Westward, Tally Ho!

by Milo James Fowler

  Kicking and thrashing, fighting in vain against their captors, the young white man and woman were brought before the chief and shoved down to their knees. They were a grimy, wild-looking pair, and although they were now unbound, their frightened eyes darted like trapped rabbits'.

  The chief watched them for a moment before ordering the two braves away.

  "Who are you?" he demanded in unbroken English, his voice deep and husky—just the way he liked it.

  The pair looked stunned.

  "Y-you speak English?" the woman said.

  The chief narrowed his gaze. She had not answered his question.

  Swallowing quickly, she nodded to her scared-stiff companion and stammered, "He-he's from England and—"

  "England?" the chief interrupted. "Are you English?" he demanded of the man.

  "I-I—" the paleface began, trembling.

  "Well?" The chief put on his most puzzled frown.

  "I-I was—"

  "Was? What are you now?" The chief shrugged, perplexed.

  "I—" The paleface groaned as the woman beside him jabbed him with her elbow. "Yes, I'm English," he confessed with a cringe.

  "Ho-HO!" the chief boomed, allowing a monstrous (and intentionally frightening) grin to stretch his broad face. He watched the white man cover himself with his arms and cower. "Ho there, dear boy, don't be afraid." The chief reached forward and took the paleface's hand in a vice-like grip, shaking it politely. "I like Englishmen!"

  The white fellow looked relieved. "You don't say..." he gasped as his arm was jostled roughly.

  "But of course! Tally ho! It was an Englishman who first taught me how to speak the white man's tongue. A delightful little gent! Too bad I had to kill him." His jolly expression drooped as he heaved a sad sigh. "But enough of that." He fixed his gaze on the very attentive pair. "Tell me your names!"

  "I am… Clarence Oliver Edwards," he said deliberately, as though his life depended on every syllable.

  The chief nodded once before turning expectantly to the woman.

  "The name's Kate Carson." She eyed the chief warily.

  "And I am Big Chief Thunderclap, greatest chief of all Zuni chiefs in this land." He held up a turquoise ring on his index finger and boomed all of a sudden, "I'm a ZUNI Indian!"

  Clarence and Kate glanced at each other as the chief broke into a fit of hysterical laughter that jostled his bulky flab and muscle and ended as suddenly as it had begun.

  "Why were you traveling with Buckeye Daniels?" Thunderclap demanded, glaring hideously at Kate.

  "I wasn't." She looked right back at him. "He kidnapped me."

  Thunderclap leaned back and crossed his brawny arms. Silently, he regarded her for a moment, weighing her answer. "He was a bad man. Crooked, you would say. He had a forked tongue and an ugly nose. He sold rifles to us, yes. But he also sold rifles to the Navajo, the Apache, and the white settlers. He was a man of mixed interests."

  Kate nodded. "Sounds about right. His only interest was makin' money. He'd double-cross anybody to make a buck."

  "Uh-yes," Clarence added. "He's what you might call a nasty fellow."

  Thunderclap tilted his head. "You know him well, then?"

  "Used to." Kate eyed him coolly. "Before you torched 'im."

  "What?" Thunderclap frowned.

  "We saw Mr. Daniels in your…fire," Clarence explained, averting his eyes from the charred body. "We could only assume that you put him there." He shrugged good-naturedly, as any polite Englishman would.

  "I did no such thing!" Thunderclap refuted with a sweep of his hand. "Buckeye Daniels escaped. The body in the fire is that of a courageous young brave who attempted to stop him and was instead stabbed through the heart."

  Kate frowned as though she hadn't heard him quite right. "I thought you Indians never burned your dead."

  "We are ZUNI Indians!" he corrected her, raising his voice and widening his eyes. "Do not generalize. All natives of this land are not the same, and neither are the practices of every Zuni tribe exactly like the next." His gaze wandered to the burnt corpse. "It is simply an empty shell now. It must be disposed of as such. The Great Zuni Spirit has taken that brave lad's soul."

  An awkward silence followed. Clarence cleared his throat, noticing the absent looks on the elders' faces.

  "I-I say, Big Chief Thunderclap, do these old fellows understand a bit of your English?"

