by Gary Paulsen
It was indeed Bentley and his men. Francis shook his head. They must have taken his advice to head north, but their camping methods were nothing short of insane.
Even in good times it paid to be cautious. Always—unless you were in a cave or a well-concealed ditch—you always kept your fire small and burning clean. No spark, no light, must get out to show itself to possible enemies. And that was in good times. Right now, in the aftermath of the Mexican War, when the Comancheros were raiding and other scavengers were about, being careful was the only way to stay alive.
Francis lay watching them for nearly half an hour as they laughed and joked, throwing still more wood on the fire. At last he decided he should let them know he was there and tell them how foolish they were being. Then he froze.
At first he couldn't tell what caused him to stop. Some instinct made him hold up, freeze, and then let his eyes move away from the fire.
There.
A soft line that shouldn't be there, a curve of a shadow against the dark. Then a sound, a soft clink of metal against stone. For the time it took to draw three more breaths, there was nothing strange at all.
When it came, it was so fast and so brutal Francis almost cried out. If he had, it would have been his last act on earth.
Out of the shadows, out of the dark night, a pack of devils appeared. Later Francis decided it must have been five men, but it happened so fast he couldn't count them.
At first there was no time to move, to warn Hentley's group, and then, within seconds, Francis didn't dare.
The men were armed with guns at their belts, wearing ragged clothes and old floppy army hats. But they did not use their guns. Three men also carried army sabers, and the two others had lances.
There were almost no sounds. The attackers were on the group in an instant, hacking and stabbing with silent ferocity.
It was a massacre and it was over in moments. Bentley and his men were dead almost at once. Still the attackers did not stop, but kept hacking and chopping and tearing until the bodies were in pieces, the heads chopped off and all the clothing removed. Francis lay in his small ditch in the dark, horrified, not believing what he was seeing, though he knew it was real.
All this time, the men were silent. Then one, apparently the leader, stood spattered in blood in the light of the fire and said, “I wonder who they were?”
Another man answered. “I don't know, but they sure had good rifles. Look at these guns!”
Francis was still afraid to move. He stayed where he was until the men found some whiskey and started drinking. He waited until they were drunk. Only then, a few hours later, did he crawl backward on his belly until he could crouch, then moved along in that crouch until he could stand. And then he turned and started off in a silent trot, which soon became an outright run.
And not for a second could he get the last sight out of his mind: Bcntlcy's head jammed on the end of a lance, the light from the fire giving it a hideous glow that made it look almost still alive.
“We have to stop, Francis.” Lottie's voice was strident. “You're going to kill the horses!”
Francis seemed not to hear her or to care about what she said—even if there was an edge of truth in it.
He had come back to thcni just at dawn and found them both dozing, with Billy holding the horses’ picket rope.
“Up!” Francis had rousted them out of sleep. “We have to start moving. Now!”
“But, Francis …” Lottie had rubbed her eyes. “What is it? Why …”
Francis had looked at her but all he could see was Bcntlcy's head, all he could think of was the mad dance of the murderers hacking and slashing and stabbing. I am here, he'd thought. With all that I have in the world to live for—Lottie and Billy. The hope of finding my family. All the Spanish gold and silver from the old grave. We arc here, and madmen arc … right … over … there.
Insane butchers are just four or five miles away. They're worse than Comancheros, worse than attacking bears or Indians—they are like wolves with rabies. They kill just to kill.
Francis had hurried to get Billy and Lottie away from them.
“Bad men,” he had told Lottie and Billy. He did not tell them what he had seen. He would never tell them what he had seen. Not if he lived to be a hundred years old.
“We have to run. Now!”
He had kept them to grass so there would be no dust as they rode, and he'd driven them hard all day. He thought the killers would head north and maybe a litde east to catch the wagon trains, looking for small parties to attack, and so he'd taken Lottie and “Billy northwest. At first he'd led them but as the mounts tired, he dropped back and pushed them, whipped them until it was dark. And still he drove them. All night, with the horses staggering, until dawn came again, and he thought they had traveled close to fifty miles. And at last he stopped near a beaver pond in a stand of aspen with the morning sun warming the horses’ sweat so that it steamed.
