Blaze! Bad Medicine

by Michael Newton

  Nor was she certain that they should survive whatever torment their kidnappers had in mind.

  It was impossible for Rosalind to wish her children dead, per se, but she had read of what wild savages inflicted on white captives: rape and torture, scarring and tattooing, other forms of mutilation. In the very best scenario, her son and daughter would be raised as Indians or kept as slaves, assassinated if a rescue party threatened to release them.

  Was not a relatively quick, clean death preferable to days, weeks, even months of tortuous captivity and shame?

  Rosalind thought she knew how to provoke her own death, through resistance and defiance. But did she possess the nerve to kill Orville and Daphne on her own?

  * * *

  Marshal Olin Dill had passed a miserable day roaming Inferno's streets, facing the townsfolk he was oath-bound to protect. Word traveled fast in such a small and insular community, cut off from contact with the outside world in large part by the desert waste surrounding it. Three homestead raids within two days, nine settlers killed and three abducted, had the whole damn town on edge, and rightly so. Fort Royster's seven-man patrol had almost been an insult, given all the damage done beforehand, and where were the soldiers now? Missing in action? Dead?

  Dill had been anxious to ignore the first attack, pleading that it occurred outside his jurisdiction. He could say the same, and honestly, of the assaults that followed, but would reference to a pathetic city ordinance relieve him of responsibility as a lawman—or simply as a man?

  People who passed him on the street were eyeballing him now, some almost sneering, others shying off from him as if they feared a germ of cowardice might be contagious. Granted, no one had come forward to suggest he form a posse and go out to find the raiders on his own. As many as three-quarters of the men in town were married, raising families, with businesses requiring their particular attention. None were likely to ride off on an adventure, chasing renegades, avenging murdered men and women whom they barely knew as weekend customers, if that.

  It would be different, of course, if some crime had occurred within Inferno. Say a robbery or rape, for instance. In that case, Dill reckoned every man who owned a gun would turn out to defend the town, capture the miscreants, and maybe even hang them without waiting for the circuit judge to make his once-a-month appearance in their town.

  But riding down killer Apaches in the desert or mountains? No damn way at all.

  Of course, there were unmarried men in town, most of them likely drinking at the town's only Saloon since afternoon had faded into evening. Dill could find them there and make his pitch—but what would happen if they turned him down?

  In fact, he could but try. And even if he failed, the effort would be on his record. It would be remembered, and his shame would shift itself onto the layabouts who wouldn't lift a hand to help their neighbors in the direst of distress. Dill would emerge as hero of the exercise, and having been rejected, he would bear no onus of defeat.

  But what, oh God, if they agreed to follow him?

  "I have to try," he told himself, unconscious of the fact that he had voiced the words aloud. A merchant sweeping off the sidewalk by the entry to his shop glanced up and said, "Pardon, Marshal?"

  "Oh, nothing, Mr. Cates. Just working somethin' out inside my head."

  The merchant nodded. Said, "Don't tell nobody, but I do the same thing now and then."

  "Your secret's safe with me," Dill said, and started down to the Saloon.

  * * *

  "You see that light, J.D.?"

  "I do."

  It wasn't much, more of a glimmer or reflection, but he recognized firelight. Not in the open, but perhaps—

  "Is that a cave?" Kate asked.

  "I think it must be."

  They'd been following the renegades who'd killed and scalped the soldiers, also carrying one of their own who'd fallen in the fight. The firelit cave must be their destination. Nothing else made any kind of sense.

  And now, their problems multiplied.

  How many lookouts would be posted to protect the raiders' lair? How many warriors lurked inside the cave, and how extensive was it, winding back into the mountainside? If they could not immediately spot the captives, peering through the cave's mouth, was it even possible to extricate them and retreat?

  Too much to think of, all at once, but J.D. had no choice.

  He started with the guards, crouching beside Kate in a pool of inky shadow, sharp eyes covering the slope above. Finally, they spotted two braves, one stationed on each side of the cave's entrance, each carrying a rifle and whatever other weapons could be tucked under a simple belt. They made no sound and barely moved, except to breathe, but moonlight ultimately picked them out from larger, darker boulders.

