by Ford Fargo
“Our pleasure, Mister Sparkman.” Spike croaked. “Glad to see you, but to be honest, we’re even more pleased to see your canteens.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“What’re you fellas doing out here?” Sparkman asked. None of them answered immediately. They were all thirstily drinking the welcome, if warm, water that Sparkman’s men carried.
Finally, Derrick drew a sleeve across his mouth and said, “We’re after a gang of outlaws, Mister Sparkman. They’re what’s left of Danby’s men. Rode into Wolf Creek a few days ago and shot up the town. We aim to track ‘em down.” He glanced around at Sparkman’s men. None of them would meet his eyes. It was plain they’d rather go after the Kiowas than join in the hunt for Jim Danby’s crew.
“We could sure use some help, if you can spare—” Spike began, but Sparkman cut him off.
“Sorry, Sweeney. We’ve got our own rat killin’ to attend to. I can’t spare anyone for your manhunt right now—not until we catch up with these Kiowas and teach them a lesson about stealing from Ward Sparkman. Sorry bastards. This is the third time this month they’ve dared to try it.”
“But,” Billy said, “we’re talking about Danby’s men killing people! You’re just wanting to stop the Kiowas from rustling your cattle—”
“I’m afraid it’s a matter of pride, son. Pride and money. I’ve lost at least fifty head of beeves, just this month. I’m not going to lose any more.”
He turned in his saddle and motioned to his men. “Let’s find these gentlemen’s horses so they can be on their way, shall we? They have business to attend to, and so do we.”
****
Less than half an hour later, the scattered horses had been gathered, and Sparkman and his men had started off after Stone Knife’s Kiowa raiders once more.
“Where’re we gonna fill up our canteens?” Billy Below asked, watching them ride toward the west.
“We’re not far from the Arkansas River,” Derrick answered. “No more’n prob’ly ten miles or so.”
“Not far, if you ain’t bein’ shot at by a passel of Kiowas,” Spike agreed.
“Can’t believe Sparkman couldn’t spare us a few of his men,” Rob muttered. He settled his hat on his head, but it did nothing to shade the disgusted look he shot the retreating riders’ backs.
Charley shrugged. “We’ll manage without ‘em.” He glanced at Derrick with a faint grin. “Long as we remember to fill up our canteens.”
Derrick’s quick anger faded as he realized Charley was teasing. He’d made a mistake he wouldn’t repeat again—not in the unforgiving terrain of Indian Territory, and especially, not in this July heat.
“Let’s head for the river, boys,” Spike said easily. “Canteen fillin’s gotta be the first order of business. Then, we’ll head out after the bastards. We still have some daylight left to follow this bloody trail we’re on.”
****
They’d watered up and started back toward the southeast again, following a track along the Arkansas in the area where Stone Knife had said the eight outlaws were when the Kiowas ran into them. Charley had picked up their trail easily—they’d made no effort to hide it.
After an hour or so, Charley rode close to Derrick and offered him a piece of jerky. “You never got much of a breakfast this mornin’, Cherokee,” Charley said quietly. Derrick shot him a quick questioning look, and Charley laughed. “Don’t take offense white boy. I ain’t gonna spill your secret.”
Derrick took the dried beef with a nod of thanks.
“I don’t have a secret, Blackfeather. It’s all in your mind. One of your damn peyote visions or somethin’.”
“Oh, I think you got plenty of secrets. You know the place where they’re headed, don’t you?” Charley asked, dropping the sore subject. “Danby’s man that died back at the farmhouse—he talked some before he passed. Said there was a couple of places Danby’s gang could be headed for in the San Bois Mountains. Course, I had to persuade him a little—but I think he told the truth, in the end.” He paused, then said, “Stone Knife, he said he heard one of ‘em mention the San Bois Mountains too.”
“Yeah,” Derrick answered after a brief pause. “I’m only hoping we catch them before they make it.”
“Got any idea exactly where they might head to in those mountains, McCain?”
