by Jory Sherman
Hills and more hills. Up and down.
Then Lew and Jeff, both following the road again, heard the sound. Off in the distance, ahead of them.
“What in the hell is that?” Jeff asked. “Sounds like a bunch of kids catcallin’ at a swimmin’ hole.”
“I’ve never heard anything like it before,” Lew said, “but it sounds like Indian war cries to me.”
They listened. The high-pitched shrieks faded in and out of hearing.
“That popping sound,” Jeff said. “Hear it?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Gunfire,” Lew said. “Somebody’s in trouble. Come on. Let’s ride.”
Lew ticked Ruben’s flanks with his spurs and the horse bunched its muscles and bounded down the slope. Jeff followed, his horse gathering speed on the downward run.
As the two riders closed on the yelps, the war cries grew louder, and they heard rifle fire snapping like bullwhips. Down one hill and up the next, and still no sight of the conflict. Then up another long hill and at the top, they saw three wagons at the bottom. Near-naked Indians slashed in and out of range, their ponies like gazelles, swift and agile. Puffs of smoke belched from under the wagons, and from the rifles of the Indians. The Indians rode low on the sides of their ponies until they rose up, slightly, to fire their weapons.
Lew counted eight warriors. There was a man lying behind the wagons and he wasn’t moving.
Lew had no idea how many people were in or under the wagons, but they seemed to be outnumbered. He saw no Indians unhorsed, which was a tribute to their cunning, he thought.
When Lew and Jeff were close enough to get into the fight, Lew drew his rifle, cocked it. He wrapped the reins around his saddle horn and brought the Winchester to his shoulder. He picked out a lone Indian in the middle of a tight turn, led him just a hair, and squeezed the trigger. The brave rode into the bullet and flew off his horse as if he had been roped. He hit the ground and skidded as his pony completed the turn, then galloped off, away from all the shooting and noise.
Jeff fired his rifle, too, but the shot went wild.
The Indians noticed the two intruders and turned to give battle, three of them riding straight at Lew. He grabbed his reins with his left hand, jerked Ruben to a halt, and brought his rifle up to his shoulder again, while levering another cartridge into the firing chamber.
He sighted on the nearest charging Indian and led him a foot. He squeezed the trigger and the Indian’s body jerked as the lead struck him in the chest. Blood squirted from the hole, but the warrior held on, somehow, and kept coming. But Lew knew the man was dying. Every beat of his heart was pumping out his lifeblood.
A woman screamed, and Lew saw two Indians drag her out from under one of the wagons. They disappeared behind the wagons and he couldn’t get off a shot.
Two Indians charged at him from opposite directions.
Lew’s blood froze. He could only shoot one, and then the other would have him dead in his sights.
Instantly, Lew made a decision, knowing his life, and perhaps Jeff’s as well, hung in the balance like a man teetering on the edge of a high sheer cliff.
12
LEW HAD NEVER SEEN AN INDIAN THAT CLOSE BEFORE, AS close as the nearest one was to him. He felt himself becoming almost hypnotized by the man’s savage looks, his bare skin, the streaks of paint across his forehead and on his cheeks. The pony was eating up ground like a racehorse, and the warrior had his rifle at hip level, aimed straight at Lew. Out of the corner of his eye, Lew saw the other Indian closing in on him. They had him in a veritable pincer, outflanked and outnumbered.
Lew took a trick from the Indians’ book. He wheeled Ruben over hard, leaned back, brought his rifle down and aimed it, hip high, at the charging brave. He squeezed the trigger while his stomach tied itself into a knot, then kicked Ruben hard in the flanks to pull him out of the turn and head him straight at the other attacking Indian.
He didn’t have time to see if his bullet had struck home. He levered another cartridge into the chamber, heard the soft whing of the empty shell as it ejected. In a foolhardy tactic, Lew charged straight at the warrior on his right flank. This maneuver startled the Indian and caused him to crawl back atop the bare back of his pony so that he could turn his mount out of the way. Otherwise, he was going to be run over by a bigger horse and, perhaps, get unseated from his pony.
