Dodge City

by Randy D. Smith

  The Cheyenne nodded. "Until we meet again, Blue Shirt."

  "Until we meet again, chief of the people. "Collier wheeled his horse slowly and rode north. He turned in his saddle and looked back at the village. Elk Heart was returning to his tipi. It was as though the Indian expected him back at any moment, as though he were only going out on a hunting trip. Collier settled into his saddle and sighed. By all rights he should be dead like Mapes and Washington. He noticed an eagle talon tied to the mane of his horse. It was secured with twisted horse hair dyed red. He fondled the talon, shook his head, and thanked God for his fortune.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Five men sat in a circle staring grimly at the dying embers of a camp fire, absorbed in their own thoughts. Abe McKnight sighed and moved toward the fire, carrying his Springfield rifle. He stirred the embers and added small sticks.

  "I don't know it's such a good idea to be stirring up that fire. What with Injuns about like they are," young Billy Dixon said.

  "My camp, my fire," growled McKnight.

  "Right!"

  "McKnight's feeling sorta gauled, tonight, Billy. I don't think I'd press the issue," Stub Moore said as he threw out the cold remains of his coffee cup.

  McKnight watched the coffee splash onto the ground then shook the pot hanging from a tripod over the fire. "There's still some left. You want some more, Stub?"

  Moore braced his peg leg into the dirt and stood. "Yeah, why not?" He limped toward the pot. "What about you fellers?"

  Dixon shook his head. "No, I've had enough for tonight."

  A young man in his late teens with piercing blue eyes, held out his cup. "I believe I'll take another swallow."

  Moore filled the cup, tipping the pot while it still hung from the tripod. "What about you, Bugs?"

  Burton scratched under his arm. "Naw, I'll let you other fellows have it."

  McKnight threw the stick into the fire and sighed. "I can't believe they got him. I never expected ole' Collier to cash in his chips like that."

  The young man took a sip of his coffee. "You don't know for certain. You didn't find a body."

  "Don't need to. If Washington and Mapes died like that then Collier went under too. There were signs of all three men a being there." McKnight stared into the flames as he answered. "I just can't figure why the bastards would be a takin' his body."

  "Maybe they thought he had some sort a medicine," Bugs said.

  "That or they nailed him to some stake somewheres and had themselves some fun killing him." Dixon settled into his bedroll. "I wouldn't be dwelling on that, Abe. That kind of shit'll drive a fellow buggy. Anyways, it sure puts an end to our search."

  McKnight shook his head. "Yeah, it puts an end to a lot a things."

  "Hello to camp! Can I come in?"

  McKnight rose to his feet, his eyes wide and disbelieving. "Lordy be glory! Back from the dead! Hell, yes, come in and be welcome!"

  "Who is it?" Dixon asked.

  McKnight lowered his rifle and smiled. "The devil hisself! The galdangest spike hunter of them all!"

  Collier walked into camp leading his horse. "I hope you boys saved me some a that coffee."

  McKnight rushed to Collier and threw his arms around him. "We'll make another pot for ya, partner."

  "Careful, Abe, those ribs have to last a while."

  McKnight stood back and smiled before suddenly changing his expression. "Why ain't you dead?"

  "It's a long story.”

  "Well, by God it better be! And a good 'un. Hell! When we found old Tobe and Axoll strung all over the prairie, we figured you had bit the dust with em!"

  Stub Moore handed Collier a full cup of coffee. Collier took a sip of the brew before continuing. "Should have. I was saved by one of them Cheyenne who figured he owed me something. There isn't any figuring an Injun."

  McKnight slapped Collier on the back. "It's good to see ya in one piece, pardner!"

  "What are you doing here, Billy?" Collier asked.

  Dixon offered his hand. "We came looking for you."

  "Who's we?" asked Collier as he shook Dixon's hand.

  Dixon motioned toward the young man with the piercing blue eyes. "This is my partner, Bat Masterson. He and I were hired to find you and bring you back to Fort Dodge."

  Collier nodded recognition. "What for?"

