A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  Pure swiveled back around. “Well, according to our Ranger friend back there, that’s how we’ll most likely end up over here.”

  July shook his head, grimaced, and then looked skyward. “Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees,” he let loose, out of tune.

  “Well sung,” Pure said, deadpanned.

  July tossed a darting glance at Pure and hung the water bag over his saddle horn. “Yeah,” he said and lowered his eyes. His jaw tightened. He focused on the Mexican soil beneath his stirrups. “’cept I don’t see any shade trees right here unless you count Mexican sumac or creosote bush, and I sure don’t figure you for resting any.”

  “Right now, I reckon we’ve got bigger problems than shade trees or resting.”

  “How’s that?” July answered. His gaze still firmly fixed on the rocky ground.

  “You heard what that Ranger captain told us. That we’re liable to run into Mexican bandits, U.S. outlaws, and Kickapoo renegades on this side of the river.”

  “That’s what the captain said sure enough.”

  “Well, you might want to put a little distance between your horse and mine.”

  July lifted his head and stared at Pure. “What?”

  “Spread out.”

  “Pure, what are you talking about?”

  “Appears like the last of that Ranger captain’s group has come to welcome us.”

  July squinted. He mouthed Pure’s words and then glanced out across the landscape in front of them.

  Seventy-five yards away, twelve mounted Kickapoo warriors stretched across the horizon.

  July rolled his shoulders forward and exhaled. “So much for our sneaking quietly across the border.”

  “We can go back.”

  “Oh, so now you’re ready to go back,” July said sarcastically.

  Those Rangers are probably only five miles or so away.”

  “Just turn our backs on that bunch in front of us?”

  “I’m just providing another option to you.”

  July ignored the comment and glanced back across the river. “You see a place to fight from? Anywhere close?”

  Pure shook his head slowly. “All the cover appears to be behind those Kickapoo.”

  July’s eyes darted north. A hundred yards away the river jutted toward the border and created a high bend. “Back off to my right,” he said through clenched teeth. “There appears to be a winding bend that might afford us a little cover.”

  Pure glanced north and nodded. “I see it.”

  “It might even the odds a bit.”

  Pure’s hand’s tightened on the reins. He inhaled a long deep swallow of air. “Little cover and long odds.”

  “Yep,” July exhaled.

  “That seems to be our lot lately.”

  July studied the warriors intently. “I guess it would be against our luck of things to actually have these fellas turn out to be friendly.”

  Pure rolled the Snapping and Stretching gum from back in his jaw to his front teeth.

  July watched the gum’s movement. He looked from Pure to the Kickapoo. “I thought so,” he mumbled.

  Pure narrowed his eyes. His front teeth began to pop the Snapping and Stretching gum up and down. He calculated the distance between the Kickapoo and he and July in his head.

  Several minutes passed. Each group eyed the other. Waiting.

  Then all of a sudden, the lead Kickapoo warrior raised a bow above his head and began to squawk. The others lifted their reins and pumped their weapons in the air.

  Pure pushed the Snapping and Stretching gum into his lower lip. “July?” he said in a graveled whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  Pure clicked back the trigger of his Peacemaker as he slid the weapon from its holster. “That bend off to the north you were speaking of.”

  July eased his Colt out. “What of it?”

  “I think right about now would be a good time for you and me to run like a couple of Nueces steers for it.”

  Twenty-Seven

  December 1878 - Across the Border in Tamaulipas, Mexico

  Amid a torrent of lead and arrows, Pure spurred his piebald into a patch of lechuguilla on the high side of the river bank. July arrived three seconds later and thirty yards away. Both men jumped from their mounts, reins in hand, and rolled across the sharp points of the wax plants. Each offered up his own fit of cussing upon landing.

  Pistol drawn, Pure yanked hard on the piebald’s reins with his left hand, and forced his gun hand against the back of the animal’s knee. “We need to get these horses down,” he shouted.

