Hearing the cowboy’s voices was soothing to the herd; they knew they weren’t alone. It was a long day and a longer night with each of the men in turn riding in for coffee or some of Cookie’s sowbelly, beans, and cornbread or sourdough bread.
Cookie had proven to be every bit as good a cook on the trail as he was on the ranch and was also downright insightful. He had brought along some extra sugar and about midnight, produced a large tray of candy, a white creamy-soft concoction so sweet it made Cormac’s teeth hurt.
“Cookie, you’ll do. This is gonna cheer the boys up considerable. You’re one in a million to think of it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cookie said, and waved off the compliment, but Cormac knew he appreciated hearing it. Along with a cup of hot coffee that tasted so strong Cormac wondered if the cup would dissolve, that candy went down right easy, and it made him think of home for a moment. Bits and pieces came back to him clearly:
He was ten years old. “Cormac wash your feet before going to bed, you’ve been running barefoot all day.” . . . “You’ve torn the knees out of that pair of pants so many times, there’s nothing left to patch.” . . . “Cormie, fill the lamps please, before it gets dark, and take this catalog out to the toilet with you the next time you go.” . . . “Cormie, please slop the hogs after dinner.” . . . “Cormie, quit teasing your sister, or I’ll have your father tan your hide.” His pa never did that but once, and that was when he caught Cormac trying to shave with his straight razor when he was five years old. Cormac had gotten tanned good for that one.
Cormac confiscated a couple of extra pieces of candy for Lop Ear and Horse.
“What home?” he mused to himself as he made them each kneel for it. “You don’t have one anymore.”
The North Star was high when the rain passed and the clouds cleared. Cormac rode out on Lop Ear with Horse trotting alongside. He instructed Red to let the boys, other than those on guard, sleep a couple hours before getting on the trail. The dawn was taking its own sweet time about comin’, and they would be tired today, but so would the herd; there wouldn’t be many brushers and runners on this day. Mostly it would be a day of plodding forward, likely only making eight or ten miles, but that would be eight or ten miles farther than they had been.
CHAPTER 15
Cormac and company had covered about five miles when they topped a hill about an hour before dawn and caught sight of a fire in the distance. It appeared to be near the top of a hill about two or three valleys ahead. Cormac reckoned he had found his rustlers, most likely on their way to collect his herd.
“We’ll have to see about that, guys,” he said. Lop Ear’s ears perked up.
“That’s all right,” Cormac told him. “You go on back to sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get there.” Lop Ear snorted. Cormac figured that was horse talk for “very funny.”
Dropping down off a hill very nearly brought him to grief and smack-dab into the middle of a bunch of Indians. He pulled up behind a large mesquite bush right quick. Below, there were several trees, each serving as a tie pole for hastily thrown up lean-to’s of canvas, hides, and blankets. There was just enough light to make out their ponies in a makeshift corral with a lot of sleeping bodies strewn about. A wild guess told Cormac there was in the neighborhood of thirty to forty horses with a rider for each: not a neighborhood he cared to visit. The absence of teepees meant no women or children; this was no group out sightseeing. This was a war party out raiding and no place that Mrs. Lynch’s little tater picker, Cormie, needed to be.
“Quiet, guys,” he whispered, and reined Lop Ear back around the hill.
There had been talk by the Rangers of Lakata Loma, a young buck leading a small group of other malcontents that had broken from their tribe of Lakota Sioux up in the Dakota Territory and who were marauding south, raiding, raping, and killing all they could find.
That many warriors would require much food. The Indians were adept at living off the land, hunting and fishing as needed, but that many of them in one group would make survival a struggle in unpopulated areas where they couldn’t steal cattle or horses to supplement their hunting efforts. A herd of cattle that could be hidden in some out of the way canyon would be just what the doctor ordered, a home base from which the Indians could branch out.
