by Will DuRey
Jim squinted along his own rifle barrel. A head shot would kill the man outright but it was a smaller target and with the lack of light there was a high risk he would miss. He lowered the barrel, aimed for the man’s back and knew that one pull of the trigger would go a long way towards making the confrontation a more even fight. But he paused, shooting a man in the back had such awful connotations. He licked his lips and resighted. His own life was at stake, he reminded himself, and they would shoot him in the back without any qualms.
He held the gun steady, touched the trigger and felt the pressure on his finger, but before he could fire the man moved. He’d turned around, was checking something on the ground. He stepped forward to the edge of the bank and looked down. Suddenly his head jerked up, his eyes became fixed on the far bank: he was looking almost directly at Jim. He had figured it out: their prey was across the stream. He raised his voice to yell his discovery to his partners; that was when Jim pulled the trigger.
The bullet slammed into Choctaw’s chest, the force thrusting him gawkily against the horses, his head jagging backwards, his arms flailing for a brief, frantic instant until he hit the ground. The animals shuffled away from the body, sidestepping like affronted spinsters then disregarding it, like veterans for whom the world holds nothing new.
Jim witnessed the effect of his marksmanship through the wisp of smoke rising from the muzzle of his rifle. The success gave him hope but he doubted that the other two outlaws would be such easy targets. In accordance with his pre-set strategy, he rolled to the right. He had decided that remaining in one place would be foolish. Not only would the other outlaws have a location on which to concentrate their attack but it would also soon become apparent to them that they were facing only one gun. He wanted them to believe that Waktaya was still with him. They might be deceived if he kept on the move.
A bullet struck the root of the willow tree, throwing his hat in the air along with a dozen splinters of old, withered wood. One of them stuck in Jim’s cheek, slicing like a knife and drawing blood. Even though he was certain that the shooter couldn’t see him the cowboy was alarmed by the accuracy of the shot. He figured that the flare from his own rifle must have betrayed his location and had been used as the outlaw’s mark. It stressed the calibre of the gunmen he was pitted against. For them, he supposed, hunting men was a natural and enjoyable sport. He was thankful he’d had the notion to move; to do so, it seemed, was now an essential tactic.
Since his fight with Gus Phipps at the cabin Jim had been aware that he was engaged in a kill or be killed situation. Now he knew that it was going to be resolved shortly, here along the creek that led to Fetterman’s Pool. Curiously, he found that his mind was working quickly, analysing information and making decisions. He realized that the shot that had been fired had made him aware of that outlaw’s position just as his own shot had revealed his whereabouts to his pursuers. Now he had the opportunity to escape the pincer movement by which they’d planned to entrap him.
The shot had come from his left, some distance away on the other side of the creek; that knowledge caused him to stay his movement to the right and adopt a different tactic. It had been his intention to move back among the trees and find a suitable hide. Under cover of darkness he would await an opportunity to kill one of the outlaws, then move to another place to wait for and slay the other. It wasn’t much of a plan; it was full of risk and hope, but he was in a situation not of his own making. Years of droving hadn’t inspired the military skills of a West Point officer.
Now, however, he saw an opportunity to improve his chances of victory. Having pinpointed the place from which Jim had fired, he figured that the man to his left would still be moving towards that point, getting closer to his target and his partners. So if, unobserved, Jim could get downstream of that man he would have both of the remaining outlaws upstream. By finding cover close to the bank he would have an unobstructed view of the creek and a clear shot at anyone who tried to cross it.
He had been lying in the snow for ten minutes pondering the whereabouts of his enemies. He had expected to hear sounds of horses or harness but nothing had reached his ears. His eyes were aching as he peered through the darkness along the course of the creek, afraid to miss any hint of movement, knowing that any failure on his own part would be fatal. He kept reminding himself that he couldn’t afford to show any mercy to his would-be killers; they would have none for him.
