Backed to the Wall

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “And you said Tucker wasn’t fast.” Red nudged Aurand.

  “Tell me again just what shape Tucker was in when he beat hell out of you?”

  “Well, he didn’t do it fair,” Jess insisted.

  “I don’t care if it was a fair fight or not,” Aurand said. “I need to know how bad you hurt him.”

  “Jess hurt him good,” Philo said. “If he hadn’t got a lucky shot in, Jess would have killed him.”

  “Damned lucky you didn’t,” Aurand said. “Like I told you two peckerwoods, Tucker is mine. Now, did you injure him bad enough to slow him down?”

  “I think,” said Jess, “that the one you ought to ask if Tucker was slowed any would have been Con.”

  Sadie came out of the back room. She stood with her hands on her wide hips and stared at Aurand. “You gonna’ take these two in?”

  Aurand stood. “We’re headed out now.”

  “Well, don’t leave town until you catch Clive’s killer.”

  When they arrived at the mercantile it was locked, and the sign read: Closed Due to Death in the Family. Aurand cupped his hand against the glass and peered in. A light flickered in the back room, and he knocked on the door. When he got no answer, he banged harder until he heard footsteps approaching. A woman pulled a curtain aside. “I’m closed,” she said and dropped the curtain back.

  Aurand rapped louder this time, rattling the door on its frame, and the woman once again peered out at them. Aurand pulled his vest aside so she could see his badge. She unlocked the door and stepped back. Aurand led Philo and Jess into the store. “Thank God you’ve come.” The woman dropped her head on Aurand’s chest and began sobbing.

  He pulled her away. “That your husband got killed last night?”

  She wiped tears with the sleeve of her nightshirt and nodded to the sitting room. A body—presumably the shopkeeper’s—was laid out on a mourning table. “Clive. You will find the man who murdered him, won’t you?”

  “We’ll try,” Aurand said and introduced his deputies. The woman took a step back as if disbelieving two men who looked as dead as her husband could be deputies. “They were worked over by the crowd last night,” Aurand explained.

  The woman nodded; the only explanation she needed. “Please find the killer.”

  “First, my men need fresh clothes. Guns. Belts. They were stolen last night.”

  “And I could use a new pair of boots,” Philo added.

  She pointed to the storeroom.

  “Go shopping, boys,” Aurand said and sat on a bench beside her. “Did you see the man who broke in?”

  She nodded and shuddered as fear visited her once again. Her eyes became wide, and her lip quivered as she told Aurand about the robbery and murder. “He broke in. Biggest man I ever saw. Had to stoop to get through the doorway. He began filling a gunny sack with rifles. Ammunition. He’d started taking some canned goods when Clive confronted him. The man shot him. Just that quick. And continued filling the sack until he heard men running thisaway.”

  “Would you recognize him again?”

  She paused as she thought. “It was dark, and I didn’t see his face so good. Just his size. But . . .”

  “But what?” Aurand asked.

  “He might have owned a big Chestnut gelding. White blaze on his forehead. And a donkey that Clive boarded at the livery for him yesterday.”

  “But you don’t know if they belonged to your husband’s murderer?”

  She wrang her hands as she thought about last night. “I just don’t know. The onliest reason I think it was his is they are gone from our livery this morning.”

  Jess and Philo emerged from the back room dressed out. Jess wore a black bowler more at home in Boston than the Dakota Territory. It matched his pointed boots that reminded Aurand of the dandies he had killed on cross-border raids in Kansas and Missouri during the war.

  Philo had dressed more sedately, with wide suspenders holding up a pair of the new denims out from St. Louis. He, too, wore new boots, but laced up like those worn by infantry soldiers at Ft. Sully. He packed a new pearl-handled Smith and Wesson top break like those Aurand favored.

  He thanked her and started for the door when she stopped him. “Do you wish to pay for these items?”

  “If you can make a list,” Aurand said, “I will see to it that the territorial auditor pays you the first Tuesday of next month. For now, we need to get after that murderer if we are to ever catch him.”

