“The killer of this man wore moccasins,” Killed A Skunk told Broken Buffalo Horn, “But he is not of our blood, not of any Indian blood. Too big. The moccasins were worn by a man who is used to riding and walking in white-eye boots.”
“It is the same one who took my son,” Broken Buffalo Horn said while sitting in the Comanche saddle of his horse.
Killed a Skunk mounted his horse, and he and the medicine man rode to the remnants of a giant campfire and another dead white-eye.
“This white-eye leader,” Killed A Skunk said, “The one who has taken your fine son, this is the first mistake he made. A foolish mistake. A mistake no Comanche would ever do. He build his fire big. Very big. He has not done that before. I think this white-eye, this terrible Texan, he gets careless. We should be able to kill him soon, if he make one more mistake such as this one.” The warrior grinned. “Kill him . . . easily.”
“He made no mistake,” Broken Buffalo Horn said. “He was smart. Too smart for those fools. He built the fire big on purpose. That is why he and his friends and my son have continued north, while these travel to their happy hunting ground.” He pointed the top of his bow at the man whose face and the blood and gore that came out of his mouth fed hundreds of starving ants. “And how did that one die?”
Killed A Skunk walked to the bloated, vile-looking corpse. He had never seen anyone who had suffered so greatly, even those Mexicans that the Apaches had taken once and tortured to death. But no one had made a slit in this white-eye’s stomach and began pulling out his insides so this man could see what they, his killers, were doing ever so slowly. They had not used the fire to heat up one the barrels of the white-eye’s long guns and then shove it up the man’s rectum, taunting him as he screamed and begged to be killed, to have his misery shortened. The man bled out through his mouth, as well as his anus, as though he had eaten something that did not agree with him. Or perhaps it was something he had drunk, for when Killed A Skunk looked at the charred remnants of cactus spine and ash, he found the blackened cup of tin that white-eyes usually used to drink.
It wasn’t water. Even the most repugnant water in the worst places would not do this to a human. But then, whoever said a white-eye, especially a Texan, was human.
He rose and hurried away from the ugly carcass. “What killed this fool white-eye,” Killed A Skunk told Broken Buffalo Horn, “I do not know. Something in his belly had to come out, and it came out with blood and bits of his stomach, his throat. He also bit off his tongue while convulsing. A bad death this one had.” He nodded at the man off in the flatlands. “Much worse than that one whose throat was cut deep and who was stabbed through the heart. He died like a mule deer I killed for our supper yesterday, bled out like that mule deer, and did not suffer like that mule deer, for I am a good hunter.”
“You are the best hunter,” Broken Buffalo Horn said. “I am glad you take this journey with Lost His Thumb and me.”
Killed A Skunk felt strong, and happy, for he loved Broken Buffalo Horn like he loved his own brothers, but he really wanted to get away from the dead white-eyes, fearing that whatever had caused him to cough up so much blood and gore would slip into Killed A Skunk’s own stomach, or Broken Buffalo Horn’s, and even Lost His Thumb. That would be terrible.
“And what of those two?” Broken Buffalo Horn pointed to the land where the Comanche mustangs had been grazing, and where more turkey buzzards circled, waiting for the Comanches to ride away so that they could have their breakfast.
So they rode back to the first dead man they had found but had not checked until they had made sure all of these white men were dead. Again Broken Buffalo Horn remained on the back of his horse while Killed A Skunk dismounted and studied the ground. The signs were much harder to interpret, because Lost His Thumb had ridden past this man, and by the direction of the horse prints, had gone to the other dead white-eye, too. And many horses had been here. But Broken Buffalo Horn did not rush, even though the longer it took Killed A Skunk to figure out the story of what had happened, the farther the only son of the Comanche medicine man would travel away from his father, his people, and his salvation.
Killed A Skunk read what each print told him, each mark. He listened to the cactus, the stones, the droppings of the horses, and the prints that were not made by a horse, or a white-eye wearing the big, ugly boots on his feet.