Suddenly, before he’d realized that the moving shadows were in fact men, they were almost halfway across the narrow watercourse. He trained his sights on the nearest outlaw and pulled the trigger. There was no yell from the falling figure, it just stumbled sideways and fell heavily into the freezing stream. Jim adjusted the line of fire, searching to pick out the second man, but the outlaw’s reaction to the gunfire had been instantaneous. He’d fired two shots in Jim’s direction, causing the Broken Arrow rider to abandon his own attack and withdraw further behind the tree he’d chosen for cover. When he looked along the creek again, his quarry was out of sight.
There was no time for regret. Jim had hoped to kill both men while they were open targets; now that he had failed he needed to formulate a new plan. He moved, more quickly now because little more than a hundred yards separated him from his sole adversary. He moved higher up the bank, because holding the high ground was always an advantage, and he used every tree as a hiding-place from which to reconnoitre the way ahead. He was going upstream, towards his opponent, because he guessed the outlaw would expect him to go in the opposite direction. Jim watched for movement, listened for sounds that carried a threat, then moved. Somewhere, he was sure, he would find a suitable niche where he could wait for the appearance of the other man.
A gunshot shattered the silence of the night. A chunk was gouged out of the tree that Jim had just reached, the impact showering him with snow and wood. He moved swiftly, throwing himself forward and rolling downhill, away from the gunman. Jim had been right, the high ground was an advantage, he just hadn’t gone high enough. Now he was rolling in the snow and bullets were kicking up the ground all around. One nipped his shoulder but didn’t do any serious damage, then he was obscured from the shooter by a thicket of trees and Jim had the opportunity to return fire.
He was on one knee, firing uphill, forcing the outlaw to find his own refuge as the bullets whistled past his head. Knowing he couldn’t remain in the open, Jim moved again, scampering downhill, dodging from tree to tree, always endeavouring to keep at least one between himself and the shooter above. In moments he’d reached the bank of the stream and desperately sought suitable cover. He turned and fired three more shots at his adversary then threw himself over a fallen tree. The trunk had fallen over a small boulder leaving a cavity between it and the ground. At the root end of the trunk the space available was like a small cave; Jim pressed himself into it and waited.
The outlaw, when he arrived, was silent and clearly confused by the disappearance of his prey. Not until he stood on the trunk and dislodged a pile of snow did Jim realize that he was close. Suddenly the man jumped down and took three or four steps to the edge of the creek. He reacted like lightning to the sound of Jim behind him, spinning and firing in a fluid, sweeping movement. The shot was an instinctive reaction, going over the top of the fallen tree because he hadn’t yet seen Jim. When he did he readjusted his aim towards the corner, but Jim’s rifle spoke first. The bullet smashed into the weapon held by Gus Phipps and sent it spinning from his hands.
Jim ejected the spent shell and pulled the trigger once more to end the confrontation. Instead of a deathly explosion there was a hollow, metallic click. He was out of bullets. Gus grinned and reached for his Colt but Jim was not prepared to submit to the outlaw’s gun. He launched himself forward, rising from the ground with sudden fury, and drove his head into Gus’s midriff. The two men toppled into the stream, each trying to throw a blow that would incapacitate the other. They rolled in the water, first one gaining the upper hand, then the other, but it was
n’t until Gus slipped and went down on his back that a winner seemed likely.
Jim stepped forward, grabbed the other by his shirt and pushed his head under the water. He held him down and would have drowned him if Gus hadn’t got his hand on a loose rock. He swung it with all his force at Jim’s head. Stunned, Jim lay in the river and could only watch as Gus Phipps drew his Colt and prepared to fire.
An arrow passed through Gus’s neck. He staggered, eyes bulging and an awful grunt escaped from his mouth. A second arrow hit him in the chest and he fell squirming into the water. He was stilled by a third arrow which thudded into his body, almost touching the previous one.
Jim looked to the far bank where the Sioux girl, back straight and head held high, looked down from her pony.
