Colorado Crossfire (A Piccadilly Pulishing Western Book 15)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Killing is part of being a warrior,” Kiowa said. “But it ain’t as important as counting coup.”

  “You mean when you Injuns touch an enemy instead o’ killing him?” Lefty asked.

  ‘Yeah,” Kiowa said. “It’s a battle honor.”

  “Well, it don’t get you shit in the white man’s world,” Lefty said. He became pensive again. “You suppose we’ll kill somebody someday?”

  “I reckon,” Kiowa answered. “And from the way things went, it might be purty damn soon.”

  “To hell with that,” Lefty said. “We got to figger out what we’re gonna do next.”

  Although neither said it, they were too proud to go back to Fort Sill after only one day away on their quest for riches. “Whatcha wanta do?” Lefty asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kiowa said. “What’s on the other side o’ Oklahoma Territory?”

  “I think Kansas is,” Lefty said.

  “Let’s go see,” Kiowa suggested.

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Lefty said. He looked over at his friend. “I wish you’d get your damn hair cut!”

  “I won’t do it,” Kiowa flatly stated.

  They angled off to the northeast to skirt Fort Sill far on the south. When they reached the Canadian River, they turned due north. It was a pleasant trip. With nothing but time on their hands and plenty of fresh game available, the boys moved slowly across the wild country. On one occasion, they found a good fishing spot on the Cimarron and spent an entire week loafing in a pleasant camp they set up for themselves. This was something they’d done plenty of times before. On some occasions, as youngsters, they would be away from home for almost a month’s time. Kiowa passed on his Indian skills to Lefty as they grew up, and the boys evolved into a fine tracking and hunting team. Even seasoned frontiersmen complimented them on their abilities at stalking and chasing game.

  But even a good bivouac grows soiled sifter awhile, so one morning they reached a silent mutual agreement that it was time to move on. Lefty and Kiowa packed their gear, swung up into the saddles and resumed their trip.

  “What’re we gonna do in Kansas?” Kiowa asked as they neared the state line.

  Lefty shrugged. “I don’t think they got big cattle ranches up there. Just farms.”

  Kiowa, thinking of his tribesmen struggling with plow and seeds on the reservation, shook his head. “It’s just like we told your pa. We sure as hell ain’t gonna get rich farming.”

  “I didn’t say nothing about us farming, did I?”

  “Then what’re we gonna do?” Kiowa insisted on knowing.

  “Let’s just get there and take a look around,” Lefty said. “I don’t know no more about Kansas than you do.”

  The trek continued until they reached another river, the Arkansas. They moved slowly northward along its west bank, penetrating deeper into an area that grew more populated. The farms gradually became closer together and a few small towns appeared now and then. Leery after their experience in Texas, the two avoided contact as much as possible but generally found the people tolerably friendly toward them.

  Late in the evening, Lefty finally turned in his saddle. “Let’s go on over to that grove o’ cottonwoods and settle in for the night, huh?”

  “Sure,” Kiowa said. Then he pulled his horse to a stop. “Looky yonder.”

  “Where?” Lefty asked.

  “To the north. Is that a fire?”

  Lefty looked in the direction indicated and noted a glow on the horizon.. “Boy, I hope not!” A prairie fire exploding across the wide open plains was a horror not to be taken lightly. “I don’t see no smoke though.”

  “What could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” Lefty said. “But I’m mighty curious.”

  “Let’s ride towards it and see if we can find out before it gets too dark,” Kiowa suggested.

  “I’m all for that!” Lefty exclaimed.

  They urged their horses into a gentle canter as they traveled across the flat country in the direction of the lights. Finally, as they came up to the apex of a small rise in the ground, they found the source of the illumination.

  “Great God Almighty!” Lefty exclaimed.

  “Is that one town?” Kiowa asked.

  “Why, it sure is,” Lefty said. “Why, it’s damn near as far as the eye can see.”

  “Let’s get on over to it,” Kiowa said.

  “You bet we will!” Lefty said. “I don’t want to wait for morning to see the place.”