  What sounded like a chuckle rumbled from deep within the chief, and he turned toward Clarence with a wry grin. "Not a bit of it."

  Clarence frowned. "But they seem to hang on your every word."

  "They know better than to allow their attention to wander." He chuckled, and Clarence saw silly grins creep across each of the elders' faces. "Ho-ho! Look!" Thunderclap pointed at one humpbacked elder with no teeth. "They even smile when I do!" He laughed heartily.

  Kate seemed to find no humor in this. "Why are you keeping us here?"

  "Why?" he kept chuckling, unable to stop. "Because I love you!" He stretched out his arms as if to hug them and wheezed, red-faced. "Ho-ho-ho!" He held his sides as he laughed and lost his balance, tipping over onto the elder beside him and crushing the older fellow against the ground.

  Clarence could not help but start laughing as well at the sight—until Kate jabbed him in the ribs again. "Hey," he groaned.

  "This chief's loco!" Kate hissed, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening. They all seemed to be captivated by their wheezing leader. "I've never met an Indian like him!"

  "Well, have you ever met a Zuni Indian before?" Clarence suggested.

  "No. And by the looks of this one, I'm glad of it." She caught sight of something and stared for a moment. Then she nodded toward it and nodded again to get Clarence's attention. Tethered not too far away stood a group of unsaddled ponies. "C'mon, we've gotta get outta here!"

  "Are you mad?" Clarence clutched her arm before she could rise. "Remember the last time we tried to escape? That warrior ran us down and carried us back like so much baggage!"

  She glared at him and jerked her arm free. "Buck got away, and so can we. This could be our last chance!"

  With that, she got to her feet in a crouch, prepared to make a dash for the horses. There was nothing else for Clarence to do but follow, he supposed. He didn't favor the idea of remaining behind with these natives, and sticking by Kate seemed like the right thing to do. So that's exactly what he did.

  Everything around them seemed to be happening in slow motion. Big Chief Thunderclap laughed and wheezed, out of control now, while his elders surrounded him; they didn't seem to understand what was so amusing, but they maintained their rigid smiles all the same. A few looked concerned. The braves looked intrigued, having followed the elders toward their chief. Had the Great Spirit entered Big Chief Thunderclap, and was he being blessed with happiness? Or was this some new kind of insanity? Clarence could only wonder what they were saying in their strange, foreign tongue.

  Regardless, it seemed that Kate and Clarence would be able to escape during the distraction. Kate cast a look over her shoulder at Clarence, making sure they were in this together, and he nodded.

  They ran.

  The prairie rushed by in a blur as Clarence dashed after Kate, heading straight for the ponies. A sharp cry rang out behind them, but he didn't glance back. Neither did Kate. Their sights were set straight ahead.

  "Up!" Summoning strength he didn't know he possessed, Clarence hoisted Kate onto the bare back of the first horse they came to.

  More cries of alarm erupted from the camp. A stampede of bare feet signaled the advance of the braves.

  A sudden thought came to Clarence. "I say, Kate. Perhaps I should untie all of their horses so that they'll be unable to follow—"

  "Do it!" She drew back on the rope hackamore and steadied her mount as Clarence quickly went about his task. The ponies had all been tethered to a single line, which made his work easier. "They're coming!"

  "Go!" Clarence shouted, slapping her pony a
nd lunging onto another one, yelling, "HYAAAAAAH!"

  Suddenly aware of their freedom, the ponies bolted away, including the ones Kate and Clarence clung onto, galloping across the sunbaked terrain at breakneck speeds with hooves thundering and manes flying.

  Chapter 28

  Back at the camp, Big Chief Thunderclap was livid.

  "Get them! Go on, get them! Get them, and bring them here!" he roared to his braves in their native language. "You incompetent nincompoops! Go on!" He whirled in circles and swung his brawny arms in a fit of rage as they scurried past him. "Go on!"

  Every brave had cleared out, save one: the chief's only son.

  "You too!" Thunderclap commanded, pointing a thick finger at the prince.

  Stubbed Toe made no move to leave. He rested back on his heels with his arms crossed as he glared into his father's dark eyes.

