by Stephen Paul
Matson threw his hands high above him. “I didn’t hurt him. I was getting ready to let him go.”
“Yeah, like we were going to meet before you tried having me bushwhacked. Your man’s dead, by the way.” Bronson pulled the knife from the table and cut the ropes tying Tommy’s hands and feet.
The boy jumped off the cot and put both arms around his waist. Bronson felt Tommy’s body shake from sobs. His face turned dark from a burning anger and when he spoke to Matson, his voice was cold enough to make the man cringe back in the chair.
“I swear, Bronson. I was gonna let him go, ask him.” His tongue licked his lips and his eyes pleaded.
Tommy pulled away and ran his sleeve across the bottom of his nose. “He did tell me he weren’t no child killer.”
“Was he in on hanging your folks?”
“No. When the other men took Ma and Pa in the wagon, he made me ride with him to Rawlins.” Tommy’s face darkened and tears streaked his cheeks. “There wasn’t anything I could do, Uncle John. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.” The sobbing started again.
Bronson rubbed the boy’s back with his right hand, his left still holding the Colt aimed at Matson. “It’s alright, son. Let it out.” He motioned with the pistol. “Stand up and unbuckle your gunbelt.”
Matson rose with his hands still over his head, and then carefully unbuckled his belt with one hand, making sure Bronson could see there weren’t any shenanigans. The belt, holster and pistol clattered to the rough-hewn floor. “Move to over there, next to the wall.”
“You gonna kill me?” Matson’s voice cracked. “I swear to God, I weren’t gonna hurt him.”
Bronson stared through him. He walked by the table and picked the gun and holster up. “Put your hands down and don’t try anything stupid,” he said, going over to Tommy. “Here, hold on to this for me.”
“Here’s what it comes down to, Tommy. You decide what to do with him. If you want him dead, you’ll have to live with your decision the rest of your life, and it won’t be easy. If you’re like me, it’ll haunt you nearly every night by nightmares. Make your choice, it’s getting late.”
The young boy swallowed and looked first at Bronson, then Matson. He held his thin wrists up and the angry red rope burns seemed to glisten. His eyes closed and then opened. “Let’s let him go, Uncle John. I don’t think Ma would have wanted me to be involved in a killing. Don’t you think?”
“No, she wouldn’t have, son. Matson, take your grubstake and head out of here. I’m not as charitable as the boy, so I see you again I’m going kill you on the spot.”
“Don’t you worry none about me. I’m gone for good, maybe head to Cheyenne.” He had a lopsided grin on his face as he hefted the bedroll over his shoulder, opened the door and stepped out. His shoulders seemed to sag and he turned around. “You’re giving me a chance, so watch out for”
He flew forward the same time as the gunshot rang out. Dust flew up when his face hit the ground. Another shot sounded and his body bucked from the striking bullet.
Chapter Twelve
“Get down,” Bronson shouted as he fired a round out the door then slammed it closed. Glass broke out of the windows and bullet holes appeared through the door as a barrage of shots were fired.
“What are we going to do, Uncle John,” he shouted over the sounds of the rifle shots. His hands covered his head and he layed on his stomach on the floor.
“I think we better start praying,” he said, firing blindly out the broken window.
Pieces of wood from the door flew in the air and the dull thunking of bullets hitting the log walls sounded like heavy hammer blows against the cabin. With no windows except by the door, they were trapped.
Bronson reloaded the colt, and wondered how they had been so lucky that the lantern hadn't been shattered. On his hands and knees he crawled over to the table where he grabbed it and blew the flame out. Total darkness closed around them, the only light being from the outside.
"Come over here and stay in the corner," Bronson yelled to Tommy. Bring the gun and holster. The boy did as he was told. "How many bullets on the gunbelt?"
"Nine, ten…thirteen." Tommy reported. "What do you want me to do?"
The gunfire from outside ceased. "Shsssh!" Bronson whispered. A dark form appeared at the window and Bronson fired. The shadow dropped without a sound and the shooting started again.