  They walked outside, Philo and Jess stepping carefully in their new boots. They followed Aurand as they headed for Sadie’s Saloon. “There’s a territorial auditor that’ll pay for this stuff?” Philo asked.

  Aurand looked over his shoulder. The new widow stood at her doorstep looking after them, just out of earshot. “Hell if I know. But it beats paying for it ourselves. Now go get Red,” he told Philo.

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs with Sadie. Seems like they got a lot in common: old age.”

  It took Red most of the morning to decipher Tucker’s sign. “Looks like a stampede outta here last night, heading south,” the old man said. “Don’t know what’s that all about, but it’s lucky for us. Only tracks I see are Tucker’s over an unshod pony’s.”

  “There’s that damned Indian element again,” Philo said. “He’s been following some Lakota since he broke out, but why the hell is he?”

  “More importantly,” Aurand asked, “can we catch Tucker any time soon?”

  Red smiled and bit off a corner of plug tobacco. “He has to travel slower than we do. Those pony tracks—even though they make a deeper depression than normal—are harder to spot than shod horses. We’ll catch up with Tucker”—Red looked to the sun and shielded his eyes—“by the time the sun sets tonight.”

  CHAPTER 25

  * * *

  Tucker reined his mule to a stop. He climbed down from the saddle feeling far older than his thirty-one years. His swollen cheek throbbed where he’d caught that first heavy blow from Jess last night, and he had to strain through a partially closed eye to study the ground. Two knuckles of his gun hand were broken and bruised, and he blew bloody snot out of his nose. He bent to the pony tracks while he looked back into the sun to catch shadows. A single unshod hoof, a mere scuff on the hard dirt, leapt out at him. Perplexed, he led Ben while he studied the ground. The track wasn’t Blue Boy’s large horse. Did another of Blue Boy’s band go with him into Cowtown?

  He stood and stretched before walking hunched over again. Since last night when he lit out of town, he debated whether to find Jack or go after Blue Boy and his band. His first choice would have been to find Jack. Tucker worried about him, with the shape he’d been in last night, and he needed to mend. Tucker needed to recuperate, too, from the beating Jess Hammond gave him at Sadie’s Saloon. But as bad shape as Tucker was in right now, he was worried that Lorna was worse off, and he decided to keep following the Lakota. Unless Blue Boy found him first.

  Tucker bent to the tracks. They had become more pronounced, the rider making little effort to hide his sign now.

  Tucker mounted Ben. He coaxed him forward at a fast trot while keeping an eye on the ground. As the pony tracks led him between two large boulders, Ben snorted, and his muscles stiffened. Too late, Tucker recognized the ambush site. He kicked free of the stirrups just as an arrow reflected the morning sunlight. It emitted a sickening sound as it penetrated his leg and pinned him to the saddle. He fought for consciousness, the pain shooting high up his leg, when he heard another twang of a bowstring. He jerked back, and the arrow breezed past him. It struck Ben in the neck, and the mule dropped to the ground.

  Ben rolled onto his front quarters, and Tucker rolled with him. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow and broke it off, the arrow head still stuck into his saddle. He fell away from Ben as he tried getting up, but the mule rolled onto his back. Blood spurted from the wound, and Tucker knew Ben didn’t have long.

  A black-braided figure rose from the outcropping and raised his bo
w. Tucker clawed at the gun in his holster and snapped a shot that struck the Indian in the shoulder. Tucker steadied himself for a follow-up shot, but the warrior had dropped behind cover of a boulder.

  Tucker low-crawled toward Ben while he kept an eye out for his attacker. Another arrow caromed off a rock a foot in front of him, and he scrambled for the safety of a rock formation.

  He sat with his back against the rocks, taking stock of his predicament. His rifle was shattered and still in the scabbard under the dying mule. His canteen had been crushed when Ben rolled over on it, the water soaking into the dirt. He had only five shots left to battle Lord knew how many Lakota, and he didn’t know where Jack was. He’d depended on his friend so many times; Tucker needed his help once again. If he were able himself. He hadn’t found any sign of Jack’s horse and could only conclude Jack might already be dead. Perhaps at the hands of this same Indian.

