Savage Journey

by Neil Hunter

  He led the way across the flat, blistering land, heading for a showdown.

  Luke Kennick made himself a meal of beans and bacon, washing it down with plenty of coffee. He made the most of that meal, because it was going to be a case of eating when he could from now on.

  By the time he’d cleaned his cooking gear and put it away, it was dark.

  He went over to Kicking Bear. ‘We’re moving out now,’ he said. ‘Understand this from the start. When you get on that horse you behave, or I get rough. I mean it. Any fancy stunts and I’ll bend a gun barrel over your head. Do you hear me?’

  The Comanche raised his eyes. ‘I hear you, Kennick. I see you, and I will kill you,’ he said harshly.

  Kennick untied the Indian’s feet and hauled him upright. ‘You can ride on your butt, or belly-down. My job is to get you to the Brazos alive. I don’t think anyone’ll gripe, if you’re a mite messed up when we arrive. Understand?’

  For a moment it seemed as though Kicking Bear was going to reply. But he only gave a tight-lipped sneer. Then he spat in Kennick’s face for the second time since leaving Fort Cameron.

  Kennick wiped his hand across his face. His jaw muscles tightened. Then his hand swept away from his face and slashed hard across Kicking Bear’s mouth. The Comanche, taken by surprise, tumbled backward. Blood dribbled from a cut lip.

  ‘Do that again and I’ll hit you a hell of a lot harder,’ Kennick said. ‘And I’ll keep it up until you decide to call it quits.’

  Kicking Bear stumbled forward, his face dark with anger, his eyes like chips of black marble.

  ‘Now, Kennick, you must surely die!’

  Kennick cut him off with: ‘Mount up!’

  As he had refused food and water, so Kicking Bear of the Comanche refused any help to get on his horse. Kennick stepped up and tied the Indian’s feet to the stirrup irons again.

  Mounting himself, he headed his horse away from the mesa, the reins of the two other horses tied to his saddle-horn. Once clear of the mesa, he got his bearings quickly and swung northeast into the darkness, heading deep into the badlands.

  Chapter Eight

  Joe Beecher squatted in the dust beside the spot where Kennick had lit his fire the night before.

  ‘He’s taking no chances, Griff,’ Beecher said. ‘Waited until dark then headed out over to the badlands. He’s makin’ sure he ain’t goin’ to meet anyone.’

  Griff swung down stiffly from his saddle. ‘Don’t worry, Joe, he’s goin’ to meet someone.’

  Beecher rubbed his dirt-streaked face. ‘I could do with some shuteye ‘fore we head out there. Much more of this and I’m goin’ to wind up stiffer’n a plank.’

  Anger glittered in Griff’s eyes, then faded as he admitted the sense in what Beecher proposed.

  ‘I guess a few hours’ rest’ll do no harm.’

  He signaled Bo to tend the horses. While Beecher got a fire going, Griff laid out their cooking gear.

  They ate in silence. Each man occupied by his own thoughts, his own reason for being here.

  Griff took first watch. He didn’t expect any trouble, but there was no sense taking chances. Usually, out here a man’s first mistake was his last. Two hours later Beecher took over and Griff lay down in the shade of a rock. He drew his hat over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Give it another day or so and then they’d have Kennick just where they wanted him. That bastard was really going to squirm.

  The further out they got, the more often Kennick kept twisting in his saddle to look over his shoulder. He saw nothing but the ground he’d just covered. Nevertheless he had a bad feeling, an inner hunch that warned, that told him that someone was on his back trail.

  He reined in his horse as he topped a sandy rise. His trail lay dead ahead. The ground here was treacherous, and the horses made slow time. Kennick didn’t force them to hurry. Cripple a horse out here and you were in trouble. Out here was sand and dust and wind-eroded, crumbling rocks. The land was flat here, rolled in dizzy bumps there. It was dead, a bleached land of twisted grotesque formations. No two yards were alike. The only growing things were odd bald patches of ragged scrub oak and a few cactus. There wasn’t much else reaching for the hard blue sky, except the black fingers of a few rock formations.

