Trail to Devil's Canyon

by Cole Matthews

  ‘You said that the lieutenant’s outfit and a woman tried to make it?’ Alvord recalled. ‘Looks like they are in trouble. Big trouble. Even Preacher Roberts’ prayers could not save them now.’

  Anton Kozlov stared helplessly at the pass. The gunfire faded. Stillness gripped Devil’s Canyon once more.

  The stillness stretched to nearly five minutes.

  Anton imagined the wicked flash of scalping knives, and he felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he thought about Lesya – Lucy’s possible fate. He smoked a cigarette. Then another. Finally, he returned to Reverend Roberts on the north wall.

  Six separate palls of smoke hung over the canyon.

  The Paiute Indians had crossed the river. The main bunch would be threading through a pine forest, coming closer to the stockade. Anton glanced at the pass. The smoke puffs were no longer rising but he could detect a thin veneer of dust masking the sun.

  ‘I will check that the women are OK,’ Anton decided.

  ‘Look!’ the preacher said urgently. ‘Look west – riders approaching!’

  Branches were swaying as blue-coated riders emerged cautiously from the trees. Anton counted five soldiers, glimpsed Lucy Doniphon riding behind the others. They drew rein and surveyed the boulder-strewn grass which sloped down to the stockade wall. Anton recognized the lead rider as Lieutenant Judd Reed. Right at that moment, Kozlov caught a glimpse of more movement. About ten painted Paiute braves were riding out of the pines below the preacher’s wall. Obviously, they were about to ride slap into the advance party riding against the stockade.

  ‘Cover them, quick!’ Anton said tersely, raising his rifle.

  Two rifles boomed together. Anton’s first bullet smashed into a Paiute Indian’s chest and lifted him clean out of the saddle. The preacher’s slug burned into a young buck’s shoulder. Yelling with rage, the scouts reached for weapons as Judd and his troopers charged desperately towards the outpost.

  ‘Open the gate!’ Anton yelled.

  Jed Bliss’ squaw and Crazy Jane ran towards the entrance. Anton’s Hawken rifle thundered twice in rapid succession, and two more Paiute warriors slumped against their horses’ necks like wet sacks. An older Paiute Indian with long, gray braids, aimed his army carbine at the incoming riders, but Reverend Roberts cut him down with one careful shot. An arrow thudded into the stockade wall just below Kozlov. The troopers were firing now, and a barrage of flying lead lashed the exposed Indians. Ponies reared. Two braves toppled to the ground. One clawed his way back to his feet, but Hal Yacey shot him dead. The three remaining Indian braves wheeled their ponies and set them galloping back to cover. The two women at the gate lifted the iron bar. Judd and his troopers thundered down from the ridge, weaving between boulders and racing through the grass. One of the marauders had stayed hidden behind a boulder. Now he reared up with a rifle aimed straight at Judd Reed. Trooper Ben Copeland fired a single shot and the warrior fell back among the boulders.

  Judd was the first rider through the gate. He hustled into the outpost in a cloud of swirling dust. Next came Trooper Yacey, brandishing his rifle. Copeland and Tuck Gravens squeezed through the entrance together. Finally, Lucy Doniphon rode alongside Trooper Alan Loomis. The young soldier had blood on his tunic, and he sagged in the saddle. The gate had been opened just wide enough to allow two horses through at once, and now Crazy Jane’s husband shouldered it shut. Jane and Jed Bliss’ squaw lifted the iron bar back over the hooks of the gate.

  Anton climbed down the ladder on the platform.

  The riders were plastered with dust. Lieutenant Reed was trying to control his prancing horse. He had a smear of blood down his right cheek, his eye was black and swollen, and his tunic was also stained with blood. Yacey and Gravens dismounted as the lieutenant finally calmed his horse and looked around the parade ground inside the stockade. Approaching the blue-coated troopers, Anton heard Loomis groan.

  ‘Murdering bastards!’ Judd raged as the mountain man glanced around the walls to make sure they were all manned.

  ‘We – we rode straight into an ambush,’ Trooper Loomis whispered.

  ‘We almost made it,’ Judd told his former step-father, ‘but when we couldn’t fight our way through, we had to retreat back before a bigger bunch could get to us. . . .’ He slipped his rifle back into its sheath. ‘So here we are. This seemed to be the only sensible place to go.’

  ‘I will help you down, Lucy,’ Anton offered.

