Tanner's Law

by Charles G. West

  Holding their horses to a walk as the whooping Kiowa charged into their village, the four brothers took their time reaching the camp. “When are we gettin’ the hell outta here?” Ike wanted to know. “We’ve got about all we’re gonna get from Yellow Calf, and I don’t cotton to hangin’ around any longer.”

  “Hell,” Jesse piped up, “I wouldn’t mind hangin’ around a while longer. Maybe we could go on another raid with Yellow Calf’s Injuns.”

  “I swear,” Ike replied, “I believe you got some wild Injun blood in you.”

  “We’re leavin’ in the morning,” Garth said, settling the matter. “Just as soon as we load them buffalo hides in the wagons, we’ll head on out to Fort Lyon and sell ’em. Then we’ll head up to Denver City maybe.”

  “What about my shoulder?” Joe asked. Up to then, not one of his brothers seemed to care if he was suffering with the painful wound. “I’m hurtin’ awful bad.”

  Garth did not harbor a great deal of compassion for his youngest brother. “Stop your bellyachin’,” he replied. “You ain’t gonna die from a little lead in your shoulder. When we get to Yellow Calf’s, Ike’ll dig it out.”

  “I wish there was a doctor around here,” Joe complained.

  “Ike’s all the doctor you need,” Garth said. “If you’da kept your eye on the man with the gun instead of lookin’ at Cora, you wouldn’t have a pistol slug in your damn shoulder.”

  “We could let the Kiowa medicine man take it out,” Jesse teased, enjoying his brother’s plight. “He’d probably wave an eagle feather over it a couple times, then chop it out with a war ax.”

  “I’ve a mind to put a bullet in your shoulder,” Joe threatened, causing Jesse to chuckle again. The wound was no laughing matter to the youngest of the four brothers. It was painful. The shoulder was swollen and inflamed all around the bullet hole. There was no question that the bullet would have to be removed.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Joe Leach cried out when Ike’s blade probed into the hole made by Jeb’s bullet, his back arching in an effort to pull away. The few Kiowa who had gathered around to watch the procedure grunted in response.

  “Hold him, Jesse,” Ike said as his incision caused a fresh stream to spread over blood already dried around the wound. He pushed the skinning knife in deeper, searching for the lead slug. To Joe he said, “This ain’t nothin’. If we waited till this thing really got red and puffy, then you’d have somethin’ to moan about.”

  “Your cuttin’ is worse than it was to get shot,” Joe complained. “Give me another shot of that whiskey.”

  Jesse released one hand long enough to reach the jug and hold it for Joe to take a long drink. He grinned as most of the fiery liquid spilled down Joe’s chin. “You done drunk enough to knock most men out.”

  “I ain’t had enough to dull that knife yet,” he gasped. “Gawdam!” he yelled when Ike moved the tip of the blade, still probing.

  “I felt it that time,” Ike said. “Now, if I can just work it loose a little bit.”

  This proved to be the most painful part of the operation, for Ike kept working the bullet back and forth, trying to dislodge it from the muscle. It was too much for Joe. He actually enjoyed a ghoulish rush from watching others mutilated, but when it was his flesh that was being slaughtered, it was a different matter. “Hurry up,” he pleaded. “I don’t feel so good.” It might have been better for him had he not watched the knife probing around in the bloody mess Ike had created out of the neat black bullet hole. As it was, however, the pain, the sight of his own blood, and the excessive quantity of rotgut whiskey he had consumed rendered him queasy.

  “Uh-oh,” Jesse warned, “I can smell it comin’.” He released his hold on Joe and jumped back to avoid the disgusting gusher that erupted from Joe’s mouth.

  Ike was not so lucky, being the recipient of the major portion of his brother’s stomach contents. Revolted by Joe’s sudden discharge, he fairly thrust his knife in angry reprisal, cutting the muscle away from the bullet. Seeing the slug free then, he picked it out with his fingers and flung it at his patient. “There’s your damn bullet,” he roared. With only a glance at Jesse, rolling on the ground laughing, he stormed out of the tipi, heading for the river.

  Pulling himself up on all fours, Joe yelled after his brother, “Don’t leave me like this, dammit. I need a bandage or something. I’m bleedin’ like hell.”

  One of the Kiowa spectators, like the other warriors, puzzled by the bizarre treatment of a bullet wound, turned and left the tipi. A few minutes later, he returned with a young Indian woman. Looking at Joe, he pointed to his shoulder. “She fix,” he said. The woman immediately knelt down and began to cleanse the wound with a wet cloth she had brought with her. In a short time, the wound was cleaned and bandaged. She favored Joe with a faint smile, and quickly withdrew from the tipi. The Kiowa who had brought her nodded his head in approval before he turned and followed her.