"Anybody tries coming in the door and you shoot. This is killing to save our lives, something you have to do. Can you do it? Tell me now, boy, I've got to depend on you," Bronson said tersely. He stood up and with his back next to the log wall he fired at a muzzle flash.
"Owww. He got me!" a voice cried out from the night.
"Can you drag the table over here without getting hit?" Bronson asked the boy.
He nodded and crawled over to the table. With both hands around one leg and staying low to the floor, he grunted and pulled it over to the corner of the room, the legs screeching against the rough wooden floor in protest.
"Push it over on its side and face it toward the door and window. It'll give us more cover." A lull again in the shooting let Bronson peek around the window casing.
The table clattered as it hit the floor, sending dust up and cracking a floorboard in two.
"Damn, they're going to burn us out." Bronson's face lit up from the reflection of flames he saw rising from a wagonload of hay. He jerked his head back at the same time several shots came from the trees, by the wagon. A volley of gunfire started and he heard the wagon wheels crunching on the ground.
A new sound echoed from out of the night. The heavy boom of a Sharps .50 caliber. That thing will blow the wall away.
"What's that?" Tommy shouted.
"A buffalo gun."
From outside, he could hear yells and see the light from the burning wagon come closer. He put his pistol out the window and fired three fast shots in the direction of the wagon.
The rapid, constant gunfire, along with the artillery sound of the Sharps and the acrid smell of gunsmoke that floated like a hazy curtain, stirred hidden memories of Valverde.
* * * *
The column rode fast out of Fort Craig toward the Rio Grande River. Sibley's force had to be stopped or communications would be cut off with the Santa Fe battalion.
"Sgt. Bronson!" Union Col. E.R.S. Canby yelled, riding up beside him. "Take your troops and engage them on the east side of the old river bed."
Bronson acknowledged the order and waved his hand to the column of Union cavalry riders behind him. They turned away from the main body of soldiers and galloped in the direction of the river. After twenty minutes of hard riding, they crested a ridge that looked down on the old river bed. The dry cut banks gave good cover and the rebels could be seen hunkered down behind them. The sun was setting and in February, it turned dark fast.
Canby's force mounted an assault from the north and northwest, the bugler sounding the charge.
Bronson stood up in his stirrups. "We've got to stop them, no bugle. This is a fast hit. If we can take them unawares at first, that'll give us one up on 'em." He raised his hand then flung it down—fifty riders charged into hell at Valverde.
* * * *
Bronson fired the first shot as they hit the flats and raced toward the men in the riverbed. The column was now a line, spread out and shooting. Screams of pain and fear could be heard as men fell off their horses from the return fire. Bronson's horse was shot out from under him and he hit the ground rolling. The Confederates outnumbered Bronson's troops and soon gunsmoke filled the air so heavily from so many rifles firing, the soldiers from both sides appeared as gray shadows in the dusk.
"Dismount, dismount," Bronson yelled, flinging himself behind a dirt abutment. Wild-eyed, riderless horses raced by, reins tied together as the men on them had either been shot or jumped off to continue the assault. As darkness covered them, Bronson and twenty-two men used the abutment for shelter and fired at the encampment of rebels.
"Form a skirmish line," he yell
ed. He placed a hand on his corporal. "Henricks, try and get some sharpshooters to take out those rebs in the cut bank." The corporal nodded and crouched low as he ran toward a group of men clustered in a small ditch. Bronson watched as Henricks ran then seemed to be lifted off the ground by invisible hands and slammed down to the dirt. He rolled onto his back and lay still.
A boom from the distance and an explosion near them showering dirt, rocks and debris brought the tendrils of fear into every man, gripping his guts, and squeezing with a cold hand. The ground shook every time an explosion hit and it felt like the earth trembled.
"Oh, Lord, they've got cannons!" one man sobbed. "We're all gonna die!"
Chapter Thirteen
"What?" Bronson asked. He shook his head to clear it. It seemed he'd been gone from the cabin and back at Valverde.
"Are we going die, Uncle John?" Tommy tried hiding the quaver of fear in his voice, but failed. He crawled closer to Bronson and gripped his hand.
