse was at the back of the small stable, almost brushing against the wall of rough wood as though there was additional heat to be gained from it. It was a slim-framed animal, suggestive of the sprightliness that was necessary for a working cow-pony, with a shaggy mane that was two shades darker than its dun coat. It snorted a brief greeting when the girl slipped inside the hut and sidled briskly in the tight space so that it had turned to face her. Waktaya rubbed its muzzle to still and quieten it.