CRAZY HORSES: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 2)

by David J. West

  CRAZY HORSES

  DAVID J. WEST

  CRAZY HORSES Copyright 2017 David J. West

  Cover typography/design by: Nathan Shumate and Cover Art by Anna Stansfield artofannastansfield.blogspot.com

  Digital formatting by: Hershel Burnside

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  LOSTREALMS PRESS

  For Kevin Molett

  CHAPTERS

  1.Dark Repercussions

  2. Burning Bridges

  3. Bad Wording

  4. Blood on the Sand

  5. Nightmares

  6. On the Midnight Trail

  7. Red Lands

  8. The Mission

  9. Signs

  10. A Day Late

  11. A Dollar Short

  12. Ride the River

  13. Debate

  14. White Water, Red Blood

  15. Hounds on the Scent

  16. Land of the Dead

  17. Double Cross

  18. The Uninvited

  19. Ruin

  20. The Fort

  21. Double Back

  22. Feeling Split

  23. Storm is Coming

  24. Crazy Horses Riding Everywhere

  26. Tracking

  27. Drums in the Night

  28. Affliction

  29. Reunion

  30. Pain and Loss

  About the Author:

  Crazy Horses

  The wildest colts make the best horses. — Plutarch

  1.Dark Repercussions

  Porter and Quincy shared a whiskey in the Oasis saloon. It was as fine a place as they could hang their hats this side of Salt Lake or, for that matter, Porter’s own spread at the Point of the Mountain. Porter had his feet up on the table. He hadn’t enjoyed Valley-Tan whiskey this good in what . . . two weeks?

  He was on his third shot when Port realized he hadn’t been home in nearly a month, my how time flies when you’re chasing outlaws, dodging bullets and just staying alive in the middle of a hellish desert.

  Quincy and Roxy sprawled at the table directly beside him.

  Roxy idly stirred her tea, shooing away a handful of flies curiously intent on sampling her honey-sweetened drink. “I wish I would have thought to get my faro deck from that canyon,” she said. “I could be making a fortune instead of rotting here with you two.”

  “Money isn’t a problem, is it?” Quincy asked with a laugh. He jingled his own purse.

  She smirked and shook her head. “No, I just didn’t want to lose the deck. We were in such a rush to get out of there, I plum forgot it.” She looked wistfully at the smudged window.

  “I’ve got to get on back to Salt Lake and see if there is any news for me. I don’t suppose you two want to come along?” Porter looked hopeful. Truth was he enjoyed company, just most folks didn’t enjoy his. Being known far and wide as ‘The Destroying Angel’ made the social graces a little more difficult.

  Quincy arched his brow at Roxy, but she shook her head. “I can’t go back. At least not yet.”

  Porter nodded, asking, “What do you want me to say when I see him? You know if he asks me—which I believe he will.”

  “Just tell him that I love him and Mama, but I don’t know that the life there is what I want. I need to see the world. Maybe I’ll still go to San Francisco. I think I’d like to run my own place. Something like this,” she said gesturing about the saloon.

  “You could run your own here. You’ve got enough cash you could rent and open a place,” suggested Porter.

  “Now we’re talking,” said Quincy.

  She shook her head. “Not here. You know I couldn’t stay here; it would be bad for Papa if I did. I need to be far, far away.”

  “You know I’d go with you anywhere,” said Quincy. His hands reached across the table to hold hers.

  She leaned back out of reach, looked at him with a half-smile and sad eyes. “Maybe I need to be alone for a little while.”

  Quincy frowned. “All right,” he said softly, sliding his hands off the table and deep into his pockets.

  Porter was about to say something, but went suddenly quiet. Instinct whispered there was trouble nearby, old habits die hard and Port’s hand went to his .45’s pommel. He watched the batwing doors like a hawk about to pounce.

  A tall man came through, two burly men flanking him. The posse members each held rifles ready, but not yet pointed at anyone. The tall man had a long, pronounced handlebar mustache, dark, deep-set eyes with an imperious cast to them, and a tarnished tin star on his chest. “Porter,” he said, motioning for his quarry to stand, “I got you now. The gallows won’t be cheated any longer. I’m finally going to arrest you for murder and conspiracy.” A wicked smile peaked out from beneath that long drooping mustache. It was plain he was thrilled to be in the moment. Like a dog that finally found a bone.

  Quincy and Roxy were tense, ready to draw weapons and throw down with the accuser and his posse, but Porter was relaxed. He didn’t bother to even take his feet off the table he had them stretched out on. “Conspiracy? Murder?” chuckled Porter. “Whose? You got a weapon? A motive? Hell, have you even got a body this time, Shaw?”

  The incredibly brief drop of Shaw’s face before his stoic mask returned showed he had neither body nor any other evidence. He must have been gambling he could railroad Porter into the local poke and then produce evidence or a confession. He should have known better.

  Porter laughed. “Roxy, Quint, this here is Brody Shaw. One time territorial marshal—”

  “I’m still the territorial marshal!” Shaw shouted.

  “—Full time jackass,” continued Porter softly.

