Bloody Trail

by Ford Fargo

  Now…he stood over Carson, looking into his upturned face. To be reunited with a friend, and to gain a brother as well… He’d never even suspected, but the resemblance between the two of them was undeniable proof in itself.

  If what Carson said was true, if they were brothers, that meant…his father had never been his father. The man whose death he’d felt he had to avenge, had committed acts to do so that still kept him awake at night, had been no blood relation to him at all. The lifelong teasing from his older brothers had also been true. He had been ‘different’ and they’d never missed a chance to tell him so.

  His mother…his thoughts turned to her, and Carson must have immediately seen it in his expression.

  “Come sit. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Lotta years—” Derrick sat on the ground beside Carson, just within the fire’s far-reaching glow.

  “I know, Derrick. But it doesn’t change the past—what happened between our father, and our two mothers.” He stopped and extended his arms, as if encompassing the world. “And the end result.”

  “Your father—”

  “No. Our father.” Carson’s gaze bored into Derrick’s. “He was in love with your mother, Derrick. He told me so. And she was in love with him. But they both had other…obligations. So, when it began to become obvious to others what had happened, your mother’s husband seized the political issues in Kansas as a reason to move your family north.”

  Derrick was silent. He couldn’t help but think of the way his father had treated him over the course of his lifetime. “Different.” Even “cruel.” His mother had intervened time and again until he’d asked her to stop. Now, it made sense. Now he understood everything.

  And he was going to tell her so as soon as he got back to Wolf Creek.

  “Convenient for him,” Derrick said bitterly. “And if it hadn’t been for us running into you here, I guess you and I never would have been reunited. And I never would have known the truth.” He fell silent a moment. “Moving to Kansas cost him his life. The Jayhawkers killed him.”

  “I’m sorry, Derrick. I thought you did know, by now—about us. I never thought your mother wouldn’t tell you. I just believed you knew about me, but didn’t want to acknowledge—” His voice trailed away.

  “My Cherokee blood?” Thoughts of Charley’s earlier remarks and his unreasoning anger at them washed over him.

  Carson nodded. “That, and—your ‘other brother.’”

  “No.” Derrick’s voice was quiet. “I don’t know why she didn’t tell me. Especially now that—her husband is gone.”

  “She must’ve had her reasons.”

  “Where are you now?” Derrick asked, changing the subject.

  “I moved up to Tahlequah last year.” A smile crossed Carson’s face. “Do you remember Jackson Ellis, our cousin?”

  Derrick grinned. “Little ‘tag along’?”

  “He’s Deputy Sheriff over Tahlequah District now.”

  “He’s just a kid!”

  “Twenty-two. He was appointed last year.”

  Derrick shook his head. The years had somehow come and gone more quickly than he’d realized. “I can’t believe it. Seems like we all had to grow up fast, doesn’t it?”

  “Too fast. When will you be heading out?”

  There was an urgency in Carson’s tone that Derrick didn’t mistake. He understood the question beneath the question.

  “First light. But Carson, I’ll be back. Soon as we wrap this up tight, I’ll be back. We’ve got lots of catching up to do.”

  Carson nodded. “Tahlequah. If I’m not there, find Jackson.” His voice was low and warm. “You were not forgotten among our people, Derrick. There is still a place for you.”

  ****

  Just as the sky began to turn gray, Derrick strapped the last of his gear in place and said a final goodbye to his brother. He was surprised to see Marshal Goodson walking toward where the five Wolf Creek men had gathered.

  “Mind if I ride along with y’all?”

  Derrick had wondered how Goodson would handle the issue of a vigilante posse that had crossed into his jurisdiction. Now, he knew. He shot a quick look at Spike.

  “Reckon we can always use an extra gun, Marshal,” Charley said. “Be glad to have you.”

  Goodson nodded. “Figure we’ll kill two birds with one stone. You’ll get an extra gun and I’ll keep y’all legal. I can see by the looks of you men you ain’t goin’ home ’til we see this done. This way, we can all have what we want. We’ll get rid of this scum and do the world a favor. I don’t want ‘em in my territory any more than y’all want ‘em back in Kansas.”

