by Abe Dancer
It was Harper’s only shield.
Harper threw himself to the floor as the stout cook hit the tiles. Again her body shook as more bullets cut into her now lifeless form. The silver coin rolled from her blood-soaked bodice towards him.
It was now crimson.
The youngster rolled back towards a massive cooking range and then found a small whitewashed wall to give him cover. He pushed himself up against it as more bullets tore across the room. Plaster exploded everywhere and covered Harper. He cocked his gun hammer again.
Harper looked around the side of the low wall and blasted his Colt again.
Another volley of lead smashed into the iron cooking-range behind him. Harper ducked as shrapnel bounced off the walls and cascaded over him.
Then, dusting the debris off his screwed-up eyes, he saw the open window to his left. His mind raced. He had no idea why the five gunmen had opened up on him and yet they had. The piteous body of the female was evidence of that. He knew he had to escape or he would join her.
Scrambling on to his knees the young man inhaled deeply. He then rose up from his hidingplace. Only the thick smoke masked his movement from the eyes of his attackers. He sprang and leapt like a puma through the gap in the white wall.
Harper hit the sand outside the window, rolled over and then began to run into the unlit alleys. How long it would take them to discover his flight he could not know, but Harper did not waste a second thought on the subject. Their bullets had not even grazed him and he wanted to keep it that way. He did not stop running until he arrived at the livery stable and found his horse again.
No man had ever saddled a horse as speedily as Harper had done that dark night. Within minutes he had mounted and spurred and ridden away from Senora.
Had he known that the five men behind him would continue to chase him for the next two days into a merciless desert, Harper might have chosen to remain in Senora and fight.
But he had spurred instead.
Foresight was a gift he, like so many others, had never been blessed with.
*
Like the ticking of a clock the sound grew more and more annoying to the man lying helplessly on his back. Harper battled with the nightmares which taunted him until he eventually won and opened his eyes. For a moment he just stared upward. The day had ended and had been replaced by a million stars twinkling like jewels on a black velvet cloth. Harper wondered how long he had been asleep.
Then the sound which had dogged and taunted him for so long before he had at last fallen unconscious became obvious. His eyes darted to his right and he saw it.
His eyes focused upon the wheel atop an upturned wagon. As the sand beneath the weathered framework of the ancient prairie schooner shifted, the wheel moved. With no grease remaining between hub and axle the noise continued.
An ear-splitting noise.
Suddenly Harper realized that his throat was no longer dry. He raised a hand and touched his face. It had been washed free of the sand that had stung like a nest of loco hornets for so long, and had been covered in some sort of salve.
Harper raised himself up on an elbow. The sight which met him reminded him of the moments just before he had lost his fight with the blackness which had overwhelmed him.
He blinked hard.
It made no difference. They were still there.
Six Indians sat close to him. Their colourful ponies were tied up close by and his own horse’s reins were secured to the tailgate of the wagon.
‘You helped me,’ Harper said with more than a hint of surprise in his voice. ‘How come?’
Five of the braves remained seated like carved statues. The sixth rose and crawled to the side of the weak Harper.
‘They no have your tongue,’ the brave said. ‘I only one who speak your tongue. You sick like lost dog. We help.’
Harper stared at the man beside him. Although he had never met an Indian before he had seen many photographic images of various tribes. This man and his companions did not seem to fit into any likeness that he could recall.
‘Are you an Apache?’
The man shook his head angrily. ‘No Apache! We have no name. We come from the place where the eagle soars high and we live higher in the face of the golden mountain.’
Harper sat upright. ‘I don’t understand.’
The brave pointed south. ‘There is our land. We live there all time since Great Spirit made us.’
Harper still did not understand. He looked around him. The dunes surrounded them on three sides. Suddenly he recalled the five riders who had been after him for two days. He grabbed the hand of the brave.
‘Have you seen the other men?’ He held up his own hand and pointed to his fingers. ‘Five bad men!’
