Ralph Compton Brother's Keeper

by Ralph Compton

  “Oh Lordy,” Ned said, tugging on his own rifle. “I ain’t ever done any Injun fightin’.”

  “Who of us has?” Crawford said. He too was shucking his rifle. He also had the Henry and the Spencer they’d taken from Vernon and Cleve wrapped in his bedroll.

  Jesse Lee left his rifle on his horse and moved out in front of them with his hand on his Colt. “Let them come. I’ll pit my lead against their arrows any day of the week.”

  “That’s foolish talk, pard,” Crawford said.

  The Indians approached warily, spreading as they came so they were two or three deep. Those in front had rifles, those behind bows or lances. Except for the one who was bare-chested, they all wore buckskin shirts, leggings, and moccasins. A few had feathers in their hair. A remarkable exception was a stocky warrior who wore a stovepipe hat.

  “Which tribe are they?” Ned wondered.

  “Beats me,” Thal said. He couldn’t tell one from another. Especially when so many wore their hair pretty much the same, and there wasn’t that much difference in their clothes and their moccasins.

  “A scout told me once that he could tell by their faces, but I haven’t seen enough Indians to do that,” Crawford said.

  “I make it to be twenty-three,” Jesse Lee said.

  “More than enough to wipe us out,” Ned said.

  “And you called my pard a wet blanket?” Jesse Lee replied.

  “Steady,” Crawford said. “One thing I do know is that you can’t show you’re afraid.”

  “Who’s afraid?” Jesse Lee said.

  The warriors slowed and finally came to a halt about forty yards out. They talked among themselves and the stocky man in the stovepipe hat jabbed his heels against his pinto and advanced alone.

  “What’s he up to?” Ned said worriedly.

  “No shootin’,” Crawford advised. “Not unless they do.”

  Thal was trying to tell if the Indians were friendly or not by their expressions. “I don’t see any war paint. Could be it’s a huntin’ party and not a war party.”

  The warrior in the stovepipe hat came within twenty yards and reined to the right. At a slow walk he circled and studied them, never once attempting to use the rifle he held, the stock resting on his thigh.

  “That’s an old Sharps,” Crawford said. “See the brass tacks in the butt? Injuns like to decorate their guns thataway.”

  “It’s only a single-shot,” Jesse Lee said.

  “All it takes is one,” Crawford said. “A Sharps can blow a hole in you as big around as a dinner plate.”

  The warrior made a complete circuit and drew rein. He placed the Sharps across his legs, then held his right hand level with his throat, his palm toward them. Extending his first and second fingers, he raised his hand as high as his face.

  “What the blazes is he doin’?” Jesse Lee said.

  “Unless I miss my guess, it’s sign language,” Crawford said.

  “What did he say?” Ned asked.

  “How would I know?” Crawford said. “I don’t speak sign.”

  The warrior stared at them as if waiting for a response. When they didn’t do anything, he raised his right hand to his shoulder, again palm-out but with all his fingers and his thumb splayed, and wriggled his wrist back and forth.

  “What in the world?” Ned said.

  Now the warrior pointed at them, then held both fists close to his chest and made a pushing movement.

  “What was all that?” Ned said.

  “More sign, you simpleton,” Crawford said.

  “The Injun is the simpleton,” Ned said. “If we didn’t savvy his first bit, we sure can’t savvy the rest.”

  “He’s givin’ up,” Thal said.

  Reining around, the warrior returned to the others. More talk ensued, with a lot of gesturing in their direction.

  “If they were hostiles, they’d have attacked by now,” Crawford said.

  “For all you know, they’re leadin’ up to it,” Ned said. “That feller with the hat might have told us to surrender, and now they’re discussin’ how best to wipe us out.”

  “Do you ever look at the bright side of things?” Jesse Lee said.

  “All the time,” Ned said

  “Look!” Crawford exclaimed.

  The Indian in the stovepipe hat was coming back.

  “This is it,” Ned said. “He’ll give a whoop and a holler and the rest will swarm us.”