  At sunup the following morning, Garth was ready to depart the Kiowa village. The wagons loaded with hides stood ready to roll, with Jesse driving one and Ike the other. The only missing brother was Joe. Irritated, Garth stalked into the tipi to find Joe still in his blanket. “Get your ass outta here,” Garth roared. “I ain’t waitin’ around here for your lazy ass.”

  Joe made no attempt to get up. “Dammit, Garth, my shoulder’s hurtin’ too much to ride. I need a day or two more, and I got a bad sick from that rotten whiskey I drunk last night.”

  Disgusted by his brother’s show of frailty, Garth shot back, “Your shoulder’s hurtin’? Well, I ain’t waitin’ while you lay around this camp. If you ain’t somethin’—hell, you won’t be settin’ on your damn shoulder. Get up from there!”

  Showing a stubborn streak himself, Joe replied. “I said I ain’t fit to ride yet. I’m stayin’ here for a couple of days.”

  Garth was about to grab him and drag him from his bed, but changed his mind. “Suit yourself,” he finally said. “Me and the boys are leavin’ right now.” That said, he turned on his heel, thinking of a three-way split of the hides and coins.

  “I’ll catch up with you at Fort Lyon,” Joe called after him, but Garth made no reply. Joe thought about the wisdom of his decision, but he told himself that his shoulder did need more rest. Besides, the young Kiowa woman who tended his wound had a way about her that sparked his interest. Outside, Garth and his other two brothers said their good-byes, and soon Joe heard the sound of Ike and Jesse calling the mules to their task.

  As he had hoped, the young woman came to him in the afternoon to look at his wound. Earlier, food had been brought for him by an older woman. She spoke enough English to tell him that the young woman was Little Elk’s daughter, Wren.

  “Good?” Wren asked, nodding toward the bandage.

  “It’s sore,” Joe said. “Not so good.”

  “Not good?”

  Trying his best to converse with her with hand motions and the few words she knew, he finally made her understand that he was weak and needed more rest.

  “I come back,” she said after changing his bandage.

  “Yeah, you come back,” he said as he watched her leave, his eyes focused upon her slender behind. She was little more than a girl, like Cora was when he took her from her daddy. Joe preferred them that way.

  He had several other visitors during the day, including Yellow Calf. The Kiowa chief was more concerned with the possibility of acquiring more ammunition for his rifles than the progress of Joe’s healing. He was polite to the youngest of the Leach brothers because of that need for cartridges. In truth, he had no respect for the shifty-eyed white man, primarily because of Joe’s capitulation to a simple shoulder wound. A real warrior would have been ready to fight the next day after such a slight wound, instead of lying around the tipi being attended to by women.

  As far as Joe was concerned, the shoulder was already feeling much improved since the bullet had been removed. In fact, he planned to leave the following day, but only after he had taken care
of a little piece of business that had dominated his thoughts ever since Wren had changed his bandage that afternoon. He went to sleep that night thinking about the slender Kiowa girl.

  The next morning, she came, just as she had promised. After examining his wound, she smiled at him, nodding for emphasis, and said, “Good, wound good.”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Wound good. Now I need to wash up, but I’m gonna need some help.” She could not understand what he was saying, so he tried to convey the message with motions. It required several attempts on his part, but she finally understood that he wanted her to help him down to the river.

  “Good,” she said, although puzzled that he should need help. “I take.”

  He wasted no time strapping on his gun belt and following Wren out of the tipi. Several of the villagers nodded politely to him as he passed through the ring of lodges. He barely acknowledged their greetings, his eyes captured by the trim behind moving briskly toward the water’s edge. When she turned to lead him toward a few men bathing in the river, he quickly took her arm and pulled her toward a willow thicket farther upstream. Making motions to show that he was shy, he was able to convince her that he sought privacy for his bath. She paused, finally understanding his message, and nodded up and down vigorously. Then she pointed toward the willows, a questioning look upon her face. He answered with a wide grin and nodded in reply.

  Slightly amused by the strange behavior of the white man, she led him behind the screen of trees to a grassy bank, smiling to herself that it was the place where the women bathed. Once out of sight of the village, she stopped, pointed toward the riverbank, then turned to leave him.

  “Wait a minute,” he blurted, and grabbed her arm.

  Though unsuspecting before, she recognized the leer now in his eyes as he pulled her toward the bank, his malevolent grin plainly conveying his intentions. “No!” she spat emphatically, shaking her head sternly.

