He stopped with his feet planted on either side of the abandoned Deane-Adams and raised the rifle to the level of my chest. “Do not turn away,” he barked. His swollen lips got in the way of his consonants, slurring them. “You should be prepared to face your handiwork.”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to deny I had anything to do with it,” I said.
“Do not waste my time. I am through listening.” He shifted the makeshift crutch a little so that he could steady the rifle with his other hand. Not that he really had to, at that range, but he wanted to prolong the moment.
I decided that if Little Tree were going to make a move from the cover of the brush behind me, she would have done so by now. Stooping suddenly, I scooped the bowie knife out of my right boot and followed through in an underhand fling, sending the blade whistling in the general direction of the Indian’s squat torso.
It didn’t land point first, of course; that was too much to hope for under the circumstances. What mattered was that Rocking Wolf thought it would. He moved to dodge it even as the leather-bound handle swung around and bounced harmlessly off his chest; in so doing, he threw too much weight onto the crutch and it slipped out from under him. By that time I was in motion, charging head down like a maddened bull. He fired. Something hot seared my right cheek, too late. I struck him head first in the midsection, and we went down together. The rifle spun from his grip and clattered away out of reach.
A town-bred white man is no match for a wild Indian at the best of times, but I’d counted on Rocking Wolf′s injury giving me an edge. What I hadn’t counted on was my own injury. Mountain air goes no further toward healing a fractured skull than that at sea level, and in any case it isn’t advisable to use the damaged instrument as a weapon. My vision blurred, doubled. I saw two Deane-Adams revolvers lying side by side on the ice and grabbed for the wrong one, coming up with a handful of empty air. By that time the Indian had found his wind; cocking his good leg, he planted his foot against my chest and pushed hard. I reeled backward and was forced to execute a fancy roll to avoid splitting my head open all over again when I struck the ice.
The Indian reached out blindly and closed his fingers over the bowie knife. Rolling over onto his stomach, he pulled himself toward me frantically, dragging his useless right leg behind him, one hand clutching the knife like an ice pick. When he was close enough, he raised the weapon high over his head and stabbed downward. I rolled again, just as the blade shattered the ice where my head had been, and before he could react, I straddled his back, locking my arms around his throat from behind.
It was no good; though my vision had corrected itself, my head was pounding and I was weak as a baby. He stabbed back and up with the knife, forcing me to break my grip to keep the blade from slashing open my ribcage. At the same time he hooked my ankle with his good left leg and arched his back, flipping me off. The impact of my fall blinded me for an instant. The first thing I saw when my senses returned was Rocking Wolf on his knees before me, the hand holding the knife poised over his head in striking position.
He had started the downward swing when a shot rang out and his forehead exploded. Blood and bits of bone spattered my face. The knife dropped from his hand and clattered to the ice. Slowly, as if he had changed his mind, he sank back onto his heels and just as slowly toppled over sideways. His body jerked spasmodically for a moment, then lay still.
I didn’t waste any time after that. When you hear a shot you weren’t expecting, the first rule is that you look around for a weapon. I wasn’t about to throw away my cards without knowing for sure whether it was Little Tree who had fired. I flopped over onto my stomach and began crawling toward my gun.
I was within reach of it when there was another explosion and the revolver spun away from me, arcing across the now-wet surface of the ice. Immediately I rolled in the opposite direction and came to rest on my stomach behind Rocking Wolf′s still form. Once there I risked a quick glance toward the bank where I had left my companions, for it was there that the shots had originated.
Church was standing on the edge of the ice holding Bear’s Spencer in both hands. His under-size frame was impossible to mistake even in that driving snow. The butt of what I took to be Ira Longbow’s Dance protruded above his holster. Behind him, Homer Strakey’s equally recognizable bulk stood in a position where he could keep an eye on both Bear and Little Tree. His stance told me he was armed. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew he had his dead son’s old-fashioned percussion cap pistol in one hand. What with the blizzard and the drama that had been taking place on the ice, it had been no feat for the two to sneak up on my companions and relieve them of their weapons. Now I knew why Little Tree hadn’t fired at the Indian when it seemed she’d had the chance.