  "You dare to defy me?" Thunderclap seethed, recognizing his son's posture well enough. "I should have you punished!"

  Stubbed Toe remained calm, cool, and patronizing in his reply. "They have run off all of our ponies, Father. Chasing them on foot would be futile. All we will succeed in doing is tiring ourselves in a task as useless as chasing the wind."

  "Then what do you suggest?" the chief roared, reaching a crescendo. "Let them go? NO! They will lead us to Buckeye Daniels!"

  "Yes, they will," Stubbed Toe answered quietly. His eyes glinted in the bright sunlight, and his chin jutted outward confidently. He knew as well as anyone that his father could be hot-headed at times and that, like a passing storm, after the thunder he would be more likely to listen to reason.

  "They will?" Thunderclap frowned. "How so, if we do not hunt them down?"

  "Father." The way he said it was not with respect, but with a measure of disdain that did not go unnoticed by the angry chief. "Once our ponies return, we will follow the tracks left by the palefaces. They will lead us straight to Buckeye Daniels' hideout, undoubtedly. And then, once we find the three of them together…" He left it to the chief's imagination.

  "Yeah," Thunderclap said eagerly, licking his lips. His eyes glazed over as he imagined horrible scenes of violence. "Then we'll torture them, and scalp them, and end them. Perhaps in that order." He sighed then, shaking his head. "Too bad I'll have to kill another Englishman, though. I really do like the English." He clapped his meaty hands together and rubbed them with delight. "Oh well. Such is life!"

  The midday sun scorched the lynch mob from Santa Fe as they reached a watering hole and let their frothing horses drink thirstily from the stagnant pond. By now, their numbers had dwindled from over thirty to under ten. Most of the men who had dropped out had done so during the night, mainly because of the breeze that had blown down from the north, chilling them in their long-johns. The others who'd quit had done so this morning. They missed the booze, cards, and women back in town too much to be absent from them for more than a few hours.

  These men who remained were not the kind to give up. Block-jawed, unshaven, thickly muscled, and wearing scowls that never left their rugged faces, they each had their sights set on that one-hundred-dollar reward. The money would not be split among them, no sir. It would go to the one man who found the gambler's black horse. Each man present assumed it would be himself—all he had to do was outlast his fellow riders.

  "Bah! Lousy muck," one of the men snorted in disgust, having dismounted to test the water. "Don't know how these mules can stand it!" He wiped his downturned mouth across his sleeve and cursed his empty canteen.

  "Now that's just too bad, Reynolds."

  Reynolds turned sharply, finding one of his companions mounted behind him and drinking sloppily from his own full canteen.

  "Mind givin' me some of that water, MacQuaid?" His eyes narrowed as he glared up at the rider. His throat was so dry it pained him to talk.

  "Mmmm, good!" MacQuaid slurped noisily, letting some of the water run down his chin.

  Reynolds dropped the empty canteen and staggered toward MacQuaid's horse. "I said gimme some!" he snarled.

  Only then did MacQuaid turn his eyes toward the thirsty man. MacQuaid knew him. They had never gotten along, not since they'd almost shot each other over a woman in town. Until now, the lynch mob's size had kept them apart. But now it was different. There were only six men left in the group.

  "You want some?" MacQuaid sneered down at him. "Here!" With a vengeance, he spat a mouthful into the man's face.

  Reynolds staggered back with a furious roar, wiping his eyes. "I'll kill you, MacQuaid!" His hand dropped to his gun, but MacQuaid had already drawn his own with alarming speed.

  "Ready when you are." MacQuaid winked.

  Reynolds stared up at the gun muzzle.

  "C'mon now, you two," intervened the leader of the pack—a burly gent with a fresh coil of rope. Only the best for a good lynching. "You boys have been wranglin' for months. 'Nough's enough." He adjusted his bulky frame in the saddle and grimaced, leaning on the pommel. "Case them irons, and we'll be on our way. We've got a horse thief to hang, you know." He watched the two men. They didn't look like they'd heard him. "I said now!" he boomed.

  MacQuaid eyed Reynolds a moment longer. Then with an experienced hand, he spun the gun around his trigger finger and dropped it smoothly into its holster. "Another time," he promised.