Lew saw the Indian jerk the rope halter of his pony, the muscles on his arm bulging and rippling with the effort. But the pony had no room to escape Lew’s charge. It tried, but it was locked into a turn so tight it had to scramble to keep its footing. As the pony whirled hard over, Lew shifted his weight to the right side of his saddle, swung his rifle around, and aimed it at the warrior’s back. When Ruben was galloping past the turning pony, Lew poked the rifle out from his waist and pulled the trigger. He fired at point-blank range, straight into the Indian’s exposed back. The Indian jerked as if stricken with an electric shock and hunched over his pony’s neck, blood spurting from a hole right next to his spine. The sight made Lew’s stomach turn. He knew the Indian was mortally wounded and probably partially paralyzed. At the same time, he felt sorry for the pony as blood seeped down its side. The bullet had gone clear through the warrior and struck the pony. Its legs turned to rubber. It wobbled a few more feet, then crumpled to the ground. The brave fell off on his side, his eyes glazed over with the frost of death.
Lew cranked another cartridge out of the magazine and wheeled Ruben toward the wagons. He was bristling with action, his senses sharpened to a keen edge, his blood racing with fire, his heart pumping at the excitement. He was ready to do battle with whatever or whoever stood in his way. His nostrils flared as he gulped in oxygen, his mouth tightly shut, his face a grim mask of determination and anger.
Rifle fire crackled in his ears. He saw the Indians scatter, gallop away on their fleet ponies. Lew reined Ruben in and put his rifle to his shoulder. He fired another shot at one of them just before he disappeared over the crest of the next hill, and then everything grew quiet. He sat there in the saddle, still fuming, and glanced around, looking for Jeff.
Jeff rode up to him, sliding his rifle back in its sheath.
“Boy, you are some Indian fighter, Lew. Lookie what you done. You run ’em off all by yourself.”
“That’s crazy, Jeff. We all ran them off. They just had enough, that’s all.”
“Take a look at them pilgrims over by the wagons. They’re ready to give you your own parade.”
Lew turned and glanced at the wagons. Two men were comforting the woman who had been dragged from under one of the wagons, and others were standing in a row staring at him, their clothes covered with dust, their eyes wide as a bug-eyed rabbit’s.
“They’re in shock,” Lew said. “Let’s go see if they need any help.”
The two rode over to the wagons. Lew touched a finger to the brim of his hat in greeting. One man stepped out.
“Thanks, stranger,” he said. “We were in a bad spot there.”
Lew looked at the two men lying still on the ground.
“I’m sorry about those two,” Lew said. “Anything we can do to help?”
“I’m Faron Briggs,” the man said, walking up to Lew and lifting up his hand to shake Lew’s. “We didn’t see them Cherokees comin’. Kilt two of us before we could get off a shot.”
“How about the woman?” Lew asked. “Is she all right?”
“She’ll be fine. Just scared is all.”
“How do you know those Indians were of the Cherokee tribe?” Jeff asked.
“I been this way before,” Briggs said. “Generally, the Cherokees just ask for some tobacco or money, sometimes a little whiskey or some trinkets. Then they go on their way. But these varmints just went plumb crazy. Started shootin’ and hollerin’, coming after the horses, tryin’ to cut the traces and make off with them, I reckon. We kept up a hot fire, though, and they didn’t get nothin’.” He paused, then said, “I got
to go see about the lady. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Briggs walked over as two men walked the woman back to one of the wagons. Her hair was disheveled, but she didn’t seem to be badly hurt. Briggs spoke to them, then returned to where Lew and Jeff sat their horses.
“Be obliged if you could ride along with us,” Briggs said. “We have two men to bury, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Where you headed?” Jeff asked.
“Santa Fe. Where you going?”
“Colorado.”
“You could ride with us, then. We’d feed you. The lady there makes good coffee.”
“What do you think, Lew?” Jeff asked.
“Slow us down, considerable.”
“Yeah, it might. No, thanks, Mr. Briggs, we got to be on our way.”
