Clay smiled and said, “It’s feeling real good, Captain.”
Dixon, surprised and pleased, said, “Well, look at you, talking and everything. You have to be my prize patient. I honestly didn’t know if you would regain your voice. Congratulations. You’re feeling okay?”
“Yes, sir, my neck and throat are feeling great. I’ve still got some soreness, but it isn’t bad at all. Looks like things went well for you.”
“Clay, you wouldn’t believe it. Colonel Mackenzie took our men, following the Black Seminole scouts, into Mexico. Those scouts led us straight to Costilietos’s camp. He’s one of the main chiefs of the Lipan Apache. We hit them, and hit them hard. We captured Costilietos himself, forty or fifty prisoners, and a large number of horses and firearms—total success. We have only a few wounded. It was very successful.
“I heard,” Captain Dixon said, changing the subject, “you were attacked by three ruffians, and yesterday, you almost had a gunfight. You need to join the frontier army, where it’s safe.”
Clay grinned. “Can’t help if everyone wants to pick on a little guy like me.”
“Yeah, I understand you put the three attackers down—impressive. I also heard that you’ve been seeing the banker’s daughter.”
“Yes, sir, I have. A really nice girl. I plan on seeing her again.”
The captain’s eyebrows went up. “Ahh, like that. Good for you. Are you going to stay here or go after those killers?”
“I’ve made a commitment, Captain Dixon. Reckon I’m sticking to it.”
Dixon nodded. “I figured you would. Well, you’re well enough to go. Your neck will continue to get better. Just try not to get into any more fights till that neck is healed. By the way, the colonel said he wanted to see you as soon as you got back to the post. I think he’s in his office now.”
“I’d like to see him and thank him for his hospitality. And, Captain Dixon, thank you. I wouldn’t be walking around if it wasn’t for you. I owe you.”
“Think nothing of it—
“Captain Dixon,” an orderly called, “we need you over here right now.”
“Gotta go, Clay. Good luck to you.”
“And you.” They shook hands quickly, and Dixon was off to his patient.
Clay walked over to the bed he had been using for the past week and picked up his rifle. He walked back outside and slid the rifle into the scabbard. He left the horses tied and walked to headquarters.
The office was a madhouse. He went to the sergeant’s desk. “Sergeant, Clay Barlow to see Colonel Mackenzie.”
“Wait here.” The sergeant knocked on the closed office door.
“Come.”
“Colonel Mackenzie, Clay Barlow is here to see you.”
“Send him in, Sergeant. See that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Barlow, you can come in.” The sergeant closed the door behind Clay.
Clay walked over to the colonel’s desk. “Good to see you, sir.”
Colonel Mackenzie had gotten up from behind his desk. He looked at Clay with a startled expression. “Son, the last time I saw you, you were writing your words on a piece of paper. Sounds like things are looking up.”
“Yes, sir, they surely are.”
There were two chairs in front of his desk. Mackenzie took one and offered the other to Clay.
“I hear you had a successful mission,” Clay said.
“We did. I give all the credit to the Seminole scouts. They got my buffalo soldiers right on top of the Kickapoo and then the Lipan. Those Indians never knew what hit ’em. That reminds me, I have a gift for you.”
He got up and walked over to the gun case, where a shotgun sat among the rifles. He pulled it out of the gun case and said, “This look familiar to you?”
Clay stood and walked over to the colonel. “Sir, that’s my Roper. I can’t believe it.”
“That’s not all.” The colonel pulled a deerskin bag out of the gun case and handed it to Clay.
Clay opened the bag. There must have been twenty-five or thirty Roper shotgun shells. “Colonel, I don’t know how to thank you. This shotgun was given to me. I really hated that Hayes got it, almost as bad as I hated to lose my horse.”
“You’re very welcome. It is a miracle we found it. We didn’t find your horse. I fear the Indians had already eaten it.” The colonel quickly continued when he saw Clay wince. “Though it is possible that Hayes got away.”
“I understand, Colonel. I know the Indians love horse meat. I just hate to think of such a good horse being eaten. But I’m mighty thankful for the return of the shotgun.”