  July nodded and immediately worked his mount to a kneeling position.

  “Down boy,” Pure whispered calmly to his steed.

  In a matter of seconds, both piebalds lay on their sides. Their heads faced away from their cowboys.

  Pure holstered his pistol, reached across his horse’s top side and with the reins still held securely, slid his Winchester from its leather scabbard. He levered the rifle with a quick motion and took deliberate aim at the fast approaching band of Kickapoo.

  July half-closed his left eye and sighted in the lead marauder with a steely gaze. “Which one do you favor?” he called out.

  Pure locked eyes on a warrior riding in hard from his left side. The Kickapoo, dressed in a brightly patched-shirt, nocked an arrow as he neared closer. “I’ll take this one here on my left dressed in the calico shirt.”

  July completely closed his left eye. “How come these fellas ain’t on the reservation?”

  Pure pressed the tip of his index finger against the cold steel of the Winchester’s trigger. “I reckon they prefer the Mexican climate.”

  Both rifles bucked. The explosions sounded as one gun.

  The two warrior targets slumped back and rolled ungracefully from their ponies, dead before their bodies hit solid ground. The remaining Kickapoo reined their ponies hard and kicked up a cloud of dust. The warriors howled in anger at their fallen comrades.

  Pure quickly levered the rifle and ejected the spent cartridge. He fired quickly, missing high over his next target’s head.

  The Kickapoo regrouped and answered with a hail of arrows.

  Pure ducked at the incoming projectiles. He pushed his head against his saddle and waited. A dull thud sounded in his ears. His horse screamed, raised its head, and then fought against the reins in an effort to gain its feet.

  “Awwwh!” Pure moaned. “They’ve hit my horse.”

  The Kickapoo swung their ponies back south in an effort to put a safe distance between the Winchesters and themselves.

  July clenched his jaw and jumped to his feet. He took a quick, but deadly accurate shot at the Kickapoo warrior riding drag. The well-aimed shot knocked the warrior from his pony. “That’s another one!” he shouted and levered the next cartridge. “That ought to give them something to think about.”

  “And after they sit a spell, they’ll be back quick-like.”

  “Only nine of them though,” July said.

  “Small favors,” Pure muttered.

  “Yeah,” July exhaled.

  Pure looked over at his foreman and tilted his head slightly. “Still, it’s something to be thankful for.”

  July pulled against the reins and directed his piebald to stand. The horse rolled to a kneeling position and then rose to all fours. “There’s something I can’t figure, Pure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s almost like those Kickapoo were here waiting on us.”

  Pure pushed a hand against his left knee and slowly rose to a standing position. He watched his horse gasp for breath, and shook his head in disgust. “You feeling that someone alerted that bunch to our possible arrival?” he asked and slowly lifted the Peacemaker from his side.

  “Can’t say for sure, but here they were.”

  “Well that’s true enough.”

  “Just waiting.”

  “Everyone has got to be somewhere during the day.” Pure said. He ai
med the Colt at the piebald’s forehead and fired a single-shot without blinking, then said, “You best hide that mount of yours in whatever cover you can find below this bank. We sure can’t afford for the both of us to be caught afoot right now.”

  “Strange that they’d be here, though.”

  “While you’re looking, I’ll try and dig us a wallow behind these lechuguilla.”

  July clicked his tongue twice and led the piebald down the scrub-filled sand slope. “You don’t suppose E.B. could’ve had a hand in this?” he asked.

  Pure pulled a thick-bladed knife from his belt and scratched at the rocky soil. “Well he had more than enough pay-off money.”

  “Now that is a fact,” July said.

  “I figure he or his boys took at least fourteen-thousand in gold from Paint’s wallet.”

  July laughed aloud. “Ain’t that something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Old E.B. using -R money to hire these Kickapoo to kill us.”

  “How’s that something?”

  “It’s like we’re paying for our own murders.”