The Indian nodded. ‘They sleep.’
Harper heaved a big sigh. ‘Good.’
‘Why they hunt you?’
‘I don’t know, friend,’ Harper replied honestly. ‘They want me dead though, and no mistake.’
The Indian nodded. ‘Apache hunt and kill my people. We know not why.’
Harper was anxious. He rubbed his neck. ‘I have to get away from here but I’m plumb lost.’
‘You fit to travel, White Eyes?’ The voice was low and concerned. ‘You want we take you to better place?’
‘I reckon so.’
‘We travel by stars.’ The warrior stood and then helped Harper up on to his feet. ‘We give you and pony water when you sick. Desert cannot kill if you have water.’
‘I thank you.’ Harper ran a hand along the horse he had thought would be buzzard bait by now. The creature looked fresh and able to continue their journey. Harper looked at the Indian brave again. ‘Where did you get water in this desert?’
The Indian smiled. ‘Water all over if you know where to look for it.’
‘All I see is sand,’ Harper confessed. ‘I must be pretty dumb.’
The Indian nodded in agreement. ‘We ride now.’
SEVEN
For more than seven hours the caravan of horses moved slowly through the dunes beneath the bright moon. An eerie silence filled the air as the soft terrain muffled the shod and unshod hoofs. During the long trek one of the other braves had spotted some sort of deer. With a swiftness and accuracy which astounded Harper the Indian had produced a bow and sent an arrow across 300 yards and killed the creature. It had been gutted and thrown across the hindquarters of the brave’s pony within minutes of the kill. Only then did Harper notice several other dead animals on the rest of the ponies. This must be a hunting party seeking game to return to their mysterious homeland, Harper thought.
The Indian who had spoken to Harper led them. Like an ancient mariner out in middle of an uncharted ocean he used the stars to lead him back to the place from which they had originally set out. For the first time in more than two days the young drifter felt safe.
Whoever these strange Indians were, he concluded, they were friendly. They were not the savages he had heard tell of by those who had only read about the West in dime novels.
Hal Harper wondered where they were headed.
He also wondered if he would ever be able to return to the place he had once called home. A place far to the east of the Pecos river.
But he would gladly remain with these people if it meant that he would not find himself in another cruel battle like the one he had been involved in back at Senora. He had never had to fight for his life before and he did not wish to repeat the experience.
As mile followed mile a thousand thoughts filtered through his mind. But, unlike those that had tormented him before he had been saved from certain death by these six strangely dressed men with long black hair, his thoughts were no longer dark.
Now he could actually imagine surviving in this desert.
He raised himself in his stirrups and looked around the strange, bluish landscape. The dunes were now thinning out and far ahead he could see towering spires of rock.
Harper looked at the rider ahead of him. A single feather w
as plaited into the back of his mane of hair. It floated on the warm air and danced across the man’s shoulders.
Who were these people?
Where was this land of theirs?
The description of it being the place where eagles soared high in a sky above where they lived in a golden mountain made no sense to Harper. Perhaps, he thought, the Indian had meant something else. But what?
Yet the thought of them living in a golden mountain intrigued the young horseman. Could it be true? Was there even the remotest of chances that it was true?
So many questions filled his mind. So few answers.
He kept his horse aimed after the lead rider. It was obvious that the man knew where he was headed.
Harper eased his mount alongside the pony.
The Indian pulled back on his rope reins and stopped his pony. Harper drew rein and stopped his own horse. The five others encircled them.
For a few seconds the Indians spoke to one another in their strange language and then the lead rider looked at Harper.
‘New day soon,’ he said, pointing at the horizon.
Again, Harper stood for a moment in his stirrups and stared out across the moonlit dunes to where the towering rocks stood like elongated stone fingers. Fingers which pointed at the very stars themselves.
‘What White Eyes look for?’
‘I thought there was a lake out here someplace,’ Harper said. ‘I could have sworn I saw a lake earlier.’