“Some of the men want to go after those Cherokee,” Briggs said. “They’re hoppin’ mad at what they done to us. You could maybe get you some scalps.”
Lew shook his head. He didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. He wanted no part of hunting Indians and killing them, if it could be avoided. And he sure as hell didn’t want any bloody scalps.
“We’ll be on our way, Mr. Briggs,” Lew said.
“What did you say your name was, feller?” Briggs asked, suddenly suspicious.
“I didn’t say.”
“You got something to hide? You on the run?”
“I have nothing to hide. I just don’t give my name out to strangers.”
“No need to get your dander up. Just curious.”
“Have a safe trip, Mr. Briggs,” Lew said. “Come on, Jeff. Let’s go.”
Jeff seemed reluctant to leave, but Lew was already riding away from the wagons. He waved a hand to the men and women watching him. They looked surprised to see him leaving. Jeff caught up with him, and when they were out of earshot of Briggs, he opened up with some questions.
“What did you want to rile that man for, Lew? How come you didn’t want to ride a ways with them? They seemed like hospitable folks.”
“If I thought we could have helped them, I would have stayed. But those folks were bent on revenge. They wanted blood.”
“Can you blame them, Lew?”
“No. In a way I can’t. But if they hunt down those Cherokee and kill any of them, who knows what will happen after that? They might bring the whole tribe swarming down on them.”
“But they’re in their rights to go after those Indians and kill ever’ one of ’em.”
“That’s their decision.”
“What? You don’t think they’re right?”
“I don’t know. There was death on both sides. I killed a man or two. I don’t feel good about it.”
“But the Cherokees attacked first. They was in the wrong.”
“And they paid a price.”
“But they was Indians.”
Lew prodded his horse with his spurs as if to ride away from the conversation. Jeff caught up with him a moment later.
“Let it go, Jeff,” Lew said.
“Look, I’m just trying to find out who I’m ridin’ with is all. I got a right to ask questions.”
“You don’t like riding with me, go on back and take up with Briggs and his bunch.”
“Aw, it ain’t that, Lew. I just wonder what you’d do the same thing happened to me. Would you just let it ride? Not try and take revenge?”
“Revenge is a thing I know something about, Jeff. It doesn’t taste good. Revenge leaves a man empty inside.”
“How would you know that?”
“I know,” Lew said.
They rode on, into the sunset, not speaking anymore, and not seeing any more Indian sign. That night, they didn’t make a campfire, and left the next morning without coffee or anything to eat. The country, with its endless vistas devoid of human life, seemed to swallow them up. With Lew silent as stone, Jeff ended up muttering to himself, speaking broken sentences that seemed to make no sense, either to him or to Lew. They chewed on hardtack and jerky and drank water to wash the dry food down. Late in the afternoon, Lew finally said something to Jeff.
“Will you stop grumbling to yourself, Jeff? There’s plenty of good silence out here and I want to enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I wasn’t grumbling none.”
“Well, it sounds that way. We couldn’t hear any ponies approaching us.”
“You think them Cherokee are going to come after us?”
“No. I think they’ve got better things to do. But no need to invite trouble.”
“I wasn’t inviting anything.” Jeff glowered at Lew, jutting out his chin as if begging Lew to take a swing at him.
“We need fresh meat,” Lew said. “I’m thinking I ought to start shooting jackrabbits.”
“Well, there’s plenty of ’em.”
“I’ll get us one or two for supper. We’ll build a fire tonight. Maybe have some coffee.”
“Now, you’re talkin’,” Jeff said.
That night, Jeff let Lew read his daughter Carol’s letter as they sat by the fire, their bellies full, hot coffee in their cups.
“She’s a good girl,” Jeff said. “Met the wrong man. But she’s got spunk. Maybe you’ll meet her one day. Here’s her letter.”
Jeff unfolded the letter he took from his pocket. The creases were beginning to wear, but Lew could read her handwriting, which was clean and neat.
The letter told of Carol’s troubles with her husband, how he had left her and the kids to fend for themselves. Lew could sense the bravery behind the words as she spoke of how she was managing to survive without any money. At the end, however, she sounded an ominous note.
