by Ford Fargo
If the shooting hadn’t all but stopped, the others couldn’t have heard the thin, reedy voice.
“Clark! Run! Get out of here—”
Derrick looked at Charley, then back at Frank Davis.
“You, I done, McCain. Blasted you to…to hell…and here you are—still alive.” Davis’ mouth twisted in pain, but Derrick couldn’t miss the smirk as well. His jaw tensed at that. Seemed Charley and he neither one was going to get the full satisfaction of what they wanted to do to Davis. He was nearly gone.
Davis’eyes sought Charley’s “What you said…I didn’t…never carried no sword…”
“Then who? Who?” Charley shook him, hard, but Davis smiled as he took his last breath, safe in the knowledge that his secret was still untold.
“It was him,” Charley muttered, sitting back on his heels. “I don’t care what he said—”
“No,” Derrick said quietly. “No.” He began to rifle the dead man’s pockets. There may be something, he thought. Davis wouldn’t have lied about Sango Chedakis, he didn’t think—there was something in the dying man’s face that made Derrick believe him. ‘Clark,’ Davis had called. A warning. His fingers closed around something hard, and he drew it from Davis’ pocket.
A tintype. He turned it over. Two boys stared out at him. Both had light hair and freckles. Both were thin-faced and of nearly the same height. Derrick turned the picture over. Cousins Clark and Frank Davis, someone had penciled on the metal. And beneath that, 1855.
Derrick swore harshly. “Clark.” His voice was filled with self-reproach. He handed the picture to Charley. “Of course. I didn’t think about that. His cousin, Clark—he rode with us, and he was there that day. I don’t think he had been with us for long, so I plumb forgot about him. And now I think on it, I remember—Frank never did carry a saber, he always used a big Bowie knife. Same one that’s on his belt now, I reckon. They resemble each other enough—it wasn’t Frank, Charley. It had to be his cousin that killed your friend’s boy. You didn’t see them both together, and it all happened mighty fast.”
“Damn it!”
The other Wolf Creek men were coming out to meet Sheriff Satterlee as he made his way down the mountainside, stopping now and again to make sure each one of Danby’s men that had been shot was dead. He took a minute when he reached Danby’s body to kick him in the ribs. There was no response. A grin spread across his weathered face. “Burn in hell you son of a bitch,” he said savagely.
“Amen to that!” Goodson agreed from a few yards away.
Charley rose swiftly, scanning the woods around them, but there was no sign of any live captives. “Maybe Satterlee got him,” he muttered, starting toward the sheriff. A low groan of pain escaped him as he took a step, the second step slower than the first.
Derrick stood up and followed him, the two of them reaching a break in the cover of the thick brush and trees just in time to see a flash of brightly-colored red shirt tail flapping in the breeze atop a gray mount. The blur of color disappeared over a distant ridge. Charley let go a curse and stumbled forward, but Derrick caught him and held on. “Let him go, Charley.”
“What the hell?”
“Look at you! You’re shot.”
Charley looked down as if just realizing he’d been wounded. Blood flowed freely from a tear in his pants, two inches above his right kneecap. “Damn it! He’s getting away!”
Derrick shook his head. “He’s gone, Charley. And none of us is in much shape to go after him—especially not so close to Demon’s Drop as we are.”
He’d gotten the salve for his own open wound of vengeance he’d carried so long, Derrick thought. Jim Danby was dead, just as he’d vowed he would be, and Frank Davis too. But Charley Blackfeather’s healing would have to wait.
****
Spike Sweeney propped Rob Gallagher up under the meager shade of a scrubby brush, resting his head on a stone. The young man whimpered when the blacksmith jostled him.
A forced smile appeared on Rob’s wan face. “I reckon I’m done for,” he said weakly. “I never expected to make it this far, to tell the truth.”
Sweeney ripped his own bandanna in half and shoved one part of it into Rob’s wound as makeshift packing. “Talk like that don’t do anybody no good,” Spike said gruffly. Then, in a gentler tone, he added, “You’ll be back at that general store slingin’ flour sacks around in no time.”
Spike wet the other half of the bandanna sparingly with water from his own canteen and used it to dab the sweat from Rob’s pale face.
“I’m ashamed, Spike,” the younger man said.