  "They're sending Nelson Miles down here to punish those Injuns for what they did to us at Adobe Walls. They wanted a good guide and your name came up. Bat and me was sent down here to find ya and offer you the job."

  Collier shook his head. "Wasted your time. I'm done with it."

  McKnight laughed. "Yes sir, Ole Lane and me still got us a bunch a buffs ta kill!"

  "No, I'm done with all of it."

  "Why you don't mean you're through with the partnership?"

  Collier knelt by the fire and refilled his coffee cup. He stared into the flames, thinking of Elk Heart and his promise. "I gave my word. That's the only reason I'm here alive."

  "Gave your word to who?" McKnight said. "Surely your word to an Injun don't mean anything."

  "My word does, Abe. You know that."

  McKnight silently Collier’s expression. "Yes. I can see you're set. I just....."

  "I said it was the last season, anyhow. This just ends it quicker than we figured."

  "I don't know what I'm going to tell General Miles. He was counting on you," Dixon said

  "Tell that popinjay that I said no. I'm through with this country and I'm through killing Injuns. He don't need no more explanation than that."

  Dixon shook his head. "I never figured you for a quitter."

  "Call it what you want. I'm through."

  "I guess that about says it all, doesn't it partner?" McKnight said.

  "I guess so. We'll go back to Dodge and I'll split the money with you and we'll go our separate ways. I realize you'll probably want to go on hunting. As far as I'm concerned, the outfit is yours."

  McKnight nodded. "I guess that's the way it'll have ta be. I'll have to build me another outfit and try her again."

  "That shouldn't be too rough, Abe. Whoever you partner up with'll know they partnered with the best."

  McKnight smiled. "No, I was partnered with the best. They'll be getting second best. Anyhow, this is still a damn sight better than you being dead. I wasn't doin' very well with that one."

  * * * *

  Dixon and Masterson pulled out of camp at first light. It took more time for the McKnight and Collier crew to gather their hides, load them on the remaining flatbed wagon and start north. Stub Moore drove the supply wagon and Bugs Burton the flatbed. Collier and McKnight rode their horses keeping buffalo rifles balanced across the pommels of their saddles in case of trouble. They made good time and within two days were close to the Canadian River and hopefully, some measure of safety.

  Although he tried to cover his disappointment, McKnight wasn't very good at keeping it completely hidden. Several comments were made about tucking tail and running and on one occasion he observed he never thought that he would see such a sorry sight as Collier and McKnight sneaking back to Dodge like a pair of chicken thieves.

  Sunrise of the third day McKnight and Collier were side by side checking the cinches of their riggings.

  "Hey, Collier, would ya take a gander at that!"

  Collier leaned against his saddle and gazed to the west where McKnight was pointing. An eroded side of a red clay hill was facing east toward the rising sun. Collier felt his guts go tight.

  "Looks like three men standing in the side of that there hill, don't it?" McKnight said.

  Collier didn't answer.

  "Well, hell. Ain't you talking this morning? Now what the hell is wrong? Ya look like ya just et a frog or something.”

  "Where exactly are we, Abe?"

  "Where are we at? Hell! I don't know. Maybe a day south of the Canadian, I reckon. What kind of a question is that for an old Injun scout like you ta ask?"

  Collier walked toward the east. Mc
Knight shook his head, cursed, and followed.

  Collier spoke softly to himself. "Two days ride to the east and I will find my destiny."

  "What? What the hell did ya say?"

  Collier turned toward the supply wagon. "Stub, fix me up with enough grub for about a week, will ya?"

  "A week! What the hell is going on with you? McKnight yelled. “Did that Injun clabber your brains?"

  "Maybe. He may have done just that. But I've got to see something. I'll never be able to rest unless I do."

  "See what? Hell, there ain't nothing out there but grass, sky, and bloody Injuns!"

  Collier’s eyes drifted toward the eastern horizon. "Yeah, and maybe the giant."

  "The giant! Jeeeesus! Do ya hear what you're sayin'?"

  Collier stuffed his food into his saddle bags. He took the newer of the Remington rifles out of his scabbard and shoved it into the back of the supply wagon.

