Strongheart

by Don Bendell

  Because of his Arabian blood, he had larger lungs and nostrils than most horses and one less rib on each side, so he could intake much more oxygen and go for hours while being chased by posses. His trot never bothered Long Legs Westbrook because it was so smooth, and Gabriel even did what one cowboy watching described as a “floating trot,” with his legs very straight, almost as if his knees were locked, as he seemed to float along an inch or so above the ground. The horse was only five years old and had plenty of years left to sail across mountains, desert, and prairie, leaving many other horses behind lathered with sweat and with chests heaving for breath.

  Little did Joshua Strongheart know what a vital part such a horse was going to play in his life, in a very short period of time.

  He looked across the stage at the beautiful young widow, and he felt a longing he had not felt in some time. Joshua started fantasizing about a romance with the grieving young lady, then remembered how quickly entranced he’d been when the woman had come into the jail and he had felt she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Then he recalled his feelings when he learned how they had met and what her profession was, and he grinned at himself. Maybe it was because he knew his ma’s love story with his father, and his stepfather as well, but he found he could not just be attracted to someone. It seemed like Joshua always fell in love with women. Also, remembering his father riding away because of what he knew was best for his mother and him, Joshua always had ridden away no matter how attracted to a woman he was.

  The young widow was so vulnerable and seemed to be trying to act bravely while feeling such sorrow. Joshua wished there was some way he could help her. He knew, though, that she had lost her beloved husband not long before and was therefore off-limits to him.

  Doffing his hat, the tall half-breed reached out his hand. “By the way, ma’am,” he said, “the name is Joshua Strongheart.”

  She took his hand and smiled with those intense blue eyes peering into his, saying, “I am sorry. Pleased to meet you Mr. Strongheart. My name is Annabelle Ebert.”

  Just those eyes alone framed by the shiny black hair made Joshua feel his heart quicken in his chest. He smiled warmly and sat back.

  He looked out the window at the jagged rocks that rose above the wagon road on his right. On the left, there was a steep mountain ridgeline covered in cedars, with rock outcroppings sticking through here and there. Joshua looked ahead and saw that the narrow canyon was getting ready to open up into a larger bowl, with gulches coming in several places. The treed ridgeline on the left was suddenly right next to the stagecoach road, and the driver started slowing the team of horses.

  Annabelle looked out the window and the ranch hand explained, “We’re pullin’ up ta Sunset Gulch, ma’am. They might change the team or water what we got. There’s a place we stop about ten mile up, too, so they’ll probably change teams there. We’ll see.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Annabelle replied. “I did not get your name.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Folks call me Chancy.”

  “Just Chancy?” she replied.

  He said, “Yes’m. Don’t use the last name. Jest Chancy.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir. And you, sir,” she said, looking at the drummer. “My name is Annabelle.”

  The drummer quietly said, “My name is Tom Smith.”

  Joshua interrupted. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  The drummer seemed even more nervous and started looking out the window after forcing a smile. He clutched his valise even tighter to his chest, and Annabelle shot Joshua a quick, slight grin and head shake. He acknowledged with a similar grin.

  The stage pulled up in front of a long watering trough and a couple ramshackle sheds.

  The leathery old driver wrapped the reins around the long brake handle and hollered, “Quick break, folks! Hop on out and stretch them legs. Fresh spring water in the bucket.”

  Chancy opened the door and hopped out, followed by the drummer, and then Joshua. He turned and took the hands of Annabelle as she stepped down and looked around at the small mountainous valley. A tiny, intermittent brook ran along the side of the stage road, fed by the spring there at Sunset Gulch, but it went underground right before the place where they walked into the mouth of the gulch to drink some cool fresh water. The stream reemerged some one hundred yards beyond, just bubbling up through the sand. The sun was baking off the rocks and sand, buzzards circled lazily overhead in the cloudless sky, and the passengers were as ready to wash off road dust as to get a drink of cool water.

  The driver seemed to be searching around for someone and hollered out, “Reichert!”

  He turned and explained, “There’s a old boy heah who keeps up the spring and makes this a right comfortable rest stop for the stage folks. He oughta be heah.”