We are living in a canyon a few miles from Leadville. This is a small mining town filled with rough men. I’m almost afraid to go there, but that’s the only place I can buy food and such for the children. I have been sewing to make ends meet. It doesn’t pay much. There’s a man in town I don’t like and he’s come out here once or twice. I shoo him away, but I’m afraid he’ll come out when he’s drunk and cause trouble. I might have to shoot him.
“Who’s this man?” Lew asked as he handed the letter back to Jeff.
“I don’t know. It’s a worry, though.”
Lew sipped his coffee and thought about the woman with two children, all alone, with no money and no friends. His heart went out to her, but Jeff was right about her having spunk.
He didn’t even know Carol, but he was beginning to like her. She seemed, just then, a lot closer to him than Seneca, and every time he thought of Seneca, something squeezed his heart and he felt a hollowness inside. Maybe he shouldn’t have left Osage. Maybe he should have stayed and cleared his name.
But he knew that would have been impossible. He had wanted justice, but it was denied him, hidden away by those small minds who passed as champions of the law. Money made those judges and lawmen run, not ideals or morals. He was glad to be away from them all. All except Seneca, and he feared he would never see her again. And maybe, she was a part of that same system back home. Maybe she, like them, was blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other.
Lew watched the fire die down after Jeff went to sleep. The call of a coyote made him feel even more lonesome. And when the notes died away, so did all of Lew’s thoughts of home fade away, too.
13
JUDGE RINGGOLD THADDEUS WYMAN GLOWERED FROM behind his desk. He wasn’t angry at anyone. A glower was permanently on his face, caused in part by his thick, heavy jowls, his protruding shelf of a forehead, his close-set porcine eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his horn-rimmed spectacles. He was an imposing figure in any setting, but in his office, he loomed large over the room like some fleshy-lipped gargoyle.
Present in chambers, listening to Wyman’s every word, were Berryville Sheriff Rudy Cooper and the prosecuting attorney, Michael Farris. Rudy was a thick-necked, chin-less barrel of a man with ruddy cheekbones latticed with ruptured veins caused by a prodigious consumption of rotgut alcohol. His hairy arms protrud
ed from sleeves cut too short to cover his wrists, and he chewed on the stub of a cigar that he never lit. Mike Farris was a slender, clean-cut young man with a razor-sharp mind and a disarming smile that beguiled many a hapless witness on the stand in court. He was never happier than when his nose was buried in a law book.
“Where in hell is that federal bastard?” Wyman roared, glancing up at the large Waterbury clock on the wall. “He said he’d be here at ten of the clock, by damn, and I hate a man who isn’t as punctual as a midnight piss.”
“Mr. Blackhawk had some swollen creeks to cross after that rain we had, Judge,” Farris said. “It’s just now ten o’clock.”
Cooper shifted the cigar stub in his mouth from one side to the other. His dead eyes gave him the look of a basking lizard.
“Judy,” the judge roared, “look out the damned window and see if you can see that marshal.”
“There’s a man riding this way, Judge. On a big old horse. That could be him.”
“Coop, don’t you light that damned cigar,” Wyman said, as if he needed to lash out at someone, guilty or not guilty.
“I never light these see-gars, Judge. You know that. I just suck the juice outen ’em.”
“Oh, shut up, Cooper. You haven’t got the sense God gave to a bantie chicken.”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor,” Cooper said.
They waited.
Then they heard the clump of boots on the hardwood floors in the outer office. Then the rustle of skirts as Judy arose from her little desk.
“The judge is waiting for you, Mr. Blackhawk. You just go right on in.”
The door opened and Horatio Blackhawk filled the frame. He ducked his head and entered the office.
“Close the door, Marshal,” Judge Wyman said.
Blackhawk turned and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Take this chair over here, next to my desk,” Wyman said. “Shake hands with Sheriff Cooper and the county prosecutor, Mike Farris.”
Blackhawk shook their hands and sat down.
