Stone Hand

by Charles G. West

  The scout pulled up short at the sound, and wheeled his pony around toward the source. Upon seeing Jason, he immediately urged his pony up the hill.

  “What you in such an all-fired hurry for?”

  The scout dismounted even before his horse stopped, running the last few steps to keep from falling. “Colonel say you come, damn right.”

  “What for?” Jason asked. It was plain to see there was urgency in the command. What, he wondered, was so important that Long Foot was sent in search of him. Before Long Foot could answer, he asked, “How’d you know where to find me?”

  The Indian smiled. “Long Foot damn good tracker.”

  “Horse piss.” Jason grunted. “If I hadn’t hollered, you’d still be riding down the river.”

  Long Foot shook his head. “No. Long Foot find you. Damn right.” The smile faded from his face when he remembered the urgency of his mission. “Colonel say you come,” he said. “Damn quick,” he added.

  “What’s up?” Jason was already tying up his saddle pack, preparing to ride.

  “Stone Hand.”

  “Stone Hand? What about Stone Hand?” The name commanded immediate concern.

  “Him fly. No hold spirit. Damn right!”

  Jason was impatient. “Spirit my ass. Whaddaya mean, ‘Him fly’? You mean he broke out? He’s loose again?”

  Long Foot grinned as he shook his head up and down with exaggerated vigor. It obviously brought some degree of amusement to the Indian. Even though in the pay of the U.S. Army, Long Foot, like many of the other Osage scouts, found it amusing that this one Cheyenne renegade gave the soldiers fits. There was no need to encourage Jason to hurry. His thoughts were already concentrated upon Sarah and what terror might be going through her mind, for good reason, too. That savage was sure to want to take his revenge for the shame she had inflicted upon him.

  There were still a couple of hours before dark so they set out for Camp Supply. A couple of hours were all they figured they could push Long Foot’s horse anyway. The pony had been ridden hard all day to find Jason and probably couldn’t have gone much farther. They made camp by a muddy creek to rest the horses and pushed on early the next morning.

  * * *

  Sergeant Major Maxwell Kennedy stood outside the headquarters tent and watched the two riders cross the stream by the willows. He knew who it was even though the fading light of day cast long shadows across the shallow stream. When they pulled up in front of the tent, he greeted them.

  “Well, I see Long Foot found you.”

  “More like I found him,” Jason responded as he stepped down from the mare. “What the hell happened, Max?”

  Kennedy filled him in on the details of the renegade’s escape. Jason listened, his face a mask of serious concern. When Max finished talking, Jason asked, “How is Sarah taking it?”

  Kennedy paused and shook his head slowly. “I swear, Jason, I ain’t sure that girl’s gonna keep her sanity. Cora’s taking care of her. Sarah won’t hardly let her out of her sight.” He pursed his lips tightly and shook his head again. “It’s sad. I swear, it’s sad.” He paused again, as if thinking about what he had just said. Then he looked up directly into Jason’s eyes. “Colonel Holder started yelling for you as soon as he found out Stone Hand had escaped. I reckon he figures, next to Sarah you’re the one that bastard wants the most and maybe you’ll get him before he gets you.”

  Jason did not respond right away, his mind occupied with a picture of a distraught Sarah Holder. Kennedy’s words brought no fear for his own safety. In spite of what the reservation Indians thought, Stone Hand was a man and Jason feared no man. “Where is the colonel?”

  “He’s out with a patrol. He’s taken to going along on patrols the past few days.”

  Jason nodded his understanding. “Max, you’ve got a whole bunch of scouts in camp, some of ’em damn good.” He glanced at Long Foot, still sitting his pony as evidence. “You telling me can’t none of ’em pick up that devil’s trail?”

  Kennedy followed Jason’s glance at Long Foot then locked his gaze on Jason’s eyes again. “Jason, don’t none of ’em want to pick up his trail. They’re all spooked by that bastard. He’s got ’em all convinced he’s some kind of spirit or something. Won’t all of ’em admit it, but they all think it.”