  “They do, and six of them won’t live to lift our hair,” Jesse Lee said, and coiled as if to draw.

  “Don’t,” Thal said. “Let’s see what he’s up to.” He was inclined to believe, as Crawford did, that the Indians didn’t mean them any harm.

  The one in the hat came to a stop. He acted puzzled more than hostile.

  Thal wondered if perhaps the Indians were wondering what he and his friends were doing so far from anywhere. He racked his brain for a way to demonstrate they were friendly. A brainstorm struck, but he hesitated.

  “Look,” Ned said, pointing. “He’s makin’ that first sign again. Maybe he’s sayin’ he’s hungry.”

  “Why would he do that?” Thal said.

  “I hear Injuns like to eat.”

  “So do we.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  The warrior in the stovepipe was frowning. Apparently he was disappointed in their inability to respond.

  “I wish they’d just ride on,” Ned said.

  Thal made up his mind. “Hold this,” he said, and thrust his Winchester at Ned.

  “What are you doin’?”

  “Watch and see.” Stepping to Crawford’s sorrel and the bedroll, he gripped the Spencer’s stock and carefully slid it out so the hammer wouldn’t catch on the blanket.

  “Are you thinkin’ what I reckon you’re thinkin’?” Crawford said.

  “Why not?” Thal said. He extracted the tubular magazine and emptied it, then worked the lever to be sure there wasn’t a cartridge in the chamber.

  Satisfied, he held the Spencer out in both hands and moved toward the warrior.

  “Oh, pard, no,” Ned said. “He’ll shoot you.”

  Thal tried not to show how nervous he was. He smiled and raised the Spencer higher.

  The warrior didn’t seem to know what to make of it. He glanced over his shoulder at the others, and when several made as if to come to his aid, he yelled something that stopped them. Then he sat and waited.

  “For you,” Thal said as he halted an arm’s length from the pinto. “To show we’re peaceable.”

  The warrior’s eyebrows were trying to meet over his nose.

  “Friends,” Thal said. Moving closer, he held the Spencer higher and indicated the man should take it.

  With a grunt of surprise, the warrior did. He held it in his left hand and examined it, looked down at Thal, and then at the Spencer again.

  “It’s yours,” Thal said, motioning. “A present.”

  “Pres-ent?” the warrior repeated.

  “Yours,” Thal repeated.

  A slow smile spread across the warrior’s face. Placing his Sharps across his thighs, he reached for a bone-handled knife at his hip.

  Thal tensed.

  Drawing the knife, the warrior reversed his grip and offered it to Thal, hilt first. When Thal took it, the warrior said something, smiled wider, and with a rifle in each hand, wheeled the pinto and trotted back to his friends. They crowded close for a gander at the rifle, and then the whole bunch rode off to the north. Several smiled and gave little waves.

  Thal let out a long breath and returned to the others. He acted casual, but he had butterflies in his stomach.

  “That was slick,” Crawford said.

  “It was all I could think of,” Thal said.

  Ned was watching the Indians ride off. �
��First those soddy folks, and now this. I wonder what will happen next.”

  Chapter 11

  Early the next afternoon, as they were crossing a particularly flat stretch of prairie, dark clouds appeared on the horizon. Clouds so dark they were almost black.

  “I don’t like the looks of that,” Crawford said.

  They were riding four abreast, at a walk, so as not to tire their horses any more than they had to.

  “Are you afraid of a thunderstorm?” Jesse Lee teased.

  “Some storms are more than that,” Crawford said. “They can kill you if you’re not careful.”

  Thal had experience with violent thunderstorms. Kansas was prone to more than its share.

  Ned didn’t share their concern. “Let me guess,” he joked. “We’re liable to drown when the water gets up around our toes.”

  Jesse Lee laughed.

  Crawford sighed. “I was young like you two once. I was as dumb as you two too.”

  Now it was Thal who laughed.

  “Here, now, pard,” Jesse Lee said.

