The Savage Curse

by Jory Sherman

  “Soldiers,” Gale breathed.

  Thirty yards away, John saw one of the horses stumble. The man riding it was bent over the saddle horn. The man in the lead held up a hand. He looked worn out, weary beyond caring, his uniform black as sin, plastered to his body with wetness.

  “It’s that lieutenant,” John said. “Bellaugh. And one of his men.”

  The horses came to an abrupt halt a few feet from where the three people were standing.

  The slumped-over rider slid from the saddle and fell hard onto the wet ground, sending up a splash of water.

  “Help us,” Bellaugh said, dropping his hand.

  He crumpled then, and John saw him go limp. His right sleeve dripped blood and his face was ashen.

  The cloudburst hit as he and Ben rushed out to grab Bellaugh before he fell from his horse. Gale ran to the fallen soldier, sloshing through ankle-high water.

  The rain fell with a drenching fury, all at once, as if the whole sky had opened, emptying out an enormous black well.

  21

  THREE OF THE SHEEPHERDERS CAME RUNNING OUT OF THE BUNKHOUSE, wearing slickers. They spoke in rapid Spanish to each other. One of the army horses snorted as a gust of wind rattled its bridle. Rain stung John’s eyes as he swung Bellaugh around to get a better grip on his waist.

  Gale took charge.

  “Manny, you put up these horses. Chico, help us get these men inside the house. Alonzo, lend me a hand.”

  She stooped to help pick up the fallen soldier with corporal chevrons on his sleeve. Ben had already pulled the man up to a sitting position. The soldier was out cold.

  John heard the sheepmen talking among themselves. He made out the words soldados and ejército. He also heard them use the word for horses, caballos, as they began to help Gale and the soldiers.

  “Lieutenant, what happened?” John said to Bellaugh.

  The lieutenant sagged in his arms and he lifted him, slinging the man over one shoulder. Bellaugh was out cold, too, and he was dripping blood from his right arm or shoulder.

  John staggered back into the house, dripping water into forming puddles. Bellaugh was not a large man, but he was soaking wet and deadweight. He carried the soldier to the divan and propped him up in one corner. He sat beside him and lifted one of Bellaugh’s eyelids. The man’s eyes were bloodshot, probably from the stinging rain. He was unconscious, still, and a hole in his shoulder was pumping out blood. He examined the wound as Ben and Gale brought in the corporal. They laid him on the floor in front of the fire. All three were sopping wet.

  “This’uns in bad shape,” Ben said, his voice growly in his throat.

  “I’ll get a kettle of water,” Gale said and sopped on wet shoes toward the kitchen.

  Ben walked over to the door and closed and bolted it against the howling wind and the hurtling rain. Lightning etched zigzag patterns of liquid mercury in the black clouds and thunder rumbled in tympanic crescendos of orchestral magnitude across the skies, sounding like cannon fire inside a deep cavern.

  “Lieutenant Bellaugh,” John said, patting the unconscious man’s cheeks. “Wake up, soldier.”

  Ben walked over and stood over John and the wounded Bellaugh.

  “Ain’t got no color in his cheeks,” Ben said. “He looks done for.”

  “No, he’s got more than a spark in him, Ben. Give me your bandanna.”

  Ben untied the bandanna around his neck, handed it to John. John opened the officer’s shirt and saw a blue-black hole in the muscle of the shoulder. He had a few inches of flesh above the wound and he wrapped the kerchief around his arm at that spot, tying it tight. The blood stopped pumping.

  “Give me a small piece of kindling, Ben,” John said.

  Ben rummaged through the kindling, got the smallest stick of wood he could find, and took it over to John. John slid it inside the knot, tightened the knot, then twisted the stick until the makeshift tourniquet was tight.

  “I’ll keep it that way until we get some clotting,” John said, “then loosen it and see if he bleeds any more. We can keep tightening it until the bleeding stops or we get a regular bandage on it.”

  “Sounds right to me,” Ben said.

  Gale entered the front room lugging an iron pot sloshing with water. Ben helped her. They hung it inside the fireplace on an iron hook that dangled down from an iron plate sunk into the brick.

