Westward, Tally Ho!

by Milo James Fowler

  "Oh my..." Clarence swallowed. "Is there anything we can do?"

  Buck cursed. "Hell, I ain't goin' down without a fight!"

  This reassured Clarence somewhat.

  "C'mon, get into the middle of the room. We'll stand back to back and blow their heads off as they break through." Buck turned and saw Silas sleeping on the floor. "Silas!" he whispered sharply, giving the old man's head a nudge with his boot. His fear of the old timer had apparently diminished in the face of death. "Wake up!"

  Silas jerked, his beady eyes wide. "Eh, is it over yet?"

  "Shut up and get your rifle." Buck's face was grim. "This is the end."

  Clarence didn't like the sound of that at all, but he knew it was the truth. Gently, he nudged Kate's shoulder. "Kate, do wake up. I…I believe we're at the end of things now."

  She didn't respond. He watched her, wondering if it would be better for her to sleep through the massacre to come. But then her eyelashes fluttered and her eyes opened to meet his. Her lips parted slightly.

  "Clarence?"

  He touched her cheek. "Yes, Kate."

  "We're still here?"

  He almost smiled. "For now, we are."

  "C'mon—get your asses over here!" Buck scowled. "Quit foolin' around, you two!"

  Weak from blood loss, Kate needed Clarence to assist her. He half-carried her to the center of the room where Buck and Silas aimed their weapons in opposite directions. He set her down facing the back room where the cellar door was bolted shut, and he sat behind her, bracing her in a seated position with his back against hers. Silas crouched to his left, and Buck knelt at his right.

  There they waited, gripping their weapons tight, their eyes wide as they listened for any sounds outside.

  "Save a bullet for yourself," Buck broke the silence.

  They all understood. No one would be forgetting MacQuaid's skinned body anytime soon.

  "Yeah, and always wear clean underpants!" Silas piped up, loud and shrill. They tried to hush him, but it was useless. "I won't be quiet, no sir! HA! I'm gonna holler an' yell and cuss. Ha-HA! Listen to me cuss!" He bellowed a long string of obscenities. "Whoooweeee! Ain't that enough to curl your hair? Hey, did I ever get you youngsters them baked beans I promised?"

  Clarence cringed at the old man's ravings. Why wouldn't he be quiet? Was he completely oblivious to the seriousness of their situation?

  Then Clarence realized something: What difference did it make? They all were going to die anyway, weren't they? Why not make a little noise?

  "Ho-ho, you balmy old coot!" Clarence cried, as loud as he could, still uncertain what the word meant but assuming it didn't really matter now at the end of his life. "Rah-rah, pip-pip! Good show! Cheerio!" He'd missed all of his favorite expressions from jolly ol' England and felt the sudden need to share them all at once. "Rather, I say! Rather pip-pip and all that rot!"

  "Clarence—have you gone plum loco?" Kate whispered.

  "I'm a crazy coot!" Clarence replied.

  "Hey now, I'm the crazy coot!" Silas protested.

  "You got that right," Buck muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

  "I'm the crazy ol' coot, and you're just a dumb Englishter!" Silas crowed.

  "Dumb Englishter, eh? Alright then, so be it!" Clarence cheered.

  Silas doubled over, cackling like a maniac.

  "Ho-ho, cheerio! That's me: The Dumb Englishter!"

  Kate chuckled quietly, her frame shaking against his back. Clarence turned toward her. "Eh, what's that, Kate? Have you the foggiest? The foggiest what? Ho-HO! I don't know, I'm quite a balmy fellow!"

  Silas wheezed while Kate laughed out loud, throwing back her head—

  "Ug," She and Clarence groaned in unison as their heads smacked together with a resounding thud. Their eyes rolled upward as they passed out.

  Buck cursed, shaking his head.

  Silas hooted with glee.

  Chapter 49

  Things were going so well. Self-proclaimed Chief Broken Eye had been confident of victory. The braves, in a wild frenzy, had been fighting like the warriors they were born to be, and those palefaces inside the shack were either already dead or wounded so badly, they wished they were dead. Broken Eye had been looking forward to dragging the bodies of the survivors outside and torturing them until sunrise. Tomahawks brandished high, he and his braves had moved in to break through what remained of the shack's bullet-riddled walls.

