by John Foxjohn
“Uh, no boss, but it wasn’t my fault. I had him dead in my sights and just as I fired, he threw himself off the horse and I missed. I swear I don’t know how he knew I was there.”
Stephens stared out the window. He was so angry he was shaking. Johansson wasn’t competition, but with him around he could not have all of Abbey’s attention. She insisted on seeing the breed, or whatever he was.
“I’m paying you good money.” He spun and faced Spivey. “I don’t want him scared. I don’t want your excuses. I want him dead. If you can’t do the job then I will find someone who can.”
When Spivey left, Stephens paced his office for several minutes. He needed to do something and fast. He spun around and jerked open the door. “Perkins, get up here,” he yelled.
He whirled and stomped back into his office as Perkins’s footsteps clumped toward him. When the clerk entered, he pointed his finger in his face. “You get over to the sheriff’s office and tell Toley to get his fat butt over here now. Tell him to use the back steps.”
After Perkins hurried out, he flopped into his chair behind his desk and crossed his arms. There was more than one way to pluck a goose, or in this case, a white renegade.
Chapter Three
As the setting sun beat on Andy’s back, he swayed with the movement of the horse. Although he enjoyed the ride through the prairie, the smell of the wildflowers and the natural beauty around him, his mind was on what Worm had told him.
He was white but he didn’t feel white. He spoke the white language but didn’t understand a lot of it. The soldiers had told him he had to assimilate into the white world, but he didn’t know what that meant. He’d asked once and they’d laughed at him. The best he could figure was he needed to get along with them. He sighed. He’d tried it, but they wouldn’t assimilate with him.
Big Red’s ears came up and Andy almost missed it. When the bird lit and then took off, without thinking, he grabbed his rifle and left the saddle in a long dive, conscious of the shot.
The impact of hitting the ground jarred him all the way to the bottom of his feet and knocked the breath out of him. Even as he tried to gulp air into his starving lungs, he cradled his rifle and rolled away from where he landed. Looking around, he scooted to his left and behind a log that was between him and where the bird had flown up.
Pressed close to the ground, he paused to get air in his lungs. As his breathing came under control, he could smell the hot grass and the mildewed wood of the log. He was safe for the time being, but wouldn’t stay that way if the shooter decided to move in. Or if there was more than one. He’d only heard one shot but that didn’t mean there was only one person after him.
He was lying on a slight slope and he eased backward, his senses attuned to his surroundings, but his gaze in the direction the shot had come from. The log was cover, but it didn’t allow him any movement. He would have to expose himself even to bring his rifle up.
With his mouth as dry as a creek bed in drought, and his pulse thumping in his temples, he eased back a foot at a time, stopping to listen, and then moving again. Minutes passed as the sun beat on his back and sweat poured down his face. His biggest concern was getting to a position where he would have cover but could also fight back. He didn’t worry about Big Red. The horse would stay where he was unless someone took him away.
At last, he came to a ravine and rolled into it. Stooped, he hurried for a hundred paces to the west of where the shot had come from. He blew out a breath and glanced over the top. He couldn’t find any movement in any direction, but he was lower than where the shot had come from.
On his belly, he eased out of the ravine and crawled forward. It was likely whoever took the shot at him had left once he missed, but Andy couldn’t take the chance. The possibility the man was stalking him was also there.
At the lip of the slope in the direction where the shot came from, Andy paused. Only the top part of his head, from the eyes up, peeked over, and he sighed when he spotted Big Red, unconcerned, munching on grass. The prairie was alive with grasshoppers and other insects, but no sign of humans.
Andy eased back and away from the horse. If anyone was still waiting, they would be watching Big Red knowing he would have to go to him. He took his time, listening and watching, but circling away from the horse in the hopes of coming up on whoever fired the shot from behind.
It took Andy an hour to make it around so he could see where the shot had come from, but there was no one there. He continued to watch the area for fifteen more minutes before rising.
Cautiously, he eased through the tall grass. Whoever shot at him had a good view and the only thing that saved Andy was the startled birds. Did someone follow him and wait for him to come back, or see him coming and take advantage of the opportunity?
On one knee, he placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Big Red’s head jerked up, and he turned and began to jog to Andy. When the horse reached him, he patted him on the neck, talking to him for a minute.
Looking around, he opened one of the saddlebags, extracted a square of sugar, and fed it to the horse. Andy mounted as the horse ate and licked his lips, wanting more.
Andy sat the horse studying the trail the man had made through the thick grass. One white man wearing boots had come up the slope from a clump of trees where he fired the shot and had gone back the same way. Andy pursed his lips. Besides the boots he wore, the trail itself told him it was a white man. An Indian would never have gone back the same way.
He gigged Big Red toward the trees where the man had come and left from, but his rifle was up, ready to snap off a shot.
Big Red had long strides and covered the ground to the trees fast without hurrying. Andy stopped him beside one of the trees where the man had tied the horse for a little bit. The horse had cropped the grass around the tree and left a pile of manure. It had also scraped up against the tree and left several black hairs.
