Come Sundown

by Mike Blakely

  It was time well spent, but I knew it had to end. I—as Geronimo Jones—still had trade goods waiting down at Maxwell’s Ranch, and Kills Something’s people would be wondering where Plenty Man had strayed off to right about now. So I packed my saddle pockets one morning and spent more than an hour saying farewell to my friends. I talked at length with William Bent, because I feared I would not see him alive again.

  A regular crowd came out to send me off. Along with Tom and Rumalda were George Bent, John Prowers, and Amache. They had brought Kit’s four oldest children—William, Teresina, Christopher, and Charlie—to bid me farewell. They ranged in age from fourteen to six. The younger children—Rebecca and Stella—and the infant, Josefita, were all napping. It saddened me to see the loss of their whole world in the eyes of the Carson orphans. But it was the sight of Amache that gripped my heart the hardest, for I saw some of Westerly in her features. I went to her and hugged her, but just briefly, for she was Cheyenne, and didn’t go for much of that. I shook John’s hand, and George’s, and smiled sadly at the children, tousling Chistopher’s hair.

  When finally I slipped boot to stirrup and swung up, Blue Wiggins hailed me, saying, “Oh, Orn’ry, I almost forgot to tell you.”

  “What is it, Blue?”

  “Down at Maxwell’s I heard that Luther Sheffield has taken a job as deputy town marshal over at Trinidad. Thought you might ought to swing through and tell him howdy for the boys of Kit’s First New Mexico Volunteer Cavalry.”

  “I’ll sure do that very thing,” I said.

  And so I rode out on Maxwell’s racehorse, now fattened and fleshed from weeks of rest and grain, and headed into the teeth of a spring rainstorm, bound for Trinidad. It wasn’t hard to find the office of the town marshal and I only had to wait twenty-three minutes for Luther to finish his afternoon rounds and return. He was genuinely pleased to see me and, I could plainly see, very proud of his new office as deputy marshal. We didn’t touch much upon the past, for therein lay our troubles. Instead, we talked about the town and the territory, and the prospects for the future. It had been a long time since I had felt compelled to speculate on things to come, but it felt good to do so.

  Then, right in the middle of our pleasant conversation, a team of mules pulled a big Murphy freight wagon around the corner half a block from us. The vessel rattled down the street, away from us. Luther only glanced at it as he told me of a saloon fracas he had broken up the day before, but I had already looked the driver over and felt a heap of black malice drop from my heart and sink into the pit of my belly. The man driving the wagon was unmistakably John M. Chivington, the butcher of Sand Creek, and the murderer of my wife. I had heard that he had resigned his commission to avoid court-martial, and had turned from preaching to freighting. Luther was still talking, but I no longer heard his words.

  Do you remember that match that I asked you to strike? That fiery symbol of my life? Well, it flared inside me like pitch pine in a firestorm. The dormant seed of hatred burst into full bloom and I got so quickly to my feet that the chair I had been sitting on tipped back and fell on the planks of the porch. I heard Luther’s story cease as I took two steps to my mount and drew a revolver from my saddlebag.

  “Greenwood!” Luther said. “What in the hell?”

  “Do you see who that was?” I pointed toward the wagon, which was lumbering slowly down the street, away from us.

  “Who?”

  “The driver on the seat of that wagon. That was Chivington. John Chivington.”

  A realization came over Luther as he glanced back and forth between the wagon and me. “Hold on, Greenwood. Now, you just settle down.”

  “Don’t try to stop me, Luther. I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch.”

  “Don’t say that.” He looked both ways to make sure no one had heard me. “For God’s sake, Greenwood, catch your breath. You can’t go killing people.”

  “Just him. Just Chivington.” I was checking my loads in the Navy Colt.

  “No, no, no. Stop, damn it.” He was moving toward me.