Derrick nodded reluctantly. “There’s a place there they run to where they can hole up forever if need be. It’s near the top of one of the tallest peaks. Got a waterfall that runs right by the camp, so there’s always fresh water. They call it Demon’s Drop.”
Charley nodded. “I’ve heard of the place. Not just used by Danby’s men, either. It’s a meeting place and hideout for others, too. They say there’s no way in, alive, unless you’re invited. I don’t reckon we’re invited.” He smiled.
Derrick shook his head. “No. Well, one of us would’ve been, if I hadn’t mutinied out there on that field that day tryin’ to save your ass.”
“Sometimes, it just doesn’t pay to say ‘no’.” Charley glanced behind him to be sure Billy, Rob and Spike were following through the dense foliage. “I’m sure as hell glad you did, that day, even though it ’bout got you murdered.”
“We survived. Both of us.” Derrick shifted in the saddle, his hand moving up over his shirt front, over the old scar that lay three inches from his heart. He’d survived, all right, but he didn’t know how. Or why.
****
The sun began to relent, the sky beyond where they rode off to their right turning a tangerine color that slid into pink.
“What’s that noise?” Billy asked, riding up alongside Derrick. Derrick reined up and gave a short whistle. Charley, who’d ridden a few yards ahead, turned to backtrack.
“Sounds like rushing water,” Rob said as he caught up to the group, cocking his head to the side.
“We’ve moved west of the Arkansas a couple of miles,” Derrick explained, “But we’re a stone’s throw from the Canadian. And a few miles from where we’ll cross it, there are some rapids where the river forks off into two branches—the main fork and the north fork. North fork is nearly as big as the main river itself, and as powerful, in places. That fast runnin’ water is what you’re hearing, Billy.”
“I’m guessing you know where to cross,” Spike said. He looked thoughtful for a moment before he added, “Did they cross? Do we know that for certain?”
Charley looked at Derrick, clearly letting him know it was up to him to tell as much, or as little, as he wanted the others to know. Another one of your secrets, his expression plainly stated.
“McCain’s family came from around these parts,” Charley said easily. “He knows of a place up in the San Bois Mountains, Demon’s Drop, that’s a known hideout for desperadoes like Danby’s men. We think they might be headed there.”
Spike nodded. “Gotta get ‘em before they make it that far, then.” He gave Derrick a long look. “Been a long time since your family left this area, hasn’t it?”
Derrick didn’t flinch. “Some things, you never forget.”
“We can make camp on this side of the Canadian. Cross it in the morning,” Billy said, breaking the tension.
“No,” Charley and Derrick said in unison. Then, Derrick fell silent as Charley explained. “We don’t know what the night might bring. I’ve been noticing how thick the air feels. Could be a storm movin’ in. If that happens, it could make the river a bitch to cross.”
Spike wiped a hand across his forehead, then settled the kepi back in place. “A storm? I don’t see how. Feels like we’ve been riding through hell.”
“Especially earlier, when we thought those Kiowas had us,” Rob muttered.
Derrick hid a smile. And me with a half-empty canteen. “We’ll find a good crossing and have that behind us, no matter what comes along in the morning.”
****
The river was low, due to the heat of midsummer, and the lack of rain for so many weeks. From the parched look of the land, Derrick thought, there must n
ot have been any rain for at least a month or more. The farther south they rode, the more marked the signs of the drought were. The low river, though, was a blessing for them as it provided easy crossing after riding no more than a half-mile back upstream to the east.
They crossed with the water barely coming higher than stirrup-level, the horses never losing their footing. Derrick removed his Yellowboy from the saddle scabbard, as did the others with their longarms, to avoid the unknown depths of the water they were crossing.
Once on the south bank of the river, they all dismounted. Billy said, “I’m ready to make camp right here, right now.”
But Charley’s head was up, his dark eyes scanning the clearing on the bank where they stood, and the trees beyond. “I smell smoke,” he said softly.
Derrick nodded his agreement. “Let’s find out if we might finish our business tonight. I’d sleep a hell of a lot better knowin’ we could get up and start home in the mornin’.”