The Indian smiled. ‘Desert play tricks with you. It alive. It play and make you come to it. Then it kill. Desert have many ways to kill.’
A chill crept up Harper’s spine. He knew what his companion meant. There were lakes that only existed in the minds of those the desert tormented. He knew that he had come close to becoming just another pile of bleached bones. He shook again.
‘Why’d we stop, friend?’ Harper asked.
‘Horses need drink. Braves need drink.’ The Indian dropped from the back of his pony. The others followed suit.
Harper looked all around them. ‘But there ain’t no water hereabouts.’
The Indian told his fellow braves what Harper had said. They all began to laugh.
‘Hey! What’s your name?’ Harper asked the Indian.
‘I am Talka.’
‘I’m called Hal.’
‘Hal.’ Talka repeated the name and then knelt down on the soft sand. His large hands started to smooth the sand away in wide, well-practised strokes.
‘What you doing, Talka?’ Harper asked.
There was no reply. Within a few seconds the answer became obvious. A thin, almost perfectly round stone was revealed. Talka looked at his fellow braves, muttered a few words and they all knelt down beside him. Each gripped the rim of the stone and began to drag it sideways.
Harper felt his jaw drop in amazement. He stepped closer and stared into the hole. Even the eerie moonlight could not hide the sight of the water rippling. Water where the reflection of the large moon danced.
‘A well? Out here?’
Talka looked up. ‘Water.’
Harper nodded. ‘I’ll be damned!’
The Indians went to their ponies and pulled the large water bags from off the animals’ shoulders. One by one they dropped them into the cold, fresh liquid until they were filled.
‘Like Talka said,’ the Indian explained. ‘You have to know where to look, White Eyes Hal.’
‘But how?’ Harper could not comprehend.
‘Many moons ago my people had wells all over this land,’ Talka explained. ‘There were trees then. We always protected the water. Then the desert came. Slow at first. Then fast. The sand killed everything but not the water.’
Harper watched as the Indians watered their ponies and put the bags back over the shoulders of the creatures. He helped Talka return the flat stone over the waterhole and push the sand back over it.
‘You have more of these waterholes, Talka?’
The Indian smiled. ‘Many.’
They mounted again and drew their reins up to their chests. Talka pointed at the horizon. The very edge of the desert was starting to show signs of a new day. It appeared as though a glowing fire was out there just where the land met the sky. A fire which would soon erupt and send its light hurtling across the desert.
‘We must go,’ Talka said. ‘Not safe out here when sun comes back.’
Suddenly the distinctive sound of rifle fire broke the desert’s silence. One of the Indians screamed out in agony and slumped over the neck of his mount.
Harper drew his Colt and spun his horse full circle in a vain attempt to see who had fired the shot.
‘I thought you said them five critters that was hunting me were asleep, Talka? They must have trailed us here.’
‘Not white men.’ Talka reached across from his own pony and grabbed the mane of the wounded Indian’s mount.
Harper closed the distance between them. ‘Not white men? Then who?’
Talka pointed.
The youngster looked.
A score of mounted figures were lined up on a dune 200 yards to their left. The sunlight sped over the desert and crept up the dune. The twenty horsemen were then bathed in the red, glowing illumination.
It was a terrifying sight.
‘Who are they?’ Harper yelled.
‘They Apache.’
‘Why they shooting at us?’
‘They war party. They want our food.’ Talka replied hurriedly. ‘They kill us to get it, Hal.’
Harper cocked his gun hammer and blasted his .45 at the distant Apaches. They did not flinch. They knew that only a rifle could span the distance between them.
‘Damn! I ain’t got the range,’ Harper said.
‘We go.’ Talka thrust his heels into the sides of his pony and began to ride hard. The others followed. Harper spurred in pursuit.
Then more rifle fire came.
‘Ride into the sun!’ Talka ordered his followers.
The seven horsemen rode into the sun.
