The Rider of Phantom Canyon

by Don Bendell

  Joshua immediately knew that blocking force had to be a tactical maneuver to get them to run westward into the trees. Instead he spun Eagle and rode past Wednesday and Scottie.

  He yelled, “Follow me!”

  He ran back the way they had come, knowing that the large force would not plan for that, since they were figuring he would surely head into the trees to seek an alternate route out of the canyon. After fifteen minutes of hard riding, they were back to their starting point, and he reined Eagle to the right and headed due north, right up through the middle of the forest.

  He had calculated correctly. Within minutes, he saw off to their right the movement of ambushers who had been waiting for him to run right into them. They were scrambling to get to their horses while the trio headed toward the mouth of the canyon. At one point, he reined in and held his hand up.

  He turned and explained, “We have to take it easy on our horses, or we will kill them.”

  Gunfire suddenly opened up behind them, and they had no choice but to run toward the canyon opening. Once there, they would turn east and head down the mountainside, looking for a low, tree-covered ridge to provide plenty of cover. At some point they would have to stop and make a stand and rest the horses, so Joshua kept looking for that. Twice he stopped, spun Eagle around, and shot riders out of their saddles—three of them. The gang of killers was now down to about fifteen.

  Strongheart made the end of the high-mountain canyon and headed into an avalanche chute off to their right, but soon saw it had too many knocked-down trees to dodge, so he moved to their left, up onto the next ridgeline. It was a more gentle slope, and, being at the top of a ridge, the trees were not quite as thick. He dashed forward on his horse, and he kept worrying about Wednesday’s. It was a Lakota mustang and an unknown quantity. He knew Hero could keep up and was sure-footed and long-winded, but he did not know how long the mustang could last running, especially downhill, which was harder on a horse’s legs than any other activity.

  The worry was taken away from Strongheart when Scottie yelled, “Joshua!”

  The Pinkerton spun around and saw that Wiya Waste’s horse had taken a round through the head and was falling face-first, dragging its head in the dirt as it went down. Somehow, Wiya Waste was on her feet, staggering and apparently dazed, and the fusillade of bullets increased. Joshua signaled Scottie to come forward fast, and he took careful aim at the fast-approaching horsemen in the woods and unloaded his carbine into them with accurate, withering rapid fire. There was no way Wednesday could grab his forearm to swing herself up in the saddle. She looked totally dazed.

  He shoved his rifle into his scabbard, dug his heels into Eagle, and yelled, “Heeyah!”

  The big black-and-white horse leapt forward, his powerful muscles bunching and lunging under Strongheart’s own powerful legs, which were now clinging tightly to the horse’s ribs. Wednesday was swaying and somehow miraculously still on her feet. He approached her at full gallop, reached down and grabbed her by her long, shiny, raven-colored hair, and swung her up behind him on the horse, which naturally knew to do a rollback and sprinted back downhill with two riders on his back now. Somehow, instinctively she wrapped her arms around Joshua and slumped forward against his back, barely conscious.

  The detective was proud of Scottie, who had stopped and was providing cover fire as Joshua sped past him, even winking at the teenager as he ran by. The two horses kept down the ridgeline, the Wet Mountain Valley clearly visible and sprawled out below them. Strongheart saw the ridge below was starting to level out among a large jumble of boulders, and he reined up in the rocks.

  He quickly dismounted and laid Wednesday down behind a large, house-sized boulder. Scottie followed suit and both men raised their rifles, firing almost simultaneously, and two riders fell off their horses with large spots of blood on their chests.

  Joshua looked over at Scottie, who had blood seeping through his arm bandage. Scottie looked back at him and only now saw that Strongheart had been shot through his left hip. Scottie wondered how this amazing man was even walking. The bullet clearly had entered his upper left buttocks and come out low on his left hip, maybe right below the hip bone. The pain, he knew, had to be unbearable.

  Scottie yelled, “I’ll fire. Bandage your hip!”

  Joshua complied, then knelt down by Wednesday, who weakly smiled at him.

