“How did you lose your pa?” Stone asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Alonzo said.
“Someone sure is in a mood today.”
* * *
Deputy Jacob Stone was commencing to wonder about his new companion. Something wasn’t quite right about Robert Grant, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what.
Being green didn’t explain Grant’s frequent moodiness. It could just be his natural disposition. Stone had met others who he’d swear were born with sour milk in their veins and went through life grumpy about everything.
Stone put it from his mind for the time being. He had more important worries. Namely, Cal Grissom’s wild bunch.
Grissom had been terrorizing Nebraska and several other states for eight or nine years now. Someone, the Pinkertons, probably, had discovered that Grissom robbed so many stages in California, the governor authorized a special posse to hunt him down. Grissom prudently left for less threatening pastures. The next anyone heard of him, he held up a stagecoach in Kansas. It was the start of a spree that to this day made him the most notorious outlaw in all of prairie country.
Grissom’s men—but not Grissom, himself, oddly enough—were reputed to be snake-mean. When they robbed a stage or a bank, if anyone resisted, one of the other outlaws would shoot them down without compunction. Cross the Grissom gang, common parlance had it, and you ate lead.
The exception was Burt Alacord. Burt was a genuine two-gun man, as adept with his left-hand Colt as his right. He was ungodly quick, too. Strangely enough, he was rumored to be an easygoing sort who never killed unless he absolutely had to. Stage passengers he’d held up and bank customers he’d held at gunpoint all claimed that Alacord was the “nicest” of the outlaws.
Not Weasel Ginty. Weasel had an even sourer disposition than Robert Grant. He was cowardly, and a back-shooter. His only redeeming trait, if you could call it that, was his devotion to Burt Alacord. He had been part of Grissom’s gang in California. Reports had it the pair were childhood friends, or close in some other way.
Four others were known to ride with Grissom.
Spike Davis got his name from the strange hat he wore, although calling it a hat was wrong. It was a helmet with a spike on top. Davis was Prussian. Rumor had it he’d been an officer in the Prussian military and was drummed out in disgrace over a scandal involving another officer’s wife. His real name was supposed to be Ladislaus Dowid. Or so the circular on him claimed. “Dowid” was Prussian for “David,” which might explain where the “Davis” came from.
Willy Boy Jenkins was the youngest of Grissom’s gang. About Robert Grant’s age. The law hadn’t been able to determine much about him other than he was prone to violent fits. Once, during a bank robbery, a customer balked at handing over his own poke, and Willy Boy had pistol-whipped the man into a bloody pulp. Grissom had to pull Willy Boy off to stop him.
The last two owlhoots were pretty much cyphers. Ira Fletcher had done some lawbreaking up in Montana. An oldster, he favored a Dragoon Colt.
Thomas Kent, on the other hand, was a quiet killer who always stayed in the background. Word had it he was partial to knives.
And now there were new rumors of a girl riding with them.
Stone didn’t know what to make of it. Female outlaws were rare, but they did crop up from time to time. This one was reputed to be young and pretty, which only added to the mystery. Why would any girl in her right mind ride with a despicable bunch like that?
Maybe the answer was in the question, Stone reflected. Maybe the girl wasn’t in her right mind.
For Grant’s benefit, Stone related everything he knew about the outlaws. Grant didn’t show much interest until he got to the part about the girl.
“Do you believe it’s true?”
“That she’s part of their gang?” Stone rubbed his stubble. “Who can say? People do a lot of things you’d never think they would. Maybe Willy Boy has a girlfriend. They’re about the same age.”
“Cal Grissom. Burt Alacord. Weasel Ginty. Spike Davis. Willy Boy. Fletcher and Kent. And you expect the two of us to bring them in?”
“It’s our job to try.”
“You lawdogs sure are dedicated to your work.”
“You’re one, too,” Stone reminded him.
Grant seemed to catch himself. “I just don’t know if I’m cut out for this kind of work.”
