The wind died down.
The snow stopped falling by midafternoon. But there was still a lot of it on the trail. And even with the lessening of the wind, it was bitter cold.
Patches of blue began to appear in the sky. An encouraging sign, Reese thought. But he knew that as cold as it was then, it would be far colder once the sun went down.
He dreaded the end of that day when the skies would turn black and the temperature would plummet.
He did not know that the cold would be the least of his worries before that day was over.
Chapter 31
The minute he squeezed the trigger and heard the explosion from his rifle, Riggs knew that the bullet would miss.
For Black Feather saw Riggs at the same time. As Riggs brought the rifle to his shoulder, Black Feather opened his coat and freed his own rifle. He flattened himself on his pony’s back just before Riggs squeezed the trigger.
Black Feather heard the whiz-buzz of the bullet as it passed over him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Silver Bear and Yellow Horse steer their ponies away from him.
Black Feather did not wait for Riggs to reload. He levered a cartridge into the firing chamber of his purloined rifle and took aim at the white man. He kicked his pony in the flanks and reined it on a path toward the white man. He charged straight at Riggs. He hugged his pony’s bare back and aimed the rifle.
When he was within ten yards of Riggs, Black Feather squeezed the trigger. The rifle in his hands was aimed straight at Riggs. He reined to a halt after his rifle exploded and sent a bullet straight at the chest of the white man.
The bullet struck Riggs square in the chest. It split his breastbone and ripped through a lung. It exited out his back, blowing blood and bone out onto the snow.
Riggs’s eyes went wide for a split second as his lungs expelled the last of his air. The hole in his chest spurted blood and he slumped in the saddle.
Black Feather rode in close and swung the butt of his rifle at the head of the white man. The stock struck Riggs and knocked him sideways.
He fell to the ground.
Black Feather jumped down and grabbed Riggs by the hair. He swept off his hat with a swipe of his hand. He whooped a war cry that carried to Silver Bear and Yellow Horse.
Black Feather set his rifle down in the snow and drew his knife. He slashed the throat of the man he had shot, then cut a circle on his head. He pulled the hair free with a strong jerk and held up Riggs’s scalp. He uttered a yelp of triumph as Silver Bear and Yellow Horse rode up to look down at Black Feather and the dead white man.
“Good,” Silver Bear said.
“You have a good scalp, Black Feather,” Yellow Horse said. “And you struck coup on the white man.”
Black Feather picked up his rifle. He stuck the bloody scalp in a small pouch attached to his sash. Then he beat his chest as a gesture of victory over an enemy.
He climbed back onto his horse.
“There are three more White Eyes,” Silver Bear said. “They will fight us when they see us.”
“Let us kill them too,” Black Feather said.
“Yes, let us go after them and kill them,” Yellow Horse said.
“We will find the three White Eyes and kill them,” Silver Bear said.
The three Cheyenne rode away from Riggs, whose body was turning white with falling snow. They did not look back but followed the buffalo trail that was marked by clods of mud and disturbed snow. They saw the tracks of four horses that pressed their iron shoes into the mud and snow.
They were silent as they rode, and their eyes strained against the snowfall to see ahead of them.
Presently they saw only the tracks of three horses. And after that, the tracks left the trail and split up. One set of tracks veered off to the right, while another veered to the left. One continued on a direct line for a few more yards and then it too left the trail on the left.
“They wait for us,” Silver Bear said. “They know that we follow them.”
“What do we do?” Yellow Horse asked.
“We each take a track and follow it,” Silver Bear said.
“I will take the one that rides to my right,” Black Feather said.
“I will track the horse that goes to the left,” Yellow Bear said.
“I will go after the one who left the trail last,” Silver Bear said.
They each disappeared through the curtains of snow. Each one followed a horse track that was filling up with snowflakes. They moved with caution. The unshod hooves of their ponies made no sound.
It was a silent world and each warrior knew that a white man was somewhere ahead of them, each waiting in ambush.
It was a question of which one was most ready to kill.
And which one was most ready to die.
Chapter 32
Mullins jerked hard on his reins to stop his horse. Homer and Kelso halted their horses too. They had heard one crack of a rifle. Then another.
“Uh-oh,” Kelso said.
“Riggs must’ve seen something,” Homer said.
“Two different rifles,” Mullins said.
“Should we go back and check?” Kelso asked.
Mullins did not answer right away. Instead he waved the other two men to silence. Then he cupped a hand to his ear.
“Just two shots,” Mullins said. “Two different rifles. That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Homer said.
“We ought to ride back and see if Riggs is okay,” Kelso said.
“No,” Mullins said. “We don’t know who in hell was follerin’ us, how many, whether white or red.”
“So, what do we do?” Homer asked. “It’s awful quiet back there after them two shots.”
“We’ll split up and watch the trail,” Mullins said. “Two of us will be on one side, one of you on the other. Pick your sides.”
Homer and Earl looked at each other through the falling snow.
“I’ll take the left side,” Homer said.