At length, Killed A Skunk felt his heart pounding, and his head spinning, and he rose weakly and breathed in deeply before walking a few paces to stand before Broken Buffalo Horn. “The man who killed this white-eye wore moccasins.”
“The big Texan?” The medicine man gestured toward the other bodies.
“No,” Killed A Skunk said. “This was a Comanche moccasin, and it was worn by a Comanche . . . a young Comanche.”
What Killed A Skunk had said registered, and Broken Buffalo Horn straightened. “My son killed this white-eye.”
“Yes,” the warrior said. “Your son killed this man.” He pointed toward the other dead man. “And if the tracks do not change their course, I will say that it was your son who killed the other white-eye, too.”
The wind blew. For a long moment, no other sound came until Killed A Skunk’s horse decided to relieve its bladder. When that sound ceased, Killed A Skunk decided to help his friend, make him think better of his son. It was not the fault of the son of Broken Buffalo Horn that he had killed two white-eyes.
“It could be that the big Texan who has captured your son, the man who makes your only son wear that strange thing on his arm, that he controls your son through that evil thing of wood. He threatens to turn your son into a tree, as I have long believed, and he showed how he can kill a man like he did at that camp, making a man cough up all the blood he has in his body.”
The medicine man smiled but slowly began shaking his head, and Killed A Skunk fell silent.
“That is a wonderful theory you have, my friend, but my son did this for other reasons. These dead white-eyes, they must have been enemies of the big Texan and his friends who also like to steal Comanche horses. All horses in this land are Comanche horses. We have been in this land forever, or as long as our people can remember forever. These dead men would have killed my son as easily as they would have killed the big Texan or his friends.”
Killed A Skunk nodded and told the medicine man how wise he was.
“You overlook one other fact, my fine friend,” Broken Buffalo Horn said from the back of his horse.
“What is that?” Killed A Skunk asked.
“My son”—Broken Buffalo Horn could not contain his grin—“has counted coup. And has taken his first scalp.”
* * *
“Your son has two scalps,” Killed A Skunk said several minutes later when they had looked at the last of the dead white-eyes.
“Perhaps he will take the name Two Scalps.”
“It is to be seen.” Broken Buffalo Horn looked up at the circling buzzards, back at the old camp, and then where the trail of horses led.
Off in the distance, Lost His Thumb waved his lance high over his head.
Turning back to Killed A Skunk, the medicine man said, “Lost His Thumb signals us. We must ride. And give these”—he pointed the top of his bow at the circling carrion—“a chance to have their morning meal.”
* * *
The trail of the stolen Comanche ponies, the wagon, and the other horses led northwest, into the rugged country of foothills and caves, where the temperature was often cooler.
They discovered the tracks that had carried four men to their deaths. Four foolish white-eyes, two of whom had been killed by a brave Comanche, one by a white-eyed Texan that intrigued Broken Buffalo Horn, and the last who had died the most horrible of deaths.
Maybe, the men they found in the cave had died even worse.
Broken Buffalo Horn let Lost His Thumb read the sign. That did not take quite as long.
When they let their horses drink from the pool near the dark cave’s entrance, Lost His Thumb point
ed at a position in the rocks above.
“The white-eyed friends of the big Texan remained up there. They fired their big guns into there.” He pointed at the cave. “And their bullets did magic, becoming more than one bullet, more than one shot. Inside I found the bodies of six more white-eyes. Their bodies had been riddled. And afterward, wolves came and ate part of them.”
“Wolves must eat, like Comanches. Like all creatures,” Broken Buffalo Horn sagely observed.
“It is so,” Lost His Thumb said. Again, he pointed at the high rocks. “I found none of the shiny holders of bullets that the white-eyes use.”
“They are smart,” Broken Buffalo Horn said. “They take those with them so they can shoot again.”
“Yes.” The warrior nodded again at the cave. “One of the Texans came down from the rocks. The other returned to the big Texan with the wagon and all the horses and”—he paused before softly adding—“your son, Broken Buffalo Horn. First, the taller of the white men entered the cave. I believe three of the white-eyes inside, though likely dying or at least gravely injured, had not crossed to the happy hunting ground. That man shot each of those men in their heads. Then they joined their dead brothers.” He shrugged. “But such is hard to tell. The wolves were hungry early this morning.”