  "Looks like we'll be splitting up," Kate said.

  "I'd rather not. But, yeah."

  "Knife work."

  "If we can pull it off."

  "I can," she said. "If you have any doubts..."

  "No, no. But it'll take some time for me to come around the tall one on the right."

  "I won't move in till you do," Kate assured him.

  "Mighty nice of you."

  "I always try to be agreeable." Her bright smile flashed.

  "Okay, then. No time like the present," J.D. told her, though in truth, he would have been content to wait and watch all night.

  That wouldn't help the captives, though. And with a threat of other soldiers bearing down on them at any time, the renegades might feel compelled to cut their losses—and the throats of their three prisoners.

  J.D. let Kate go first, less gentleman than husband hanging back to cover her with his Winchester as she started her creeping advance. One slip, one tumbling stone, and she could be exposed—in which case, he would come out firing to defend her, and to hell with all their best-laid plans.

  He tracked Kate on her journey, lost her in the shadows as she veered off from the dim light of the cave's mouth, and then took the rest for granted when nobody raised a cry or fired a shot into the dark. When J.D. thought she ought to be in place or nearly so, he drew his Bowie knife and started circling to his right, en route to kill a man he'd never met.

  * * *

  "We must consider how the soldiers change our plans," Wolf said.

  Eagle showed him dead eyes, a flat face, and replied, "Why should they change?"

  Wolf nearly scoffed at that. He answered back, "How can they not change, when the white man's army will be back in force to crush us by tomorrow?"

  "We will not be here tomorrow," Eagle countered, eyeing all the painted faces of his still-surviving warriors as he spoke. "The plan proceeds. We make our sacrifice and move on to the next target, while talk of war bursts into flame."

  "What good is that, Diyin, if we die first?"

  Eagle's eyes bored hard into his adversary's face. "All warriors are prepared for sacrifice."

  "But is not pointless suicide a sacrilege against our ancestors?" Wolf challenged him. A few among the others muttered, whether from unease or in agreement, Eagle could not say.

  Feeling his temper slip, Eagle replied, "You talk like an old isdzán."

  Calling Wolf a woman, with the others looking on, could push their argument to blows, but Eagle thought that he now had no choice. Wolf's insolence had gone too far and must be dealt with now. He had too much at stake to let it fester and explode without due warning when his back was turned.

  Wolf snarled, almost in keeping with his given name. "Enough! I challenge you for leadership. A trial by combat. Let the strongest rule."

  Rule what? thought Eagle. Nine men who remained, once either he or Wolf was dead?

  He felt no fear, per se, but only disappointment that none of the others had immediately sided with him against Wolf. At best, they all seemed neutral, which boded ill for the eventual success of their campaign. And yet, he had no choice.

  Eagle's two hands were steady as they dipped down to his belt. His right hand palmed the feathered tomaha
wk; his left unsheathed his skinning knife. He kept his eyes on Wolf's lean face, ignoring other movements as his enemy drew weapons similar to Eagle's own.

  "Tobadzistsini shall decide between us," he declared. Added, "Restrain the prisoners," before he dropped into a fighting crouch and started circling slowly to his left, Wolf's right. His adversary—long a rival, never until now an open enemy—began to move clockwise, steadily keeping pace with Eagle as they moved carefully around the cave, long shadows cast upon the walls by firelight.

  Only one of them would see the morning sun rise, maybe neither. In that case, Eagle trusted his war chief, Cougar, to control the rest and carry out the remnants of their plan as best the shrunken party could.

  In any case, no matter who survived to lead, the cringing prisoners would die.

  Chapter 11

  It was half past ten o'clock when Marshal Dill got up the nerve to make his move at last. He buckled on his gunbelt, checked his badge to make sure it was fairly straight, and locked the office door behind him as a hedge against him giving up and doubling back. Dill had the key, of course, but there was something in the act of locking up that made his ultimate decision final, even if that only went for his own mind.