  I went to mount, but he knocked my foot out of the stirrup and grabbed my rein, causing the horse to toss his head and swing his tail end against the hitching rail. Luther grabbed my left arm, and I cocked the pistol, still held muzzle down. Luther grew wide-eyed and put his hand on his sidearm. A moment passed when I did not know whether or not I would ruin my life forever in a fit of rage. I could have jammed my cocked revolver against Luther’s chest and fired before he cleared his holster. I still cringe at the memory of almost having done that very deed. I still dream about it, but in my dream, I go ahead and do it, and pull the trigger, and wake up sweating and panting.

  “Greenwood,” Luther growled. “You can’t kill him.”

  “I have to.”

  “No you don’t. I can’t let you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s my goddamn job. Don’t be a fool!”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got to kill him, Luther.”

  “You’ll have to kill me first, Greenwood. Now, get ahold of yourself and talk sense. You can’t just kill him.”

  “Let me do it, then arrest me. I have to kill him.”

  “Stop saying that!” His eyes widened with a new line of reasoning. “I once thought I had to kill you, but I was wrong. It’s wrong. It’s uncivilized. Remember what Kit always said: Is this right? He always asked that.”

  I glanced at the wagon and saw it blending in with the street traffic—the pedestrians and carriages and buckboards. “This is my chance for revenge, Luther. You’ve got to let me kill that bastard.”

  “I can’t let you!”

  “Why the hell not!” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the frame buildings of the new town.

  Luther looked flustered as he searched for an answer. “Because if you kill him,” he finally said, “then I’ll be the sorriest son of a bitch in town!”

  I trembled all over as I tried to hang on to the hatred. But I lost my grip on it and let out a gasp that was part sob and part guffaw. I looked down the street and found no sign of Chivington’s wagon. I turned my eyes back to Luther, half laughing at his statement and half crying in confused obligation. I was not to kill John Chivington that day. The spirits had seen to it and they had used the most unlikely of vehicles to stop me—Luther Sheffield. I uncocked the revolver in my hand and bowed my head in some strange combination of relief and failure. Luther very slowly and gently eased the revolver from my grasp.

  I never saw John M. Chivington again.

  Epilogue

  ADOBE WALLS, TEXAS

  MARCH 1927

  Ah, the sun now touches the western bluffs, and I have chores to do. My orchard needs tending. My ponies want grain. I had better get to work so that you good people may return to your homes. Well, perhaps a moment more, then. Yes, I should tell you that I never saw William Bent again, for he died shortly after Kit died. His son George lived until 1917, attempting, like his father, to ease the plight of the Cheyenne Indians in every way that he could. His younger brother Charles did not last nearly as long. Charles became a renegade Dog Soldier and at one point vowed to kill his own father, and might have someday, had not William died of natural causes. Charles died in agony not long after his father, of malaria in a Cheyenne camp.

  Quanah is gone now, though I have much yet to tell you about him. Oh, yes, I have not even begun to talk about Quanah, but that will have to wait for another time.

  Chivington? John M. Chivington suffered enough. While trying, unsuccessfully, to earn a living as a freighter, his wife and son drowned while crossing the North Platte in one of his wagons. There were those who said God made it happen to pay him back for all the wives and children he had taken from others at Sand Creek, but I could not embrace the notion of such a vengeful God. His freighting business failed and he moved from Nebraska to California to Ohio, and finally back to Denver, nowhere achieving the greatness he might have attained had his hatred for Indians not ruined his life. The stigma of
Sand Creek hung over him as long as he lived, but he steadfastly stood behind his actions at that bloody place. He died of cancer in 1894.

  Maxwell? As you know, Lucien Bonaparte Maxwell managed to get the United States Congress to grant him clear title to one million and seven hundred thousand acres, based on the old Mexican land grant he had purchased from its many shareholders. Can you just imagine such a domain? What did he do with it? Please, not now. I promise to tell you about it another time.

