by John Foxjohn
At the bottom, on impulse, he turned the horse to the right and the open prairie. Why he did it, he didn’t know, but he recognized right off it was a mistake.
Sitting horses facing him were six armed Indians.
Chapter Ten
Fear crawled inside Abbey’s chest and burrowed itself deep into her soul when she first spotted the black smoke billowing over the town. The only structure in that direction was Andy’s cabin. She wanted to run but her feet wouldn’t move. She wanted to scream but no sound would come out.
With tears streaming down her face, she forced her feet to move. After several steps, her pace increased. With heart pounding like a locomotive, she lifted her skirts and willed herself to run.
Her eyes stung as her paced increased through the smell of burning wood sweeping through the street. She paid no attention to the women who stood and gawked at her, or the strange glances the men sent her as they ran past her. All she cared about was if Andy was okay.
When she spotted the fire, she’d been at the opposite end of town from Andy’s cabin. By the time she got to a point where she could see the house, fire had totally engulfed it, and the heat forced her back.
Trembling, she wrapped her arms around herself as the fire crackled and popped. All around her, men hustled to bring in horse teams with plows. The cabin was too far gone to try to put it out, but urgency swept through the men. If they didn’t get fire breaks cut and plowed, the whole town could go up in smoke.
Someone tugged on her arm, but she jerked away. The tug came again, harder, but this time with her mother’s voice. “Abbey, we have to move. We’re in the way.”
She half-turned, but never took her gaze from the fire. “I can’t leave, Mom. Andy might be in there.”
“You have to. You standing here in the way won’t do a thing for Andy if he is or isn’t in that house. We’ll let the men worry about that.” Her mother jerked her arm harder, “We have work we need to do. This is going to take a while. The men will be hungry, thirsty. Let’s go.”
Abbey recognized the logic in her mother’s words and followed her, but her mind was still adrift with fear that Andy had been in that house. She might have lost him forever.
They rushed home and as her mother baked bread, Abbey sliced cooked beef for sandwiches. She understood the role she had to play. The men had to save the town, and to do that, they needed support from the women. She couldn’t let them down, but she also couldn’t stay in the kitchen slicing meat.
While the bread cooked, she rushed to the empty dry goods store, found a metal pail and a cup. With that in hand, she hurried to the creek and filled the pail. Trying not to slosh the water, she hauled it to the men who were doing their best to stop the fire from spreading in their direction.
The hours and continuous trips to and from the creek to fetch water all blended. In a way the physical labor was a blessing for Abbey. At first, she went through the motions, her mind on Andy, and the fact she might have lost him. As she fought through exhaustion, heat, and smoke, she had to focus on what she was doing. The men had to have water or they couldn’t continue.
With a white moon rising overhead, she stood close to the pile of ashes that used to be Andy’s cabin. The empty pail dangled from her fingers. The fire was out and the town saved, but she was almost too exhausted to care. With nothing to do, her mind reverted to Andy.
Her eyes stung but no tears came. She’d cried herself out.
A gentle hand lay on her shoulder, and she turned to find JT standing with her.
“Abigail, you aren’t thinking Andy might have been in that house, are you?”
Before she could answer, he smiled. “There’s no way to be sure right now, but I would bet money no one burned up in that cabin.”
Even as tired as she was, his words shot new energy and it was in her voice. “How do you know?”
“Dear, I have experienced times when people have burned in fires. It’s…”
His hesitation seemed like it lasted forever. Before she asked what he meant, he continued. “Well, to try to put this delicately, there is a certain smell, one nobody ever forgets, usually associated with people who burn in fires.”
She got it, and hope soared even higher. “You mean they cook, don’t you?”
As she said this, Chester Pitts, the mayor, joined them, and evidently overheard the last part of the conversation. “Smells like roasted pork,” the mayor said.
“There’s a lady present,” JT snapped.
The mayor glanced at Abbey, ignoring JT’s rebuke. “I hear Johansson might have had company in that cabin.”
