by Will DuRey
All around them, soldiers emerged from the trees, rifles extended, bayonets fixed as though in readiness for a charge. A voice rang out, the command to stand still directed at Jim and Waktaya. The troopers began to advance in a menacing fashion, their formation designed to confine the pair to the bank of the creek. One of the troopers circled around by the horses and approached Waktaya. In contradiction of the shouted command, he gestured with his rifle for her to get away from the animals. His face was white and his eyes were watching the girl fixedly. It was a nervous expression, one that alarmed Jim, suggestive as it was of a man capable of irrational reactions.
‘Hey, this one’s a squaw,’ said the soldier, stretching forward to prod her with the bayonet tip.
‘Don’t do that,’ Jim yelled, hurrying forward, disregarding the threat from the rifles that covered him. His words were directed at the soldier but could just as easily have been meant for Waktaya. From his viewpoint he could see her hand clamped around the handle of her knife; he feared that if she drew it she would be killed.
A command to stand still was given again, but Jim paid it no heed. He reached Waktaya and pushed himself between her and the bayonet, partially hiding her and glaring defiance at the young trooper. He knew that her knife was now unsheathed and gripped in her right hand with firm intent, as though resolute in her determination to defend herself, but her left hand, which was pressed against his back, trembled. She was clearly terrified at the prospect of being in the hands of soldiers and Jim knew she was prepared to die rather than submit to them. His right hand reached behind to find hers in an attempt to hide the knife she held from the eyes of the uniformed men.
‘Stand back, Johnson,’ a voice commanded the trooper. The man who intervened was older and surprised that he recognized Jim’s face. ‘You!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, Sergeant. It’s me. Who did you think it was?’
‘Thought you were Grey Eagle’s band. We saw the smoke from your fire then spotted a body with arrows in it lying in the water.’ Lieutenant Cooper hurried forward to join them and listened while Jim gave an account of the death of Harvey Goode, the wounding of Dean Ridgeway and the burning of the line cabin.
‘They are members of the Frank Felton gang and were intent on killing us too. A posse out of Big Timber is hunting for them.’
From time to time during the telling of the story, Lieutenant Cooper’s gaze had lingered suspiciously on the figure of the girl who had remained shielded by Jim’s body.
‘Who is she?’ the officer asked. ‘Is she Sioux, one of the renegades?’
Waktaya’s reaction to the new arrivals had removed any lingering thoughts Jim might have had for placing her safe return to Pine Ridge in the hands of the army. She would resist them with every ounce of her being. He wasn’t sure which of them would be in more danger of harm from the other: the troop of soldiers or the Sioux woman. What he did know was that he couldn’t tell the truth.
‘She’s my wife,’ he announced. Jim found it an easy lie to tell. ‘She’s always lived in these parts.’
If the lieutenant’s face wore an expression of doubt, his sergeant’s was one of utter disbelief. The thought crossed Jim’s mind that the sergeant had recognized Waktaya, had seen her at Pine Ridge and knew that she was the granddaughter of Grey Eagle, but the moment when it seemed probable that he would give voice to his suspicions passed and further explanation became unnecessary.
‘You can return to Pine Ridge,’ Jim told them. ‘Grey Eagle is dead. He came to die in the Holy Place he knew as a boy.’
‘How do you know that?’ Again the lieutenant cast a suspicious glance in Waktaya’s direction.
‘The Sioux are mystical people, Lieutenant. They have their own way of sending messages. The birds, the animals, the trees and the wind speak to them. I don’t know how they do it, but their way is as sure as a telegraph message. All the warriors who left with Grey Eagle have returned to Pine Ridge.’
Jim wouldn’t disclose the location of Grey Eagle’s body but Lieutenant Cooper was reluctant to abandon his mission without absolute proof that the old chief was dead. The sergeant, however, was more versed in the customs and practices of the tribespeople, and he gave voice to the fact that he’d heard similar stories in the past. By the time the soldiers departed his words, bolstered by the advance of winter and a shortage of rations, were beginning to have an effect on the younger officer.
