Heaven Is a Long Way Off

by Win Blevins

  They did. Sam barged ahead. “I’m going to trade my pistol.” Sam pulled it out of his belt and put it in his lap. “The Serranos will give me what I need for it. I’ll have more than we did coming across.”

  Jedediah huffed out a big breath. “You mean it.”

  “Yes.”

  So they worked it out. The captain and Sam would make the trade together, so the Serranos wouldn’t know Sam was going off alone. Even friendly Indians could be tempted by the vulnerability of a lone man.

  They got their choice of the herd for the pistol, several of Sam’s .50-caliber balls, and a little powder. Hannibal picked out a brown gelding for Sam. “This is a hell of an animal,” he said, “an athlete.”

  The men grinned at each other. The Serranos had owned horses, but probably not firearms. Not that one pistol would do much good. With these balls a man might learn to shoot, but he’d play the devil getting more ammunition.

  Jedediah provided a couple of knives and some beads to get Sam a stack of dried meat. He gave Sam a pot to carry water.

  “I mean to steal some vegetables from the Mojaves too,” said Sam.

  All three of them chuckled.

  “You’ll be two weeks behind,” said Jedediah. They’d spent seven days crossing from the Mojave villages to here.

  “Or less,” said Sam.

  “I’ll have to go in to see the governor at Monterey,” said Diah.

  “If they don’t arrest your ass at San Gabriel.”

  The Mexicans thought Americans were their enemies. Sam chuckled. What a laugh. Twenty fur men against the entire Mexican army.

  “While I’m gone, I’ll leave the brigade on the Appelaminy, right where they are.”

  “I’ll catch up.”

  Jedediah twisted his straight, thin mouth and thought. Finally he said, “I’m going to lend you something.” He slipped the lanyard over his head and handed Sam the field glass. “You’ll need it more than me.”

  Sam’s heart pinged a little. The glass was a big item to Jedediah, not only useful but a symbol of command. He thought of handing it back, but then thought of scouting the Mojaves. It would come in handy.

  He said, “Thank you, Diah.”

  By midmorning the brigade was ready to go west, Sam itching to get started east. They parted ways well outside the village, so the Serranos wouldn’t know.

  There Hannibal sprang his surprise. “I’m going with you.”

  “No. No way. This is my job.”

  “Two are safer than one,” said Hannibal.

  “A lot safer,” said Jedediah, who was known for his lone journeys in the wilderness.

  “I want to go,” said Hannibal.

  “Nothing in it for you.”

  “You’re my friend.”

  Sam slid up onto the unfamiliar brown gelding. “He was my father.”

  Off he rode, alone.

  Three

  AT FIRST LIGHT Sam lay in the shallows and dunked his face in the water. The Colorado. Hallelujah, praise be, the river. He drank when he felt like it. He craned his face back out of the water. He rolled over and wet his back side. He lolled and soaked himself.

  Coy lapped at the edge and stayed back. Standing between man and coyote, the brown gelding slurped and slobbered and stamped and splashed all three of them. Sam had named the pony Brownie.

  Sam had managed the return trip in five days, two less than coming over. Knowing the route and the springs, and having a waxing moon, he’d traveled long and hard every night. Resting during the day, neither he nor the horse sweated away so much water. Half the time he rode, and half he walked. Sometimes he felt like loping alongside the horse, but he resisted. He needed all his strength, and the mount’s. He thought he was a good plainsman, a good man in the mountains, and he was getting to be a good man in the desert.

  He had about ten pounds of dried meat, and he ate a pound or so every day. Coy hunted mice and pack rats and devoured them. The grass near the springs was plenty for a single horse. The trip seemed easy, actually. Sam told himself it was easy because it was the right thing.

  Now he had to get the job done.

  For watering man and beasts, he’d carefully picked a spot blocked from the village by a river bend. Now he tied Brownie to a tree, crept through the willows, and glassed the collection of huts downstream. He sat and watched until the sun cleared the eastern horizon. He didn’t want the sun to reflect off the lens and give him away. Keeping low, he walked back to his horse, scrunching up his mouth. He hadn’t learned anything new.