“Looks like you owe me again, Murdock!” cried Church. His scarf was tied loosely around his scrawny neck, the ends flapping in the wind. “I can’t abide watching no injun kill no white man.”
“So you’ll do it instead,” I finished.
“Got to. You got so’s I can’t go around you no more, and I’m tired of dogging you. Now, get up from behind that dead injun.”
“I’d rather not.”
His sloping shoulders heaved in a mighty sigh. “We got to go through this all over again? Homer!”
On cue, Strakey stepped forward and stretched out his right arm, placing the muzzle of the pistol against the squaw’s right temple. She stood still as the tree for which she was named.
“Why don’t you just move on?” I demanded, stalling for time. “You’ve got Anderson.”
“I do for a fact—all wrapped up like Christmas morning. How’d he get that way?”
I told him.
“Well, well.” He sounded pleased. “So one of us did hit him, after all. The offer’s tempting, Murdock, but it ain’t enough.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a good day’s ride between here and Staghorn; I think me and the old man would enjoy it more if we didn’t have to spend all our time looking over our shoulders. I’ll take my chances on the squaw, but you’re another brand of bacon. Now, are you going to get up from behind that stiff or am I going to have to ask Homer to put a ball through the squaw’s head? He’s been itching to use that thing ever since you turned him into a candle back at Anderson’s cabin.”
“What makes you think that’ll work with me?” I asked. “Maybe I don’t care what happens to her.”
“All right, Homer, blow her brains out.”
“Hold it! I’ll get up.”
Still I hesitated, but not just because I didn’t want to get killed, which of course I didn’t. In stepping forward to put the pistol against Little Tree’s head, Strakey had turned his back on Bear’s litter. That was evidently the opportunity for which the scalp-hunter had been waiting. Awkwardly and with great effort—he was, after all, shaking off the paralysis of days—he swung his legs out from under the covers and rose like a gigantic specter behind the old man’s tensed form.
“Come on!” To show he meant business, Church slapped a bullet from the Spencer into Rocking Wolf′s body. The corpse jerked like a kicked sandbag. Another cartridge was racked into place. I climbed to my feet.
“Step clear of the stiff,” ordered the bounty hunter.
I took my time obeying. He grew impatient.
“Homer!”
But Homer wasn’t listening. At that moment, the scalp-hunter threw his massive arms around the big old man and squeezed, lifting him up in the air as he did so to throw the pistol off target. The ball was released with a snap, missing Little Tree by a least a foot. Simultaneously I heard the crackling noise of ribs giving away beneath the pressure. Strakey screamed through his teeth, a high, chuckling wail that put me in mind of his dead son’s nervous giggle.
Church’s reaction was not immediate; he had called to his partner and had heard the expected shot. But at the sound of the scream he took a step backward and turned his head. It was just what I needed.
H
e realized his mistake almost in the next instant, but by then it was too late. I had already dived and come up on my knees with the Deane-Adams gripped in both hands, and when he snapped his head back in my direction I pumped all five bullets into his chest.
For a space I regretted that it wasn’t a six-shooter, as the bounty hunter hovered there seemingly unaffected by his wounds, the rifle firmly in his grip. But then his knees buckled and he folded to the ground. The Spencer flopped free.
Homer Strakey’s spine snapped with a report like a pistol shot. Bear, who had lifted the old man’s body high over his head to deliver the final blow, flung it, rag-doll fashion, to the earth. Clad in skins as he was, his features blurred by the swirling snow, the mountaineer might have been one of those legendary manlike beasts the Indians of the North call the Sasquatch. Then his knees began to shake and the image was dispelled.
