by Win Blevins
Beauty Mark jumped onto his back.
Sam roared and threw himself over backward onto the branches. He came down square on Beauty Mark’s chest, and heard the breath whumpf! out of her.
Reed was crawling out of the smashed entrance.
Sam clubbed him with the flat side of the tomahawk.
Reed got to his feet but staggered sideways. Sam slammed the tomahawk blade at his shoulder.
Beauty Mark came at Sam clawing.
He put his hands on both of her breasts and shoved fiercely. She went flying backward.
The whole camp was aroused. People howled. Men ran toward him with weapons in hand.
Sam spotted The Celt’s butt plate sticking out of a hide wrap on the dirt floor of the hut. He heaved the rifle out and ran like hell.
Two arrows whistled by his pumping arms. Coy dashed at the attackers, barking ferociously.
Sam whirled. The Mojaves slowed down or stopped. He raised and pointed The Celt. The warriors hurled themselves to the ground, behind bushes, or behind lodges.
Fooled you! The rifle wasn’t even cocked.
Sam whooped and ran. In an instant Coy was alongside him. They dodged around bushes. For now the brush would save him. No one could get a clear shot.
Fifty yards into the brush Sam turned hard to the right to head for the herd. Paladin…He ran like a madman. Paladin will save us.
He jumped into a dry wash, bounded across, and scrambled up the other side. There he faced a grove of cottonwoods—and forty or fifty armed and angry Indians.
He stopped. Oh, hell, I can’t berserk my way out of this one.
He jumped back into the wash and fled upstream.
A dozen, two dozen, three dozen Mojaves jumped in and called out their war cries. Others ran along the banks. They came at him like baying hounds.
Come on, feet, do it.
Sam sprinted for everything he was worth. I can’t slip out of this one…
When he put one foot on a fist-sized rock, it turned and he went down hard. His shoulder plowed a groove in the gravel.
Rising to a knee, Sam saw a huge Mojave bearing down on him. The man cocked his spear.
Sam lifted The Celt.
A gun roared.
Blood squirted from the Mojave’s chest, and he crashed to the ground like a felled tree.
What the devil? A gun? He almost checked The Celt’s muzzle for smoke.
From the left bank, the direction Sam came from, a cloud of white mist floated over the wash.
All the Mojaves ran back toward the village.
A head rose over the bank.
Hannibal?
Another head appeared.
Hannibal on Brownie!
The Delaware jumped Brownie into the wash, galloped to Sam, and skidded to a stop in the gravel. Sam hopped up behind Hannibal.
The horse labored out of the wash and ran toward the herd. As they went, Hannibal reloaded his pistol.
“We’ve got them buffaloed,” he yelled, grinning hugely. “You all right?”
“The horse sentries heard that shot.”
“We’ll take them.”
Brownie and Coy topped the next to last ridge and plunged into the ravine.
A sentry loosed a flock of arrows at them.
Sam and Hannibal dived off the horse in opposite directions and scrambled behind bushes. They were too close, maybe twenty-five paces, and too exposed.
Pain lightninged up Sam’s arm.
His left hand sprouted a shaft and feathers. He yelled, and his knife clattered to the ground.
A second sentry rose on the ridge, pointing a rifle at Sam and Hannibal.
Sam cackled loudly. “What do you mean to do,” he hollered, “scare us to death?”
Hannibal stood up, leveled his pistol, and shot the arrow warrior square in the chest. His body lifted and dropped backward.
Instantly Sam and Hannibal charged the rifleman.
The fellow threw the rifle down and ran.
From the top of the ridge Sam threw his tomahawk at the man. It hit him handle-first on top of the head and bounced forward. The Indian hightailed it for the hills.
Hannibal grabbed the abandoned rifle.
Sam whistled piercingly, low-high.
Paladin tossed her head and cantered toward them.
Hannibal smiled. “Magic.”
Sam touched her muzzle, jumped joyously onto her back, grabbed her mane, and rubbed her ears.
Brownie trotted up to join Paladin. Hannibal grabbed the rope bridle and vaulted on.