‘Waktaya,’ he said. ‘The One Who Guards.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charlie Grisham wasn’t a man to fret over events. Facing troubles head on had always been his way and he was still around to tell the tales. He’d had a few hard knocks in his time, a few bloody noses, so to speak, but he’d survived the toughest times and nowadays most of his battles were fought with cattle-buyers over a couple of glasses of bourbon. But he was uneasy about the killing of Zeb Walters and more so about the desire of his men to ride up to the high country in search of revenge.
Zeb had been a dependable worker and, in the main, docile in manner, but there had always been an underlying moodiness, a hint of dissatisfaction which had surfaced from time to time. If he had been a different type of man some of those incidents could have led to violence, but most people on the ranch had quickly grasped the fact that Zeb was always more angry with himself than with those with whom he argued. For the crew it was a mystifying temperament for a man who, blessed as he was with a wife and daughter, ought to have consider himself the luckiest cowboy in the territory.
The rumours regarding Alice Walters and Jim Braddock had reached Charlie Grisham’s ears and he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that they were true. He’d always thought of Jim Braddock as an estimable man, one to whom he would have willingly offered employment at Red Hammer but for the fact that it would have fractured the tenuous friendship between himself and Hec Ridgeway. Jim’s high principles and quiet strength would, in Charlie’s judgement, make him the sort of man who would attract the attention of women and he could only wonder at Alice’s lack of anger when confronted with the identity of her husband’s killer. Unlike her daughter.
Jane’s reaction had been completely different, a circumstance that added greatly to Charlie’s misgivings. Despite his arguments Jane had insisted upon being among the group that rode up to Fetterman’s Pool, forcing a delay to their departure until the next morning. To make matters worse, Annie, his own daughter, had declared a determination to go along, too.
‘I can’t let her go alone,’ Annie had argued. ‘Not only is she my friend but it wouldn’t be right for her to be alone among all those men.’
‘It’s not right for her to be going at all,’ Charlie told her. ‘Nor you.’
‘But go we shall,’ his daughter told him.
‘Annie,’ Charlie had softened his voice, hoping she would listen to reason rather than passion-filled argument, ‘the men are talking about a lynching. It’s not good to see. It can even sicken tough range riders. I don’t want you to see a man die like that.’
‘Nor I,’ she confessed, ‘but I still can’t let Jane go alone.’
‘Then I guess I’ll have to go too. I’ll try to persuade Jim Braddock to stand trial. Get him back to Big Timber and hand him over to Ben Stone.’
Annie was grateful for her father’s concern; she didn’t know how she would react if forced to witness a brutal killing. However, Charlie’s reluctance to mete out punishment to Jim Braddock wasn’t solely based on the distress it would cause his daughter. He didn’t want an outbreak of violence between the Red Hammer and Broken Arrow outfits. The high ground around Fetterman’s Pool, like much of the territory around Big Timber, was open range, owned by no man. But the big spreads had grazed their herds on certain sections for years and neighbours had respected each other’s predominance in those areas. So, while Hec Ridgeway had no legal claim to the land west of the creek, he was the acknowledged user and any incursion would raise his hackles. If one of his men was snatched from there and lynched, he would want retribution. It could be the start of another range war and Charlie felt too old for that.
So, by keeping all his hands at the bunkhouse that night, he hoped to keep word of Zeb Walters’s death and the range justice they meant to mete out to Jim Braddock away from the ears of the owner of the Broken Arrow. If Hec Ridgeway didn’t learn of the hanging until after the event it wouldn’t lessen his anger but it would give him time to reflect on his own response. It might just sway him to the thought that that was the manner in which such matters were handled when there was no lawman around, and that he would have done likewise in similar circumstances. Charlie tried to convince himself that he believed there might be a chance it was true.
Of course, in a small town like Big Timber, word of events spread more quickly than a prairie fire. Alice Walters imparted the plan to Cec Goater when she went along to view her husband’s body in the undertaker’s parlour. Perhaps her words had been spoken merely as an outpouring of grief but the undertaker had a reputation as the biggest gossip in town, so it was no surprise that he broadcast the details to all and sundry who drank that night in the Garter. Among the customers were a couple of Broken Arrow riders, who hightailed it back to the ranch to inform Hec Ridgeway of the Red Hammer plan.