  "Shit! Collier! There ain't nothing out there!"

  "How do you know?" Collier replied calmly.

  "What? Cause there ain't. That's how I know! Hell! No one's ever said!"

  Collier turned in his saddle and smiled. "I tell ya what, Abraham. If you don't see me again, you'll know you were right."

  "Well, we got to get these hides back to Dodge!"

  "Do it!"

  "You can't do this, Collier! You're supposed to be the responsible one!"

  "I'll see ya in Dodge!" Collier spurred his mount toward the east without looking back.

  McKnight, Moore, and Burton watched Collier ride out of sight.

  Finally Burton broke the silence. "What do we do now?"

  McKnight turned toward Burton with a scowl. "We take the damned hides ta Dodge! What the hell do ya think, ya galdanged idiot!" He watched Collier ride away. “He’s supposed to be the responsible one.”

  CHAPTER XX

  For the two days he rode east he saw nothing to indicate such a place existed. Yet here, seemingly in the middle of nowhere was a valley laced with trees and water. The canyon was a giant sink hole with a grove of willows and cottonwood trees following the stream and spreading around the lake. Collier stepped down from his mount and knelt at the rim of the canyon. The bottom was no more than a hundred feet below. Even at the widest point it wasn’t more than a half a mile from side to side. The sides of the canyon were sheer but Collier could see several places where a man could lead his horse down to the base by following game trails. A small spring broke out of the sheer walls at the west below him and snaked a course down the middle to a small lake near the center of the canyon. A few cedars clung to the edge of the canyon. The grass was tall and little grazed. Several turkey vultures rode the updrafts along the edge of the canyon.

  He shook his head and smiled. "A valley where a river begins and ends. This has to be it. This has to be Spanish Canyon."

  He led his horse down the side of the canyon rim and worked his way to the stream. The water was fresh and cold although no more than a foot deep in any given place. Collier saw signs of deer, turkey, rabbit, varmints and even antelope along the muddy bank. The base of the valley was cool and still. Breezes from above were able to work down into the valley floor. By every definition this hidden valley was a paradise of water, woods and wildlife. Collier determined to work his way down to the lake. He remounted his horse and followed the stream. He imagined a small ranch based in the canyon and wondered if that was the destiny Elk Heart meant.

  The undergrowth became so thick that he had to turn away from the water to pass through. The canyon narrowed to only a few hundred yards and Collier followed a small game trail through the twisted underbrush. The trail opened to an Indian burial ground. Collier reined up his gelding. "I should have known this was too good to be true. Wouldn't you know this would be some sort of Injun holy place.”

  The burial racks were arranged in a neat line on both sides of a trail running down the center. The stick built altars were barren except for the decaying bodies. This site wasn’t of Indian origin. He counted seventeen racks with the oldest farther to the east. They had been added one at a time in a straight line. There were no women in any of the racks. It was difficult to tell but the tattered clothing showed signs of Comanche, Arapaho, and Cheyenne origin. Three tribes would not bury their dead together. Collier became uneasy. This was a burial ground of men that should not be buried together. He pulled his Remington and gently urged the gelding forward. He allowed his horse to find it's own way down the trail. He heard the sharp snap of broken twig and threw himself from the saddle diving for the underbrush. A shot sounded from behind. He twisted around and raised his rifle to fire.

  An old man stood at the edge of the clearing. He was tall and straight; his hair, falling loosely about his face, was snow white and shoulder length. A long beard reached past the base of the chest. He was dressed entirely in hides of coarse weave without fringe or ornamentation. A flintlock Indian trade musket was smoking in his hands. Powder horn, plainsman mocs, Indian flint knife in a crudely fashioned belt, and a wild, shaggy appearance seemed fifty years out of date. The old man did not move.

  "Drop the musket!" Collier ordered. "Damn it! I said drop the musket!"

  The old man's hands opened and the flintlock dropped to the ground. A large gray wolf stood in the brush slightly behind the old man. It did not take his eyes off Collier but did not seem unusually aggressive either.

  "You got a name?" Collier asked. "Can ya hear me, old timer? I want to know your name!"

