by John Foxjohn
He’d set up camp close to the creek, and after he finished with the corral for the day, he built a fire and put coffee on to boil. While he waited, he went to the creek and bathed. His supper that night consisted of the coffee, a can of beans heated over the fire, and for dessert, peaches from a can.
Lying on his bedroll he’d placed close to the fire, he finished his coffee and threw the grounds away. The fire was going down, but he built it back up. Then he placed a couple of larger logs on the fire so they wouldn’t burn right off, but when the wood under them burned down, they would fall onto the fire. This way he could have a fire for most of the night.
Perkins and his men had watched Johansson most of the day. They hadn’t tracked him to this place—didn’t need to. Johansson had filed a claim on this piece of land, and it wasn’t hard to get the land clerk to tell them where. At first he resisted, but when they stuck a gun up his nose they couldn’t get him to shut up.
Chuckling, Perkins shook his head. The idiot was working himself to death out there in the sun. What kind of fool would work like that when he could take it from others?
As he sat under a tree in the shade drinking whiskey, Whiteside strolled into their makeshift camp. When he met the half-breed’s gaze, he motioned for Whiteside to join him. Whiteside sat, but Perkins didn’t offer him a drink from his bottle. Instead he asked, “You think tonight?”
The half-breed shrugged. “Tonight maybe. Be dark.”
As Whiteside said this, Hollis sauntered up to join them. He stood, thumbs hooked in his belt, hand, as always, close to his gun. “When’re we going to get this over with?”
“Whiteside and I were just talking about that.” Perkins turned his attention back to Whiteside. “If it’s dark, can we get through those trees without making noise?”
Hollis scoffed. “Ain’t no need for all that. Let’s just ride down there and kilt him.”
The half-breed turned his obsidian eyes, slowly like a snake, and locked on Hollis. “Do that all die. Johansson good.”
“There’s six of us,” Hollis said, waving him off like brushing away a bug.”
“Six renegades,” Whiteside said. “Five dead. You fool.”
With his hand hovering over his gun, Hollis shouted, “Nobody calls me a fool.”
“Shut up, Hollis,” Perkins snapped. “Fire a gun and Johansson will know we’re here. Then, if you live, I’ll kill you myself. Besides, Whiteside’s right. He’s too dangerous to tackle head on.”
“We just sit on our hands and wait?” Hollis asked.
“It’ll be full dark in another hour. We’ll move into place then.”
Perkins finished his whiskey and ate a cold can of beans. His insides were jumping around and that was unusual. Finally, it was time to move. When he went to the horses, Whiteside wasn’t there.
“Where is he?” he asked the four other men.
Charles Morgan said, “He’s on the knoll watching Johansson’s fire.”
Irritably, he snapped, “Go get him.”
He swallowed hard. He shouldn’t have drunk all that whiskey, but his insides just weren’t working right, almost like a heard of horses were stampeding inside of him. Never in his life had he been this jittery—especially when six were going up against one. True, Johansson was dangerous. He’d proved that when he’d taken on those six renegades and killed them. But he and his men would catch him by surprise. Sleeping.
Whiteside’s moccasins made a light swishing sound as he approached. “What have you been doing?” Perkins demanded.
“Watching. No good.”
“This br— Indian,” Colbert said, catching himself before he said breed, “Is scairt of that Johansson. It ain’t ever going to be good to him.”
“Let’s go,” Perkins said.
The men gathered their horses and with Whiteside leading them, guided their way to the east. They would come up to the wooded plot, leave the horses and ease their way on foot to Johansson’s camp.
It took the six men a full hour to circle around. It was almost midnight before they reached the edge of the trees overlooking Johansson’s camp. Happiness surged through Perkins. With the large campfire, they could easily see Johansson in his blankets asleep by the fire.
He’d waited a long time for this moment. Johansson had slipped through his fingers, made a fool of him, and caused his bosses to ridicule him, but now it was payback time. He elbowed the man closest to him, and a quiet snicker passed from man to man.
