Westward, Tally Ho!

by Milo James Fowler

  "Heh, heh, yeeeeah," he chuckled, stepping off the sidewalk toward where half a dozen horses were hitched at the rail. "You done good tonight, Johnny. Heh, heh, heh. Those yahoos didn't know what hit 'em. Heh, heh, reeeeal good, Johnny. Reeeeal—"

  He came to a halt. Instead of his horse, a vacant space on the rail waited for him. He stammered, eyes bulging as his winnings dropped to the ground from limp, shaking hands. When he finally managed to find his voice, he hollered at the top of his lungs,

  "HORSE THIEF!"

  Every noise in town fell silent. Then, after a moment or two, shouts broke the uncanny stillness, coming from every direction as men ran with guns and horses in tow. Some of them were fully dressed, and others were in their long-johns or nightshirts—but all of them had their boots on. These were the men of Santa Fe. They minded their own business when a woman screamed in a dark alley; but when a horse was stolen, every man came running to the rescue.

  "Forty dollars—fifty—seventy dollars!" The gambler had recovered his winnings and counted them aloud as the men surrounded him. "One hundred dollars to the man who brings back my horse!" He held up the bills for all to see.

  "What about the skunk who stole it?" asked a skinny, pitted-cheeked cowpoke.

  "We lynch 'im!" A brawny fellow held up a fresh coil of rope he'd brought along just for the occasion, and the men went wild.

  "Lynch 'im! Lynch 'im!" they chanted with great feeling.

  Then, in unison, the men mounted up, and with wild hollers and a few shots fired into the air at no targets whatsoever, they thundered out of town.

  "Heh, heh, yeeeeah," the gambler chuckled as he watched them go. He smacked his lips after a slug from his hip flask and growled, "Lynch 'im."

  Chapter 25

  "Whoa," Clarence slowed his mount with a slight tug of the reins.

  As the horse snorted and stamped impatiently—it seemed to love running more than life itself—Clarence listened intently for any sound of the kidnapper. But his pulse was beating so loudly in his ears, he could hear little else. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

  The moon cast a frosty glow across the terrain, the angle of its light stretching faint shadows from cacti, boulders, and scrub brush across the hard-packed ground. Some of the darkness seemed to coalesce into the distorted shape of a horse and rider. But that was just a side effect of Clarence's wishful imagination.

  With a pensive frown, Clarence urged the horse into a trot and headed for the bluff ahead. Once there, he could see a bit farther into the distance. Yet even this vantage point served little purpose, for there was nothing of import for him to see.

  "Blast it," he muttered, wiping a sleeve across his perspiring brow. "They couldn't have gone far." He turned around in the saddle to look back toward the town. Pin-points of lantern light in the distance showed him how far he'd ridden. He swung around to face what lay ahead. "Perhaps he took her to a hiding place of some sort to spend the night. Perhaps he knows I am following him, and he's hidden someplace to watch me pass by," he mused. Then his brow wrinkled. "Perhaps I should stop talking out loud..."

  He scanned the terrain for any sort of hiding place. Blast those shadows! They were playing tricks on him again.

  His right hand rested on the butt of his holstered gun. Watching himself, he carefully slipped his fingers around the handle and drew the weapon from its holster. The steel barrel glinted in the pale moonlight. He turned it from side to side as Guthrie's voice echoed in his mind:

  Respect it, as you would a grave.

  He holstered the gun smoothly. It would be a last resort only.

  Urging the horse forward, he descended the bluff and continued his search.

  Clarence rode for another hour before slowing the horse to a stop. They had hunted high and low for Kate and her kidnapper, but to no avail. Anything remotely resembling a hiding place had been spotted and studied thoroughly. But after a while, everything began to look alike, and he found himself checking the same outcroppings of rock. Had he been going in circles all along? He glanced back over his shoulder to check the location of the lights from town, but he couldn't spot a single one of them. Had he ridden out too far? How would he ever find his way back?

  Sitting all alone in a foreign wilderness, in the saddle of a stolen horse, he shivered as a chill snaked its way down the back of his neck. His hand crept toward the grip of his six-gun.