EIGHT
Dawn was greeted by the sound of Apache rifle fire. It travelled unchecked for miles across a landscape of sand dunes like the rumbling of distant thunderclaps. Its hideous clamour filled the dry desert air around the camp where Talbot and his four henchmen had bedded down for the night and still slept. It was the youngest of Talbot’s men, Ken Davis, who awoke first and jumped to his feet with his six-shooter in his hand.
Dazed and confused, Davis looked all around them as his startled companions clambered out of their bedrolls and got to their feet.
‘What ya shooting at, Ken?’ Talbot growled.
‘It weren’t me that was shooting, Tate,’ Davis replied as even more shots could be heard. ‘But somebody out there sure is.’
‘We got us some company by the sounds of it, Tate,’ Smith sneered.
Again more shots rang out far in the distance. The five men looked at one another. None of them could understand who in this unholy place was wasting so much lead.
‘That’s rifle shots, Tate,’ Will Henry said firmly. ‘Maybe someone else is after our Casey!’
‘Yep! It was rifle shots all right, Will,’ Talbot agreed as he walked out from the shadow of the dune into the bright sunlight and shielded his eyes from the low rising sun, ‘and they’re coming from that direction.’
Smith dusted himself off. ‘Who do ya figure would be firing rifles out here?’
‘It sure wouldn’t be Diamond Bob Casey,’ Liam Davis said bluntly as he plucked his bedroll off the sand.
‘He ain’t even got a carbine,’ Henry added. ‘If he had one he’d have bin able to pick us off by now. Who the hell is it out there?’
Talbot looked at his men.
‘Saddle up! We’re gonna find out if somebody else is trying to kill our Casey. If they are then we’ll kill them.’
Smith lifted his bedroll and paused beside Talbot. His eyes burned into the larger man.
Talbot turned to face Smith. ‘What’s eatin’ you,
Frank?’
‘How much is this Casey worth dead or alive, Tate?’ Smith asked coyly.
‘What ya mean?’
‘He must be worth a hell of a lot.’ Smith nodded. ‘You wouldn’t have brung us all the way out here into this desert if that dude wasn’t worth a small fortune.’
Talbot said nothing.
‘Or maybe it ain’t a small fortune,’ Smith continued. ‘Maybe he’s worth a real big one. Am I right, Tate?’
Talbot looked at the others. They were all waiting for the answer as keenly as Smith was.
‘He’s worth a tidy sum.’
‘How much?’
Talbot’s mind raced. ‘Thousands.’
‘How many thousands?’ Smith pressed.
‘OK. Casey’s worth ten grand,’ Talbot lied.
‘I figure that’s two grand apiece, Tate,’ Smith said. ‘Not the stinking two hundred ya wanted to pay us.
Reluctantly, Talbot nodded to the others. ‘OK, I’ll split the reward with you boys, even, like Frank here wants.’
Smith wandered to their horses. He winked at Henry and threw his blanket on the back of his horse.
‘Ya don’t want to rile Tate, Frank,’ Henry whispered. ‘Tate ain’t the sort ya want to rile.’
‘Quit grumbling, old-timer,’ Smith said, as he lifted his saddle and threw it on to the back of his horse. ‘I just made us an extra eighteen hundred dollars apiece.’
Talbot walked across to his horse and untied the reins which had kept the animal from straying through the hours of darkness. Without saying a word the man with the tin star on his shirt began to ready his mount for the next part of their pursuit.
Will Henry inhaled deeply. ‘I’d have settled for the two hundred dollars Tate was offering.’
‘I got us a lot more money, old-timer,’ Smith said with a twisted smile. ‘I for one will enjoy spending that extra dough.’
‘If ya live long enough to spend it, Frank.’ Will Henry glanced at Talbot and then back at Smith. ‘I’ve known Tate a tad longer than you. He ain’t the sort to cross and you just crossed him. He won’t forget that in a coon’s age.’