“Then they shall not bother us,” Killed A Skunk said and laughed. “I do not like wolves.”
Ignoring the interruption, Lost His Thumb turned and pointed just past the pool of water. “After making sure his enemies would not come after him in this world, that white-eye took the horses that belonged to these foolish and now dead white-eyes, and he rode toward the camp of the big Texan and your son.”
“He did not get that far,” Broken Buffalo Horn said. He had seen the signs on the trail that cut through the hills same as Killed A Skunk and Lost His Thumb had. “He met up with our ponies, the wagon, the other white-eyes and my son.”
“Yes,” agreed Killed A Skunk and Lost His Thumb.
“They go north and west,” Broken Buffalo Horn said.
“To the land of the Navajos and other Apaches,” Lost His Thumb said.
“And other white-eyes, dark-skinned Mexicans, the long knives of the Great White Father, and other miserable white-eyes,” Killed A Skunk added.
“We will continue to follow them,” Broken Buffalo Horn said, “But we will not rush the big Texan and his comrades. We know they possess much power. I do not wish them to make my son die like that bloody man we found by the ashes. We must be careful. In time, in good time, in time that favors us, we will free my son from the powerful Texans and kill the big one and all the other white-eyes with him.”
“Yes,” Killed A Skunk said. “You are right.”
“And you are wise,” Lost His Thumb added. He grinned. “And soon you will have your son back.”
“I will have my son back.” Broken Buffalo Horn tilted his head back and laughed. He was still laughing when he straightened and pointed the tip of his bow at his two friends. “And we will have fifty horses. Instead of just forty. Those white-eyes keep making us richer.”
“More than fifty horses,” Lost His Thumb said. “Because they ride three themselves.”
“And,” Killed A Skunk added, “Two pull that clumsy white-eye wagon with the sheet for a roof.”
They laughed with merriment, let their horses drink, then rode away so that the wolves they had interrupted and scared off could return for their breakfast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As they had been doing since the morning after they had wiped out that gang of rustlers to the last man, Jed Breen kept his double-action Colt pressed against the back of Charlotte Platte’s head and Sean Keegan kept his Springfield carbine pointed in the general direction of Otto Kruger, while Matt McCulloch unlocked the manacles from the widowmaker’s wrists and ankles. Wooden Arm just stared at the proceedings, wondering what these strange white men were doing . . . again.
After gathering the iron bracelets, McCulloch and Breen backed away from the woman.
“Now,” McCulloch ordered, “Strip.” He drew his Colt and waved the barrel.
“You’re pigs,” she said that morning. Sometimes she used a tongue significantly more virile than pigs, or hogs, or brutes, or even stronger than “Dirty rotten scoundrels.”
She tossed her hat into the dirt. The shirt went over her head, and she pitched it with more profanity in front of the former Texas Ranger’s boots. Still standing, she managed to pull down the men’s pants they had given her, and kicked them close to the shirt. She wore no socks. Jed Breen had reminded them of the days when he had a partner, Mikey Maxwell, and they had captured Garry Cartwright. Garry had taken off his boots, removed his socks, knotted them together and strangled Maxwell to death, stolen the horse, and rode out for Mexico. He made across the border, too, but bounty hunters don’t have to follow certain rules like extradition and international boundaries, and Breen eventually found the killer in Nogales and brought him back, strapped over a pack mule with a bullet through his heart.
“All the way,” McCulloch told her.
“You’re sick. All three of you. And so is the red savage.” But she pulled down her bottoms, then took off her muslin chemise, and stood before the three men, the salivating Otto Kruger, and even the Indian teen who stared with wide eyes at the sight of her. Breen moved over to her undergarments and began shaking them out.
“Remember,” Keegan said as he positioned himself so he could blow Otto Kruger to hell if he burped too loudly but still get an eyeful of the beautiful murderess. “Tomorrow, it’s ol’ Sean Keegan’s turn to pull that duty with her unmentionables.”