  “Keep laughing Danite! But, I know you’re involved in the deaths of Captain Thorn, Reverend Mort, and countless others. Let’s go. Right now. Peaceful like.” He motioned toward the door.

  Porter didn’t budge, but blew smoke from his cheroot in Shaw’s direction. “Sure, you are. How many times do you think the governor is going to accept your wild accusations and clear lack of results?”

  Shaw’s left eye twitched. “I’ve eventually captured and hung every man I’ve ever had a mind to go after. I’ll get you, too, one of these days.”

  “If I had a dime for every time someone told me that, I’d be a rich man.”

  Quincy interjected, “You are a rich man.”

  “See?” chuckled Porter.

  Shaw’s posse looked like they were getting antsy and fidgeted with their rifles. Quincy and Roxy had their own guns ready. Shaw held a hand up saying, “Your time is gonna come.”

  “So, you don’t have any evidence, do you?”

  Shaw smirked. “Maybe I don’t have anything yet, but I do have the governor’s approval to bring in your mangy hide soon as I do have a body. With what folks are calling th
e Thorn massacre, I’m bound to find a body soon enough. You really think I won’t find one of those sixty-three missing men?”

  Porter looked at him suddenly, eyes narrowing like he was a rattler about to strike.

  “That’s right. Maybe you didn’t count. But between Captain Lucas Thorn’s command, Reverend Mort and his accompanying congregation, and even those outlaws—the Cotterells. All them are dead so far as rumor goes. No one has seen any of them in a week. I suspect you’re behind it, since you and your friends are the only ones who have been seen since.”

  Porter grinned. “You really think I killed sixty-three people this last week? Just me?”

  “Oh, I am sure you had some help,” Shaw growled, looking at Quincy and Roxy. “Maybe more. I still aim to prove you were at Mountain Meadows too. I’m sure it’s the same kind of bloody-handed work you’re known for.”

  Porter grunted. “I never killed anyone that didn’t need killing.”

  “Someday evidence will come out that you were there.”

  Porter abruptly stood up. Shaw’s two deputies ducked out the doors in a panic, but Shaw stood facing the gunslinger, ready to draw if the Porter did first. Which he didn’t.

  “I’ve got plenty of witnesses say I was in Salt Lake during that and those bodies were left out to rot for anyone to find. Now, you go and find these missing sixty-three bodies before you accuse me again. ‘Til then, stay outta my way.”

  Shaw backed up toward the batwing doors, with his hands held high. “Oh, I’m a backing up all right. But, this time you’ve left far too big a mess to get out of. I’ll find them bodies and then you’re gonna hang. I’m a watching you.”

  Porter scoffed. “You best find yourself a new hobby.”

  “I ain’t forgetting. I’ll find that evidence. I know you’ve done it. I am going to do the world a service when I bring you to justice.”

  “It’ll be a tough go for short dough, Peckerwood.”

  “I’m gonna see you hang, Danite.”

  “Go hang yourself,” Porter muttered.

  Shaw snorted and disappeared through the doors.

  Quincy shook his head saying, “Damn, I thought you were about to cut the wolf loose there.”

  “I suppose I was.”

  Roxy looked to Porter. “Sixty-three people?” she whispered.

  Porter shook his head and said, “There ain’t no witnesses. Redbone won’t ever talk and there ain’t gonna be anything or anyone to ever find and that’s that. They’re all under tons of rock, or dragged away and hidden by the Utes. I got me a clean conscience on dead murderers.”

  “You sure?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I throw my regrets out with the trash most every night. Doesn’t do a body a lick of good to hang on to regrets. I got precious few that linger and I’ll be damned if I’ll keep one for the likes of those pukes—Thorn and Mort.”

  “I back you up one hundred percent, Port,” said Quincy. “But, suppose he does find evidence somewhere? Like what if anyone besides us and Redbone survived that canyon gunfight?”

  “Redbone would have mopped them all up. We got nothing to worry about. We just keep our word together and this will all blow over like everything else.”

  “What else have you done, that just blew over?” asked Roxy, pointedly.

  Porter leaned in closer, like he was about to reveal a great secret, then smirked, saying, “Lots of things.”

  A man burst through the saloon doors, setting them swinging. His eyes were wide as pie plates and a slick sheen of sweat covered his panicky brow. “Marshal Rockwell! Marshal Rockwell! There’s a bloody Indian riding into town and he is a sight to see! You need to do something!”

  Porter took one more sip of his whiskey and stood up. “Notice how he didn’t call for Shaw?” He laughed.

  “Porter!” snapped Roxy. “This could be serious.”

  “It ain’t!” He snapped. “Just a bunch of fool townies panicking.” He took another sip of whiskey, licked his lips in satisfaction then stretched like a jungle cat before he strode out the batwing doors.

  Townsfolk were scurrying for cover off the streets. Porter squinted against the setting sun at the dark rider approaching.

  Quincy was at Port’s side in a moment, as was Roxy. But it ended up being no worry for the three of them, at least not just yet.

