by Cotton Smith
From the travois, a weak Silka offered the same toast that Deed had yelled as a challenge to the fleeing Comanche, only his weak presentation had the air of a prayer. Both Corrigans looked at each other and nodded. They returned their hats to their heads, thanked Silka, and mounted their horses.
Silka waved weakly for their attention and held out Holt’s medicine stone. “C-come, Holt. Y-you must carry this.”
“No, you keep it for a while,” Holt said.
“Its power needs to be in your hands now,” Silka said weakly. “It is best there.”
“All right.” Holt took the stone, held it a second. and returned it to his coat pocket.
“Are we going to leave the bones of those other two?” Rose asked.
“Yeah,” Deed said. “They tried to kill Holt. Let them rot.”
It was late afternoon when they approached the rocky area known as Turkey Wing. Holt recommended they spread out in case the Comanche were waiting. As they cleared the last shallow ridge, they saw an antelope drinking. Deed swung his readied Spencer to his shoulder and fired in one motion. The animal lifted its head, took a step, staggered, and fell.
“There’s dinner, boys,” Deed said.
“Wait,” Holt commanded. “What if that antelope was tied there to fool us?”
Deed shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t see any rope.”
Without saying more, Holt lifted his Winchester and began spreading lead across and into the rocky formation. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks and whined away. He lowered his rifle and smiled. “All right, let’s go in.”
A cooking fire was quickly built and cuts of antelope meat were soon broiling on spits above the flames. Holt and Deed rubbed down the horses, let them roll, and picketed them among what little grass existed. The shirt Silka had shoved into the crease to silence its moaning was still there. Tag enjoyed exploring the pockets of water in the rocks around the main basin. They were well visited by animals in the region. The painted buffalo skull with its tied eagle feather reminded them that Indians considered the area haunted and usually stayed away. It was as comforting a thought as they were going to get.
A magpie jabbered its day song and strutted across the rocks in front of Holt, as if daring him to shoot again. He grimaced. A magpie crossing in front of someone meant bad luck. Unless that person made a quick cross from two sticks or bowed three times, repeating “Good day, your Lordship.”
He tugged on his hat and bowed. “Good day, your Lordship,” then repeated the action and greeting two more times. From the skull, Tag bounded toward the bird. Squawking loudly, the magpie flapped its wings and flew away.
Deed looked over and laughed. “What the hell was that all about?”
Sheepishly, Holt explained that a Gypsy had told him about the superstition. Deed shrugged his shoulders and motioned toward the fire.
“We got anything to eat with this meat?” he asked.
“Not sure. Maybe some beans,” Holt replied. “Hey, Malcolm, see if there is a can of peaches in our stuff, will you? I’ll look around for some squaw cabbage.”
“Sure thing.”
“Should’ve shot that damn bird,” Deed teased.
Holt froze and Deed laughed.
Off to the west, thunderheads were meeting and gathering strength. Their growl was menacing and rain was headed their way as dusk hovered over the land.
Holt looked up, glad to be on a different subject. “Looks like we’re going to get real wet.”
“Yeah. There’s nowhere to go. What say we do something with our tarp? Might keep us a little dry. Maybe.” Deed headed for their unpacked supplies.
“Good idea. You check on Silka. Malcolm and I will get something rigged up.”
“Better get our slickers, too.”
While Deed tended to Silka, Rose and Holt took the tarp that had covered their supplies and put up a temporary shelter for the coming rain. It covered their small fire and offered a dry space for them, but not their horses. Their meager supplies were moved under the tarp as well, then Silka himself. Deed was happy to see that none of the samurai’s wounds were infected. A testament to Silka’s own ointment.
Holt handed Deed a slicker and glanced over at their picketed mounts. “It’s going to be a gully washer, Deed. Any thoughts about the horses?”
“The best we can do is to move them under those cottonwoods,” Deed responded, slipping into the long coat. “That’ll keep the worst of it off them.”
“Let’s go,” Holt said. “Hey, Malcolm, give us a hand with the horses. We’re going to move them under those trees.”
