Two days after this, however, as Ardiss and his men pursued the war party farther and farther north into the New Mexico Territory, the tide turned. First, as they rode through forest land, Lancaster heard the unmistakable sounds of slow and muffled pursuit. Just before a slew of arrows flew into the group from both sides of the trail, one killing Lucas Butler outright and another lodging firmly into Jim Murratt's upper right thigh as he swerved his horse to put himself close enough to steady Agathon Vann, whose horse had gotten spooked and seemed on the verge of bucking. Despite his pain, Jim managed to keep Vann from falling from his steed and bring it under control.
Ardiss and his men rode like the devil himself were behind them, and certainly many of the men believed he may well have been. As they rode, the Indians surrounding them yelled louder, though they could not be seen very well through the cover of the trees. Arrows flew from behind them and from either side of the trail, but fortunately, no one else was killed. It took them an hour, but eventually they emerged from the forest into a relatively flat plain broken only by a single bald hill in the middle. Ardiss and his men, who had managed to gain more distance from their attackers when they hit open land, made for the hill, figuring the higher ground would at least allow them to see the surrounding territory and, one hoped, spy a way to escape.
“You all know what this hill is,” Mark Cornwallis said as they sat around the fire that night waiting for the sentries to call the inevitable warning that the heathen was on the attack.
“Yeah,” Jim Muratt said, wincing. Having successfully extricated the Indian arrow from his leg, he was now trying to staunch the blood flow by wrapping a bandage around his thigh tight enough to impede the blood but loose enough so that amputation was not a risk. “Bowdon Hill.”
“That is right,” Mark continued. “This is cursed ground. Virgil Bowdon died here forty odd years ago trying to hold off them red bastards, and I’ll be dicked if we ain’t in the same goddamn pickle now.”
“Shut your fucking hole, Cornwallis.” Caleb kicked a log into the flames and glared at the younger man. “This ain’t a damned thing like it. Ardiss knows what the hell he’s doing.” He cast his glance back to the sentry line and spied his brother circling the camp providing encouragement to the sentries and relieving them to go for coffee at the fire. “You just wait, cocksucker. Ardiss will see us through.”
“That’s just what Virgil was going to do, too.” Mark’s voice was developing a nervous tremor. “And we see what happened to him.”
“What happened to him?” No one had noticed Ardiss enter the ring of firelight to fill his coffee mug.
“He…uh…he,” Mark began to stammer nervously.
“He died, Ardiss,” Caleb said. “He was sheriff before your daddy was, and he got himself and his men stranded up here, and he led a distraction so most of his men could get free.”
Ardiss looked from his brother to Mark and then scanned the other faces around the fire. “And did they get free?”
“Yeah they did.” Caleb glared across the fire at Mark. “Ol’ Lucas, your daddy, led them out behind the hill while Virgil and a few of his handpicked men rode and hollered and shot their rifles. The Indians took after them, never even noticed your pa was leading out about fifty men, including my own pap, right under their noses.”
“Well,” Ardiss scratched absently at his three-day stubble and took a sip of his coffee, “Seems to me like Virgil didn’t fail at all.”
“How you figure?” Mark asked.
“He got his men clear, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but he got himself killed in the process.”
“The man got his men to safety. That is all that counts.” Ardiss took another sip of his coffee and turned back to relieve another sentry. “Death doesn't figure into it,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s just something that happens.”
The Indians made no move to attack that night, nor did they seem in a big hurry to stock up on scalps the next morning. Ardiss stood high on a jutting rock with a spyglass to his eye, surveying the forces arrayed against him, and they didn’t even shoot so much as a half-fletched arrow in his direction.
“What the hell are the clay-faced sons-of-bitches waiting for?” Caleb asked his brother. “Why aren’t the bastards attacking us?”
“You would that they were?” Ardiss continued to scan the forces with his telescope.
“No,” Caleb sighed. “I just hate waiting like this. It’s got my bung-sucked nerves all in a fucking knot.”
“Patience is a virtue, Caleb, the hardest learned.”
“So, too, should ‘hurry the fuck up’ be,” Caleb grumbled.