“Let’s go!” Sam yelled, and kicked Paladin toward the river.
Hannibal said, “I’m going to get something for our trouble.”
Quickly, they separated a group of seven horses from the main herd. Hannibal drove them toward the water. Sam dashed Paladin at the rest of the herd, shouting and waving his hat. They broke like a flock of sparrows and ran in all directions.
Sam put Paladin to a gallop after Hannibal and the seven stolen horses. From the bank he saw their heads bobbing up and down in the river. Without missing a step, Paladin leapt into the shallows and soaked Sam. In a few steps she was swimming. The cool of the river was a blessing.
Four
“WHAT THE HELL did you do?”
“Saved your ass. Let me see that hand.”
Sam showed him the puncture wound. Back by the Colorado, Hannibal had pulled the arrow through. Coy tried to lick the hand, and Hannibal shoved his muzzle away.
“I’m going to poultice and bandage it now.”
“You followed me?”
“No need. I knew where you were going. I came along far behind.”
Hannibal made a paste with ground herbs from his belt pouch. He wrapped them in cloth, dunked them in a water jug, and applied them to the wound.
“This is damn likely to fester, but we’ll do our best.”
“Why did you follow me?” Sam would worry about his hand later.
“It’s my fault you’re in this country at all.”
This was a kind of joke between them. On Christmas Day nearly five years ago Hannibal found Sam moping over a girl and dared him to do what he really wanted to do, go to the West.
“That’s it for now.”
They were stretched out in some rocks a hundred paces above the first spring. The nine horses were rope-corralled a quarter mile away, on poor grass.
Sam and Hannibal scooted onto their bellies and rested their barrels on rocks. They made sure priming was in the pans and that the rifles were on half cock. They made sure their cover was good and their sight lines were good.
The Mojaves, if they followed, had to use this spring. Then two good riflemen would have some fine targets. Hannibal didn’t know the rifle he’d snatched from the sentry, but that made an extra firearm.
“I’ve still got those words written down.”
“Too bad you can’t read.”
They both chuckled.
“They’re getting hard to make out.”
Sam opened his shot pouch, spread out a patch of rabbit fur, unrolled a piece of oiled cloth, and unfolded the piece of paper within. The hand was stiff and achy and the bandage felt cumbersome. He handed the paper to Hannibal.
“Illegible,” said the Delaware. “Too many times wet, too dry, too much folding and unfolding.”
“‘Everything worthwhile is crazy,’” quoted Sam, “‘and everyone on the planet who’s not following his wild-hair, middle-of-the-night notions should lay down his burden, right now, in the middle of the row he’s hoeing, and follow the direction his wild hair points.’”
“What bit me in the tail that night?”
“Maybe you’ll write it down for me again.”
“Sure. When we don’t have enemies hot behind us.”
Sam looked to the east and pointed with his bandaged hand.
From these rocks they had a fine panoramic view back toward the Colorado River.
“I see them too,” said Hannibal. “We don’t g
et to slip out of anything.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Waiting was the worst part. Watching your enemy. Mulling on his intent. Picturing blood and torn flesh. Hurting in your middle, because you know that the blood might be yours.
Sam flexed his hand. He hoped the damn thing didn’t make it hard to shoot. But he had confidence—The Celt shot dead center.
They watched the Mojaves ride up to the spring at a lope. A half dozen of them carried useless rifles. Sam and Hannibal grinned at each other.
The Indians held their horses back from the water while two scouts inspected the tracks around the spring. Francisco was one of the scouts, and Red Shirt seemed to be the war leader. Handsome, friendly, slick Francisco. Treacherous Francisco. Quickly the interpreter found the tracks of the mounts moving along the foot of this rocky spur toward where they were corralled.
The Indians let the horses drink first. When the men dismounted and stepped toward the water, Hannibal fired.
Red Shirt thudded to the ground.
Sam saw no need to hold his fire. The Indians couldn’t scramble up these rocks before he and Hannibal reloaded. He pulled the trigger and Francisco went down.