“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, son,” the blacksmith said. “You’ve done good. We’ll make sure everybody back in town knows what a hellcat you’ve been, and when they see you in the street they’ll tip their hat and call you sir. Gettin’ shot like this, it’s just bad luck. No shame at all.”
“I don’t mean that,” Rob said. “I’m ashamed of the way I treated you, and the things I said.”
“It was just words, son.”
Rob closed his eyes as a wave of pain washed over him. When he opened them again they were tinged with agonized tears. Spike took off his gray kepi and placed it on Rob’s head—he had lost his hat—to shade his eyes from the sun.
“My pa was an abolitionist,” Rob said weakly. “He brought us down here from Ohio when I was a little kid. Him and my uncles fought with John Brown at Osawatomie. When I was eleven some Rebs shot him down in the field where we was workin’.”
“A lot of bad things happened back then,” Spike said, “on both sides. I understand how somethin’ like that can color your outlook.”
“I think that’s why I fought so hard, so much harder than I knew I could, back yonder at the ambush. Those outlaws was the same kind of people that killed my pa—and so was you. At least that’s what I thought. But you ain’t like them, I was wrong.”
“You hush now, Mister Gallagher,” Spike said kindly. “Save your breath, and don’t worry none about them things. Bygones is gone by, my father used to say. You just rest.”
Rob closed his eyes, and soon was unconscious. Spike feared he was dead at first. Then the blacksmith realized someone was standing over him—it was Derrick McCain.
“How is he?” Derrick asked.
“Not good,” Spike answered shortly. He drew a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Not much I could do for him under the circumstances. We need to round up our animals and hightail it back to the nearest doc.”
“That would be in Tahlequah—a good two-day ride from here.”
“He won’t make it,” Spike said.
“No.”
Just then, Sheriff Satterlee and Billy made their way over.
“Sheriff.” Spike nodded at Satterlee. “It sure as hell is good to see you.”
Satterlee grinned. “You boys got yourselves into a jam. Wouldn’t be right for me not to come help you out of it.”
“What happened?” Billy asked. “We thought you were back in Wolf Creek.”
Satterlee squatted beside Rob, giving a cursory glance to the temporary bandage. He shook his head. “I got to thinkin’ ’bout ridin’ back to Wolf Creek. I’m a law man. Here y’all were, trackin’ down these sonsabitches, and me goin’ home. Couldn’t do it. I had to turn around and come back to help. Been trailin’ you now for days, but I just couldn’t push my horse any harder in this heat.”
“It all worked out,” Marshal Goodson put in as he approached the others. “I kept an eye on this bunch until you came back to claim ‘em” He stuck his hand out. “U.S. Deputy Marshal Atley Goodson.”
“Sheriff George Washington Satterlee. Much obliged.” Satterlee’s expression became serious again as he looked down at Rob. “We need to figure out what’s best for him. Where’s the nearest town?”
“Tahlequah,” Derrick answered. “Too far.”
“There’s a place a few miles east of here,” Goodson said thoughtfully. “Tamaha. Not big, but close. And there
may be someone there he can stay with ’til he’s well enough to ride. They’re good people over there.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Billy volunteered.
“No,” Spike said. “I’ll stay.”
Derrick and Satterlee exchanged a questioning glance.
“You, Spike?” Satterlee asked incredulously. “Thought there wasn’t any love lost between you two. It’s no secret y’all fought on opposite sides—”
Spike gave a faint smile. “Rob never fought in no War, G. W. He was just a boy. Too young. I reckon all of us can stand to learn a thing or two. I understand some things about Mister Gallagher I didn’t know before.”
“Such as?” Billy asked.
But Spike shook his head. “He’ll tell you someday, maybe. I will say this—anybody who’s seen his father killed in cold blood by vigilantes from the ‘other side’ has a right to hate. And sometimes, it takes a long, long time to see that all men aren’t alike. There’s good and bad on both sides, gray and blue.” He looked around the group. “And I know there’s more’n one of us that’s thought like that, had the same type of thing happen in their own families. I just hope some day we can get over all that’s happened in the past during that godawful war, and afterward.” He paused. “Today is my day, I guess.” He looked down at Rob, a wry smile touching his lips. “He’ll never believe he wore my cap.”
Satterlee snorted. “He’ll never believe you’re the one who saved him.”
Spike nodded and met Satterlee’s amused expression. “He’ll believe, all right. Once I get a chance to talk to him.”