I made my way over to the bank, but not before reloading my revolver from the dwindling supply of cartridges on my belt, on the off chance that one of the bounty hunters might still be alive. I needn’t have bothered; neither of them was about to get up this side of Judgment Day. I picked up the Spencer and freed Church’s body of his gun belt and the Dance he had taken from Little Tree. Strakey’s cap-and-ball I left to the elements like the useless toy it was once its load had been fired.
“Anybody hurt?” I inquired.
Little Tree shook her head. She had gone to her mate’s side and had an arm around him; he cast it off and stood there swaying. “Let’s ride,” he said. “Likely them Flatheads heard all that shooting and are on their way here already.”
“When did the bullet shift?” I asked him.
“Just before we stopped.” He had turned and, walking on unsteady legs, crossed over to his horse to unhitch the litter. “I didn′t say nothing at the time because I wasn’t sure. It was just a tingle. What difference does it make? It shifted. Find that nag of yours and let’s ride.”
“Ease up. If that bullet’s as mobile as that, you’re running a risk every time you take a step.”
“Save that stuff for when you hang out your shingle,” he retorted, tossing the litter aside with a powerful thrust of the left arm. He winced and placed what he thought was a surreptitious hand against his injury. I pretended not to notice.
The mare hadn’t wandered far. I found it munching at a blackberry bush on the edge of the forest and led it back to the riverbank, where it became so troublesome at the scent of gunpowder and death that I had to tether it to the trunk of a storm-shattered pine while I sought out the bounty hunters’ horses. These were hobbled a hundred yards upstream behind a steep snowbank. I chose one—a black with a yellow blaze and stockings to match—for Little Tree, and after removing the other’s saddle and bridle, cut it loose and shooed it away. There was no sense in making things easy for Lop Ear and company. Only as I stood watching it canter away toward the comparative openness of the forest did I realize that I had just released a mount far better than the one I was riding. Well, I had gotten used to the aging chestnut anyway. I threw the extra saddle and bridle into the snowbank and rejoined Bear and Little Tree with the black.
Crossing was tricky. I went first, leading the mare, and when I had reached the opposite bank, Little Tree struck out with her new mount, followed by Bear leading the big dun. When he was halfway across, the ice hammocked, squirting water up through its cracks and groaning ominously. He stopped, but as the noise continued it became apparent that standing still was no safer than moving and he resumed with caution. There were two inches of water on top of the ice by the time he and the horse stepped up onto dry land, but the surface remained intact. From a distance it might have been two feet thick.
“We’ll stop here,” Bear said.
“We’ve eight hours of daylight left,” I pointed out. “What about the Indians?”
“This is where we make our stand.”
“Nice last words. Too bad there won’t be anybody left to carve them on your tombstone.” I spoke bitterly.
“We ain’t about to outrun them, that’s for sure. And a river’s good a place as any to face off. Better than most.” He held out his hand for the Spencer. I gave it to him reluctantly.
“Tether the horses clear of the firing line,” he told Little Tree, handing her his reins. When she moved off, leading all three animals, he inclined his head toward the gun in my holster. “You’re going to have to use a little more economy when it comes to shooting Flatheads. You used four too many on Church.”
“Do I tell you how to scalp Indians?” I snapped.
“Just a suggestion.”
The Indians came at noon. By that time, entrenched amid the cattails between Bear and the squaw—who was armed once again with the Dance—my gun in hand and the rest of the captured iron within reach, I had given up on them entirely. I was about to say so when the sound of galloping hoofs reached me faintly over the incessant whine of the wind. A soft rumble at first, in seconds it swelled to a roar. The scalp-hunter settled his Spencer into a groove he had hollowed out previously atop an old muskrat den and sighted in on the spot across the river where he had left the bodies for bait.
“Don’t nobody fire until I give the word,” he said.
They came streaming out of the forest on the other side, a loose wedge of warriors with Two Sisters and Black Kettle mounted at the point. From there the momentum slowed until, drawing near the corpses, they halted. A brave sprang down from his horse and stooped to examine each of the bodies. Rising, he cast a glance across the river, spotted Rocking Wolf sprawled face down in the middle, and pointed.