  Pure dug harder. “That’s something all right.”

  July stared out at the dead warriors. “You think any of those Kickapoo might be carrying gold coin in their medicine bags?”

  Pure paused and glanced out at the bodies of the three dead warriors. “I reckon there’s a strong possibility of that,” he said.

  “Maybe if we live through the next charge, we should go out there and take a look.”

  Pure holstered the Colt and reached down to undo the cinch from the dead piebald. “That’s sounds like a good plan.”

  July and his mount disappeared over the slope. His booming voice echoed from the river bank below. “You know what I hope for, Pure?”

  Pure tugged at the saddle. “I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

  I sure hope I get the chance to share with E.B. just how I feel about his sorry ways one of these days soon.”

  Pure freed the saddle from the dead animal and set it up on its end, cantle side down. “I hope we both live long enough to that,” he muttered.

  Twenty-Eight

  December 1878 - Across the Border in Tamaulipas, Mexico

  "Maybe those Kickapoo ain’t coming back,” July offered.

  Pure rolled onto his left side and stared at July, some ten yards away to the west. He shaded his eyes and looked into the slow-setting sun. “I reckon they’ll return.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “They’re human animals and they’ve got dead to bury.”

  “Hmmm,” July mumbled.

  “They’ll be back,” Pure said. “They won’t leave a warrior on the field of battle.”

  July rolled onto his right side and looked into Pure’s eyes. “What are they waiting for then?”

  “Dark, most likely.”

  “I thought Indians didn’t like to fight at night.”

  “An Indian will fight whenever it gives him an advantage.”

  July rolled onto his back and searched the sky. “Looks like we’ll be having a new moon tonight.”

  “I reckon that would be advantage enough.”

  July flipped back to his stomach and stared across the landscape in front of him. “Probably so,” he said.

  Pure turned and looked at the dead Kickapoo in the calico shirt. He studied the warrior with strained attention. After for several minutes, he rolled the Snapping and Stretching gum between his front teeth.

  July watched Pure with growing interest.

  Pure lifted his chin toward the southeast. A sliver of moon glowed white in the sky. “Going to be real dark tonight.”

  “On account of the new moon,” July repeated.

  Pure scratched the hair above his right ear. “I could sure go for a biscuit and sop right now.”

  “Black coffee, too.”

  Pure pounded the gum rapidly.

  July watched, fascinated. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “Something don’t figure right here.”

  “By my recollection, something ain’t figured right since Buckshot and the kid got killed.”

  “No this is different.”

  “Different how?”

  “It’s like we’re being dilly-dallied along for some purpose.”

  “You thinking, E.B. has a hand in this dilly-dallying?”

  Pure slowed the gum and paused. After a minute, he pointed toward the dead Kickapoo. “How far you think it is to that dead Indian?”

  “I don’t know, a hundred feet?”

  “I was thinking more like ninety.”

  July made a face. “Why’d you ask me then?”

  “I just was wondering what you thought.”

  “And I told you, but you already had it figured in that head of yours.”

  “How about the one you shot?”

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “Yours looks to be about a hundred feet.”

  July expelled a frustrated breath.

  Pure slowed the gum once more. “You ever give much thought to your dying?”

  “Not ’til you just mentioned it.”

  “Well don’t worry about it, is all I meant.”

  “You must have this thing figured out.”

  “A fair amount of it anyway. I know we aren’t dying here tonight.”

  “Well that’s a comfort, Pure.”

  A shadow stretched across the ground in front of them. July looked west. “That sun’s falling fast now.”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, if we ain’t going to die tonight, what are we going to do?”

  Pure began crawling forward under the rapidly darkening sky. In seconds the outline of his body disappeared into the landscape.

  “Hey, Pure?” July called out. His voice betrayed a hint of panic. “Where are you going?”

  From the darkness came Pure’s subdued voice. “Shhh,” he hushed, “Keep quiet and follow me low-like to the ground before you get the both of us killed.”