  “A storm like that,” Crawford went on, “there will be a lot of lightning, and what does lightning strike most? Tall things. Like trees. Only look around you. Do you see any? You do not. Which means the tallest things on this plain are . . .”

  “Us,” Jesse Lee said.

  Crawford nodded. “Then there’s the wind. It can get so strong, if you face it head-on, you can’t hardly breathe. And the rain can be so heavy, you’ll be soaked to the skin in no time. Sometimes the rain changes to hail. And hail can be the size of apples.” Crawford cocked an eye at Jesse Lee and at Ned. “You two have any notion what hail that big can do to a man? Or his horse? It can cripple you.”

  “You’re exaggeratin’,” Ned grumbled.

  “You’d like to think I am,” Crawford said, and regarded the approaching cloud bank as if it were a wolf about to bite him. “I hope I’m wrong. I hope that’s not the monster I think it is. Because if I’m right, we’re in for trouble, boys, and that’s no lie.”

  Thal was inclined to agree. The cloud bank was so huge, extending miles from south to north, that they couldn’t go around. The best they could do was hunt cover when the rain started, and hope for the best. He mentioned as much.

  “I still say you’re makin’ a fuss over nothin’,” Ned said. “It doesn’t worry me any.”

  “You’re not worried about the storm like you weren’t worried about those Injuns,” Crawford said.

  “That’s me,” Ned said. “Worry-free.”

  Thal didn’t bother to set him straight. He’d learned a long time ago that some people didn’t see themselves as they really were. It was as if when some people looked at themselves, they did so through a clouded mirror.

  Just then the wind picked up. A gust buffeted them so hard it was like a slap to the face.

  “Did you feel that?” Jesse Lee said.

  “I’d have to be dead not to,” Crawford said.

  Thal searched for cover. There had to be a dry wash or a gully, or something. They went another half a mile and then a mile, and all he saw was flat, and more flat. At times the prairie was monotonous that way.

  The thunderhead was a lot nearer. Now and then flashes of light briefly lit its black underbelly, and occasionally they’d hear a rumble.

  “Yes, sir,” Crawford said. “This will be a doozy.”

  The wind grew even stronger. A cold wind, not a hot wind.

  Thal recollected hearing that a cold wind in a thunderstorm was a bad sign.

  Crawford must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “I suspect we’re in for some hail, boys.”

  Thal rose in his stirrups. There was still no sign of a break in the ground.

  Not so much as a prairie dog den.

  “Gettin’ nervous, are you?” Ned said.

  The loudest rumble yet issued from the depths of the thunderhead. Underneath, the air glistened with the sheen of falling rain. Not a lot yet, but that would change.

  “I hate gettin’ soaked,” Jesse Lee said.

  “You and me both,” Crawford said. “We’ll need a fire to warm us after the storm passes, and with everything so wet, there’ll be nothin’ to burn.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Thal said.

  “I wish there was a bridge,” Crawford said. “We could take shelter under it.”

  Off in the distance a jagged bolt cleaved the sky.

  “We’ve got maybe five minutes before it breaks over us,” Crawford said.

  As if to prove him right, a keening blast of cold wind slammed into them. Thal tucked his chin to his chest and held on to his hat to keep it from being blown off. From under his brim he scanned the prairie, and a tingle of elation shot through him. “There!” he exclaimed, pointing.

  “What is it?” Ned asked.

  “Somethin’,” Thal answered, and used his spurs.

  The thunderhead roiled and writhed as if it were alive. The rumblings were constant. As the rain grew heavier, the air darkened until it was almost as black as the clouds. It was a deluge in the making.

  Thal galloped for the spot he’d seen, a rift of some kind that widened as he neared it. Smiling, he drew rein on the lip of a dry wash. “We’ve found our cover.”

  “None too soon,” Crawford said.

  The wash was about eight feet deep and half that wide. Its sides were fairly steep, and littered with lots of pebbles and a few large rocks.

  Thal went down first and the other followed suit. Dismounting, they took a firm grip on their reins.

  “We should hobble our animals to keep them from runnin’ off,” Jesse Lee suggested.