  There on the far end of the street, big as life was Redbone! He rode on a wounded pony, but the war-chief looked even worse. Bloody gashes covered his lean body. There were bullet wounds in his thigh and his shoulder oozed blood from beneath a stained rag of a bandage.

  “What’s going on, Chief? Did we miss someone up that canyon?” Porter asked, then realized what he said out loud and looked around just to be sure that Shaw wasn’t nearby. Fortunately, he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  Redbone dismounted and almost fell to his knees. He had been weeping. Unthinkable that this man could cry, but there were tears stains running down his dirty, bloody face. “My daughter. They took my daughter.”

  Porter helped him stand and ushered him inside the saloon.

  Several of the folk who had crowded inside at Redbone’s approach now rushed out, and the proprietor tensed his jaw before mustering the courage to say something. “Mister Rockwell, sir. We don’t serve their kind in here. It’s bad enough you’re having me serve the nigger, but the red-skin has got to wait outside like every other savage.”

  “Nigger?” questioned Quincy, pausing mid-swallow.

  Porter’s eyes flashed. “Savage? Hell, if you’re worried about a savage you shouldn’t a served me.”

  The barkeep paled, and then made himself busy elsewhere, disappearing into the backroom.

  They helped Redbone to a seat at their table, and Roxy began cleaning his wounds with a rag, dipping it in the whiskey to sterilize it. The big Ute didn’t even start at the cold, burning touch of the alcohol.

  “Who took your daughter?” asked Quincy.

  “Matamoros. He had some Apache raiders with him and they rode into our village. Shot and killed many braves and took my daughter and others.”

  Roxy gasped and looked at Porter. “We need to do something.”

  Porter shrugged. “What? Matamoros must be halfway to Santa Fe by now. How long ago did this happen?”

  Redbone grasped Porter by the shoulder. “Three days. But above on the highlands. I followed him this close, then came to get you. He should only be a day or two ahead of us.”

  “Is he heading for the Old Spanish Trail?”

  Redbone nodded.

  “He has too great a head start. I don’t know that we can catch him, especially since you’re wounded and all.”

  “Porter!” cried Roxy. “You have to help him.”

  “You are my Blood Brother, are you not? I need your help to get her back. I cannot let her go into slavery with those men. I will ride on no matter what my body is like. I will not slow down the pursuit.”

  Porter rubbed at his beard and twisted his lips into a scowl. Redbone had him dead to rights. He had made the Blood Brother pact with the Ute chief and was honor bound to help. “Yeah. Wheat! Quint, I don’t expect you to come along, but I’d sure appreciate having you.”

  Quincy nodded. “I ain’t gonna miss this, no sir.”

  “What about me?” asked Roxy.

  “Well, I figured you had sights to see, and your own life to live. This is gonna be an awful rough trip catching those desperadoes. It will be ugly. I don’t know that you’re up to this kind of chase.”

  “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

  Porter shrugged again. “I didn’t want to assume.”

  “But you assumed I wasn’t capable?”

  Redbone had a look of something other than pain on his face. “If the Lucky Woman wants to come, then she should come.”

  “Fine,” growled Porter. “We better get our supplies together and quick, we need to tear down the miles between us as fast as we can.”

  Quincy nodded. “I’ll go g
et our horses saddled and ready, if Roxy can get us some rations.”

  She nodded her head and hurried out the door.

  Porter smirked and said, “All right, I’ll get us the other supplies.” He reached over the bar and grabbed an armful of Valley-Tan whiskey bottles. They clinked together, loudly.

  Roxy stepped back into the saloon and glared at Porter in disapproval.

  “We need these for medicinal purposes,” he said, sheepishly.

  Her eyebrows raised in silent judgment.

  “Knock it off, I can drink if I want too, woman!”

  “How is that going to help out in our circumstance?” she asked.

  “You never know. And I never know when I’ll be able to get another square drink!”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, quit judging me and go get us those rations while I get some more ammunition and powder.”

  ***

  Redbone was pleased that his Blood Brother and company were assembling so quickly. For white people, they moved with swift determination. Humbling as it was, he knew he had not made a rash decision in enlisting their aid, no matter how much he felt scorned by the rest of the whites.

  2. Burning Bridges

  In less than an hour, they were on the trail out of Price. Redbone guided them across the winding roads, over washed out streambeds and shortcuts through sage brush covered hills. They kept in a south easterly direction with the towering Book Cliffs on their left. They knew where to cross the many ravines that cut through the land, remnants of the spring flash floods. These trenches dug into the ground a dozen feet deep and nearly was wide in many places.

  It was a familiar enough path, the same route they had so recently returned on coming back from the Lost Hoard venture. Luckily for them, they had had a full day to recuperate and rest, unlike Redbone. But the dogged war-chief would not complain nor give up. He stoically rocked to and fro on his horse, ignoring his pain and keeping them all on a good pace.

  They camped the first night at a small boom town called Woodside. When they were almost asleep, they noticed riders coming into town and bedding down, not too far away on the far side of the town’s one saloon. It wasn’t too hard to guess who it was.