Stone Hand

by Charles G. West

  Darkness came once more, Sarah’s second night of captivity, and while he was sure they were closing the distance between them, still they had not gotten close enough to get even a glimpse of Stone Hand on the horizon. As he settled in for the night, he wondered how far behind them Colonel Holder might be—by now, possibly a full day. They had been traveling fast. His concern now was for the horses. Henry was as stout a horse as he had ever seen. He was a match for any horse on the plains. But he was beginning to show signs of fatigue, as was Sam’s paint. Stone Hand would ordinarily ride his horse till it dropped but under these circumstances he would be forced to rest his horses, too. This might be the time Stone Hand made a move. Jason and Sam took turns standing watch that night. There seemed little sense in taking chances.

  Morning came without incident and they took up the trail once again. Midday found them traversing one low ridge after another, watching the trail before them and to both sides, alert to any sign of ambush. Jason unconsciously eased his rifle a little in its boot to make sure it was free and quickly available. The summer sun hammered the rocky trail they followed up yet another ridge of scraggly brush and twisted trees. They were moving slowly now in order to follow the tracks across a rocky point. Up ahead of them, the trail closed to a narrow gap between two small cliffs…a spot made for ambush.

  Jason stopped and waited for Sam to pull up beside him. “I don’t like the looks of that. Whaddaya think, Sam?”

  “If I was looking to ambush somebody, I couldn’t find no better place than that.” He stood up in his stirrups and looked to both sides. “We could ride around, pick up the trail on the other side.”

  Jason looked out to both sides of the gap. To skirt the steep draw would mean a loss of precious time and add the possibility of not being able to pick up the trail again. The hills on both sides were steep and rocky. It might be difficult to pick up a trail that could go in any direction on the other side of the draw. And if they didn’t find a trail that might mean Stone Hand was still in the draw and they’d have to go in to find him anyway. “Hell,” he finally said, “I’m sticking with the trail.” He nudged Henry forward.

  “What the hell,” Sam muttered and followed.

  They moved slowly, eyes darting back and forth, searching the sides of the draw from rock to rock, looking for any obvious ambush position. Once within the narrow walls of the draw, there was no sound to break the leaden silence except the muffled padding of the horses’ hooves in the dust. It seemed that all living things in the canyon were holding their breath, watching the two men. Jason could feel the weight of the silence, his body tense, waiting for the rifle shot that would tell him that he had been a fool. There were hundreds of ideal ambush spots in the silent boulders that lined the walls of the canyon. Still there was nothing to break the silence by the time they reached the halfway point. Now he could see the far end of the passage and the open hills that lay beyond. Were it not for Sarah, he would have gone around. Only a fool rode willingly into an ambush. What purpose would it serve if he got himself killed while trying to save a couple of hours’ time? It was useless to worry at this point, nothing to do but keep going and keep his eyes peeled.

  Another fifty yards, they were almost through the draw. If he had the luck to pick up the glint of sun on a rifle barrel, he might be able to react in time. He knew that, behind him, Sam was thinking the same thought. They could see the end of the passage now. Jason could see a small stream crossing the trail ahead where it trickled down from the hills to form a shallow pool. Beyond the stream the land was rolling again. If they could get to the stream, they would be out of the ominous threat of ambush.

  At last they emerged from the draw. They had been so sure of ambush while in the passageway that it was almost a letdown when nothing happened. He glanced at Sam and the half-breed made an exaggerated sigh. He began to wonder what was in Stone Hand’s mind, why he did not attempt to rid himself of his pursuers. Could it be that he really wasn’t aware of the two men tracking him? Jason gave that thought no more than a second. He knew all right, the son of a bitch knew.

  As if reading his thoughts, Sam spoke. “He’s playing with us. He wants to make us sweat some.”

  Jason grunted. “Well, he’s doing a damn good job of it.”