  Sam knew he could find the horses, which would be kept herded somewhere beside the river. He didn’t know where The Celt was. That would take some scouting.

  He pulled the horse’s stake and walked upstream. Somewhere above and on this side he would sleep all morning. Later he would swim the river, drifting down with the current, and take a look around. He’d find the horses and scout the village. He’d look for Red Shirt too. Ten of Sam’s friends had been murdered here, and Red Shirt was the chief.

  SAM HAD TO laugh.

  He lay on a ridge watching the horse herd. He was so close he didn’t even need the glass. Today the horses were south of the village, between two hills that sloped to the river, where the critters could get to water. They were loose-herded now and would be close-herded at night. Every week or so they’d be moved because the desert grass was so scanty.

  The Mojaves kept the horses well guarded because they were enemies of the Yuma tribe, which lived downstream at the mouth of the Gila River.

  Right now, Sam thought, you boys got your eyes on the wrong enemy.

  He hadn’t been worried about finding the horses, just his rifle. There were four or five hundred Mojave warriors. They’d stolen a baker’s dozen rifles, but just one Celt. How would Sam ever find it?

  Now he was grinning because the problem had just solved itself.

  The Mojaves must be big on show.

  Two guards were keeping an eye on the horses today, one tall and skinny like a reed, the other stocky, with a limp. And for no earthly reason those guards were carrying rifles. It made no sense. They wore no shot pouches, no powder horns. Which meant they couldn’t actually fire the rifles. Probably they hadn’t even figured out how yet. Still, they carried the weapons, probably proud of their symbols of thunder-striking.

  Sam didn’t recognize one rifle, might be anyone’s. The other one was The Celt, and it was in the hands of the reedy fellow. That gave Sam a tingle.

  He watched Paladin. Her white coat and black markings gleamed in the strong sunlight, black cap around the ears, black shield on the chest, and black mane and tail. “Hello, gorgeous,” Sam whispered.

  He watched her move around, grazing. She looked fit, her hip healed.

  Suddenly he thought, I hope she’s carrying Ellie’s foal.

  Sam and Hannibal had put Paladin together with the stallion, and had seen Ellie cover her.

  Damn. If she wasn’t in foal, she would be after a couple of weeks in this herd.

  He decided he better check that The Celt hadn’t been damaged. A man who didn’t know how to fire a rifle wouldn’t know how to take care of one.

  He made sure the sun was behind him and trained the field glass on The Celt. The rifle looked fine. Hammer intact and not cocked, triggers still there, stock all right, butt looking normal. This glass was something. He felt like he could almost make out the name on the engraved butt plate, THE CELT. Celt was one of the few written words he knew. He inspected the rifle one more time. He’d have to make sure that Reed hadn’t stood it on its muzzle instead of its butt and clogged the barrel with dirt. He’d also have to check that the ball, patch, and powder he kept in The Celt were still seated in the barrel. He wouldn’t want to have a need, lift his rifle, and find out he was just pointing a stick at someone.

  He smiled to himself. As things were, he could walk right up to Reed in broad daylight. Reed would aim The Celt at the intruder, intending to unleash lightning. The flint would go click! a
gainst the pan, and nothing would happen. While Reed was puzzling things out, Sam would drive a blade into his innards.

  Sam considered that thought. Yes, he wanted to kill someone. These Mojaves murdered ten of his friends. And not in an honest fight—through treachery. No, he didn’t mind his heat for revenge. But when it came to the actual killing, his stomach would churn.

  It was midday. Probably the guards would be changed at dusk. Reed and Limp would go back to the village, and The Celt would go with them.

  He could make his move now. Sam’s way was to be daring, to act without planning everything out, to strike whenever opportunity seemed to open and ride out the storm. The edge always went to the bold.

  Yes. He could take the guards out quietly one by one. He could grab The Celt and Paladin, swim the river, and ride hellaciously for California. He might also run the horse herd off. If he did that, the Mojaves would either have to take time to gather the horses or chase a well-mounted man on foot.