Bronson looked down and felt something stir in his heart. This was his sister's child – the same blood coursed through their veins- the only family he had left, and by God, he wasn't going to let him die! He squeezed the boy's hand and said, "No, we're not going to die, I promise." His voice was raw with emotion and determination.
The wagon hit the cabin with a loud crash. Burning hay, flames reaching high, flew in through the window. All Bronson could see was a wall of flame. He fired the Colt blindly out the window as he ran to the bunk and grabbed two blankets.
"Here, beat the fire out," he said throwing one blanket to Tommy and using the other one to slap down on the burning hay. Smoke filled the room, making them both cough and gag. The ceiling started to burn along with the log walls. Bronson shoved the table across the floor, pushing the burning hay away from them.
He could still hear the gunfire and the rapid reports from the Sharps, but it didn't seem like any bullets were striking the cabin. Something was going on, but what? The heat singed their hair and came closer to where they took shelter. When Bronson backed up his boot caught on the broken floor board, making him stumble.
His eyes were red from the smoke and each choking breath dragged in hot, acrid air.
"We've got one chance to get out of here with our lives."
A ceiling timber crashed to the floor showering sparks and embers toward them. Tommy cried out from fright as the fire grew and turned into a raging inferno that consumed most of the inside of the cabin.
Bronson took Matson's knife and stuck the blade into the broken part of the floorboard that he'd stumbled over. When he pushed down on the handle the board rose up an inch. He shoved the barrel of Matson's pistol into the opening and put his weight on the butt. The plank popped into the air.
"Help me pull some more up," he yelled over the thunderous sound of the fire.
Together, he and Tommy were able to yank four more flooring planks up and saw the space between the ground and the floor of the cabin. Bronson grabbed Tommy and pushed him down into the dark space. He followed, turning his shoulders to get through the opening. On the ground below the floor, both crawled to the boards that kept the wind from blowing under the floor. Light from the fire peeked through the cracks. Bronson moved in a circle and slammed his feet against the boards, splintering them from the force. He kicked twice more, giving them an opening large enough to get out. Bronson had Tommy's arm in his hand when he got to his feet, drew his Colt and ran from the cabin at the same time the entire roof caved in. Showers of sparks and embers erupted and the entire log cabin seemed to be drowning in flames.
As he ran toward the corral for the cover, he expected a bullet in his back with each step. They leaped behind a water trough and Bronson held the pistol over the rim, waiting for a shot.
"John…John Bronson!" a voice yelled.
"Who's hollering at you?" Tommy asked, his eyes wide from fear and excitement.
"I don't believe it. It sounds like…Wendell?" Bronson shouted.
Out of the darkness, a Sharps .50 caliber in his hand, Wendell ran, crouched low, rifle barrel pointed toward the front of the burning cabin.
"Over here." Bronson waved his hand.
Wendell ran over and ducked down behind the trough. His breath came in gasps. "I'm not used to shooting this much. Takes a man's breath away." He grinned at Bronson. "I think I drove them off. I might have shot one or two of them."
“What are you doing here?” Bronson asked, amazement in his voice. His eyes still scanned the darkness in front of him. The flames lit the night up like the beginning of a day. He couldn’t see anyone.
“I decided you might need some help, even if you didn’t want mine.”
“You saved our lives, I’m indebted to you,” Bronson said.
“No you’re not,” Wendell spoke in a low tone glancing at Tommy. “I’m glad I’ve been able to do something for you - for once.”
They stayed behind the trough for another twenty minutes, waiting for a shot to come. None did.
“I want you to take Tommy back with you,” Bronson said. “I have some things to do.”
“I brought an extra horse figuring that. Becky is getting a room fixed up for him.”
“How did you find us?”
“After you left, I gave you an hour so you wouldn’t see me and try to talk me out of helping. When I came in sight of the homestead, I heard gunshots and lit out, but by the time I got there, you were gone. I followed you but the dark slowed me down until the fire and shooting started.” Wendell took a deep breath. “I never shot a white man before. I think I got one.”
“Let’s go take a look-see. Tommy, stay here, holler if you see anything.” The fire had burned down and darkness was washing in on them again. “Wendell, you go to the left and I’ll go around the right. Stay in the shadows and try to keep something between you and the front of the cabin.”