Charley limped toward them, leading his and Derrick’s mounts. “You comin’ with me?”
“Now, hold up a minute, Charley,” Spike said. “Looks like you’re wantin’ to go on after the one that got away. We’ve gotta get Gallagher, here, to a doc. That’s gotta be the priority—not chasin’ that damn owlhoot farther up into the mountains.” He glanced past Charley toward the steep, rocky trail that let into dense cover.
“Not askin’ you to string along with me, Sweeney,” Charley replied curtly. “You want to see to Gallagher, go on.” He glanced at Derrick again. “Comin’, McCain?”
Before Derrick could reply, Sheriff Satterlee said, “No, he ain’t. An’ neither are you. We’re gonna get this wounded man to help, before Danby’s man that escaped can get back to their hideout and bring hell down on us. For all we know they’ve got more men waiting there.”
“’Fraid I have to agree, Blackfeather,” Goodson spoke up. “I’m going to have to accompany y’all over to Tamaha to get this man some medical help.” He nodded at Charley’s bloody leg. “Looks like you could use tendin’ yourself.”
“All I need, Marshal, is a hank of red hair on my coup stick. That’d be the best medicine I could get. You don’t need all of us to go see that Gallagher gets treated. I’m after Davis.”
Sheriff Satterlee’s expression had softened. “I gather you know that bastard and have some history with him. I can sympathize with that. The fact is, though, Jim Danby hit our town with a small army—and we’ve sent almost the whole bunch to hell where they belong. That’s a pretty good job of work. It’s a shame that one got away, but there’ll be other days.”
Goodson gave the Seminole a slow smile. “Don’t put me agin’ you, Blackfeather. I’m on your side. But I’ve never figured out how to be two places at once. I can’t ride with you and McCain and show these men where to take Gallagher, here. And right now, Gallagher needs me more than you need your all-fired vengeance.”
“I don’t need you, Marshal Goodson,” Charley replied evenly.
“Yes, you do. I won’t tolerate vigilantes down here in my territory. It’s lawless enough as it is, with less than two hundred of us marshals at any given time to see to it. And right now, like I say, I can’t be in two places at once. Once we get Gallagher seen to, I’ll be glad for your help—as a deputized member of a legal posse. That might be a few days. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make a record of these dead men’s names, best I can figure, and see about rounding up the other horses.” Goodson turned away, the subject closed.
Charley’s face was impassive, but his eyes glittered with anger and determination.
“Charley, he’s right,” Derrick said with a sigh. He reached for the reins that Charley held in his left hand. “We’re tired, the horses are exhausted and Gallagher’s gotta have a doc or he’s not gonna make it. You need one, yourself. Look at you—you’re barely standin’ on that leg.”
“Well, you sure changed your tune, McCain. Ready to quit and go home. But there’s still one of ‘em out there. The one I want. And I ain’t ridin’ over to Tamaha to get this lead dug out. I’ll do it my own self.”
Derrick shook his head. “Damn stubborn mule. There’ll be another time. I’ll come back with you.”
Charley gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Thanks. For nothin’. By now, he’s gone, for sure. Probably sittin’ up there with a bunch of other bastards at Demon’s Drop where he knows damn well we can’t get to him.”
Derrick remained silent for a long moment, his gaze holding Charley’s. “That’s right, Charley. He may already be there, or near enough to where we’d do nothin’ but get our own selves killed by whoever else is up there. You’re in no shape to go after anyone right now. I’m not ready to die today. Are you?”
He put his hand on Charley’s shoulder as the Seminole started to turn away, then slipped his shoulder under Charley’s arm as he faltered from the weakened leg. “Charley—remember that night when we talked. You said you were gonna be watching me. You talked about balance. Well, that’s what I’m askin’ you for right now. Balance. We got to weigh the good against the bad. The right of goin’ on after this other Davis against the wrong of not seein’ to our own wounded, our own horseflesh—our own selves.”
Charley watched Derrick now, listening, but still ready to turn away at a moment’s notice, though he leaned heavily on Derrick now.