  ‘Thank you, Anton,’ she said faintly.

  Judd remained in his saddle. His bride-to-be placed her hands on Anton’s broad shoulders, and her fingers lingered on his muscular strength as he lifted her down.

  ‘The women are in there,’ Anton said, indicating the tall building. ‘You had best join them, Lucy. You might take a look at Mrs Weathers, too. She is expectin’.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, stepping away from him.

  ‘You stop a slug, trooper?’ Anton asked Trooper Loomis.

  ‘He is just winged,’ Judd spoke for him.

  ‘We don’t have a real doctor here, but the preacher can likely take care of this,’ Anton told the young man. ‘I will fetch him down.’

  Alan Loomis winced and more blood welled through his tunic.

  ‘I – I will be OK. . . .’

  ‘Reverend!’ Anton called, ‘we need you down here pronto!’ He looked straight at Gravens as he said, ‘Soldier, you can relieve the preacher at his post.’

  Judd Reed’s frown darkened.

  ‘Old Moscow . . . Anton . . . these are my men. I will give the orders to them. In fact, since we are here, I am assuming full authority over this stockade.’

  ‘Soldier,’ the mountain man repeated, ‘relieve the preacher.’

  ‘Now, listen here—’ the lieutenant snarled.

  ‘Kozlov!’ Reverend Roberts’ voice thundered over the outpost. ‘Anton Kozlov, come up here – now!’

  Anton wasted little time as he loped across the parade ground to the foot of the ladder. By the time he climbed the rungs, attackers were pouring out of the pine forest in a wave of painted men and daubed ponies.

  Anton and the others had not slept much the night before, for they stayed awake watching the ridges and prepared to take a shot at the attacking Paiutes that tried to storm the stockade. Anton, like the others, was tired, sleeping little of late so he was awfully tired when he climbed the ladder to the platform.

  Revered Roberts’ face was chalk-white, and his quivering lips framed a fervent, mumbled prayer. He clutched the top of the stockade stakes. Still the warriors came, flooding through the trees on to the flats in front of the outpost.

  Anton watched them. Near-naked, they were painted for war. Bronze and decked with feathers, they rode shaggy, paint-daubed ponies. Some carried guns, but more brandished tomahawks and long lances. There were no war cries. In fact, everything was happening in an uncanny silence.

  The Paiute chief, Iron Crow, was there himself – a straight-backed veteran on a creamy-white stallion.

  Anton recognized two of the old man’s sons, haughty Bear Heart and the crafty Blue Falcon. He saw the medicine man, Wind Shawl, and two lesser chiefs, Yellow Hawk and Ancient Fire. A little apart from the others was Kills Many, the renegade. This was the first time Kills Many had been seen by a white man for some years.

  Anton heard the tramp of boots beside him.

  ‘Judas Priest!’ Lieutenant Judd Reed croaked as he came up beside his stepfather.

  ‘They are starting to circle us,’ Reverend Burt Roberts said hoarsely.

  Lines of mounted warriors rode away from the main bunch to form a circle around the outpost. They rode slowly and deliberately as if contemptuous of the defenders’ guns. Troopers Yacey and Gravens were beside their lieutenant now, and their eyes were wide with something very much like fear.

  ‘Reverend, there is a wounded soldier down on the parade ground,’ Anton informed Roberts.

  ‘I will take a look at him,’ Roberts said, apparently grateful for a r
eason to take his eyes away from the circling Paiute Indians.

  Tuck Gravens took the preacher’s place. There was no argument now from the lieutenant. He seemed hypnotized by the spectacle beyond the walls.

  ‘Know something?’ Judd said finally. ‘That butcher, Iron Crow, is just about in rifle range. I could pick the bastard off here and now! I have heard about these Snake Indians! The moment their chief dies, they go into mourning. They hold a funeral service which lasts for days on end. They even lay down their weapons—’

  ‘You have been readin’ too many dime novels about Apaches, Comanches, and other tribes,’ Anton said. ‘Don’t do what you just said.’

  ‘So, what is your suggestion then, Old Moscow?’ Judd asked sneeringly.

  ‘We wait and see what happens.’

  The circle was complete. The Paiute warriors simply sat their ponies, watching the stockade walls. A couple of braves built a fire. One by one, the chiefs sat down.

  ‘What in tarnation is going on?’ Gravens demanded.