Ardiss was no longer listening. He stopped scanning with his glass, focusing on one small group of Indians instead down the hill to his left. “Well, look-a-there!” he seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Falling Bird.”
“Who is Falling Bird?” Caleb asked.
“The reason they have not attacked,” Ardiss closed his spyglass and leapt from the rock, “and our ticket to safety. Come on.”
Caleb followed him to Lamprey, where Ardiss drew his rifle out of its scabbard. He then removed the blanket from the bedroll tied behind his saddle.
“What in fuck’s holy blazes are you doing, Ardiss?”
Ardiss did not reply. He drew his knife from his belt and cut his blankets into fourths then handed three of the pieces to Caleb. “Give one to Lancaster and Jim and keep one for yourself.” Ardiss began wrapping the butt of his rifle in his part of the blanket.
“Sure,” Caleb said. “Shall we also wrap our rifles in them? I’d hate for them to hurt the fucking horses bouncing against their ribs.”
“Yes,” Ardiss said mounting Lamprey and jerking his reins to the left, guiding Lamprey around the other horses and men milling about, “but you won’t be holstering them.”
Caleb shook his head in exasperation then moved off to find Lancaster and Jim. Ardiss, in the meanwhile, moved Lamprey into the center of camp and addressed his men. “Riders!” He whistled loudly to get their attention. “Riders! Mount up! I reckon it’s time we headed back home, don’t you boys?”
Most of the men cheered; some clapped, others simply looked blankly at their leader.
Finally, Mark spoke up. “Well, Ardiss,” he said, “I got a new wife back home and a nephew visiting, so I’d surely like to get back. But how do you propose doing it?” He nodded towards the Indians surrounding them. “The way ain’t exactly free of obstacles.”
“I propose we ride straight on out the way we came.” Ardiss pointed the direction with a flourish of his hand. “We ride straight, we ride hard, and we’ll be abed by midnight. Abed in our homes mayhap, abed in our rolls more likely, but abed in the ground, not a chance.”
More cheers this time, but still Mark seemed doubtful. “There’s many a spill,” he said, “to the house from the well.” He nodded again in the direction of the Indians. “And I still see the same obstacles I seen before your pretty speech, sir. How are we to pass by them unscathed.”
Ardiss raised his butt-wrapped rifle, holding it with one hand grasping the barrel about halfway up. “With this,” he said. “Wrap yours likewise and follow me.”
“I don’t reckon I need the extra padding to kill some heathen, Ardiss.” At this Mark gained a few nods and cheers of support. “However, I count fifty of us and at least three times that many dirt devils surrounding us.” Mark shifted his weight and shrugged. “I’m a good shot with rifle or iron, but they’re odds even I can’t tackle with a clear mind.”
“Wrap your rifles, boys,” Ardiss said. “Wrap ’em good and soft, and follow my lead. Do that, and I guarantee you that without firing a shot, we can get free with the same number we leave with.”
By this time Caleb, Lancaster, and Jim Murratt had ridden up behind Ardiss brandishing their own wrapped rifles. As Ardiss walked his horse through the men, Caleb pulled up on Ardiss’ left while Lancaster rode on his right. Murratt remained
a few paces behind, and a few of the men, those who were already mounted formed up behind him.
Caleb leaned in towards Ardiss. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said under his breath.
“So do I,” Ardiss replied and pulled slightly ahead of the other two.
“Well,” Lancaster shrugged at Caleb and shook his head doubtfully, “It’s nae hardly the St. Crispin’s Day speech is it?”
When Ardiss came within hailing distance of the Indians, he pulled Lamprey to a halt and raised his rifle over his head by the barrel.
“Hear me, People and Human Beings,” he announced in the Aticota tongue. “Fighting Bear seeks parley with the children of Yucca.”
A young Apache brave clad only in a loin cloth and a breastplate of stringed buffalo horns rode a pinto out from the throng and stopped within ten feet of Ardiss “I am Gray Wolf,” he said then stared hard at Ardiss. “I see no Fighting Bear,” he laughed. “I see a white man who does not yet know he has died.”