“Filthy, dirty, miserable, disgusting, perverted pigs,” Charlotte Platte said.
When Breen had finished his search, he looked at McCulloch, shook his head, and back toward the widowmaker. He tossed the undergarments to the prisoner, and aimed his Colt at her while Matt McCulloch holstered his pistol and went through her shirt and pants. Finding nothing, he threw them into the pile at the naked woman’s feet.
“The boots,” Breen reminded her, waving the barrel.
Those contained nothing but sand, but Breen dumped the grains out, pitched the battered old cavalry style boots back to her, and stood, then kicked at the sand, just in case.
“Do I have permission to get dressed, you stinking—?” She stopped when McCulloch walked to her, keeping the cocked revolver trained on her chest.
The others watched intently, but made no sound. McCulloch stopped, the gun barrel resting just below her perfect bosoms, and then he reached forward and jerked off the necklace, snapping the small silver chain.
“Hey.” Her eyes flashed with bitter hatred, but the Colt stopped her from coming any closer to him.
“We checked that yesterday, Matt,” Breen said. “And the day before.”
“Yeah,” he said, turning the medallion around, looking for some secret opening, but the damned thing was solid, heavy like a piece of gold.
“We also haven’t been poisoned lately,” Keegan said.
“Yeah.” Matt McCulloch held the spinning circle about the size of a double eagle coin, in front of the killer. “What is this to you?”
She stared into his suspicious eyes. “Just a gift.”
“From anyone special?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then you won’t miss it.” He jerked his arm back and threw it to the desert floor.
She turned, gasped, then swore, and looked at him with even more hatred, but McCulloch was walking back.
“I’m not taking any chances,” he said. “She killed that rustler somehow, and I’m not giving her any opportunity to do one or all of us in the same way.”
“Hell, Matt,” Keegan said. “Maybe she’s just a witch.”
“Wrong consonant,” McCulloch said.
Keegan frowned. Breen chuckled. “I’ll explain it to you over supper, Sergeant.”
“Put your duds on,” McCulloch said, and slowly slid his rev
olver into the holster. “We’re burning daylight.”
They watched the woman dress, and when she had finished and pulled on her hat, Wooden Arm led the horse to her. Before she mounted, Charlotte Poison Platte knew what to do. She held out her arms, clenched her fists, and waited for Matt McCulloch to lock the cuffs back over her wrists. When he didn’t, she mounted the smallest of the horses they had confiscated from the dead rustlers and waited. The leg irons would wait until the day was finished.
McCulloch was already in the saddle. “You know what to do,” he told her after shoving her ankle chains into his saddlebag. “Same as the past week. Let’s get these ponies moving.”
Breen had already mounted his horse, and Wooden Arm was gathering the hackamore to his pony. Sean Keegan stayed afoot for a moment, making sure Otto Kruger got into the driver’s box on the covered wagon. The scar-faced murderer looked at the old horse soldier after he had settled into his seat.
“Vie do voman go vitout chains?” he asked, like he did every morning. “I drive vagon good. I help.”
“You’re a big help. I’ll be sure to mention that to the hangman in Precious Metal.”
The chains rattled, but not loud enough to hide his curse, and Keegan laughed as the ugly man grabbed the leather and whipped out at the animals that pulled the wagon. By that time, Keegan had found the reins to his horse, and he swung into the McClellan saddle.
“I don’t see how you sit in one of those things,” Breen said, waiting for the soldier before they rode to the herd. “You bounce all over that little thing.”
“Aye.” The Irishman grinned. “I wish we had an extra saddle so we could watch that Miss Platte bounce around.”
“Careful,” Breen said with a grin.
“Aye, lad, I know, I know. But for a mad-dog killer, she sure is a woman to look at. Handsome. Downright beautiful for a woman not blessed to have been born in Ireland.”
“Yeah.” Breen pulled the reins to turn the horse around. “But that rustler might have been handsome, too, before he drank whatever Poison Platte offered him. You best remember that. For that fellow sure didn’t look like much after he drank her brew.”
Stand Up and Die Page 18