“Son, I feel sure Hayes is one of the murderers you won’t have to worry about.” The colonel walked over to his desk, picked up a cigar out of his humidor, and offered one to Clay.
“No, thank you.”
“Helps me think,” the colonel said around the cigar as he was lighting it. Puffs of smoke rose in the room. “When do you expect to be leaving?”
“Captain Dixon said I was free to go. I’ll be leaving as soon as I walk out of your office.”
The colonel stepped over to his bookshelf and pulled out a book. He handed it to Clay. “I think this will do you more good than me. Anyway, I have another one.”
Clay took the book. It was Blackstone’s Commentaries. “Colonel, I don’t know how to thank you.”
The colonel smiled around his cigar, took a puff, and pulled it from his mouth. “Son, you continue to read and learn. We need men like you in this country.”
A knock on the door sounded, and the sergeant stepped into the room. “Sorry, sir, but the major said this can’t wait.”
“Tell him just a moment.
“Clay, I hate to interrupt this, but duty calls. It’s been nice knowing you. I wish you good luck in your endeavor. If I can ever be of help, let me know.”
“Thank you, sir. Congratulations again, and thanks for Blackstone and my shotgun.”
The colonel laughed and clapped Clay on the shoulder. Clay slipped out of his office as the major stepped in and the door closed. He walked outside and over to the infirmary, dropping the book into his saddlebags. He checked the shotgun to make sure everything was working, took four shells from the bag, and loaded it. With the shotgun and bag of shells in one hand, he stepped up into the saddle. Clay hung the bag over the saddle horn, then leaned over and unfastened the buckskin’s reins from the hitching post.
He rode west, between the infirmary and one of the troops barracks. Once outside of the fort, he stopped the sorrel and looked back. A lot had happened in the days that he had been here in Brackett. Again, he was leaving security and friendship. He looked toward Brackett and Lynn. Will I survive? Will I be back? Will Lynn still feel the same way when I come back?
Clay took one last look and turned his mount toward the setting sun. It was reflecting red and golds from the Las Moras Hills to the north. The few puffy evening clouds were gold rimmed, the sun behind them. He could feel the sorrel’s muscles quiver.
“You boys have been cooped up for days. How about a run?”
Clay bumped the sorrel in the flanks and yelled. The horse jumped forward so fast that the pull from the buckskin almost yanked him out of the saddle. Both horses wanted to stretch their muscles, and they were soon running side by side. The wind felt fresh, exciting. This was no time to be sad or somber. Life was here and now. They ran for a couple of miles before he slowed them to a walk. Fort Clark and Brackett had disappeared below the hills, and he was again alone in the wild. He could feel the freedom and loved it. It should still be daylight when he reached Maverick Creek. He’d cross Zoquete Creek first. That was about halfway between Brackett and Maverick Creek. He picked the horses up into a fast walk and relaxed in the saddle.
It was dark when he reached the creek. The stars were out. A sliver of moon was peeking over the western hills, turning the sage and mesquite into silver skeletons and lighting the plains with a cool white light.
He found a camping spot unde
r the trees. Clay quickly dropped the panniers from the buckskin and took the saddles off the horses. He gave them a rubdown with dry leaves. After the rubdown was complete, he took both horses down to water. It was a still night. He could hear the racket from the turkeys up the creek, going to roost in the trees. As always, they were making a tremendous fuss. They would settle down soon and be his alert system for up the creek. No one could be stealthy on the dry leaves and get past the turkeys without an immense amount of clucking. If they were frightened off their roost, nothing was louder than turkeys flying through the trees at night.
A lone coyote serenaded the pale moon. At the first sound of the coyote, the horses’ heads jerked up from the water. Clay talked to them in a soft, confident voice. He calmed the beasts, and once they had finished drinking, Clay brought them back up to the camp. He retrieved the ropes from the panniers and staked the horses on the good grass.
