Blood Red Star

by Shorty Gunn

  ‘What are you doing back here in town, Lieutenant?’ A surprised look came over the marshal’s face.

  ‘I’ve used up my allotted time trying to find some sign of the Keller gang. I have to return to Captain Criswell’s command. I stopped here to see how Sergeant O’Halloran was doing.’

  ‘He’s gone. Left here a week ago for Fort Jackson, when he felt good enough to ride again. You better turn your men around and head there too.’

  ‘Why would that be? I have my orders from the captain.’

  ‘Haven’t the scouts from Jackson found you yet with the message?’

  ‘No, what message?’

  ‘Your captain and most of his men were ambushed by the Crows, up in Volcano Butte country. Most of them were killed including Criswell. A few stragglers made it back here to town with the story. They said they never had a chance. Criswell led them right into an ambush. He was killed in the first volley of shots.’

  Stanford stood dumbfounded unable to speak. He took a few halting steps forward, slowly lowering himself into a chair opposite the desk, never taking his eyes off Whitman. ‘Are you. . . certain of all this?’

  ‘As certain as the men who came back here to tell it, wounded and bloody.’

  The lieutenant slowly shook his head in stunned disbelief. The slaughter of Criswell and his friends with him was more than he could imagine. Criswell might not be the friendliest officer he’d ever known, but to be killed like this was nearly inconceivable. He swallowed hard taking a deep breath before finally speaking.

  ‘I’ll have to . . . take my men and start for Fort Jackson as quick as I can.’

  ‘Wait just a minute, lieutenant. I’ve got another idea. How far south did you say you rode looking for Keller?’

  ‘Maybe . . . thirty miles or so. Why?’

  ‘Because if you’re riding south, I just might join you. If Keller is anyplace my bet is he’s farther down in mesa country someplace. We might turn that bad luck of yours around yet. Remember, I’m still looking for him, too. I’ve got a personal score to settle with him outside of this badge. I’ll deputize a couple of men to look after things while we’re gone. We’re both going on this ride together, lieutenant!’

  Sun-up next morning was barely one hour old when Marshal Whitman and Little Hawk eased into saddles next to Stanford and his disheveled looking line of troopers, deprived of the rest in town they’d been promised. Whitman eyed the raggedy looking men in blue.

  ‘You and your men ready, lieutenant? They look a little worn, to me.’

  ‘They’ll follow my orders. Don’t you worry about that, sir.’

  ‘Good. Once they get a brace of fresh air in their lungs, and Little Hawk finds a trail worth following, I expect they’ll buck up quick and show the real soldier boys they are. It’s time we get down to some real tracking instead of riding all over the country wasting time wearing everyone out achieving nothing.’

  Stanford didn’t answer this time. The insult was clear enough without haggling over it.

  The odd band of US Marshal, Indian tracker and small line of cavalrymen traveled south three days before Little Hawk reined to a stop near high noon, pointing ahead at the figure of two riders coming fast towards them. He turned to Whitman with a single word. ‘Indians.’

  ‘Are they hostiles?’ Stanford was immediately on the alert. ‘Should I make my men ready?’

  ‘No. Don’t be foolish,’ Whitman scolded. ‘They’re part of the scouting party I sent out to see if they could pick up Keller’s trail. The way they’re moving they must have something to tell me.’

  Wolf Runs and Buffalo Shield pulled their sweaty horses to a dusty stop. Little Hawk immediately engaged them talking in their own tongue. It only took a moment to relay their message to Whitman.

  ‘Many Horses rides four days away. He says the men we want are riding for “noisy village”. He wants four horses with shoes for telling you this.’

  ‘Noisy village, what’s that?’ Whitman questioned.

  ‘Many Horses does not know its name. Only that many white men lived there.’

  Lieutenant Stanford suddenly spoke up. ‘The only town that far ahead could be Whiskeytown. It’s about twenty-five miles west of Fort Jackson. I’ve never been there but I have heard a lot about it from enlisted men who have when I was stationed at the fort two years ago. It’s full of lots of gambling, drinking and women.’