Sam thought grimly how easy this was, with the barrel resting on a big rock.
A few Mojaves jumped onto their horses. One man yelled at the enemy and waved a rifle.
Hannibal fired, and the yelling man got knocked under a horse and trampled.
The rest of the Mojaves jumped on their horses, and all skedaddled, taking three riderless mounts with them.
“What do you think?” said Hannibal, reloading fast.
“We’ll be able to watch them halfway back to the river,” said Sam.
While Hannibal made sure the Indians were riding away, Sam walked to the horses and brought them back to the water.
Hannibal dragged the three bodies in a pile away from the spring.
The two took turns all afternoon, sleeping and watching. The Mojaves stayed gone.
Being near the three dead men gave Sam the willies. He didn’t want to get an angle where he could see Francisco’s and Red Shirt’s bodies. He imagined they stank already. He was mad at the buzzards circling overhead, eyeing the dead.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Hannibal.
“Esperanza,” lied Sam.
Then, however, he did think about his daughter. Over and over he imagined holding her. And embracing Flat Dog, her uncle. And Julia, her aunt.
When dark fell, Sam and Hannibal rode toward the next spring.
“SISTER SUSIE PICKED a peck of peppers,” said Hannibal to the plop of the horses’ hoofs.
“A peck of peppers Sister Susie picked,” answered Sam.
“Plenty of peckers,” put in Hannibal, “Sister Susie plundered.”
Jedediah grinned at him. “McKye,” he said lightly, “you put a cloud into a fine day.”
“Sister Susie deemed them dapper Daves.”
The eighteenth day of September was in fact fine. Sunny and warm, views of what the Mexicans called the Sierra Nevada stretching for miles to the east, the river hard by, and miles of wheat-colored grasses in every direction.
Sam felt heady. In a few hours he would see Esperanza, and Flat Dog, and Julia. Jedediah, Sam knew, was happy. He’d told Rogers, the brigade’s clerk, to hold the brigade in that camp on the Appelaminy until September 20. If the captain didn’t appear by then with supplies and more men, Rogers was to consider him dead, take the remaining men in to the Russian fort at Bodega Bay for supplies, and make his way home however he could.
They would arrive this afternoon, two days before the deadline.
And Hannibal? He seemed to like the world every day, however it came. Sam looked at his friend’s face. Sometimes it made him twist with envy, the way his friend seemed to enjoy everything. He had a saying for it. “Life is a whirling devil of trouble, thanks be to God.”
Only a little while more.
ROGERS, ART BLACK, and Joe Laplant stood up, waved, and came running. “Good to see you, you old coons!”
Then they looked behind the captain at the other riders, and their faces changed.
Jedediah saw it. “We have nothing,” he said. He’d promised to come with a pack train of supplies of every kind. Instead he brought ten riders, half of them without rifles, not a single pack animal, and no equipment.
“Hellfire,” said Rogers.
The captain and his clerk looked at each other, speaking without words.
Art Black, though, was looking sheepishly at Sam.
Jedediah reached down to shake Black’s hand, and Art didn’t even notice.
“They’re gone,” he said.
Sam opened his mouth and nothing came out.
“Disappeared,” Black said.
Rogers kept his eyes down and kicked at the dirt.
“Esperanza?” Sam squeaked.
Black nodded. His eyes ached the truth up to Sam.
“F-F-Flat Dog and Julia?”
“Gone. Probably kidnapped. No idea where they are.”
“When?”
“About two months ago.”
Gone. Sam almost fell off Paladin.
Rogers changed the subject. “The rest of the men are out hunting.” He looked at the ten gaunt riders and their mounts. “We have plenty of meat but we’re out of everything else. They’ll be back before dark.”
“I’m sorry,” Black said to Sam.
Art Black was a decent man. Sam had never liked Rogers.
The two outfits greeted each other, one by one. They hadn’t seen each other in over a year. The men from Salt Lake, intended to be rescuers, were the ones who needed rescuing.
