The Guns of Vedauwoo (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 6)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  "Knock it off, the both of you!" barked Elmer, backhanding away some of the grease smearing the heavy stubble on his chin and around his mouth from the piece of venison he was eating. "That kind of bickerin' ain't gonna gain us a damn thing, so put a boot in it ... I need time to think."

  "What's to think about?" Remsen wanted to know. "One of them rock-climbin' dandies was spyin' on us and fumble-footed Danton here—who was supposed to be on lookout and never should have let anybody get that close in the first place—managed to trip over him on the way back to camp, spookin' our visitor into blastin' hell out of everything in sight. Oh yeah, and while he was at it he loaned him one of the guns to do his blastin' with."

  Danton's face purpled. "How about I fumble-foot my way over there and kick your bony ass all the way to—"

  Now Elmer's bark turned into a roar. "Goddamn it, that's enough! I said knock it off!"

  "You need to listen to the man," said Milo Evert, speaking around a bite of venison he'd just taken, "if for no other reason than for the sake of your wounds. Look what you gone and done already." He pointed to fresh blood leaking through the bandage on Remsen's thigh. "I just got that patched up and now you've opened it again, getting yourself so agitated. I think I got most of the bullet fragments out but I don't have the skill to dig around any deeper, even if I didn't. Main thing is: It don't need no added aggravation ... Same goes for you," he added, cutting his gaze to Danton, whose damaged arm was immobilized and bound tight to his torso by strips of well-worn saddle blanket. "At best, you're both gonna be in a whole lot of pain and bother. Ain't that enough?"

  "Don't worry about me, I know how to handle pain," Remsen muttered, his tone subdued though still sullen. "The only pain I'm thinkin' about right now is the pain I'm gonna lay down on that sonofabitch who shot me." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "We are going after those bastards, ain't we, Elmer?"

  The gang leader nodded solemnly. "Got no choice."

  "Now you're talkin'," said Remsen. "You had me a little worried—when I mentioned goin' after 'em before you was dead set against it. Said we couldn't risk the search party that'd come to look for 'em if they didn't make it back."

  "That was before. Back when I figured they'd take no interest in us and therefore pose no threat. Now that one of 'em has shown otherwise, we can hardly leave 'em to go blabbin' back wherever they came from, can we? Plus, they've blooded us—no sonofabitch walks away from that without gettin' payback. And as far as any search party that might come around ... well, we'll have to deal with that if and when the time comes."

  "Now you're talkin'," Remsen said again, biting aggressively into his own piece of venison and tearing off a huge bite.

  It was broodingly quiet for a moment, until Evert said, "Thing I can't help wondering, though, is if our visitor from a little while ago actually was part of that rock climbing bunch."

  The others all looked at him.

  "Who the hell else would it be?" Elmer demanded. "Ain't nobody else around here."

  "Can we be sure of that? We didn't know those rock climbers existed, either, until only a little while ago."

  "I was up on that lookout roost all damn day," Danton argued. "I didn't see no sign of anybody."

  "Including the skulker who ended up shooting at us—not until you came upon him when you was returning to camp." Evert quickly raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "And I don't mean that you should have or even could have spotted him before then. That's my whole point. With all the mounds and hills and trees and gullies around here, you could march a couple cavalry patrols in and out and—depending where you happened to be located—never notice hide nor hair of them."

  "That may be," Elmer said, scowling. "But then the point becomes: How many folks you figure come traipsin' through here at any given time? You figure this is the goddamn Deadwood stage depot or something?"

  Evert shook his head. "I have no idea how many people are apt to pass this way. Yes, I realize it's a remote spot. All I'm saying is that there's room for several groups of people to be here at the same time and not necessarily bump into one another ... Plus, I keep thinking back to the impression Flynn and me both got from those rock climbers. The actions of whoever it was who shot at us tonight ... well, doggone it, it just don't fit with the kind of people we saw there."

  "He's kinda got a point, Elmer," said Remsen, licking his fingers loudly and then scrunching up his face in consideration. "They weren't nothin' but a bunch of dandies, just like we told you. Hard to believe one of them could've got the drop on Danton and then had the skill or the gumption, either one, to start blazin' away like he done."