An idea began to form; where before he had one problem, now there were two. Well, just maybe, with a little luck, they could solve each other, but he would have to get a move on. Cormac heeled Lop Ear to a slow trot. Sound would travel very easily in the early-morning silence, but the thick grass, soft from fresh rain, muffled most of the sound, allowing him to up the speed to a canter, then to a gallop. Lop Ear and Horse were happy at the chance to stretch their legs.
They skirted the valley and came quietly up on the other side, behind a clump of bushes looking down on the Indian camp. The bushes weren’t big enough to hide Lop Ear and Horse standing up, so they had to lie down, and Cormac warned them to be silent. GERT slipped easily out of the scabbard, and he checked the load.
It was getting light and there was movement beginning in the camp below. Cormac crawled through the bushes to the Indian side and found a surprisingly dry place to lie. The branches above had grown and twisted together to form something of a roof. He squirmed down into the ground, making indentations for his elbows. Looking down GERT’s sight, he judged the distance to be about two hundred yards. GERT could handle that without breaking a sweat.
What with the rain and all, the Indians also must have had a late night and were waking up slowly. GERT could help them with that. If they had any coffee, they weren’t goin’ to get any on this fine morning. That should start their day off for them and make them about as grouchy as an ole she-bear with a toothache.
Cormac figured to put a bullet or two smack-dab into the middle of them to get their attention and then run like the devil, although Lakata Loma would make a fine target, if he could identify him. With some luck, Cormac just might put a stop to his senseless killin’. His pa’s belief of giving the other fellow a fair chance came to mind.
Sorry, Pa, he thought. Some folks deserve no more than they give. Lakata Loma gave no one a fair chance. There was no reason at all, that Cormac could see, for him to be treated any differently. The sound of a grumpy camp waking up from a bad night floated up the hill in the placid air: grumbling voices and sharp retorts in an Indian tongue, the sounds of wooden tree branches being broken for fires came from several locations around the camp along with the “clunks” of clay pots, the horses stirring, and a couple of stallions trying to keep their respective mares under control.
Cormac’s long glass was bringing them up close, and his attention was drawn to a brave stepping out from under a low hung tarp of some kind, wearing only a loincloth, moccasins, brightly colored face paint, and a feather in his hair. The Indian looked around as he stretched; it was Kahatama! Cormac looked again. It was! It really was Kahatama! Their medicine man really could bring back the dead. Well, damn. That was a lot to believe, but there he was.
Cormac watched as he slipped an arrow quiver over his shoulder. Picking up a longbow and a rifle, the Indian strode forcefully toward a larger fire that had been started in the center of camp; other Indians moved aside to allow him passage. Kahatama glanced up the hill to where Cormac was hiding, and through the glass, Cormac was looking directly into the same eyes that had gotten so big when Cormac’s knife surged into the Indian heart . . . Kahatama! . . . What the hell? Cormac just couldn’t accept that. He almost dropped his long-glass. He looked again. Did the Indian know he was there? Kahatama appeared to be looking directly at him. If he fired, would the Indian strike him down with a bolt of lightning?
Well, damn! What Abraham had been telling him about the strong medicine of Black Hill’s medicine men bringing back the dead was more than legend. Cormac would never have believed it. Cormac followed him with his long glass. This couldn’t be right. This just could not be. The long knife of Cormac’s pa had gone under the ribs and directly int
o the redskin’s heart. Cormac was sure of it, but yet here he was, bold as brass.
Cormac put the glass away before picking up GERT. Once he pulled the trigger, he was goin’ to have to skedaddle in a hurry. He lined up her sights on Kahatama’s head. This just did not make any kind of believable sense. But this time Cormac would make damn sure that Injun was dead. GERT would put a bullet hole through the center of his head big enough to drive a wagon through. Let’s see their damned medicine man fix that.
About to pass a tree, Kahatama turned to it and raised his loincloth to do what most people do first thing of a morning. When nature calls, one answers. Nature was calling to him, and if he was going to offer Cormac such a fine, still target, Cormac was not one to refuse it. It would make it easier to put the bullet exactly where he wanted.