  As if it was a signal, Jeeter and Harlance both came riding up out of the gulch. They nodded at the passengers with phony smiles. The idea was to make an estimate of who could give them trouble. Long Legs and Scars both hiding behind rocks, armed with Spencer carbines. They were simply waiting for a signal from Jeeter. If he pointed at somebody, they were to be shot immediately with a head shot, because they were dangerous.

  Joshua Strongheart grew up with a lawman, but there was something more important going on right then with him. It came from his Lakota ancestry and his time training with uncles and cousins.

  If a person is staring at someone’s back, some people will actually feel that person staring at them and get a chill down their spine. For that reason, good bow hunters such as American Indian hunters would never stare at a deer, elk, or other game they were stalking, but instead would frequently look directly behind it. Prey animals, some people have theorized, as well as some warriors, have another sense that is undeveloped in most people, the feeling of being watched or stalked. Some call that sense the “sense of knowing.”

  Some call it strong intuition, but Joshua Strongheart was not thinking of anything like that. He was only thinking that these two were not alone, and that they were trouble no matter how much they were smiling. His bad feelings were so strong that his right hand went down on the handle of his Colt. He was ready to draw, and when Strongheart pulled a gun out of his holster, something or somebody got shot.

  Jeeter pointed at him, saying, “Mister, what’s wrong with you?”

  Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, but Long Legs’s shot was a split second faster. Joshua’s head snapped back and blood appeared on his forehead as he slammed against the stagecoach and fell to the ground, still and unmoving, his face now covered with blood. Jeeter and Harlance drew their guns and dismounted as the rest of the gang came riding up.

  Chancy took a chance and was mowed down with a hail of withering gunfire. He didn’t have a real chance at all. Annabelle wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but she made up her mind she would show no fear. The stagecoach driver raised his hands as if he desperately needed to grab ahold of two clouds, and the drummer leaned against the coach whimpering and clutching his valise to his chest with both hands and arms.

  The gang dismounted and started approaching the drummer, Annabelle, and the driver. Jeeter went over to the still form of Joshua Strongheart and unbuckled his gun belt, removed it, and wrapped it around his own waist, buckling it. He left his own gun and belt on the ground.

  “How about this rig, boys?” he said. “This is fancy. I always wanted me a rig like this.”

  He then knelt to check Joshua’s pockets and felt the money belt through the trousers with the back of his fingers. He undid the trousers and whistled when he discovered it. Harlance walked over and looked at the new find. Jeeter opened the belt and found the letter to General Davis. He opened it and quickly read it.

  He said, “Nice money belt. Ah’m a gonna whar it, Harlance. Let’s save this letter. Looks important. Maybe we can git some money fer it.”

  “Hey, you got the durned gun and knife, Jeeter,” Harlance answered. “I oughta git the money belt.”

&nbs
p; Jeeter handed him the belt, saying, “Yeah, yer right.”

  Harlance carefully put the letter back in the belt and proudly put it on under his trousers.

  They went over to the cowering drummer and started laughing when they saw how tightly he clutched the valise. Ruddy Cheeks Carroll yanked the valise from the man’s arms and opened it, and his mouth dropped open. He reached in and started laughing. Annabelle had been very curious about the contents of the valise, and the drummer started crying and whimpering as Carroll pulled out a shiny purple dress, lingerie, a pair of women’s shoes that would fit the drummer, a woman’s red wig, and a makeup kit.

  “Stand up!” Harlance roared. “Yer one a them dandies? I don’t like dandies at all.”

  Harlance reached over and drew Joshua’s .45 out of Jeeter’s holster, cocked it, and as the man screamed in a high-pitched yell, he shot him in the middle of the forehead. His head snapped back and hit the stage with a sickening sound, and he buckled to the ground like a totally limp rag doll.

  Harlance snapped, “Cullen, go through his pockets!”

  Jeeter walked up to Annabelle, and she stood tall and stuck out her chin defiantly. He reached up and jerked the necklace off her neck and stuck it in his pocket without looking at it. He then spotted her antique ring and grabbed her hand to remove it.

