by A. W. Hart
“What you thinkin’ about?” he asked.
“Life. Death. Us. Nothing more.”
“You come to any conclusions?”
“Maybe,” she responded.
“Am I gonna have to pin you down and tickle them out of you like we did as kids? Or are you gonna share them like a big person?”
“You try, and I’ll black your eye just like I did when we were twelve.”
“You remember everything, don’t you?” he responded.
“Pretty much. This thing we are doing. This vendetta. This sixgun vengeance. It will do for now. I don’t hate it. Only thing worrying me is if you get killed. You are all I’ve got. I don’t know as I could go ahead without you to keep me on the straight and narrow, Reno. We just got each other. We don’t need anybody else. Right?” She looked him in the eye.
He had been thinking a lot about Isabelle Mando and looking at the ambrotype picture of her, but George Washington “Reno” Bass was not stupid. The wrong answer would hurt his sister and bring a miserable month or two on him from her mouth and mood.
“Nope. You and me. Plus, Apache, Jack, and Grace. We are family. Nothing else counts in life.”
Sara did not know whether his pause before answering was to gather his thoughts or come up with a whopper. She knew his convictions and how he generally hated lying, so she accepted the former and smiled at him.
He moved into the shelter beside her, and Apache joined him. Or rather, joined her, since the dog seemed to favor her over him.
Reno took out the bent-cornered Bible, its cover scorched when their house burned. He began to read.
The sky was so dark, the passage from day to night was almost unnoticeable. There was no food left, so they had coffee for supper. Only a day or two of water remained. They had to find a stream or a town soon. They could do without food for a couple of days. Water was a whole different thing.
Reno gambled on another pot of coffee in the morning. Sara was already up. His stomach growling had probably awakened her. After the coffee, they filled in the firepit, broke camp, and proceeded toward their ranch.
They’d planned an intermediate stop at Fort Dodge to have the gravestones made, then on to what was left of the Bass ranch. Once there, they would go to the county seat and have the deed changed to their names as survivors.
Half a day into the trip to Fort Dodge, they came upon a rider. He was at a watering hole, something they desperately needed also. He was watering a saddled mule. The mule had a McClellan military saddle, and the sheathed rifle was a front-end loader. Reno thought it might be a Sharps, but he was not sure.
“Howdy the watering hole,” Reno called.
The man was tall and slim. At the call, he dropped his coat open. The twins could see a pair of what looked like Colt .36 navy revolvers, holstered butt-forward like Reno’s Remingtons. As they approached, the man transferred the cup he had scooped up his water in over to his left hand. This did not go unnoticed by either rider.
“Howdy yerselves,” he responded. They dismounted and let Jack and Grace drink a bit downstream from the man.
“Stranger, we are surely glad you found this watering hole,” Reno said. “We have a bit of water left, but no food. We got a rabbit yesterday, but nothing ventured out in this vile weather today for us to shoot.”
“I have been along this way before,” the man said. “There is a small village with a general mercantile about twenty miles farther on. Another seventy-five or eighty miles is my destination, Fort Dodge.”
The man was striking in appearance. He wore buckskins with fine quill embroidery like Sara’s, which had been done by Ty Mando’s Indian wife. He had long lace-up moccasin boots instead of high-heeled boots like both Basses. His hair was as long as hers, but auburn in color. He wore it loose to his shoulders. His hat was as wide-brimmed as a sombrero but had a short flat-top crown. There was a long skinning knife sheathed in the top of his right moccasin boot. If someone were to have a Western scout ambrotype or newer tintype made in a studio, this man and his outfit would have been the model.
He looked at Sara and squinted.
“Ma’am, I am truly sorry for not bowing or saluting you. When I saw you in the black outfit with pantaloons in the glare, I mistook you for a boy. Please forgive me,” he said.
“No matter. I travel in comfort and convenience, not style,” Sara responded.
He nodded.