  Sliding from his saddle, Kennick walked around for a few minutes. He was hot and dirty and thirsty. Moving to the packhorse he removed one of the water bags and filled his hat. He went to each horse in turn, hearing their pleased whinnies as they shoved hot, dry muzzles into the water. Returning the large water bag, Kennick took a smaller canteen. He washed out his mouth then drank sparingly. Glancing up at Kicking Bear, he weighed the canteen in his hands, then moved to face the Indian.

  ‘You ready to drink now?’ he asked. He didn’t really expect an answer.

  Kicking Bear lowered his eyes to Kennick’s face. Dust caked the Comanche’s broad face. His lips were dry and cracked. Kennick saw the throat muscles contract slightly. Kicking Bear leaned forward in the saddle and Kennick raised the canteen.

  Then a loud, wild yell burst from Kicking Bear’s throat. At the same time, he kicked at his horse’s sides with his knees. Startled, all three horses jerked into motion, dragging each other down the soft sand slope.

  Kennick was knocked flat on his back, the canteen slipping from his fingers, as Kicking Bear’s horse slammed against him. He managed to roll as he hit and shoved to his feet fast. The three horses were plunging wildly down the slope, slipping and sliding in the loose sand. Kicking Bear kept on yelling, bouncing about on his horse’s back in an attempt to keep the frightened animal moving.

  Kennick ran down the slope, half blinded by the choking cloud of dust kicked up by the horses. He fell to his knees at the bottom, his hands reaching desperately for the lashing reins of his mount, as the three horses milled in tight confusion at the bottom of the slope. His face was lashed twice by the swinging reins before his fingers caught hold. He threw his full weight on them. The horse rolled its eyes and snapped its head up, almost jerking Kennick’s arms out of their sockets. Hanging on, Kennick waited his chance, then scrambled up into the saddle. Once there he was in a better position to sort out the mess.

  Beside him, Kicking Bear was still yelling. The terrified horses would never quiet with all that din, Kennick decided. It had to stop. He drew his Colt and laid the barrel across Kicking Bear’s skull. The Comanche gave a startled grunt and lolled forward across his horse’s neck.

  Kennick swiftly calmed the horses now. He dismounted and went slowly back up the slope for the canteen of water. Over half of it had gone into the sand. Kennick poured some into his hand and mopped his dry, aching face, dabbed at his throbbing sand-burned eyes. He swallowed a mouthful of water, then recapped the canteen and went back down to the horses and Kicking Bear.

  He mounted up and headed out straightaway. Kicking Bear didn’t come around for ten minutes or more. Then he slowly straightened up, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Like I told you before,’ Kennick said. ‘You want it rough, okay. But keep it in mind that next time I might not be so careful as to how I stop you.’

  The Comanche made no reply. His pride had been hurt and he was not going to allow the white any chance to gloat over his victory. Kicking Bear would concentrate on devising other means of escape. Let the white imagine he was master. Maybe he was now, but not when Kicking Bear was free. And he would escape. Of that there was no doubt. Kicking Bear was no ordinary Comanche. He was one of the chosen ones. Chosen by the Spirits to lead the Comanche nation to victory over the invading whites. He must not fail. If he did, the Comanche nation would soon cease to exist. He must escape before he was thrown into one of the white man’s stone prisons, a place where he would surely die.

  Kennick shifted in his saddle. It was getting damned hot. Too hot. Out here the land threw back the sun’s rays and the whole area was one great oven bowl of shimmering heat. It was harsh, useless country, too barren to grow anything, no use for raising stock
of any kind—unless there ever became a sudden need for snakes and lizards in vast numbers.

  Now the horses’ hoofs clattered loudly as they hit a stretch of flat rock. The animals moved slowly, picking their way carefully. On this sort of surface, an iron-shod horse could slip easily and cause itself serious injury. Luckily, these horses were used to traveling in this kind of country and were able to adapt themselves accordingly.

  If this hadn’t been so, if Kennick had been forced to guide the horses himself, his eyes on the ground, he might easily have missed seeing the woman.

  At first, he thought it was a mirage shaped by the shimmering heat waves. Then he shaded his eyes and looked again. It was no trick of sun and sand. Some distance ahead, where the stretch of flat rock ended and the sand and dust began again, a human figure moved slowly his way. Kennick reined in. He slid his Winchester out of the saddle boot and levered a shot into the chamber.