  "You said they had a wagon driver with 'em, didn't you? Said he looked to have some bark on him. Right?"

  "Some bark, yeah," Remsen allowed. "But he also looked to have quite a few years on him. Can't picture him lightin' out through the trees and shadows the spry way that shooter done."

  "I agree," said Evert.

  "Maybe they had some other fella with 'em—a fella you didn't see," Danton offered. "A hunter or tracker or some such. That's how he came to be scoutin' around and found our camp in the first place."

  Evert shrugged. "That's possible, I suppose."

  "You damn right it is," said Elmer. "I ain't buyin' that there's somebody else roamin' around out here, totally aside from that bunch you spotted earlier. That'd be too much of damn coincidence. Spot this rock climbin' bunch in the daytime and then get shot at by some skulker that same night and have the shooter turn out to not be from the daylight bunch? No way, says I! ... It's those damn rock climbers we go after for payback."

  "When?" Danton wanted to know.

  "We find their camp in the pre-dawn and then hit 'em at daybreak." Elmer looked at Evert. "Can you find the spot you saw 'em at before?"

  "Sure."

  "Be nothing to it," said Remsen. "Me and Milo can lead you right to 'em."

  "Uh-huh. But the thing is," Elmer said, "you ain't goin' with us."

  "What do you mean I ain't goin'! Why the hell naah—" Remsen tried to rise up but then fell back as the pain from his wounded leg seared through him.

  "That answer your question?" Elmer said, walking over to stare down at him. "You can't even stand, how you gonna make it through rough country in the dark and then be in shape to do anything when the gun work starts?"

  "I'll cut a big branch to use for a walkin' stick. I'll tie another one to my leg for added support. Dammit, Elmer, I aim to go!"

  Elmer just looked at him.

  "What about Danton?" Remsen said. "He's wounded, too."

  "Danton's only got a busted arm. He can shoot with the other one. And he's still got two good legs to carry him along."

  Remsen gazed up, his eyes pleading along with his words. "I been right there at your side for all these years, Elmer ... It ain't right to leave me behind for something like this."

  "Ain't nobody I'd rather have at my side, ol' pard," Elmer husked. "But it can't be. Not this time. You'll wreck your leg beyond repair, maybe even bleed to death ... Besides, I need somebody to stay here and look after Virgil."

  "Virgil ain't goin' nowhere. And there's nothing I could do for him that ain't already been done. If he's gonna make it—"

  "He is gonna make it! I won't hear otherwise."

  Remsen held Elmer's glare for a long moment, but then looked away. " 'Course he is, Elmer ... 'Course he is."

  Elmer pressed his mouth into a hard, thin line. "I've made up my mind how it's gonna be. That's all there is to it. Me, Evert, and Danton will be leavin' out about three hours ahead of daybreak. That should give us time to find the rock climbers' camp and get in position ... Everybody ought to try and get some rest between now and then. Flynn and Danton, I expect you'll want to be nippin' some whiskey to cut your pain. I can appreciate that, but I can't afford for either of you to get too damn drunk, you under-stand? ... So, for now, ya'll go about your business however you see fit. Me, I'm goin' in to see if I can get Virgil to take some of this venis
on. He needs it to build his strength back up ... "

  * * *

  Many miles away, in the corral of an isolated scrub ranch located not too far south of the Colorado-Wyoming border, Vilo Creed strode among the half dozen penned horses, looking to pick out the best prospects for a fresh mount and two pack animals. The fact that the nearby ranch house was fully engulfed by flames at that same moment, the blaze popping and cracking, sending sparks spinning high into the murky sky, was causing the horses to mill and stamp nervously. Creed talked soothingly to them as he walked from one to the other, touching and stroking them gently.

  Creed glanced occasionally over at the fire as he worked his way through the horses. The flickering light played across the flat, blank expression on his face. Only his eyes glinted with a hint of emotion as he thought about the nice young couple who lay dead inside the house. Dead and burning.