When the white man had left, the hoof prints showed it was a shod horse.
Riding back with the sun setting on him, Andy reached into his saddlebag, searched, and came up with a piece of jerky. The meat was hard and tough, but just chewing something helped his grumbling stomach.
He’d left Heath from the west to ride to the reservation, but circled around the town to come in from the south, although he lived in a little shack on the north side of town. He was tired and hungry. All he wanted was to get something to eat and hit the sack, but if anyone was laying up for him, they would expect him to go to his home.
The horse stopped in the shadows outside of town. Minutes passed as he continued to study the area. He had a decision to make, and he had no way of knowing it would change his life.
Finally, he blew out a breath and urged Big Red forward. Instead of riding down the main street where he would garner attention he didn’t want, he chose to use the alley. He was halfway to his house when raised voices in the alley got his attention. The nasty impact of something hitting meat, grunts, and swearing soon followed the voices. Andy shook his head. He should stay out of it, but he could see the shadows and there were four men with axe handles beating someone lying on the ground. He told himself it was none of his business even as he spurred Big Red forward.
So intent on what they were doing, the men in the alley didn’t hear the horse and didn’t know anyone else was involved until Andy dived into them and set the pile of men scattering.
On his feet first, Andy kicked one of the men in the face as he tried to rise.
Andy spun to his left to face one of the men getting up. The man threw a looping punch at Andy, but he turned his shoulder and the impact hit him on the meaty part of his arm.
He didn’t know much about fist fighting, but he did know something about strength. He reached out and grabbed the man by the throat with one hand and lifted him off the ground. He slammed him backward into the wall. The impact shook the entire building.
Someone jumped on Andy’s back. He slammed himself backward, crushing the man between
him and the wall. The whoosh of the man’s breath was almost as loud as the crash.
When Andy turned, two of the men were trying to get away, and he let them. Three men remained on the ground, but he went to the one they were beating up. After he took a close look at his face, he revised his estimate—they weren’t trying to beat him up—they were trying to kill him.
Andy didn’t know much about treating people, especially ones beat up, but he couldn’t just leave him in the alley. As far as he knew the man might be dying, and the town didn’t have a doctor. The best they had was a drunk dentist. With all the blood on the man’s mouth and face, he might not have any teeth left.
Bending and picking the guy up like someone would a child, he held him in both arms. As he turned to leave, the man who’d jumped on his back groaned and said, “Help me.”
“Okay,” Andy said and kicked him in the face.
Big Red glanced at Andy funny when he eased the man over the saddle. He shook his finger at the horse. “I could have used some help from you.”
When the horse didn’t answer, Andy led him off down the alley.
At his shack, he took the man down, laid him on the ground, and unsaddled the horse. Then he used a burlap sack to rub Big Red down. After he finished with the horse, he led him to the corral in the back and let him in to drink. Andy threw some hay into the corral so he could eat, too.
The man was still unconscious when Andy picked him up and carried him into the shack.
An old rickety bed, a wooden chair, a small table, and a cast iron stove were the main contents of the one room. On one side of the room, Andy had stacked a bunch of firewood. After putting the man on the bed, he fumbled around and found the lantern. A sulfur odor spread through the room when he struck a match. He lit the lantern and then with the same match, leaned down and placed it on a pile of dry leaves and wood shavings he kept inside the stove.
As the fire caught, he added wood, and then put a pot of coffee on to boil as well as a pan of water. With the light he got his first good look at the hurt man. He was obviously white, about five ten and a hundred and seventy, and had longish, rusty colored hair. Besides that, Andy couldn’t tell much besides the fact he didn’t know him.
All Andy knew about him was four men beat him to a pulp and they weren’t through with him when Andy got involved. He had no idea how far they intended to go, but this was no friendly fight among friends. Friends don’t take axe handles to a fight.
When the water had heated, he removed the man’s boots, shirt, and pants. He wasn’t wearing a gun and had nothing at all in his pockets.
Andy bathed the man’s face as gently as he could to remove the blood. He had a deep cut over his left eye, his nose was as flat as a Johnny Cake, his lips were busted open, and he was missing some teeth.
Although the man hadn’t regained consciousness, Andy could tell by the rise and fall of his chest that he was alive. He sat in the chair with a cup of coffee and sipped it. It wouldn’t do the man any good, but it sure helped Andy. Besides, he didn’t know what else to do with him.
Andy sat for a while, and then rose, filled his cup, and strolled outside. It was now full dark. Instead of standing in the doorway or light, he moved to the side but leaned back against the cabin. What was Abbey was doing right then? Did she think of him as much as he did her? He loved her and wanted her in his life forever. A dull ache formed in his chest. That would never happen, though.
He wanted her, but she would never want him. He had nothing to give her. He was nothing. She was used to and deserved fine things—the things he couldn’t give her. Heck, he couldn’t even tell her how he felt. He’d tried, but his tongue got all tied up in knots and left him sounding like a blubbering idiot, which he was.