  “I’ll get some towels and bandages,” she said. “That water ought to heat pretty quick. Ben, put some more wood on the fire, will you?”

  “Sure,” Ben said as he watched Gale scurry away, her feet making sloshing sounds as water squirted from her boots.

  Ben added more cordwood to the fire, then knelt over the wounded corporal, who was still unconscious. He leaned over, cocked his head, and listened at the young man’s mouth for sounds of breathing. The man was still alive, but his breath was shallow. There was blood on his shirt and both legs and Ben saw a hole high on his right chest and holes in both legs. He drew his knife and cut away his shirt and slit his trouser legs, exposing the wounds.

  He felt in back of one leg to see if the bullet had gone clear through. The soldier winced when Ben touched a lumpy spot. The bullet was still in that leg, nestled just below the skin. He did the same to the other leg and couldn’t find an exit wound. Nor could he detect where the bullet had wound up. Then he turned his attention to the wound in the corporal’s chest. He turned him over as gently as he could and felt under the wet shirt with delicate fingers. His hand came away bloody, so he thought there must be an exit wound. He continued to feel the man’s back, and just under the shoulder blade he felt a jagged hole about the size of a two-bit piece. He sighed and eased the man back down. He knew the man had lost quite a bit of blood and he also knew he had to get those lead bullets out of him or he didn’t stand a Chinaman’s chance in Hell to come out of this alive.

  Gale returned with towels and bandages as John was cutting away the lieutenant’s shirt, slitting both sleeves and sawing off the buttons. He was using the knife he had taken from Coyote. It was sharp and fit his hand well.

  Lieutenant Bellaugh groaned and his eyelids fluttered for a minute, but did not open. John reached behind him and picked up his whiskey glass. There was still a swallow left in it. He put the rim of the glass to the soldier’s lips and tilted the glass. Whiskey trickled onto the man’s lips and into his mouth. The fumes wafted to his nostrils. He gagged and opened his eyes. John took the glass away, but held it in his hand.

  “You’ve lost some blood, Bellaugh,” John said, “but you’re sound, I think.”

  Gale bent down to help Ben tend to the corporal’s wounds. She glanced at John and Bellaugh for a second and the trace of a smile played on her lips.

  “Yeah,” Bellaugh said as if testing his voice. “Yeah, very weak, Savage.”

  “More whiskey?”

  “No. Let me clear my head. So much happened.”

  “You and the corporal all that’s left of your troop?”

  “Yeah.” A faraway look came into Bellaugh’s eyes. A smoky glaze that turned wet.

  John waited for Bellaugh to collect his thoughts.

  “All dead. Every man jack of ’em, Savage. All dead. God.”

  “Take your time, Bellaugh. Don’t wear yourself out.”

  “You—we—you got to . . .”

  “What?” John asked, when the lieutenant’s voice trailed off.

  Bellaugh closed his eyes and a ripple of pain coursed through his body. It was just a slight tremor, but John stiffened. It did not look good for Bellaugh. He had no way of knowing how much blood the man had lost, but his face was almost bone-white and he looked frail in his sodden uniform.

  “Go on, if you can, Lieutenant. I’m listening.” He put the tumbler to Bellaugh’s lips again, poured a little whiskey through his lips. This time Bellaugh didn’t choke, but smacked his lips. He opened his eyes and stared at John as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Savage?”

  “Yes. I’m
here. What happened.”

  “They come out of nowhere. Jumped us. Navajos rose up out of dirt and cactus and riders came around the little hill. Shot us to pieces. We formed a skirmish line, tried to retreat. But they were all around us, screaming and shooting. My men dropped like flies. God, it was bad.”

  “All Navajos?”

  “No. Navajos on foot, white men on horses. We didn’t have a chance. One man, the leader, he took his pistol to my wounded and executed them. He shot every man in the head. Like he enjoyed it.”

  “You know who it was?”

  “I heard his name,” Bellaugh said. “It wasn’t Harley or Arlie, like I thought.”

  “No,” John said. “It was Ollie, wasn’t it?”

  “How’d you know? It was Ollie. I heard it plain. That bastard.”

  Another tremor rippled through Bellaugh’s body like static electricity. He shivered and his eyes went cloudy for a moment.