  She said, “I am dead. You must leave me. I slow you down. I am happy to die with the man I love.”

  Strongheart said, “Will you shut up?”

  “What that means?” she answered weakly.

  The shooter gang all dismounted and took cover behind trees. There were now only around a dozen or fewer, and the accurate fire from Joshua and Scottie was unnerving them.

  Strongheart was tickled by her saying, “What that means?” He started laughing, and she, barely awake, joined in.

  Scottie looked over from his boulder and saw them both laughing, and he started laughing, too. Soon, amid the shooting, all three of them were laughing hysterically, with tears spilling down their cheeks.

  Scottie hollered, “I’m hit! You’re shot! She is shot to doll rags. Her horse is dead. We are shooting up all our ammunition! Gee, Joshua, thanks for teaching me how to become a Pinkerton. You always get your man!”

  This really struck Joshua’s funny bone, and he laughed even harder, and Wednesday, seeing this, laughed even harder, too. The gang of bushwhackers heard all the hysterical laughing and howling and were totally frightened now by such bravado in the face of certain death.

  The only one not unnerved was the leader of the shooters, dressed in a dapper suit and wearing a derby even in the mountains. It was Bat Masterson. He knew that Joshua Strongheart had been “down the river and over the mountain,” as the old frontier cliché went. Joshua had seen it all, and Bat knew he was letting off steam, and so were those with him. He knew that this gang, which he had just joined after riding to the canyon head from the ranch, was after blood but was no match for the Pinkerton.

  One of the shooters was a large man named Bullsquat Withers because he always used that term when speaking. Bullsquat looked like a bull himself and was an enormous man of great strength.

  He laughed and said, “Wal, boys, I shot thet horse from unner that ole red nigger girl, and ya could see she was bleedin’ like a stuck pig already. I think old Strongheart took one, too.”

  Another man chimed in. “He did! I seen it! He was shot in the ass, and that kid is shot up, too.”

  Bat looked at the men. “What girl? What kid?”

  One of the shooters, a slight, balding man with mean eyes said, “Strongheart has some Injun woman with him, looks like she is a Cheyenne or Sioux, and some kid, a teenaged boy.”

  Bat Masterson said, “You mean to tell me you men shot a woman?”

  Bullsquat said, “She ain’t no woman. She is a red blanket nigger. They ain’t women. They’re animals.”

  Bat bristled.

  He said, “I would love to see you face Joshua Strongheart and say that about her to his face, man to man.”

  Bullsquat had the gauntlet tossed down now and his manhood called into question. He stood up, towering over Bat Masterson.

  The behemoth said, “I ain’t afraid ta face him. He’s a red nigger, too.”

  Bat ignored the big man and grabbed his rifle, saying, “I’m going to go parley with Strongheart. You boys hold tight, and don’t anybody shoot.”

  Joshua was changing the dressing on Wednesday’s wounds and cleaning them. She was conscious now, having had some water and elk jerky he gave her.

  Scottie said, “Joshua, someone’s coming with a white truce flag on their rifle barrel.”

  A voice rang out. “Hello, the boulders!”

  Strongheart recognized the voice of Bat Masterson, and he peeked out.

  He hollered, “Come on in, Bat!”

 
Bat Masterson entered the boulders and looked at all three, shaking his head.

  “You folks are sure shot up, Strongheart,” Bat started, doffing his hat to Wednesday, then saying, “Ma’am, I had no idea you were with Joshua. I do not make war on women or children. Do you speak English, ma’am?”

  Strongheart shook hands with Bat, saying, “She does that indeed. This is Wednesday, and she is the daughter of Crazy Horse. She is eaten up with infection, Bat. This is Scottie Middleton, my riding partner.”

  Scottie’s shoulders went back with that remark, and Joshua added, “Wednesday, Scottie, this is my friend Bat Masterson.”

  Scottie stepped forward, eyes opened wide, and shook hands with Bat, saying, “Please to meet you, sir. You’re famous.”

  Bat and Joshua laughed at this.