  He’d be giving up the chance to get more rifles back, and to get even with Red Shirt, but…

  He got to his hands and knees. He felt it rise in him. I need to act. He saw what to do. Guards had to drink, especially on a sun-blasted day like this one. He would wait by the river and take the first man in silence.

  The second…?

  It took time to slip back into the ravine, circle the herd on the upstream side, and get into the cover of the brush alongside the Colorado. He dropped to his knees and drank deep.

  Coy lapped gingerly. He never seemed to need much water.

  Sam surveyed the ground, which would become a killing field. The other advantage here, he noted, was that the rush-rush of the current would cover the sounds of his movements.

  He slipped back through the willows, searched for the guards, and got a nasty surprise.

  Four guards stood together talking.

  Sam waited and watched. They chatted. Reed and Limp waved, walked away toward the river.

  Damn, they were changing the guards. In the middle of the day.

  This thought gave Sam a chill. As he’d slipped down from the ridge to the river, he’d crossed paths with the arriving guards.

  Reed and Limp strolled casually through the brush, worrying about nothing.

  Sam put a hand on Coy and kept low in a clump of willows. Reed was carrying The Celt. Sam ached to jump out and grab his rifle. But it didn’t feel right.

  Reed and Limp drank from the river, looked around, laughed about something, and headed along the bank toward the village.

  Sam followed on the sly.

  HOURS LATER, BACK at his bivouac, Coy resting and Brownie grazing nearby, Sam added up his information. He knew the spread of the brush huts on the sand flat thoroughly. Now he’d seen that Reed’s hut was on the northern end, and he had a pretty wife with a child on the way. The wife had a mole next to her left nipple, what among white women might be thought of as a beauty mark.

  The Celt was tucked into the hut—not lying directly on the sand, Sam hoped. Reed sat on a cottonwood log with other men, all of them straightening arrow shafts. Beauty Mark puttered around the hut. Then she went to work the fields by the river with other women. Sam followed them, bush to bush. For a moment the hut was unattended. But Sam’s white skin and white hair would be spotted.

  He slipped back here to rest and wait for the cover of darkness. Surely The Celt would be in the hut tonight. He pictured the dome of brush. It was outlying; it faced east. A fire pit blackened the sand in front of the door, evidently where Beauty Mark did the cooking. A shovel leaned next to the entrance. That shovel irked Sam—Jedediah had traded shovels to the Mojaves just a couple of weeks ago.

  It would be dicey to slip into the hut with the couple sleeping there, dark or not. And if he woke them, he’d have a hell of a long run to reach the herd and get Paladin.

  Would the Mojaves guess the horses were a target? He thought so. Then they would boil around him like hornets. He couldn’t take the chance.

  On the other hand, he did have a trick that might let him get Paladin out of the herd…

  He shook his head to clear it of doubt. Hell, maybe the Indians would have a get-together tonight, some sort of ceremony, and his rifle would be unwatched.

  One comfort—the camp dogs wouldn’t get excited about Sam or Coy. After the days spent around each other, the dogs were used to them.

  Oh, didn’t he miss his pistol now? He was thinking of how the Mojaves panicked at the firing of two rifles on the day of the slaughter. But he traded his pistol for Brownie, who was essential.

  Well, he thought, maybe I’ll just have to do what I like to do, start the trouble and then improvise like crazy.

  On that note he took a cat nap.

  THE NIGHT WAS chill. Lying on a boulder, Sam hugged himself. Coy was all eyes on the village, and Sam was riveted on a single hut, Reed and Beauty Mark’s.

  Curiously, the horse herd was more closely watched than the village. Looked like enemies in this country were more likely to steal horseflesh than to attack such a big camp.

  Everyone was asleep, had been asleep for hours. Sam didn’t see a good opportunity yet. Damn, If I don’t get a chance by first light, I guess I’ll just go like a berserker. That was a word he’d learned from Hannibal the magician.

  Oh, cuss and to hell with it.

  Sam stood up on the boulder. Now.

  He looked at the moon, sagging down the western sky, full-bellied. Now was the time. Maybe the moonlight would be enough to find The Celt.

