Savage Journey

by Neil Hunter

  Anger filled Kennick as he looked at that lone figure down there. What sort of a man could ruin three horses the way Griff had done? Out here horses were a prized possession. They could mean life or death for a man traveling these vast distances. That was one of the reasons why horse-stealing was a hanging crime. Yet, here was a man who had set three people afoot so he could run two horses to death and cripple a third in an attempt to escape from something he himself had started.

  ‘How in hell’s name has he got so far without the Comanches spotting him?’

  Beecher gave a mirthless grin that appeared sinister in his raw, streaked face. ‘Griff’s one of nature’s charmed children.’

  ‘I think maybe that charm’s about run out.’

  Beecher spat dryly. ‘I want that bastard,’ he said very softly, as though he was alone.

  ‘You forgetting he’s got two handguns and a rifle?’

  ‘Uhuh!’

  ‘We could use the horse.’

  ‘The lady gettin’ tired? Maybe we could carry her. In turn.’

  Kennick rounded on him. Beecher was smiling under his mask of dirt and his thick beard stubble. His skin had an oily sheen and there was a feverish glint in the red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Beecher, I’ll say it once. Keep away from her. Touch her once and I’ll kill you. I mean it.’

  Kennick waited for Beecher to take it further. But the breed seemed content to let it lay. He gave a vague shrug and turned back to watch Griff’s slow passage across the floor of the basin.

  Out on the flat, Griff McBride moved with the slowness of a man in a trance. Dust covered him from head to foot. Sunk deep in his face, his eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking and shining unnaturally. The reins of the plodding horse were clasped loosely in his right hand. Kennick’s rifle dangled limply from the other. One of the Colts was pushed inside the top of his pants; the second Colt was jammed into a pouch of a saddlebag.

  Silence lay all around him. Even the sound of his own passing was only a sifting whisper on the surface of this endless world of nothingness. Griff had known silence before, but here it was more pronounced. Or so it seemed to him. It made a man wonder if there really were towns and cities full of people and roaring noise. How could there be?

  Griff wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He turned to speak to Bo, then remembered Bo was dead. Bo wouldn’t speak any more, Griff told himself. Nor would the kid. He tried to say his youngest brother’s name, and found he couldn’t remember it.

  He halted. The reins fell from his fingers. How did you forget a thing like a brother’s name? Easy, a voice told him, you just don’t remember is all. Griff levered a round into the chamber of the rifle. Don’t lose your grip, boy, the voice warned.

  ‘I ain’t losin’ no grip!’ Griff yelled at the sky.

  Can’t even say his brother’s name, the voice whispered tauntingly.

  Griff whirled around, dizziness spinning inside his head.

  ‘Damn heat! I ain’t quittin’. All I need is some good water an’ a place to light.’ His voice sounded hollow in the vast emptiness. You ain’t gettin’ to me! I can take it! Been around too long to quit on account of a mite too much sun!’

  When he stopped yelling, the silence seemed to mock him. Griff turned again. A few yards off the horse was watching him wearily. He stumbled toward it, but the animal shied away from him.

  ‘Goddam you stand still! I got trouble enough without a mule-headed horse actin’ up on me!’

  He made another lunge for the reins but the animal moved out of reach again.

  ‘Stand still, for God’s sake!’ Griff shouted.

  He lurched forward, his breath sobbing in his chest. Then he slipped and sprawled full-length in the dust. His finger caught in the rifle’s trigger and the weapon went off with a thunderous crash. The horse snorted in terror and began to run back across the flat the way they had just come.

  Griff lay for a moment, trying to get control of himself. Pushing to his feet he wiped dust from his mouth. ‘Damn horse!’

  Then his head came up. Back across the flat he saw the horse heading toward the long slope that led out of the basin.

  ‘Hey! Goddam you! Come back here, you hunk of buzzard bait!’ Rage spilled over. Griff cursed and ranted. Two horses had died on him and now the third was running off. He couldn’t walk out of here. Wearily, he began to retrace his steps. He kept his eyes on the horse. Saw it labor up the slope, then halt on the crest before limping slowly out of sight.