  “’Preciate your honesty, Marshal,” Spike put in.

  “And your gun,” Billy added with a grin.

  “Let’s get after it, then.” Derrick turned his horse southward, with a final goodbye salute to the Cherokee officers.

  ****

  They reached the foothills of the San Bois Mountains by mid-afternoon that day. The terrain was rough and wild—and dry as Derrick could ever remember having seen it. But there was a heaviness to the air that more than hinted at the promise of rain.

  They were closing the distance on Danby’s men. Though Derrick knew where their Demon’s Drop hideout was, they rode with caution. Charley had mentioned he didn’t think Danby’s outfit knew they were still being followed, and it made sense that they’d believe the Kansans would not have pursued them this deeply into Indian Territory. As arrogant as they were, at this point, and so close to safety, pursuit wouldn’t be at the forefront of their minds. They were probably already figuring how they’d spend the money they’d stolen. But still, Derrick didn’t want to take any chances.

  Charley had told Derrick something else as they’d ridden side by side earlier that morning.

  “When the shootin’ starts, McCain, you can set your sights on any of ‘em ’cept that tall, lanky redheaded bastard.”

  “Frank Davis?”

  “Yep. I know him by name for a special reason. An’ like I say, he’s all mine.”

  Derrick had thrown him a sidelong glance. “Care to tell me why?”

  “Be glad to. The son of a bitch killed my brother’s son.”

  Though Charley’s tone was as calm as if he were discussing the weather, Derrick understood that it was Charley’s way of being able to talk about something so deep.

  “Cudjoe wasn’t really my brother by blood, but we’d grown up together, and we was of a close age, though he was a bit older. Never let me forget it, either.” His voice softened as he remembered. “Got into all kinds of scrapes, we did. Fought the U.S. Marines together in the Everglades. When my father was killed in what white folks called the Second Seminole War, Cudjoe took me in and watched over me.” Charley gave a faint smile at the memories. “But after Osceola got taken and we got captured and ended up in these parts, him and my boys was killed in the fighting when we joined with Opothleyahola and broke for Kansas.

  “I took his son, Sango, to live with me. We were with the Union forces at Centralia. That red headed bastard killed Sango. Cut off his head with a sword.” Charley met Derrick’s eyes, a questioning there that Derrick had to answer.

  Derrick shook his head. “I know those things happened on both sides. But I didn’t ever cut any man’s head off, myself. Just like I never skinned any man alive.” He gave a decisive nod “That wasn’t my way. And you know that’s true. I had held back at Centralia, I wasn’t in the thick of it when you Yankees came charging in to the rescue, so I don’t know what all happened there. But I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Charley seemed to be sizing him up again, trying to look into his mind. Finally, when Derrick thought the subject was closed, Charley spoke again.

  “It ain’t just Sango’s death I’m after him for. He was one of the ones shootin’ at me and the other survivors, McCain. Just a little bit later, when your men—”

  “Not my men,” Derrick corrected hotly, tired of Charley’s assumptions, si
ck of this talk of the War. “Remember, I got shot and was left for dead that day, same as you did.”

  Charley nodded, took a few seconds to form his answer.

  “Yes. We was both left for dead that day, McCain. But Sango was mine to watch over and keep safe. I didn’t do that. I failed, and he was cut down by Davis. He was young. Hadn’t even seen sixteen summers yet. It was just a few minutes later when you and me met, if you can call it that. And just before we broke for it and they shot us, I recognized that bastard. I heard Danby call him Davis. I aim to kill him for what he did, and if I’ve got time, I plan to make it slow and hard on him.”

  It seemed to Derrick that Charley’s dark face twisted briefly in emotion, although it may have been a trick of the light. “I couldn’t avenge my sons. I never even seen them fall. But Sango, I seen who killed him. And I can be the blood avenger on that red-headed son of a bitch.”

  Derrick flexed his hand around the reins he held. “Well, fact is, I want him, too.” He figured he might as well just let Charley know where he stood. “Davis was the one who shot me that day.” His hand moved quickly across his chest, and Charley gave him a quick glance. “Today, I’ll see him and raise. He’s goin’ home dead.”