  Now she spoke up, tears in her eyes. “Sir, please if you have any decency at all. My husband died not long ago, and he gave me that for our wedding. It is all I have to remember him by.”

  Jeeter grinned and said, “Harlance, aim at her purty little leg. If’n she don’t gimme the ring right off, put a round in thet leg.”

  She made an angry face, pulled off the ring, and slammed it into his hand. Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. Dyer emerged from the back of the coach carrying the strongbox. He grinned a half-toothless grin and set it down.

  Jeeter turned his attention to the driver and pointed Joshua’s pistol at him.

  “Key to the strongbox.”

  The driver just nervously shook his head no.

  Jeeter grinned. “Okay, I’ll put a bullet in you and then shoot the lock off.”

  Shaking, the driver reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a large key. He handed it to Jeeter, who unlocked the strongbox. There were a number of stacks of bills inside. Jeeter started counting stacks and dividing them, then handed a stack to each man. Next, they went through the luggage and got out all the valuables they could.

  Finally finished, they all mounted up except Long Legs, who walked over to Annabelle, grinning.

  Jeeter hollered, “Come on, Long Legs!”

  Westbrook said, “Boys, look how good she looks in thet dress. Wonder how she looks unner it.”

  Harlance said, “Boy, this is the West. You know we don’t treat women thet way.”

  Moss chimed in, “I’ll have no truck with such talk. I’m pulling out. Come on, boy.”

  He and his son galloped off up Copper Gulch Stage Road.

  “Come on, Long Legs!” Jeeter said.

  Long Legs was now motivated by lust.

  He yelled, “Go ahaid. Ah’ll catch up mebbe.”

  Long Legs turned back, and now the stage driver got brave. There were not that many women in the West, and even if only out of practicality, some outlaws turned rapist were even strung up or shot by their own gang members. Most men were respectful to women no matter what. The stage driver stepped in front of Annabelle.

  Longs Legs laughed, drew his pistol, and said, “Mister, I was gonna tie ya up, but ef ya wanna be a hero, ah’ll jest shoot ya.”

  The driver set his jaw and said, “That is the only way you’ll git ta this young lady, son. Over my dead body.”

  Long Legs stepped forward two steps and cocked the pistol, “Okay, ole-timer. Ya wanna play yer cards thet way, we’ll do it.”

  Annabelle stepped forward, saying, “Wait! I will cooperate, but you agree not to shoot anybody else.”

  He laughed, saying, “Sounds good to me.”

  “But not to me!”

  Everybody turned and saw Joshua Strongheart standing over his own pool of blood, wearing Jeeter’s shed holster and belt and holding the man’s .44 in his right hand. It was pointed at Long Legs. Joshua’s face was completely covered in dried blood, and he was swaying, but there was no mistaking the clear look in his eyes.

  The bullet had sent a deep furrow down Joshua’s skull, and he now had a horrible headache to go with it. As he had been taught, he pushed all that out of his mind and steeled himself to the task at hand.

  He did not know, though, that Shaw and Dyer were riding back to help out Westbrook in case he got in trouble. They also thought about how beautiful the woman was and what easy prey she would be.

  Joshua stared into the eyes of Long Legs, and the tall man got very nervous. Joshua could see that this man was trouble, wounded or not.

  Westbrook said, “You’re barely able ta stand, partner. Drop the hogleg, an I’ll let ya live.”

  “Mister, you’ll never touch that woman while there is breath in my body,” Joshua said. “You gonna start the ball or are you gonna talk me to death?”

  He saw the ears on Westbrook’s magnificent paint horse shoot forward, alert to something coming down the stagecoach road behind him. He figured the gang had come back and was slowly moving up behind him.

  Joshua made a decision. He fired, fanned the hammer back, and fired again, and saw a large stain of crimson in the center of Long Legs’s chest as he fell back, dropping his gun. Joshua immediately went to the ground, rolling to his right, toward the bloody corpse of Chancy, but on his way down he felt a bullet slam into the back of his left shoulder, which spun him. He crawled forward quickly to Chancy’s body, drew the cowboy’s gun, and spun around, as another bullet slammed into his right thigh. He saw both Stumpy Shaw and Slim Dyer. One held a Winchester and the other a six-shooter.