“Our name is Bass, stranger. You were talking to Sara. I am Reno.”
“You are well-heeled for young folk, both wearing twin guns and all. I have heard tell of a brother and sister pair of bounty hunters. Would you be them?”
“Might be,” Reno said.
“You can call me James. I’m an Army scout by occupation. Served as such in the war and some Indian matters since.”
“Well, James, since we appear to be heading for the same destination, you want to ride together?”
“In view of the Cheyennes and Comanches raiding around the border and inwards, three sets of guns beats one, or in your case, two. Have you young’uns been in a shooting scrape?”
“We have. There was a rebel group called the Devil’s Horde. You heard of it?”
“I have. They killed, raped, and burned their way across Kansas about a year and a half or two ago. I understand they are all dead now,” James said.
“They died as they lived. Painfully by rifle, revolver, and Bowie knife. They’re rotting in hell now. The damn worms wouldn’t have them.” Sara said.
“Sara. Language. Pa would be shocked and appalled,” Reno cautioned.
“Who killed them? A posse?” James asked.
“A posse of two. And one mighty riled black dog,” Reno said.
The scout looked down at the dog sitting beside Sara, smiling.
“Do you two go by ‘Avenging Angels?’” the scout asked.
“We just go by Reno and Sara Bass. What others call us is their affair, James.”
“I see.” James was smart enough to know the best question to ask was one where you already knew the answer. One could tell a lot about the person from how they answered. He had heard of two teens killing an entire large patrol of some of the meanest scum ever to wear gray uniforms. He had been incredulous and thought a lot of it may have been campfire tales, but now, maybe not.
“We ought to ride on,” he said. “There are those who would covet this hair of mine. They would die for Miss Sara’s beautiful locks.” She frowned and said nothing. She did not hold with compliments unless they came from her brother. Who was strangely reticent about giving them, she thought.
The three mounted up and rode on.
The twins noticed James scanning three hundred and sixty degrees as he rode. He would lean down off his mule and study tracks in the trail. At the clearest ones, he called for a halt and dismounted.
“We are following seven Indian ponies. See, their hoofs aren’t shod.” He got on his hands and knees.
“They are taking their time. The hooves are not spread out like they would be galloping. They are cleanly defined, with no dust or leaves or anything in them yet. This sign means they are not far ahead. We need to ride beside the trail, but half a mile over. Then, if they have a good ambush spot ahead, they have to leave it and ride for us when we come up. It will give us more time to pick them off,” James said.
He drew his muzzle-loading rifle. Reno had been wrong; it was not a Sharps buffalo gun. It was a light-caliber single shot of no recognizable kind. Reno hoped he was good with it for his first shot. Because at these distances, they might be dealing with very close combat.
Reno and Sara drew their lever-action Golden Boys, so named by Indians because of their bright brass receivers. James was on the right, Reno in the middle and Sara on the left. Reno put the butt against his right thigh to keep his muzzle away from the folks on either side. He was conscious of keeping his powder dry.
James kept looking back but saw nothing. There was a hill to the right, high enough to hide a fe
w Indian ponies. It looked like the only good ambush spot in sight. Reno saw James watching it. He turned to his companions and pointed at each in turn.
Reno watched Apache closely. The dog was uncannily good at sniffing out danger. He was acting nervous, nose to the trail. At one point, he yipped and went over twenty yards and started going back where they had come from. Reno called him. He returned but needed urging. Reno could not figure out why he was acting like he was. James and Sara were watching the hill intently.
“If they come riding at us, don’t try to outrun them. We can’t. Dismount and make yourselves as small as possible. Shoot from your bellies. The army calls it ‘prone position,’” James advised.
He veered them to the left, farther away from the potential ambush. As they came even with it, four ponies came around and picked up to a full gallop. The braves had short rifles and bows and arrows.