  Griff stepped up his pace. The animal was tired. Like as not he’d find it beyond the crest, waiting. Anyway, it hadn’t the strength to run far.

  When he reached the foot of the slope Griff paused. His lungs strained. He ached all over. He was tired, so damn tired. He wondered how a man could get so tired and still go on.

  Slowly he began to move up the slope. The crest seemed to be a hundred miles and a year away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kennick found the Colt in the saddlebag pouch. He checked the chamber and dropped the gun in his holster. He checked the saddlebags for other weapons, but found nothing.

  ‘Gives you an unfair advantage,’ Beecher said.

  ‘Also gives me a comfortable feeling,’ Kennick told him.

  ‘Man ought to be able to trust those around him,’ the breed observed dryly. He picked up the horse’s reins and led the limping animal down to where Jeannie lay.

  Kennick crawled to the rim of crest and watched Griff’s slow progress up the long slope. He drew his Colt, feeling sweat grease the wood grips. The feel of the weapon in his hand made him feel a lot better. He was still a little dazed by what had happened. But that didn’t stop him from thinking. Luck had showed in the right place for once. Now it was up to him.

  Griff was close now. Kennick saw how tired he was. He came up the slope like an old man.

  Behind Kennick, the horse suddenly snorted. Griff halted, stared hard at the crest. Kennick thumbed back the Colt’s hammer. He drew down on Griff, said, ‘Hold it right there.’ As he spoke he rose to his feet. ‘Don’t make me use it.’

  The surprise showed in Griff’s face. It was replaced in a minute, though, by a look of anger and hate.

  ‘You goddam son of a bitch! Can’t I get rid of you?’

  He’s not going to quit, Kennick thought bitterly. Here it was again. The threat of more violence, more bloodshed. Would he never be free of it? And he knew with a sinking feeling of despair and resignation that he could be free only when Griff was dead. Stopped once and for all.

  ‘Griff, put the gun down. There’s no sense in carrying it any further,’ he said, giving it one last try.

  But Griff only laughed, a crazy, wild sound. Still laughing, he swung his rifle up and across at Kennick.

  As he saw the black muzzle of the rifle come up, Kennick threw himself to one side. He landed on his side, rolled, yelling a warning that was lost in the blast of Griff’s rifle. The slug gouged the ground feet away from Kennick’s rolling body. Swinging round, Griff fired again. The slug seared across Kennick’s back.

  Kennick quit rolling, raised his Colt. Still his finger hesitated on the trigger. Was this the only way? Did it have to be settled this way? But he knew the answer. Griff was beyond reason. Reluctantly, Kennick squeezed the trigger, felt the Colt slap his palm as it fired, saw a puff of dust rise from the front of Griff’s shirt just above the belt buckle. Griff twisted to one side, then braced himself. He turned toward Kennick again, holding the rifle surprisingly steady.

  This time Kennick didn’t hesitate before he fired. The bullet caught Griff over the heart. Now the rifle sagged to the ground as Griff fell to his knees. A red blotch showed on his shirt, spread rapidly. As Kennick got to his feet, Griff toppled heavily on his side and rolled on to his back, dead eyes staring up into the bright sun.

  Crossing over to him, Kennick picked up the rifle, and removed the other Colt from Griff’s belt. There were spots of blood on the butt and he hastily wiped his palm on his pant
s.

  Kennick was not really aware of Beecher leading the horse to the top of the rise behind him as he knelt beside Griff and closed the sightless eyes. ‘Satisfied, Griff?’ he said bitterly. ‘Is this the way you wanted it? Was it worth two years of hating?’

  ‘Come away, Luke.’ It was Jeannie. He glanced up at her, finding comfort in her look, the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm.

  ‘He always was a hanger-on,’ Beecher said tonelessly. ‘Never did know when to give up.’ He looked at Kennick. ‘You ready to go?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Leave him. Ain’t no way we can bury him out here.’

  Kennick stood up. ‘Doesn’t seem right, leaving a man like this.’

  Beecher shrugged the matter off. Jeannie said, ‘I could say a prayer, if it would help.’