“All right,” Jasper said. “Earl and I will ride ahead a little ways and then we’ll split up. That way we won’t all be in a bunch.”
“Who do you think is follerin’ us, Jasper?” Earl asked.
“I don’t know. Rustlers, maybe.”
“Or maybe some of the hands who got left behind in all this snow,” Homer said.
“Well, somebody with a rifle—that’s for sure,” Mullins said. “Pick your spot, Homer.”
“Yeah. You hear me shoot, you come a-runnin’, Jasper.”
“There’s no runnin’ in this stuff,” Mullins said.
He and Kelso rode on as Homer turned his horse and left the trail. He loosened his rifle in its scabbard and halted his horse about ten yards from the trail. There, he could still see the overturned mud the cattle had left when they came through. He hoped he was far enough away from the trail to see anyone ride up. Before they saw him. His stomach fluttered with wings of fear as he waited and shivered in the cold.
Mullins and Kelso rode for another fifty yards or so before Mullins reined up and halted.
“This suit you, Earl?” Mullins asked.
“It all looks the same to me. Just a lot of snow.”
“You find yourself a spot where you can see who comes up the trail. I’ll ride on a little farther and then stake me out a spot.”
“Good luck, Jasper.”
“Luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. You see anybody come down that trail, you put out their lamps right quick.”
“Likely, it’ll all depend on Homer and what he runs into back there.”
“Humph,” Mullins voiced.
Kelso rode away from the trail on the right side. Mullins rode another fifty yards and turned his horse off to the left of the trail. He pulled his rifle from his scabbard and levered a shell into the
firing chamber. He rested the barrel across his pommel.
And waited.
As he stared up the trail, the snowfall began to diminish. A few moments later, the last flakes fell. And then the snow stopped falling.
Still, Mullins waited. The silence was nerve-racking.
Was there somebody following them? What happened to Riggs?
Who had fired the other rifle?
He was convinced that there was somebody following them. And he felt certain that Riggs was probably dead.
The wind died down to a breeze.
He looked up at the sky. It was still cloudy, and he could not see the glimmer of the sun. It was cold, but at least he could see some distance now that the snow had stopped falling.
Mullins was beginning to think that there was no longer anyone following them. It was too quiet. His horse whickered softly, and that made the silence even deeper.
He was about to ride back and check on Homer when the silence was shattered by the sound of a rifle crack.
Mullins stiffened. The explosion had come from a long way off. From Homer’s position next to the cattle trail.
He tightened his pull on the reins, prepared to ride back and see what the shooting was about.
Then he heard a volley of shots from different rifles.
He thought he heard yelping. Human voices, high pitched, almost screaming.
“What the hell . . . ?” he muttered to himself.
More shots. Whoops from unknown throats. Yelps.
War cries? He had never heard one, but the voices sounded strange to him. Almost inhuman.
And then they faded away and the silence rushed back in. Ominous. Deadly. Mysterious.
Mullins felt the silence descend on him like an iron door, shutting off all his senses, his ears straining to hear.
“Earl,” he called out.
“Yeah. I’m here,” Kelso shouted back.
“What in hell’s goin’ on back there?” Mullins yelled.
Kelso didn’t answer. Instead Mullins heard the crack of still another rifle. Closer this time.
Too close.
He kicked spurs into his horse’s flanks and turned him up the back trail.
Then he heard another rifle shot. From the same rifle.
But whose?
Mullins had to find out. He rode to where Kelso had stayed behind. His heart was in his throat. And the cold didn’t matter anymore. There was damn sure something going on, and he had to find out. Even if it meant he was riding into a trap or an ambush.
Mullins had to know what was happening.
He was soon to find out.
Chapter 33
Homer saw the first Indian pony and his heart skipped a beat. Then there was another, and after that, a third pony. Three riders. His heart felt as if it froze shut when he saw their painted faces.
Were there more than these three? He didn’t know.
But when he reached for his rifle, the movement must have caught the eye of at least one of the Indians.
As Homer pulled his rifle from its scabbard, one of the Indians turned his head and stared straight at him.
Homer levered a shell into the Winchester’s chamber. In the silence, the action made a loud metallic snick.
The other two Indians turned their heads and he knew that they had seen him.
The first Indian threw open his bearskin coat and drew out a rifle similar to Homer’s.
Homer’s hands shook as he leveled the front sight of his rifle on that first Indian. When it steadied, he drew in a breath and squeezed the trigger. He saw the bullet strike the Indian high on the shoulder. Snowflakes arose from the fur, and the Indian twitched.
Homer quickly levered another shell into the firing chamber of his rifle. Just then that first Indian recovered and aimed his rifle. He fired and Homer heard the sizzle of the bullet as it sped past his ear. He fired blindly at the warrior and then heard their bloodcurdling cries. The other two opened their coats. One produced a rifle, the other a bow.
Homer’s second shot was a total miss, and he levered still another cartridge into the firing chamber of his rifle.