  The horse snorted and stomped impatiently. Clarence wondered if the creature could run all night if allowed to do so.

  "Let's take a little breather, boy." He patted its neck, slick with cold sweat.

  Clarence scanned the terrain one last time. Then he shook his head. "What a fool I am. To think I could find them," he whispered. "Me, of all people. Clarence Oliver Edwards, Hampshire aristocrat. I'm a complete idiot in the ways of the American West. What a complete ass—Whoa there!" he steadied his mount as it started suddenly, nearly rearing upward. "Steady, boy!"

  The horse's eyes bulged wide, and its ears had pricked up. It snorted and shuffled its hooves nervously, moving side to side

  "What's the matter, boy? Did something spook you?"

  The answer came in a split second—for that was how long it took the native to move with great stealth and hurl a tomahawk at Clarence's head. The blunt end knocked him instantly senseless and he slumped forward, falling limply from the saddle. He hit the ground facedown and lay still.

  Chapter 26

  As he slowly came to, Clarence first became aware of the terrible headache splitting his skull. It throbbed from the back of his head, sending spasms of pain through his forehead and into his eyes. Secondly, he found that he was lying flat on his stomach with his wrists bound so tightly behind his back that his fingers had become numb. The ground beneath him was cold and strewn with stones—not the most comfortable spot to spend the night. Thirdly, he could tell that someone lay beside him, shoulder to shoulder. But he would not be able to see who this person was without rolling over to gain a better viewpoint.

  Gritting his teeth and blinking his eyes, he looked up and saw that he was inside a small tent-like structure. The walls appeared to be made of animal skins, stitched together and staked into the ground. They sloped inward as they went upward, meeting at a circular hole in the ceiling. Clarence almost smiled, and if it hadn't been for the pain, he would have been very excited.

  "Ah. A teepee. How quaint."

  Grunting and grimacing, he rolled onto his side and braced himself with his knees and bound ankles so that he could get a better look at the mysterious individual beside him. But that's when he found his vision begin to cloud.

  "Oh, come on," he muttered.

  The foggy halo engulfing his sight must have been caused by that rude blow to his head. Would he go completely blind? He couldn't worry about that right now. He had to focus on the person lying facedown, bound as he was, with attire ripped and torn that could have been a dress at one point in its life, and with hair that was dirty and disheveled, but which could have been blonde—

  "Kate?" Clarence whispered. "Kate, have I found you?" There was no response, so he rolled onto his belly and nudged the woman's shoulder with his own. "Kate?" he tried to rouse her.

  "Mmmm?" she murmured.

  "Kate!"

  "Mmm-what?" She lifted her face from the dirt and turned toward him, just inches away. "Clarence!" She looked surprised. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

  "I came to rescue you!" He broke into a grin and nudged her again. "I'd say I did quite well, eh?"

  "Oh yeah, fabulously." She grimaced with determination as she pulled against her bonds. "You figure a way outta here yet?"

  "I'm not sure exactly where we are."

  "You mean you walked right into an Indian camp without even knowin' it?"

  "An Indian camp?" He blinked at her. "We are being held captive by half-naked savages of the wilderness?"

  "More or less." She struggled against her bonds, then gave up for the moment.

  "O
h my word..." Clarence tried to swallow the lump rising in his throat and stammered, "Uh-I say, Kate, who kidnapped you from town? Was it the Indians?" Brazen of them, to be sure. What could they possibly want with her?

  She cursed quietly. "It was Buck, the old cuss. He was clearin' outta town and figured he'd take me with 'im, whether I wanted to go or not. Hell, I just stepped out to get some air, and there he was, waitin' for me like some kind of—"

  "Where is he now?"

  She met his eyes, then nodded toward what lay outside the tent. "With the chief. Seems like ol' Buck ain't on the best of terms with this tribe."

  Clarence nodded to show that he partially understood. "And what will this chief do with him, do you suppose?"

  Her look was direct. "Kill 'im."