“Dismount and get ready. Save ammo until they get close enough for your shots to count. Where in hell are the other three? A second tier waiting to attack when we are reloading?” James yelled.
They held their fire. The four Indians fired muzzle-loading single-shot rifles and missed from horseback. They dropped their rifles to slings and drew bows.
James dropped the front brave with his rifle and whipped out a .36 Navy faster than anyone either twin had ever seen. Reno was fast, but he did not hold a candle to the scout’s draw. Amid the first salvo of arrows, the three fired the Navy and two Winchesters as fast as they could. Reno heard Sara moan and turned back. A descending arrow had hit her in the butt. She dropped her rifle, and James picked it up and continued shooting. It appeared all the braves were down.
Reno knew enough to not jerk the arrow out without looking at it. He took out the Bowie and cut away the back of Sara’s black canvas pants. It was not in deep.
He folded a clean kerchief from his saddlebags and pulled the arrow free. She screamed, and he immediately pressed the pad down hard to staunch the blood.
James had moved forward to make sure all four braves were dead. He was walking back from twenty yards.
Sara was looking up at Reno as he pressed the pad against her left butt cheek. Her eyes got large all of a sudden, and James yelled.
Reno spun and drew, thumbing the hammer back and pressing the trigger as a brave lunged at him from five feet away. The brave died on top of the Basses as another two attacked. The first had knocked Reno’s Remington out of this hand and landed on top of his second gun.
The next brave dove through the air, landed on the point of the twelve-inch Bowie Reno had drawn, yelled, and died. The third began to draw his bowstring back as Sara rolled onto her injured bottom long enough to draw her .36 Remington and shoot him three times.
James made it back to the scene, scanned for other threats, and pulled the dead braves off Reno.
He dragged them off and used his skinning knife to make sure all were well and truly dead. They were, even before he applied the long blade to them.
Reno draped his duster over his sister’s bare bottom. He had gotten the bleeding stopped, but now the pain was going to set in. Riding was going to be a trick for her.
“We rode not so damn near past the three who had dismounted and waited to attack from behind. Good tactics on their part, actually,” James noted.
“They’re going to burn in hell,” Reno said.
Sara rolled her eyes, possibly from pain.
“They have no God, so they have no salvation,” he continued.
“They do have a god. He’s just got a different name, so don’t be too quick to judge. Like the rebels I fought, they are just fighting to preserve their land and way of life. We ain’t been too fair with them. Buffalo provides their food and shelter, Reno, and we are killing them off,” James said quietly.
“Don’t you hate them, and the rebels you fought, too?” Reno asked.
“Nope. I don’t. I met a lot of the rebel prisoners and wounded. They were farm and ranch boys just like us. They were fighting because their generals told them to, just like we were. Wars seem to me to be the fault of leaders, not the ones who kill and die.”
Sara thought about it through the pain. Reno did too, but his sister was not sure of his degree of acceptance.
“Changing to something we can agree wholeheartedly on,” the thirty-year-old scout began, “I have some black walnut salve here, Reno. Rub a good amount on the wound in your sister’s…well, you know where. Keep the little brass tin. I’ll make some more.”
“Thanks, James. I will give your words some thought. My teaching from our father was not as open in thought as what you said.”
“I think the key is people are people. Take ‘em as they come. Our thoughts are not likely to change them but are likely to cause us agitation. If you will loan me the big hacker you stuck in Brave Number Two, I will cut some long branches to make a travois. I don’t think Miss Sara’s lower part is going to take well to a saddle for a while. I recommend switching with her. The mule is good at pulling and riding. I ‘spect the pretty little mare is better at carrying a rider.”
Once James had left with the Bowie to find the makings for a travois, Reno took off Sara’s gun belt and pants. He rubbed the salve in and left a layer on top of the wound. She had a muslin half-slip in her saddlebag, and he got it out.
“Can you stand okay so I can put this on you?” Reno asked.