  Tucker chanced a quick look around the rocks. Something fluttered in the wind—a shirt, perhaps a coat. Tucker ducked back behind the rock. He estimated the distance to the shirt to be twenty yards. No great distance when one didn’t have an arrow sticking out of your thigh. A nearly insurmountable distance when one did.

  He looked at the other side of the rocks to where the ground dipped away, reminding him of the arroyo he had used to his advantage when the Lakota ambushed him and Jack by the river. It wasn’t as deep as the one that concealed him then, but it was closer—to within crawling distance. It was the only chance he had, for he knew that soon his strength would leave him, and he’d be at the mercy of the Indian.

  He took off his bandana and wrapped it around his leg to stabilize the stump of the arrow shaft still in his leg. He held his Remington in front of him like a divining rod as he low-crawled to the depression. He dropped down into it, expecting more arrows to fly his way.

  He lifted his head ever so slightly. The Indian’s shirt fluttered in the wind, and Tucker knew he hadn’t been spotted yet. Ten yards separated him from his attacker now. At this range, it didn’t matter if he faced arrows or guns—either would be just as lethal.

  He tried standing, but the pressure on the arrow caused him to sit back down in agony. His breathing came in shallow gasps. His hand trembled from the pain, and he wasn’t sure if he could shoot straight when he needed to most. He sucked in a last gasp of air and crawled on his knees the last ten yards, rolling onto his stomach when he cleared the rocks where the attacker waited. His Remington came to bear on a shirt draped over a sagebrush branch. His attacker had fled, leaving the shirt and a bow with four arrows in the quiver dropped beside the shirt.

  Tucker lay still and calmed his breathing before gathering his knees under him. He studied the sign left by the Indian. Blood showed where his attacker had waited before backing through the rocks to his pony. The Lakota had led his horse away, and the droplets of blood became larger. He had broken off his attack. If he’d stayed any longer, he might have bled out. The Indian would flee to Blue Boy.

  Tucker snatched the shirt off the bush and grabbed the bow and the quiver of arrows. He dragged himself under the shade of a boulder and looked about. He grabbed a broken branch from a dead cottonwood and settled back. He cut his trouser leg until it cleared the shaft of the arrow and examined his wound. There was just enough of the shaft sticking out of his leg to grab.

  He wrapped his bandana around the shaft several times and stuck the branch into his mouth. He pulled hard, and the shaft came out of his leg. He grunted against the intense pain and jammed his bandana in the hole to stop the bleeding.

  When the pain subsided enough for him to crawl, he made his way to Ben. The mule had bled out, and Tucker closed the animal’s eyes before working his saddlebags from under him. He cut the cinch rope from his saddle and stuffed it in his bag.

  On the far side of the clearing, the rocks made natural shade, and Tucker crawled under the overhang. With his cinch rope, he secured the cottonwood branch and the rawhide quiver on opposite sides of his legs to make a temporary splint that would take pressure off his wound. When he finished, he sat up and assessed his surroundings. A shallow valley dropped off just below him. He spotted a stand of buffalo-berry bushes, the closest thing with moisture in it he’d have any time soon.

  He could remain where he was, but he was afraid that Blue Boy’s band or Aurand and his deputies would easily find him. The valley offered a natural refuge that would confound the Lakota trackers, but only for a short time. And if Aurand still had Red Sun with him, that changed things—the man was relentless until he worked out a track. At the most, Tucker had mere hours before he was found. Less if he remained here.

  He grabbed the stone and painfully stood. He slung his saddlebags and the Indian’s bow over his shoulder and hobbled down into the valley.

  It took Tucker the better part of an hour to make it to the bottom of the valley where the bushes stood. He parted the silvery leaves to get to the scarlet berries. It could have been worse, he thought. He had his knife and five rounds in his revolver. He had the bow and quiver the Indian had left, and that could prove useful. He had used a Blackfoot bow many times to bag small game, but this was a Miniconjou bow, with more pull. He prayed that if the time came that he needed it, he would have the strength to pull it back.