Jim and Waktaya watched them go before climbing on to their own mounts and heading back for the place where they’d left Dean Ridgeway. Despite the need to reach Dean, they rode on in unhurried fashion.
They had climbed into the higher ground when they saw the swiftly moving group below. The group had swung into sight momentarily as it passed a gap in the tree line, then it was gone again as they continued towards the Broken Arrow line cabin. It was a larger group of men than Jim had expected but he had no doubt that they were the men of the Red Hammer crew, who had been sent to collect their injured comrade. Because they would find Harvey Goode’s body frozen in the snow, Jim decided it was imperative to join them to explain the situation.
With Dean Ridgeway’s horse in tow Waktaya continued on the route that would take her to the ranch owner’s son while Jim made a beeline for the burnt-out cabin. Apart from the size of the group that had ridden up from Red Hammer, two other aspects of it troubled him. Their purpose had been to transport home a man with a broken leg but he couldn’t recall seeing a wagon, and he’d recognized the palomino that was leading the rescuers. Why was Charlie Grisham bothering himself with a mundane rescue run?
Judd Quaterstaff was the first of the horsemen to dismount and kick at the remains of the burnt-out line cabin. The roof had collapsed but, due to the heavy snow that had piled against the building, the remaining walls were standing, though blackened, irregular shapes.
‘Reckon he’s ridden on,’ Judd announced. ‘Probably gone west over the hills and across the border.’
Pat Hunt disagreed, indicating the trodden trail leading east.
‘More than one horse made those tracks.’
‘Young Ridgeway was up here riding the line with Jim Braddock,’ one of the men informed everyone. ‘A couple of Broken Arrow riders were joking about it in the Garter, relieved that old man Ridgeway hadn’t isolated them with the lad for a lonely month up here.’
Charlie Grisham grunted in an effort to hide his annoyance. The last thing he wanted was for Hec’s son to become involved in the hanging party that would be played out if his men caught up with Jim Braddock. Secretly, he hoped that Jim had gone over the hills to Idaho or up north to Canada. If he was beyond the reach of his men it would put an end to the awkward situation that was developing. He was angry with himself for harbouring such a thought; a man ought to be punished for his crimes but if one guilty man remaining free prevented a range war then he would lose no sleep over it. If Jim Braddock killed Zeb Walters punishment would catch up with him sooner or later. Charlie just hoped it was later.
‘Boss!’ an urgent call came from Pat Hunt, who had wandered away from the group investigating the track that had been forged in the snow.
Charlie Grisham rode his palomino over to the place where Pat had dismounted and was knelt in the snow.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Harv. Harvey Goode’s dead, too.’
Drawn by Pat Hunt’s words, the other horsemen followed their boss. The grimace of death on Harvey’s face was unpleasant to see. Annie Grisham swiftly turned away from the sight but Jane Walters looked upon the body with an expression that showed little pity. The death of another man that could be attributed to Jim Braddock would harden the resolve of the men to exact punishment. The gossip in the store following her father’s night in the cells, echoed once more in her mind but no one would be able to say that young Harvey had been killed because Jim Braddock wanted her mother.
The prospect of those sniggering accusations resurfacing in the wake of her father’s death had worried her, but
this second killing and the summary justice that would follow would surely deflect any criticism from her mother. A second killing must convince everyone in Big Timber that the root of the trouble was antagonism between the two big outfits.
‘Looks like he’s been dead some time,’ Pat told everyone, pushing snow off the upper torso to demonstrate how long the body must have lain there. ‘Why kill Harv?’
Charlie Grisham had dismounted to examine the body of his dead ranch hand. ‘What was Harv doing here?’ he wanted to know. ‘What’s been happening?’
‘We won’t find out until we find Jim Braddock or young Ridgeway,’ Pat answered.
Judd Quarterstaff pushed his way through the throng of horses and pointed back to the ruins of the cabin as he spoke to the Red Hammer boss.
‘You won’t learn anything from Dean Ridgeway. There’s another body over there, burned black and unrecognizable, but I guess Braddock’s killed the kid, too.’
