Westward, Tally Ho!

by Milo James Fowler

  "Oh? Where were you headed?"

  "To that Virginia City you mentioned, believe it or not."

  "You don't say?" She frowned all of a sudden. "But there ain't no stage lines runnin' anymore. How'd you expect to get there?"

  "Guthrie had plotted a course that we would take on horseback," he offered, "but I don't believe he'll be in any shape to travel, even if he does recover." He glanced outside. The lanterns cast an eerie glow upon the ground, enshrouded by the starless black of night. "I may never see him again. I may never have the chance to tell him how...important he is to me."

  "Course you will." She patted his arm warmly. "After we get out of this pickle, you'll just have to stay in Santa Fe for a while, that's all. Until Walter heals up completely, I mean."

  "Yes," Clarence said, stealing another glance outside. "I suppose we shall."

  Chapter 44

  The pale moonlight made it difficult for the two men on horseback to see much of anything on the trail ahead. The night was quiet and still, and all that could be heard was the steady clopping of their horses' hooves.

  "Whoa," Percy halted his steed. Frowning, he swung down easily from the saddle and knelt, inspecting the ground. Then he muttered a mild oath. "Nothin'. No tracks since we left town." He rose to his feet with a grunt and scratched his bristled head. "There shoulda been iffin Buck took Kate this way."

  Guthrie turned in his saddle. "Could he have left town by a different route, perhaps to evade his pursuers? And then returned to his original course?"

  "Doubled back, you mean, to throw us off." He nodded slowly. "Yeah, I bet you're right, mister." He climbed up into his saddle. "We'll keep headin' this way, then. Silas Carter's ranch ain't but a few hours ride. Maybe Buck stopped there to swindle the ol' coot out of a fresh horse."

  "Very well," Guthrie said.

  "Be on the lookout for any movement. We're gettin' awful close to Indian territory, and they've got a habit of sneakin' up on you in the dark. All bets are off if we fall in with that bunch."

  For Guthrie, it was habitual to maintain a careful eye on his surroundings. "I shall keep that in mind, Mr. Percy."

  Percy nodded. "Hyah!"

  They spurred their horses forward into a gallop.

  There was no sight nor sound of Thunderclap and his braves. Clarence and Kate had finished their watch, and now Buckeye came to take over Kate's position by the boarded window. But Clarence remained at his post.

  "Can't sleep?" she asked quietly, sitting beside him.

  He shook his head, stirred by her closeness. "No, I'll keep this watch with Mister Daniels." He could see the exhaustion in her eyes. "You should get some rest, Kate."

  She blinked and nodded. "Yeah." Hesitating just a moment, she laid her head on his shoulder and held his arm. Eyes closed, she sighed, and her breathing fell into a deep, even rhythm.

  Clarence glanced outside, then returned his gaze to her sleeping face, finding it impossible to look away.

  "Broken Eye! Broken Eye! Where are you, my son?" Big Chief Thunderclap whispered in the darkness as he and his braves started their descent upon Silas Carter's shack.

  "Here I am, Father," Broken Eye said. He had been at his father's side all along. He wore a crude patch over his injured eye with a leather strap tied around his head. He felt that it made him look like a fool.

  "Oh—there you are!" Thunderclap was in high spirits. He always enjoyed a good battle, and it had been far too long since he'd been fortunate enough to wage one. "Hey, you're not still mad at me for changing your name, are you, son?"

  "No," Broken Eye said flatly.

  Thunderclap chuckled. "It just seems more fitting than Stubbed Toe now that you've outgrown your awkward stage."

  "Now that I am half-blind!" the prince retorted, seething. "I swear I shall kill the paleface who broke my eye!"

  Thunderclap glanced over at his son with pride. "Great to see such enthusiasm!"

  "I shall gouge out both his eyes and slit his tongue and lop off his ears and—"

  "Sounds great," the chief said absently. Then he halted with a bright gleam in his eyes. "Hey, we should have a war dance!"

  "What?" Broken Eye stared at his father in disbelief.

  "A war dance!" Thunderclap rubbed his meaty hands together with delight. "Yeah, quick—get everybody together in a big circle."