  Thunder boomed outside and lightning splashed the windows with a shiny pewter sheen.

  “How’d you get away?” John asked.

  “Rode right through the Navajos on the ground. Dropped a couple, kept on going. Found a canyon, lost my pursuers. Corporal Dunhill and I saw the lights here and rode as fast as we could.”

  “Anybody follow you?”

  “Didn’t see anybody,” Bellaugh said.

  “John, the corporal’s full of bullets,” Ben said. “We got to dig ’em out.”

  Bellaugh and John looked over at the soldier lying on the floor.

  “He fought bravely,” Bellaugh said.

  “I’m going to take a look at him, Lieutenant,” John said. “You sit tight.”

  The water in the kettle was boiling. Steam jetted out from the fireplace and rose up the chimney with the wood smoke. Wind-driven rain battered the house and lightning generated loud thunder that rumbled like giant combers loosed from a savage sea that rolled empty barrels down the long corridor of night.

  John looked at the places where Ben pointed and saw deadly wounds.

  “Think you can get those bullets out, John?” Ben asked.

  “I’ll try. Gale, get me that bottle of whiskey to pour over my hands. I’ll probe with my fingers.”

  Gale got up and went for the whiskey bottle.

  “Might have to cut out the one that’s just under the skin, Ben. Take my knife out of my belt and put it in the fire.”

  Ben did as he was told.

  Gale poured whiskey over John’s bloody hands and he started probing for one of the bullets.

  Gale looked away for a minute, took a deep breath, and then watched what John was doing. The corporal showed no signs that he was feeling the pain, but he was still breathing.

  Twenty minutes later, John had cut one bullet out, worked the other two free. His hands were drenched in blood and he was gripped with a great weariness as he rocked back on his haunches, sweat slick across his forehead.

  “Got any balm or unguent, Gale?” John asked.

  “I do,” she said.

  “Pack those wounds with whatever you have and put a pillow under the corporal’s head. He’s breaking out in a fever. I doubt if he will last until morning with that much blood lost.”

  “Savage,” Bellaugh said, his voice weaker than before.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “If we don’t make it, will you tell Sheriff Wilts in Tucson what happened? He’ll get word to the fort.”

  “You’ll make it, Bellaugh. Clive.”

  Clive tried to laugh but the pain cut off his breath.

  “Promise me you’ll tell Wilts about Ollie and a man named Crudder.”

  “I will. The man who executed your men is named Oliver Hobart. I’ve been hunting him a long time. Ever since he murdered my family in Colorado.”

  A light came into Bellaugh’s eyes. He stared hard at John. “John Savage. You’re that Savage?”

  “I am.”

  “Lord,” Bellaugh breathed. “And this Ollie is . . .”

  “The man I’m hunting, Clive. When I find him, I’m going to nail him to the barn door and set the barn on fire. He’s got a lot to answer for.”

  “You get him, Savage,” Bellaugh said. “You get him for me.”

  “I’ll get him for both of us, Lieutenant.”

  “And for my men.”

  “For all the people he murdered, Clive. I’ll get him.”

  John paused, then stood up, his hand red in the lamplight.

  “That’s a promise, sir,” he said.

  And Lieutenant Bellaugh managed a smile.

  22

  THE STRONG WINDS LINGERED AWHILE AFTER THE STORM HAD passed, shortly before midnight. Ben stayed with the wounded corporal, while Gale slept. John laid Bellaugh on his back atop the divan so he could catch some shut-eye. He dozed in a chair, listening to the rain diminish, the thunder fade away in the distance.

  Corporal Dunhill had stopped bleeding, but he had lost so much blood, he weakened and died shortly before dawn. Ben woke John to tell him.

  “You go on out to the bunkhouse, Johnny. I’ll stay with the lieutenant.” Ben had gotten some sleep, but he was still tired.

  “I don’t know if Bellaugh’s going to make it,” John said.

  “Nothin’ you can do. Get some sleep, Johnny.”

  Shortly after dawn, John awoke. The sheepherders were already up and making coffee, cooking breakfast. He told them about the corporal’s death and expected the lieutenant would die, too.

