by John Legg
With a shrug, Morgan began moving on, slowly and warily. He carried the Winchester in his left hand. In his right he now had one of his Smith and Wessons, thumb on the hammer though the pistol was not cocked.
He stopped every few steps to wait and listen. A few minutes later, the sound of gunshots came from up on the canyon rim. Morgan winced, hoping that neither Rough Wolf nor Rabbit Tail had been hurt in that short gun battle.
Morgan moved on, wondering where Big Horse was. He would surely hate to shoot Big Horse by mistake—or be shot accidentally by his friend. Suddenly, his hat flew off, and he saw a puff of gun smoke tangled in the trees. He dropped to one knee, Smith and Wesson cocked and extended. He fired once at the spot where the puff of powder smoke had come from. He heard nothing and figured that the man had moved immediately after shooting.
Morgan did that, too, even as the thoughts ran through his mind.
An eerie, keening sound filtered through the lodgepole pines and Douglas firs, startling Morgan for a moment. Then he realized it was Big Horse. He figured that if Big Horse couldn’t kill someone with a gun or a bow, that sound might be enough to induce a heart attack.
Morgan moved a little more to his left and slipped from tree to tree. He was tired of the waiting and the skulking around. If someone was going to kill him, let him have his shot. If he missed, perhaps Morgan could pinpoint him and remove him. He moved at an oblique angle toward the place where the gunshot had come from.
Suddenly he froze. Something ahead had caught his attention, but he was not sure what. He waited, listening to the soft patter of the rain. Again he saw something, and finally he realized it was a shirt. He moved on, the little noise he was making masked by the gentle rain.
He stopped five feet from a fat, wheezing bag of a man who was hunched behind a little rock, trying to hide his obese form. “Hey, shit ball,” Morgan called out softly, “you’re under arrest.”
Morgan could not believe a man of Al Oberman’s extreme girth could move so fast. Still, the fat man could not outroll or dodge a bullet. Morgan emptied his Smith and Wesson into the fat carcass. Then he swiftly moved several feet to his right in case someone was trying to home in on his gun smoke.
No shots were coming, though, and Morgan took the time to reload his Smith and Wesson. Finally, he went forward again and checked on Oberman. The fat outlaw was quite dead, with four bullet holes. Just for an added precaution, he took Oberman’s rifle and pistol and heaved them into the forest.
Once more, Morgan began his stalking through the evergreen forest. He was sweating despite the cool rain, and he wiped his face and eyes regularly on a shirt sleeve, wishing he had retrieved his hat. As battered and full of holes as it was, it would still be better than no hat at all.
Big Horse’s high-pitched war cry echoed through the forest again, sending a chill up Morgan’s spine. He wondered how Big Horse was faring, though he assumed that the Shoshoni was doing just fine for himself.
Big Horse had moved off almost parallel to the small path. He moved silently through the trees, his keen eyes searching, searching. He had often suspected that he had lost some his powers to smell when he was in the white man’s school in Saint Louis. The few people he had mentioned it to told him he was crazy. Still, he was certain that he could not smell as well as he had before. He wished now that he had regained that facility. It most likely would help, since outlaws like these rarely bathed. He resigned himself to having to use only his eyesight, and maybe his hearing a little.
His eyesight was more than enough when he spotted a blue shirt and a speck of white face. He readied his bow and waited for a time, wanting to make sure he was not seeing his friend Morgan. While waiting, he heard the gunfire up on the rim, and he pushed the thought of it away. He would worry later whether Rabbit Tail and Rough Wolf had been killed, or had killed the outlaws.
The gunfire from the rim made the man in the blue shirt jump, and it was enough to tell Big Horse that it was not Morgan there. He loosed three arrows in the span of a heartbeat. All three found their target.
The outlaw stood gargling and choking, trying frantically to pull the arrow out of his neck, which it had gone through from side to side. Another arrow had gone through his upper arm and into the chest cavity on the side, pinning the left arm there. The third had hit several inches below the second, but hadn’t hit the arm, instead going straight into the body near the lowest ribs. The man finally fell.
