Massacre at Whip Station

by Dusty Richards

  The irony of what the man had just said was not lost on Kennedy, but he let it pass.

  “Any Indian tribes out this way?” Kennedy asked.

  “Not here,” Stone replied. “Closest is back near Whip Station, and those Pechangas is peaceful. Apaches are southeast, have no business out here.”

  “Marcus, maybe you should go off-trail and look,” Kennedy suggested.

  “We should stay together,” Ridgewood said.

  A whistling sound split the air.

  Almost in the same instant, an arrow split Ridgewood’s chest.

  CHAPTER 16

  “That was unexpected.”

  The speaker, Fletcher Small, had pulled aside the curtain for air when he happened to notice a glow fill the southern sky. He watched for the nearly full minute that it burned.

  Reverend Michaels, resting his head on the opposite wall, stirred but did not ask what he was referring to. Rest was more important than fellowship and curiosity right now. As long as they were not being shot at, he was content to remain ignorant.

  “What’d you see?” Willa asked.

  “Fire out there,” he said. “A big one, but brief. There was no lightning strike, so I’m assuming it was purposely lit.”

  “I hear there’re places where fire just shoots up from the earth,” she said.

  “Those are volcanoes and there are none out here,” the reporter informed her. “At least, not that I’ve read.”

  “May be that anyone who saw ’em got burnt up.”

  Small could not dispute the logic of that statement. “You could be right, madam, but this was more like a wildfire that flared and died.”

  “Then that’s likely what it was.” She shrugged.

  Again, Small had no reply to the woman’s logic. He thought of Slash’s departure, wondered if he had built a fire to distract or delay the Rebels. They had crossed no bridges, so that would not be the object of such an inferno. It seemed more like dry brush flaring then dying.

  He hoped, in passing, it was not their luggage. It was only a ruddy glow, not flame. There was no telling how distant it was.

  “In any case,” Small said, “I’m relieved that we have someone covering our rear.”

  “And you got my boy up top,” she said. “He’s a ’sperienced lookout.”

  “So he said.”

  “All for a wicked cause and a wickeder man,” she added. “I hope you write about that in your newspaper.”

  “I shall,” he promised. “Though I assure you, it has been written about extensively, especially in papers up North.”

  “I cain’t read so I have to trust you,” she said.

  The coach jolted over a series of small rocks, which caused the carriage to simultaneously shift from side to side and up and down.

  “River travel is better,” Willa noted. “Isaiah, he wants to get to the ocean. See if there’s something he can do, knowing boats ’ng water.”

  “That’s a sound idea,” Small said.

  “I see different,” the shaman spoke. It was the first time he had said anything since they left the station.

  “Welcome to the conversation, Tuchahu,” Small said, evincing surprise.

  Willa looked up at the taller man. “What do you see—Tuckahoo? Is that right?”

  “I see through eyes of young girl,” the shaman replied, his eyes half-shut. “At station. I see her—with you.” He nodded slightly toward Willa.

  “You having visions?” Willa asked.

  “I . . . see,” he replied vaguely.

  “Tell me something, Mr. Tuckahoo. Can you see a vermin name of Brent Diamond?”

  Small froze. It took him a moment to find his voice. “What was that name, madam?”

  “The one I just said? Brent Diamond.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “What about this man?”

  “He ain’t a man,” she said. “He’s a thing, a creature, a hog. I even hate t’say it aloud or even think it. He was the man we was slaves to. He broke up our family. We want to find it. And Isaiah wants to kill him.”

  “He sounds bad,” Small said, unable to think of a better word at that moment. Less than a day before, he had eaten chicken and corn at that man’s table. It had been prepared by a Colored woman and her boy. The problem was, he dared not tell his riding companion. She might alert her son who, armed, might force B.W. to turn the stagecoach around. While that would give him an incredible story, it would put them running right into the hands of the Confederates. Small feared gunfire. In the dark, anyone could be killed.

  Willa turned to the shaman. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your dream.”

  “Vision,” he said. “I still see.”