  ‘They are havin’ a pow-wow,’ Anton observed. ‘They won’t attack today, so relax and check your hardware.’

  ‘Relax?’ Gravens squeaked. ‘How the hell can we relax with those goddamn savages surrounding us?’

  Leaving Judd and Trooper Gravens on the platform, Anton returned to the parade ground. He went to the two-story house and opened the door. The women had dropped their belongings along one wall, and food was stockpiled in the middle of the long room. Crazy Jane and Clara Weathers were helping the preacher’s wife with her brood of six children. Jed Bliss’ squaw had lit the stove. They had made a makeshift bed out of an old mattress, and Lucy was assisting Reverend Roberts as he bent over the young soldier.

  ‘How is he doin’?’ Anton wanted to know.

  ‘He will need some whiskey because it is sure gonna hurt when I dig out the bullet.’

  ‘It is right against the bone,’ Lucy told him.

  Her eyes met Anton’s over the bed.

  ‘The reverend says there are splinters of bone that have to come out,’ she added.

  ‘Quite a few, in fact,’ the preacher said. He glanced at Bliss’ squaw. ‘Hurry up with that fire, woman. I want to heat my knife blade.’

  ‘My name is Flat Face Chante,’ the squaw stated.

  ‘Make it fast, Flat Face,’ Burt Roberts repeated.

  Crazy Jane joined them.

  ‘Did I hear you say you wanted whiskey?’ she asked.

  ‘It is the devil’s brew, but this man will need some for the pain,’ Roberts confirmed.

  ‘My man packed some away,’ Jane said. ‘I will find you a bottle.’

  The bottle was fetched and the knife sterilized. Lucy lifted the bottle to Trooper Loomis’ lips. With the preacher advising him to drink every last drop of the strong-smelling brew, Alan Loomis began to swallow obediently. When he was glassy-eyed, he flopped back on the mattress.

  ‘Hold him down now,’ Robert said simply.

  The preacher jammed a piece of wood between Loomis’ lips and started to slice into the wound. He was quick and decisive. Trooper Loomis’ eyes bulged in terrible agony, but Lucy and Crazy Jane held him to the mattress. The knife delved further, and Roberts produced a long splinter of bone. Next, he drew out a bullet between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Kozlov!’ Trooper Copeland called from the doorway. ‘The lieutenant wants you on the north wall. There is an Indian riding towards the gate!’

  Anton ran across the parade ground and up the ladder. The chiefs and elders were now standing and watching as the Paiute Indian, Yellow Hawk, rode his pony slowly towards the stockade gate. He carried a lance. Tied to its point was a piece of white cloth which fluttered in the morning breeze.

  Chapter 6

  An Indian’s Justice

  ‘A flag of truce?’ Judd Reed sneered. ‘It has to be some kind of trick!’

  The Paiute Indian rode closer. He was an old man, probably too old to fight. He wore a faded, yellow hat over his graying hair. His doeskin shirt gaped at the neck, betraying a bony, wrinkled chest. Yellow Hawk kept riding, only drawing rein in the very shadow of the stockade wall.

  ‘Open the gate,’ Anton said.

  ‘Like hell we will,’ Judd exploded.

  ‘Iron Crow will honor his white flag,’ Anton insisted. ‘I am goin’ out to speak with him.’

  ‘You are damn crazy!’ Trooper Hal Yacey joined in. ‘Once those gates are open, we will all be done for.’

  ‘The man wants to talk,’ Anton said patiently. ‘That is a whole lot better than fightin’.’

  Anton signaled to Bliss, who ran across the parade ground. While the settler lifted the bar and pulled open the gate, Anton untied his gun-belt and rested his rifle against the stockade wall. Women came out of the two-story building, tentatively. Lucy ran forward before Anton could walk outside.

  ‘Be careful,’ she whispered.

  ‘How is the soldier boy doin’?’ Anton asked in reply.

  ‘Reverend Roberts says he will be all right.’ She grasped his arm and said, ‘I will be praying for you.’

  ‘You do that, Lucy.’

  He stepped outside and heard the gate close behind him as he started towards Yellow Hawk. The Paiute Indians watched him unblinkingly as he advanced.

  ‘I speak the Paiute tongue if that will please you,’ Anton Kozlov said.

  ‘That is good,’ Yellow Hawk said, ‘and we know you speak that tongue. Looks at the Bear is with us. You remember him, white man?’