  “Seems we both have old wounds to heal, and both need the same remedy. Which one of us will get it, I wonder?”

  Derrick glanced back at the other four men. “Whichever one of us sees him first, I reckon. He’ll be stiff before tomorrow, either way.”

  ****

  “Hey,” Billy called.

  “Fool kid,” Charley growled, stopping to wait for Billy and the others to catch up to them.

  Derrick grinned, drawing up, too.

  “How much farther is this hideout?” Rob asked. “Got any idea?”

  Spike looked around them, his head turning as he quartered their surroundings. The going had gotten rougher as the hilly trails became steeper, the horses’ footing trickier.

  Charley glanced at the sky. “Plenty of daylight left. And I’m betting we’ll catch ‘em in the next hour, maybe two.”

  Rob took a deep breath. “I’m ready to get this over with.”

  “So are we all,” Spike said, resettling his kepi on his head.

  Rob gave Spike a disgusted look, but didn’t say anything more.

  “We’re not far off, now,” Deputy Marshal Goodson said. “But we’re not equipped to follow them much farther. Once they get holed up in these mountains—”

  “Well, I ain’t afraid of ‘em,” Rob said quickly. “Bunch of bastards. Ridin’ in and doin’ what they did—”

  “You’d better be afraid, son,” the marshal responded. “If they’ve done what you say, and if they’re part of Danby’s riders, they’re a force to be reckoned with. I hope you live through this. You’re young. Maybe, comin’ out on the other side of what we’re facing will allow you some—understanding.”

  Billy and Rob had both been too young to march off to war, Derrick thought. Neither of them were afraid…yet. But the fact was, there was only one way up this mountain that wouldn’t take more time than they had before Danby’s men got too far ahead of them to catch. He saw the look that passed between Spike and the marshal. They’d be damn lucky to ride back to Kansas, all of them, without leaving any of their group dead. He turned his horse back toward the trail, and they started off again in the stifling heat.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The first bullet whined past Derrick’s head, catching Rob low in the right side. The impact knocked him from the saddle. The sudden, ferocious pain as the lead tracked through his flesh, into his body, surprised him, and he yelled as he fell. The breath rushed out of him as he hit the ground.

  “Take cover!” Goodson called out, but his order was unnecessary. The others were off their horses, scrambling for the brush as bullets sang around them, kicking up dust and chipping rock.

  As Derrick hit the ground he pulled his rifle from his saddle scabbard, snagging his canteen in the same motion. In spite of their circumstances, he had to smile, and in the next instant utter a curse. By the weight of it, it was half-empty—again.

  He looked around from where he’d taken cover behind a raised outcropping of rock. He couldn’t see any of the others except Charley, who’d been riding close to him when the lead had begun to fly. He crouched to Derrick’s left.

  Charley was looking at something over Derrick’s head, and when Derrick looked up the trail on the left side, he saw the top of a light-colored straw hat.

  Charley raised the scarred Yellowboy carefully, sighting down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The hat disappeared, and a sharp cry of pain came from the same area where the man had been.

  A frenzied volley of bullets erupted from the outlaws’ guns. Derrick waited, careful about his shots. In the shimmering heat of the rocks and crevasses of these mountains, it was difficult to see. He only hoped the Wolf Creek posse was hidden from sight as well as Danby’s men were. He reached up to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. In the distance, he could hear Rob whimper. Derrick knew that sound well. When he glanced at Charley, the black man shook his head.

  “I hoped to God I wouldn’t be hearin’ that today,” Charley muttered.

  “Who’s with him? Can you see?”

  “Looked to me like Sweeney was helpin’ him, last I saw. They was riding close.”

  “Goodson? Marshal Goodson! Is that you?” a voice called from near the brush where Charley had shot earlier. It wasn’t the man he’d hit, Derrick felt certain. The way he’d cried out was also a familiar sound—the sound of a man being mortally wounded, and realizing it the moment before he died.