  “You say you saw—see—Willa with someone at Whip Station?” Small asked to make sure the topic stayed changed. “The young woman, Gert?”

  The Serrano grunted in acknowledgment.

  “A young lady . . . with me?” Willa said. “I don’t know any young ladies. A white lady?”

  “Yes,” the shaman said. “You will know her.”

  Willa sat back. “Well, that is something.”

  “What else do you see?” Small asked.

  He put no credence in native mumbo jumbo but Tuchahu certainly did as would any of the Indians they might yet encounter.

  “She prays for me,” he said. “There is no more.”

  “Well, that is a kindly thing to see,” Willa said. Her alert eyes shifted back to Small.

  “You don’t seem right,” she said.

  “The ride,” he apologized. “It doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Is that it?” Reverend Michaels said, stirring beside him.

  Small fired him a disapproving look. “I assure you, it is.”

  The pastor looked over at the woman. “God did not spare His own Son, nor shall I a sinner. I have met the man you seek.”

  “Reverend, this is not the time,” Small said. “We must continue on our journey.”

  “And we shall,” Michaels assured him. He looked back at the woman. “When we reach our next stop, I will tell you where you can find the one who kept you in bondage.”

  “You know?” Willa said. “You’re not lying to Willa?”

  “I am not,” the preacher replied sanctimoniously.

  “Where is he? Near?”

  “Not afar,” Michaels answered in his soft, reverend voice.

  A dread silence filled the cabin. Willa slumped back in her seat and Small could not see her face very well. He had no idea whether she was thinking about the sorry past or the bloody future or a potential reunion with her family.

  Probably all of that, he decided.

  And then Willa screamed, a cry the likes of which neither man had ever heard. It came from a place of suffering so deep that Small wasn’t sure it would ever stop.

  The stagecoach, however, did stop.

  * * *

  “Go ahead, I gotcha covered!”

  Joe O’Malley waved back at his grandson as he walked to where his horse had wandered. He did not think the Confederates would come back around the turn, but he couldn’t be sure. The Rebels were now outgunned, unless it was both Hathaway and Kennedy who got shot. He wouldn’t give a penny for either man’s courage.

  Joe mounted and took a brisk ride in the direction Clarity had gone. He arrived at Slash’s side shortly after the woman did.

  “Who’s watching the coach?” Joe asked with an open mix of surprise and concern.

  Without taking his eyes off the bend—except to tip his hat to Clarity when she arrived—Slash explained what had happened. Although strictly speaking Joe did not approve of the boy having left his post, the older man was glad that he had.

  “You probably saved my life,” Joe admitted.

  “Reason enough, though I think you’d’ve probably cut ’em down,” Slash said.

  “I mighta got some of them,” Joe agreed, looking across the ravine. “But we oughtn’t tarry. The survivors are still out there and we likely have Apache on ou
r tail.”

  “While you were riding out, did you come up with any idea what all this fuss is about?” Slash asked.

  “I didn’t think about it much,” Joe admitted. “But I wouldn’t say anyone’s worried about keeping the shaman safe, ’cept us.” That made him think about the two former slaves. “Slash, with this thing so fulla mystery, you sure this ma and son you picked up are square?”

  “I ain’t sure of anything ’cept my family and my knife,” Slash said. “But he seemed so to me and B.W.”

  With a final look across the chasm, the three turned their horses north and continued along the trail. It suddenly hit Joe just how exhausted he was when, riding in the rear, he shut his eyes and jilted awake as he started to tilt off the saddle. He took his deerskin and dribbled water into his eyes, feeling it a worthwhile expense. A drink wouldn’t help if he fell and cracked open his skull.

  You aren’t twenty, he reminded himself. It’s good to hold tight to the usefulness of your life. But you also have to hold just a little tighter to the reins.

  He stayed alert by considering the question Slash had posed. There was nothing he could think of that would have Easterners, Rebels, and Apaches working to the same purpose.

  An Injun leader gets east just fine, meets with the President of the United States, and suddenly folks want him hogtied, he thought. For ransom? Maybe. Or his death could sure start something. An Indian uprising, maybe. But who would want the Red nations to join and revolt?