  Inferno's lone Saloon was nothing by comparison with some he'd seen, drifting around the West before he'd landed here, but there were some two dozen men on hand when Dill pushed through the batwing doors, waited for them to settle in their frame behind his back, then cleared his throat with a gravelly noise.

  No one heard him, or maybe they just didn't care.

  The barkeep knew him mainly as a customer, rye whisky with a beer back. Seeing Dill halfway across the mid-sized barroom, he called out, "Marshal! The usual?"

  Dill shook his head and moved a little closer to the bar. "No thanks, Nate. Not tonight. I need a word with these fine fellows here."

  That made a few heads swivel toward him, four or five, but the remainder of his target audience was happily oblivious. Starting to simmer just a bit, the lawman raised his voice to cut through conversations that excluded him.

  "All of you listen up, now!" he demanded. When the lot had turned to face him, most of them with drinks in hand and quizzical expressions on their mugs, he followed up. "I need some men with level heads, who own a horse and gun, to join me for a posse."

  They were buzzing now. One finished off his beer in a quick gulp and asked, "What's happened, Olin?"

  Yet another chirped, "Somebody break into the bank?"

  "Nothin' like that," Dill said. "It's worse. You all have heard about the homestead killin's these past days. We got nine settlers dead so far, and worse, if you can call it that, a woman and her two kids carried off."

  A skinny, red-faced figure—Curtis Franks, Dill thought his name was—chimed in, asking, "What's that got to do with us in town, Marshal?"

  "The army sent a squad to find the people carried off," Dill said. "Some of you likely saw them pass through town this mornin'. Anyhow, they ain't come back. Who knows when Colonel Hungate at the fort will send another batch to look for 'em, or what they'll find?"

  A fat one, Eddie Alderson, burped through his beard and said, "So, what? That's county bidness, if we had a county. Sad about the dead and missing folks, but why should we—"

  "I'll tell you why," Dill cut him off. "Because Inferno is surrounded by these ranches that are gettin' raided and picked clean. How long you think it's gonna be before the redskins get up nerve to move against the town itself? How many will they have with 'em by then? What happens to you lot when they tear through? Or to your loved ones, if you got any."

  Nobody answered for another minute, then Joe Beck, a beanpole of a man, replied, "I'll come along. When do we leave?"

  "First light," Dill said. "Wait any longer, and we may as well stay home. Whoever's comin', bring a saddled horse and shootin' iron. Consider what could happen if you ride out drunk and we come up against Apaches on the warpath."

  * * *

  J.D. was closing on his man and wishing he could still see Kate. Logic reminded him that she was less than fifty feet away, but it was dark, despite the moon, with mountain shadows spilling pitch black all around. He placed each step precisely, worried that he'd slip and fall, or anyway, make noise from scuffling over loose stones in his path and put the lookouts on alert.

  Five minutes after moving out from cover, he was close enough to club the sentry with his rifle, but that wouldn't guarantee his man was down and out for good. That meant blade work, and he was ready with his Bowie in his right hand, creeping up behind his mark one careful footstep at a time.

  A sudden rustling, grappling sound off toward the far side of the cave's mouth froze J.D. He heard somebody gasp, no way to tell whether the voice was male or female, then his man was turning and he had to move, ready or not.

  Two long strides brought him up behind the young Apache. J.D. clamped a hand over the lookout's lower face, sealing his mouth and twisting sharply to expose the right side of his throat. J.D.'s knife rose and plunged, its clip point blade sinking about four inches deep. That was enough to sever the carotid artery and jugular, while mangling the Apache's vocal cords beyond repair. J.D. stepped back, dodging a spume of blood that jetted three to four feet overhead, before the dying brave collapsed.

  Crouching, J.D. lifted his Winchester and aimed it toward the sounds he'd heard a moment earlier. He couldn't rush headlong across the cave's mouth, but his heart was hammering inside his rib cage, fears for Kate consuming him. A moment later she emerged from shadow over there, raising a bloody hand and knife to show him she'd come out on top in her contest, as well. Before she wiped and sheathed her blade, she pointed toward the cave's entrance and started edging toward it, rifle already in hand.