  ‘Sounds like exactly the kind of place Keller and his bunch would head for. They’d mix right in. You tell these two we’ll follow them back to Many Horses. And tell them he’ll only get his horses when I find out if Keller is actually there!’

  ‘Wait a minute, marshal. You have to understand me and my men cannot accompany you all the way to Whiskeytown, don’t you?’ Stanford said.

  ‘And why not? I’ll need you to take Keller down.’

  ‘My orders from Captain Criswell were to only spend a week or so trying to track down Keller. That time is up. I have to report back to command at Fort Jackson.’

  ‘No you don’t. Criswell is dead and so are the orders he gave you. You want to make a name for yourself, don’t you? Bringing in Cort Keller is the way to do that. We can both ride for the fort after we take him dead or alive. It makes no difference to me which way. That’s how you make captain, lieutenant. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  The young officer sat in the saddle staring back without a quick answer. Maybe Whitman was correct. Maybe things could all work out exactly that way. He could almost visualize himself riding at the head of a line into the fort with Keller and his men roped together behind him. What a sight that would be!

  ‘I’ll ride with you. . . at least until another few days.’ He finally got the words out. ‘Then see what happens.’

  Jeff Banks sat at Nate Whitman’s office desk back in New Hope, reading a letter just delivered. Both he and his pal Wayne Little had been deputized by Whitman to keep an eye on things around town while the marshal was gone. Finishing the letter he sat back looking across the small office at Little. ‘This letter is some kind of trouble,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘It’s from a sheriff down in Whiskeytown, way south of here. He asked about three men that showed up there he thinks could be on the run from the law. He wants Nate to see if he knows anything about them, but he’s already gone. What do we do about it now?’

  Little shrugged. He had no answer either. ‘He’s been gone what, three or four days now? I can’t saddle up and catch up to him. I don’t even know where he’s going or how far?’

  ‘Maybe I could write back and tell him all this but what good would that do? He wants Nate to talk to him not me.’

  ‘It might be best to let it go until Nate comes back. He’ll be able to help him. I know we sure can’t. We aren’t really deputies, are we?’

  ‘Makes sense to me. I’ll put the letter right here under the ink well so we don’t forget it and he can’t miss it either.’

  Cort had put the limit on their stay in Whiskeytown, no longer than one more week. Four of those days had already passed. He was ready to withdraw the money he’d earlier put in the bank and buy supplies for the trail. He wasn’t sure yet exactly where they’d go, only that it would be someplace farther south. That land should be wild and unpeopled except for Indians, and they don’t carry badges. All three men were in town at Hanson’s Dry Goods & Hardware store as Cort went down the list of items to buy. Adam Hanson the owner, stood behind the counter talking to Cort.

  ‘You men must be leaving town with a long list like that,’ he smiled back.

  ‘We’ll be on the move,’ Cort acknowledged but nothing more. ‘Can you fill all of this?’ He handed the paper to him.

  ‘I think so, but I’m not sure I have all the cartridges. Especially the .44s. I’ll have to check store room in back for those.’

  Red wandered through the store looking at various goods on shelves, while Tyge stood outside leaning up against the building casually
watching passersby. The sudden clatter of hoofs at the far end of town drew his attention. Turning he squinted up the street seeing a line of blue uniformed riders flanked by three Indians entering town. Riding up front was another man clearly not Indian or cavalry man. He wore a tall, peaked, wide-brimmed tan Stetson. Fan instantly recognized him as Nate Whitman. He looked harder a second time, pushing off the wall to be sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. How could Whitman be here in Whiskeytown? It seemed impossible. Yet there he was. Fan pushed through the door into Hanson’s. Walking quickly up behind Cort he whispered in his ear.

  ‘Take a look at who is riding down the street outside. And he’s even got the United States Cavalry riding with him.’

  Cort stepped away from the counter going to the front window. Calling Red over all three stood in disbelief as Whitman and the troopers ride by before Red spoke up.

  ‘How in hell did he get way down here and why?’