  Except for being tired, which kept creeping back on Joe, the ride wasn’t difficult or unexpected.

  Until, after a time, Slash raised his arm and slowed. Joe saw his grandson looking ahead. His own view was blocked by the two riders in front of him, so Joe came around Clarity . . .

  And saw what had made Slash stop. Its one lantern lit and hanging very still from the front box, the stagecoach was motionless under the moon. There was no sign of distress, no one was outside, and the horses were still rigged.

  Joe moved beside Slash, leaned toward him.

  “We’re a fat target here,” the older O’Malley whispered. “We should spread out.”

  Slash nodded in agreement and moved his horse west. Joe motioned for Clarity to stay where she was as he went east. The woman had already determined that something might be wrong and had unholstered a Colt. She held it pointing down so as to be threatening, but also to be ready.

  They were still out of range of most guns but Joe would rather not find out for sure. He looked to Slash for their next move. This was the boy’s ride, and the stagecoach was still his responsibility.

  Slash clucked with his cheek and urged his horse forward. He stopped only moments later when he saw motion in the driver’s box.

  Slash’s horse whinnied. He tightened his thighs and his hold on the reins, bracing for a shot.

  Instead, he heard a man’s voice call out, “Walk him in, Slash. Slowly.”

  * * *

  After Willa screamed, B.W. slowed the team as Isaiah looked around in the dark. There was no one out there.

  “She prone to fits?” B.W. asked.

  “Nah,” he told the driver. “Nightmares, sometimes—who can blame her, what she’s seen.” He called back without turning. “Ma, what’s wrong?”

  “Diamond!” she wailed.

  Isaiah’s jaw locked, the strong line of it frozen in moon glow. The rigidity in his muscles was visible all over his body, even in the dark.

  “Stop the coach!” the shotgun rider demanded.

  B.W. reluctantly, slowly applied the brake. He didn’t think the woman and her son were up to anything, but he was alert for a trick. His left hand settled on his holster.

  When the rig had stopped clattering, Isaiah half-turned and shouted back. “What’re you talking about?”

  “The pastor!” she cried. “He say he seen Diamond.”

  “Where?”

  “Out here!”

  The horses had not fully settled before the freed slave had leaped to the ground and was running toward the door. He yanked the panel open and stuck his head in. His expression was raw fury, the likes of which neither Fletcher Small nor Merritt Michaels had ever seen.

  His eyes rested briefly on his mother, who had huddled against the unflappable medicine man. Then they darted to the pastor who was tucked into the front corner on the other side of the coach.

  “Where did you see him?” Isaiah demanded.

  The reverend was too frightened to speak. His eyes between Isaiah and the shotgun clutched tightly in his right fist.

  The black man pounded the side of the opening with his left fist. The entire coach shook.

  “I asked you where?” Isaiah shouted.

  “He—he runs the stagecoach station in Vallicita,” Small said with a tiny voice.

  “Where is that?” the man demanded.

  “I—I don’t know, exactly.”

  “It’s a day’s ride to the south and east,” B.W. told him. The Whip had left the box and come up behind him to see what the shouting was about. “You mean to tell me the proprietor is this man you’re hunting?”

  “He ain’t no man and I don’t mean to ‘say’ anything,” Isaiah said. He backed from the stagecoach and shook his head slowly. “What I mean to do is turn this rig around and kill that slave-driving viper!”

  “Isaiah, come back to the box with me,” B.W. said. “Let’s talk this through.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yeah, talk,” B.W. said. “Or anyway, just listen. Let’s say we was to go back. You kill him, then you have to kill everybody who heard you out here. ’Cause when the marshal asks, we have to testify at your trial what we heard. And they will catch you. You got two forts overcrowded with veteran trackers. You got plainsmen like Slash’s granddad who know this area. And you got some good sheriffs and marshals between here and Frisco. They will see to your being caught and hung.”

  “I don’t care. Diamond must and will die.”

  “Maybe, but if you die your old ma is alone. And that’s not all.”