  Crawford looked up and down the wash, and shook his head. “No. We want to be able to move fast if we have to.”

  The storm was almost upon them, the wind flattening the grass and causing a horde of tumbleweeds to bounce and whip across the prairie.

  “Whatever you do,” Crawford cautioned, “don’t lose your hold on your horse. If it runs off, we might never see it again.”

  “I’ll be darned if I’ll lose mine to some silly storm,” Ned remarked.

  “Listen,” Jesse Lee said.

  The wind suddenly commenced to shriek like a banshee. Simultaneously rain fell. Not a lot at first, but increasing every second. Another flash, so bright it made Thal squint against the glare, heralded the elemental rampage to come. There was a tremendous crash, and the ground under them seemed to quake.

  The chestnut whinnied and shied. Fortunately Thal had wrapped the reins right around his hand. He gripped the bridle for extra measure.

  The next moment, hell on earth was unleashed.

  Above them, the sky became a tempest of destruction. The rain fell in buckets, lighting crackled and danced, thunder boomed like cannon. The raindrops were big, and cold.

  The brim of Thal’s hat bent under the onslaught. In less than a minute he was drenched. Even worse, the rain was so heavy he couldn’t see his hand holding the reins.

  The screeching wind whipped into the wash, and out again. The sound of the raindrops striking the hard ground was as loud as if they were rocks pelting down.

  Ned hollered something.

  Thal looked up but couldn’t see him. He hoped his pard hadn’t lost his animal. It would delay them in reaching Cheyenne.

  Then lightning sizzled, and the earth jumped, and one of the horses whinnied shrilly.

  Thal didn’t blame it. The storm was everything Crawford had warned it would be, and then some.

  The air became colder yet.

  Thal stooped over so his shoulders and back bore the brunt. Another gust nearly took his hat off, and he jammed it back on and crouched a little lower. All around, the rain pattered. It would take hours to dry his clothes and effects once the storm passe
d. To say nothing of his revolver and his rifle. Rust, unchecked, could ruin a gun. It pitted the insides of the barrel, and rendered a firearm useless.

  Thal was thinking of a fella he knew who had a gun blow up on him and lost a couple of fingers, when a new sound reached his ears. A strange sort of plopping, different from the rain. Keeping his head low, he gazed about. What looked to be white marbles were hitting the ground. Only a few had fallen so far, but more came down even as he looked. One struck next to his boot, and rolled.

  Hail, Thal realized. Stones from the sky. He prayed that Crawford wasn’t right about how big the hail would get.

  The very next moment, a sharp pain in Thal’s back almost made him cry out. He glanced down. The hailstone that had caused it was as big as a walnut.

  Nickering, his chestnut tried to pull free. Thal held on and sought to soothe it, but there wasn’t much he could do. The horse couldn’t hear him over the cannonade of thunder and the pounding of the hail.

  Ned yelled again, but his shout was swept away by the wind before Thal could make sense of it.

  Hail was falling steadily now, crackling and clacking as it piled on top of itself. One hit the knuckles of Thal’s left hand, and he winced. Another stung his ear. He resisted the temptation to look up.

  The hail, the wind, the thunder. Thal felt as if he were being battered alive.

  He would have liked to crouch down close to the ground, but he had to hold on to the chestnut.

  A hailstone scraped his neck. Another banged his knee.

  Thal recalled hearing about a town once where a hailstorm broke most of the windows and buckled a lot of roofs. At the time, he’d marveled that hail could cause so much destruction.

  For long minutes the wind screamed and the hail drummed. Of a sudden, it stopped, to be replaced by rain. The sky wasn’t quite as dark.

  Thal was grateful for the reprieve, but his gratitude lasted all of two minutes. That was when a new sound drowned out the rest. A great wail arose, as of a thousand souls in torment. The wail became a tremendous hiss, giving the impression that all the snakes on the prairie were hissing at once.

  Thal felt a violent tug on his hat and shirt, and looked up. The sight he beheld turned him as icy as the hail.