  “Shit!” Jason responded in disgust, knowing that by now there was no trail to follow. “Any notion where Stone Hand might be?”

  “None.”

  “Where are the patrols looking?”

  Kennedy shrugged. “Anywhere…everywhere. They’re just covering section after section. Hell, he could be anywhere.”

  “That’s a fact. Well, he’ll probably show his hand again now. Somehow he always seems to know when I’m in camp.” He glanced accusingly at Long Foot, who returned his gaze with an expression of innocence. “I’m going to take care of my horse. Then I reckon I’ll look in on Sarah.”

  Kennedy nodded then said, “Cora’s in there with her now. She spends most of the time with her.”

  * * *

  Jason was shocked when he saw Sarah Holder. She was pale and obviously distraught. The flame of youthful enthusiasm and almost constant cheerfulness had given way to a hollow-eyed wariness that left her with a haunted spirit. It seemed a strain to fashion the faint smile she managed for Jason.

  “Jason Coles,” she quietly announced as he stepped inside the tent flap after nodding a brief greeting to the sentry stationed outside.

  “Sarah.”

  Evidently his concern was written plainly on his face upon first seeing her, for she was quick to comment. “I must look a real sight.” She reached a hand up in a halfhearted gesture to smooth her hair. “I haven’t been feeling really well lately.”

  “Sarah, I don’t like the way you’re looking right now.”

  She interrupted before he could finish his statement. “Oh? I’m sorry you don’t find me attractive.” Her attempt at humor was obvious and rather feeble, her smile forced and unconvincing.

  “You know what I mean,” he retorted, ignoring her coy remark. “You’ve let this thing get to you. You’ve got to snap out of it and get hold of yourself. You can’t sit around in this tent, hanging on Cora’s apron strings.” Her expression told him that he was just talking to hear himself make noise because she wasn’t buying it. “I won’t try to lie to you. You’re in danger as long as that devil is loose. But you’ve got to go on living. Even that madman isn’t crazy enough to show his face here. He ain’t likely to take on a whole cavalry regiment just to get to you.”

  She simply stared at him for a long while before finally speaking, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Indians say he’s a spirit.”

  He was exasperated. “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know…no. It’s just that he does seem to be able to go anywhere he wants.”

  He reached down and tilted her head up toward him, forcing her to look into his eyes. “He’s mean and he’s slick. But he ain’t no spirit. Your daddy, the U.S. Army, and Jason Coles are all determined he ain’t gonna cause you any more trouble. He’ll slip up somewhere and, when he does, I’ll be right there to nail him.” He took both her hands in his and smiled. “Now I want to see the old Sarah back again. Don’t let that devil get into your mind.”

  She made an effort to return his smile. “I’ll try,” she said. “I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t let him take over my mind.”

  He gave her hands a little extra squeeze before releasing them. “Good girl. I’ll talk to you later.” He got up to leave. “You need to get out of this tent for a while and get some fresh air. Do you good. You’re looking too pale to suit me.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I know. You’ve already told me you didn’t like the way I look.”

  CHAPTER 10

  John Welch glanced up to see the tall scout approaching the field clinic. He couldn’t help but think the man looked as much like a savage as those he hunted. John did not deny the need for Indian scouts but he had l
ittle use for white men who turned savage, as Jason Coles obviously had. If a man’s profession was to fight the Indian, then he should be wearing a uniform. There were plenty of real Indians to do the scouting. Deep down he harbored a real dislike for Jason Coles. Maybe it was because he was so cocksure of himself. Maybe it was his air of independence. John wasn’t sure. He just didn’t care for the man.

  “Coles,” he acknowledged as the scout pushed the tent flap back and entered.

  “Captain,” Jason returned.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Miss Holder.”

  “Oh?” John raised an eyebrow, wondering what concern it was of Jason’s.

  “Yeah,” Jason continued, failing to notice the raised eyebrow. “I’m real concerned about her. I mean the way she’s taking this thing, moping around that tent all day. I’m afraid she’s going to get funny in the head about it if she doesn’t let it go.”

  “How did you think she would react, being raped by a savage? I’d be surprised if she behaved any other way.”