A silence settled over the group, their anger at the discovery of Harvey Goode’s body now muted by the confusion caused by the latest discovery. Some of the Red Hammer riders had found difficulty in attributing the killing of Zeb Walters to Jim Braddock; now, inexplicably, there were two more dead men and a burnt-out cabin to account for. Their musings were interrupted by the muffled thuds of a fast-approaching horse.
Jim Braddock dismounted almost before he’d reined his mount to a halt and hurried to the side of the Red Hammer boss, eager to divulge details of the events that had led to the killing of Harvey Goode. He was aware that his arrival had given rise to several murmurings and he picked up on the mood of anger that they implied, but he attributed it to their discovery of Harvey’s body. He certainly wasn’t prepared for the accusations and fury that were about to be unleashed.
Charlie Grisham spoke first, unable to keep the rancour from his tone; the discovery of the body that he assumed to be that of Dean Ridgeway had freed him from the fear of Broken Arrow retribution in the wake of a lynching.
‘Thought you’d fled,’ he said, ‘skipped off to Canada to escape the law, but I guess you figured that no one would suspect you of the killings.’ The bemused expression that settled on Jim Braddock’s face didn’t halt Charlie’s words. ‘Zeb was still alive when he reached the ranch. He named you with his dying breath.’
Jim’s surprise at the announcement of Zeb Walters’s death was little in comparison to the physical assault that came at him from his left. Jane Walters attacked him with the quirt she carried in her right hand. Its several short leather strips scored lines across his left cheek and neck. He yelled, angered by the stinging cuts. Twisting and bending, he used his left shoulder and arm to ward off the blows.
‘You murdered my father,’ Jane shouted, continuing to lash out with the riding whip raining blows on him with increasing frenzy.
Jim tried to push her hand away, tried to protect his face from the flicking, snapping thongs. If she continued, the loss of an eye was a distinct possibility. He jabbed out with his left hand, the heel of which connected with Jane’s jaw. She wasn’t seriously hurt by the blow but it surprised her and the rigidity of his arm caused her to stagger backwards and almost fall. It provided Jim with a moment of respite in which he tried to assemble his thoughts to rebut the charges made against him.
However, the repulsing of the attack from one side only gave rise to another; this one was delivered with the weight and power of a man who was proud of the strength he possessed, a symbol of the toughness he’d needed to survive the rough life he’d lived.
‘Not just a back-shooter but an abuser of women, too.’ Judd Quarterstaff’s words were swiftly followed by his huge right fist crashing against Jim’s jaw. Jim went down, tumbling among the legs of men and horses. Judd grabbed his shirt, pulled his upper body clear of the ground then smashed his fist once more into Jim’s face.
Consciousness returned slowly, the stings emanating from the quirt-inflicted wounds being the first stimulus to rouse him from his state of senselessness. The full picture, that he was astride his horse with his hands tied behind his back and a thick rough rope fitted tightly around his neck, took him several moments to realize. He was being held upright by two Red Hammer cowboys, men he recognized, with whom he had joked, drunk whiskey and played poker in the Garter. But they weren’t smiling now and from behind them, out of Jim’s vision, came the voice of an angry woman.
Jane Walters was demanding the right to slap the rump of Jim’s horse and send him swinging to hell. Charlie Grisham was resisting her demand, reluctant to have her memories and her reputation tainted by the deed for the rest of her life.
‘Boss,’ Pat Hunt called and pointed to the south where a bunch of riders were fast approaching.
‘What’s going on?’ Hec Ridgeway demanded to know. ‘Get rid of that noose and untie that man.’
Charlie Grisham had moved away from the hanging tree to meet his Broken Arrow counterpart.
‘He’s killed some men, Hec. Shot Zeb Walters in the back and the body of Harvey Goode is lying over there in the snow.’
‘If you think you’ve got some proof he did it then take it and him to the sheriff in Big Timber. Jim Braddock never killed anybody that didn’t need killing.’
‘Zeb named Jim Braddock with his last breath,’ Charlie said.
‘And what does my son say? He’s up here with Jim.’ Hec looked around at the faces gathered around the condemned man. He scowled at the presence of the girls, it was unseemly, an offence to his principles. He had thought better of Charlie Grisham than to allow them to witness such ugly business. Words to express his displeasure were forming in his head but Charlie was the first to speak.
