Man in the Saddle

by Matt Chisholm

  Two braves came up to Spur and ripped the remains of his shirt from his body. The sweat poured down him. Then the man wearing the buffalo horns turned and faced him. In his hands he held a hot iron. He was still smiling. He capered a little, dancing nearer and nearer to Spur, hopping on alternate feet, crooning a gentle song.

  When he was close to Spur he held the iron near his eyes. The white man dropped his lids against the heat and his heart pounded in his breast like a drum.

  It’s going to be damned hard, he thought, to show these boys how a man can die …

  Contents

  Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three

  Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen ~Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen ~ Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nineteen

  Copyright ~ Titles in the Series

  About the Author

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  More About the Spur series

  Chapter One

  The woman crouched in the willows, the water of the creek soaking her to her waist and the Indians paced their horses not twenty yards away, looking for her, grunting in their anger, exchanging gutturals with each other. She kept very still, scarcely daring to breathe, her arm around her daughter who was as still with her wrist held hard in her mouth to prevent herself from crying out.

  The wind soughed softly through the branches of the tree, gently rippling the water, in a song that was like an incongruous lullaby.

  My God, the woman thought, how much longer? How much longer can I bear it?

  For three days and three nights almost since the raid on the ranch house, the Indians had driven her and her daughter, hurrying them to the valley they called their home. For three days and three nights life had been suspended as she and the girl were treated like cattle and the terror had run deep. But the terror had not been worse than this. To be a prisoner of the Indians had been some kind of certainty. This was nothing but a suspension of sentence.

  Since she and Sarah had been taken she had waited for that moment when eyes would not be on her. Since being captured she had been submissive and she had made the girl as obedient. By the third evening, the Indians had become confident of the docility of their captives. So when one of their scouts had sighted dust to the north and their attention turned that way, she had taken Sarah by the wrist and run. As the creek was the only place that had offered cover, she had run that way. And run and run . . . till there was no strength in her to run further. They rested, both of them together, with their arms around each other, the older woman whispering encouragement to the younger.

  Then they had gone on, walking, running and walking.

  Stopping now and then to listen for the pursuit they knew would come.

  She had thought that the Indians would not attempt to find them until light, but she had been wrong. They came an hour after the escape, trotting their ponies along the banks of the creek. Five of them.

  Her heart leapt as something splashed into the water behind them. She suppressed the cry that came to her lips.

  Merciful God—

  A pony snorted on the other side of the willow tree and she smelled Indian.

  One of them laughed.

  A continuous splashing came from the creek and she knew that one of them was wading along the shore. Sarah’s wrist jumped in her grip and she knew the child was ready to run in panic. She tightened her hold and tried to stare over her shoulder, straining her eyes to see through the murk. At once her eye caught the dull gleam of metal.

  The man on the horse was dismounting.

  The man in the water called to the others.

  Hands started to pull aside the willow boughs.

  Suddenly, Sarah wrenched her arm free and was running, smashing her small body into the foliage of the tree.

  “No,” the woman screamed, “no.”

  As she started to her feet, she heard more than saw her daughter run into the Indian pushing his way through the tree. The man grunted and Sarah screamed as his arms went around her.

  The woman hurled herself forward, grabbing the man’s long hair and tearing at it with all her strength, fighting her way through the solid wall of the child’s scream that went on and on.

  Hoofs thudded on the ground. There were Indians all around her, suddenly. Hands grasped at her and something hard struck her across the back. She bit and scratched, fighting anyway she could. And the child continued to scream so that the shrill sound went through her to her innermost nerves. Something snapped inside her. A savage and destructive insanity overpowered her and she was like an animal fighting for its young.

  Something struck her on the head and she shrieked: “Sarie!” and hit the ground.

  Chapter Two

  The sun was warm on her face.

  It was as if she came out of a long, deep sleep. The terror was still with her, like a hard solid lump of cold clay in her belly.

  Her head ached.

  And for a full minute that was all she was conscious of.

  Then she saw him and she froze like a frightened rabbit at the sight of a snake. He was crouched up, his dark face in profile to her. A powerful beak of a nose with delicate flaring nostrils, dark eyes and a harsh gash of a mouth. Her flesh crawled and her mind said: Indian.

  But she had been on the frontier long enough to know that this was no Indian. The way he held himself, the clothes he wore, all told that he was a whiteman. Yet the face was the face of a savage. She wondered if he were a renegade or a ‘breed who ran with the Indians.

  Where was Sarah?

  She turned her head and saw that she was alone with the man. He at once became aware of her movement, put what he held in his hands on the ground and rose quickly to his feet. A tall lean man, straight-backed and hard. Two long strides and he was by her, staring down at her. She shrank from him. She did not know when she had seen a more evil face. It wasn’t ugly, but it showed the danger that rested in the man.

  “No call to be afraid, ma’am,” he said.

  He smiled and in an instant the somber threat of his dark face fled. White teeth showed against the deep brown of his flesh and she saw that his eyes were warm blue.