  Disbelief turned into indignation. "Father, are you insane? We must sneak up on them if we are to—"

  "But this will only take a minute. And besides, a good, loud Zuni war dance will be enough to scare their britches off!" A monstrous grin revealed his big, white teeth. "Quick now!" he beckoned, shouting to the startled braves and gesturing with his brawny arms.

  Obediently, the others gathered, and a great, loud Zuni-style war dance ensued. The braves—slowly and awkwardly at first, but soon gathering momentum — danced, hollered, and shrieked shrill war cries, moving in a circle around their chief. In the center, Big Chief Thunderclap danced alone, his massive bulk bouncing up and down, his face covered in perspiration as he bellowed his famous Zuni war cry, swinging his arms around in a frenzy like a windmill possessed by wild, fun-loving spirit animals.

  But Broken Eye was nowhere to be seen.

  "Well, Englishter, looks like we both got here by mistake." Buck shook his head and cursed quietly. "Heck, iffin I'd known this old senile—" He jerked his thumb toward the back room where Silas snored. "—was here, I woulda gone straight back to Thunderclap!"

  Clarence glanced over at Buck. "You seem to know him."

  "Thunderclap? Yep, that I do." He cursed again. "Used to be a real pal o' his, back in the day. We'd hunt together every weekend. But that was before I started sellin' rifles to some of the other tribes. Heh, yeah, then we weren't friends no more." He looked out through a crack between the boards covering his window. "And now he aims to kill me." He narrowed his gaze. "Hope he's ready for a mighty big disappointment."

  Clarence had to know: "Why does he wear such peculiar attire?"

  "Huh?"

  "His clothing…"

  Buck nodded his head with a knowing look. "Ol' Thunderclap's a smart one. Always wanted to be in the history books, y'see, but with all them other famous redskins out there, he knows you've really gotta stand out if you want to get noticed. So yup, that's why he dresses the way he does and acts more like a plains Injun than a Zuni." He leaned over with a conspiratorial whisper, "It was my idea for 'im to wear the rebel flag. Nice touch, eh?"

  "He wants to be famous?"

  "Famous, infamous—he just wants folks never to forget 'im." He cursed again and grinned, slapping his knee. "The ol' coot!"

  Clarence nodded to show he partially understood. But before he could ask for clarification, there erupted a sudden ruckus outside.

  "What the—!" Buckeye struggled to see anything in the black night beyond the burning lanterns. "Can't see a damn thing with 'em blazin' in the way!"

  "What is it?" Clarence strained to see.

  "Sounds like a war dance to me, kid, but I ain't sure." He scowled. "Don't know why they'd announce their arrival like this."

  "Where do you suppose they are?"

  "Sounds like they've gathered to the southeast, far as I can tell." He didn't take his eyes from the window.

  "And what is the purpose of this dance?"

  Buck cursed. "Gets 'em all riled up and excited, ready to slaughter the palefaces—that'd be us, by the way. Then they come at us like a bunch of crazed demons outta hell itself."

  "Oh my..." Clarence tried to swallow, but to no avail. His throat was too dry.

  Kate stirred at his side.

  "What's all the racket?" she moaned groggily as her head lifted from his shoulder.

  "The natives." Clarence gestured outside. "It would appear they're dancing."

  Kate nodded and yawned. The news didn't seem to surprise her. "Well, let's hope they just keep on dancin' then. They can't kill us and dance at the same time, right?"

  Clarence liked the so
und of that.

  "Might be a distraction," Buckeye said in a low voice. His eyes darted as he searched the darkness beyond the lanterns for any movement. "Better wake up the gunslinger."

  Clarence nodded to Kate to take his place. "What about Silas?"

  "Let 'im sleep," Buck said quickly. "H-he'd only get in the way, right?"

  Clarence frowned and turned to Kate.

  "We need 'im, Buck," she said evenly.

  He cursed, keeping his gaze fixed outside. She gave him a withering look and turned to Clarence.

  "He'll wake up once the shootin' starts. Just let 'im be for now," she said.

  Clarence nodded and moved to wake MacQuaid.

  Kate expected Buck to say something while they were alone, but he kept quiet. She glanced over at him once or twice, expecting the silence to break. Eventually it did.

  "Ever thought you'd die with me like this?" He stared into the night.