“Agreed,” said Spike. He nodded toward the west. “Do we split up?”
Charley shook his head. “No. We need to stick together till we see what we’re up against. I’m not sure Danby’s men would stop here.”
“We did,” Rob said, not understanding.
“Yes,” Charley answered, “but we are trailing them, youngblood. And I think they know it. I’m not sure they’d stop for anything. They’ll be running as if the devil’s at their heels, if they know we’re still behind them.”
Derrick gave a short laugh. “Same thing, in this case, Blackfeather. Once we catch them, they may wish it was only Satan, himself, after them.”
“Speaking of Satan,” Spike breathed, “who the hell is that?”
****
A man sat, unmoving, on a large black horse at the western edge of the clearing.
“And that?” Rob added, looking past Derrick’s shoulder at the fringe of woods to the south where another mounted horseman sat watching them.
In the early twilight shadows, Derrick couldn’t be certain, but they looked Cherokee, and in the dimming light, he caught glint of silver on the chest of the short rider when he’d turned to look behind him. Lighthorse officers, he hoped.
“Halito,” he called. Hello.
They both rode forward, stopping a few feet away from the Wolf Creek posse, their faces impassive.
“What business do you have?” the short rider asked.
Charley gave Derrick a look that said, ‘you take this.’ Had to be because of his “Cherokee face”, Derrick thought wryly.
“We’re looking for some men,” Derrick answered, walking a few steps toward the two. Somehow, he knew Charley and Spike had him covered, whether the two younger men of their party had the sense to or not.
“What men?” asked the taller, more dour looking of the two.
“They killed some of our people,” Derrick said. “Robbed the savings and loan, up north—in Kansas.”
“Long way. You are here to recover the money?” Sour-Face asked.
”We’re here to see justice done for the people they murdered,” Derrick said evenly. “Several men. A woman. A child. Even our animals.” He took another step forward, and both men brought their rifles to bear, training them at his chest. His stomach churned, as he remembered the last time he’d looked down a gun barrel; the flash and roar, the ungodly pain that had ripped through his flesh. He made sure his hands were well away from the Navy Colts he wore. “Are you lighthorse?”
After a moment, the shorter one answered. “Yes.” He nodded at their horses. “Mount up and ride with us. Our camp is not too far. We have a U.S. Deputy Marshal in our company.” He watched closely to see what effect his words might have on them. A test, Derrick knew, to see if they were telling the truth. Would they fight, or would they ride into camp and face a U.S. Marshal? Were they after the outlaws, or were they the outlaws themselves?
Derrick gave him a brief nod, but his heart sank as he remembered Satterlee’s words before he’d left the posse. "If you go on, you'll be renegades, too, in the eyes of the law."
They were out of their jurisdiction, and none of them were truly lawmen. They only had one hope of continuing on after Danby’s men. Whoever this Deputy was, maybe he would consider joining up and stringing along with the men from Wolf Creek, making their cause his, as well—and they would become his posse.
All of them mounted up, and they rode slowly through the darkening woods. The shorter Cherokee officer kept pace with Derrick at the front, the stone-faced, taller one at the back with Charley. Spike, Billy and Rob rode in between.
It wasn’t more than three-quarters of a mile until they reached the lighthorse camp. There was a small clearing beside a creek that flowed from a freshwater spring near the river, and they’d gotten a fire burning with a dinner of fish and fry bread going. Two other lighthorsemen and the U.S. Deputy Marshal sat back from the fire, away from the heat.
As they rode in, the shorter Cherokee officer called out a ‘safe’ greeting, and the others stood up, setting their cups and plates on the ground.
The Wolf Creek men dismounted as the lighthorsemen swung down and spoke to the others in Cherokee, one of them translating in English to the deputy marshal. The voice of the translator sounded somehow familiar to Derrick, though the tone was not. But when the man turned to face him, recognition struck, swift and certain.
“Carson?” he said in a disbelieving whisper. “Carson Ridge?”
The translator’s black eyes met Derrick’s.