  Kennick nodded and moved to one side, removing his hat. He stood, head bowed, as Jeannie knelt beside Griff and spoke her prayer in a strong steady voice.

  ‘Grateful, Jeannie,’ Kennick said, when she finished. He helped her into the saddle of the lame horse and led the way down the slope without a backward glance.

  Beecher stood for a minute, gazing down at Griff. Then he turned his head and looked after Kennick. He knew that they would have to face each other over guns. How, he wondered, would that come out?

  ‘Quien sabe?’ he answered himself, and started down the slope.

  Toward evening they again saw Indian sign. At least ten mounted warriors heading south-east.

  ‘You figure they’re looking for us?’ Kennick asked.

  Beecher got up from where he’d squatted beside the tracks. ‘Maybe. But I ain’t too fussy about findin’ out.’

  From that point on, they moved with extreme caution. Night gave them some degree of cover. Kennick wished they had the facilities to make camp. They all needed hot food and coffee. And sleep. But those things would have to wait. Slaying alive was the thing now.

  Jeannie kept nodding into sleep and Kennick finally tied her into the saddle. She didn’t even wake up.

  A pale moon rose and silvered the land. With night came the cold. The sudden change from extreme heat to biting cold set them to shivering.

  Dawn found them crossing country thick with mesquite. Far to the north ran a jagged line of low rock hills. Ahead was a rolling plain of humps and basins, of sand beds and crumbling outcroppings of sandstone, split and divided by fissures and ravines and dry washes and creek beds.

  Jeannie had to dismount when the horse finally gave out. Kennick had a look at the animal’s lame leg and shook his head. ‘Won’t make another half mile.’

  ‘Put him down, amigo,’ Beecher suggested.

  ‘Risk a gunshot out here?’

  ‘No good. Lend me your knife and take the lady on ahead.’

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ Kennick said, as he passed over his knife. ‘I won’t be looking the other way.’

  ‘Of course,’ Beecher said gently.

  Kennick led Jeannie a way off. He didn’t take his eyes off Beecher the whole time. When it was over, Beecher walked back to Kennick, the knife held loosely in his hand, his eyes on the muzzle of the rifle that Kennick held so easily, yet so threateningly. The breed tossed the knife, point first, into the sand at Kennick’s feet. Kennick retrieved it as Beecher went on by.

  He took Jeannie’s arm and led her after Beecher. They had a long way to go yet by his figuring. Could they do it? On foot, without food or water. The Brazos suddenly seemed on the other side of the world. He glanced at Jeannie, moving slowly by his side, barely able to lift her feet, dragging them more and more. He knew the weariness that weighed her down. He was getting close to the limit himself now. How long before he was through? How long before the heat and exhaustion got to him? How damn long?

  They walked through the morning and well into the afternoon. Twice they saw mounted Indians in the distance. But each time they were able to conceal themselves. Could they keep it up? That was the question in their tired minds. Maybe the next time they would be spotted. What then? The answer wasn’t worth considering.

  Time had long since ceased to exist for them. Now they saw no further than the next rise, the next crumbling ridge. They kept moving, driven by the fear that if they stopped they wouldn’t be able to go on again.

  Toward late afternoon as they made their way up a mesquite-dotted slope the sound of shots broke the silence that had wrapped them for so long.

  Kennick was snapped out of his stupor by the familiar sound. The firing continued slowly, as they moved in its direction. It was still strong long minutes later when they drew themselves down at the top of the slope and looked beyond, seeking the source of the firing.

  ‘Christ!’ Beecher croaked.

  Kennick stared with aching eyes at the scene before them, wondering if he was seeing things, hoping that he wasn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Their first thought was that it was a mirage, a scene dreamed up by numb, sun-seared minds.

  From where they lay, the land swept down in broken sandy slopes sprouting dry, brittle grass and mesquite. But it was beyond this that they looked, across the flats, to the shine of a muddy ribbon of water snaking its way across the land.

  The Brazos. They had reached it without realizing how close they were. It was no mirage. It was real.