Ardiss sneered at young brave. “I spoke not to you, Gray Puppy,” He said. “I asked for a Human Being, and they sent me a dog.” At this Gray Wolf bristled but said nothing. “I am Fighting Bear. Did I not steal ten horses from the Apache in broad daylight? Did I not taste the blood of five Aticota Braves on the day I was taken into the tribe? I am Fighting Bear, who once crept into the camp of the Comanche and bedded seven of their maidens in one night without rousing the guard. I am Fighting Bear,” Ardiss said his voice rising, “and I will speak with my cousin, Falling Bird, or you shall feel the sting of my blade on your neck as I pass like the wind trailing my men behind me.”
“Michaa Odjig would be very disappointed in you, cousin.” A second Indian rode out from the throng and stopped beside Gray Wolf. He wore long leather leggings, moccasins, and a hide jerkin. His long black hair was held back by a beaded band, and he carried a tanned leather pouch slung over his shoulder. “You know well he cautioned you against lying.”
Ardiss laughed and dismounted Lamprey as the newcomer did the same. “How have I lied, Falling Bird? I swear on my father’s life that every word I spoke was true.”
“It is good, then, that your father is dead.” Falling Bird, too, dismounted and strode towards Ardiss with arms outstretched. “You know as well as I that you stole only two horses, you tasted only one man, and you slept with no Comanche girls.” Falling Bird embraced his cousin and slapped him hard on the back. “They were old women.”
“Were they?” Ardiss returned Falling Bird’s hug then stepped back. “Maybe so. It was dark that night, and they did seem grateful.”
Both men laughed. Gray Wolf looked from one to the other, then dismounted as well, joining them as they sat cross-legged on the ground. From the pouch, Falling Bird produced a slender pipe and a smaller pouch of tobacco. He handed both to Gray Wolf, who packed the bowl before handing it off to Ardiss. Ardiss drew a match from his shirt pocket, struck it on his boot heel, and lit the pipe. They passed the pipe around continuously, as they spoke.
As for Caleb, he had no idea what Ardiss and the two prairie spades had to talk about. He gathered that at least one of them, probably the later arrival who appeared about Ardiss’ age, was known to him from his travels with the heathen as a boy, but once they started speaking dirt-worshipper, Caleb lost all track of the proceedings. When the three of them sat down together, Caleb couldn’t even hear their gibberish, so he just kept an eye on the heathens in case one tried scalp Ardiss while he was toking on their damned pipe.
They spoke for several minutes, passing the pipe around. The older one and Ardiss would often laugh at something the other said. The younger boy, though, rarely spoke in more than monosyllabic grunts or hand gestures. He never went for his knife, though, so Caleb felt confident his brother was in little danger.
Finally, Ardiss and the older one rose and embraced, and Ardiss and the younger one half bowed, and both hit their fists on their left breasts. Caleb half expected the trio to then jump up and down and dance some kind of Injun jig, but they didn’t. Ardiss turned around, remounted Lamprey, and returned to his men as the two Indians did likewise.
“The first man to fire a shot,” Ardiss announced loud enough for all fifty of his men to hear when he returned, “Will have me to answer to. And I will not be pleased.”
“So we just gonna let them red bastards kill us then?” A voice called out from the back. “How’s that gonna help us?”
“They will not shoot either,” Ardiss assured his men. “We are going to fight like the People. I have assured them that we are as brave and honorable as their best warrior, and they are going to allow us to prove it.”
Doubtful mumblings and murmurs greeted this.
“You may not shoot them as we ride,” Ardiss explained, “like cowards, but you may knock the hell out of them with this.” He raised his padded rifle high and mimicked swinging it in a wide arc. “Indeed,” he continued, “I expect you to hit as many of them as you can without straying too far from our passage.”
There were a few whistles and cheers at this.
“Of course,” Ardiss added, “they will be trying to do the same as well.” He grinned. “If you get hit, I would appreciate your not falling from your horse, though. I’d like to get the rest of us home in one piece.”
With that, Ardiss let out a yell and raised Lamprey on his hind legs. Then He launched into the throng of Indians, waving the butt of his rifle to his left and right, grinning like a boy let off his lessons early.
