Blaze! The Christmas Journey

by Stephen Mertz

  J.D. wasn't sure what to make of that except for the fact that change (some called it progress) was inevitable.

  The atmosphere in the Pullman car was comfortable. The muted buzz of polite conversation underscored by the constant, back-and-forth swaying of the traveling train and the rhythm of its wheels rattling along the rails, a sound that reminded J.D. of a state's name being rapidly repeated, Connecticut-Connecticut-Connecticut.

  He drew his gaze from the prairie rolling by outside the train car window, a barren landscape except for scrub brush and distant rock formations beneath what had become a foreboding, winter-gray sky. He sat opposite Kate.

  Beside her, Mrs. Mitchell stared out at the passing view, lost in her own private world of thought. Reverend Sullivan, seated next to J.D. on the aisle side, stared down at his own twiddling thumbs.

  These were the end seats, allowing J.D. to keep an eye on comings and goings through a passage door at the front of the car that connected the Pullman to the next car on the train.

  J.D. said, "I've been wondering if we made a mistake back there in Contention. I'm wondering if we're going to see fireworks before this train ride is over."

  The preacher perked up at that. He looked up from his thumbs, frowning.

  "Fireworks?" He was sober, though there remained a tremor in his voice. "What sort of fireworks?"

  Kate said, "What sort of mistake?"

  J.D. addressed Kate.

  "Those horses we saw tied up at that hitching post in front of the saloon."

  "What about 'em? We passed 'em on our walk from the stage to catch the train. The nags were in bad shape. I would've taken them to the stable for better care no matter who they belonged to but you were so all-fired in a hurry to catch this train...wait a minute. I remember those horses!"

  J.D. said, "Yeah, so do I. So much going on, it took us a spell to place 'em."

  Kate said, "Those were the horses the Waddells rode when they robbed the bank. So our mistake was leaving Contention when the Waddells are still back there?"

  J.D. kept watching the door at the end of the car.

  "Maybe. But there's another way it could have gone."

  "They're on this train."

  J.D. gave her a wink.

  "I've always said you were smart."

  Mrs. Mitchell said nothing, fixated on her inner world of woe.

  Reverend Sullivan said again, "What sort of fireworks?"

  They ignored him.

  Kate said, "Should we go looking for the brothers?"

  "Let's plan to if we get near Lordsburg and there's been no sign of them," said J.D. "But my hunch is that they'll come to us."

  The preacher said, "I need a drink."

  Kate shook her head. "No, you don't. Rev, you need to get sober and figure out what's wrong with you."

  The preacher stuck out his chin.

  "What's wrong with me? Ha! That's a good one. What's wrong with Him, isn't that the question? How can God allow a Civil War where so many died? Or a drought? Or such a high infant mortality rate? Or temptations of the flesh? Do you know how many mothers and husbands and wives and children I've had to console, to comfort, because He chose to deal harshly with good, decent people? God-fearing folks, oh yes. Well, they'd best fear him. That little Army girl on the stage knows a merciful God? Ha, I say! He is cruel and harsh. He is the source of our suffering! I tried to serve Him and I failed. He had denied me. I have no choice but to deny Him."

  The preacher's eyes again dropped to his hands, no longer twiddling his thumbs but rather as if in meditation. A single tear trickled from the corner of one eye, unhindered down his cheek.

  Kate said, "Reverend Sullivan, you see only one side of things. God is a source of healing in this world. He has provided comfort to countless millions throughout time."

  The preacher sighed. "I speak to a believer. Of course you would think and say such a thing. You believe in that merciful God."

  "I speak the truth, preacher, and you know it. There is something, a power, that has designed this universe and keeps it running. From the rotation of the planets out in space to the smallest bug here in the desert that can camouflage itself so as to avoid its predators. Call it nature if you need to. I call it the work of God."

  Sullivan's eyes remained downcast.

  "Warfare rages constantly within me. I so wish I could believe as I once did."

  Kate touched his arm. "The Indians believe that two wolves live within each of us. One of the wolves is arrogant and proud and always craving more. The other wolf is gentle, kind and caring. These wolves are in constant conflict within all of us."