  Whatever the reason, Jason was able to breathe a little easier. He checked Henry up short for a few moments while he surveyed the little valley before them. Satisfied that all was peaceful, he pushed on to the shallow pool and continued to scan the hills around them while the horses drank. He decided that Stone Hand had figured he would not follow him through the narrow draw. Probably didn’t figure me to be a damn fool, he said to himself. They pushed on, climbing into the hills, following a trail that was still very much obvious, until darkness called an end to the day’s march.

  A moonless night settled over the tiny valley, spreading a dark blanket over their camp. Thousands of stars pierced the heavens with pinpoints of light. It was the kind of night that under other circumstances would be quiet and peaceful. “You want to take the first watch or the second?”

  Sam answered. “I’ll take the second if it’s all the same to you.”

  Jason took his blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders and positioned himself with his back to a large boulder where he could see anything that moved. Sam turned in and was soon asleep. The hours passed slowly but without incident and along toward midnight, Jason rose stiffly, shook some of the kinks from his muscles, and took a walk around their camp. When he was sure that everything was all right, he woke Sam. Sam was reluctant to wake up but Jason finally roused him.

  “Everything all right?” Sam asked.

  “Yep. I took a little walk around. Everything’s quiet.”

  “I swear, Jason. I’m gittin’ too damn old for this. My bones are aching.” He picked up his rifle and moved over to the boulder Jason had sat against. “I’ll see you at sunup.”

  Although he was not sure it would be possible, Jason was sound asleep in seconds. His sleep was filled with dreams of Sarah and John Welch and Colonel Holder. It seemed that the colonel was telling him that he could not let him marry Sarah, that Jason was too rough-edged to marry a colonel’s daughter. John was in his dream, charming the girl with elegant speeches. Then the three of them laughed at Jason in his buckskins. He looked at Sarah, laughing, and then it wasn’t Sarah laughing at him but Stone Hand. He was faceless but he knew it was Stone Hand.

  He was awakened by Henry nuzzling close to his back, grazing on a few thin blades of grass beneath the scrub he had placed his blankets under. He lay there emotionless for a few moments until he could shake the cobwebs out of his brain and determine what time of night or day it was. When he realized it was already sunup, he bolted upright and crawled out of his blanket. He looked across at Sam, who was sitting against the boulder. Jason could tell at once that Sam was not awake. “Helluva sentry,” he mumbled. “Stone Hand could have walked right in and killed us both.” He stood up and took a few steps away from the remains of the small campfire and relieved himself. When he finished, he walked over to Sam and stood directly over him, waiting for some response. There was none. Finally, he said, “I hope me walking around ain’t disturbing your sleep.” Sam didn’t move. Jason reached down and shook him. Only then did he notice the bloody shirt under Sam’s blanket. Stunned, he drew his hand away quickly. Sam slid over on his side in the dirt. The long open gash across his throat opened slightly to form a grisly smile that seemed a grim reminder that Stone Hand’s deadly vengeance could strike whenever and wherever it pleased him.

  “Jesus!” Jason stepped backward a couple of steps. His rifle up, he looked from side to side. There was no one in sight. He looked back at Sam. “Jesus!” he repeated. Then he noticed the slit across Sam’s left eyebrow. “The son of a bitch…the son of a bitch!” He felt violated. There was no feeling of fear, only anger and frustration. He had never wanted to kill any man so badly in his life as he did this savage. He did not grieve over the los
s of Sam Running Fox, he didn’t know the man that well. But it was a damn dirty shame to see a man killed purely for pleasure. Stone Hand could have killed them both but he obviously wasn’t through playing with Jason. Adding emphasis to the devil’s brazen contempt, Jason just then noticed that Sam’s horse was gone, no doubt stolen by the renegade.

  CHAPTER 7

  Every muscle in her body ached. At times during the past two days she thought she could not stand any more. Her feet tied by a rope that went under the horse’s belly, her hands tied to the Indian saddle, she held on for all she was worth. She did not doubt that if she was bounced from the saddle and slid under the horse’s belly she would be trampled to death. She could not scream out for help because of the rawhide thong that bound her mouth. There was no one to hear her if she did. And the savage had set a torrid pace, leading her horse through mesquite and brush, up streambeds and over rocks and ridges, all at a furious pace that ate up the miles and wreaked havoc on her body. She was not accustomed to riding great distances and certainly not on a crude Indian saddle.