Then Whiteside dashed cold water all over his happiness. “Ain’t good. Ain’t right. You go, you die.”
“I told you he’s scairt,” Colbert whispered.
“You coming with us, Whiteside?” Perkins asked.
Sitting back on his rear, Whiteside crossed his arms. “Pay to find, not fight. I find, you fight.”
“Let’s go get him,” Hollis said with as much disdain as he could muster for someone he believed to be a coward. “There’s five of us.”
The five men eased toward the camp. They spread out as they approached.
Perkins’ insides shook, and twice he turned to look at Whiteside, but the half-breed remained sitting, watching. Was he just scared as the others thought, or did he sense something?
Quietly, the five men eased forward. Fifty feet, then twenty-five. All their attention focused on the sleeping man by the fire, but he hadn’t moved.
When they were within ten feet, Perkins brought his gun up. As he pulled the trigger, he yelled, “Fire.”
Chapter Seventeen
The afternoon turned to evening on Andy’s first working day at Windsong. The sun was giving way to a soulless moon, one that held no mercy on life or death. The heat had been oppressive and the longer he worked, the more breaks he needed. It wasn’t just the work, either. His shoulder and side were killing him. Salt from sweat had gotten into the wounds, and it was like someone was stabbing him.
He had another reason for the breaks. They gave him a chance to look around. He had no doubt that someone would come after him. They had even before they knew where he was going. Filing on Windsong would allow them to know exactly where he was. What he didn’t know was why.
Yes, he’d helped Cap, and they may have been mad at him about that, but why would they continue to come after him? There had to be a reason—one he didn’t know. Yet, he had little doubt that they would show up.
Andy didn’t want to fight, was tired of it. All he wanted was for them to leave him alone.
During his breaks he paid attention to Big Red, picketed by the creek with enough rope to allow him to eat the good grass. Big Red was usually good at alerting him if someone or something was close by. But this time, he didn’t. The people who were watching him had picked a good place with their horses downwind of the big horse.
What they hadn’t counted on, probably didn’t know about, was Sunka. The dog alerted Andy to the men’s presence almost immediately. He would squat close to the ground, his muscles bunched, almost like a cougar ready to pounce. A menacing low growl, one that made the hairs stand up on the back of the neck, erupted from deep in his broad chest.
Normally the dog would wander around hunting or doing whatever he did. But not on this day. He followed Andy wherever he went. When Andy took the stone boat to the woods, he followed, squatting close by, watching.
In truth, the dog was a huge relief to Andy. Because of Sunka, he knew where they were, and all he had to do was keep an eye on the dog and he would know if they moved, or came after him. But as the day wore on, he figured they’d come at night. He had no way of knowing for sure, but he felt the group of people was white. If so, he didn’t think they’d have the patience most Indians had.
The campsite was one he’d chosen with care, but one that didn’t appear as if he’d chosen it for defense. But in effect, there was only one way anyone could approach him without making a lot of noise. That aspect would be difficult for anyone to see standing off at a distance.
He’d placed his bedroll with
the fire between it and the direction the men would have to approach the camp. They would have to look through the fired to see it. So what they would really do is night-blind themselves.
Everything was easy to set up, except for Sunka. He didn’t like any part of what was happening.
Taking a deep breath, he enjoyed the freshness of the clean air. He looked up at a beautiful dark blue sky alight with stars. Would this be the last time he could smell the air or look at the night sky? What did a person think or feel right before he died? Was there some kind of premonition? If so, he wasn’t feeling it. If he died tonight, no one except Worm would mourn his passing.
Cap might miss him temporarily, but his friend also had most of the gold with him. Somehow the gold might have a way of massaging Cap’s missing feelings, or so it seemed with the whites.