  They crossed two miles of the tabletop terrain before they reached a main road. The going was faster then and they finally reached the outskirts of the city. Planted by the dirt thoroughfare, a sign bore the words: GITY LIMITS WICHITA, KANSAS POP. 6,000

  Lefty and the Kiowa Kid rode down the road that had now turned into a street. Frame buildings, houses, livery barns, businesses, and other structures were situated in an orderly manner along the dirt streets. To a couple of kids out of the Indian Territory, the place was a marvel to behold.

  When they finally reached the noisy commercial district, they decided to walk the boardwalks and take a closer look at what the metropolis offered. Dismounting, they tied their horses to a hitching rail in front of a saloon. A black-haired man with an enormous mustache sat in a chair by the bar door. He stood up, revealing a tall, lanky build. “Howdy, boys.” He wore a black hat and a long coat. His gray woolen trousers were stuffed into high-top boots.

  Lefty nodded as he and Kiowa stepped up on the boardwalk. “Howdy.”

  “New in town, are you?”

  Lefty grinned. “Just this minute got here.”

  “We got an ord’nance ’bout guns,” the man said. “They ain’t allowed on the streets.”

  Lefty and Kiowa looked at each other. Never had they heard of anything so preposterous in their entire lives. Lefty said, “We don’t live here.”

  “You still got to turn your guns in over to the city marshal’s office,” the man said.

  “We ain’t staying long,” Lefty said. “Anyhow, I can see you’re toting iron under that coat.”

  The man pulled the garment open. He tapped the star pinned to the vest underneath. “It’s my job to arm myself. Anyhow, I don’t give a damn one way or the other. Turn in your guns or get back on them horses and haul your asses outta here.”

  Lefty and Kiowa, being free born souls out of the independent life of the Indian Territory, took instant exception to the pronouncement.

  “We do as we please,” Lefty said.

  The man whipped out his pistol – a long-barrel Colt – and rapped it first across Lefty’s head, then caught Kiowa’s jaw on the backswing. Both youngsters hit the boardwalk and rolled off to the dirt. Dazed and confused, they were grabbed by the scruff of the necks and dragged down the street to the city jail.

  Wichita justice was swift. The next morning, after a sleepless, headachy night among drunks and felons, Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid were taken before the town Judge.

  The judge was used to seeing the wild types coming up from the Indian Territory and Texas. He dispensed the law with a mixture of logic and compassion. “Boys, there is nothing here in Wichita for you but trouble,” he wisely told them. “You disobeyed a peace officer and that’s good for thirty dollars or thirty days. And I’ll warrant you’ve not got that much money between the two of you, have you?”

  Lefty, a knot on his head, shrugged. “No, sir. We don’t have no money a’tall.”

  Kiowa, his jaw so sore he couldn’t even chew without a great deal of discomfort, merely nodded.

  “Well, boys, it would cost the city to jail you. So I’ll strike a bargain. If you promise to leave town, I’ll suspend your sentence. I imagine you two wouldn’t like being locked up, would you?”

  Both shook their aching heads.

  “I can tell by the look of you that you’re fellows used to being outdoors. I’ll warrant that being in a city this size is a new experience for you. You spend a lot of time on the open prairie, do you?�
�

  ‘Yes, sir,” Lefty said. “We do that.”

  “And you’ve probably done a lot of hunting out there, have you not?”

  ‘Yes, sir,” Lefty said. “We do good at it.”

  “I hear the railroads in Colorado are looking for hunters to keep their work crews fed. You’d be in the open country out of the temptations and troubles of towns, and you could earn money doing what you like to do best.

  Lefty’s mood brightened. “Why that’s a fine idea, sir.

  “I’m glad you agree,” the judge said. “Then it’s a deal. You’re dismissed.”

  Lefty grabbed Kiowa’s shirt and began hurrying him out before the judge changed his mind. As they reached the door, the judge called to them, “One more thing, boys.”

  They stopped. “Yes, sir?” Lefty asked.

  “No matter where you are, the next time Wyatt Earp tells you to turn in your guns, you’d best do it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lefty said. “C’mon, Kiowa,” he said under his breath. “Let’s get up to Colorado and see the railroad folks.”