  All the folks at Boggsville got along fine for a good while, even though the town itself died when the railroad reached Las Animas, just a few miles away. But Tom Boggs and John Prowers lived well and enjoyed their families. Amache took to wearing white women’s clothing most of the time. She bought a bicycle, which she often rode to amuse the children.

  But things were never the same after Sand Creek—after Kit and William passed away. It all changed rapidly then, and nothing of the old ways lasted long after that. I’ll tell you about it next time we gather here. You will return, won’t you? Oh, good. Do not be too long about it. I am ninety-nine years old, after all.

  That reminds me. When Kit was on his deathbed, he asked the post surgeon, Dr. Tilton, “Doc, what am I to do now? I can’t get along without a doctor.”

  “I will take care of you,” Dr. Tilton said.

  Kit smiled at him and said, “You must think I am not going to live very long.”

  So hurry back, if you wish to hear the rest. Go home and strike that match in the dark, as I have told you. Measure it against my ninety-nine years, and watch how quickly that last ember fades and vanishes. Do not stay away too long.

  Next time? I will tell you about the slaughter of the buffalo. Oh, the buffalo … That is sad, but I have good things to recollect, as well. The bad comes with the good, and that is just all there is to it. I’ll tell you about all of it in due time. About Kills Something and Quanah. Bat Masterson and Billy Dixon. The so-called Second Battle of Adobe Walls—nothing at all like the first. I will tell you about Isa-Tai, the Comanche shaman. Right now I will only say that he was no Burnt Belly. Never mind what I mean. You will know soon enough.

  Now, run along. I want to be alone in my valley. I have heard my voice ramble all day, and I am weary of it. I long now to hear the spirit voices. When the breeze moves this way—snakelike, as if deciding which way to blow—and twilight paints the bluffs, and the scents of blessed spring fill the air … That is when I hear the other voices—the spirit voices of the woods and the waters and the skies. The ghost voices of those who await beyond. Yes, I hear them—especially Burnt Belly. Sometimes Kit, and William. And others …

  And sometimes … When the moon rises just so, half-full … And the breeze suddenly ceases for no reason at all … And all the creatures of the time between day and night hush their voices to alert me … Sometimes I can almost hear her laughter. Ah, sometimes I swear I do hear her. That beautiful strain, like a bubbling spring. That worry-free, singsong melody that consoles me. Yes, I hear Westerly beyond the shadows. She tells me time grows nigh. Maybe not today, or even tomorrow. But someday, her soul and mine shall forevermore cling together. Someday soon—come sundown.

  BY MIKE BLAKELY FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES

  Comanche Dawn

  Come Sundown

  Dead Reckoning

  Forever Texas

  The Last Chance

  Moon Medicine

  Shortgrass Song

  The Snowy Range Gang

  Spanish Blood

  Summer of Pearls

  Too Long at the Dance

  Vendetta Gold

  PRAISE FOR MIKE BLAKELY AND COME SUNDOWN

  “Mike Blakely proves once again that his skill in developing story and characters is not limited to songwriting … . He writes like a Comanche might act: tersely, firmly, with passion and power.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  “Come Sundown is great fun, witty, and highly believable … . Blakely is deservedly among the top Western authors working today.”

  —True West

  “Funny, suspenseful, and affecting.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Come Sundown is a marvelous book, full of action, color, and meaning … . Read it for its insight—and for its gripping story.”

  —David Nevin, author of Dream West

  “Besides being a fine spinner of tales, Mike Blakely is a poet and musician at heart, which makes his narrative sing and his unusual characters dance their way through the epic story of a changing West.”

  —Elmer Kelton

  “A gifted storyteller.”

  —Texas Books in Review

  “Blakely knows guns, horses, and humans.”

  —Library Journal

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  COME SUNDOWN

  Copyright © 2006 by Mike Blakely

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  eISBN 9781466820081

  First eBook Edition : April 2012

  First Edition: June 2006

  First Mass Market Edition: December 2007