Soon the horses were picketed under the wind-beaten cottonwoods. Some grass was waving from a narrow hollow, along with willows, catclaw, Spanish dagger, and Apache plume. To be on the safe side, they decided to hobble them again as well. Large raindrops pelted their hats and shoulders as they made their way back to the tarp and the welcoming fire.
Holt clapped for Tag and the dog appeared with a prairie dog in his mouth as he dashed across the wetted rocks.
“Good boy. You got your own dinner for a change.”
They laughed and it felt good. The antelope meat and coffee smelled delicious. Even the pot of beans looked inviting. The opened can of peaches made the moment even better. Beyond the tarp, the rain seemed to separate them from the rest of the world.
Rose stared at the pouring rain. “This’ll wipe out our tracks, right?”
“You’re right,” Deed responded. There was no reason to tell him that any Indian around knew they would be at Turkey Wing.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The cooked meat, beans, peaches, and a few stalks of squaw cabbage and coffee were savored by the three men, eating silently and staring into the hard rain. It was the last of their food. Deed made a meaty broth and served it to a reluctant Silka a spoonful at a time.
After taking care of his mentor, Deed returned to the fire.
“Were you surprised Achak wasn’t waiting for us here?” he asked.
“A little,” Holt answered. “It’s scary.”
“You don’t think they went away.”
“Do you?”
Deed shook his head. “No.”
“You don’t think we’ve lost them?” Rose handed him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks. Got to figure we haven’t,” Deed said and pushed a stick toward the middle of the fire. “We killed a bunch and that makes it a badge of honor to kill us. Achak has to kill us or be seen as a failure by his people.” He sipped the coffee.
No one spoke.
“They know where we are and where we’re headed . . . and what our strength is,” he concluded.
“A-are we . . .” Rose stammered.
Deed interrupted him. “Not hardly.”
Holt stirred his coffee with his finger. “Thinking of pulling out tonight?”
“Yeah. Like we did before. No use staying here.”
Holt patted Tag on the head. “We can’t reach Wilkon by dawn. Not with the travois. Not close.”
“I know, but we’ll be a helluva lot closer,” Deed said. “I expect Achak will be waiting for us somewhere up ahead. He’s got to kill us or lose all respect from the tribe.”
“That’s a nice thought.”
“Yeah, isn’t it.”
Malcolm Rose stared at them, unsure of what to say or do. What had seemed like a fairly simple civic duty had turned into a nightmare. He touched the healing knife wound on his shoulder, then considered taking a little drink from his flask.
Holt broke into the townsman’s thoughts. “What do you think, Malcolm?”
“I . . . uh, I don’t know. I just want to get home.”
“That’s the idea, Malcolm. That’s the idea.”
They talked about how much water they could carry and in what containers. A coffeepot and three cooking pots would hold water, in addition to their canteens and the water bag. The pots could be pushed down into empty saddlebags. That way most of the water would remain, if they didn’t have to ru
n. The coffeepot would be all right if it didn’t tip over. Besides that, the heavy rain would likely leave runoff water in places as well. They should have plenty of water to get to Wilkon.
Holt stared at the fire, but saw nothing to guide his thoughts, or warn him of danger. It did remind him to leave a tribute to the spirits.
He shook his head. “Deed, they’ll catch us out in the open . . . and tear us apart. We can’t move that fast.” He glanced at the sleeping Silka. His leg ached from the damp weather, but he ignored the pain.
“Got a better idea? We’ve got to assume they’ll swarm this place at dawn.”
“No, not really. I guess it’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Holt said and studied the heavy rain. “Achak isn’t going away.”
Rose was suddenly alert. “Something’s out there!”
Holt and Deed grabbed their rifles and spun away from the fire. They squinted into the downpour, but saw nothing.
“I-I saw something moving. I’m sure of it,” Rose said and cocked his Winchester.
“Wait. I see it.” Deed said. “It’s a toad.”
“A toad?”
“Yeah, a toad. Had one come our way yesterday,” Deed chuckled. “Probably loving this weather.”
Holt sat up and grinned as the toad ambled across their camp, headed for somewhere else. A sign of good luck, for a change, Holt thought. He looked over at his brother.