Once he had taken care of the horses, he made himself a bed under one of the big oak trees. This would be a cold camp tonight, no fire. He had some jerky in his saddlebags. He had filled his canteen at the creek while he was watering the horses. Jerky and water. Not bad. He’d be asleep in no time. If anything tried to slip up on him, in these dry leaves, either he’d hear them or the horses would let him know. He reached into his saddlebags for the jerky and felt a sack he didn’t recognize. He pulled it out. Inside was a big steak sandwich and a piece of birthday cake. Lynn. When did she do it? He couldn’t remember being away from her, except when she went into the house. She probably had someone else put it in his saddlebags. However she did it, he was going to have a banquet tonight, and he was grateful.
He unwrapped the sandwich and bit into the juicy steak. He loved cold steak almost as much as when it was cooked fresh. It had a tangy taste that set his taste buds to celebrating. The bread was covered with fresh butter, and fresh-cut, early tomatoes were sliced thick, between the bread. Clay leaned back and enjoyed his feast.
After finishing the sandwich, he unwrapped the big piece of cake. He immediately decided he’d save half of it for breakfast. He got out his Boker and sliced the cake in half. The cake had a thick, creamy icing over chocolate. His ma seldom made anything chocolate, since it was so expensive. Sometimes, when they visited his French grandparents in D’Hanis, his grandma would fix chocolate cake. This was a real treat. He had taken his second bite when he saw the horses’ heads snap up and heard the rustling in the leaves. He slid his Model 3 out of the holster and waited. Nothing. Then, there it was again. The horses went back to feeding, and he went back to eating. It was nothing more than an armadillo rooting in the leaves for ants or grubs.
Clay finished up half of the cake, folded up the sandwich wrapper, and put it into his saddlebags. He took a long drink of water and smoothed out a place on the ground after moving a few sticks out of the way. He had taken a pair of moccasins out of one of the panniers. He pulled his boots off and slipped the moccasins on. He adjusted his saddle and lay his head back. A few of the stars were visible through the oaks. A light breeze had started up. He had the shotgun close, with a Model 3 in hand. The last thing that passed through his tired mind was a thought about that tasty cake.
*
Clay awoke when a stray beam of sunshine made it through the oaks and struck him in the eyes. He glanced over at the horses. They were indulging in a little breakfast for themselves, the tasty grass shoots coming up between the leaves. He put his hat on, stretched, then pulled on his boots, followed by his gunbelt.
The horses needed water. He led them down to the creek and let them drink their fill. After they were finished, he staked them back out on a fresh patch of grass. His breakfast consisted of the chocolate cake he’d saved and water. A breakfast fit for a king.
Clay saddled the buckskin and then put the old saddle on the sorrel. He’d give the sorrel a break today and ride the buckskin. Once the panniers were tied on the sorrel, he slipped his moccasins into the saddlebags and stretched again, feeling the muscles in his broad chest and back. He rolled up the two ropes and slid them back in the panniers. With the shotgun in his left hand, Clay mounted the buckskin.
The buckskin was feeling sassy this morning and provided Clay a little workout with a few crow-hops around the clearing. The sorrel watched with a disinterested stare. Once settled down, Clay rode the buckskin over to the sorrel, picked up the reins, and headed west. Before he broke out of the trees along the creek, he pulled the horses up. Pa had taught him to never ride out into an open area without looking it over. He’d never seen anything of real danger, but he knew there could always be bandits or Indians waiting. Yet again, today was no different than so many that had come before. It was all clear. He’d be in San Felipe del Rio in just a few more hours.
Clay started to move the buckskin out when, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash. He froze. There it was again. It was a little north of where the road would take him. There was a rocky outcropping seventy-five or so yards north of the road. He estimated about seven hundred yards from him. Several big boulders were behind the outcropping, interspersed with large patches of prickly pear and a mesquite thicket. There was only one reason for someone to be up there. They had to be looking for a traveler along the road. Could whoever it was be looking for him? Was it the Pinder Gang lying in wait? How did they know he was after them if Hayes had been picked off by Indians?