It seemed more than a little humorous, actually, an undignified manner in which to die for someone who, Cormac was sure, would want to leave this world in the midst of battle, snarling and snapping and slaying enemies with each hand: being remembered as a ferocious warrior. Instead, he would die with his hand holding his . . . the voice of Cormac’s pa interrupted his amusement.
“When you get your sights on the target, pull the trigger before something ruins the shot.” Cormac remembered being told exactly that when, fascinated by its beauty, he had held on a deer longer than necessary.
“Okay, okay,” he answered softly. He lined up the sight dead center on the Indian’s head, and then dropped it to the base of the skull. The downhill slope would raise it back up to the middle of the head.
Cormac had not understood when his pa had been explaining the influences involved in shooting downhill. To Cormac, the shot should be some amount above the target point to allow for droppage, not below, but every time he tried it his way, he missed. First inhaling softly, Cormac’s gentle exhalation matched the slowly increasing pressure of his finger. Cormac hesitated as the Indian began to turn.
Kahatama was making decorations on the ground, for Christ’s sake. Apparently no man can resist that temptation from time to time. Well, as long as he was going to turn around, Cormac could wait. Which direction the target was facing mattered not to Cormac, but if the Indian wanted to turn around for a frontal shot, so be it. He must have had a lot of something to drink before going to bed. However; he was having a good time decorating while he continued turning, bringing his face around and neatly into sight line. After perfectly centering GERT’s sights on the center of the forehead, Cormac dropped them to the Indian’s mouth.
He appreciated the humor of the situation. This big, bad, ferocious, and terrible savage that so enjoyed raiding, burning, killing, and raping—a mushroom of smoke and fire belched from the bore as GERT carried out the final disposition of a vicious human being. The authoritative voice of death echoed off the surrounding hills as her bullet went exactly where she had been aimed, just like his pa had promised, right through the head. All the stand-up went out of Kahatama.
He collapsed on the spot with a hole through his head big enough to easily slide an arrow through with a pulpy mass of flesh and brain matter protruding from the cavity on the backside of his head.
Now let’s see some Injun magic bring him back, thought Cormac.
His decorating project and his terrorizing, raping days were over. This time nobody was bringing back that son of a bitch! Cormac took time to once again examine the scene with his long glass. He had to be positive, absolutely positive. Even at that range, it was easy to see the blood and gore spread across the ground. GERT had done her job very well.
“Okay, guys, get up,” he called to Horse and Lop Ear, springing out in front of the bush so the Indians could see from where the shots were coming. Cormac quickly scattered three bullets from the long barreled Colt in the direction of the camp, taking no time to aim. Pistols were no good at that range anyway. With enough elevation, he could get the bullet there, but he couldn’t hit anything. And even if it were possible, two or three Indians more or less would make absolutely no difference in anything he could see, especially if they managed to get their red-skinned hands on him. With Lop Ear’s help, he had hopes of avoiding that. He and Horse were going to have to hurry a bit, though; there was already a bunch of Indians mad as hornets running for the horses.
Cormac jumped his foot into the stirrup, spinning him around while his other foot was still clearing the big gray’s hindquarters. “Let’s hightail it outta here guys, we got company comin’.”
Indians were already boilin’ outta the encampment. Cormac pointed Lop Ear in the direction of the rustler’s camp and turned him loose.
The big Arabian sensed the urgency and poured it on. The muscles in his hindquarters exploded, and Cormac had to grab the saddle horn to stay aboard. By the time he got both feet in the stirrups and his backside in the saddle, Lop Ear and Horse were settling into their task. Cormac tucked his face into the long mane, urging him on.
“Show ’em your stuff, big guy, let’s go!”
Lop Ear’s stride quickly smoothed out, and they went up and down the hills, just hittin’ the high spots with Horse matching him stride for stride.
Reloading GERT on the run was challenging, but Cormac got it done and had her back in her scabbard and the six shot Smith & Wesson in his hand when they exploded over the hill and into the rustler’s camp with the Indians hot on their trail. Lop Ear being Lop Ear, Cormac had to intentionally slow him down some to keep the Indians from giving up, keep them in the race. He called Horse back to stay with them.