The two men split up, each going from tree to fence post to sagebrush in a crouch. They came around to the front of the smoldering cabin where flames still kissed the sky intermittently
A body lay off the trail, arms outspread, a bloody mass was all that was left of this chest.
“That .50 caliber blows a hole in them.” Bronson said dryly. There wasn't a hint of sympathy or remorse.
“God, I’m not proud of killing him, though he deserved it,” Wendell said. “You ever seen him before?”
“No, not that I can recall. Looks like you might have gotten another one.” Bronson pointed down to the ground. “Trail of blood – careful, move away.” He drew his Colt and turned.
From the dark of the prairie, a flash of light and the crack of a pistol shot intruded in the night. Wendell flew back and hit the ground on his side.
Chapter Fourteen
Bronson crouched down and fanned the pistol’s hammer in the direction of the muzzle flash. He heard a grunt of pain the same time the last bullet fired from his gun. Bronson grabbed Wendell’s pistol from his holster, not looking at him and ran toward the last sound he’d heard.
The bulky shadow was motionless on the ground. Bronson leaned down, the pistol cocked and pointing at the man’s head. “I should have killed you that first day,” he muttered as he recognized the features of the dead blacksmith. He turned his head and spit to the side of the dead man. "Enough is enough."
He stood up and walked back toward Wendell’s body, a feeling of failure shrouding him. “Tommy, come here,” he yelled. He knelt down and whispered, “Dammit, Wendell, why’d you have to follow me?”
“My God, what hit me?” Wendell groaned, rolling onto his back. His hand went to the side of his head and came away bloody.
Bronson laughed and said, “My friend, you were just grazed. I thought you’d been killed.” He helped Wendell sit up. “Don’t move too fast; let me get you some water.” Bronson whistled and waited a moment. Out of a dark grove of trees came Shoshone.
“That’s a good boy,” Bronson murmured petting the horse’s neck. He took his canteen from the saddle ho
rn, unwrapped his bandanna, and poured some water on it. “Here, hold this against your head,” he said, putting the bandanna in Wendell’s hand. “You’re damn lucky to be alive.”
“Don’t think I don’t know it.”
Tommy came running up came to a stumbling stop. “Who’s this?”
“A good friend, Wendell Strand. Wendell, this is Tommy, my nephew.” The two shook hands, each sizing the other up. Bronson watched Shoshone’s ears.
“I think they’re all gone. He’s not acting like he’s hearing anything,” he said, pointing to the horse.
The cabin sat in ruins, smoldering. A finger of flame would shoot up then die out. Smoke drifted low to the ground and the light wind that started blowing out of the south diluted it to a haze. The smell of burnt wood emanated from both Tommy and Bronson.
“Your shirt’s burnt,” Tommy said, noticing it for the first time.
“We were lucky, boy. I want you to go with Wendell and stay with him for a little bit, while I finish some business.”
“No! I’m gonna stay with you. You’re all I got, Uncle John.” He took Bronson’s hand in his.
“Now listen. I can’t do my job if I have to watch out for you. Wendell and Becky don’t live that far away and it shouldn’t take me too long to wrap this up. No argument, understand?” Bronson said with finality. “I’ll ride with you to Brown’s Canyon, to make sure you’re okay,” he said to Wendell.
“No need, John.” He got to his feet. “All I got is a headache, but it don’t hurt that bad. The horses are back here aways.” Wendell picked his hat off the ground and brushed his pants off with it. Bronson handed him his pistol and the Sharps rifle.
The false dawn gave them some light to see by. A quarter of a mile from the cabin stood a bay horse and a smaller pinto. “As you can see, I came prepared to take Tommy back with me.” Wendell smiled and clapped the boy on the back.
Bronson, leading Shoshone, stopped and put his hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “I’m glad you did, my friend.”
After the two horses’ saddles were cinched tight and Tommy and Wendell sat in the saddles, Tommy turned the paint to face Bronson. “Are you going to kill them? The ones that hung Ma and Pa and tried killing us?” His eyes bore into Bronson’s.