At dawn a group led by Charlie Grisham, which included his daughter and Jane Walters, rode away from Red Hammer. Their route took them across the Red Hammer range and up to a point just south of Fetterman’s Pool where they cut west on to Broken Arrow land. From there it was a five-mile ride to the line cabin, where they hoped to corner Jim Braddock.
Some time later Hec Ridgeway, with a well-armed bunch of Broken Arrow riders, set out with the same destination in mind.
Following the fight in the creek Jim Braddock’s clothes were sodden. The water wasn’t deep but in his fight for life it had lapped over him, penetrating to his skin. Now, the clothes were hardening with ice and the bristles on his face were white with frost. He shivered, fiercely, and found that he couldn’t stop.
Waktaya hurried him on to the bank, made him lean against her pony to get warmth from it while she hustled the other two horses to join the pony in an unusual triangle formation around him. Because he was trembling and virtually unable to help himself, she set to work removing his clothes. Then, dragging the rough, dried-grass blanket from the back of her pony, she wrapped him in it from shoulders to knees. It was dirty, but that detail escaped Jim’s attention, as did the scratches it inflicted on his body when Waktaya scrubbed it against him to achieve the double affect of warming him and absorbing the moisture that clung to his skin.
After working at the task for several minutes and assured by the renewed colour of his skin that her efforts had been successful, she went in search of something more permanent in which to clothe him. The bodies of Gus Phipps and Drum Hayes still lay in the water and she left them there. Choctaw Jennings was stretched out on the bank, legs straight and arms flung wide. He wasn’t as big as Jim Braddock but, until something better could be found, what he wore would have to suffice. She stripped the dead outlaw and carried his clothes back to Jim. While he dressed, she unsaddled the other horses whose blankets would aid their own warmth.
‘There are matches in my saddlebags,’ Jim announced. ‘I’ll find some suitable kindling and we’ll get a fire going.’
Wakataya put a hand on his chest. ‘The women of the Hunkpapa Sioux know how to gather sticks,’ she told him, her voice bearing an inflection that suggested she was affronted by his words, that she was more than capable of carrying out the duties that were hers to perform. She wasn’t prepared to forsake the customs of her people to appease any wasicun, not ev
en the man for whom she was harbouring a growing liking and admiration.
They sat side by side with their backs against a sycamore tree, wrapped in horse blankets and becoming drowsy with a combination of weariness and warmth from the flames. When they awoke a couple of hours later their heads were touching, hers cushioned against his shoulder and his rested against it. They stirred simultaneously and smiled at each other with awkward pleasure.
It was daylight and the sun promised warmth as though yesterday’s snow had been a mistake and wouldn’t be allowed to return until its due time. Getting back to Dean Ridgeway became Jim’s priority, the ranch owner’s son had been left in the high ground without either a horse or a weapon. While Waktaya undertook the task of saddling the horses Jim set about dragging the bodies out of the creek. He didn’t intend giving them any sort of burial; he just hauled them on to the bank so that their rotting bodies didn’t contaminate the water. He had no doubt that some predator would soon be enjoying a free feed.
He was studying the faces of the three bodies, perplexed by the fact that he didn’t recognize any of them as Frank Felton, when an unaccountable sensation caused him to turn his attention to the Sioux girl. He hadn’t been alerted by any sudden noise or cry of alarm, Waktaya had been going about her business with the same quiet efficiency that had marked everything she’d done since he’d first met her, but something had changed, something subtle in her silence but as startling as a scream of danger.
Waktaya was still with the horses, perhaps twelve yards away, but moving backwards, getting closer to him, taking small, cautious steps, her weight on her toes as though preparing to flee from a fearful enemy. Her right hand was reaching to her side where her knife was sheathed beneath the draping blanket. Jim was about to break the silence, wanting to know the cause of her worriment, but suddenly the answer became abundantly clear.