  ‘Horton,’ said Cort. ‘That’s the only reason he’d be here. And it means we’re clearing out soon as I get these supplies. Tyge, keep an eye on where they go while Red and I load up the horses but not out front. Bring them around to the alley in back.’

  ‘What about our things back at camp?’ Red worried.

  ‘Leave them. There’s nothing there that’s important. We’ve got to make tracks now.’

  Fan stepped back outside pulling his hat down low across his eyes watching the line of riders continue up the street past him until stopping in front of Horton’s office. His hand went down to his six-gun with the same tingling anticipation he always felt when gunplay was near. If it came, he was ready for it.

  ‘Lieutenant, your men should take a look around town while you and I see what this sheriff has to say,’ Whitman ordered.

  ‘Look for what? They don’t even know what Keller looks like and neither do I.’

  ‘I do. He rides a big, chestnut bay, with a white blaze on its chest. Another one of them has red hair and a beard to match. The others I’m not sure of, but that’s a good start. Tell them to dismount so I can explain it. I’ll also warn them if they do find anyone like that not to try and take them. Just get back here and we’ll all go face them down together.’

  ‘Marshal, I’ll be the one giving the orders. They’re my men, remember? They don’t take orders from civilians, not even a lawman like you. That’s my job. Please keep that in mind.’

  Whitman leveled a withering stare at Stanford, someone he really didn’t think was up to the job. But he needed his men and all those guns if it came to that. For once he held his tongue. ‘All right, you give them the order. I’d also suggest you have them go in pairs not alone. Let’s get to it, lieutenant.’

  The cavalrymen separated starting down the boardwalk on each side of the street carrying their .50 caliber Sharps rifles, followed by the wondering stares of local men asking what was the United States Cavalry doing in Whiskeytown. Behind Hanson’s, Cort brought out another armload of supplies while Red tied each sack on the horses, until Tyge stepped back into the store telling Cort troopers were coming up the street on foot toward the store.

  ‘Go out back and help Red. I only have a couple of more sacks to bring out, then we can clear out of here.’

  ‘All right, but you better make it fast. They’ll be here pretty quick.’

  The troopers stopped at each store front peering inside looking for anyone matching the description Stanford had given them. Reaching Hanson’s they did the same, seeing a man with a sack of supplies over his shoulder heading for the back door. Turning away they continued a few steps further coming to a narrow passageway between the buildings.

  ‘Wanna’ check back there?’ one said.

  ‘We better. Stanford said not to miss anything. We’ll have to squeeze through though. It looks pretty tight.’

  Edging sideways one at a time the pair slowly forced their way back until they could see the alley ahead. Red and Fan were busy tying on supplies with their back to the opening when the cavalrymen stepped out into the open. Instantly they saw Red’s bright red hair and beard, leveling their rifles with a shout.

  ‘Hold it right there, you two. Put your hands up!’

  Red and Fan spun in surprise, sacks still in their hands, the two uniformed men advancing on them, rifles leveled, just as Cort reached the back door hearing their warning order. He dropped the sack in his hand drawing his six-gun and rushing out on to the back porch with a shout.

  ‘Take them, Red!’

  The troopers caught by surprise, swung their rifles on Cort, giving Red and Fan that split second edge they needed to drop their goods, pulling pistols firing a sudden volley of shots matching Cort’s flaming six-gun. Both cavalrymen went down writhing on the ground without getting off a single shot.

  ‘Quick, let’s get out of here!’ Cort shouted leaping from the deck into the saddle, pulling his horse around wildly and spurring the big animal down the alley with Fan and Red right behind him.

  ‘That was gunfire!’ Whitman jumped from a chair in Horton’s office. ‘Your men must have found them.’ He ran out the door with Little Hawk, Stanford and Horton behind him, all three running up the street where a small group of men was beginning to gather.

  ‘Them shots came from that back alley!’ One man pointed wide eyed, as Whitman ran up out of breath. ‘I heard horses run back there too!’