Even if she was inclined, her parents would never let her be with him. It was obvious how they felt about him. They would hire him to do menial work around the store, unload the wagons that came in, but they believed he wasn’t fit company for their daughter. He had heard talk when they didn’t know he could hear them.
The talk hurt him deeply, but he didn’t let them know.
As he leaned against the wall in the dark, faint sounds of boots on gravel came his way. He eased further back in the shadows, his knife sliding into his hand. No one had ever come to his shack, at least no one he knew of.
With his back against the wall, Andy eased away from the doorway. The walking sounds became louder and finally, a shadow of a man appeared, marching toward Andy’s front door. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was tall and large. Not as large as Andy, but taller. He was also not trying to hide his approach.
The man was ten feet from the door when Andy recognized him. He was Lloyd Stephens, the freighter who was calling on Abbey.
Striding forward, Stephens banged on Andy’s door.
Andy moved the knife from his right hand to his left. He could throw the knife as fast and accurately as men could draw and shoot.
Stephens raised his hand to bang again, but Andy said, “What do you want?”
He leaped back, his hand dropping for his gun.
“You pull it… you are dead,” Andy said.
Breathing hard with one hand clutching at his heart, Stephens demanded, “What the hell you doing out here like this?”
“What do you want?” Andy repeated.
“I want you to stay away from Abbey. She and I are getting married. I won’t tell you again.”
Andy gritted his teeth so hard his jaws hurt. “Last time I saw her...she was not wearing a,” he paused trying to think of the word. It came to him and he continued, “ring. Has something changed I do not know?”
“That’s none of your business. Everybody knows we are getting married. She would tell you herself to stay way but can’t bring herself to do it.”
His words hurt Andy more than Stephens would ever know. “Did she send you here?”
A pause ensued before he spoke. “She knows how I feel about this.”
“When she wears…your ring I believe you.” Andy’s voice hardened. “Until then I will see her.”
“You don’t know who you are fooling with. You might think you’re some kind of big bad Injun, but a bullet will stop you just like anyone else.”
He turned to leave, but Andy’s words stopped him. “Bullets will stop you, too.”
Andy eased into the shack and sucked in a breath of burning pine from the fire. The faint glow from the stove highlighted the bleakness of the place he now lived. Ironically, the Lakota had raised him in a lodge, what whites called a tepee, but it was far more comfortable than the place he now lived. Of course, he couldn’t live comfortably in a tepee because he was white.
With an annoyed expression, he shook his head. He’d checked the amount of money he had, and it didn’t amount to much. He couldn’t count it, but he usually had enough when he had several of the coins. He didn’t have much but he needed supplies. The hurt man lay as he had when Andy brought him in. As far as he could tell, the man hadn’t moved a muscle. His breathing looked good. Must have been hit in the head a lot. Anyway, wouldn’t hurt to leave him here for a little bit while he went to the dry goods store.
He retrieved his painting in case he found anyone who wanted to buy it and looped his painting case over his shoulder.
It wasn’t late yet, but most of the businesses had closed except the store and the saloon, a place Andy never went. He had no need. He didn’t drink and the place was always having trouble. Besides, he didn’t think they would serve him even if he did drink.
His boots resonated on the uneven boards as he strode down the sidewalk. He hated boots. Moccasins were a lot more comfortable and didn’t make all the noise the boots did, but they caused too much trouble—brought more attention to him than he needed. He wished he could just live his life the way that suited him. Live where he wanted, how he wanted, and wear what he wanted. But people had advised him, and he believed it to be true, that it would just bring more problems on him.
Andy slowed when they faced him. The two shadows spread out, and boots clomped on the sidewalk behind him.
He couldn’t make out who the two shadows were or the man behind him, but one of the men coming out of the saloon was Jacob Potter. The other was Bubba Killoe, and both were teamsters who worked for Murphy. They were also troublemakers.
His plan to keep going changed when they blocked the walk. Andy blew out a tired breath. He didn’t want trouble, but he was facing it whether he wanted it or not. It didn’t take a genius to realize this was a setup.
“Well, well, well,” Potter said. “If it ain’t the heap big Injun lover.”
Holding up both hands toward him, Andy said, “I do not want trouble. Would you let me pass, please?”
Potter chuckled. “You hear that, boys. The big bad Injun said please.”
“This ain’t no Injun,” one of them said behind Andy. “He’s white scum who likens them over his own kind.”
“Definitely ain’t a good Injun,” another one said. “The good ones are dead.”
“Would you please let me go by? I do not want any trouble.”
Potter stepped closer and the smell of whiskey and dried sweat was enough to make Andy’s eyes water.
“You ain’t wanting any trouble. We do,” Potter said.
Because Potter was so close, most of Andy’s attention was on him. Bubba Killoe, who hadn’t spoken, reached out and snatched the painting out of Andy’s hand. He stepped back and held it up to the light. “Lookey what we got. One of those fancy paintings this Injun lover does. Think we ort to buy it offen him?”
Coldness swept through Andy’s chest. Through gritted teeth, he hissed: “Give it back.”