  But that was when the sounds of insane laughter had erupted from inside: whoops, hollers, foreign expressions, and fits of hysterics.

  No…It cannot be! Not so close to my moment of victory! Broken Eye clenched his fists.

  But it was so. Utter dread seized the bowels of the braves, and their eyes grew wide. Slowly, they backed away from the shack as if it caged a wild beast ready to pounce upon them and tear them limb from limb.

  "Not the Crazy Spirit…" they murmured.

  "No…"

  "The Crazy Spirit…"

  Then one brave voiced what all of the others were feeling, but could not quite articulate:

  "AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

  Dropping their weapons, they reeled from the shack and ran for their lives.

  "No—come back, you fools!" Broken Eye barked angrily, grabbing after the braves in vain as they rushed past him. "How dare you spoil my victory? Come back, you idiots!"

  His insults landed on deaf ears, and in a matter of moments, the braves were out of sight and earshot. The prince stood alone in the darkness with only the bizarre noises of the palefaces to keep him company. His sharp facial features sagged at the thought of defeat.

  Defeat. The word rang hollowly in his mind. He had come so close to triumph, only to be thwarted by his own braves.

  No. I will not be defeated. He pumped out his chest and raised his chin. Crazy Spirit or no Crazy Spirit, I will have my victory! He would skin the palefaces, and he would receive the honor and glory he deserved. He would be praised for braving the insanity of the Crazy Spirit and escaping unscathed. I never believed the stories, anyway, he tried to convince himself.

  The stories: That the Crazy Spirit could take over any lifeform and drive it to utter insanity. Under the influence of the Crazy Spirit, it was said, men were led out into the wilderness in the heat of the day to dance until they died. Others were driven to dive into the deepest lake and swim to the bottom until they drowned. Still others were enticed by the Crazy Spirit to eat and eat and eat until their stomachs exploded.

  "Squaw talk," Broken Eye muttered.

  He faced the shack and clenched his tomahawk in his fist. The muscle in his forearm rippled like a snake. He knew himself to be a fine warrior. He was the best. He did not fear the Crazy Spirit. He did not fear anything, least of all weak palefaces who had completely lost their minds.

  He drew back his tomahawk and brought it down hard against the bullet-punctured wall. The wood screeched and splintered as the blade smashed through. He struck again and again.

  "You die!" he cried.

  The hard muzzle of a shotgun dug into his back.

  "Not tonight, boy."

  Guthrie could not believe his ears or his eyes. A multitude of terrified cries and pounding feet came charging straight at him through the darkness. As fast as they could, the natives ran away from the shack below as if something ferocious were chasing them.

  Guthrie crouched low behind the giant boulder and cringed as the Indians stampeded past him. He opened his eyes only when they had ascended the southern ridge, launching themselves onto their ponies and riding off at breakneck speed.

  "My word," Guthrie gasped, unable to conceive of anything that might have frightened them off in such a manner.

  Then something very unusual happened: the rock formation before him rolled over and groaned. At least, it had sounded like a groan—a deep rumble that coursed through the ground. Guthrie could not help but wonder if he had been mistaken about this boulder. Perhaps it was no boulder at all, but rather some sort of very
large animal.

  "Hugga-wugga-wubba," came a deep, groggy moan from the enormous mound. "Hugg-wugga Zuni, Zuni…"

  Guthrie stared. The mound sounded as though it was talking in its sleep.

  "Big war dance, Zuni-Zuni…mmmmm, venison." A sigh of contentment. "Hey, more salt! Mmmmmmm."

  Guthrie swallowed. "Uh..." Could there be someone inside the mound? "Is anyone there?"

  "Whatha—!" The boulder dipped on one side and shot up on the other. "Who's there?" a deep voice demanded.

  Guthrie backed away, struggling to his feet. "Uh-my name is Guthrie—"

  "Are you English?"

  Guthrie raised an eyebrow. "Yes—"

  "Hey, that's great! I like the English. But where are you?" The mound swayed side to side.

  "I am right here." He kept a hand on his rifle. "Where are you?"

  "I'm right here, too." The mound chuckled. "I guess it's too dark to see each other."

  Guthrie nodded. "Quite so."