For the first time, Abbey remembered the hurt man. If Andy wasn’t in the cabin, neither was the man. She’d smelled the fire when it first began and all through the day until it burned out. It only smelled like wood, nothing else. Where did they go, and when?
“Company?” JT asked, looking at Abbey.
“There was a hurt man he took there to try to help. I don’t know who he was, but he was hurt badly.” she shrugged. “I have no idea where they went.”
Her answer seemed to satisfy JT, but the mayor let out a, “Humpf. Some more trash like Johansson, I reckon.”
Abbey spun to face the man. “Andy’s not trash. He’s as good as anybody in this town.”
Pitts shook his head and walked off.
“Who was the hurt man?” JT asked.
She stared after the mayor a moment before answering JT’s question. “Andy didn’t know who he was or anything about him. He came across four men beating him with axe handles and stopped them. The last time I talked to him the man hadn’t regained consciousness.”
“Just like Andy. He doesn’t like to see anything hurt or anyone helpless.”
Something occurred to Abbey. “I hope his paints and brushes weren’t in the cabin. It would devastate him if he lost them.”
JT patted her shoulder. “Naw, he wouldn’t like it, but he would make more. Besides, Andy doesn’t go anywhere without them.”
A serious expression washed across his face. “What you should do is get him and go to a big city where he can paint. Abbey, that boy has real, born-with talent. God gave him a gift that is going to waste here in Heath.”
Get him and go to a big city. The hollowness again formed in her chest. She had no way of getting him. Had no idea where he went. Then an icy finger of fear slashed through her. He might not be coming back. Her words might have run him off for good.
Joshua Perkins sat his horse studying the ground in front of him. He wasn’t in Whiteside’s class, but he could read sign himself. He’d followed trails before. He’d watched the breed and he was good—maybe the best he’d ever seen. Time after time, Whiteside had pointed things out that Perkins had missed. Once the breed showed them to him, they seemed obvious, but only when pointed out.
If Whiteside couldn’t find Johansson’s trail, that said a lot about the man they were trying to find. He wasn’t afraid of any man, but Johansson worried him. He had him dead to rights when he was coming back from the reservation. How he missed, or better yet, how Johansson knew he was there was something he’d like to know.
What really gave him pause was the breed’s caution with Johansson. He’d never seen the breed afraid or cautious of anyone—Johansson might be the exception
As they waited for Whiteside, who had gone ahead, Hollis Hilton came along side of him. “I don’t think that injun wants to find Johansson. He ain’t trying.”
“He’s trying,” Perkins said out of the side of his mouth. “That ain’t no pilgrim we’re after.”
Perkins half-turned in his saddle to face Hilton. “You might want to watch your mouth. That breed will slit your gillet.”
“I ain’t scairt of him,” Hilton said although the fake bravado was obvious.
Perkins didn’t have a chance to respond as Whiteside walked his horse into view.
“You find anything?” Perkins asked the tracker.
“Not find Johansson’s tracks, but
found tracks of six mans. Not white.”
“They’re off the reservation here. They hunting?” Perkins asked with wide eyes.
“Hunt. Yes, but no meat. Want scalps.” Whiteside pointed in the direction he’d come from. “They were at base of cliff. Probably gone. We move with care.”
Without saying anything else, the tracker turned his horse and walked him the way he’d come with the other four following close now. They skirted some trees, took to a deep wash running north to south and would come out close to the tree line butting up against the cliffs.
When Whiteside threw up his hand to stop the group, Perkins pulled up beside him. Fifty yards away, the six Indians sat their horses. They seemed to be waiting for someone.
Leaning close to the tracker, Perkins whispered, “What are they waiting on?”
“Someone coming. They wait.” Whiteside pointed to the cliff.
“Who are the Indians?” Perkins asked.
“No tribe. Bad Indians. Everybody look for.”