The other Indian with the rifle shot at Homer. Homer ducked and heard the keening whine of the bullet as it blasted through snowflakes and carried to a spot behind him. It kicked up snow as it furrowed through the white blanket.
The Indians yelled and whooped and all three charged toward him.
Homer fired off another shot and saw the bullet kick up dust and snow on the first Indian’s coat. Just above the Indian’s belly.
The Indian kept coming.
In seconds, that first Indian was on him. He saw the painted brave grab his rifle barrel and swing the stock toward him.
Homer ducked, but the stock dealt him a glancing blow. His hat flew off and he felt a stinging sensation on one side of his head. His brain danced with tiny lights and he grabbed the saddle horn with one hand to keep from falling off his horse.
The Indian rode on past him, then turned his pony.
Homer, out of the corner of his eye, saw the other two Indians, one with a rifle, one with a bow, riding through the snow straight at him.
The one with bow nocked an arrow on his gut string and loosed it.
Homer could no longer think. The raucous cries of the three Indians blotted out all thought.
Then he felt a jolt and what seemed like a fist blow in his right rib cage. He felt a hot rush of blood down his side. He looked down and saw the feathered arrow sticking out of his chest. A flood of pain engulfed him.
The Indians screamed their high-pitched war cries and surrounded him.
He tried to swing his rifle to bear on the other one with the rifle.
The first Indian grabbed the barrel of Homer’s rifle and jerked it from his hands.
The second Indian with a rifle fired at point-blank range and the bullet ripped into Homer’s stomach. He felt the sledgehammer energy of the bullet as it ripped through his skin and tore up his intestines. There was a searing pain in his back where the bullet exited.
His brain grew cloudy and he felt his life slipping away.
• • •
Two of the Indians, the ones with rifles, were hitting him with the butts of their Winchesters. Blow after blow struck his face and his bare head. He hung on to his saddle horn, even as he felt his life flowing out of him in blood and oxygen. His lungs were on fire and each breath was torture.
Still, the Indians wouldn’t let up. They hammered him with their rifle butts. They screamed in his ears.
The Indian with the bow drew his knife. He reached across his pony’s head and swung his arm. The blade caught Homer in the side of the throat. It sliced deep across his Adam’s apple. Blood gushed from the wound like a crimson waterfall.
Homer loosened his hold on his saddle horn. Sensation drained from his body and he could no longer breathe.
Then only blackness as he fell into the dark pit of death, all sound erased as if the Indian voices had been wiped away by a giant hand.
Homer fell from his horse and landed with a thump in the snow.
“I have a hole in me from the white man’s fire stick,” Black Feather said. He showed Silver Bear and Yellow Horse his shoulder when he peeled back his coat.
“Stuff the hole with snow,” Yellow Horse said.
“You do it for me,” Black Feather said. He slid off his pony’s back and sat down in the snow.
Yellow Horse dismounted and laid his rifle on the lumpy carpet of snow.
Silver Bear looked on from atop his pony.
Yellow Horse scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it on the wound.
“I think the lead stone is still inside you,” he said as he felt the backside of Black Feather’s shoulder. “I cannot find another hole.”
“It shoul
d have passed through me,” Black Feather said. “Maybe it glanced off a bone and went to another place on my body.”
“I will touch more of you and see,” Yellow Horse said.
He felt all over Black Feather’s back, and then his hand went over the other shoulder. There he found the other hole, the exit wound.
“I will put snow and mud in it,” he said to Black Feather.
Yellow Horse walked back to the trail and dug in both hands. He brought up snow and mud, which he carried back to where Black Feather sat.
He rubbed the mud and snow into both wounds, pushing the mud in as far as he could.
“Take the scalp of the white man,” Silver Bear said to Black Feather. “He is your coup.”
“No, your arrow took away his breath, Silver Bear. It is your scalp to take.”
“I will not take it,” Silver Bear said.
“I will scalp the man and then you two can fight over it,” Yellow Horse said.
Silver Bear and Black Feather both laughed.
Silver Bear slung his bow over his shoulder and held out his hand. “The snow is no more,” he said.
“That is good,” Yellow Horse said as he stood up. He extended a hand for Black Feather.
Black Feather grasped it and Yellow Horse pulled him to his feet. Both reached down and picked up their rifles.
Yellow Horse walked over to the body of the white man. He picked up his rifle and handed it to Silver Bear. “Now you have a fire stick, Silver Bear. I will get the pistol and wear its belt around my waist.”
Silver Bear took the rifle from Yellow Hose. He felt of its cold metal, rubbing his hand across the flat of the receiver.
“I will kill many White Eyes with this fire stick,” he said.
Yellow Horse unbuckled Homer’s gun belt. He strapped it around his naked waist and drew his coat back over it. Then he drew his knife from its scabbard and made a circular cut into the hair and scalp of the dead white man. He jerked the fresh scalp free of the skull and stuffed it inside his beaded sash.
Ralph Compton The Cheyenne Trail Page 14