  Kate let the silence run on before answering, "No."

  Somehow, her answer seemed to satisfy him, and he nodded to himself. No apology for kidnapping her, of course. Wasn't his way to ever admit he was wrong.

  "Decided you needed me after all, eh Buck?" MacQuaid yawned, sauntering toward the windows with Clarence right behind him.

  "We don't need you," Buck spat, casting the tall gunslinger a sideways glance. "Figured you wouldn't want to die in your sleep."

  "Well now, ain't that considerate?"

  Buck cursed.

  Clarence returned to Kate's side. "The natives are dancing. Mister Daniels believes it is just a ruse—"

  "Huh?" MacQuaid frowned.

  "A distraction," Clarence re-phrased.

  "Yeah? And what else does Mister Daniels believe?" MacQuaid narrowed his eyes at the back of Buck's head and smirked at his lack of a response. "Never knew you had a last name, Buck. Always kinda figured you was illegitimate."

  A sudden flush of crimson came to Buck's face, and he cursed under his breath. Then he reeled to face the gunslinger, charging him with surprising speed and throwing him to the floor. Both men fell hard with fists flying and legs kicking.

  "Just what we need," Kate muttered, grabbing her carbine and taking Buck's deserted post.

  Clarence watched the brawl with great interest. "Should we…?" he trailed off, completely absorbed by the scene.

  Kate shook her head. "Let 'em cut loose a bit. There'll be plenty of fightin' for us all soon enough."

  Broken Eye's tough bare feet made no sound as he crept with the stealth of a shadow into Silas Carter's barn. In the distance, he could hear the idiotic ravings of the other braves in their war dance, and he cringed inwardly. He had always hated the dance, ever since he had first learned it as a boy. He hated nothing more than making a fool of himself, and he was not a very good dancer.

  Now he smiled. He would show them all—his father, the other braves—just how stupid they were. He would show them that he alone could defeat the palefaces. He alone!

  Thoughts of the honor and glory he would receive filled his mind as he quickly searched the darkness for something that would destroy his enemies. Yes, he would obliterate them, and they would die in agony. He desired a quick, horrible death for most of them, and then he would deal with the one who had broken his eye. For him, death would come slowly. But for the others, what he wanted—

  He stubbed his toe hard into a crate and had to stifle a short yelp.

  I should have kept my old name, he mused, holding his toe with a grimace and hopping in place.

  Then he noticed what lay inside the crate.

  The Great Spirit smiles on me this night! Thrilled by his good fortune, he reached down into the open crate and came up with five—

  Fire sticks! Yes! Now the palefaces will die!

  He made his way through the darkness to a door in the floor of the barn. Jamming the sticks into the waist of his loincloth, he heaved the door open with ease. It gave a short creak, and he set it quietly on the ground beside the square doorframe. His gaze narrowed as he peered down the steps into the short tunnel below, lined on either side with shelves of bottles and cans. He nodded to himself.

  You are a smart one, Prince.

  In an instant, he was sprinting down the tunnel.

  Chapter 45

  As Guthrie and Percy topped a short knoll, the faint sounds of chanting and hollering could be heard in the distance.

  "What is that?" Guthrie asked. There was a savage quality to the shrill cries that rose and fell in intensity.

  "A war dance," Percy said grimly. "Comin' from Carter's place, by the sound of it."

  The shouts were being raised by a multitude of natives.

  "We would be outnumbered."

  Percy faced him. "You mean to lend a hand?"

  "This Carter fellow may need our help." Guthrie frowned. If there was a chance Buckeye Daniels had stopped at the Carter Ranch, and if he and Miss Carson were still there—

  "Iffin you an' me split up, we could flank 'em and rain down some hot lead from the ridge around Carter's spread." He had a look on his face that said he was going to "Hyah!" at any moment.

  "One question," Guthrie halted him. "This war dance. Do the natives perform it before or after they have attacked?"

  Percy eyed him squarely. "Ain't no tellin', mister. Not all tribes are the same."

  Guthrie nodded without a word.

  "Alright then. I'll take the east side, an' you can take the west. Probably will be a lot of 'em, and we're just two, but I think we can take 'em, seein' how we'll have the higher ground." A wild gleam shone in his eyes.