  The preacher's eyes lifted.

  "Which wolf will win?"

  "Whichever one we feed. Preach, from what I can see I'd say it's about time you started feeding the good wolf inside of you. I like what I've heard President Jefferson did with his Bible. He underlined everything Jesus said in red. Those parts he read over and over again."

  "Yes, I know what Jesus said. Forgiveness. Aspiring to be better than we are. Loving each other. Loving ourselves. So then why has God done these things to me? The temptations! That crazy redhead! The whiskey! Why I have I fallen?"

  "I have no answers for you," said Kate. "I think maybe that army girl was right. Perhaps God is trying to do a work in you."

  J.D. interrupted them.

  He said, "Well well. Do you see what I see?"

  Mrs. Mitchell remained mute, unresponsive.

  Kate glanced up.

  There, beyond the glass top half of the connecting passage door, stood Skid Waddell, studying the faces of those seated in the Pullman. Skid's eyes expanded when he realized that they had spotted him.

  Skid whirled about and disappeared from sight.

  J.D. and Kate sprang from their seats. They charged after him.

  Chapter 15

  Four Indians sat soaking in a hot mineral spring.

  Iron Eyes, their leader, found himself considering the easy-going camaraderie that presently bonded these men who usually rode together on the hunt or into battle. An afternoon's soak in almost scalding hot spring water renewed body and spirit, allowing this band of brothers from separate mothers to lounge under the open sky without a care in the world. Heated water springing from Mother Earth made this a sacred spot. A holy place where aching bones and spirit welcomed its purification.

  Iron Eyes expected they would be home by dusk.

  This was a dangerous land. Not only did the cavalry patrol these hills but other Indian tribes, enemies of the Apache, could also be encountered, leading to battle. In this barren wilderness, a lonesome line of telegraph poles ran alongside railroad tracks in the near distance, stretching to the horizon in either direction. Gray clouds roiled low overhead with a restless energy, though the coolness of the winter day felt pleasant against bare skin not submerged in the steaming water.

  Hot mineral springs such as this one dotted the region, often in nearly inaccessible places but also placed here across the prairie. And yet it was an unspoken agreement among the tribes that if any band of braves encountered a similar band from an enemy tribe while those enemy braves were purifying themselves in hot springs, the first band would ride on, leaving them in peace...until next time.

  Iron Eyes and his braves were returning to their village after having paid their respects to a fallen tribal hero, a man they had fought alongside in battle. There had been a huge celebration in the man's village. First, the days of mourning when the hero's family had shorn their hair short and refrained from the dancing ceremonies. Then the Giveaway. The fallen hero's prize possessions handed out.

  Walks Backwards, so named because he was left-handed unlike most of the tribe, was chuckling at Iron Eyes' expense.

  "You got screwed, mighty brother. In the Giveaway, you received nothing but a bag of seed." He motioned to a leather sack that rested atop randomly thrown items of clothing on the bank of the pool. "I on the other hand received delicious ground coffee."

  Thi
s remark was contemplated by the others during a lengthy silence that followed.

  At length Red Feather spoke. "I have no complaint about the rifle that was given me."

  Another lengthy silence.

  Deer Killer then said, "The blanket they gave me will serve well when the nights are cold."

  This too was then ruminated upon.

  The heat of the mineral springs penetrated Iron Eyes' very soul. Those sharing the soak with him would be experiencing a similar languid comfort that replenished.

  Eventually Iron Eyes addressed Walking Backwards.

  He said, "You are welcome to your bag of coffee. You will drink it in a few days. My bag of seed—squash, beans, corn—I will plant and grow and feed my family for a year."

  Walking Backwards blinked when he realized this truth, causing Deer Killer and Red Feather to chortle.

  Then a faraway mechanical clatter began growing louder by the second.

  A chugging locomotive, its passenger cars trailing, came barreling out of the distance, an ominous black cloud of coal smoke trailing in its wake.