  J.D. moved in to meet her there, ears cocked to any sounds emerging from the cave. And what he heard, as he drew closer, raised his eyebrows in alarm.

  * * *

  Rosalind Hoskins watched the two combatants circling, feinting with their weapons, while her frightened children huddled underneath her outspread arms, their faces pressed into her sides. So far, they hadn't missed much, as the grim Apache leader and his rival both sought openings to slip in past the other's guard and score a telling thrust.

  In truth, Rosalind's only cogent thoughts were for her children and herself. She didn't care which of the fighters lived or died, and would have been delighted if they both killed one another, but she feared what that might mean for her and hers.

  So far, she'd understood nothing that passed between the hostiles in their native tongue, but it was clear to her that some of her abductors chafed under the leader who'd directed her kidnapping. How would they react if he were slain? Would it spell instant death for all their prisoners?

  She saw no reason to be buoyed by optimism from the fight, but knew that if the leader should prevail, her fate, along with Orville's and Daphne's, was sealed. They would be sacrificed, whatever that meant to the bronze-skinned lunatic, and the delay imposed by two men grappling in the cave might not take long enough for army reinforcements to arrive.

  In front of her, the leader ducked and dodged a wild swing of his adversary's hatchet, darting in to lash out with his knife and draw a seeping line of blood across the other's ribs. The wound was shallow, but it drew a pained hiss from the lips of his opponent, who danced backward, parrying the next thrust with his knife, then flailing with his tomahawk.

  Another miss.

  The challenger was tiring, Rosalind surmised. Although he seemed a little younger than the leader, if the angles of his painted fade were any guide, and there could be no faulting his physique in terms of musculature, still he seemed to lack something. Was it determination? The self-confidence required to win a fight when stakes were do or die?

  The leader startled all of them, and made her children cling more tightly to their mother's dress, when he unleashed a banshee scream that filled the cave and echoed to the night outside, wailing as he leaped forward, hurdling the fire t
hat was their only light. He landed catlike, in a crouch, and moved swiftly to close the gap between him and his enemy.

  The target backpedaled, swinging his knife and tomahawk in unison, then stepped onto a piece of shale that slid from under him and sent him tumbling backward, blurting out what had to be a curse as he tumbled, rolled quickly over in a bid to save himself, and wound up on his knees before his charging would-be executioner.

  * * *

  Eagle leapt forward, arms spread like his namesake's wings, his weapons poised to strike from either side of Wolf. He made no sound besides his labored breathing, saw no need for any further yelping to alert his ancestors. Surely, they saw him now and would assist him if it were their wish to do so.

  As he landed within arm's reach of his kneeling, bleeding prey, Eagle lashed out with both his knife and tomahawk at once. No one inside the cave was more surprised than he, then, when the two blades passed each other, cleaving only empty air.

  Wolf had surprised him one more time, collapsing backward over bent legs, letting deadly knife and hatchet miss his flesh by inches. As they passed, he executed some kind of maneuver Eagle could not follow clearly, bucking upward from the waist, his bent legs straightening and lashing out as one to land a kick squarely on Eagle's chest.

  The diyin staggered backward, reeling, conscious of the fact that he was vulnerable now, in these last seconds of the fight. If he fell down or dropped his weapons now, he was as good as dead.

  Wolf vaulted to his feet, snarling, and rushed in for the kill, eyes bright with firelight.

  Eagle ducked, went low, but did not let himself be forced into retreat. Instead, he swung his tomahawk from right to left and felt it strike home, curved blade sinking deep, snagging for just an instant, then continuing its progress through a disemboweling blow.

  Wolf stopped and looked down at his entrails, as they spilled onto smooth stone beside the fire. When he looked back at Eagle, there was understanding in his face, despite the glaze already settling in his eyes. Did he feel cheated? Frightened? Was he disappointed in himself or in the spirits who had failed to keep him whole?