  Guthrie would not have wanted to go up against Percy in battle. "Very well," he said evenly, gripping the reins.

  "See you after it's all over, mister. One way or another." Percy grinned. "Hyah!" He spurred his steed into a gallop, veering to the east.

  Attempting a Hyah! of his own, Guthrie urged his horse westward with a thundering of hooves.

  Clarence winced as MacQuaid drew back his boot and slammed it into Buck's stomach. It was very unsportsmanlike behavior, but then again, so were most of the blows in this fight. Buck's cheeks exploded as the air came out of him, and MacQuaid's next blow to the groin sent Buck to the floor like so much dead weight.

  "Was that the only way you could win?" Kate said scornfully.

  "One of your favorite moves, from what I recall." MacQuaid glared down at her with a cold look in his eyes. The wounds from her fingernails stood out clearly on his face—streaks of raw flesh that ran from his forehead to his jaw. He wiped at the fresh blood smearing his nose and mouth and spat onto the floor.

  Kate didn't blink. She didn't look away. She glared right back at him, and this seemed to impress the gunslinger for some reason. With a smirk, he turned away.

  She took a deep breath, trembling slightly. She knew how to pull off an outward display of courage, but Clarence could tell that MacQuaid frightened her nearly as much as the Indians outside. She glanced over at Clarence, and he gave her a reassuring smile. She almost smiled back.

  "What? Matches? Fire? Hey boy, I ain't got none o' that!"

  The sudden high-pitched sound of Silas Carter's voice in the back room caught everyone's attention.

  "Who's that nut talking to?" Buckeye snarled irritably, cradling his groin.

  "Nightmare, probably," Kate said.

  "Loco ol' coot," MacQuaid muttered. He retrieved a silk kerchief from his shirt pocket and started wiping the blood from his face.

  "Hey—put them sticks away, boy! Iffin they gets lit, you'll kill us all! Put 'em down, I tell you! Hey—lemme go!"

  Clarence moved to rise. "Perhaps I should see if he's all right."

  "Be my guest, pretty boy." MacQuaid chuckled. "Tell 'im a bedtime story, why don't you?"

  A muscled native with a patch over one eye came out of the back room with Silas gripped tightly in front of him.

  "Silas!" Kate cried.

  "Hey—what's goin' on?" MacQuaid demanded, stepping forward.
/>
  "Lemme go! Aww!" Silas wailed.

  "Shut mouths!" the Indian commanded sharply. His dark eye flashed with menace. "Keep mouths shut or him die!" He gave the old man's arm a sudden jerk.

  "AWW!" Silas screamed.

  "Stop it!" Kate raised her carbine.

  The Indian's eye darted from her to Clarence. "Me know you." His eye then rested on the form of Buckeye Daniels, curled up in pain on the floor. "Me know him."

  "It's him you want, right? Not Silas—let 'im go," Kate pleaded. "You're gonna kill 'im!"

  The Indian narrowed his eye. "You give fire."

  "What?" She turned toward Clarence. He shrugged, at a loss. "What fire?"

  "Matches," Silas gasped, the veins in his temples rising to the surface. "He wants matches—but don't you dare give 'im any!"

  "You shut mouth!" the Indian roared.

  "AAAWW!" Silas hollered as his arm wrenched free from its socket.

  Kate's face registered shock and fury. "Alright, I'll give you fire! Just let 'im go—"

  "You give fire," the Indian repeated. "You…give fire." His limited English vocabulary was evident to all, including himself. "Give fire now."

  In a frenzy, Kate went through the old man's cabinets, knocking things to the floor, until she finally found a half-used book of matches on the top shelf.

  "Coulda told me what you were lookin' for," MacQuaid muttered. He fingered his own matchbook idly before pocketing it.

  "Here!" She tossed Silas's matches at the Indian, and they landed at his bare feet.

  Everyone waited as his eye checked each of them in turn. Then, in one swift movement, the Indian shoved Silas to the floor, took up the matches, struck one—

  "What the—!" MacQuaid gasped, his face suddenly pale. "Dynamite?"

  "Oh my God…" Kate could only stare at the burning fuse.

  Chapter 46