Big Horse wove through the forest and retrieved his arrows, taking little care in their removal. As a result, several chunks of flesh were pulled from the outlaw’s body. The outlaw did not feel any of it.
The Shoshoni made a short war cry of victory over the body of his enemy, and with a grim smile took the man’s scalp. Then he moved through the trees again.
A few minutes later, he heard another gunshot, this one much closer, followed immediately by another. Then there was silence. Some minutes later, Big Horse heard four gunshots, one right after the other. He worried about Morgan and hoped it was the lawman doing the shooting.
Big Horse shrugged. He could do nothing to change it either way. He would press on, heading slowly in Morgan’s direction, to see if he could help the marshal. Suddenly, he was face to face with a white man almost as large as he.
Both were startled, but Big Horse recovered a heartbeat faster. He wrenched out his tomahawk, and as the white man began bringing his pistol to bear, Big Horse brought the tomahawk down on the man’s forehead, splitting his head like a ripe melon.
Big Horse kept his grip on the tomahawk as the outlaw went down without a sound, blood welling out of the ghastly chasm in his forehead and head. Once again, Big Horse took the scalp—a small one this time, in deference to the damage done to the man’s hair by the tomahawk—and crowed in victory. He turned and headed in the general vicinity in which he thought he would find Morgan.
The lawman still moved warily through the trees, seeking smother outlaw, though not even sure there was another outlaw here and alive. He found out there was at least one more when a bullet banged off the edge of his left hip, barely missing the bone.
Morgan flopped down to the damp ground and slithered through the soaked pine needles until he was behind a substantial tree. He rose, pistol out and ready, while he waited. He hoped the outlaw had seen him fall and would think him dead. He might even move in a little to try to steal from the body. These outlaws seemed the type to rob the dead.
His patience was rewarded as he spotted a man weaving through the trees. When the man came to something of a very small open space Morgan stepped out from behind the tree, hoping he would not regret this. In his mood, under these circumstances, he would feel perfectly justified in shooting the man down. But he figured he ought to try bringing him.in.
“You’re under arrest, shit ball,” he said. He stood sideways to the outlaw, Smith and Wesson at the end of a long, brawny arm. It was pointed at the outlaw’s head.
“Hey now, Marshal,” the man said, “I don’t want no trouble. I surely don’t. I’m just an innocent feller got caught up in something that ain’t my business and which I don’t want no connection with.”
“You’re full of shit. Now drop that piece or I drop you.” Morgan saw another figure moving behind the outlaw. He shifted his pistol a bit, ready to blast whoever it was.
Big Horse moved between the trees, bow nocked and ready to fire. That surprised Morgan. “This man’s mine, Big Horse,” he said sharply. “I’ve got him under control. You can put that bow away now.”
Morgan was beginning to think that Big Horse had gone crazy. Why else would he still be stalking forward? Then the outlaw moved, bringing his pistol up fast and snapping off two quick shots. Morgan felt one of the bullets skim around the side of his thigh.
At the same time that the outlaw fired, Big Horse released an arrow, and then another one almost immediately after. Morgan was stunned by the speed with which Big Horse fired, but he had no time to worry about it. In the space of an e
ye blink, the outlaw had fired twice, Big Horse had fired twice, and Morgan had fired twice.
Morgan saw the outlaw go down, and he whirled in Big Horse’s direction, crouching at the same time. Big Horse was walking nonchalantly toward him. Morgan slowly rose and looked around. Another outlaw lay dead with two arrows sticking up out of his body. Morgan breathed a sigh of relief.
“I hope that’s the last of them,” Morgan said with feeling.
“I think it is. You got two, I take it?”
Morgan nodded. “How about you?”
“Three counting this one,” Big Horse said as he jerked the arrows out of the man’s body. He pulled his knife and looked at Morgan. “You mind?” he asked.
Morgan shook his head. He had never understood why people—white or red—scalped. It didn’t make any sense to him.
Big Horse put his bloody trophies away. “Let’s see,” he said, “you got two, I got three, and we got three on the path; that’s eight.”
“And three made it up the trail.”
“Eleven,” Big Horse said. “Rough Wolf miscounted.”