  So, too, were the dozen mounted Comanches racing their mounts across the flats toward the defenders of eight Army supply wagons. At least eight to nine other Comanches lay motionless on the river bank. The wagons were apparently well protected. Kennick could see a large number of uniformed men.

  Even as he watched, several of them swung into saddles and headed away from the wagons. They rode out across the flats at a gallop. The Comanches, as though recognizing suddenly that they had taken on too much, fired a few shots at the oncoming cavalry, then wheeled about and rode fast for safety. The cavalry thundered in pursuit, downing two Comanches before a low hill hid them from Kennick’s view.

  It was a minute before Kennick could think straight and then relief washed over him. A short while ago, he’d been wondering how long it would be before they were finished. Now, up ahead, was the Brazos, and help, which they needed badly.

  He turned to Jeannie. She lay where she had dropped, asleep, unable to fight off exhaustion any longer. Kennick smiled through his beard and the dirt layered on his face. She could sleep all she wanted now.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ Kennick asked Beecher.

  With Beecher’s help, he got Jeannie up in his arms. He held her close as he stepped over the crest of the slope and started down the other side. He let Beecher go on ahead, and held the rifle across the front of Jeannie’s body.

  As they came out on to the flat, they were spotted by men on the wagons. After a moment, three soldiers came away from the wagons and moved out to meet them. One of them was a captain, one a sergeant, the third was a trooper. Beecher went on by them without pause, heading straight for the wagons. The sergeant turned to watch him, then shrugged and came on as the trooper reached Kennick.

  ‘The lady hurt?’

  Kennick shook his head. ‘Just plain worn out.’

  ‘We got a doc with us,’ the trooper said. ‘You want I should take her for you? You look about done yourself

  Kennick let the trooper take Jeannie, watched him carry her quickly to the wagons. He switched his gaze to the captain. He felt he knew the man, and after thinking some, the name came to him.

  ‘Captain Bodine, isn’t it?’

  The man nodded. ‘We know each other?’

  ‘You were at Cameron for six months, about four years back. The name’s Kennick. Luke Kennick. Used to be Lieutenant Kennick.’

  Bodine nodded again. He was a blocky, gray-haired veteran of frontier war, his brown face deep-lined and worn. ‘You had bad luck. Heard about it. Don’t expect me to pass judgment. I’m not sure what I’d have done in the same situation. You made your choice.’ He indicated the sergeant. ‘This is Sergeant Cla
ff.’

  Claff said, ‘I suppose you’ll be knowing that old bastard O’Hara?’

  Kennick nodded. ‘I know him. Friend of yours?’

  A dry laugh came from Claff. He pointed to one of the dead Comanches. ‘Compared to Bren O’Hara, they’re friends.’

  ‘From the state you’re in and the direction you’ve come, I’d say you’ve had troubles,’ Bodine said.

  ‘You’d be right,’ Kennick answered. ‘If I can sit down before I fall down, I’ll tell you about it.’

  Over his third cup of coffee, Kennick told his story to Bodine and Claff. They listened in silence while he went over what had happened since he left Fort Cameron for the Brazos. That day seemed a lifetime back to Luke Kennick.

  ‘And you rode into this Comanche village alone?’ Bodine asked.

  ‘It was a crazy stunt I know. But I felt I had to do something. The Indian was dying. He was no damn use to the Army dead, and I hadn’t the know-how to keep him alive.’

  Bodine eyed him. ‘You sound bitter, Kennick.’

  ‘Maybe because I am. This whole thing has been one hell of a mess. Kicking Bear is surely dead by now, which won’t exactly make the Comanche braves happy. It won’t please the Army. They were hoping to use his trial to help their peace talks.’ Kennick put his cup down. ‘I took this job because I thought it would help me pay off what I owed those men who died on my patrol. I’ll tell you something, Bodine. I’ve had that notion knocked out of me once and for all. A man can’t go through life trying to find ways of paying off past mistakes. Bad as they are, past mistakes are just that—in the past. That’s where they should stay. A man’s got to live with his mistakes, not let them crowd him.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Sergeant Claff nodded.

  Bodine said, ‘Hard on you about that man McBride and his brother.’