  "Oh my..." Clarence felt the blood leave his face. He almost didn't want to know, but his curiosity was far too great to let his next question go unanswered: "H-how, may I ask?"

  "Well, they'll probably scalp 'im first. Gotta have their trophy." She returned to her struggle against the rope on her wrists. "After that, it's anybody's guess. Each tribe has its own particular way of doing things. Some'll skin you, others cut you apart. I heard of one bunch that'll nail you to a wagon wheel or something out in the desert, then leave you for the buzzards. Or the ants. Use your imagination."

  Clarence felt faint all of a sudden, and he regretted asking. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly.

  "C'mon, boy," Kate said all of a sudden, rolling onto one side so that her back was up against him. "Let's see if we can't untie each other or somethin'."

  Clarence welcomed the diversion. "Oh yes, quite."

  He rolled onto his side and tried to move his fingers, but they remained unresponsive for the most part. A delayed twitch was all he could get out of them.

  "They feel weird, don't they," she remarked, flexing her own digits against his.

  Nevertheless, after a few minutes of fighting the numbing effects of their bonds, they managed to free one another's hands, followed by their feet.

  "That's better," Kate said, rubbing her sore wrists as she rose unsteadily.

  "Now what do we do?" Clarence had hoped to display a bit more bravado, but he honestly had no idea what options were available to them at this juncture.

  Kate didn't answer right away. She went to the teepee door, a piece of the leather wall that had been cut away and flapped gently in the warm breeze. Carefully, she peeked outside. A brief glance told her all she needed to know. She frowned and turned away, deep in thought.

  "Well?"

  She looked up at him. "It's late mornin'. A bunch of teepees like this one are in a circle, and a fire's blazin' in the middle, about twenty paces out. A bunch of braves are standing around—"

  "I say, what's a brave?" Obviously it was someone who felt more courageous than Clarence did at present.

  "Like a soldier, a warrior. Vicious type." She eyed him squarely and waited for his face to register with comprehension—which it did, eventually. "These braves are all over the place. No horses to be seen." She shook her head. "Any plan of escape doesn't look too promising."

  Clarence bit his lip. "What about this Buck fellow? Can he be counted on? Perhaps he can clear up this misunderstanding with the Indian chief?"

  "Wouldn't matter now." She swallowed and looked him in the eye. "He's out there in the fire."

  Clarence's stomach let him know that he was going to be sick.

  But before he could heave into a corner of the teepee, there came sharp, harsh voices from right outside, and the flap-door opened. As a tall, bare-chested brave entered, Clarence—before he knew exactly what he was doing—gave a blood-curdling shriek and lunged for the Indian's knees. Startled by the sudden attack, the brave toppled over with a short cry. Kate winced as they hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. Their arms and legs flailed wildly, tangling and untangling. Unfortunately, it was evident from the start that Clarence did not stand a chance against the muscled Indian's quick reflexes.

  "Aawaa!" Clarence yelped as the brave pinned him to the ground and pushed down on his throat.

  "AAAAWW!" the brave howled, falling sideways after a swift kick in the groin, courtesy of Kate.

  "C'mon, let's go!" She grabbed Clarence's hand and rushed outside, ducking under the flap and into the sunlight—

  To find every brave in the camp charging at them with fierce looks in their eyes.

  Clarence screamed at the sight of them, freezing in place. He couldn't help himself. He'd never stared certain death in the face before.

  "This way!" Kate tugged him around the back side of their teepee. "They've gotta have horses around here somewhere!"

  But there weren't any to be found.

  "What do we do?" Clarence said, hopping up and down.

  Kate's eyes darted in every direction as she bit her lip in despair. There were no horses. The braves were coming. There was nothing else to do.

  "Run!" she shouted, hiking up her ragged dress and taking off as fast as her legs could carry her.

  "Oh yes, quite!" With a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder, Clarence chased after her.

  Chapter 27

  The braves flowed as a mass of bare skin, muscle, and leather around the teepee, then skidded to a halt. Dark eyes watched with a hint of amusement as the two palefaces ran away as fast as their wobbly little legs could take them across the open prairie. One of the braves broke into a grin that bared rows of large white teeth. He pointed after the fleeing pair and chuckled out loud, then tried to mimic their frenzied movements. Other bronze faces broke into grins and heads were thrown back with deep, hearty laughter.