  Comanche?

  It was the first thing that came to his mind, but he dismissed the idea quickly. That was no Comanche—or any Indian—up ahead. He fumbled one-handed for the field glasses strapped behind his saddle. Jerking them from the case he raised them to his eyes, leveled them on the weaving figure. He saw a blurred image and thumbed the focus wheel, bringing the figure into sudden, close detail.

  ‘My God!’ The words exploded from him.

  It was a woman. An honest-to-God woman. Wearing a white blouse and a dark skirt. And she had long black hair. Kennick found himself noting these things carefully, as if they were very important to him. And maybe they were, he thought, to a man who hadn’t had much real contact with women for a long time. Loneliness did that to a man. But that wasn’t what concerned him now. What in hell was a woman doing out here? Here of all places? It was a puzzle, all right. And, he admitted to himself, one I could do without. He had enough trouble on his hands with Kicking Bear without adding to it.

  Kennick sighed, resigned. He kneed his horse forward, his rifle in his hands, ready. That was purely a reflex action, in this country where preparing for the worst could mean the difference between being alive and being dead.

  The woman seemed totally unaware of his presence. Even when he reined in only feet away, she continued to move forward. She moved wearily, her head hanging, arms dangling loosely at her sides. Dust layered her clothes and hair, and the white blouse was streaked with patches of sweat.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Kennick said.

  The woman halted at the sound of his voice. For a moment, she made no move. Then her head slowly came up. She raised a hand to brush stray hair back from her face. Her eyes finally focused on Kennick. Her smooth forehead wrinkled as she studied his face. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head and looked hard at him again. After that, she seemed convinced that he was real and not a mirage.

  She spoke then, her voice surprisingly clear and strong. ‘Hello, I’m Jeannie Bahlin,’ she said.

  And then her knees bent and she sprawled on her face in the dirt at the feet of Kennick’s horse.

  Chapter Nine

  It took a third of a canteen of Kennick’s precious water to get the woman’s face clean. Burnt-on dust and sweat had formed a clogging mask. Beneath it, the skin was browned deeply from many hours under the hot sun. Removal of the mask revealed, too, that she was younger than Kennick had thought. About twenty-four or so, he guessed. Young and very lovely, and being so close to her made him acutely conscious of that youth and beauty. Beneath the folds of skirt and blouse was a shapely body. The open-topped blouse exposed the thrusting roundness of firm generous breasts that rose and fell with her steady breathing.

  As he studied her, admiringly, her eyelids flickered gently, then the eyes slowly opened. She stared up at him for a long time. Kennick made no move. It was best to let her come out of it slowly.

  She looked about her, wide dark eyes coming back to Kennick every few seconds. Then she raised a hand to her face, surprise showing in the dark eyes as her fingers touched moist, clean skin. Her full lips parted slightly. Finally, she asked, ‘Where am I?’

  Kennick noted with relief that her voice was steady, with no trace of hysteria. Just a plain question asked in a calm easy way.

  ‘To be honest, ma’am, you’re right in the middle of nowhere,’ Kennick said.

  ‘Are you lost too?’

  ‘Keep your fingers crossed when I say I’m not.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not on a map, but I know just where we are. You see, out here a man travels mostly by instinct. Kind of like following his nose. And if he knows the country, he generally comes out where he planned.’

  She put out a hand and Kennick helped her to her feet. Surprisingly, she came almost to his height. That made her a fine woman in any man’s book. Again Kennick found himself thinking along such lines. But Jeannie Bahlin was that kind of woman. Any man who saw her would stop and look again. Luke Kennick was no exception. And somehow he could tell, simply by looking at her, that she was free from all pretense. She was herself, nothing more. A real woman.

  ‘How long have we been here?’ she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Half an hour, no more.’

  ‘I fainted.’

  ‘You’ve been in the sun too long, ma’am.’

  She leaned back against a flaking rock outcropping. ‘Yes, a long time,’ she murmured absently, as if Kennick were not there.

  Then suddenly she gave a choking sob. ‘Oh, God! Mary! Sue-Ann!’ Tears filled her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands, weeping bitterly.