  An hour and a half ago he had been taking supper with them. When he'd shown up late in the afternoon with a lame horse, seeking to purchase or trade for a replacement, the nice young couple had insisted he stay for supper and sleep the night in their stable. In the morning, the husband had promised, he would make Creed a fair deal for a replacement mount. That's where, in Creed's mind, the blame for what happened next all started. If they'd simply made the horse deal and left him to ride on, that would have been the end of it.

  But to expect him to just sit there at their kitchen table, with the pretty wife swishing about all smiling and gracious as she laid out the meal, tormenting him with the way she smelled—soap and cooking aromas mixed with the woman-scent that was smoldering deep under her crisp, flower-patterned smock ... well, it was more than he could bear. It was obvious what she wanted, what she needed. A strong man, a real man to ride her harder and longer than she'd ever had it before.

  So when Creed offered to deliver what she was asking for—laying it out plain and polite, right there in front of the husband, not like he was trying to sneak around or anything—that's when all hell had broken loose. When the husband tried to order him out of the house and off their property, Creed didn't see where he had any choice but to kill the unreasonable bastard. He took the carving knife off the plate of ham in the middle of the table and, by the time he was done with it, the husband's head was left attached to the rest of his body by only a stubborn strip of spine or gristle or some damn thing that Creed finally gave up trying to hack through.

  After that, he dragged the wife into the bedroom and repeatedly had his way with her. For all her teasing and egging him on, when it came down to it she just lay there like a sobbing rag doll. That angered Creed all over again. Made her just as rude as her damn husband. Even if she'd put up a fight—hell, Creed liked it when they made a scrap of it—he might have allowed her some slack. But to just lay there, limp and leaking tears ... that was a damn insult. Even Jack Sampson's fat-assed old lazy squaw had bucked back with more energy than that. So, once he'd drained himself a final time, Creed went and got the carving knife again and used it on the wife, too. The strip of gristle at the back of her neck wasn't near as stubborn.

  With his horses selected now and the saddle off his lame mount transferred over to the best of the three he'd culled out, Creed put the burning ranch house behind him and once more headed north. His intent was to ride through much of the night, rest a few hours toward morning, then make it to Vedauwoo sometime toward the middle of the following day.

  Too bad that pretty wife didn't have more bedroom buck in her, he told himself as he rode away. Would have made for a right nice memory to carry. As it was, damn shame, all he had was the stink of smoke and charred flesh that seemed to linger in his nostrils long after the ranch was out of sight.

  -SEVEN-

  It was full dark by the time Cash made it back to his camp. His breathing was somewhat ragged, his right side was blood-smeared and throbbing with dull pain. The bullet that had creased him there, he knew, had cracked a rib.

  Cash dropped with a heavy sigh onto his grounded saddle and wasted no time reaching for his canteen, which he tipped high and gulped greedily from. Once he'd slaked his thirst and allowed his breathing to level off, he carefully peeled away his shirt and tried to examine the wound. But it was too dark to see much more than the gash and the smear of blood he already knew was there. He poured some cool water over the bullet trough and that made it feel a little better.

  "I know your pain, White Deer," came a deep, steady voice from out of the darkness. "If you welcome me into your camp, I can help you."

  Cash gave a start at the words, hand instantly flashing to his Colt.

  "Do not be afraid, White Deer," came the voice again. "I am an old friend who means you no harm."

  Instinctively, Cash felt the urge to duck for cover. But something held him in place. White Deer was the name bestowed upon him by the Arapaho tribe of his boyhood. No one had called him that in years. And the voice ... In spite of its unexpectedness and eerie disembodiment, there was something about it that seemed vaguely familiar and at the same time strangely comforting.

  "Show yourself," Cash demanded, on his feet now, his hand never leaving the handle of the Colt. "Step out here where I can see you."

  A moment later, emerging from the brushy shadows that rimmed the campsite, the frail, bent figure of a very old man eased into view. The man was dressed in colorless fringed buckskin. Various feathers were tied into strands of his long white hair. Strings of beads and bones hung about his neck, the centerpiece of these being a single large buffalo horn dangling from a leather thong not unlike the one Cash wore about his own neck.