  Twenty-Nine

  December 1878 - Across the Border in Tamaulipas, Mexico

  Three shadowy, muted assassins scrambled hunched over across the intensely darkened landscape of Nuevo León. Four waited behind, to the south. And two more raced west and then back north.

  Forward of all nine warriors, Pure lay death-like still, waiting. His eyes were tightly shut, and his nostrils flared with each passing breath, hoping against hope to catch an early scent of any approaching Kickapoo. He listened with strained attention to the soundless Mexican night.

  Lub . . .

  Dub.

  Lub. . .

  Dub.

  His heart hammered against the wall of his chest.

  Relax.

  He held his breath and tried desperately to pace his out of control heartbeat.

  Relax!

  His heart ignored the command and continued to pound blood against his eardrums. He tightened his lips in anxious concern. A wave of trembling rolled down his spine. Fear clutched his entire body. A harsh reality settled in his mind. In the darkness, he was blind and deaf.

  Relax, Pure!

  The night creaked forward.

  Com’on Pure.

  He shivered at the voice. Isa rode across the back of his eyelids. His jaw clenched tightly. The haunting image of his younger brother heartened a sudden desire to flee. His cheekbones pushed up and locked his eye sockets shut.

  Hurry, big brother.

  “Paint,” he moaned.

  You’ve gone and stepped off in for sure now, Pure.

  “Street?”

  Then, riding on a slight breeze from the southwest, a faint smell of animal fat.

  His nose naturally wrinkled in disgust.

  He opened his eyes.

  A great calm settled over him.

  His mind focused.

  The pounding in his ears quieted.

  There.

  The slight brush of moccasin o
n pebbles.

  Every muscle in his body tensed. He was fully alert and prepared to act.

  The scent grew stronger. It was the putrid smell of tallow.

  Close now.

  An imperceptible inhale. He held the breath.

  Steady.

  And then out of the darkness, a warm hand clamped firmly around his wrist. The calico shirt, he now wore, pressed into his lower arm.

  A Kickapoo pulled him forward.

  Then the warrior’s hand relaxed against him.

  Then forward again.

  Steady.

  The assassin’s hand relaxed again.

  Pure exhaled and locked his fingers tightly around the Kickapoo’s wrist.

  The warrior stopped, then struggled violently against the grip.

  Now!

  Pure pulled the scared warrior forward. The Kickapoo stumbled and nearly collapsed on top of him. The smell of dung and tallow from the man’s hair were overpowering. Pure locked eyes with his enemy, and thrust his knife forward

  A buffalo’s breath passed.

  Pure tightened his grip. Even in the darkness, he could see the yellow of the man’s eyes.

  The warrior’s expression widened. His lips squirmed against his teeth. A whoosh of air pushed through his lips, a last vestige of breath in the dying warrior’s lungs.

  Pure clamped down harder on the man’s wrist, and then waited with equal measure of respect and reverence. His thoughts held briefly on July. He prayed that his friend’s ten minute head-start was time enough to do the things that needed doing. He prayed that July’s knife had also found its mark tonight. And most of all, he prayed that his plan had worked.

  After thirty seconds, he pulled the thick-bladed knife from the Kickapoo’s sternum and instinctively wiped the blade against his pants.

  Twenty seconds after that, he stripped off the calico shirt and tied the sleeves around the dead Kickapoo’s neck.

  And five seconds later, he was up and running, pulling the dead warrior toward his waiting tribe mates.

  Thirty

  December 1878 - The Kickapoo Camp, Tamaulipas, Mexico

  The Kickapoo camp fire was scarcely a fire at all.

  Pure dropped the dead Kickapoo’s wrist and simultaneously swung the Colt in the darkness. The Peacemaker spit fire and copper without pause. The quiet of the night was impregnated by the piercing cries of shocked and dying Kickapoo.