  He dropped on one knee beside her and suddenly her fear went.

  “Soon as you’re ready, ma’am,”’ he said, “we’ll be on the move.”

  “Sarah,” she said.

  The lids dropped over the eyes for a moment and he looked put out. “They took her.”

  She lay there, looking up at him, but not seeing him. Not seeing anything in fact but her daughter in the hands of the Indians, their bright black eyes on her, looking at her with the lust that would turn her in short time from a young girl into a used-up woman that could never come back again into the world of white folks. Something died in her then.

  The man was speaking, asking her if she could stand.

  Sure, she could stand. Physical hurt and tiredness were nothing now, for her spirit had taken a beating. She had saved Sarah and lost her again. A husband and son three days ago and now the last of the family had gone. She wished she could have wept and washed away the unbearable anguish of the truth. But she wasn’t a weeping woman.

  She stood up, knocking his offered hand aside. A kind of cold rage burned in her.

  She looked around and saw that she was no longer near the creek. They were in open country here, hidden from any watchers on the plain in a buffalo wallow. She glanced to the spot where the man had been sitting and saw that he had laid on the ground an open book and a pencil. She made nothing of that fact, t
hen. Lifting her eyes she saw the hills that were the forerunners of the mighty mountains.

  In the hollow with them were two horses. One a dun wearing a white man’s saddle, the other a pinto that had been saddled by an Indian. Then she knew that this man had fought with the Indians. He had killed or wounded one of them and this was his pony.

  “The Indians,” she said. “You fought them?”

  He picked up the book and closed it, slipping it into his leather shirt. The pencil he stuck in the band of his dark, weather-stained hat.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You couldn’t save Sarie?”

  “They wanted to scalp you when they couldn’t take you. At least the girl was alive., so I saved you. It was dark and they escaped.”

  She looked at the sun and knew that they were several hours past dawn. The Indians with the girl would be into the hills and safe from pursuit by now. The girl was lost to her forever. Then she thought of weeping again., but she denied herself the comfort of it because the man would see her.

  “I’m Annie Grimes,” she said. “My man and son was killed three days back down on the Big Bend.”

  “They call me Spur,” he said. He didn’t offer any other name, so she didn’t ask. It wouldn’t have been seemly. They inspected each other, knowing that one was going to be important to the other for days to come yet.

  The man walked over to the dun horse and the animal lifted its black muzzle and lipped him.

  “Ride my horse, ma’am,” he said and she obeyed him at once. She would have liked to have done anything but ride, but she knew from the way he glanced around at the country that he was mindful of the danger around here. The dun was not a big animal, but it was too tall for her to step into the saddle with ease. As soon as her foot was in the stirrup-iron, she felt the man’s hands on her waist and the next instant she was lifted lightly into the big saddle. He adjusted the stirrup-leathers to her and she felt shamed because her skirts were pulled back to show her naked legs.

  Next he took up the Henry rifle that leaned against the side of the wallow and vaulted onto the Indian pony’s back. He went Indian-side and the animal only fought him a little. He held the hammerhead down hard by the thong that was tied around its lower jaw. Then Spur led the way out, heading into the north-east.

  For an hour or more he kept them at a walk, but she did not know if he did so to avoid telltale dust or out of kindness to her. At the end of that time, they came to a deep gully and spent till noon finding their way down to the meager creek at the bottom. There was timber here. He watered the horses before he led them deep into the timber and here built a fire that gave off little smoke. From his bedroll on the cantle of the dun, he took his coffee-pot and it was not long before she was sipping black and unsweetened coffee.

  She never knew when she had tasted finer.

  The pain of the loss of Sarah was still in her mind, but she felt better. He gave her biscuits and dried meat to chew on and when she refused it, he told her gently but firmly to eat it. They had a long way to go and she would need strength. So she ate the food to the last crumb.

  He watched her from under his dark lashes as she ate, noting the delicate way she did so. It pleased him. She was dirty now, this woman, and disheveled, but that couldn’t hide the fact that she was a fine-looking woman. Didn’t know when he’d seen finer. She must be made of iron to stand what she had suffered. He squatted on his heels, admiring her. When she looked up and caught his eyes, he smiled reassuringly, not knowing how to do so with words. But she did not return the smile, only stared at him un-blinkingly.

  He stood up and said: “We’ll get on when you’re ready, ma’am.”

  He took the pot to the creek and washed it out, returned and tied his roll on the cantle. They set off again, leading their horses up the steep gully side onto the plain above. Before he came out onto the flat, he left the horses with her and went ahead for a look around. He didn’t hurry, knowing their lives might depend on the sharpness of his inspection. This time when they mounted, he led the way at a brisk trot. After a couple of hours of the hammering pace he allowed her to dismount and walk. The muscles of her legs were so stiff that they were an agony. But she did not murmur.