  Five

  Lefty looked down on Dawson’s Meadow. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward from the chimney, and the corral was empty. “It don’t look like any o’ Paxton’s boys is there, does it?”

  “Nope,” Kiowa answered.

  “Anyhow,” Lefty said. “It’s kinda like being back home again, ain’t it?”

  Kiowa nodded. “Yeah.”

  Each trip up into the Rocky Mountains included a rest stop at Delmar Dawson’s place.

  “Let’s go on down there and get started on this job,” Lefty suggested. “If we’re lucky, Paxton’s men have at least been by and Delmar can tell us where they went.”

  “Do you think he’ll let us know if he’s seen ’em?” Kiowa asked. “OF Delmar is a strong believer in minding his own business.”

  “He will if we’re cagey,” Lefty said.

  “We ain’t real good at being cagey,” Kiowa reminded him.

  “Don’t be such a grouch! C’mon!”

  The pair came out of the trees and rode slowly across the wide clearing. When they reached the cabin, Lefty and Kiowa went around to the side. Lefty slipped out of the saddle and opened the corral gate. After Kiowa rode through, he led his horse inside. “Hey, fellers.” Dawson stood in the back door.

  “Howdy, Delmar,” Lefty said.

  “It looks like you boys are heading up to the high country again, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Kiowa answered.

  “Figgering on prospecting?” Dawson asked.

  Lefty winked at Kiowa. “We’re gonna try to make some money alright.” He rubbed his hands together. “By gum, we forgot about the chill in the air around here. Got any coffee?”

  “I can get Millie to heat some up,” Dawson said. “How long are you staying?”

  “A day or so,” Lefty said.

  “See to your horses then, boys, and come on in,” Dawson said.

  They unsaddled the animals, then carried saddles, blankets, and all their gear inside. Dawson’s accommodations didn’t include room and beds. One side of the cabin was left open so that bedrolls could be spread out. After arranging their belongings, Lefty and Kiowa went over to one of the tables and sat down.

  Millie appeared with two large tin cups of steaming, strong coffee. Silently, she set the brews down and went back to her usual chair beside the fireplace. Dawson came out with a bottle of his whiskey. “Want to lace ‘at coffee, boys?”

  “You bet!” Lefty said.

  But Kiowa slipped his hand over his cup indicating he wanted none of the liquor. “Not for me.”

  “Go ahead,” Lefty urged him. “We ain’t in a town now. No sheriff is gonna throw us in the lockup.”

  “I’m making a sweat lodge for tomorry night,” Kiowa said.

  “Oh,” Lefty remarked.

  “I won’t be eating nothing after this coffee neither,” Kiowa said. “I got to empty my stummick.”

  One of the customs of his people that Kiowa observed was visions. He had an especially strong belief in that aspect of their religion. By a day of fasting, then going into a sweat lodge, he could take himself into a trance. If he were cleansed enough spiritually, visions would appear to him. These apparitions, when properly interpreted, could foretell the future.

  “Y’know something, Kiowa?” Lefty said. “Sometimes that Injun stuff o’ yours makes me nervous.” He’d been raised on myths and superstitions from the Auld Sod by his parents. These consisted of tales and stories of strange little people, magical powers, and the evil eye that could cast curses only God Himself could remove. The fact that Kiowa purposely sought out spirits made Lefty’s Irish flesh crawl at times. “I think you get into things that’s better left alone.”

  “You ain’t expected to understand,” Kiowa said. He pointed to Millie. “She understands, though.”

  Dawson turned to his woman. “Izzat right, Millie? Do you know what ol’ Kiowa is gonna do in the sweat lodge?”

  “I am a woman,” Millie said looking up from stirring a pot of beans. “How could I understand such things?”

  “But you know what’s gonna happen to Kiowa though, don’t you?” Lefty asked.

  “I know,” Millie acknowledged. “But I stay in my place.”

  Dawson laughed. “That’s what I like about Injun women. Y’all know how to control ’em.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Kiowa said.

  Lefty took a sip of his coffee. “By the way, Delmar. Have any of our old pals been through here?”

  “Yeah,” Dawson answered. “A few of the boys you know come through all the time. They’re either coming back or going up there. Why? You looking for somebody?”