Perkins didn’t understand what Whiteside meant, but didn’t want to ask right then. Minutes passed as the horses shifted restlessly, and he was losing patience, but finally, the big red horse came into view. Perkins recognized Johansson. He smiled. “That’s Johansson. They might do the job for us.”
The half-breed shook his head. “Not get that lucky. Johansson good.”
Before he scoffed, Perkins caught himself. For the life of him, he didn’t know what the breed saw in Johansson that made him so wary of him. He now focused all of his attention on the events unfolding in front of them. It surprised him that Johansson walked right up to the group of injuns. He either knew them or wasn’t afraid.
Although they couldn’t hear the words, the tension was obvious, and Perkins felt it himself, even though he wasn’t involved, yet, anyway.
With the sun thinking about calling it a day, the prairie was quiet, unnaturally so. The only sounds were the shifting of horse hooves and the creak of leather.
Tightness griped Andy’s chest and bats fluttered inside his stomach as he stared at the Indians. He could smell his own sweat, but somehow different from normal. This time it contained a tinge of fear.
He recognized immediately he was in trouble. This was not an ordinary group of Indians. Two of them were Cheyenne, and from their clothes, Southern Cheyenne, a long way from their home ground. Three of the Indians were Lakota, none of which Andy knew. One of them was San Arc and the other two were Blackfeet.
What surprised him even more, he didn’t know the tribe of the sixth and last Indian, and he grew up on the plains with Indians. The diversity of the group as well as their guns told Andy these were renegades. They would not know or care about the yellow rocks, but Big Red was something else. Their gazes kept shifting to his horse.
Andy eased his thumb up until it wrapped around the hammer. He didn’t like to fight. Would love nothing better than for the group to stand still and let him paint them, but that wasn’t going to happen. He’d have to fight his way out of this, but at the right moment. He didn’t like the odds. To survive, he’d have to catch them by surprise and lower those odds immediately.
In pidgin English one of the Lakota grunted, “We take horse.”
A fight was about to ensue. No way would this group pass up his horse. He responded in Lakota, “I am Wrong Hand of the People and brother to Tashunke Witco (Crazy Horse.) I will keep my horse.”
Surprise flashed across the faces of the Lakota. One of them turned and explained to the others who Andy was. He didn’t know them, but they would know of him and definitely Crazy Horse.
As he sat the horse facing them, Andy had planned his moves in his mind. The odds weren’t good, and he needed surprise. Also, he had to take a couple—the right ones—out in a hurry.
It was the last man, the one whose tribe was unfamiliar, that Andy kept an eye on, and not just because he was strange. This one was what people referred to as a bronco—wild and unpredictable. He could read it in his eyes and the way he sat his horse.
He proved as much. He shouted something and jabbed a finger at Andy. The others turned to look at the shouting one. That was the moment Andy had waited for.
In one motion, he cocked the rifle, whipped it up, and fired.
The exploding rifle drowned out the scream of the bronco Indian. Blood splattered as the slug hit him dead center in the chest. His rifle flew up and he somersaulted off the back of his horse.
Andy re-cocked the rifle and fired at the Lakota who had first said they’d take the horse. He’d chosen this one second because he was the closest. When he pulled the trigger, they were no more than fifteen feet apart, and Andy couldn’t miss from that distance.
The prairie erupted with screaming horses and men. Dust swirled as horses kicked and tried to turn in a small space.
As the second one fell, Andy did the last thing the other Indians expected. He slammed both heels into Big Red’s sides. With power, the big horse leaped forward, with jarring impact, Big Red slammed into a horse that had turned sideways. The horse screamed and thrashed as it went down, falling on the rider.
Andy whirled Big Red around. Because he was in the midst of them, they couldn’t fire. Andy didn’t have that problem. Holding the rifle like a Derringer, he fired point blank, and missed.
Instead of cocking the rifle, he swung the barrel sideways, connecting to the side of one Indian’s head. Even over the noise of the battle, the crunch of bones was loud. He had the satisfaction of watching that one catapult off the side of his horse.