  If the man's voice had given Cash a start, the sight of him did nothing less.

  "Twisted Root?" Cash exclaimed breathlessly.

  The old man nodded. "Greetings, White Deer ... It has been many winters."

  Twisted Root had been the medicine man for Cash's tribe when he was a boy. He had seemed ancient even then.

  "Come. Sit," Cash urged him. "I will build a fire."

  Cash quickly weighed the risk of a fire and decided it was reasonable enough to start one. He'd already taken measures to make certain none of the robbers had tried following him and, barring that, there was little likelihood anyone would spot his fire from afar. He'd taken that into account when choosing this secluded spot, plus he'd stocked some dry twigs and branches for a smokeless burn when he first got here.

  The old man nodded again. When he did so, the dangling beads and bones rattled faintly and when he moved forward in a shuffling, stoop-shouldered motion it gave the illusion that the buffalo horn and other adornments hanging from his neck were weighing him down, bending him into that posture. "Yes, a fire. It will give us warmth and light for me to tend your injury."

  Cash spread one of his bedroll blankets atop a smooth boulder for Twisted Root to take a seat on. After that, he busied himself getting a fire going. Neither man spoke during this time. That suited Cash. It gave him a chance to think, to try and assemble the many questions and concerns that were tumbling wildly through his mind.

  What in the world was Twisted Root doing here? Why wasn't he with the rest of the tribe on the reservation far to the west? Cash had gotten word several years ago that his Arapaho step father, Lightning Cloud, had died up in Canada, before the tribe was ever relocated to the reservation. Despite the differences he'd had with his father, the news grieved him. Yet, in a sense, it was better that way; Lightning Cloud would never have lasted long—and a far more miserable death it would have been for him—had he been subjected to the restraints and regulations of reservation life. Considering this made it all the more surprising to Cash that Twisted Root, who was far older than his father and had always possessed his own fiercely independent streak, was still alive.

  What was more, beyond the matter of Twisted Root he now so suddenly and unexpectedly found himself faced with, Cash still had the Post Gang and the imminent arrival of Vilo Creed to consider.

  As if reading Cash's thoughts, Twisted Root abruptly brok
e the silence. "It saddens me to find, upon my return, that the beauty of Bito' O' Wu is shrouded under the threat of so much evil."

  "What evil do you speak of, Grandfather?" Cash said.

  The old man pointed to Cash's bullet wound. "Those who did that to you—are they not evil?"

  "They're a lawless bunch, that much is for sure," Cash conceded. "The work I do, once a man crosses that line, that's all I need to know. Whatever degree of evil may be in his heart is another matter."

  Twisted Root sighed. "If not them, then another who comes ... His heart is black and bottomless and the evil in him reaches all the way down."

  "Do you speak of the one called Vilo Creed?" Cash asked sharply. He'd almost forgotten how uncanny the medicine man's visions could sometimes be.

  "I do not know its name. I only sense that it is evil walking as a man ... And you, White Deer, stand in its way."

  "If you mean who I think you do, then you're damned right I aim to get in his way. It's what I came here for."

  "In that case," said Twisted Root, his thin slash of mouth pulling even thinner, "you had better let me tend your wound. You will need all your strength for what lies ahead."

  At Twisted Root's instruction, Cash set a small pot of water to boil on the fire. While the water was heating, the old medicine man took a needle and length of thread from one of the pouches hanging about his waist and used them to sew shut the bullet trough over Cash's cracked rib. Once the water had reached a boil, Twisted Root poured some of it into a shallow clay cup. From another pouch at his waist he took some ground herbs and berries, shredded plant leaves, a few blades of what looked like short prairie grass, and mixed them together in the steaming water. The concoction thickened into a greenish paste. After squeezing all the excess juice into a second clay cup, Twisted Root took the pulp and spread it liberally over the freshly-stitched gash. That done, he applied a direct dressing and tied it in place with strips torn from the sleeves of Cash's ruined shirt.