The rustlers were in for a rude awakening. Come on boys, wake up and join the fun.
Lop Ear and Horse blew through the camp and out the other side, knocking over most of their kitchen equipment on the way, along with a couple of rustlers who managed to get to their feet in front of them. The horses showed no interest in slowing down.
“WHAT THE HELL?”
Cormac heard the voice behind him and looked back over his shoulder as they cleared the camp and dodged into the trees on the other side. The Indians were just bursting over the hill; the rustlers were awake and reacting to the situation.
Running hard, they cleared the trees and sped up the backing hill, stopping only briefly at the crest to look back. It was a melee. Indians were still pouring into camp, getting pulled from or jumping off their horses, guns were going off, white-and-red skinned bodies were entangling on the ground with knives and tomahawks flashing in the just-rising morning sun.
Generally, rustlers were sneaky cowards getting their strength from numbers while Indians, on the other hand, were born, bred, and trained for combat. From the age of five, their life is spent in training to become skilled, fearless horsemen, and hand-to-hand fighters; they look for any opportunity to count coup and prove their manhood.
Now, nearly equal in numbers and thrown together with no opportunity for stealth and planning, it was a deadly free-for-all. There would be no winner here; both sides would take heavy casualties. Cormac’s money was on the Indians. Then, with Kahatama out of the way—if he stayed dead, that is—and their ranks cut by eighty or ninety percent, what was left of them would more’n likely go home to lick their wounds. Any rustlers lucky enough to walk away would wander off, get drunk, and wonder what the hell had happened.
“Good job, old-timer,” Cormac told Lop Ear while patting his neck. “Thank you. All in all, not a bad morning’s work. Now let’s get us the hell out of here.” A bullet whirred passed his head like an angry bee as they turned to leave. It might have been an accident, a rogue bullet searching for a target, but more’n likely, it was a message from a rustler or Indian expressing his gratitude for an exciting morning.
“By my count, that makes it twenty-nine hundred and forty-one head,” said Jake Bartlow, the cattle buyer in Dodge City the bosses wanted Cormac to speak with.
“I don’t know how you got through. A large group of rustlers has been hitting the herds hard and killing most of the hands. There has also been talk of a large bunch of heath
en Indians headed this way. I’m mighty glad you made it through; it’s been slim pickin’s around here lately.”
“I don’t know,” Cormac answered innocently. “We didn’t see anything of them. We just kinda moseyed through without any trouble. We stopped a few times to let the herd graze and a couple times just to lay around for a few days, and then once when Cookie wanted to stay in camp and make a batch of candy, and man can he make candy. It’s soft and white and so sweet it’ll make your teeth hurt.”
“Don’t listen to him, he’s full of malarkey,” spoke up Red with a smile and a nod in Cormac’s direction. “They were both out there. Mack here just sorta introduced them to each other then held us in a valley for a couple of days waitin’ for the dust to settle. After that, we just rolled right on through without a hitch. He just don’t like talking about the Indian, it spooks him.”
Jake Bartlow smiled and shook his head. “Now that’s a story I think I’d like to hear,” Jake said to Cormac. “How about you head your boys over to the Daisy Lil’s, and after you and I settle up, I’ll buy the first round of drinks and you can tell me what happened.”
“Numbers don’t always work right for me,” Cormac told him, wiping his hatband. “But one of my boys is a real whiz with them. If it’s all right with you, let me get him to help me out.”
Jake smiled. “Of course it’s all right. Meet me at my office in ten minutes?”
“That’s not necessary. There he is now.” The kid was sitting on the fence with Oley. Cormac waved him over, and Jake waited for him.
“The going rate is eleven dollars a head, and we counted twenty-nine hundred and forty-one head. That should come to . . .” He paused to work the numbers on his paper. The kid spoke up. “Thirty-two thousand, three hundred and fifty-one dollars.”
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