With his knees, Andy guided Big Red around, but the last mounted Indian was racing away. He didn’t know if all of the ones who were down were dead or their condition, but his luck was running out. He had caught them when they weren’t ready, and Big Red’s leap in the middle of them had kept them from firing. It was time he got out of there.
Cocking his rifle, he thrust it in the scabbard and spun the horse, jamming his heels into the flanks. Big Red seemed to be ready to leave, too. Tufts of grass and dirt churned up behind the big horse as he thundered away.
Behind him, horses’ hooves pounded the ground as someone chased him. Before he could look back to see who they were, a bee snapped past Andy’s ear. At that point, it didn’t matter who they were. He had to escape.
Big Red was running full out when a wicked blow struck Andy on the right shoulder. He almost toppled from the horse, but a wild grab and a stranglehold on the saddle horn kept him upright.
Through a roaring cloud in his mind, he swayed with the horse as it raced ahead.
Again something struck him and his mind registered the sharp, splitting crack of the shot. He was vaguely aware that he’d released his grip on the saddle horn. Something deep inside told him he had to find it, but at that moment, Big Red swerved, and he tumbled into space, then darkness overtook him.
Chapter Eleven
Perkins’ group sat stunned when Johansson jumped his horse into the middle of the injuns. A cloud of dust swirled around them from the churning hooves, obscuring most of it.
Moments later, Johansson came out of the dust running his horse. Perkins jammed his heels into the horse’s ribs to give chase. The others followed, except Whiteside, who threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired. Johansson bent forward on the big horse that was running all out. Perkins couldn’t tell whether they’d hit Johansson or not. “Dammit, he’s getting away,” he yelled as he spurred his horse, hoping for more speed.
Hilton fired just as the horse and rider disappeared from sight. The thundering hooves almost drowned out the sound of the shot. Like Whiteside’s shot, Perkins had no way of knowing if it was accurate or not.
With the smell of dust in his face, Perkins led the chase after the big horse, but they never regained sight of him. They would never catch that horse, but he couldn’t go back and tell Stephens he let him get away.
After twenty minutes, he pulled up his lathered horse and motioned behind him for Whiteside to come forward. The
tracker slid off his horse. “No catch. Need to let horses rest.”
“We have to get him,” Perkins almost yelled with frustration.
“Won’t get if horse dead,” the half-breed said. He didn’t bother to say anything else. He led his horse after the tracks, but stopped, head canted to one side. He’d been in the rear of the group and this was the first time he’d been able to see the big horse’s tracks. The other riders had obscured the trail before now. He couldn’t tell what, but something was wrong.
Squatting on his heels, he studied the trail for several minutes, then shook his head and continued to follow on foot.
After walking for another fifteen minutes, the tracker pulled up and marveled at the big horse’s stamina. He didn’t know why the others wanted to kill Johansson and didn’t care, but he had to have that horse.
The big horse had stopped running and was walking now. Again the tracker paused to study. He looked back at Perkins and shook his head. “Something wrong.”
Perkins removed his hat and swiped the sweat off his forehead before responding. “What do you mean?”
Whiteside grunted but continued to follow the horse. When the big horse’s tracks led down a steep gulley, Whiteside mounted his own horse. He shook his head as he skirted his horse around a thorn bush, and then brought him up short.
Riding up beside Whiteside, Perkins demanded, “What the hell is wrong?”
The half-breed pointed at the big horse’s tracks and the thorn bush. “Johansson would not walk his horse close.”
Frowning, Perkins studied the thorn bush the tracker indicated. The tracks went right past it, and a small tuft of red hair from the horse dangled from one of the thorns. “That’s the trail and that’s Johansson’s horse,” he said. “What do you mean?”
The tracker shook his head. “Johansson not ride horse.”
“Are you crazy? You saw them light out. Johansson was riding the horse. We’ve been tracking him for over an hour.”