“We stop here,” he said. “Cold camp, no fire—eat jerky and sleep. Five, six hours. Billy, you sleep tied to the horses like you did before.”
He left them and with his rifle went to the top of a nearby hill and squatted, looking out across the foothills.
He was exhausted, almost staggering, like the horses. But he sat for an hour, not moving, hardly blinking, hearing the flies around him, the birds, the squirrels, beaver—staring at their back trail and the hills to the east.
Nothing. No dust, no movement. Nothing. And finally, while he stared, his eyes closed once, opened slowly, then closed again. He fell backward and slept.
∗∗∗
HE WAS NOT CERTAIN what awakened him. It was close to evening; he had slept hard for nearly seven hours and probably could have slept for seven more. Lottie and Billy were still asleep, the horses standing asleep near them. As he watched, a horse awoke and started to move, eating great mouthfuls of grass that he tore off with sideways motions. The horse came to the end of the picket line and jerked Billy—who had the rope tied to his wrist—along in the dirt for a good two feet.
Billy did not wake up, and Francis smiled. All right, the trail seemed clear. The horses needed to cat and rest more and recover. They would spend the night and move on in the morning.
He studied the horizon one more time and found it clear, stood and stretched and made his way down to the horses. They were all awake and whickered softly as he untied the picket line from Billy's wrist—Billy still did not wake—and led them softly into tall grass. There he hobbled them with rope and let them graze.
The beaver pond was nearby, and for no particular reason he walked to it and stood looking into the clear water. He could see trout, their sides flashing in the sun, and as he turned to go he caught another glint.
This was at the edge of the pond near the horses, where the beaver dragged the cut limbs into the water and left a muddy skid trail on the bank.
A gray flicker of light from the sun cut into the water and he knew instantly that it was a trap. He moved to it through the grass without stepping in any dirt, reading signs now, studying. He had trapped beaver with a man named Jason Grimes. Grimes had helped Francis escape from the Pawnees who had taken him from the wagon train so long ago. Mr. Grimes had shown up again at the Comancheros camp and helped the three of them escape and then had led the Comancheros off while Lottie and Billy and Francis ran north.
Francis stopped by the bank and studied the trap in open disbelief.
Because he only had one arm, Jason Grimes had a unique way of tying the small aspen bait stick to the pan of the trap. He used a bit of rawhide in a crisscross fashion because he had to hold the trap with his knee while he tied the rawhide with one hand.
Francis was looking down at just such a knot now. He leaned closer. The bait stick was fresh-cut—not more than two days old—and The trap was not covered with leaves and debris as it would have been if it had been there a IOIHI time. Besides, Grimes would never put traps where he couldn't check them every day. It wouldn't be fair
to the animal to let it suffer in the trap.
Francis stood, looked to his left carefully and started swinging his eyes to the right, looking into the trees, trying to see past the green leaves of the aspens, then moving to the left again, searching in increments, carefully studying each part before moving to the next, and before he had gone halfway around he heard a soft voice say:
“Well, pilgrim, I see you got clear of them Comancheros.”
And Francis wheeled to sec Jason Grimes standing in the dappled shade of the aspens.
“How—I mean when …” Francis shrugged and sighed. “Hello, Mr. Grimes, it is good to see you.” He was surprised and shouldn't have been. Nothing the mountain man ever did should surprise him. “How did you come to be here?”
Grimes stepped forward and matched Francis's smile. “Same as you, boy. Same as you.”
In the light, out of the shade, Francis saw Grimes clearly, and was shocked to see that he looked thin and wasted, as if half starved. There was a new scar from his left cheekbone up to his hairline. His hair was also spotty and turning white. Francis looked away at once but not before Grimes caught his expression.