  “No,” Lefty quickly said. “I just want to see a coupla the boys, that’s all. It’d be nice to run into ’em if we could. It’s been a long time and we’d like to catch up on the news.” He treated himself to another gulp of coffee, then feigned nonchalance. “What about ol’ Pud Barlow? Or maybe Ben Clackum?”

  Dawson felt at ease in talking with the two young men. , “Why them two’s Milo Paxton’s boys,” Dawson said. “I didn’t know you was pals with any of ’em.”

  “Sure,” Lefty said. “We know lots o’ the fellers that stay up in the high country.”

  “That bunch was through here a few days back.”

  “The Paxton Gang?” Kiowa asked. “All of ’em?”

  “They all come, but they all didn’t go,” Dawson said. “There was an argument ’twixt Milo and Dean Orman. I buried Dean out to the back.”

  “Who killed him?” Lefty asked.

  “Milo hisself,” Dawson said. “They was arguing about how to parcel out some loot.”

  “Where’d they go from here?” Lefty wanted to know. “Are they gonna pull another job?”

  “I don’t know what they’re gonna do,” Dawson said, carefully eyeing Lefty. “I reckon they’ll rest easy for awhile. They always do after raising hell. Milo told ’em to spread out in the mountains and hole up ’til he called ’em out again.”

  Lefty and Kiowa looked at each other. That was good news. All the men they were looking for would be there in the Montana Rockies, waiting to be tracked down one by one.

  It had taken Kiowa several hours to construct a small lodge. Using saplings from the forest for the frame and some torn tarpaulin material, he’d started early on the morning following their arrival at Dawson’s Meadow. He established the temporary structure in a small clearing just inside the tree line on the north side of the cabin. Out of sight of the others, the place gave him the privacy he needed.

  When the building was finished, he said a special prayer, gathered a good pile of large rocks, and then built a carefully controlled fire inside the lodge. Once the flames had subsided to a bed of fiery hot coals, he placed the stones on the glowing heat. The final chore was to put a canteen of cold water inside the lodge.

  While this was going on, the others, out of respect – or in Lefty’s
case, an extreme case of nervousness – stayed away from Kiowa. Millie’s upbringing made her extremely respectful of the custom that the young Indian man was following, and she made sure Delmar Dawson kept out of the way.

  “Stay away from him,” she said.

  Dawson protested. “I ain’t gonna bother him none.”

  “If you get close something bad will happen to you,” Millie said. “Spirits will walk up there because he is going to call to them. There are some real bad ones.”

  Lefty gulped. “What do they do, Millie?”

  “They’ll suck your soul out through your nose,” she said.

  “Can we please talk about something else?” Lefty pleaded.

  Meanwhile, when everything was ready, Kiowa stripped himself to the buff, leaving only his medicine bag hanging around his neck. The leather pouch contained items that were significant to the Kiowa Kid’s spiritual makeup. There was a piece of wood from a tree that had been struck by lightning, a small slice of buffalo horn given him by his maternal grandfather, a squirrel’s skull, and a brass button from Commissary Sergeant McNally’s uniform. The good sergeant had never figured how he lost it. Kiowa, admiring the man’s physical strength and manliness, had taken it one evening while the garment hung unwatched by the McNally front door. It seemed a fitting token to masculine attributes he wished to adopt.

  Closing his eyes, Kiowa looked skyward then began a slow chant, turning to the north, east, south, and west, making sure the spirits in all directions knew he would need them. Finally, squatting down, he crawled into the lodge, closing it behind him.

  Sitting cross-legged, Kiowa continued the chant as he splashed some of the water on the now highly heated rocks. Clouds of steam immediately built up in the lodge, filling it with hot vapor. Kiowa’s pores opened up and he began to perspire freely. The nonstop chanting went on though his voice dropped to almost a whisper. As the ceremony continued, he closed his eyes and became lightheaded. Slowly his awareness changed until he had no perception of his own physical being. Deep inside his mental faculties it felt to him as if he’d changed into a spirit, with even less substance than the steam that billowed into every inch of space in the tiny lodge.