  "Eba na me toe kay," was the soft reply.

  It sounded like gibberish. Collier decided to try Cheyenne. "Ya tah hea!"

  Collier worked his way toward the man. There was something strangely familiar about the old man's features. His eyes had a disturbing form and shape but he couldn’t place the connection.

  "If'n you intends ta kill me then get to it," the old man said softly.

  Collier lowered his rifle.

  "If'n you intends to kill me then get to it or grant me passage."

  "Passage! Why you old fart! You tried to blow my head off!"

  "Twas my intention!"

  He was emaciated but the defiance in the old man's voice contradicted any frailty.

  "Maybe you need to rest?" Collier asked.

  The old man stiffened. "I ain't dead yet, pup. If'n I need a laydown, I'll let ye know!"

  The wolf changed location but kept a distance. It never seemed to take its eyes off him.

  Collier went to his horse and tossed his canteen to the old man. "Have a drink. I just filled it with your water."

  "I thank ye," the old man answered as he pulled the cork. He had some difficulty swallowing.

  "Who are you, old timer?"

  The old man placed the cork back in the stopper and tossed it back to Collier. "I been called a lot a things. Some good and some bad. The Injuns a been calling me the Death Spirit fer a spell."

  Collier knelt, his rifle still cocked across his lap. "I can believe that. You kill all these fellers?"

  The old man sat on the ground crosslegged. "Yep, they sent em one at a time. Been sending em fer quite a spell."

  "How long?"

  "Over thirty years, I'd reckon."

  "Thirty years! You telling me you've been here for thirty years!"

  "I been here since the beginning a time."

  Collier remembered the wolf. It had moved to his right, still standing at the edge of the brush, still watching. "Can I trust that thing?"

  "I don't. I can't see why you should." His eyes cut to Collier's Remington rifle. "I ain't never seen no rifle like that. How do you load it without a ramrod?"

  Collier pulled a cartridge from his belt and tossed it. "Don't need a ramrod. It shoots these things."

  "What's it called?"

  "It's called a cartridge. Most modern guns shoot them."

  "What happens when ya run out a these here things?"

  Collier smiled. "Then you're out a bullets."

  He tossed the cartridge back to
Collier. "Seems a worrisome trinket ta me."

  Collier stared into the old man's face. He had the distinct feeling he ought to know him. "How did you end up here, old timer?"

  He gave Collier a look that told he was intruding.

  "You got a Christian name?"

  The old man shook his head. "You got one?"

  "Collier. My name's Collier."

  The old man stammered and struggled for words.

  "I haven't eaten since early this morning. How about you?"

  The old man shook his head.

  "I've got some jerky and coffee and a little flour. We could make some biscuits," Collier said.

  "Coffee? You got coffee?"

  "Sure do. We could brew up a pot."

  "Coffee. I ain't had me a cup of coffee since the coons came home."

  Collier rose to his feet, retrieving the old man's flint musket. "Let's get to it. I could brew up a pot in a halfhour or so."

  "Not here. I got me a cave where there's shelter."

  Collier gathered the reins of his gelding. "Lead the way. I'll follow you."

  The old man started down the trail. At a distance behind was the gray wolf, always watching, never moving too close. They worked their way past the lake. The water was a dark and appeared to be deep. The shoreline was steep except in a few places where small sandy banks allowed access. A small mule deer was drinking at one of these sandy points. The old man walked at a good gait but it was a struggle for him to keep up the pace. The trail split into two directions. The old man led Collier up the right trail.

  "Where does the other trail lead?"

  The old man stopped, took a weak breath and answered with difficulty. "Out the other end of the canyon. It's a game trail like ya came down."

  "Probably lined with more graves," Collier joked.

  "Probably."

  Collier stopped. "How many?"

  "Bout twenty, I reckon. Most of them have come in from the east end. I usually bury them at one end or the other. Depends which set they're closest to when I kill em."

  “Thirtyseven men." Collier shook his head.

  The old man continued up the trail. "Some of the racks have fallen down over the years. I lost count some time back. You coming, pup?"