  Reynolds turned away with a muttered oath and mounted his horse. Jerking the reins, he pulled his steed back from the water and warned, "I wouldn't ride in front of me, if I were you." He raked his spurs across the horse's flanks, and it bolted forward into a gallop.

  The other men hastily followed suit, not wanting Reynolds to beat them to their prize. MacQuaid lingered behind at the watering hole for a full minute, his narrow gaze fixed on the retreating form of his enemy. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

  "You can run, Reynolds. But you can't hide. Not from me." He paused a moment to let those words sink in—to himself, as it were. Then with a "HA!" he spurred his horse forward and raced after the others, knowing the hundred dollars would be his before nightfall.

  Chapter 29

  Guthrie awoke with a start and jerked up onto his elbow in the unfamiliar canopy bed. With a slight groan, he pinched between his eyes and closed them, shaking his head at his foolishness. It had been only a dream that startled him—a replaying of the scene that took place in the street the day before. Gingerly, he touched the shallow bullet scar on his left cheek and wondered what had become of Burly Jones. Would he return to finish the job? Or had he found someone else to harass instead?

  With a deep sigh, Guthrie rested back on the thick pillows and, out of habit, surveyed the room around him. Warm sunlight filtered through lace curtains on the window and cast a soft glow on the opposite wall. The door to the hallway faced him, and beside it sat a dresser and mirror with a chair close by. Off to the side, another door led to a small room with a bathtub inside. An oil painting of a rustic scene with a lush forest and a brilliant sunrise hung on the wall. It reminded Guthrie of Boston's outlying districts, and he wondered who had painted it.

  He turned his attention to the other side of the room and noted the polished nightstand with a white doily across the top, a padded love seat with a floral design on its fabric, a simple quilt hanging on the wall, another chair, and a roll top desk made of dark cherry wood. Lined up in a row atop it sat three framed photographs, faded with age. The subjects were Miss Carson's friends or family, most likely.

  Guthrie squinted his eyes at the center one, his gaze fixed on the face. He knew this person—or so it seemed from a distance. Perhaps he was mistaken. The light may have been playing tricks with his sight.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. Miss Carson was a complete stranger to him. It was absurd to think she would have in her possession a photograph of someone he recognized.

  There came a knock at the door, and Guthrie bid the visitor to enter, hoping it would be Clarence. But as the door swished open, the faces that met him were unfamiliar. He could not tell if they
were friends or foes. Associates of Burly Jones, perhaps?

  "Yes?" Guthrie rose with a twinge of pain in his back.

  Two men stood just inside the doorway, both of them dust-covered and windblown in appearance. One carried a doctor's bag, and the other carried a double-barreled shotgun. The one with the bag was tall, angular, and well-dressed. His clean-shaven face and bright eyes looked honest enough. The one with the shotgun was shorter, barrel-chested, bearded and bristle-haired. He carried the shotgun in a casual way, as though it were a part of him—one that never left his side.

  The tall man cleared his throat and introduced himself as he stepped forward. "My name is Dr. Grant, sir. I—" He glanced at the man beside him. "I was told you were involved in an accident and required medical attention."

  Guthrie silently regarded the pair. "Who sent for you?"

  "Why, Kate Carson of course," the shorter fellow answered quickly, seeming to note the way Guthrie eyed them with suspicion. "She sent me after the doc just as soon as you got yourself mowed over by Burly. Rode as fast as I could, clear to Boulder Bluffs to get 'im. Couldn't find the marshal, but the doc was easy enough to locate."

  Guthrie nodded slowly. "You are…Percy, then." He recalled Miss Carson mentioning that name.

  "Yup, that'd be me. Pleased to make your acquaintance, mister." He flashed a broad grin that squeezed his cheeks up toward his eyes and revealed a mouthful of crooked teeth. He resembled a crazy chipmunk.

  The doctor hesitated a moment before approaching Guthrie's side and opening his bag. "Tell me what happened. How were you injured?"

  Guthrie glanced down at his bruised arms. "It was nothing. I fell—I believe. Nothing more."

  Percy guffawed. "Only if you call gettin' run over by a raging bull nothing!"