  Deer Killer jumped from the water, hoisting the rifle he'd received at the Giveaway, his features alive with sudden ferocity.

  "With my dying breath I will curse the white eyes and their desecration of our land. Let us attack their iron horse!"

  Red Feather joined him. His face mirrored bitterness. "I'm with you. Death to every white man, woman and child! They massacred my family."

  Walking Backwards also joined in. "Yes! Attack!"

  Iron Eyes remained in the soothing water. He commanded their attention by merely raising a hand.

  "No. We are not going to kill. Not today."

  Deer Killer's nostrils flared. "And why not? We are able and well equipped and we have the opportunity to strike."

  Red Feather nodded. "When Geronimo rode, he once killed five hundred of the white eyes in a single month!"

  Deer Killer and Walking Backwards grunted snorting sounds, each pumping his chest with a clenched fist.

  Iron Eyes said, "I am philosophical this day. Today is what these white eyes call Christmas. The birth of their Lord. I have heard of this man, Jesus. He spoke of peace on earth."

  Walking Backwards snickered.

  "A fool's dream! Don't they know it is the winter solstice that forever marks this time?"

  "Who can say? But on this day, as I rest in these sacred waters, I would counsel against the shedding of blood."

  Deer Killer seethed with impatience but said nothing out of respect for his elder.

  Walking Backwards said, "Well, could we at least raise a little hell?"

  Red Feather nodded with enthusiasm. "Yes! Time for Indian fun!"

  The chugging locomotive and its passenger cars was now less than a quarter mile away.

  Iron Eyes reluctantly emerged from the sacred water.

  "Very well." He could not deny that the warrior blood was stirring in his old veins. "I suppose there's no harm in that."

  They donned the trousers and dress shirts they'd worn to the ceremony. War whoops filled the air. They jumped onto their ponies and chased after the train.

  Chapter 16

  Aboard the train, Les Waddell awoke. He'd dozed off. A single waking awareness brought him up straight, wide awake.

  Skid was gone!

  It had been a grueling several days. Planning the robbery in Horseshoe. Robbing the bank. Making their way through the frigid night on horseback. The gentle, steady rocking of the train lulled him to sleep despite the rowdiness around him in the Third Class coach.

  Les cursed his baby brother, and not for the first time. He scanned the crowded train car. When he did not see Skid, he began cursing with such vehemence that his fellow passengers, a hard lot if ever there was one, were taken aback.

  He had to find Skid. The only reason they worked together was because no one else would ride with Les. They all said it was because of stuff like he didn't figure things through, or that his drinking was to blame. Les even overheard someone once call him simple-minded. He killed the person who'd said it on the spot; some no account card shark in Laramie years ago.

  Skid, he was the simpleton!

  Les seethed, putting it together only one way. His kid brother could not leave well enough alone. Here they were, well concealed amid this rabble of Third Class rowdies. Hours into the trip and there had been no sign of J.D. Blaze or that crazy wife of his. Sure, Les wanted a chance to gun them down. But he would choose the right time, not his halfwit brother. He'd already revised his initial plan. At Lordsburg he and Skid could trail the couple and find out where they were putting up. They could kill J.D. and Kate while the couple slept. Minimum risk. That's the way Les did things.

  He exited the coach. He hadn't heard any gunfire so whatever the dumb kid was up to, he hadn't actually been fool enough to confront Kate and J.D. Most likely Skid just wanted to catch sight of them. The idiot!

  Les stepped across the enclosed passageway. He entered the next coach.

  Second Class. Hard-bitten, everyday folk, wearing their finest but that often meant clothes worn by age and economic hard times. More sedate than Third Class. No open drunkenness. No coarse goings-on. But these passengers weren't much above his own class, Lester told himself.

  A few curious glances came his way when he entered and started along the aisle. The glances moved on with disinterest by the time he reached mid-car.

  Les told himself that his baby brother was dim but not crazy enough to actually enter and face down the couple in the next car, which was the Pullman. He reached the rear passageway door of the Second Class coach. His guts started to cramp. He placed a hand on the butt of his sidearm. No sense alarming passengers by drawing his six-gun but where was Skid?