So that was it, Stone told himself. The youngster was having second thoughts about wearing tin. That was normal. A lot of lawmen went through the same thing at one time or another. Corralling badmen was dangerous work. It wasn’t for the timid or the squeamish. “Give yourself some time. You might find you like it.”
Time, Stone had discovered, was the cure for most ailments. Emotional ailments, that was. Give the boy a year or so, let him get over the worst of his jitters, and he might make a fine lawman.
The sun blazed red on the western horizon when a bluff rose in the distance to the north. At its base grew a crescent of timber.
“There’s where we might find them,” Stone said, pointing. “We’ll lie low until dark, then sneak on in.”
“I hope you know what you’re doin’.”
A gully offered concealment. Stone rode down in, swung down, and faced his fellow deputy. “You’re beginnin’ to worry me. This halfhearted attitude of yours.”
Grant alighted and let the lead rope to his pack animal drop. “I can’t help it if I feel we’re makin’ a mistake.”
“That’s just it. You can help it. You have to get your head right.” Stone paused. “What goes on in here”—he tapped his own head—“can mean the difference between livin’ and dyin’. You have to put everything from your mind and concentrate on what you’re doin’ and nothin’ else. If you don’t, sure as shootin’ you’ll get careless, and careless can plant us.”
“You won’t have to worry about me,” Grant assured him.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Stone wanted to say more but figured it would only make Grant angrier. Hunkering, he marked the steadily graying sky and the advent of the first stars. Nightfall brought with it gusts of wind and the cry of a coyote.
Stone stood. “We’ll leave our horses here and go on foot.”
“Whatever you say.”
The youngster’s tone galled Stone. He had half a mind to tell him to stay there, but no, the experience would do him good. Shucking his six-shooter, he made toward the woods in a crouch. He saw no sign of a campfire, but the outlaws wouldn’t be that obvious.
They were almost to the trees when a whiff of smoke brought Stone’s head up. He stopped so abruptly that Grant bumped into him.
“Sorry,” the younger deputy whispered.
“You smell that?”
Grant sniffed. “Yes.”
“Not a peep from here on out,” Stone cautioned.
The woods were black as pitch. There was no moon, and the starlight failed to penetrate. Conscious that the snap of a twig would give them away, Stone moved as if treading on glass. He placed each boot lightly and slowly applied his full weight.
Off through the cottonwoods and oaks, fingers of flame appeared. The outlaws were keeping their fire small, which was smart of them. A lot of whites made their fires so big, they could be spotted from miles off.
Stone crouched lower. Any moment now, he should see the outlaws. He aimed to crawl the rest of the way and take them completely by surprise. They’d be less likely to resist, and he could avoid bloodshed.
Sinking onto his belly, Stone snaked forward. He was so intent on avoiding brush that might snag his clothes or knock off his hat that he didn’t look at the figures ringing the fire until he was almost on top of them. Stopping cold, he smothered an oath. For all his talk to Grant about not making a blunder, he’d made one, himself.
Yes, someone was camped at the spring.
Only it wasn’t the outlaws.
They were Sioux.
12
The shock Alonzo Pratt had felt on encountering the bull buffalo was nothing compared to the shock that spiked through him as he realized that the old lawman had led him to almost within spitting distance of half a dozen Sioux warriors. Alonzo went numb with disbelief, then flushed with anger at Stone. He could have hit the old man for being so careless.
A moment more, and one of the warriors gazed in their direction.
Alonzo forgot all about Stone. For a few harrowing seconds he feared the warrior had heard them or somehow spotted them, but the warrior turned back and went on talking with his friends.
All six, Alonzo noted, were young. All six were painted for war. It led Alonzo to reckon they had broken away from the reservation to go on the warpath against whites. Stone and he needed to get out of there.
One of the warriors said something that made the others smile. They were at ease and showed no sign that they knew anyone else was within ten miles.