  Jason was impatient. “I know, I know, but ain’t there anything you can give her to ease her mind or something? Maybe you could spend some time with her…something.”

  “I’ve already seen her. There’s nothing physically wrong with her. She’ll probably get over it in time and I’m pretty busy in the clinic right now.”

  Jason looked around at the cots, which were empty except for one trooper in the corner. “Yeah, I can see that.” He wasn’t sure why he had bothered to come see the surgeon. He didn’t like the man and he liked him even less for his attitude toward Sarah since her return from captivity. He wished it wasn’t so but a big part of Sarah’s problem was the fact that Welch had avoided her like the plague since her tragedy. “You sure as hell had a lot more time for her before she got raped. I don’t reckon that had anything to do with it, did it?”

  John recoiled from the comment. “What…?” he stammered. “I don’t think I like your impudence, Mr. Coles. My personal business is none of your concern. Now you can get the hell out of my clinic!”

  Jason did not reply for a moment. He stared straight into John’s eyes, his contempt undisguised. “You sorry son of a bitch. I reckon she ain’t good enough for you now, is she?”

  “Get out!” John shouted. When Jason did not move, he called for the orderly at the front of the tent. “Walters! Escort this man out of the clinic!”

  Walters responded when ordered to but he didn’t exhibit a great deal of enthusiasm. He nervously measured the considerable bulk of Jason Coles with his eyes before glancing back at the mortified captain. Jason turned toward him.

  “Don’t get excited, boy, I’m leaving.” He had no quarrel with the orderly but he was sort of hoping the doctor would try to physically remove him from the tent. He wondered how satisfying it would be to plant his fist in the middle of that pretty face.

  Walters was visibly relieved as he stood aside and watched Jason exit the tent. Outside, Jason pulled his hat brim down against the glare of the afternoon sun and stood there a moment thinking about the confrontation with John Welch. He didn’t feel good about it. It bothered him to have angered the surgeon. He was a sorry son of a bitch as far as Jason was concerned and needed to be told so. No, he was angry that Sarah cared for the man and that his attention was really what she needed at that moment. And he was disgusted with the shallow young officer for turning his back on Sarah when she was in such desperate need of understanding from everyone who cared anything about her.

  Across the hard-baked clay of the makeshift parade ground, Cora Kennedy paused to watch the figure just emerged from the clinic tent. She had heard the shouted order to “Get out!” and had stopped to see who had been ordered from the doctor’s tent. Seeing who it was, she somehow sensed what had caused the young surgeon’s ire to rise. She, too, was aware of the coolness that had followed John Welch’s call on Sarah when Jason brought her back into camp. For a man who was so passionately courting the young lady, he sure came up short when it really mattered. He had not been back to see Sarah since her tent had been moved next to Cora’s. It was not the child’s fault that she had been violated. It was not right to condemn her for it. Her opinion of John Welch had plummeted after that. She put aside her sewing and went to see how the girl was doing.

  * * *

  Long Foot squatted low on his haunches and studied the faint hoofprint only partially visible on the grassy bank of the trickle of water that etched a line down the length of the ravine. He said nothing for a long time, continuing to stare at the print as if trying to read into it. Finally he stood up and called out to Jason, who was further down the stream searching the bank for sign. “Here.”

  Jason came back to him immediately. “Where?”

  “Here,” Long Foot repeated, pointing to the faint markings in the grass.

  As Long Foot had done, Jason squatted to examine the print. After a moment, he said simply, “Stone Hand.”

  “Damn right,” Long Foot replied. “Long Foot damn good scout.”

  He was a good scout all right. Jason couldn’t deny that because that one faint print seemed almost impossible to find. Long Foot was damn good…or lucky. Either way they had something to go on when it seemed they were going to have to give up on a trail they had followed for half a day. It had not been an easy trail, Stone Hand’s trail never was. Jason suspected the renegade had not given any thought to the notion that he was being trailed. Still his trail was hard to follow because of his natural instinct to be evasive in all his comings and goings. For that reason one could never assume a destination simply because the tracks were leading in a certain direction. With Stone Hand, they were sure to change directions several times before finally leading to an end. There was no guarantee it was Stone Hand they were trailing but the attack on the stagecoach looked to be his work. There had been no survivors among the three passengers, the driver, and the guard. And the guard, his body mutilated, was missing his left eyebrow. If it wasn’t Stone Hand, someone was using his signature.