“I made it clear of the Comancheros,” he said, “when they were chasing us. Or almost clear. Two of them were right pushy and kept coming; I cornered up and dealt with them but one of them caught nie with a hand ax while I worked on him…. Dust.”
For a second Francis didn't follow him. He saw that the ax wound had healed, but that didn't explain the way Grimes looked—near death.
“There,” Grimes repeated. “Dust. Coming this way.”
Francis turned and looked where Grimes was pointing—three or four miles to the east, out of the foothills on the edge of The prairie—and saw a small plume of dust and he thought, Oh God, and it wasn't swearing but a prayer.
“Not like you to pray,” Grimes said, and Francis realized he'd said it aloud. “Not over a little dust …”
“It's not just the dust.” Francis squinted, trying to see better. “It's what's making the dust. Or at least what I think is making it.”
“Five men,” Crimes said. “Crazy—like wolves with crazy-water sickness. Is that right?”
“You know about them?”
Crimes nodded. “Heard about them. They came from back cast—Tennessee or some such hill place. They've been running and killing out here for nearly two years. They were in the army and came out for the war but broke loose and went bad. Real bad.”
“I have to wake the others, get the horses ready to run again. You can come with us.”
But Grimes wasn't listening. He stared fixedly at the dust plume and seemed to be thinking. Then he squatted on his haunches and smoothed the dirt at his feet and took a stick for a pointer.
“See this canyon here—the one we're in?” He drew a shallow V with the stick in the dirt. “It goes back into the peaks and looks like a dead end, but it ain't. I found this canyon when I came north, after I got away from those Comancheros, and I wintered here, trapped a little beaver just for the meat.” He inhaled and for the first time Francis noted how7 he was wheezing and having trouble catching his breath. “You take the young ones back up the canyon and you'll find a trail out the back. It looks snowed in but it ain't.”
Francis nodded. “Good. Let's get going.”
But Grimes smiled and shook his head. “I ain't going.”
“What do you mean?” Francis pointed toward the dust. “They'll be here in an hour. You can't get away from them by heading out the front of the canyon.”
“I'm not going to try to get away from them. Fact is, ever since I heard of them I've kind of been hoping I'd run into them.”
“But … but why? They'll kill you. Believe me, I saw what they do. They'll cut you to pieces.”
Grimes nodded. “There's that possibility, Mr. Tucket.”
“Then why stay? Come with us, run with us.”
Grimes looked at the dust—it was closer now by a mile—and then looked back up the canyon at the snow-covered peaks, seemed to see something up there, up in the mountains. “No. This is as good a place as any to die—-better than most.”
“Die?” Francis stared at him. “Why stay here and die?”
“Because I'm dying anyway—been wasting away for months. I'm about done now—it's all I can do to walk. I cut my horses loose to run three weeks ago.”
“What?” Francis paused, his breathing suddenly shallow. “Not you, Mr. Grimes!”
“I got somethin’ tearing at my vitals. At least now I won't have to just rot away. I can get those five scavengers to help me while I take a few of them with me.”
“No!” Francis shook his head. “There are doctors. We have money—gold. Lots of gold. We can get help.”
Grimes smiled. “Not this time, Mr. Tucket. Not this time. You go wake the children and be on your way now, before they pick up your trail and start to gain on you.”
“But—”
“No buts to it. Get to riding if you want to save the young ones. You ain't got twenty minutes left. Besides, I've got work to do. I've got to pick a place to make my last … to make my stand.”
“I'll stay. Two guns arc better than one.”
Again Grimes shook his head, this time slowly. “That won't work and you know it. If they get past us they'll get the children. They stay to fight me, that will give you time to run, and even if I don't stop them I'll guarantee you that all five won't be coming on.”
Francis stood there for a count often, tried to make it work in his mind, tried to think of a way to stay and help, but he knew Grimes was right. Hated that Grimes was right but knew it. He still could not bring himself to leave his friend. “I'll send the others on. They'll get away.”
