by Lou Bradshaw
When I got to where he left the valley, I could see he’d taken a well defined and well used ancient trail. This was no game trail; it was a boulevard running north and south. If there were any Apaches coming or going from the reservation to their kin in Mexico, that trail would be their highway. Shadrac Cain… you better keep your wits about you. I told myself, and I knew it was sound advice.
Chapter 28
There would be no more fires, and every step would be an experience in questioning my own judgment. Every bend in the trail filled me with a mixture of excitement and something akin to fear. My eyes went from all around me to my horse’s ears to Dog, and then I’d repeat it. If I was on the lookout for whites in this country, I’d have the advantage of years in wild country. But the Apache were born to wild country, and they’ve lived with it and in it all their lives… and they learned from the best.
It was mid afternoon on the second day in the mountains, and I wasn’t feeling any easier, although I’d seen no sign of anyone but Fargo. I was on the shoulder of that big snowcapped mountain. The trail rose about halfway up and, I was hoping it wouldn’t go over the top. It seemed to be avoiding the higher country, which suited me just fine.
A lot of folks think of mountains as something going up into the clouds and comes to a point at the top. Well, there’s a lot of that, but there are hanging valleys and meadows and other flat or sorta flat areas all the way up. I was on one of those flat areas, which had spread out wide enough to put good sized town and a couple ranches on it. That is they could have if it wasn’t all covered with a mix of pine and Rocky Mountain fir.
I’d just come on to the level ground when I heard the barks two pistol shots and the crack of a rifle. I waited for more, but they didn’t come.
“Damn!” I said to no one in particular. “He found the Injuns.”
The shots came from way back in that flat area. It didn’t echo off the high wall of what turned out to be a gap. Most of the noise was muffled by the trees, but there definitely had been a short lived gunfight back there in those gloomy woods. If Fargo had whooped those Apaches, I’d have to go in there and get him. And if he lost the fight, I had to go in there and see his hacked up body.
There wasn’t any trail running through the forest, all I had was Fargo’s tracks. He must have been looking for a place to stop, or he could be hoping to shoot some meat. I had no idea what ran through his mind… or even if anything ever did.
After three or so hundred yards his tracks joined up with the trail again. The trail had taken a turn somewhere farther on, and ran through the wooded area. What had been a mile wide level place turned into a dark forest no more than fifty yards wide.
The pines had taken over from the firs, and were so tightly bunched that a fella almost had to stay on the trail to get a horse through. The farther I went the less I liked it, and I hadn’t started out with a whole passel of liking for it. But I moved on watching Bud’s ears and Dog’s head.
The ears flicked backward, dog whirled, and I heard the scraping above me. Instinctively I was diving for the ground. He hit me when I was halfway out of the saddle, but I wasn’t where he had aimed. We bounced off each other and fell a few feet apart. I landed face down, and he must have landed in a more favorable position, or else his youth helped him because he was on my back by the time I got to my knees. He had his left arm around my neck pulling my chin up, and his knife was coming at my chest. I was able to block his knife, but I couldn’t get a good grip on his wrist. I was struggling to keep that knife away, without a whole lot of success until I saw the gaping jaws clamp down on his hand. He yelped and the knife went sailing.
I gotta hand it to him; he didn’t waste time trying to get it back. He quickly adjusted to a choke hold using his right arm for leverage. I came up to my knees and was trying to get to my feet to have a chance of throwing him. But he had too much weight on me, so I went for his eyes.
Feeling his face, I was groping and trying to gouge with whatever combination of finger pressure I could muster. His instincts were to rare back, and keep his eyes out of my reach. His head went up and back, but I was able to get a couple of hands full of hair. I suppose I was trying to pull him closer to ease the pressure on my throat.
He had me good and I didn’t know how much longer I could hang on before I blacked out. Once I started to fade, I would be done and just a memory for a few folks. He must have been bleeding from Dog’s bite because he eased his position to re-grip his slipping left hand.
When the slightest hint of relaxing came, I gave those fists full of hair all I had in one final jerk. His head came crashing down, and his chin gave the top of my head one hell of a thump. He made an awful gurgling yell and blood splattered on my head and down my face. The first thing I thought was he had cracked my skull and it was my blood, but he fell away clutching his mouth and nose.
I didn’t waste time getting up from my knees; I just turned and sent my tomahawk at his chest. I already had my hand on the haft of my Bowie, but it wasn’t needed. That iron hatchet was sunk deep just below his collarbone on the left side. It was sunk all the way in through ribs and into the soft matter they protected.
Slowly, I got to my feet. I was afraid to stand up quick for fear of being lightheaded, and I needed my wits about me right then. By the time I was on my feet, my head was clear… almost. I called Dog off. He had been standing over him straddling his upper body just waiting for him to make a move. He wasn’t going to move.
When I bent to get my tomahawk, I noticed how the young man had bled from his mouth and down his chin. That made me remember how he slammed into the top of my head, and I sent a probing hand up there to see if any brains were coming out. It was sore to the touch but nothing was leaking. On a closer look I could see the young brave had lost almost half his tongue. He must have bit it off when his chin hit my head. I’ve seen a lot of folks do strenuous things with their tongues waggin’ out. I was most happy I never took up that habit.
The light was fading, and I wanted to move along before it got too dark. So I gathered anything I might have dropped and stuck the brave’s knife in my belt. My head was almost too sore to put my hat back on, but I’d need it if I ever got out of this. There were more of them somewhere nearby, and I had business to attend to.