Thoughts of death didn’t bother him; just the fact that he had no one who he had shared his life with who would miss him. He threw his coffee out and lay down, the dog snuggled up against him. Andy would never have thought he’d fall asleep, but he did just that. The day had been long and exhausting, and he’d sweated two gallons of water out.
Sunka’s intense low growl warned him. His heart beat heavily as he reached out a shaking hand and smoothed the dog’s fur. The growl stopped, but the dog’s muscles were like a bear trap, ready to snap closed.
Five foreboding shadows shifted through the firelight, built up just so he could see them.
Andy tried to swallow but he had trouble getting moisture down.
The men spread out as they approached, but the lay of the land would force them to bunch up before they reached the fire.
His sweaty hands held the rifle, his thumb caressing the hammer. He’d need to cock before he pulled the trigger.
Time slowed in Andy’s mind. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to fight. He wanted to jump up and scream at them to leave him alone. Let him paint; build his ranch for himself and… no, couldn’t say her. She had taken herself out of his life.
One of the men stepped forward from the group and as his gun came up, Andy trained the rifle on his chest.
“Fire,” the man yelled and his gun exploded in the night air.
Taking a deep breath, Andy cocked the rifle. His shot blended amongst the other blasts of guns going off.
Andy’s ears rang as the man he shot toppled backward. He cocked the rifle and fired again. Another man fell sideways before the others realized that shots were coming at them.
The man closest to Andy never knew about Sunka, but the dog took that moment to introduce himself. He sprang from the bush and then leaped upward. The man fell on his back with all of the dog’s weight on top of him. That might have been a painful inconvenience except he had other things to worry about. The dog’s powerful jaws clamped down on the man’s throat.
Instinct and planning drove Andy. He fired his third shot, and rolled to another place, but one he’d spotted beforehand. By this time, the attackers realized that the gunfire was coming from their flank and not the blankets by the fire. Bullets shredded the place Andy had been.
One of the attackers, in order to help the man Sunka attacked, turned his rifle on the dog. He never got a chance to fire. Andy’s bullet hit him in the back of the head.
The fifth man fired a shot with his pistol, missed because Andy had moved, and attempted to flee, screaming at the top of his lungs to the night. Andy rose on one knee, aimed, and fired. Even with the noise ringing in his ears, the dull thud of the bullet hitting the man’s backbone echoed in the dense air.
Andy cocked the rifle, opened his mouth to call Sunka, but choked on the cloud of gunpowder drifting over the area. It took him two tries to get the call out, and even then, the dog didn’t come to him.
Instead, Sunka, with his mouth and muzzle covered in blood, crouched, ready for another attack if the man moved. Where Andy knelt, that option didn’t seem possible, and again he called the dog. As Andy stood, Sunka finally retreated to his side, but the dog still acted like danger existed.
Cautiously, Andy went from one to the other checking to see if anyone was alive, but as he suspected, they were all dead. At least all of the ones who’d just attacked him. These five were not the only ones out there. He didn’t know who or how many, but for some reason these five had left some behind.
Edging away from the fire, Andy retreated to the brush beside the fire where he’d waited. He sat, retrieved his saddlebags, and took out two pieces of jerky. One he gave to Sunka, who ate it but remained on alert.
Chewing on the other piece of jerky, Andy waited. It was all he could do. He doubted if anyone would attack him again that night. By now, they had to know the first attack hadn’t worked.
Over an hour later, Sunka relaxed. Andy figured whoever was out there had left. Yet he remained in the brush. Time eased by, but he’d learned the hard way the first to move was often the first to die. He was tired and sleepy, but still breathing, and he wanted to keep it that way.
As time slid by, the fire died down and the sun attempted to peek over the trees in the east.
Atop the slope, Whiteside remained squatting a long time after the shots died down. He had no doubt they had walked into a trap and were all dead. He tried to tell them. They thought Johansson was like them, but he wasn’t. Johansson was white on the outside but an Indian on the inside—a deadly one at that.
The tracker rose at last. He would kill Johansson one day, but a time and place of his choosing.