  He slid off the rock, and Coy leapt down. Sam padded slowly, carefully toward the hut. He kept balanced. He avoided touching the limbs of bushes. He made sure of every foot placement. After every step he waited and listened.

  He circled the hut and approached the back side. The moon shone bright here. The willow leaves, dry on the branches, let speckles of moonlight into the hut.

  A dozen feet behind the hut Sam squatted. He could make out nothing in the interior but shadows. He couldn’t even be sure where the sleeping figures were. If they were like Crows, Reed and Beauty Mark slept at the rear of the lodge.

  He studied the area above where the couple’s bed probably was. Crows, Sioux, most Indians of the plains and mountains hung their rifles from leather thongs at the rear, well off the ground. Maybe…

  He thought about it.

  He covered his face with his hands so his eyes would let in more of the faint light. He popped his hands away. Yes, he was pretty sure. Parallel to the earth, three or four feet off the ground, at the very back of the lodge he could see a long, rodlike shape.

  The Celt.

  He hardly dared think. Could he do it? Slip both hands silently through the branches? Yes. The branches bent to shape the lodge stood well apart. Hold The Celt with one hand and cut the thongs with the other? He probably could. Slip The Celt back out of the branches? That would be tricky. But what a hoot, if I can get away with it.

  He cautioned himself. When I get it, I can’t fire it. There was no telling whether the muzzle might be blocked with something.

  He stood up again. Step by step he eased forward. Coy stood to one side, sniffed, and watched curiously. Every step closer, every step closer.

  Now he could almost smell the sleeping couple, almost hear the deep, rhythmic breaths. He could hardly believe that The Celt was within reach.

  He snaked his right hand through the lodge branches. Silence. Had he done it?

  He grasped the rifle.

  Except it wasn’t The Celt. He had his hand on…a flint spearhead.

  Sam smothered a laugh and almost peed on himself.

  He was holding Reed’s spear!

  “Mmmm!”

  Every hair on his body squiggled.

  He jerked his hand out and leapt back.

  Someone spoke.

  Sam jumped. He breathed and calmed himself. A female voice. Sounded like “ark-fart,” but he knew only about twenty words of Mojave.

  He padded slowly bac
kward, watching the hut.

  Now the man’s voice sounded.

  The woman’s.

  He lost his poise—he turned and sprinted back behind the boulder. Coy trotted at his heels.

  He crouched and listened.

  Nothing. He seemed to have disturbed no one. No movement came from Reed and Beauty Mark’s lodge, and no sounds loud enough to hear. He tried to melt into the rock.

  Silence. Waiting. Breathing again.

  Soon a surprise. Across the village he saw tinder flame up. An infant fire lit the face of a woman bending over it.

  He watched and waited, every sense super-alert.

  Beauty Mark came out of her hut, got down on her knees, and started making a fire. The way she was going about it, it looked like she would singe her bare nipples.

  Around the village other fires spurted up, a dot of orange here, a flicker there.

  Beauty Mark hung a metal pot over the flames on a tripod, a pot the fur men had traded to the tribe. She poured water from a clay jug into the pot. She dumped something else in.

  Sam understood. He’d seen the women picking beans yesterday afternoon. Now they were boiling them. They probably did the cooking early so they wouldn’t have to lean over fires during the heat of the day.

  Sam noticed that night was lifting, the sky easing from black to gray. First light.

  He made a very simple choice. Go berserk!

  He gripped his tomahawk in one hand and his butcher knife in the other. He sprinted toward the hut pell-mell, bellowing as loud as he could.

  Beauty Mark jumped back in alarm.

  Sam ignored her and went for the lodge. He leapt with both feet onto where he thought Reed would be stretched out. His knee hit what felt like a raised head.

  He jumped into the air and came down ass first on the center of the lodge. Branches splintered. Sam and the lodge dome banged to earth.

  From inside Reed roared. Beauty Mark was shrieking.

  The broken lodge branches rippled. Sam could see Reed crawling toward the entrance. He kicked and hit a butt. He looked sharp, kicked again, and seemed to catch a neck.