All I had to go by was the trail I’d been following. So I led Bud down the path so I’d be able to see the path better. As it turned out, the old trail followed the northern wall of the gap, and as long as I kept that wall on my left side I’d be on the trail. I saw their fire about a half mile farther along.
They weren’t trying to hide it, so they weren’t too worried about anyone coming on them. I could hear them from a couple hundred yards away. I tied Bud in the thick pines not far from the clearing. I checked my six-gun and stuck my spare in my waistband. They were both ready.
There were five of them at the fire, and they were all way too interested in what was beyond the fire off to my right. I couldn’t see what was there from my position. So I moved a little left and confirmed my hunch. There stood my old pal Fargo. He was naked as a skinned coon and he was tied to a young pine.
Five of them meant I could be in luck, or I could be in some real trouble. So I went back and brought my horse up closer, just in case I needed to leave in a hurry. I had sort of a plan, but it was only good for the first two or three seconds at the most. After that it would all a matter of luck and… more luck.
I stood there watching them look at a pretty scared Fargo. It was all part of their plan to put fear into him. From the look on his face, I’d say they had him pretty much filled up with fear. In fact, if they got anymore fear in him, he’d pop wide open.
A tall stately brave wearing two eagle feathers in his headband, reached down and picked up a burning brand and started to move around the fire. The rest of the group made way for him, and as they stepped aside, they were all facing my direction. So I pulled that knife I’d taken from their sentry and threw it.
Th
e knife stuck in the ground a few feet ahead of the man’s feet. He of course stopped, and within a second’s time the rest had pulled whatever weapon they had and were scouring the darkness. The man with the burning stick was completely undisturbed and looked directly at where I was. I knew he couldn’t see me but he knew where I was. He also knew I could have killed him if I’d been so inclined.
He showed considerable patience waiting for me to make a move. He knew the knife, and he knew the owner would have to be dead to give it up. His face showed nothing.
I stepped out and into the ring of firelight. There were four knives and a lance pointed at me before I could take a second step. Their guns were stacked against a log behind them. No one dared make a try for them. He was waiting for me to make my move or say my piece. He didn’t miss the Colt in my left hand, nor did he miss the second one in my belt. So I told him in Spanish,
“I took the knife from a strong and brave young warrior. He died fighting well… I did not take his scalp or mutilate him.” He nodded that he understood, but made no comment.
“You have a man… I’m not here for him… you may do what you wish with him…. But he has something that does not belong to him, and I’m here to take it back.”
“We are five… you are one. I think we do not give it.”
“You were six, and before I am dead, you would be two or one… You know I can do it… can you afford to lose so much? I came to your camp of my own will, Do the Chiricahua no longer honor the old ways?”
“You will be free to leave as the old ways say, but you will only leave with what we let you take.”
There it was. He was saving face. He couldn’t back down and he didn’t want to have a gunfight with all of them bunched up like that. With twelve shots in two pistols, I could pump a lot of lead in their tight group before I went down… and he knew it.
He pointed to a pile of clothes and a saddle on the ground not far from Fargo’s tree. “Take.” He said.
I side stepped over to the pile and without taking my eyes off them I knelt down and felt around for what I wanted. As I was straightening up with Fargo’s saddle bags over my shoulder and the sack of twenty dollar gold pieces inside, Fargo called to me,
“Cain! You gotta get me out of this. Cut me down, you got the drop on ‘em.”
“Can’t do it, Tom Fisher… you weren’t included in the deal…gave ‘em my word… besides they won’t come after me as long as they got you to keep ‘em busy.”
“What’d I ever do to you?”
“Well you shot me, and you killed that old couple, and beat that Diaz girl to death, and there’s a bunch of other things I don’t have time to mention…. Oh… Have a nice evening.”
I never took my eyes off those Apaches the whole time I had been in their camp. As I came abreast with the group, I stopped and told the leader that I was finished. Then I reached into the bag and pulled out five or six of those yellow boys and handed them to him. His eyes grew large, and I could see he was counting how many rifles he could buy with a sack full of them. But when he looked up, I was already gone. Within a few seconds all he could see was dark, and all he could hear was hoof beats and Fargo screaming.
Two days later, I was in the little railroad town of Wilcox, Arizona. I sent a telegraph message to Cal Bailey letting him know that I had collected in full. Then I sent a letter to Señor Diaz telling him that my promise had been kept. His daughter could rest in peace.
I calculated it was a little better than three hundred miles to Marble Mountain up high in the Rockies. I wondered what kind of trouble would get in my way between here and there.
The End
About the author:
If you have a preconceived idea of what an author’s life is like, you may want to un-conceive that idea in regards to Lou Bradshaw. He chose to make his home in the Missouri Ozarks instead of one of more heavily populated and sophisticated areas.
A below average student throughout his school years, Lou struggled with almost every subject except art. The problem turned out to be dyslexia, which made him a poor reader as well as a causing several broken bones. He never considered reading for pleasure until he was middle aged. He will tell anyone who cares to listen, “Louis L’Amour taught me to read, and Mark Twain inspired me to write.”
Despite his poor reading skills, Lou was able to earn a living as a commercial illustrator. But as he neared retirement age, he wondered what he would do to fill the hours when he wasn’t playing golf or kayaking. That’s when he tried his hand at writing, just to prove to himself that he could do it. And now fourteen books later, as he approaches his seventy fifth birthday… he’s just getting started.
Visit me on Facebook at Lou Bradshaw Artist – Author or www.facebook.com/loubradshawarts
Or you can contact me at [email protected]
Or at Amazon Author Central www.amazon.com/author/loubradshaw