  "Quite so!" the voice echoed. "Hey, I'd almost forgotten that one! I remember cheerio and pip-pip and—"

  "Are you from England?"

  "No, I'm not English. I'm Zuni. But an Englishman once taught me how to speak the tongue of the palefaces, and I have never forgotten it." The mound heaved a sad sigh and swayed. "Too bad I had to kill him."

  Warily, Guthrie eyed the boulder that was no longer a boulder. "Who are you?"

  "Me? I'm Big Chief Thunderclap, chief of the Zuni!" the voice said with pride. "Hey, did you just get here? You sure missed one heck of a war dance!"

  Guthrie frowned. Was this Indian responsible for the attack below?

  "Hey Englishman, stay where you are, and I'll turn around until I find you." The mound pitched to one side and veered away, and before he knew it, Guthrie found himself staring into a massive, grinning face. "There you are!"

  "Yes," Guthrie nodded, startled but doing his best not to show it. The situation reminded him of a bizarre dream he once had as a child.

  The broad face chuckled heartily. "Did I spook you?"

  "Not at all."

  "So, Englishman, what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night—with a rifle?" The face's dark eyes focused on the Winchester.

  Guthrie paused for a moment, then decided to tell the seemingly amiable Indian chief about tracking Buckeye Daniels—

  "Buckeye Daniels?" A look of recognition and disdain spread across the chief's face, and his eyes seemed to kindle in the darkness. "I have been on his trail, too. Chased down his two cohorts, and they led me here—"

  "Pardon me," Guthrie interrupted. "Two cohorts, you say? Did one happen to be a woman?"

  "Yeah." The chief was sullen for a moment, but then he brightened. "And the other one was English, like you!"

  "Master Clarence..." Guthrie paled and turned to look down at the shack in the distance. "Kate." His heart fell.

  Clarence would never have survived the attack. No doubt he'd waved happily at the natives as they swarmed down with their guns and hatchets brandished. Guthrie sank to his knees in despair. Kate… An image of her lying inside the shack in a pool of her own blood entered his mind, and he gasped, cursing himself. Why hadn't he gunned down as many of those savages as he possibly could?

  "Hey, mister—is that you?" Percy's voice came from a distance.

  Guthrie did not respond. Covering his face, he sank to the earth and wept.

  Chapter 50

  Thunderclap turned away from the Englishman and looked below. The sight that met his eyes caused him to heave a sigh of contempt. There stood Prince Broken Eye, his arms raised, standing a few paces away from the rancher's shack. Behind him stood a stocky, bristle-headed paleface with a shotgun.

  "An incompetent louse I reluctantly call my son," the big chief grumbled. Giving the Englishman a pat on the head in consolation for his sorrows, Thunderclap heaved his bulk purposefully down the hillside. "Broken Eye!" he bellowed in the Zuni tongue as he approached. "You idiot! What have you gotten yourself into now?"

  "Hold it right there," commanded the paleface with the shotgun, holding his weapon aimed at Broken Eye with one hand while he snatched a revolver from his holster.

  "Do not worry," Thunderclap said lightheartedly in English as he lumbered closer. "I am not armed."

  "Who are you?" the white man demanded, leveling his six-shooter at the huge Indian.

  "I am Big Chief Thunderclap, chief of the Zuni!" he boomed. "Ever hear of me?"

  "Uh..." The paleface nodded cautiously. "Yeah, I think so. You're that one with the Confederate flag."

  Thunderclap nodded proudly. "Yes." He allowed a wide grin to stretch his face and expose his teeth. But as he drew near, the smile faded. "That is my son you have there. What has he been up to?" His gaze narrowed at the prince.

  Broken Eye glared straight ahead, his mouth clamped shut in a firm line.

  "He's been tryin' to kill the poor ol' feller who lives here." The paleface jerked his head toward the shack and the sporadic shrill laughter of the old rancher inside.

  Thunderclap glowered at his son. "How dare you attack a paleface!" he scolded first in English for the benefit of the white man, and then again in Zuni.

  Confusion registered on the prince's face. "But, Father—it was your—"

  "You hold your tongue, or you will lose it!" the chief roared. "HA! Then your new name will have to be Dumb Boy!" He threw back his head with hearty laughter.

  Broken Eye scowled.

  "Why'd your braves attack this place?" the paleface demanded. Neither of his weapons wavered from their targets.