  Joshua knew he had to save the woman no matter how many bullets hit him. Instead of firing wildly, he forced himself to stand. He fired first at Dyer, the rifleman, and hit him in the right hip, and then a second shot hit Dyer right on the face, tearing his lower jaw off. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell back dead. Stumpy Shaw looked over and was terrorized by the sight of his dead riding partner, and he fired as quickly as he could, one bullet hitting Joshua in the upper left arm. Joshua pointed, aimed, fired, and the bullet hit Shaw in the right cheek, breaking the cheekbone and tearing the man’s ear off. Strongheart limped forward, fanning the hammer back to a cocked position, and he squeezed a shot from the hip that hit Shaw’s upper torso center mass.

  Shaw thought to himself. “I’m dead,” and that was his last thought, as his back slammed into the rocks.

  Now Joshua turned, and barely able to walk, he started toward Long Legs.

  Annabelle ran forward, tears streaming, “Oh, Mr. Strongheart. You have been shot over and over.”

  He grinned. “They are just little holes in me. Don’t worry.”

  Then he fell forward into her arms in a faint. His weight took both of them to the ground. She tried to lower him as gently as she could while falling with him on top of her. He opened his eyes, and was an inch from her face. They stared briefly into each other’s eyes, and he smiled.

  “Annabelle,” he said, feigning shock to tease her. “We just met.”

  He stood, and she grinned, jumped up, and helped him rise up on wobbly legs. She immediately started tearing shreds from her petticoat and bandaging his wounds. Smiling, Joshua pushed her aside.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, walking toward Long Legs lying on the ground, holding his bloody chest.

  He smiled weakly up at Strongheart, saying, “Mister, ya kilt me. Will ya gimme your word, you’ll take good care a mah horse? Ah even got a bill a sale on him in mah saddlebags, an’ Ah’ll sign him over ta ya. Ah am a rotten skunk. Always was, but Ah jest cain’t die, partner, knowin’ he is jest gonna wander off. He was the only good thang Ah ever had in my life. You’ll never f
ind a better horse’n ole Gabriel.”

  Joshua said, “Mister, I give you my word. What do you want on your headstone?”

  Westbrook grinned. “Jest leave me in the rocks. Coyotes got ta eat, too. At least Ah can do one good thang in mah life.”

  Annabelle stepped up next to Joshua, holding him up by the upper body.

  She said, “Mister, you will be buried properly and read over. Any man who cares that much about his horse at least deserves that. I give you my word.”

  Long Legs stared up at her.

  He spoke weakly as blood started coming from his mouth, “What Ah tried to do to ya? Ma’am, you are a lady ef Ah ever saw one.”

  He smiled at her and that is how he died. He lay there unmoving, eyes staring toward Annabelle and a smile on his lips.

  Strongheart’s legs gave out, and he dropped in place into a seated position. Annabelle started tearing petticoat strips again. She wrapped the first around his bicep, but the driver held his hand up and rushed to the stage, where he climbed up into his seat. He reached down and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and an oilskin bag.

  Tossing them down to her, he said, “Ma’am, pour that whiskey on his wounds first, and I got clean bandages in there from the doc down ta Pueblo.”

  She started doctoring Joshua, and the driver ran into the trees toward the spring. He came out of the gulch with Orville Reichert, who was rubbing his wrists and moaning and groaning but did not seem too bad.

  Joshua had fainted again, and when he opened his eyes, he looked up at the beautiful face of Annabelle. She saw him awake and smiled. She was still bandaging him. He felt himself falling into a pit of blackness.

  Strongheart opened his eyes and there was a fire. He looked at the faces around him. The two men were drinking coffee and the fire shined on Annabelle’s face. She was cleaning blood off a cloth. He felt himself slipping into blackness again.

  Joshua’s mother sat on the edge of his bed and smiled at him when he opened his eyes.

  “Where am I, Ma? What happened?” he said.

  Smiling softly, she said, “You are in bed, Joshua. You have had a very bad experience, but the doctor said you will be fine with rest. Do you remember what happened?”