  “My guess is he’s heading for that Commanche camp to trade whatever he got off the stage.” He glanced at Long Foot for confirmation and received an affirmative nod of the head. “According to them Pawnee scouts of Colonel Holder’s, that bunch of Commanches moved north to the fork of the Washita after the colonel raided their camp.”

  “Damn right, maybe,” Long Foot solemnly agreed.

  They mounted and rode off in the direction indicated by the print even though it led away from the fork of the Washita. After another change in direction back to the north, the trail petered out and once again the illusive Stone Hand seemed to have vanished.

  “Shit!” Jason exclaimed in disgust after searching the grassy hillside for some sign. “This ain’t getting us nowhere.” He jerked Birdie’s head around to the north. “The bastard is more’n likely heading to the Commanche camp. We’re just wasting time here.” Long Foot followed as he galloped off toward the fork of the Washita.

  They found the camp right where the Pawnee scouts had said it would be. The colonel’s raid had reduced the number of tipis to about twelve, still too many for Jason and Long Foot to ride into. So they hid their horses and crawled up to a place behind a couple of fallen trees and watched the camp for some sign of Stone Hand.

  After a few hours, night began to descend upon the camp. Still there was no sign of the Cheyenne renegade. Finally, after the cookfires were dying out, Jason gave up the vigilance. He had guessed wrong, he figured. There was nothing left to them but to return to Camp Supply and wait for another lead.

  * * *

  It was the middle of the afternoon when Jason and Long Foot crossed the creek and skirted the willows where Sarah and John Welch had spread out their picnic blanket. Jason only glanced at the spot as he let Birdie pause for a drink before riding into the camp. Long Foot split off and made straight for his tent while Jason went to report to the colonel.

  “Hello, J
ason.”

  “Max.” Jason returned the sergeant major’s greeting. “Is the colonel here?”

  “Nope. He’s over at the agency. Any luck tracking that renegade?”

  Jason slowly shook his head. “Hell no. I thought we were on to his trail, followed it all the way to the fork of the Washita. Nothing. He just seems to vanish. I wish to hell I could tell you I knew where to look for him but I ain’t got the slightest notion. Nothing to do but wait till he strikes again, slaughters some other poor farmer or stage driver.”

  “At least he’s operating further away from here. Maybe he’s not as bold as he used to be. Might be that he’s decided it’s healthier to stay away from Supply.”

  “I doubt it, Max. I think he’s just biding his time. He ain’t about to quit until he’s had his revenge.”

  The sergeant major shook his head, his face reflecting the concern he felt inside. “Yeah, I reckon. Damn, I wish he’d stay away from here. Sarah’s been getting better every day. At least she’s getting outside the tent a little bit now. And she don’t hang on Cora’s apron strings like she was.”

  The thought of Sarah beginning to show signs of pulling out of the melancholy that had all but consumed her was good news to Jason. “I reckon I’ll drop in to see how she’s getting along.”

  “She’ll be glad to see you. I believe she thinks a lot of you. At least she talks about you a helluva lot.”

  Jason didn’t visibly react to Kennedy’s comment but inside he could feel his heart skip a beat at the mere suggestion that she gave him more than a passing thought. He forced himself to linger awhile longer talking to Max before taking his leave and making his way toward Sarah’s tent. If he had chanced to look back at the sergeant major when he walked away, he might have been embarrassed to see the broad smile on Kennedy’s weathered face.

  * * *

  He tapped gently on the tent pole and waited. After a few moments, Sarah was in the doorway. She smiled when she saw the tall scout standing there. “Well, Mr. Coles,” she greeted him, her voice cheerful, with no trace of the melancholy that had burdened her the last time they had talked.