“I hope not by any more,” Morgan said.
“Don’t judge him too harshly, Buck. There could’ve been a hundred men in that cave and we might’ve only seen five or six.”
“I know. I’m not complaining about his counting, just hopin’ there aren’t any more of these bastards out here.” Morgan shook his head. “Well, let’s get up the trail and see if everyone’s all right up there. I’ve been a little worried since I heard the gunfire up that way.”
“Me, too.” Big Horse paused. “Let’s see if we can rustle up a couple of the outlaws’ horses. I don’t fancy the idea of walking up that goddamn trail.”
Morgan nodded, and the two headed toward the old path. They found the horses calmly cropping grass not far from the cave. Morgan and Big Horse pulled themselves into saddles and then rode up the trail as quickly as they dared.
Chapter Thirty-Two
At the top, Morgan and Big Horse found Rough Wolf dead, struck by three bullets. They also found a dead outlaw, his chest pierced by three arrows.
But mostly they found a wide-eyed, angry, and wounded Rabbit Tail. The boy’s face was enraged, and though he had a bullet in his arm, he was still busy trying to calm down the horses. The animals had not liked all the activity and the gunfire. Morgan and Big Horse helped out and quickly got the horses settled.
The three of them sat. “What happened, Rabbit Tail?” Morgan asked.
Big Horse translated as the boy spoke. “I heard guns from down below, so I went to take a look. Next I saw three riders coming hard up the hill. They almost ran me over, but I got out of the way. One—a man with a necklace of fingers and ears—saw me and fired at me twice, but his horse was skittish, so he missed.”
Rabbit Tail paused, thinking back to what had happened so he would be sure to get it right. “I ducked into the trees away from our horses. They tried to follow at first, but the trees were too thick. The next thing I saw was Rough Wolf coming out of the canyon. He fired three arrows, hitting the one that’s dead over there. But then the other two fired at him. I saw him go down. Then the outlaws galloped off. I think they were afraid there were more of the People here.”
“A reasonable thought on their part,” Morgan said quietly. “You did well, boy, you really did. That was smart to go away from the horses so those shit balls wouldn’t find them. I suspect their horses are more than half played out after a fast ride up that trail.” Rabbit Tail beamed but said nothing, not even when Big Horse winked at him.
“Well, boy,” Morgan said, “I best take a look at that arm.”
“We’ll need to get on the trail right away, won’t we?” the boy protested.
“We will soon enough. Those shit balls can’t hide anymore. They won’t get far.” He smiled at the boy. “I think you’re just scared of old Dr. Morgan.” Rabbit Tail got angry, but then laughed. “Maybe I am.”
“We’ll need a fire first,” Big Horse said. “Come, Rabbit Tail, I’ll help you look for wood. You,” he said to Morgan, “take a look at your own wounds.”
“Getting mighty bossy here, aren’t you, chief?”
“Somebody has to do it.” Big Horse and Rabbit Tail walked off. While they were gone, Morgan got a small bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags. He almost always carried one, mostly for medicinal purposes like these, but it was often a good thing to have a few snorts handy.
He slid his pants down. As he expected, both wounds looked superficial. He squatted, gritted his teeth, then poured a little whiskey on each. It stung like hell, and he winced. There had been times, like this one, when Morgan thought the fixing up of the wound was worse than having gotten it in the first place.
Morgan was just buckling on his gun belt when the two Shoshoni returned. Soon there was a small fire going. Without a word, Big Horse took his knife and put the blade in the flames. Rabbit Tail saw it and gulped.
“All right, son,” Morgan said. “Best make yourself comfortable as you can.”
With wide, frightened eyes, the boy lay on the ground. Morgan cut open his sleeve, then gently lifted the arm and looked at it.
“Well, the bullet’s still in there, but I don’t know how the hell it didn’t come out. You’re lucky it didn’t break the bone or hit the artery.”
“Can you get it out?” Rabbit Tail asked nervously.
“Easy.” Morgan grabbed Rabbit Tail’s good arm and pulled him up until the boy was sitting. “Here,” he said, “feel this.” He gently guided Rabbit Tail’s hand to the back side of the upper arm. “Feel that?”