  For the moment she was alone with her despair. He was gone, leaving her bound to a tree, her arms behind her and her feet pulled up beside her. She could move only a little but she tried to shift her position to keep her limbs from getting numb. She had time now to think about her dreadful situation and pray that she would be saved from the fate she knew was promised her. She knew that her abductor could only be none other than the infamous Stone Hand, and from what she had heard from her father and Jason, she knew that it was just a matter of time before he decided she was no longer useful alive.

  When she first regained consciousness, after he had suddenly swept up behind her and attacked, she was angry. When he tied her up, she tried to strike out at him. Without saying a word, he struck her hard across the face, over and over until she collapsed, whimpering to the ground. As they rode that first day, she became more and more frightened of the silent savage on the horse before her. He stopped several times to drink and water the horses at the tiny streams they crossed. But she was not allowed to drink until they camped that night. After he had eaten some dried meat he carried, he amused himself by beating her. It was obvious that he intended to humiliate her as well as administer some pain, for the beating was given with a large switch upon her bare bottom.

  When he had come to stand over her and then reached down and pulled her riding skirt up above her waist, she thought he was intent on raping her. He laughed when he detected the terror in her eyes. But when he ripped her undergarments away, exposing her buttocks, he picked up a large willow switch and flailed her backside until she could no longer stand it and fainted. Then she was left alone for the night. The next day she was forced to ride on her raw and bloodstained buttocks.

  Alone now, she felt the tears well up in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. Her voice cracked when she started to sob and she fought to restrain it for it tore painfully at her parched throat. “Please come,” she pleaded aloud, “please come!” John must be feeling the agony she felt and would surely be on his way to save her. Her father and Jason Coles were probably leading a patrol after her already. But in her heart she feared she would be long dead by the time anyone came to rescue her.

  She heard a faint noise behind her and he was there. Before moving to face her, he administered a hard kick to her back, a pleasure he seemed to enjoy frequently. His evil leer sent shivers down her spine. He shouted angry words into her face. She could not understand any of them but she did not fail to grasp his meaning when he threw a rifle down in the dust before her. She realized that it was not his. He was telling her that he had killed the owner of the weapon. And she was afraid she knew who it belonged to. In the confusion of the Cheyenne tongue that he screamed at her, the name Coles was spat out several times. What did it mean? Was it Jason’s rifle? She feared that Jason Coles was dead by this savage’s hand. The thought of it was unbearable. She could not help herself. She began to cry again. This seemed to infuriate the Indian. He slapped her hard across the face and uttered more strange words of anger and contempt.

  Sarah was as good as dead. Of that there seemed to be no doubt. It was just a matter of time. The abuse at the hands of her captor was terrifying and she spent the first two days of her captivity in constant fear for her life. As the hours wore on, she became tired of being afraid, of dreading every second to come. She even became somewhat oblivious to the frequent kicks and slaps. Stone Hand was openly contemptuous of her weak and fearful cowering and she became tired of that. Anger began to replace some of the fear in her mind. If that rifle really belonged to Jason Coles, then he was dead. There seemed to be little hope that her father’s soldiers could find them. So she quit praying for rescue and resolved to meet her fate, whatever it was to be, with a defiant face. The only thing she prayed for now was the opportunity to cause her captor some measure of pain before he killed her.

  Her transformation must have been evident in her face because Stone Hand was studying her curiously. He uttered a few words in Cheyenne and drew back his hand to slap her. When she did not cringe but glared at him defiantly, he did not deliver the blow. Instead, an evil smirk creased his face and he uttered a few more words before turning away. She could not know that he was pleased to see her find some fight. It meant it would take her longer to die when he decided to slowly kill her.