  Anton nodded. ‘I remember him.’

  ‘You spared his life,’ Yellow Hawk stated. ‘It is because of this that Iron Crow has decided to talk and to give you a chance to save many lives.’

  With a look of complete seriousness, Anton replied, ‘I am ready to listen.’

  ‘Follow me, white man.’

  Yellow Hawk turned his pony’s head and started slowly towards the council fire. Anton walked behind him, leaving the stockade shadow. He came closer to the mounted warriors and saw the hatred on their faces. Anton kept walking. Finally, Yellow Hawk nudged his pony into a lope, leaving the white man standing beside the council fire. Iron Crow stepped forward. Beside him, the renegade Kills Many, glared at the frontiersman. The medicine man, Wind Shawl, kept his distance.

  Despite his age, Iron Crow was still a towering figure of a man. His face was craggy and lined. His nose looked like it had been broken many years ago. His lips were thin and bloodless, but his ancient eyes were alive and alert.

  ‘It is I who sent the white flag,’ he said. ‘We will talk, and then you will return unharmed.’

  ‘I told those inside the stockade the truth when I said you were a man of honor,’ Anton said.

  ‘We will sit down,’ Chief Iron Crow told him.

  The Paiute Indian chief folded like a jackknife and sat in the dust warmed by the glowing embers of the fire. Anton squatted down beside him.

  ‘You are on the warpath for reasons I do not know,’ Anton Kozlov said slowly. ‘You have the men and weapons to kill and scalp us all.’

  ‘This is so.’

  ‘Yet you choose to talk?’

  ‘Yellow Hawk gave you the reason.’

  ‘Because I spared the life of an old man who raided my traps?’ Anton asked.

  ‘You spared his life and saved him from the blue-coats soldiers who would have killed him.’ The chief paused. ‘Looks at the Bear is my blood brother.’

  Iron Crow’s words hung in the silence between them. It was a silence broken by a crackle of wood in the council fire. Behind the chief, Wind Shawl hovered with folded arms. His harsh face was a mask of unrelenting hatred.

  ‘A crime has been committed against our people,’ the old medicine man announced. His tone had turned cold and bitter. ‘It was a crime so shameful that my people have sought revenge in blood. White settlers in wagons have been attacked and scalped. My braves have burned homes and spilled much blood.’

  ‘There is a treaty, Wind Shawl,’ Ant
on reminded him.

  The medicine man raised his knife and spat into the dust inches from Anton’s boots.

  ‘White men broke the treaty!’ Iron Crow said passionately.

  ‘What did these white men do?’

  ‘My granddaughter was with the other young women from the village,’ Iron Crow said heavily. ‘She was purifying herself before her wedding.’ The old man’s lips made a thin, tight line. ‘White riders came. They took the maidens by force, and then – they killed them all.’

  ‘Iron Crow, I am sorry,’ Anton said.

  ‘My scouts found the trail,’ Iron Crow declared. ‘The trail led here – to this valley.’ The chief’s eyes were expressionless. ‘The white dogs who raped and murdered the maidens are inside your walls, Kozlov!’

  ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘Yes. Kozlov, I am offering to spare your life and the lives of everyone under your protection – except the evil ones.’

  ‘Who are these killers?’ Anton asked.

  ‘The soldiers,’ Iron Crow hissed. He raised his right hand and added, ‘Five murderers.’

  Anton Kozlov stared at him.

  There had to be some mistake. Maybe the scouts had latched on to the wrong trail. But Anton remembered Old Bootleg Canyon. He knew what some blue-coats, including his own stepson, were capable of doing.

  ‘Your head knows it is true, but your heart does not want to believe,’ the Indian said perceptively. ‘I will show you something.’ He called to his medicine man, and a Paiute called Last Buffalo came forward with a shred of fabric. It was ragged, ripped and blue. It was unmistakably a piece of torn tunic. ‘Kozlov, I found this in the hand of my granddaughter.’

  Last Buffalo shoved the dirty, blue rag into Anton’s hand. Revulsion and anger swept over him.

  ‘I would like to keep this,’ Anton said after a long silence.

  ‘When you return to the stockade you will find one of the white dogs has his tunic torn,’ the Paiute chief predicted. ‘That piece you hold will fit the tear.’

  ‘These men should be brought to justice,’ Anton said. ‘They must face a military court and be punished.’