“Get away. Now. Go.” Grimes looked at the dust again. “They've stopped.” And now a new sound came into his voice. It was as if Francis weren't there and Grimes were standing alone. His body seemed to uncoil in some way, and he stood taller and his eyes grew hard and he squinted tightly. “There, they're coming on. Maybe saw one of your tracks. Five of them. Ready to kill.” He smiled. “That ought to be about right. I always said it would take at least five men to finish me…. We'll see, we'll see….” He turned and saw Francis and seemed surprised. “You still here? Get gone. Now. It's going to get interesting around here in about half an hour.”
Francis hung there for another five seconds, tearing at it in his mind, and then he knew Grimes was right, and he turned and ran to wake Lottie and Billy.
They were used to reacting quickly now, and within four minutes were mounted and the three of them were riding, with Lottie wisely remaining silent and Billy offering to go back and fight, alone if necessary, and insistent enough that Francis thought he would have to tic the boy across his horse before he could make him come. Billy gave in at last only because Lottie joined forces with Francis and convinced him it would be best to come.
They went past where Grimes had been but Francis could not see him and knew he was getting ready. Francis peered into the trees but couldn't see any sign. That did not mean Grimes wasn't there. The old mountain man would be finding his best fighting ground—his back covered in some way, his rifle loaded and checked, a second and third load of lead balls and patches in his mouth to reload quickly, his knife and ax to hand. Getting ready. Ready.
He looked up into the mountains where the trail Grimes had pointed to worked out of the back of the canyon. He tried to focus on it, see it amid the peaks, visualize how it must lie, and tried not to look back. He rode that way with Lottie and Billy for a time, letting his horse pick out a faint path. At last he could stand it no longer and he looked back.
They had climbed, and the valley lay before him. The dust had disappeared, which meant that the men had cither stopped or come into the grass where there would be no dust. He thought they had kept coming, and he tried to gauge how far they had moved and tried again not to think of what was going to happen, to think only of keeping Lottie's and Billy's horses moving ahead
of him. He was forcing his mind to look ahead when the first shot came from below and he could not stand it, would not stand it.
“Keep moving up the trail!” he yelled at Lottie and Billy, and wheeled his horse and slammed the barrel of his rifle across her rump and was gone back down the trail.
To the mountain man, to Jason Grimes.
The mare ran hard because it was downhill and because she was fresh and because Francis kept hitting her across the rear with the barrel of his rifle. He knew it did not help—she was running as fast as she could, mouth wide, spit flying back—but he could not help himself.
After the first shot there was a small delay— perhaps thirty seconds—and then a second shot. In those thirty seconds Francis's pony covered a quarter of a mile. After the second shot, another short delay, and then a third shot followed by two more in rapid succession.
Francis ran toward the gunfire and came around a small stand of aspen into a long, narrow clearing.
The grass and trees were green. He would always remember the green. The sun came through the trees and the light gathered the color and seemed to bathe the whole clearing in a green glow. Everything else seemed frozen, as in a tableau.
Far down the clearing, near the other end, a horse wandered aimlessly, chewing at grass, still saddled and bridled. The body of a man lay on the ground near the horse.
Halfway down the clearing another horse stood, still saddled and bridled, and beside him another man lay unmoving in the grass.
Closer in, a third horse stood and on the ground near him a man sat, with a red stain on his chest just above the stomach, and he was looking down at it. As Francis watched, he fell over sideways, still looking at the stain.
Closer still, near where Francis and the mare came storming out of the trees, a fourth man lay with Grimes's hand ax embedded in bis bead. Nearer yet, almost beneath the pinto's hooves, Grimes knelt with the fifth man, the two of them facing each other, Grimes with his head down slightly, as if working, and his hunting knife deep in the center of the man, holding him up in a kneeling position—though the man was clearly dead.