  * * *

  Jason bent down and studied the prints closely. The Indian was trying to cover his trail now, no longer leaving him a plain trail to follow. To Jason it meant that Stone Hand had established a base camp, he had holed up and this was where he would play out the end of the game. He would have to move very carefully, searching every rock and blade of grass for sign. It took a while but he finally found another toe print leading toward a low butte that led to a rocky draw. The tracking was painfully slow.

  On foot, Jason led his horse along another narrow valley floor that ran down to a small shallow pool of water on the far side. While he moved as quietly as he could, the narrow walls of the draw closed in closer and closer. Any second, he thought. What is he waiting for? He constantly scanned the steep walls above him, his eyes darting from side to side, rock to rock—never concentrating on any one rock for more than a split second. There were a hundred spots for the savage to lie in wait. This is suicide, Jason’s common sense screamed at him.

  Another few yards, still no report of rifle fire—twenty or thirty yards to reach the end of the passage and the clearing beyond. He almost wished for a shot to ring out. At least he would be free of the apprehension. But the quiet of the canyon only deepened. Yard by torturous yard, he pushed on until at last he was in the clear and able to draw a breath in relief.

  His sharp eyes picked up the faint print of a moccasined foot beside the pool. He stopped to examine it. Stone Hand had been careless to leave the print. Jason guessed that his foot had slipped off the rock beside the print. As he studied the print, he was suddenly startled when he felt the blood spatter on his face. At almost the same instant, he heard the impact of the bullet on Henry’s shoulder, followed immediately by the report of the rifle. Henry’s front legs buckled and Jason stood frozen for only a fraction of a second before hurling himself sideways to avoid being pinned under his horse.

  There was no time for conscious thought. He acted on reflex, his reactions swift and decisive. He automatically drew his rifle from the saddle, even as his horse was falling, and almost in the same motion he rolled over and over behind a gnarled tree trunk for cover. His eyes searched frantically for the source of the gunshot. There was no second shot. At first he counted himself fortunate that Stone Hand had missed and had hit his horse instead of him. But after a few moments’ thought he realized it wasn’t luck at all. He had been an easy target. The Cheyenne shot his horse purposely, he was sure of this. It fit with Stone Hand’s devious mind. It was just another part of the deadly game the renegade wanted to play. Now the hunter became the hunted…and the hunted was on foot. Stone Hand demons
trated his affinity for cruel mental games in the way he had staged the ambush. Instead of simply shooting Jason’s horse while he was riding through the narrow draw, Stone Hand had amused himself by letting his prey sweat it out. Then when he thought he was safely through the likely ambush, he shot Henry. Stone Hand enjoyed a war of nerves as well as actual combat.

  He lay behind the tree for a long time, weighing his options. They were few. He knew he had to find better cover than the tree he was behind. Glancing around him, he decided his best route of escape was to make a dash for the stream and follow it up through the rocks. That route offered the best cover from Stone Hand’s rifle. He looked back at his horse and the heavy feeling of his loss settled on him. Henry was trembling and several times made attempts to get up. But it was obvious to Jason that his horse was mortally wounded. He hesitated, not wanting to do it, before he finally pulled the trigger and ended Henry’s suffering.

  He still had no clue where Stone Hand’s shot had come from. He tried to scan the surrounding hills and ridges, foot by foot, rock by rock. Somewhere, he figured, on the hill to the north of his position, the renegade had to be watching. He would almost have to be there to have shot Henry in the right shoulder. There was little choice, he decided—run for the rocks that cradled the tiny stream or stay pinned down where he was. He pressed his back against the tree trunk and eased himself up to a standing position. With one last glance at his dead horse, he suddenly pushed away from the tree and at a dead run dashed across the open area between the tree and the stream. He saw the sand kick up in front of him moments before he heard the shots. In a moment’s time there were bullets kicking up dirt all around him and he ran for all he was worth. The open space was maybe twenty yards across, and by the time he reached safety behind a large boulder in the center of the streambed, the air around him was alive with the whine and spitting of rifle bullets. Breathless, he sank down on one knee in the shallow stream and gasped for air.