‘I’ve got bad news for you, Hec. Your boy, he’s among the dead. He’s over there. His body was in the cabin when it was set afire.’
Hec Ridgeway spurred his horse up to the remains of the cabin, dismounted and sought out the unrecognizable body among the blackened timbers. Charlie Grisham gave him his version of events when, pale-faced, he returned to the group around the tree.
‘Reckon he killed your boy first, then burned the cabin down to hide the crime. My boys must have seen the smoke, come over here to investigate and got killed for their trouble. It could only have been Jim Braddock. There’s no one else within miles of this place.’
Jim Braddock was trying to get the attention of the Broken Arrow boss, wanting to tell him the truth of the matter, wanting to tell him that he didn’t know whose body had burned in the cabin but it wasn’t Dean’s. He couldn’t speak, however, his neck was stretched and the knot was hard against it, making it impossible for him to produce any sound other than a harsh, meaningless gurgle.
Grim-faced, Hec nodded his agreement with Charlie’s account of the killings and stepped forward to whip the horse out from under Jim Braddock himself. He lifted his hat from his head and raised it high, prepared to sweep it across the animal’s tail so that it would jump forward and leave its rider dangling on the end of the tightening noose. He looked up into Jim’s face, bitterness in his eyes and a curse on his tongue.
Annie Grisham regretted joining the group that morning. Her presence had not been a benefit to her friend. Jane’s lust for vengeance had made her deaf to advice. Now, Annie sat at the back of the riders, her head bowed, reluctant to witness the death of a man who, whenever they had met in Big Timber, had never shown her anything but gentle respect. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the movement of Hec Ridgeway raising his hat. Startled, and aware that this was the moment of execution she turned away. Her eyes settled on an unexpected sight.
‘Stop,’ she yelled at the top of her voice and heads turned in her direction. Beyond her, many of the men saw the riders who had caused Annie to put a halt to the lynching.
‘That’s Dean, Mr Ridgeway,’ declared one of his cowboys.
Until he’d confirmed for himself that his son was indeed one of the approaching riders, the old man kept his hat raised in readiness to carry out the hanging, b
ut it took only a moment before he was rushing forward to greet his son. The group shifted its focus away from the condemned man and directed it instead to the reunion between father and son. One or two of the cowboys wondered about the identity of Dean’s companion but the immediate concern was to hear how he’d escaped the supposed slaughter meted out by Jim Braddock.
Waktaya arrived at the scene with horror in her eyes. She didn’t know why Jim Braddock was under sentence of death, all she knew was that those who were preparing to hang him were in the wrong. She had been reluctant to follow Dean’s example and stop outside the ring of cowboys to discuss the matter. The important thing to do was to remove the noose from around Jim’s neck.
The reason that Dean Ridgeway was still alive held little interest for Jane Walters. The perceived slights still taunted her and fed her belief that Jim Braddock was responsible for the death of her father. She was determined he must hang for it. While everyone had their backs to the hanging tree she raised her quirt and whipped the horse on which Jim Braddock sat. It sprang forward. leaving him dangling and kicking in the gap between branch and ground.
Waktaya, whose concentration on Jim Braddock had never wavered, saw everything. Kicking against the flanks of her pony, she barged through the assembled throng to reach him. Manoeuvring alongside the writhing figure, and with incomprehensible strength, she held and lifted Jim’s body until his weight, like her own, was borne on the back of her pony. A dreadful gasping sound rattled in his throat and his eyes were so tightly closed that it seemed they might never open again. Waktaya drew her knife from its scabbard.
In the moment after reaching Jim Braddock, Jane Walters had been sent sprawling by the darting pony. From her position on the ground she watched Waktaya’s single-handed rescue. Now, as the Sioux woman’s eyes fixed on her, she was afraid. The knife in Waktaya’s hand glinted a warning. Jane was ignorant of Waktaya’s name: The One Who Guards, but the look Waktaya shot in her direction was unmistakable: she would kill if anyone tried to harm the man again.