The chief had already noticed. He nodded reflectively, after which he and the medicine man fell into animated conversation. At one point the latter paused to gaze along the opposite bank, then suddenly raised his right arm and thrust a finger straight at us. I buried my face in my arms. When no bullets followed the gesture, however, I returned my attention to the Indians. It appeared that Two Sisters and Black Kettle were arguing once again, this time over whether they should charge across and begin pursuit immediately or follow the bank and cross farther upstream to avoid a possible ambush, with the medicine man in favor of the former. This time he won. Under instructions from the chief, punctuated once again by numerous gestures, the Flatheads lined up along the riverbank in what my old cavalry sergeant would call charge formation.
“Remember,” Bear muttered, “not until I give the word.”
They started across in a tight line, unslinging their bows and rifles as they went. The ice bowed dangerously beneath their collective weight. I stretched out full length on my stomach and held the Deane-Adams with my arms resting on a knot of tangled cattails, awaiting the order to fire. It didn’t come when I expected it, with the result that I almost gave the game away with a premature shot. Even then Bear remained silent. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of his bearded profile; his teeth were showing and the skin over his brow was taut. By that time the Indians were so close I imagined I could smell the mingled stenches of horse and rancid bear grease.
“Fire!” His voice was shrill.
Our first shots crackled like burning wood. Two braves fell, shrieking as they spun from their horses. The third bullet—I think it came from the Spencer—struck Black Kettle’s horse and it crashed over onto its side, spilling the medicine man off its back and smashing through the ice where it fell. That sparked off a chain reaction, and as we continued firing the river became a confused tangle of tumbling warriors and horses screaming and thrashing in the black water. Bodies, both of horses and men, were so thick that there was no longer any need to take aim; we just kept pumping lead into the fray like hunters heading off a herd of stampeding buffalo. In seconds the holes in the ice were rounded up with bobbing corpses.
I had emptied both the five-shot and Church’s Navy Colt and was reaching for Rocking Wolf’s Winchester when Two Sisters gave the order to retreat. Ducking lead, the braves gathered up what dead they could get their hands on
and thrashed their way back toward the opposite bank, twisting around now and then to snap off a shot in our direction. Bear and I kept hammering away at their backs until they vanished among the trees.
“They’ll try again,” said the scalp-hunter. “Next time they’ll be more savvy.”
He took in his breath suddenly, and I paused in my reloading to look at him. He was staring in the direction of the river. I followed his gaze. Something was bobbing in the water.
At first I thought it was a corpse the Indians had overlooked, but as I watched I saw that it wasn’t a corpse at all, but a live warrior swimming frantically toward the broken edge of the ice. I squinted through the flying snow; it was Black Kettle. Unseated from his horse, he had plunged into the river and was straining every muscle to reach the safety of the ice before he was either dragged down by the weight of his furs or picked off by our guns. Tight, glistening wet curls spilled over his shoulders and down his back, his buffalo horn headgear having been discarded.
“Let me have the knife.” Bear’s tone was strained. When I hesitated, he reached back and snatched the bowie out of my boot. In another moment he was on his feet and striding out over what was left of the ice.
“Bear!” I shouted. It was no good. He had eyes and ears only for the man in the water.
He reached the jagged edge just as Black Kettle lunged forward and grabbed hold of it with both hands. The medicine man’s gasp of relief was choked off as he saw the fur boots planted in front of him and looked up at Anderson’s towering figure. I saw the whites of his eyes bulge in horror, and then Bear bent down, snatched a handful of his kinky hair, and with the other hand swept the blade of the bowie from left to right across Black Kettle’s throat. Arterial blood spurted out three feet in a bright red stream; his gurgling cry was torn to shreds by the wind. The water turned pink around him. Now only Bear’s grip on his hair kept the medicine man from sliding beneath the surface, and in another moment, as the scalp-hunter gathered a bigger fistful and made use of the knife once again, the river snatched away the final traces and swept them—body, blood and all—downstream.
The High Rocks Page 13