Alonzo nudged Stone. He wanted him to turn and start back. Stone did turn, but only to whisper, “Looks like we goofed.”
Alonzo couldn’t believe his ears. They were in danger of their lives, and the old man treated it as if it were nothing. He started to turn to get out of there himself, but Stone gripped his arm.
“Be still.”
It took great effort for Alonzo not to scramble away in panic. He took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves and realized he was overreacting. They were at least forty feet from the fire, well hidden in the trees. Safe enough, for the time being. “What do we do?” he whispered.
“Look at the one on the other side of the fire,” Stone whispered, “with his hair hangin’ down over his right shoulder.”
Alonzo did as instructed and was puzzled as to why until the warrior shifted slightly. A gasp nearly escaped him. A scalp hung from the warrior’s waist. Several others, he realized, also had grisly trophies of recent kills.
“We can’t let this stand,” Stone whispered.
“What can we do?” Alonzo whispered. It was six to two, after all.
“What do you think?” Stone whispered. “Think of that family we spent time with today, and others like them.”
Never, ever had Alonzo imagined a situation where he’d tangle with a pack of Sioux. His life had become one insane incident after another. “Do we shoot them where they sit?” That seemed the smart thing, to him.
“We’ll try to take them alive,” Stone said.
“Are you loco?”
“We give them the same chance we’d give anyone else,” Stone whispered. “I’ll crawl off in this direction,” and he motioned to the right. “When I holler, jump out and cover them. If they come at us, shoot.”
“There has to be a better way,” Alonzo whispered.
“There isn’t.” Stone went to crawl off.
“This is a job for the army,” Alonzo tried.
“The army’s not here. We are,” Stone said. “It’s our duty to protect the settlers. Whether from outlaws or Injuns doesn’t matter.”
It mattered to Alonzo. He wasn’t a lawman. He was only pretending to be. He should admit the truth, and if Stone arrested him, so be it.
“One of those scalps is a woman’s,” Stone whispered.
Alonzo looked and saw one that did, indeed, appear to be the long, lustrous hair of a female. He turned to tell Stone that it didn’t matter, he wasn’t about to fight any Sioux, but the lawman was already crawling off. He’d have to raise his voice, and the warriors might hear him.
The urge to flee became so strong, Alonzo half-twisted around. Something, he couldn’t say what, stopped him. Maybe it was that he couldn’t bring himself to run out on Stone. Maybe it was the thought of that poor woman. Maybe it was Hiram and Hortense and their kids.
Facing the fire, Alonzo drew his Colt. He wasn’t used to using a revolver. It felt heavy and awkward in his hand. Holding it close to his chest to muffle the sound, he slowly thumbed back the hammer.
Alonzo’s mouth went dry. What am I doing? he asked himself. He was going to get killed if he kept at this lawman nonsense. He would help Stone this once, and then either own up to the ruse he’d played or else take the first opportunity that came along to fan the breeze.
Enough was enough.
* * *
Jacob Stone was worried. Not about the Sioux so much as about his new partner. Robert Grant was scared. Stone supposed he shouldn’t blame him. Grant was young and inexperienced. Stone had been young once. Although, thinking back, never as afraid as Grant sounded.
Stone could only hope that if things fell apart, the younger man showed some mettle. Grant must have some good qualities or Marshal Hodder wouldn’t have made him a deputy.
Stone focused on the warriors. He’d fought Comanches once, years ago down in Texas. It wasn’t an experience he’d ever care to repeat, yet it had taught him valuable lessons. The first was that Indians weren’t invincible. In Texas, the Comanches were held in terror-struck awe. But they bled, and died, like anyone else.
The second lesson was that Indians were no different from whites in another regard. Some were brave, some weren’t. When he and the other deputies sprang their ambush, some of the Comanches broke and ran. Others fought with incredible ferocity.