“Caleb!” He yelled. “Lancaster! Big Jim Murratt and the rest of you sons of bitches! To me! Swing wide and hold true!”
Caleb had never seen a thing like it. Ardiss must have pounded fifteen or twenty heathens riding breakneck down the hill and laughing to beat the devil. And never a one so much as tapped his foot.
Caleb swung his rifle, too, swerving his horse this way and that as Comanche, Pache, Cota braves whooped and hollered and drove towards him at speed, waving their own padded instruments at him. He looked to his left and right and saw Lancaster and Jim doing the same.
At one point, an Indian materialized from nowhere and knocked Jim straight off his mount. His bad leg got caught in the stirrup of his saddle, and he was dragged for about fifty feet over rough terrain. He managed to gain his feet and even with his limp and surrounded by enemies on all sides, Big Jim Murratt chased down his horse and leapt into his saddle again while knocking two or three Indians from his path. Caleb could see, though that wound from yesterday’s arrow had begun once again to bleed, Jim could do nothing for it now but grit his teeth and ride.
In the end, Ardiss did what he had set out to do. He got his men down from the hill without losing a single soul. More importantly, he managed to win the last major Indian battle without firing a single shot. He explained later that Indians often fought that way because it showed more skill and bravery to come in close to your enemy, tap them, and retreat before they could retaliate than to fire a thunder-stick from the saddle of your horse three hundred feet away.
After his victory on Bowdon Hill, the Indians no longer harassed Bretton en masse. Ardiss had fought them as an equal and beaten them on their own terms, and they had to respect that. To do otherwise would have brought shame and dishonor not only on themselves but on their ancestors and descendants. Sure there’d be the occasional prairie skirmish, but these were more to alleviate boredom than anything else. For the last fifteen or so years, no tribe dared break the peace with Ardiss. For if Ardiss and his men could count that much coup when they were tired, wounded, and riding for their lives, imagine the wave of destruction the same men could wreak unfettered by honor’s bonds.
It was two days after this victory, though, that Jim told Ardiss he was done. Caleb remembered it like it was yesterday. The three of them were in Ardiss’ office. Ardiss leaning in his window frame as he often did staring out at the town commons. Caleb sitting in front of Ardiss’ desk eating a piece of cured ham between two slices of toasted bread and drin
king coffee. And Jim standing in the doorway nervously crumpling his drover’s hat in both hands and failing to look either of them in the eye.
“I just lost my taste for killing,” Jim admitted, “and I had precious little taste for it before.”
Ardiss turned his head to face Jim. “I do not wish to keep a man who does not wish to be kept,” he said, “but I must confess, Jim, that I am somewhat stymied. How did our last encounter rob you of any desire to kill? You had to kill to no one.”
“I know that Ardiss,” Jim said still fumbling with his hat. “That’s just it. I’ve spent my entire adult life killing one kind of man or another because duty, honor, or justice demanded it. Bowdon Hill showed me that it wasn’t necessary.” Jim’s voice trailed off.
“Go on,” Ardiss encouraged.
Now Jim looked Ardiss right in the eye. “And then I figured, if it wasn’t necessary then, it probably wasn’t ever necessary. I can’t not have killed in the past, Ardiss. But I sure as shit cannot kill in the future, and I don’t aim to.”
“What will you do instead?” Ardiss asked moving to his desk and opening the center drawer.
“Me and Laney,” Jim explained, “We’re going to move out to her daddy’s place. It’s fair grazing land out there, for the Waste Lands anyway. I reckon we’ll grow us some crops, maybe raise a few sheep.”
Caleb snorted at this. “Sheep!” he chuckled. “Jesus Fucking Christ on a Goddamned cross.”
Neither man paid him any mind. Ardiss pulled a roll of bills from the drawer and tossed it to Jim. “I reckon you could use a little scratch to get started,” he said. “There’s a hundred dollars in that roll,” he said. “Consider it your severance pay and a retirement bonus.”
Jim counted the roll of tens and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Thank you for understanding, Ardiss.”
Ardiss nodded and waved a dismissing hand. “Take care of yourself, Jim.”
Guns of the Waste Land: Departure: Volumes 1-2 Page 22