“I suppose that’s some kind of symbol.” Deed smiled.
“Yeah, a good luck sign.”
“Well, there you go.” Deed grinned. “Let’s get ready to ride. It’ll be totally dark in an hour.”
Holt stood. “What do you say we put the travois on my paint? He seems real steady. Give the dun a break.”
“Sure.”
After a brief exchange, they decided to create the impression that they remained in camp. They would leave the tarp where it was and leave their cooking gear behind. The food was gone anyway. Three blankets were rolled and tied into long, tight appearances, as if they were bodies. The fake bodies were rolled to look like sleeping men. It wouldn’t fool the Comanche for long, but for a while. They saddled their horses, prepared the travois for traveling, and placed Silka into it. His mumbling was incoherent.
Deed walked over to Holt. “Got a thought, big brother.”
“I’m listening.”
Shifting his feet, Deed said, “I figure they’ll try to fool us. We’ll see a bunch of them ride at us . . . from behind.” He motioned toward the dark. “Try to get us distracted. But the main bunch will hit us from the front, probably hiding on the ground.”
“Makes good sense,” Holt said. “We can’t charge them, Deed. Not with Silka.” He lowered his voice. “And we can’t leave him with Malcolm while we charge, either. So, nothing’s changed from what I said before.”
“Maybe. Remember when we walked right through that bunch of warriors?” Deed asked. “With me yelling all kinds of stuff? Like I was some kind of mystic.”
“Of course I do. It was my idea.”
“It might work again.”
Deed explained his idea. They would ride into the night as planned. When they stopped several hours from town, they would build as big a fire as they could with flames jumping high. Holt would stand near it, yelling strange things, like he was calling forth great powers. Deed thought they should make their stand in one of the old buffalo wallows along the edge of the dry lake. The deep indentation would give Rose and him a good place to shoot, as good as there was in that area.
Holt took a deep breath. “What if that doesn’t work? I’m standing out there in the open, waving my arms.”
“I’ll do the mystic if you want. Just thought you would have a reputation with them from earlier. Thought they’d remember you walking with a dog. That by itself would make them wonder.” Deed rubbed his boot along the wet ground.
“I don’t have a problem doing that,” Holt said. “I was asking what happens if it doesn’t work.”
“You jump into the buffalo hole with us and we keep shooting.” Deed tried to grin.
Rose waved his arms. “Why don’t we stay here?”
“That’s what they expect us to do,” Deed replied. “And our old friend Silka likes to say, never do what your enemy expects. Find a way to attack.”
“But that’s absurd!” Rose’s face reddened. “There’s only three of us . . . and there’s a whole lot of them.”
“Right.”
“What do you mean ‘right’?”
Deed’s eyes narrowed. “Malcolm, we’re in a fix. My brothers and I have been in them before. We’d like you to help, but you’re welcome to stay here.”
Rose stared at him and, finally, gulped, “Of course.”
“What about taking along that skull?” Holt pointed at the tribute from another time, breaking up the conversation.
“Yes. Good thought. You can hold it up like you’re praying,” Deed responded.
“Better take along as much firewood as we can,” Holt added. “We can’t assume there’s going to be any . . . or that it’s going to be dry.”
“Get that axe and we’ll cut up some of that downed tree, too.”
Quickly, the three men shoved chunks of wood, a few pine knots, and fat branches onto the otherwise empty pack of their packhorse, along with a small nest of starter twigs. Both Corrigan brothers left tributes of tobacco to the spirits of Turkey Wing. Rose watched, but said nothing. He was scared, totally scared. Holt put Tag in his usual position on top of the packhorse. They banked their fire so it would burn for a while, although they had stripped it of most of the wood, and slipped into the darkness.
Night was long, wet and tiring, but the rain had turned into only a nuisance of fat drops. The ground was soggy and silent. The North Star seemed like the only visible light and it was wobbly, but it gave the direction needed.
In the middle of the night, they crossed the dry lake and stopped beside the bigger of the two old buffalo wallows. A yellow moon was sheepishly trying to get around a dark cloud. Night sounds were nonexistent, reinforcing their sense the Comanche were just ahead, waiting.