Stone suddenly stopped. He was about halfway to where he wanted to be, but one of the warriors had stood. The man moved toward the woods. Stone worried Grant had been seen, and tensed to spring to his feet.
The Sioux was only heeding nature’s call. The yellow stream glistened in the firelight as he let out a contented grunt.
Stone was glad Grant didn’t open fire. Stone stayed where he was until the warrior returned to the fire, then resumed crawling. When he was due east of it, he stopped, silently rose into a crouch, and moved to the edge of the clearing.
A horse raised its head and pricked its ears.
Stone froze again. If the animal whinnied, the warriors might grab their bows and lances and spring to investigate. He’d wait, so the element of surprise was on his side.
The horse was staring in his direction.
Stone doubted it could see him. Nor could it have caught his scent since the wind was blowing the other way. He exercised patience, and after a while the animal lowered its head again and went back to dozing.
Stone licked his lips. A long time ago he’d learned that when it came time to act, the thing to do was act quickly. Get it over with before he could have second thoughts. Especially when it put his life at risk.
Accordingly, Stone stood and boldly strode into the circle of firelight. His Colt leveled, he hollered, “Federal marshal. Stay where you are and you won’t come to any harm.”
Stone suspected that none of the young warriors spoke English. Few Sioux did. He had to try, though. Lawmen didn’t gun people down without warning. Not even Indians.
He’d counted on surprise to rivet them long enough for him to get closer. The muzzle of his Colt should deter them from trying anything. It would certainly give outlaws second thoughts. But these weren’t outlaws. They were haters of all things white, out to kill every white they came across. They had also been trained since childhood in the arts of war. Giving up wasn’t in their nature.
Stone took one more step, and all hell broke loose.
* * *
Alonzo was incredulous when the old lawman moved into the open. The man took incredible chances. He heard Stone shout, and saw the six Sioux look up. Thinking that they wouldn’t do anything rash if two revolvers were trained on them, he pushed erect and burst from the woods.
Half the Sioux were already rising. One grabbed a bow, another a lance. The bowman notched an arrow with lightning rapidity and pulled the sinew string to his cheek.
Stone shot him.
Now all
the warriors were heaving erect. Another loosed a shaft at Stone, who threw himself flat.
Alonzo would have done the same except his arms and legs refused to move. A burly warrior was hurtling toward him with a tomahawk raised to bash his brains in.
“No!” Alonzo cried.
His countenance contorted in fury, the Sioux let out an unearthly howl. His whole body curled as he prepared to strike.
Alonzo shot him. He was holding his Colt down low, and his trigger finger tightened without him even thinking about it.
The slug caught the warrior in the gut. Clutching himself even as he staggered back, the warrior doubled over.
Alonzo heard Deputy Stone’s six-shooter boom several times but he didn’t look. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Sioux in front of him. The man tottered, stopped dead, then looked up at Alonzo as if amazed that Alonzo had shot him. “You,” Alonzo blurted. “I . . .”
Horror welled up in Alonzo’s chest. He had shot another human being. He told himself it was justified, that the warrior had left him no choice, that if he hadn’t fired, he’d be dead.
Then the warrior screeched and raised his tomahawk and sprang, his painted face a mask of pure hatred.
Alonzo shot him again. And a third time. And fourth. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. His hand and arm shaking, he thumbed the hammer for another.
At each blast, the Sioux had been jolted. Now the warrior’s eyes widened and glazed and his long legs gave out from under him. He fell to earth with his tomahawk not six inches from Alonzo’s foot.
Aghast at what he had done, Alonzo shook even more. He’d killed a man. Killed a man. Killed a man. He almost threw the Colt down but reason reasserted itself. It had been him or the warrior. He must tell himself that over and over. Him or the warrior, and he was fond of breathing.
The shaking stopped.
Belatedly, Alonzo realized the clearing had gone quiet. Dreading that he would find his companion down and the other warriors about to pounce, he raised his head.
Guns on the Prairie Page 9