Rabbit Tail nodded and grinned. “That’s the bullet?”
“Yep. Unless you have some kind of strange growth in your arm.” He smiled. “You do know I’ll have to cut the arm to get the bullet out, don’t you?”
The boy nodded nervously.
“It shouldn’t hurt too much. But what I’m going to have you do is lay down on your belly so I have a clear space for cutting and such. Big Horse’ll give you a stick to bite on. He’ll also be here, if you need to squeeze his hand.”
Rabbit Tail was crying a little. It seemed to Morgan that Rabbit Tail had been holding it in for a while. He did look abashed, though.
“Don’t worry about the tears, son,” Morgan said softly. “There’s no shame in it.”
Big Horse nodded at the boy in agreement.
“All right, Rabbit Tail, roll over and get comfortable.” Morgan got the whiskey and poured a little over his knife blade, then over his hands. “Keep that blade,” he said, pointing to the one in the fire, “handy. I figure we’re going to need it.”
“That’s why it’s there.”
“Keep a good grip on him, too,” Morgan said, nonplussed. “I can’t have him thrashing around while I’m cutting him.”
“Damn, Buck, you think I’ve never helped cut a bullet or arrowhead out of someone before?”
Morgan grinned ruefully. “Sorry. I’m not thinking. Usually when I get stuck doing something like this I’ve got a bunch of people around me who don’t know their asses from a cave.”
Big Horse nodded. He jammed a stick between Rabbit Tail’s jaws and then placed a big, strong hand on Rabbit Tail’s back. His other hand gripped Rabbit Tail just above the elbow.
“Here goes, son,” Morgan said. He gingerly slit the skin of Rabbit Tail’s arm and then cut a little deeper, through the flesh. Rabbit Tail squirmed like an eel, but he really couldn’t move much, especially the arm. Big Horse was making sure of that.
“Got you, you little bastard,” Morgan said as he pulled the bullet out with two grimy fingers. He dropped the bullet, grabbed the bottle, and poured some whiskey in the gash.
Rabbit Tail sucked in a breath and all his muscles tensed.
“Almost done, boy,” Morgan said soothingly. He turned and grabbed Big Horse’s red-hot blade. Without warning, he set the hot metal on the wound.
Rabbit Tail stiffened even more, and then he rel
axed completely—into unconsciousness.
Morgan pulled the blade away and stuck it in the fire again. “Best turn him over and make sure he didn’t swallow his tongue or anything,” Morgan said.
Big Horse gently rolled the boy onto his back and forced his jaws open. “Seems to be fine.”
Morgan nodded. He pulled the knife out of the fire again. With a small grin, he said, “Well, this one ought to be a hell of a lot easier.”
That done, Morgan bandaged the arm with an old shirt he had in his saddlebags. He also fashioned a makeshift sling to keep the arm from being jostled.
When Morgan finished up on Rabbit Tail, Big Horse skinned the two rabbits he had shot while he and Rabbit Tail had been out looking for firewood. He jabbed green sticks through the skinned and gutted rabbits and hung them over the fire. Morgan made the coffee. Then both sat back, leaning against wet logs. Morgan picked up the bottle of whiskey. “Want a dose?” he asked.
Big Horse nodded. “Don’t mind if I do.” He took the bottle Morgan held out and drank half of what was left. Morgan took the bottle back and finished it off.
“What happens now, Buck?” Big Horse asked.
“We take care of Rabbit Tail first. Then we get him back to the village. Rough Wolf’s body, too,” he said.
“And then?”
“Depends which way Murdock and whoever the other one was go.”
“Was one of the men you killed down there Nordmeyer?”
Morgan shook his head. “No. You?”
“Nope.”
Morgan nodded. “That must’ve been him with Murdock.”
“My thoughts, too.”
They ate in silence, finishing just about the time Rabbit Tail came to. “Hungry?” Morgan asked.
“A little.”
Big Horse handed him a piece of meat on a knife. The boy took it and ate gingerly, as if he was afraid the food would do something strange and terrible to his stomach.