“Well, little brother, what do you think?” Holt asked as he gave his horse canteen water from his hat and gazed out at the ominous land.
“I think we should build a fire. A big one.” Deed patted his horse.
“Let’s do it.”
Assignments were quickly given and undertaken. Deed and Rose moved all the horses away from where the fire would be built, and watered and picketed them. Holt started constructing the fire with Tag darting around him as if it were a wonderful game.
Deed decided to use their saddles as extra protection against the Comanche bullets and arrows, and began unsaddling the mounts. Rose argued that it would leave them unable to run if necessary. The young gunfighter made it clear they wouldn’t be running. Rose bit his lip and nodded.
Two saddles were propped on the south edge of the wallow; the other two, on the north side. Rose gathered a box of cartridges and his rifle and knelt behind the saddles. His job was to watch their back side, where the Corrigans expected to see Comanche on horseback, creating a diversion from the main attack from the other direction.
Deed held a similar position, studying the gray, empty land. Beside him, Tag had been encouraged to sit. And next to them was a prone Silka.
The old samurai raised a trembling hand. “M-my son, w-where is my sword? My rifle? I must help.” He tried to raise, but couldn’t.
The youngest Corrigan walked over and handed Silka the great sword lying beside him. “Here. Your gun is beside you. Loaded. But you must rest now. You have taught us well. It will be all right.” He sounded more confident than he felt.
“No, I must do this. Help me stand beside you where I can shoot.” A tear straggled down the side of Silka’s face as he took the weapon with both hands.
Deed patted him on the shoulder and assisted Silka to his feet. There was no use in arguing about it. The former samurai was nearly
dead weight, but Deed managed to move him a few feet and prop him against the side of the wallow.
“You can see from here . . . and shoot,” Deed said, whispering a Japanese saying, and added, “I’ll be right over here.”
He moved closer to Rose and asked, “Do you have plenty of cartridges?”
“Uh . . . yes. I do,” Rose said. “D-do you think I’ll need more?”
“I’ll bring you some. I’ve got to get more for me.”
He slid out of the wallow and went to the picketed horses. At their packhorse, he filled his pockets with bullets for Rose and shoved four reloading tubes for his Spencer into his belt. He started to leave, then looked in the pack further and withdrew a large piece of linen they’d cut up to hold coffee grounds. He looked over at his brother adding wood to the yet-to-be burning fire.
“Hey, Holt, got an idea. Make you look scary,” Deed said is he pulled his throwing knife from behind his collar.
“What?”
Deed cut two squares from the linen and shoved the balance back into the pack. Taking a handful of cartridges, he began separating the shell from the bullet with his knife and pouring the gunpowder into one of the squares. Holt came over, nodded, and began to help. They created two small sacks of gunpowder and tied them tightly with rawhide string.
“Not a bad thought, little brother.”
“Anything to help.” Deed smiled and patted Holt on the shoulder.
“See you in a little while.”
“You bet.” Deed returned to the wallow, handed Rose two handfuls of cartridges, and went to his original site, where he took up his Spencer. Glancing sideways, he saw Silka slowly cock his rifle.
The horizon was about to belch its first streaks of gold and rose when their fire roared into existence.
“Well, get it done, big brother,” Deed said. “Make ’em scared.”
“Just keep a place for me.”
“You got it. Right beside me.”
Holt lifted the buffalo skull into the air with both outstretched arms and began chanting as loud as he could.
“Nakuhitu,” he yelled. The Comanche word for “listen” was one of the few he knew, including “food” and “friend.” Licking his lips, he began, “Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, bacon and beans, beans and bacon, eating goober peas, eating goober peas, all that glitters is not gold . . . oh, Lord, makes this work, long live the Confederacy, yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” He swallowed and glanced at the darkness ahead. “To be or not to be, that is the question. Song of the South, awake to glory, a thousand voices bid you rise . . . now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . . The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.” He swung the skull in a circle and, dramatically, pushed it high in the air again and started his chant again. Holt was no longer a county sheriff, he was a shaman. A shaman to be feared.