Derrick continued quickly. Charley’s weight let Derrick know his ability to stand was waning, fast. “We can’t let Gallagher die out here so you and I can go off after vengeance for something that happened six years ago. This is what I learned from the War, Charley. The minute I turned against Danby and defended you, refused to do his bidding, I became a man again. Just a man. No blue or gray. No black, or white, or even red. So, I’m asking you today, to come back to Wolf Creek with the rest of us. Let’s see to our own. Let’s patch up their wounds and the rips in our own hearts and souls that never seem to quit trickling our life’s blood, no matter how many years pass. Don’t let that damned war steal the rest of your life, Charley.”
“I’ll never put it behind me until I see that bastard dead. I have to see it done before I die, McCain.”
Derrick put up a hand. “All right. Come home and heal a little first. We’re all only men. We all have a breaking point.” He hesitated. “I promise you, in a few weeks, we’ll head back this way, and I’ll help you track Clark Davis down.” He reached to pull his bandanna from his pocket, motioning Charley to the ground. “Let’s at least tie up your leg and get the bleedin’ stopped.”
“The trail will be cold,” Charley said doggedly, lowering himself to sit on the parched earth. But he stretched his leg out with a grimace, and Derrick encircled it with his bandanna. “We’re so close now!”
“Derrick’s right, Charley,” Satterlee spoke up. “We don’t want to lose any more good men going after one bad one. We’re out of our jurisdiction now, anyhow.”
Charley snorted. “I don’t give a damn about jurisdiction. He killed Sango! That boy was under my protection. Don’t you understand?”
“Reckon I do,” Satterlee said. “But I know this, too. We’ve all lost a brother, father—someone in this War and what came after in these years past. I know your two boys were killed. And I know this Sango was like kin to you. We do understand—all of us. You ain’t the only one, you know. Hell, we have four good men in shallow gr
aves back yonder, not to mention Haskins and his wife, that are still waitin’ on a proper burial, one of ‘em my best friend.” Satterlee turned away to leave Derrick to finish tying up Charley’s wound. The sheriff shook his head as he walked toward where Goodson and Billy were hoisting Rob Gallagher up into the saddle in front of Spike Sweeney on Sweeney’s horse, hurrying to put a supporting hand to Rob’s side.
Charley’s gaze followed the sheriff to where they worked to get the wounded man in position. “Guess we can’t leave him to bleed to death,” he muttered.
“Or you, either, you damn stubborn Indian.” Derrick muttered as he stood up.
“There’s been enough blood on this trail we’ve followed to last me a lifetime,” Charley said roughly, “…after I see Clark Davis dead.”
“I’ll help you, Charley. That’s a promise.”
Charley threw him a sidelong look as Derrick put a hand out to pull him up. “Seems you found something on this journey you didn’t know you had.”
“What’s that?” Derrick stood close by as Charley tested his leg to see if it would bear his weight.
“A brother, Cherokee.”
Derrick laughed. “Not just Carson, Charley. After what you and I have been through, I consider you a brother of sorts, too.”
Charley turned away to hide his smile. “You and me? A Seminole and a Cherokee?”
Derrick glanced up the mountainside toward where Marshal Goodson stood. “Now you’re talkin’. You didn’t mention my white half or your black half, my gray or your blue.”
After a minute, Charley said, “They say we both come from one of the five ‘Civilized Tribes.’”
Thunder rolled in the near distance, the summer storm that Charley had predicted on the way. The wind had picked up.
Derrick looked around the group. Spike Sweeney, carefully holding Rob Gallagher’s body against him as they waited for the others to mount up. Rob, the first one hit in the firefight in spite of his arsenal of weaponry and his diligent practice. Young Billy Below, who stood, expertly securing the string of horses—including the one carrying the money from the Wolf Creek Savings & Loan—in preparation for the long ride back. Sheriff G.W. Satterlee, who had tossed the rules of the law he loved so much to the wind and soothed his conscience by returning to help them, maybe making the difference between their success or their deaths. Deputy Marshal Goodson, who had thrown in with them in his own need to keep things legal and had lent his support to their cause. And Charley Blackfeather, whose friendship had, as far as Derrick was concerned, turned out to be almost the biggest surprise of all—aside from learning the truth about his own family. They’d done what they set out to do—fought back for their town and shown Danby and others like him that Wolf Creek took care of its own. They’d recovered the money in the process; though that had not been the reason they’d come together as they had, men of all blood, who just a few years ago would have killed each other for wearing gray or blue. They’d lost much, Derrick thought, the citizens of Wolf Creek. But look at what we’ve gained. And now, it was over—but life would never be the same in their town.