  He finished picking all the berries his hat would hold and sat with his back against a rock formation at the base of a sandstone overhang. He rationed his berries at first; then, ravenous, he quickly depleted his supply. When he finished, he licked his stained fingers and looked about. He recalled a trip into a rugged valley such as this at the edge of the Badlands last summer, leading Major Wells’s G Troop in pursuit of a band of Hunkpapa Lakota they would never catch up to.

  In such a valley at the end of another unsuccessful day, the troopers whined about their discomfort and their misfortune, while Tucker went off exploring the loose ground. He’d found bright red garnets lying on the surface of the ground, striking blackish-green jasper, and nearly perfect tourmalines. Those he’d gathered and brought back to Lorna. It was the first time he offered her a gift, and she had smiled at such a simple gesture. Even now the thought invaded Tucker’s memory, and he wondered if she was safe, wondered if Blue Boy was taking care of her on this roughest of trails.

  Movement off to one side caught his attention. He kept his head steady while he moved only his eyes. A scrawny jackrabbit scurried toward the berry thicket, unaware that Tucker watched. He slowly took the bow off his back and tested the sinew string before notching an arrow. It hefted well, the iron trade arrowhead fitted to the shaft with just the right amount of balance. As the rabbit turned, it presented Tucker with a side shot, and he let the arrow fly.

  He crawled toward where the jackrabbit kicked, impaled to the ground by the arrow. Sharp rocks tore through his dungarees and bloodied his legs. When he reached the rabbit, Tucker twisted its neck, and he returned to the safety of the overhang. He fished a match from his saddlebags and, praying for the first time since childhood, hoped that this one rabbit would give him enough strength to continue. And to find Lorna.

  CHAPTER 26

  * * *

  Tucker awoke to the soothing sounds of steady rainfall. He crawled over sharp rocks as he made his way to the edge of the outcropping. How long it had rained he was uncertain. But he knew from experience that the Badlands clay would soak up whatever water offered it and make walking and moving about double hard. Even standing could present problems on the gooey, slick mud. Still, he knew he had to move if he was to find Lorna.

  He crawled back under the rock and lay with his head against his cave. He closed his eyes. Just a moment longer, he thought. Just a moment longer, and he’d gather strength enough to look for Lorna.

  And the steady rainfall lulled him to sleep.

  Tucker bolted upright. Had it been the rain that had awakened him, or had it been something else? He turned his head, watching and listening. His small campfire had been extinguished after he’d eaten the rabbit, so he was
certain no one spotted it. And, until a moment ago, he had felt secure hidden under the rock.

  Across the valley, the bank gave away to the hard rain and plunged mud into the rising water, exposing yellow-tan and rusty-red mudstone shale beneath the dirt. Creeping jennies uncurled their long tendrils as they reached their parched pods toward the rain. Yellow wallflowers collapsed with the surrounding mud, their buds like tiny ships floating away on the water toward the narrow end of the valley. Tucker realized the rain would soon reach torrential proportions and flood the valley in a dangerous flash flood, including the rock outcropping that had been his protector for the last six hours. Had the mud-sliding rock awakened him, or had something else, just outside the safety of his cave?

  He slung the bow across his back and grabbed on to the side of the rock to help him stand. He hobbled to the edge of the cave. The rain had intensified since he’d fallen asleep, and it pelted the side of his face. Mud walls slid into the raging river of the Badlands flash flood. He would have to traverse a narrow ledge from where the outcropping protected him and go along that ledge to where he could crawl ten feet up the slippery bank. But he would have to do it soon. Already the water had risen high enough to erode the bank directly beneath him. If he was to make his move, it would have to be now.

  Pain from the festering arrow wound caused him to double over, and he nearly lost his balance as he teetered on trembling legs. The thought of walking farther on that leg sent chills through him. The thought of being carried away by the flash flood was even more chilling. He’d already had to fight for his life during one such flood, and he was certain he’d run out of chances.

  He crawled toward the edge of the outcropping when he froze. Sounds of things not heard in nature filtered through the rain, sounds that came from directly overhead. He strained but heard nothing. He began crawling out of the cave when the snort of an impatient pony rose over the sound of the thunderstorm. Tucker strained to hear, but the noise of the flood overrode any other sounds around him.