  Whitman tried forcing his way between buildings but could not. Instead he ran into Hanson’s through the store out on to the back dock, pistol in hand, seeing both troopers dead on the ground.

  ‘This has to be Keller and his men!’ he shouted in frustration at missing the gang again.

  Lieutenant Stanford stepped off the dock slowly approaching the bodies. His face was suddenly drained of color. He’d never actually seen anyone killed before, let alone his own men. Sheriff Horton came up slowly rolling both bodies over.

  ‘These two men were . . . shot to pieces. More than one gunman did this.’

  The lieutenant retreated to the dock stairs sitting with his head in both hands. ‘I’ve got to get back to Fort Jackson, and report this disaster.’ His voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘What you ought to be doing is getting your men together to saddle up so we can go after Keller, right now while he’s still close!’ the marshal countered.

  ‘No, I’ve had all the advice I’m going to take from you. You cost me two good men and maybe even my officer’s stripes. You want Keller, you go after him yourself. I’m done with it. My command at the fort will decide what they want to do about Keller. I only hope they don’t ask me to go any further after him.’

  Chapter Eight

  Cort, his brother and Tyge Fan rode steadily south for the next three weeks, putting as much distance between themselves and the US Cavalry that they knew would surely come after them after killing the two troopers. They were also certain Nate Whitman must be riding with the cavalry too, but that he and the captain wouldn’t know for certain exactly what direction the three would run. The trio might be outdistancing the law at least for now, but were also taking themselves deeper into equally dangerous Indian country. They were not unnoticed by a small band of Indian scouts who shadowed them day and night wondering why three white men would dare to ride into their land so foolishly. Even the United States Cavalry did not journey here without a full complement of troopers, supply wagons and their deadly 12-pound howitzer, to ward off sudden attacks.

  At the southern limit of this wild and lawless country the three men reached the domain of the Jicarilla Apaches, the fiercest and most warlike of all tribes on the Colorado Plateau. The very name Apache meant ‘our enemies’ in the language of other Indian tribes who encountered and sometimes fought against them. After another long, difficult day riding through twisting canyon mazes thick in prickly junipers, manzanita and cliff rose, Cort pulled to a halt in a protected spot at the end of a limestone plateau. His brother was first to speak as they got down to begin unloading the horses.

>   ‘You know the farther south we ride, the farther away we get from our money still in the bank in Whiskeytown.’

  ‘I know that,’ Cort responded. ‘But right now I want to get as far away from Whitman and those soldier boys as possible. We can always go back for the money. It’s not going anyplace. The safest place for it is right where is in the bank.’

  ‘I saw what I thought was riders back behind us today,’ Fan spoke up. ‘I only got a quick look but I don’t think they were white men. Must be Indians. We’ll have to be careful and keep our eyes open.’

  ‘They’ve been trailing us for a while. I saw them too. As long as they stay back we’ll just keep riding. We don’t need any trouble from them too. We’ve got enough of that on our own,’ Cort responded.

  Red got a fire going while Tyge and Cort sorted out their supplies retrieving beef jerky and hardtack biscuits for dinner. The three men sat quietly eating, washing food down with a pull of water from their canteens. Finished eating, Tyge spoke up again.

  ‘I don’t like the idea of those Indians trailing us. Anyone else breathing down our necks only means more trouble. We don’t need more of that.’

  ‘Whether we need it or not, we’ve got it now.’ Red looked up from the dancing flames.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Fan questioned.

  ‘Because they’re right here.’ He nodded out to the limit of firelight, where the image of half a dozen Indians silently appeared out of the night, their rifles leveled on all three men.

  They jumped to their feet ready to pull six-guns, until Cort stopped them. ‘Wait a minute. We can’t shoot our way out of this. Let me try to talk to them if someone can understand me.’ He slowly got to his feet, hands raised, ordering his brother and Fan to do the same.

  Yellow Horse the Apache leader, stepped closer, staring first at the men then the supplies lying beyond the fire next to tethered horses. ‘We are not here to fight anyone,’ Cort tried a few words. ‘We’re just passing through. We want no trouble.’