  “We will let the sheep out when the sun has dried the grass,” one of them said. “If you need help, we will come.”

  John went into the house to find Ben sound asleep. Bellaugh was asleep, too, his breathing thready. His face was still pale, but he had no fever. Whether or not that was a good sign, John did not know. Gale was in the kitchen, trying to be quiet. He whispered to her about the corporal.

  “I know,” she whispered back. “We’ll put him in a wagon, take him to Tucson sometime today.”

  “You might have two in that wagon,” John said, still whispering.

  She nodded.

  “I checked his pulse,” she said. “It was very weak.”

  “Did you check Ben’s?”

  Gale gave out an almost-silent laugh.

  “I should have,” she said. “He’s dead to the world, poor man.”

  “We’ll be up at the mine, if you need us,” John said.

  “I’ll pack you a lunch, give you some vittles. You can cook up there. There are plates and utensils in one of the cabinets.”

  “We’ll be fine,” he said. “Thanks.”

  As John made preparations to leave, he saddled both his and Ben’s horses. He would let Ben sleep as long as possible. They had much to do. He was worried about Bellaugh and dreaded going back into the house to check on him. Yet he had sensed the night before that Clive knew he was going to die. His last words about getting Hobart let him know that the lieutenant never expected to ride out after the murderous outlaw.

  It was sad, he thought. Bellaugh was a young man in his prime. He probably had a good future in the army. He had been cut down mercilessly by a man who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Bellaugh.

  Ben was still sound asleep when John returned to the house.

  Gale met him in the front room, holding a flour sack.

  “I’ll put this next to the ore sample,” she said. “Are you ready to leave? It’s still early.”

  She looked so grandmotherly that John felt a tug at his heart. She had such a radiant face at that moment, he was deeply touched. He felt a sadness at leaving her alone in the house with one dead man, another probably dying. She had lit a single lamp and its orange glow softened one side of her face so that she looked almost youthful.

  Outside, the dawn was just hovering below the horizon, wiping out all but the morning star from the bluing sky. Birds chirped and a mist rose from the grasses on a field surrounded by low mountains in solemn shadow.

  “Yes, as soon as I can rous
e old Ben there,” he said.

  “Oh, he’s not so old,” she said, and there was a coyness to her tone that he found charming.

  “No, I reckon not,” he said. “How’s Lieutenant Bellaugh doing?”

  “His breathing is very shallow. And I could hear a slight rattling in his throat when I bent over him a while ago.”

  “I hope he pulls through, Gale.”

  “So do I,” she said, and her breathy whisper sounded like a prayer.

  John stood next to Ben, shook his shoulder gently.

  “Ben,” he said. “Time to get up.”

  Ben’s eyes fluttered open and he jerked up to a sitting position. He drew his legs up and massaged both knees. He rubbed grains of sleep from his eyes and looked at Gale.

  “You look like an angel,” he said.

  Gale’s face turned pink with a sudden blush.

  She made a slight curtsy to acknowledge the compliment.

  Then she turned and set the sack of foodstuffs down on the table next to the chunk of ore and scurried off to the kitchen. Ben got up and stretched. A moment later, Gale returned with two cups of steaming coffee. She made both men sit down before she handed them their cups.

  “Still wet outside?” Ben asked, blowing steam off his coffee.

  “Pretty wet,” John said. The coffee warmed him, cleared the night phlegm from his throat.

  “There’s coffee in the bag,” Gale said, “and a pot in one of those cupboards in the lab. Clarence liked his Arbuckle’s. I’m sending you two pounds, and we’ll come by with more in a week, if you’re still there.”

  “We shouldn’t be more than a week or so, if my plan works,” John said.

  “That’s pretty fast,” Ben said, swishing the coffee around his mouth to cool it some. “Hobart’s probably in Mexico by now.”

  John said nothing. He knew that Hobart had ways of finding out things that mattered to him. Very few people had known about the diggings in Colorado, yet Hobart knew just where to come and how many men he would need to slaughter everyone there. He had a hunch that Ollie knew people in Tucson who would give him the information he wanted, for a price. Gold made men mad. It also made them greedy and willing to sacrifice honesty and honor for a taste of it.