  Masterson explained, “The ranch foreman said that you and two assassins snuck up over the wall of the ranch and tried to back-shoot V. R. Clinton through the windows with shotguns and rifles.”

  Strongheart grinned and said, “You have met me and have spoken with me. Do you believe I would do that, Bat?”

  Masterson said, “Bullsquat.”

  Strongheart went on. “Have you met your boss yet?”

  Bat said, “No, just a disagreeable ranch foreman.”

  Strongheart said, “Your boss is not a he, but a she.”

  Bat said, “What?”

  Strongheart said, “V. R. is Victoria Roberta Clinton. She is absolutely beautiful, my friend, but is more deadly than any buzztail you have ever encountered. She was the mistress of Robert Hartwell, whom I killed, the head of the Indian Ring. That’s where all the money came from, the misfortunes of my father’s people. I had already met her. In fact, she almost killed me in Cañon City. Wiya Waste, we call her Wednesday, rode all the way from the Dakota Territory to warn me about her. She grew up in my father’s village.”

  Bat stuck out his hand, saying, “Your word is gold with me. You need to get her to a hospital somewhere, quick. I ride for the brand, Strongheart.”

  Joshua said, “I know, Bat. I respect that.”

  Bat Masterson added, “But the brand has to stand for something decent. I’ll hold these boys off as long as I can. Then I know some will come after you. I am sure some will side with me, though, and move on. Most Western men I know won’t have anything to do with hurting women, no matter what color their skin is.”

  Strongheart thanked him and said, “Thanks, Bat. I was going to head to Cañon City down Grape Creek or Copper Gulch Stage Road, but I think we need to go straight to Westcliffe and maybe get a train. I have to get her to Denver to a hospital.”

  Bat walked Joshua off a few feet and said softly, “When this is all over and you are mended, there is a very disagreeable fellow, a monster actually, named Bullsquat Withers. He found it amusing that she was shot and referred to her and you as red blanket niggers. I challenged him to say that face-to-face to you someday, and he said he was not scared to do that.”

  Joshua shook hands again and gave Bat a knowing look and smile. Scottie shook hands, too.

  Bat said, “Wednesday, you could not be in better hands. I know you will get better. I am sorry those men I am with shot you.”

  She smiled and weakly said, “I know I am in good hands, as you say. I have loved Strongheart since I was a little girl. I like you, Bat.”

  She smiled and fainted.

  Bat said, “Get moving. I’ll hold them as long as I can.”

  Bat left the rocks, pulling his white handkerchief from his barrel. His men were puzzled at seeing Joshua and Scottie mount up, with Joshua holding the limp, wounded woman across his lap on his horse, and head down the mountain at a walk. Nobody in that group, though, would question Bat Masterson, but would wait to hear his words. He walked back to them and called them together. Just in case, he held his right hand on his black-handled, shiny, custom-made .45 revolver with the numeral 1 etched onto the loading gate, just as Bat had designed it.

  He said, “Boys, make us a fire. We’re camping here tonight.”

  Bullsquat said, “What about them red niggers? They’re getting away!”

  Bat got into a gunfighter’s crouch and said, “I am the top hand here and give the orders. This outfit is not run by committee. Make camp.”

  Bullsquat would face any man with his fists, and most with his guns, but not the likes and nerve of Bat Masterson. He turned, grumbling, and set out to gather firewood. Soon a fire was going and coffee was on, and all gathered around the fire, glad to have the shooting over for now.

  Joshua held Wednesday in front of him as Eagle, now rested, carefully picked his way down the rocky ridge. Bat had indicated to Strongheart that he would run into a worn wagon road as soon as he left the trees and that he could turn left, go a mile, and turn right again, and Westcliffe would lie before him several miles ahead in the wide open, very green valley.

  12

  WOUNDS

  “Gentlemen,” Bat Masterson said, raising his hot cup of coffee in a toast to the gang of sleepy gun hands before him.

  It was shortly after dawn the next day, and they were breaking camp.