Derrick took a step toward him, then another. “My God, I can’t believe—”
“I thought I’d never see you—”
They both broke off, but Ridge closed the few steps between them and put his hands on Derrick’s shoulders. A broad grin crossed his face.
“Welcome, brother. You are welcome.”
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Spike asked Charley from where they stood to the side of the two men.
****
Charley suppressed a smile at the shock that was evident on Derrick’s features. Obviously, the McCain family’s move to Kansas hadn’t been totally motivated by politics. When Derrick and Ridge stood together, even in the flickering light and shadows cast by the distant fire, there was no doubt they shared the same blood. Andrew McCain wasn’t Derrick’s father. McCain wasn’t even rightly Derrick’s name. McCain and Ridge may have had different mothers, Charley thought, but they’d damn sure had the same father.
“Brother,” Ridge had called Derrick. He’d known, all along. But by the look of shock on Derrick’s face, he’d just found something he’d never known he had. Another brother.
And Charley envied him that unexpected gift.
****
They all ate hungrily, Billy and Rob both having their first taste of fry bread. Rob declared it one of the best foods God had ever created.
“God and the Cherokee,” Carson corrected teasingly.
“I might have to take exception,” Charley said with a laugh. “My mother made the best fry bread, bar none. But she was Seminole.”
“Good food, no matter who started it,” Spike said.
U. S. Deputy Marshal Atley Goodson, who was riding with the lighthorsemen, was someone that Derrick had taken an instant liking to. He was just an “honorary lighthorseman” this trip out, he told them, with a somber wink at Carson.
“What he’s saying is,” Carson explained with a grin, “he’s riding along to be sure that when we catch up to the man we’re after, we don’t mete out justice if it’s not warranted.”
“Meaning?” Charley questioned.
“We’re after a man who raped a Cherokee girl a week ago. We know who we’re after.”
“But, we don’t know he’s guilty, Ridge,” Goodson said calmly, “or whose jurisdiction he’s really under.”
“He’s Cherokee, Marshal.”
Goodson chuckled. “Well, I’m sure when we catch up to him, one sight of you boys and he’ll be shouting his white blood to Glory.”
Goodson cocked his head. “I’m not sayin’ he’s not. Just not sayin’ he is.”
“Gotta be one or the other,” the stone-faced officer spoke up.
“Not necessarily,” Carson murmured quietly, his eyes on Derrick. “Not necessarily.”
“What’s the penalty for rape?” Spike asked,
“First offense, fifty lashes and losing the left ear. Second offense, a hundred lashes and losing the right ear,” the short officer responded.
Spike gave a slow grin. “Well, I hate to ask, but bein’ all out of ears, what if there’s a third offense?”
“Then, he would lose his life,” Carson said. “But in this case, the woman he raped has already forfeited hers. She drowned herself two days after he attacked her. So, this being his first offense, he’ll come out ahead, it seems, no matter what. Even with fifty lashes and no left ear, he will keep his life.”
“If he’s Cherokee,” Goodson maintained doggedly.
“And if he’s white?” Billy asked.
“Then he won’t be losing body parts or skin,” Goodson responded affably. “Only his freedom.”
A few moments passed, and Billy, Spike and Rob rose one by one to turn in. Goodson and the quiet officer who had not spoken all evening left the clearing to keep watch until midnight when they would awaken the men who would relieve them.
Charley and the other two Cherokee officers played a game of dice, drinking a last cup of very strong coffee before turning in.
Derrick had been waiting for the chance to talk to Carson privately. He stood up and walked over to where his friend sat on a flat rock. So many years had passed. He and Carson had been friends, those first ten years of their lives, born within a week of one another. When Derrick’s father had announced he was moving their family to Kansas, Derrick had thought he wouldn’t be able to bear losing Carson.
But the days had slid into weeks, months rolled into years. His life in Indian Territory seemed far away, as they’d made a new life in Wolf Creek. And then, the War had come, robbing him of his father, his brothers and his self-worth, eventually.