She eyed her red-faced brother and stepped into the slip. He pulled it up, buckled her guns back on and draped her duster over her shoulders.
Sara gave him a pleasant but stoic expression. As always, he’d give a week’s pay to know what was going on in her complex mind.
She laid back down on her belly, and he reloaded all of their guns. James came back, and they used Reno’s larger canvas duster to make the bed for the travois. The holes they punched in it to tie it to the open-ended triangle of poles virtually guaranteed the purchase of a new duster at Fort Dodge.
James lashed the fronts of the two poles to his mule’s saddle and added a couple more supports.
“Climb on, Miss Sara. It won’t be a steamboat ride, but it will beat sitting on a saddle on your arrow wound,” he said.
They started onward, Sara still on her stomach, a rawhide sling keeping the rifle hung around her shoulders for immediate deployment.
She softly cursed with every bump. Reno did not chastise her, but rather worried about where she had learned such a broad vocabulary of bad words. He would never figure her out and wondered why he tried.
Several hours later, James pointed at a village in the distance. They wanted to both alert hem about the Indian raid and get enough food to last until they reached Fort Dodge in another sixty miles or so.
They saw smoke as they approached the village. Several houses had burned down. All had signs of a fight, with broken windows and pockmarks from bullets, arrows stuck in the wood. This looked recent enough and had sufficient damage to suggest it was a different party. James and the Bass twins had been attacked by a smaller one.
“What went on here?” James asked as they rode in and a couple of men carefully appeared from around the corner of a building, rifles ready.
“We was hit by a big raiding party of Comanches,” one said as he lowered his rifle.
“Many losses?” Reno asked.
“We have two dead and four wounded. The Indians lost six to our fire.”
The man looked at the rifle-wielding strawberry-blonde lying on her stomach on the travois.
“’Pears you had some trouble, too,” he said.
“You got a doctor here?” James asked.
“Naw. We use the one up to Fort Dodge.”
“How far?” Reno asked.
“Long day’s ride. You need to point north. The party went east from here. “Less they turn, you should be okay.”
“You got anywhere still open where we can buy food and maybe some ammunition?” James asked.
The man pointed at a building that showed a lot of damage from
bullets and arrows but had not burned.
They rode over, and the two men dismounted.
It was a small general mercantile, with a little of everything but not much of anything.
They had a side of bacon, some coffee they would grind, and some crackers. Reno bought those items and some powder, two bags of .36 conical bullets, one bag of .44s, and three one-pound bags of 3F black powder.
He gave a bag of powder and a bag of .36 bullets to James and put the rest in a saddlebag. Reno went back in and came out with a couple of cans of peaches, some peppermint sticks, and the place’s only woman’s skirt.
He gave the skirt to Sara for later and peppermint sticks to her and James for now. James picked up a bundle of thin cheroots, and both he and Reno bought a box of friction matches.
“I will pay you for the powder and balls, Reno,” James said.
“Our gift to a good trail-riding companion. We both are sure glad you were along. I never saw a pistol come out of a holster and fire as fast as when you drew this morning, James.”
“I might say the same thing, young man, about you. Let’s always be friends. If we went up against one another, we’d both die at the same instant.”
“Well, I reckon neither of us would ever draw on a friend, so it wouldn’t happen.
They camped one more night but ate much better, with bacon, crackers, and some peaches in sugar syrup for dessert.
Sara could walk stiffly but was still in pain. She could not sit and had to stand or lie on her stomach. Reno looked at her and quoted Romans 8:18.
“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing to the glory that is to be revealed to us.”
She scowled at him. Sometimes he just needed to shut the hell up, she thought.
4
Midday the following day, they saw the buildings and some earthen abutments of the fort. Farther on, the beginnings of a town were visible. James said they were beginning to call it Dodge City, though he said, “Dodge Village is more correct at this time. Maybe one day.”
It came time to part since the scout was expected. He and Reno dismounted and walked around to Sara.