Whatever they were saying, Sam could see their mouths move, but he couldn’t hear the words. He got off Paladin and led her down to the Appelaminy.
The mare drank. Sam had the illusion, repeatedly, that he was tumbling head over heels into the river.
His infant daughter, gone.
One of his best friends, gone.
His best friend’s wife, disappeared.
He sat down by the river for a long time. He rubbed Coy’s head. He listened to the water and watched it turn and swirl. Paladin splashed in the shallows. When he was ready, Sam staked the mare on some grass and walked back to the fire. The hunters were back, and everyone was gathered around and feeding on elk.
“Give me the story,” Sam told Rogers.
Head down, the clerk began. “The child was colicky all the time,” he said in a tone that suggested it wasn’t his concern. “Señora Julia wanted a médico or a curandera. She had a notion about some herbs or something.” Sam didn’t know whether the tone was contempt for Mexicans or the irritability one married woman can cause in a camp of rough men.
Rogers looked up from his food at Sam and smiled eerily. “Some Indians led them toward San Jose. They thought they’d come on a rancho, either mission or private, and get some help. Didn’t figure they’d have to go all the way to San Jose.
“Indians come back, said the party stopped at a farmhouse a day’s ride that direction.” He indicated west with a vague wave. “Men took ’em at gunpoint. I rode over there with some of the boys. Farmer said, ‘People in Monterey wanted them,’ wouldn’t say nothing else.”
Sam glared at Rogers, thinking the clerk would have done more if it wasn’t an Indian, a Mexican, and a half-breed child. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
Coy tensed, glaring at the clerk. Rogers gave the coyote a nasty look.
“Give me that liver,” Hannibal said to Rogers.
Sam snapped his head toward his friend.
Rogers picked up the liver with the tip of his butcher knife and extended it to Hannibal.
“Hannibal, I…”
Hannibal interrupted. “Eat. Eat good. You’re going to need it.”
Sam got up and walked down to the river, Coy trotting along.
After he stared at the dark water for a while, Hannibal sat down
next to him and tossed a hunk of meat to Coy. “Color prejudice shows in all sorts of ways,” he said right off. “Even in people who say they don’t have any.”
Sam didn’t answer.
“We’ll find them.”
“Yes.” He turned a grim face to Hannibal. “That bastard at Monterey got them.”
“I know the story. Let’s get back.”
The celebration that night was pathetic. The men left waiting here were down in the mouth about what the captain hadn’t brought—everything a trapper needed, from goods to trade to the Indians to critical items like powder, lead, traps, knives, and coffee.
The men who came from the Salt Lake were miserable about their friends killed by the Mojaves, and having to tell the story.
Everyone grumbled in their food. They traded piece after piece of news, sometimes personal information, sometimes an item that bore on their mission to trap beaver, sometimes a story that was funny or nutty or unbelievable.
Jedediah caught up on the business news from Rogers. The men left behind had had an easy time, fine weather, lots of good hunting, Indians that were both peaceable and honest. Good beaver trapping, except in the summer.
The captain didn’t say it, but he knew that Smith, Jackson & Sublette had paid wages both summers and the men hadn’t had a chance to earn the firm a dime.
Sam sat in a deep pool of unbelief.
“The Spaniards,” said Rogers, meaning the Mexicans, “sent some riders up here from San Jose. They wanted to know what we were doing in the territory. I told them hunting beaver.”
“Did that satisfy them?”
“Seemed so.” Rogers’s eyes said, But they’re Spaniards, and you never know.
Hannibal said quietly to Sam, “Let’s get some rest. We leave in the morning.”
SAM LOOKED OVER his breakfast coffee cup at the captain. “We’re going to Monterey.”
“Why don’t we ride together?”
Sam mulled. He knew the captain had to go. He needed to ask for passports and for permission to trade for the equipment the outfit needed.
The governor would tell the captain he had no right to be in the country, and he was probably a spy. “Why,” the governor would press, “did you come back after you promised to leave the country and never return?”
At least something was worth a smile this morning. Sam said, “You may end up in the calabozo.”