  “You bet your sweet runnin’ scared ass it’s me!” Goodson replied from a few feet behind where Charley and Derrick squatted. “Who’m I talkin’ to?”

  “Reckon I’m the leader of this outfit, Marshal. Jim Danby.”

  “Well, Danby, I’ve brought some help with me, and we’re prepared to take you in—see that y’all get a fair trial.”

  Danby laughed. “How ’bout we ride on our separate ways? You all mosey on back north, and we’ll go on up into these here mountains. We’ll maybe tangle another time. Right now, we’ve got us some money to divvy up and figure out how to spend. And we want to thank all the good people of Wolf Creek kindly for that.”

  “Don’t be so hasty, Danby. Some of those ‘good people’ have ridden a long way to see you brought to justice—one way or the other. How many men do you have?”

  “Enough,” came the curt reply. “An’ I do believe I seen one of my men in your midst earlier. How you doin’ Derrick? Last I saw of your sorry ass, you was bleedin’ like you was gonna die.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t, Jim,” Derrick answered.

  “My mistake. I should of done it myself instead of givin’ it to Davis to do. Maybe we can fix that today.”

  “I don’t plan on that, Danby,” Derrick responded. He glanced at Charley. “I wish to hell we could get around back of them,” he told the scout.

  “I don’t see how,” Charley said softly. “They know where we are, even how many of us there are—”

  “Once it gets dark, it’s all over.”

  Charley nodded.

  They were truly at a standoff. For the Wolf Creek men to make a move directly up the trail would be suicide. Going around from this point, would be impossible due to the lack of cover. Danby’s men held the advantage of having the higher ground.

  Just then, the sound of a scuffle behind an outcropping of shale sounded at about the point where Danby’s voice had come from. Charley and Derrick looked at one another.

  “What the hell?” Derrick muttered.

  In the next instant, a shot rang out and Danby gave a startled yelp, then fell out into the open from behind the scrub brush where he’d been concealed. His body rolled a few feet and then came to a stop, sightless eyes staring heavenward, a fountain of red bubbling out from his chambray shirt to stain the rocky ground beneath him.

  “That’s for Wolf
Creek, you son of a bitch!”

  “Satterlee,” Derrick breathed.

  Charley’s smile was wide. “Well, let’s give him some help!”

  Satterlee’s repeater was already blazing from his vantage point, forcing some of Danby’s men to have to choose death at his hands or scramble for better cover, coming out into the open as they ran.

  Goodson’s Henry and Sweeney’s Austrian joined the blasts of Derrick and Charley’s to lay down a deadly barrage of bullets.

  Suddenly, one of the outlaws stood up from where he’d been hiding—no more than thirty feet from where Sweeney and Gallagher had taken cover.

  Blood covered his chest and trickled from his mouth. He pitched forward onto the ground, a surprised look on his face. His hat fell beside him, revealing a head of red hair. Derrick and Charley were both instantly on their feet, running toward him. They pulled him back into the shelter of the bush, where only Sheriff Satterlee was behind them.

  “You bastard!” Charley exploded. He quickly drew his long blade from its sheath, and Davis’s eyes widened in fear. “I’ve got you. An’ I been waitin’ on this day a long, long time. Remember Centralia? You cut down a black boy—though I’m sure you never gave it another thought. Last I saw of you, you was ridin’ off, laughin’ and wipin’ that Reb sword of yours clean of his blood.”

  Charley put his knife close to the man’s head, grabbing a handful of his hair, his intention clear.

  “No!” Davis yelled. “I’m dyin’!”

  “Yeah. You sure as hell are. This is for every murder you ever did in this life, Davis, but mostly for Sango Chedakis at Centralia.”

  “I never did that…I wasn’t…there…”

  “Yes, you did. I saw you. Now,” Charley looked at his blade, then held it up to gleam in the sun, “it’s your turn. ’Course, it won’t be as clean as what you did—with a sword. And it’ll take a mite longer.” He bared his teeth at Davis. “You’ll have a while to feel it, Davis. Every second of it.”

  “That—that wasn’t me!” Davis spat blood, then swallowed. “Clark?” he called.