  Bat said, “Boys, I am leaving you all this morning, and although I won’t be speaking to him until I get to Cañon City, I am certain I speak for my friend Doc Holliday, too. I found out you boys had shot a woman, and to me, a man who shoots a woman is not a man, but a gelding.”

  Bullsquat jumped up in anger, but calmed down when he saw Bat’s eager smile and his hand hovering over the black-handled, shiny pistol.

  Bat said, “Go ahead, Bullsquat. Do you want to join the list?”

  Bullsquat slumped and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  Bat said, “By the way, boys, V. R. Clinton is a woman, not a man, and she has a bunch of blood money. That’s what we were paid with. Any of you want to leave with me, I am heading out.”

  Three men indicated they were joining him and saddled their horses. Bullsquat and four others were left. One of them was the ranch foreman, Ez Bookman.

  Ez said, “Yeah, I knew Miss Clinton was a woman, so she relayed her orders through me on account of she figgered most men wouldn’t want no woman ramrod.”

  Another one said, “I don’t care. I ride for the brand.”

  Bat mounted up and grinned, saying, “You’re gonna die for it, too, if you boys try to tangle with Strongheart again.”

  Bullsquat spit out some tobacco and said, “Bullsquat.”

  Bat Masterson just laughed, turned his horse, and started down the mountain, his saddle partners following.

  * * *

  Joshua opened his eyes, and it was afternoon, the sun high in the sky to his west. He was dazed and confused, and he slowly started waking, coming to his senses. There were no mountains around him, and he was in a freight wagon with no top on it. He looked over, and Wednesday lay beside him, asleep. They were lying on mattresses, as far as he could tell, with patchwork quilts on them. She had been rebandaged with good bandages.

  Strongheart tried to sit up but could not move. He looked down. His hip and buttocks were bandaged and his leg had completely stiffened up. Grabbing the railing, he pulled hard and raised himself a little. He was in the prairie, and the Greenhorn Mountains were behind him at some distance. He saw a small herd of pronghorns scattering before the wagon and the back of a familiar head of white hair belonging to a slight, older man—it was Zach Banta.

  Zach didn’t even look at him, but spoke while driving. “Wal, Strongheart, old boy, looks to me like ya saved yer hair again somehow.”

  Joshua said, “What happened?”

  Zach said, “I’ll tell ya when ya git up, but you need more rest. Lay back down and close them eyes.”

  Strongheart felt faint and gladly did as he was told. He was back into a deep sleep almost as soon as he lay back down.

  * * *

 
Joshua opened his eyes, and he was lying on the banks of the Arkansas River. The rapids roared past him, and Belle Ebert stepped out from behind a bush and approached him.

  “Belle, you’re alive!” he said.

  He added, “I thought at first I was dreaming, but this is real. These cliffs rising up above us are real. The river is real. You are real. Am I in Heaven? Can I kiss you?”

  She smiled broadly, looking more beautiful than she had ever been, and she said, “Please do. I have missed you so much, my darling.”

  They kissed, long and passionately.

  They pulled apart, and he just smiled at her and pulled her to him.

  He said, “I am confused. I love this, but I’m confused. You were murdered. You were raped and murdered, but now you are whole. Belle, you have never looked more beautiful. Am I dreaming?”

  She said, “No, Joshua. You are here with me now. This is real, and I love you, darling. I always will.”

  “I love you, too, and I have missed you so much—so very much,” he said.

  She twisted her head to the side and laid it on her left hand, which was on top of a boulder.

  Strongheart said, “‘See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!’”

  Belle said, “Shakespeare again. Romeo and Juliet, Act II. See, I’m onto you now, Joshua.”

  He said, “How did you know that was from Romeo and Juliet?”

  She said, “There is much that I know now that I never knew before. I know many things, my love.”

  He said, “I know that I will never stop loving you, Belle.”

  She said, “As it should be. But your heart is troubled, Joshua. You want to love others, or another, but you are worried that you will not be loyal to me.”

  Belle continued, “Shakespeare also said, ‘Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.’”