  He reached out a hand to open the connecting door.

  The door burst open under the power of Skid thrusting himself into the car with the wild abandon of an animal insane with panic. The edge of the door cracked Les in the forehead, forcing him backwards under Skid's blind rush. The sheer force of the kid's strength knocked the wind out of Lester's lungs.

  He had time to snarl a curse before he went down with Skid landing atop him. Les managed to retain hold of the saddlebags, but he and his brother were a tangle of arms and legs in the middle of the aisle.

  Gasps of surprise and dismay from the passengers.

  J.D. and Kate entered through the same door.

  Les shoved Skid aside. He reached for his six-gun. He froze when he found himself staring down the biggest bore of the biggest six-gun he'd ever seen, or at least it seemed that way. J.D. had the hammer cocked and the muzzle not an inch from the bridge of Lester's nose.

  J.D. said, "Don't even think about it."

  Les did his best to relax, or at least give the impression that he was relaxing. He made a production of easing his hand away from his pistol. He and Skid remained a tangle on the floor.

  Kate, positioned slightly behind J.D., had her six-gun drawn. Her fiery eyes mirrored her derisive laugh.

  "Well, don't you two make a pretty picture."

  Les wanted to strangle the woman but the gun in J.D.'s hand had not wavered, its muzzle so close to the spot between Les's eyes that he could practically feel the coolness of the iron against his skin. He gulped

  "There must be some mistake. We're just a couple of cowboys on our way to a job out of Lordsburg."

  Skid nodded eagerly.

  "Yeah, that's the ticket! We're cowboys!"

  Les said, "Shut up, dummy." His eyes beseeched J.D. "Honest, mister—"

  Kate said. "Now that's real funny, Les, you using a word like honest. Don't you know you shouldn't be using words you don't even know the meaning of, you horse thieving, bank robbing son of a—aw, the heck with it. You know what you are."

  J.D. drew back a pace. His pistol did not look quite so big then but it could spit a bullet and make Les just as dead, and so Les waited. Relieved. Determined not to lose his life.

  J.D. sa
id, "Get up, both of you."

  They obeyed his command.

  "I tell you, mister," Skid whined, "my brother's right. You're making a big mistake—"

  Les said, "Shut up, dummy."

  J.D. said, "I don't forget faces, especially when they're behind guns. We know who you are. Now hand over those saddle bags you're toting, Les. Drop your guns and stretch out your arms so's Kate can snap on the shackles. You got the cuffs, hon?"

  Kate jangled the handcuffs she'd worn attached to her belt.

  "I've got 'em."

  Skid sneered. "Ain't no woman gonna put handcuffs on me!" The kid looked ready to pull iron no matter what.

  Les spoke in a hurry.

  "Now wait a minute." He tried to strike a reasonable tone. He heard the quaver in his own voice but he pressed on. "Say we give you back the loot. How's about then you let me and Skid go?" He knew it was a long shot but anything was worth a try.

  J.D. said, "Drop your guns."

  The Waddells let their guns clunk to the floor.

  Kate said, "Good. Now Les, aren't you aware of the fact that there's a reward out on both your worthless hides? Do like my man says. Stick out those flippers like good little boys."

  She started forward with the handcuffs.

  The passengers had drawn back, wide-eyed with concern.

  The constant railroad sounds were suddenly punctuated by an Apache war cry from outside. An arrow shattered a glass window, burying itself, quivering, in the wood paneling inches from Lester's head.

  Chapter 17

  Pandemonium erupted within the train car.

  J.D. and Kate knelt, each automatically assuming a combat crouch, diminishing themselves as targets while remaining able to see outside.

  Four Apaches riding bareback on galloping calico ponies, had materialized seemingly out of nowhere on this desolate prairie. They kept pace with the huffing and puffing locomotive!

  Everyone else in the coach fell flat; huddled well below what they hoped was the incoming fire. Cries and shouts of alarm and panic. Passengers in this Second Class car were ordinary, everyday folks, not armed ruffians.