  One brave stepped in front of the pack and turned to face the others. Pounding his broad chest once, he raised his chin confidently and boasted that he would overtake the pair and bring them back—he alone, unarmed.

  Frowns creased the brows around him, and the braves turned to confer with one another. After a few moments of debating whether the suggested feat was possible, they faced the over-confident brave, folded their brawny arms across their chests, and nodded. They would see what he was made of.

  The brave nodded in turn and whirled to fix his dark eyes on his prey. He had the look of a predator and the stance of a wolf preparing to chase down its next kill. With his eyes narrowed and his body lowered slightly, he flexed every muscle in him (mostly for show) and stared into the breeze that whisked his long, black hair across his back. He did not blink as he waited until the fleeing pair reached a boulder five hundred paces away.

  Then he was off. Like a mountain lion chasing a deer over rough terrain, the brave bolted forward, his legs a blur of speed, his back straight, his chest high. His arms cut through the air before him in swift, chopping motions as the muscles rippled across his body. Over rocks and ditches he ran, across the hot, sunbaked earth, gaining on his quarry with every stride. In no time, they were within his reach.

  With his feet barely making a sound, he came upon the female first, lagging behind the male due to the superfluous garments she wore. He smirked confidently as his hands shot out and clutched her by the waist. In a single movement, he threw her over his left shoulder.

  "OOF!" she groaned as the air was knocked out of her.

  The brave slowed slightly with the added weight. Holding the jostling female with one hand on her back, he fixed his eyes on his next target and bore down on him.

  "OOF!" the male groaned as he was thrown over the brave's right shoulder and the wind was knocked out of him as well.

  With his prey successfully captured and unconscious, the brave returned to camp. Raising his chin even higher than before, he let the pale-faced man and woman drop limply to the ground. Then in his sharp, guttural tongue, he said to his brothers,

  "Hey, what did I tell you guys? Am I not the greatest?"

  Nodding, the other braves—more than just a little impressed—stared at him until the chief broke through the midst of them.

  "Quit foolin
g around, Stubbed Toe," he scolded the prideful brave in their native language. "We're going to have a powwow now, so bring these two palefaces to the campfire!"

  Stubbed Toe deflated instantly. Sulking, he muttered, "Yes, Father."

  The chief's teepee was the biggest and most decorated of them all, and it was in front of it that the big chief himself sat cross-legged on the ground. He was a giant of a man, padded with hard muscle and flabby fat in equal portions. His face was broad and grim, but the traces of lines around his mouth and dark eyes suggested that he might be a man of good humor on occasion. He wore large moccasins and an extra-large pair of pants made from animal hide. Buckled around his wide hips was a gun belt with two holsters, each carrying a loaded six-gun. Across his chest, he wore a flag of the Confederate persuasion which had been cut and stitched into a parka. To complete his ensemble, a black and white bandana sprouting numerous eagle feathers was knotted around his head.

  "Powwow now," he grunted, shifting his weight and grimacing at a rock that had wedged itself into his backside.

  The powwow was a very solemn event for the American Indian. It was a conference or parliamentary meeting, of sorts. The chief presided, as would a chairperson. The elders of the tribe sat in front of their respective teepees, encircling the central campfire. Each pair of their elderly eyes remained fixed on the chief out of respect. The braves hung back and watched, standing at attention, and only if they were summoned would they be allowed to confer with the elders and their chief. The only exception was the chief's son, who stood at his father's side with arms crossed and eyes set straight ahead. The son was not to speak at the powwow, only to listen and learn from the wisdom of his father and the elders, for he would be chief of the tribe someday.

  The chief's dark, serious eyes swept across the elders, and he recognized each one with a short nod of his head. These were men he had known all his life; they were like brothers to him. When his gaze had reached the last elder on his right, he gave a sharp command to the two braves waiting in the wings to do his bidding. They nodded and quickly moved to obey.