  The country was starting to change now; the buffalo grass giving way to large sweeps of purple sage. The soil was sandier and they had left a telltale plume of dust behind them. She saw that Spur’s eyes were forever ranging over the country.

  As soon as they were mounted again, they saw the dust.

  The woman strained her eyes and saw that a party of horsemen were traveling at an angle across their trail going from the north-west toward the southeast. Spur turned in the saddle and said: “Stay close, ma’am.”

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “Can’t rightly tell. Most likely Indians or soldiers. More likely Indians than soldiers.” He pulled the heavy revolver from its shabby holster on his left hip and asked: “Can you use a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed her the forty-four and said: “One under the hammer.” As she took the large gun, his eyes smiled reassuringly at her. Then they faced the banner of dust, halted, waiting to see if the horsemen would change direction. Another few minutes and that was what they did. The way they turned and came told Spur something.

  “My guess,” he said, “is they’re Indians. We’ll soon know.”

  Another ten minutes and the pall of dust revealed three tiny figures, racing their horses.

  Spur said: “They’re Indians, all right.”

  The barrel of the six-shooter was hot to the touch of the woman’s hand. She wished she had a hat to shelter her head from the brassy sun. The glare from the alkali dust was hurting her eyes.

  Another five minutes and Spur told her: “Kiowas.” He took his hat off and stood in the stirrups, waving the hat around his head in circles.

  “What’re you doin’?” the woman asked.

  “Tellin’ ’em to ride around us. They come on now, we’ll know they mean trouble.”

  The Indians came ahead, three brightly plumed warriors, racing their ponies at the limit of their speed. Spur jacked a round into the breech of the Henry. His face was grim. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and abruptly the Indians halted, pulling their ponies back onto their haunches, so that they reared and whinnied frantically. Spur lowered the rifle and sat still in the saddle, very calm. The Indian ponies were jigging this way and that while the men talked together. They were nervous of the rifle, but a man and a woman on their own miles from anywhere were a tempting bait even to peaceable Indians.

  The woman thought of her three days in Indian hands and her daughter’s being taken off and started shaking. But when she looked at Spur, she reckoned that she would not be taken again. Not by these three.

  “Now,” Spur said conversationally. “Do they have some sense or don’t they?”

  Apparently, they did not.

  With a sudden lashing of quirts and bow-staves, they whipped their ponies into a run again. Spur at once slapped the Henry butt into his shoulder and fired a shot high over their heads. With shrill cries, they turned their horses, one going one way and two the other, and rode around the two of them in a wide circle.

  “Watch the lone one,” Spur told the woman and they turned their horses, watching the Indians riding past at the extreme range of a rifle-shot. When they had gone well past, they met up again and halted to shout their derision. Spur waited patiently and after some more arguing among themselves, they rode on, heading in their former direction.

  The man and the woman rode on.

  The camped that night in the foothills, warily. Spur tied the Indian pony to the woman’s wrist and did the same for himself with the dun. This told the woman that he half-expected the three Indians. She knew that Kiowas could not resist horses. She also wondered if they had come looking for her. They might be from the same village as those who had taken her and Sarah.

  Spur gave her a blanket and she lay on the ground wi
th it wrapped around her. She had thought that she would never have been able to sleep again with the troubles that she had on her mind, but almost as soon as she lay down, she was asleep.

  She awoke suddenly and startled to find herself in bright moonlight. The dun was snorting. She sat up and looked around for Spur and could not find him. Frightened, she threw off the blanket and picked up the pistol that he had laid beside her. The heavy gun was a comfort in her hands. Taking the tie-line from her wrist she tied the Indian pony to some brush and saw that its ears were forward and he was sniffing at the east. She ran to some thick brush and crouched down in the deep moon-shadow and in the same moment she heard the boom of the Henry.

  A man screamed.

  A figure ran into the moonlight a dozen yards from her and she saw the glisten of an axe-head in the moonlight. The feathers made a black cockscomb against the bright orb of the moon.

  Another man ran into view from near her and she saw that it was Spur. He was hatless and panting from exertion. Another figure darted from the brush and leapt at him. The woman screamed and Spur swung to meet the danger. Metal rang against metal and the first Indian started running in on the whiteman. Spur hit his Indian with the butt of the rifle and the man went down. No sooner did he hit ground than he was up and she saw the grimace of his paint-encrusted face, the rolling whites of his eyes. The knife darted for Spur’s belly but he arched his body and took it out of reach. The barrel of the Henry struck the Indian so hard she heard the blow clearly.

  She was running now to meet the other warrior, lifting the pistol and pulling hard on the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Panic hit her as she realized that she had not cocked the gun.

  But the racing Indian had not seen her. His whole attention was on Spur. He swung the axe high and she saw the gleaming head arcing downward. Desperately she pulled back the hammer with her thumb. She saw the axe-head land as Spur moved to one side and she pulled the trigger. The gun went off with such a loud roar that it nearly frightened her out of her wits. It also nearly jumped from her hand.