  Luke stood a moment watching her, feeling helpless. Then he turned way. He saw it was something she had to wrestle with alone. Some personal grief that had finally caught up with her. He moved away, walked to the top of a long rise. Glancing back he saw she was still standing the way he’d left her, face covered, shoulders jerking.

  Off to his right, in a shallow depression, the three horses stood motionless, heads drooping. He had tethered them securely before leaving them. He saw Kicking Bear watching him. The Comanche’s face was sullen as he stared at Kennick. He seemed to have given up trying to escape, but that didn’t fool Luke. There was still a hell of a long way to go before they hit the Brazos, and he knew enough about the tenacity of the Comanche to realize that Kicking Bear hadn’t given up. Not by a long way.

  Kennick was so absorbed by his thoughts that he didn’t hear the woman come up behind him. Then she was beside him, looking across at the three horses and Kicking Bear.

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Name of Kicking Bear. Comanche warlord.’

  ‘Is he your prisoner?’

  Kennick nodded. ‘I’m taking him to the Army, so he can stand trial.’

  ‘Alone?’

  He smiled. ‘Not any longer,’ he said.

  She glanced at him, frowning. ‘You mean me?’

  ‘I can’t very well leave you here.’

  ‘I hope I’m not going to upset your plans.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get along.’

  She brushed straying hair back from her face: it was a gesture he was to see repeated many times.

  ‘I suppose we ought to know who we’re talking to,’ she said. ‘I’m Jeannie Bahlin.’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled at the look of surprise on her face, and explained: ‘You told me before you fainted. Luke Kennick, ma’am.’

  She smiled back. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, and I think we should go by first names ... Luke?’

  ‘Makes for easier conversation, Jeannie.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘First thing is to get some food into you. Then you can tell me how you got out here.’

  Jeannie turned back down the slope. Kennick started to follow her, then stopped. Once again the feeling of being followed stole up on him. He turned, scanned the wide land beyond. It was empty and dead, as always. There was no dust rising, no movement. But he stood for a while, looking, hoping he would see something. If he could actually see that he was being trailed, it wouldn’t seem so
bad. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. But he still had that feeling.

  ‘More coffee?’

  Jeannie Bahlin shook her head. ‘No more, Luke, thank you.’ She showed him her mug. It was still full.

  They sat in the shade of the large boulder. Before them was a small smokeless fire over which Kennick had prepared a quick meal of beans and coffee. Fifteen feet across from them, Kicking Bear sat with his back to a sandy hummock. The Comanche’s head was tilted forward on his naked chest. To all appearances, he was asleep. But Kennick didn’t think so.

  He put down the coffee pot and picked up his own mug.

  ‘What happened, Jeannie?’ he asked.

  She hunched forward toward the fire, as if the heat of the sun wasn’t strong enough to rid her of some deep-down chill. She held her mug of coffee as if it were something very precious.

  ‘It really started back in Layersville. It’s a little town north of Boston. I worked in a dressmaking shop. I had no choice, really. My mother and father died in an accident five years back, up near . . . well, no matter, I was left on my own. So I went to work. There were two other girls in the shop. Mary Sale and Sue-Ann Badger. We worked together, lived together. We were all in the same situation. No parents, no friends, no prospects. All the young men seemed to have gone West, what with all the talk of gold and all. Well, we talked it over and decided to come out here ourselves. Maybe we were foolish, I don’t know, but we did it. We pooled all we had and bought a wagon and horses and supplies, and joined a wagon train going to California.’

  ‘California?’ Kennick shook his head. ‘You’re a long ways off the trail.’

  ‘I know that now. Before, we didn’t. Things seemed all right until we reached Kansas. Then the rear axle broke on our wagon. The train went on without us. They couldn’t wait, afraid of not getting through some mountains before the snows came or something.

  ‘So there we were. Three women alone in a small Kansas town. We were trying to decide what to do when Nathan Reese introduced himself and said he’d guide us to California. The price he named seemed very reasonable. He seemed a nice person. He helped us to sell our wagon and team and to buy three good riding horses. We fell for every word he spooned out to us. By the time we realized something was wrong, we’d been riding for weeks and we were out here in the middle of nowhere, miles from anywhere, anyone. He’d tricked us. Led us out here so he could rob us and take our horses.’