He surveyed the terrain south of the road. There was a deep ravine that ran west from Maverick Creek. It had mesquite and a few scattered oaks along its banks. He could move through the ravine, get past the ambusher, and slip up behind him using the mesquite thicket.
Clay backed the horses deep into the oaks along Maverick Creek. He dismounted and took his moccasins from the saddlebags, then slipped off his boots and replaced them with the moccasins. He tied the horses’ reins with loose slipknots. If he was killed or injured, he wanted them to be able to get loose and fend for themselves. He tied his boots across his saddle and slipped the shotgun from his slicker, then opened the sack hanging from the saddle horn and took out a handful of shells. Clay slipped the shells into his pockets, took a long drink of water from his canteen, and hung it back on the buckskin’s saddle. He eased up to the edge of the trees, got his bearings, and slipped back.
Now was the time. He and Running Wolf had stalked each other many times. He had slipped up on deer so close he could reach out and touch them. This time, it was a man he was stalking. With the shotgun in his left hand, he removed the leather hammer thong from the Smith & Wesson New Model 3 in his right holster. He left the thong in place on the crossdraw holster, just in case he fell. When that was done, he wheeled around and started trotting to the ravine. Once in the ravine, Clay began his long-legged run. He covered distance quickly, knowing that the ravine walls shielded him from view of whoever might be on the rock outcropping. He had run for ten minutes when he came to the big oak he had marked. He eased out of the ravine, scanned the area to make sure there were no other threats—it was Indian country, after all—and slipped through the mesquites.
He had come out of the ravine well behind the outcropping and out of view of anyone who was watching from there. He had been slipping through the mesquite and acacia, slowly making his way to the outcropping, when he came to the road. This would be the only opportunity for the man or men to see him. He lay in between two patches of prickly pear and examined the hillside. No movement. A horned toad was keeping him company from under the prickly pear on his left. It turned its little horned head to watch him with curiosity, the gray-tan body well camouflaged among the rocks.
Clay took one last look, then was up and running across the road. Reaching the other side, he fell to the ground and lay still, watching the outcropping. There was no movement. He eased to his feet, checked his right holster to make sure the revolver was still there, and slipped the hammer thong off the crossdraw. From tree to tree, prickly pear to prickly pear, he slipped. No noise came from his moccasins. He was a silent shadow dri
fting among the trees. He thanked the Tonkawas and Running Wolf for teaching him this skill.
Movement up ahead. He saw the switch of a tail. He froze and waited. There, no more than twenty-five yards in front of him, were two horses. So more than one man, he thought. His breathing slowed. His senses intensified. He moved forward, step, pause, look, step, pause, look. Now he was close to the horses, and he could hear voices ahead. He eased to the side, where the horses could see him. He was within arm’s reach. They both saw him at the same time and jerked their heads up, their eyes wide. He moved slowly and let his hand run up the neck of the one nearest. They watched him, tense, for a moment more, then went back to tearing and chewing what little grass they could find on the hillside.
He could hear what the men were saying. “This is the third day we’ve been out here. That boy ain’t comin’. Gideon don’t know what he’s talking about. If Hayes put a knife through his throat, he ain’t nowhere but dead. I’m ready to head back to town and have a drink.”
The other man cursed and said, “You ain’t been with us long. You go against my brother and he’ll kill you quicker than one of them Apaches.”
Clay could see them now. They were no more than fifteen feet in front of him, sitting on the ledge, screened from the road by some scrubby mesquite, watching for any travelers from the east.
The man on the left wore a slouch hat, a shirt that looked like it hadn’t seen water since before Adam, and bib overalls with patches on both knees. He was of average height but wide shoulders. A gunbelt with a crossdraw holster cinched his overalls at his waist.
The man with the Sharps was small, no more than five and a half feet tall, with narrow shoulders. He wore a wide-brimmed, low-crowned gray hat that had seen better days. His scruffy beard continued from dirty hair peeking out from under his hat. While Clay was watching him, he turned to spit. His eyes looked like saucers when he saw Clay. Spittle ran out of his mouth onto his already-dirty beard.
Forty-Four Caliber Justice Page 12