Chapter Eighteen
Andy leaned on his shovel as a gentle breeze with a slight odor of rain swept over the north slope. When the sun rose, a relaxed Sunka took the time to explore. Sniffing the ground, the big dog made the circuit, stopping often to hike his leg and mark his territory. The dog’s actions told Andy that his enemies had left. When others were near, Sunka wouldn’t leave his side.
Now alone, Andy had a problem: five dead bodies and he had to do something with them.
He didn’t like killing, but if they hadn’t been dead, he might have killed them anyway. It was almost as if they’d raped away Windsong’s virginity. Before the fight, he’d thought of the area as pure, unwasted, but then they’d taken all of that away.
Cap had told him there would always be those who wanted to take away what he had. He said Andy would need the courage to hold and defend what was his. Andy sighed. He had the courage; he had fought all his life. Growing up, not a single day passed without the possibility of a fight with the soldiers, white settlers, or, more prevalent, other Indians. Now, he just didn’t want to fight anymore. He wanted everyone to leave him alone.
Windsong offered everything Cap had said a ranch needed and then some. What he hadn’t told Cap, it also offered things Andy needed: beauty, serenity, and isolation. The whites had told him he needed to assimilate back into the white world. But he didn’t know what that word meant, still didn’t for that matter. The way he figured, it meant to get along with them. Well, he’d tried, and figured he might assimilate better if he wasn’t around them too much.
It hadn’t worked living with them, and now he’d tried to get away from them, and that hadn’t worked, either.
When he’d finished digging the last grave, he wiped his brow and glanced all around. Then he dumped the body in, filled the hole with dirt, and packed it down with the shovel. This was not the Indian way of burial—he’d seen the whites do it. Since it was whites he was burying, they shouldn’t mind too much.
He’d placed the five graves with wooden crosses driven into the ground on the slope overlooking the plateau. He wanted them to be able to see in the afterlife what they tried to stop Andy from building. Then, he took all the x-braces he had planned to use as a corral for the horses and put a fence around the graveyard. However, he built the fence a lot larger than he needed for five graves.
By mid-afternoon, he had the men buried and the corral in place. Then he cut more poles and using nails, made ten more of the grave crosses. He spaced the crosses o
ut inside the graveyard and drove them into the ground. When he had them in place they looked just like graves except the ground was flat and didn’t have the hump.
Andy stood outside the graveyard leaning on his shovel. He didn’t want to fight, wouldn’t fight unless they made him, but if they came against him, he would assimilate the men just as he had these five. He had lots of room for graves and more poles than he knew what to do with.
He would name this graveyard Assimilate to symbolize his resolve to protect what was his, and so everyone would know their fate if they tried to take it.
Abbey clenched her jaw tight, sucking in air through her nose, as she looked across the counter at Mrs. Paulson. She’d been alone in the dry goods store at noon while her father went home to eat. Mrs. Paulson, the wife of the hotel owner, had marched in and come straight to the counter. As far as Abbey could tell the woman didn’t want to buy anything or even look. Her sole purpose seemed to be to lecture Abbey—again.
For a solid month, she couldn’t leave the house without encountering at least one of the women in town. They made it a point to inform her of the duties of a woman—duties she wasn’t fulfilling, according to the old biddies. Not only that, but they also thought it shameful for speaking to Lloyd the way she did. They thought Abbey should go and beg his forgiveness.
Day after day she had to listen to the virtues of Lloyd Stephens. Most of the stuff was repeats, but every once in a while someone would add something new. How rich the man would be when the railroad came to Heath, and so on. All Abbey could think of was the vicious look she’d seen in his eyes. He’d scared her, and when she could, she tried to make sure she was never alone with him.
This wasn’t easy in a town the size of Heath, if she wanted to leave the house.
It had gotten to the point that she’d told a couple to mind their own business. If they thought so much of Lloyd Stephens, they should go and jump in his bed.