  Trying to overcome his fit of laughter, Thunderclap turned and wheezed, "Oh, I do believe this was a mistake! You see, we were on our way to fight the Apache—"

  "With only a couple dozen braves?"

  "Oh—" Thunderclap's eyes darted. "Well, it wasn't going to be a real battle—just a scrimmage, you see. We do that on occasion. Got to keep our fighting skills sharp." He laughed. "We may have gotten just a little sidetracked when this loco rancher started shooting at us. Anyhow, we busted up his place and scared off his horses and then—"

  "What about him?"

  "Him?" The chief hadn't noticed the body lying on the ground in front of the shack until now. It looked…messy.

  "Yeah, your son." The paleface gestured with the muzzle of his shotgun.

  "Oh." Thunderclap glared at the prince. "Right, him." He paused. "He's a naughty one. Never listens to the wisdom of his father. Nope, he always thinks he knows better. And he nearly got himself killed this time. Mayhaps this will be a lesson to him."

  "I hope so." The paleface holstered his six-gun and lowered the muzzle of his shotgun a few inches. "Alright, you two can go," he said gruffly.

  Broken Eye looked relieved, but at a stern glance from his father, he wiped his face clean of any expression.

  "My son will be severely punished, never you fear," Thunderclap said in English. A furious fire burned in his expansive belly. "He has no idea."

  Percy watched the Indian chief and his son until they reached the ridge—Thunderclap angrily scolding the youth in their sharp tongue all the way. As they rode off on their waiting ponies, Percy couldn't help wondering what the prince's punishment would be. Unlike the Apache, the Zuni weren't known to be troublemakers.

  With a shake of his head, he turned to the bullet-raked shack and hesitantly peeked through a gap in the boarded window. He was instantly pleased to find Kate Carson and Guthrie's young friend alive, if not a bit the worse for wear. There was also another man—

  "Howdy!" the old fellow crowed. One of his arms hung in a bloody sling, but it didn't slow him down any as he skipped over to greet Percy. "What's your name, sonny?"

  "Uh...Percy." He leaned back warily. "You're Silas Carter, ain't you."

  "Ha-HA! That's me! WHOOOPEEEE!" He jumped into the air and clicked his heels together. Then he said with a sudden, grim look, "Y'know, I wasn't sure we was gonna make it, what with a
ll them Injuns attackin' and bullets flyin'. It was real scary, I'll tell you that much."

  Nodding with a frown, Percy pointed at Kate and Clarence. "How're they doin'?"

  "Yeah, they're gonna be all right. Conked themselves out is all." Silas bit his lower lip and shook his head. "It was close. But we made it. Real close, like a close shave you'd get at the barber shop—but with tomahawks." There was a faraway look in his eyes. "Think I might've soiled my drawers."

  Percy backed away.

  Clarence and Kate eventually came to, shaking their heads and groaning.

  "You've got a hard head, Clarence." Kate grimaced, touching the back of her own with one hand.

  "As do you, apparently." Clarence winced.

  "Then I guess we're even." She heaved a sigh and looked around quickly. "Where's Buck and Silas?"

  Clarence frowned, scanning the room as well. "I don't know." He turned and caught her gaze. "Do you suppose—" He swallowed as he whispered, "Do you think they are with the savages outside? Being...tortured?"

  Kate paled and bit her lip.

  Clarence resolved to look out the boarded window and rose to a crouched position. Slowly, he crept over and peeked above the window sill. The sky was turning a deep bluish-purple with dawn on the way.

  What he saw caused him to let out a whoop of delight.

  "Guthrie!" He whirled to face Kate and cried, "The savages are gone, Kate! And-and Guthrie's here!"

  A weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. "Quick, Clarence—help me up."

  "Ho-ho! I shall carry you! Up we go," he grunted, lifting Kate in his arms and carrying her outside.

  Guthrie stood with Percy and Silas a short distance away. The butler's usual stoic features were drawn as if he were overcome with sorrow. Percy seemed to be trying to tell him something, but as Clarence came outside with Kate, Guthrie's eyes widened, his lips parted, and he stared. Then he broke into a run straight for them.

  "Kate! Master Clarence!"

  "That's what I was tryin' to tell you, mister!" Percy called after him.