  Isaiah glared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Come up and talk to me,” B.W. urged. “There’s more to tell.”

  That caught Isaiah’s ear. He looked back at his mother in the dark coach. She was sobbing into the Indian’s shoulder. Tuchahu did not move other than to put a hand on hers. He did not dislodge her.

  Isaiah kicked the door shut with such anger that the frame cracked slightly.

  “That’s gonna whistle now,” Small muttered.

  Isaiah climbed up first, stomping so hard that the horses nearly bolted. The reins were hanging from the side and B.W. had to grab them, steady the team while he dug his boot heels into the earth. When they were calmer, he climbed up, settling in beside the big man.

  “What do you got to add?” Isaiah asked.

  “I’ll get to that,” B.W. said. “This fella down in Vallicita—first thing you gotta consider is that he didn’t break any laws. Not where you’re concerned, anyway. Owning slaves and even killing slaves was legal.”

  Isaiah turned on B.W. and the driver recoiled slightly at the ferocity of his expression. The black man thumped the Whip’s Bible with a rigid finger.

  “‘Thou shalt not kill,’ driver.”

  “Them’s God’s laws, but as you brought that up I would say that there is also God’s justice.”

  Isaiah glared at B.W. in the darkness. “Is there? Is God watching out for my wife and son, is he?”

  “No,” B.W. said very carefully. “Diamond is.”

  “You’ve seen them?” Isaiah asked with sudden realization.

  “Your wife and your son, both.”

  That quiet remark caused Isaiah to pass through a succession of emotions, as if clouds were passing in front of the moon. His face started with surprise, then shaded to disgust, then deeper revulsion, then pain, and finally he screamed into the night.

  B.W. looked around, making sure no one was coming down the trail. He thought he saw a dust cloud
in the distance. His gut began to burn. At least, in his current state, Isaiah would madly have at any Confederate who showed a hint of gray.

  Isaiah settled when reason regained control. Now tears formed in his big, clear eyes.

  “Are they all right?” he asked.

  “They look healthy,” B.W. assured him. “They’re dressed fine, they work in the kitchen and wait on the guests. They don’t say much . . . though the lady . . . she smiles at the passengers from time to time.”

  That caused Isaiah to grin and weep at the same time. “Bonita has such a nice smile,” he said. “And my boy. Joshua?” he asked eagerly.

  “Tall and straight. He’s with her, helps out,” B.W. told him.

  Hearing that, Isaiah heaved forward and broke down. He put his face in his free hand and sobbed out years of suffering and worry.

  B.W. looked back. There was a dust cloud catching moonlight.

  “Isaiah, I don’t wanna intrude on this moment, I truly do not,” B.W. said. “But we got some men coming after us.”

  The freed slave looked up. “We have to turn around,” he said. “We must go back!”

  “Did you go deaf just now?” the driver asked.

  Isaiah cocked the shotgun. B.W. hoped it was to stave off an attack, not to enforce the black man’s will.

  “I heard ya,” Isaiah replied. “We’re turning around.”

  “And what about the Injun? These other folks? If those are Rebs back there—”

  “Then they will all die!” Isaiah vowed.

  “And if they don’t? They’re veterans, man. We caught them by surprise before. They will not be tricked again.”

  Isaiah was visibly tortured. “But my wife!” Isaiah said. “My son.”

  “They’ll still be there once we deliver our passengers.”

  “How do you know?” Isaiah asked. “How can you be sure Diamond won’t hear about us looking for him?”

  “There’s no way,” B.W. said. “No one but Slash saw you.”

  “An’ he rode back that way,” Isaiah said, jerking a thumb to the south. “He may say something without realizing it!”

  B.W. did not know what to say. The man was not wrong.

  “Don’t make me force you,” Isaiah said. His hand tightened on the shotgun. “Don’t make me.”

  “Friend, if you shanghai this coach you are as good as hanged. Butterfield got his own men, good men, dangerous men, an’ they don’t wait for trials. Like I said about your ma, what happens to your wife and boy if you swing? You want them to see that? You’re found with them, they will watch you die. After all you been through, is that how you want things to end?”