  “No, hell,” Joe replied. “You little tease, lookin’ at me so sweet. You knew damn well what I wanted, and you damn sure came back behind the trees with me.” He clamped hard on her arm and tried to force her down on the ground. “If you think I’m gonna beg you for it, you’re crazy as hell.” Thinking to take what he wanted, he grabbed her skirt and tried to pull it up. She screamed for help, but immediately received a blow to her face from his fist. Stunned momentarily, she sank to the ground. “Damn!” he cursed when he felt a stab of pain in his wound as a result of the punch. It failed to deter him from his evil intent, though, for his desire for the slender Indian girl lying helpless at his feet was the only thought in his mind.

  Dropping to his knees before her, he snatched feverishly at her skirt, pulling it up to reveal slender thighs above her doeskin leggings. Wild now with lust, he fumbled with his belt while she began to recover from the blow that had sent her reeling. Horrified, she looked up to see her assailant hurriedly pulling down his pants. She started to scream again, but it was quickly choked off by his hand on her throat. “You’re just like Cora,” he said. “Both of you pretend you don’t want it.”

  Her eyes wide with horror, she struggled for breath as he forced his way between her legs. The bright morning sun seemed to suddenly fade over her, making her think she was losing consciousness. In fact, it was a shadow, caused by the formidable figure that suddenly appeared behind her attacker. In the next instant, the hand that threatened to crush her throat was released as Joe’s head was yanked violently back. Pulling him forcefully off the girl, Tanner dragged the would-be rapist several yards by the hair of his head before slamming him to the ground.

  His arms flailing helplessly, yelping in pain like a whipped dog, Joe rolled over and scrambled to his feet, only to be knocked flat on his back by a crushing right hand. Stunned for a moment, he reached for the pistol in his belt, forgetting that he had unbuckled his belt and his pants were down around his knees. Stricken with cold fear, he started whimpering, knowing that it was his executioner he was facing. Crying out fearfully, he tried to scramble up on his knees in an attempt to run. Tanner calmly stepped forward and, with a solid kick, sent him sprawling again. This time, Joe pulled his knees up like a baby and started moaning.

  “I counted seven bullet holes in Jeb Hawkins’ body,” Tanner pronounced solemnly. “Was that before or after the knife slashes on his arms and face?”

  “It wasn’t me that done it,” Joe blubbered between sobs. “It was Jesse and Garth. It’s them you want.”

  “Is that so?” Tanner responded sarcastically. “Then you had nothin’ to do with it. Right?”

  “That’s right,” Joe quickly replied, seeing a glimmer of hope. “I had nothin’ to do with it—killed Hawkins and Cora, too, they did, and then they went to Fort Lyon.”

  “Much obliged,” Tanner said softly, his rifle still trained on the man cowering at his feet.

  Joe’s eyes opened wide with newfound hope. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. You can let me go.”

  Tanner stared at the pleading coward for a long moment before speaking again. “I’m gonna let you go to hell,” he said softly, cocking his rifle. “Jeb is waitin’ for you.”

  The sudden crack of the rifle caused the terrified Kiowa girl to jump. Rendered almost paralyzed moments before by the drama taking place before her, she now backed away from the riverbank as Joe Leach’s body slumped in death, a neat bullet hole in his forehead. Fearful of what might follow, she could only stare at the grim stranger, who turned now to look at her.

  “Don’t be afraid, miss. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

  She could not understand the words, but the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice told her that she had nothing to fear from the tall white man. She nodded in reply.

  Knowing now that the other three he hunted were on their way to Fort Lyon, he had no more time to waste. It could only be a matter of minutes before someone from the girl’s village would appear. If they had not heard her scream, they would surely have heard the rifle shot. He had less time than he thought, for before he could turn to leave, two men of the village appeared at the edge of the willows. They were followed almost immediately by a half dozen or more armed warriors. “Well, Jeb,” he whispered, “I sent one of ’em your way, but I reckon I’ll be right behind him.”

  Stopped abruptly by the sight of the broad-shouldered white man, standing solidly before them, his feet spread wide, his rifle held ready, one of the two Kiowa men held up his hand to halt the warriors. The girl ran to meet her father. Little Elk looked down at Wren, then at the body lying by the riverbank. Then his eyes were drawn back to the mysterious stranger, who stood watching him like a silent avenging spirit. He glanced down to see that the morning sun had cast the spirit’s shadow toward his feet like a dark finger pointing directly to him. Thinking this might be a warning from the spirit of the sun, he cautioned the warriors behind him. “Wait. Let us find out what manner of man this is before we kill him.”

  Hearing what her father said, Wren spoke in Tanner’s defense. “He saved my life,” she cried. “The dirty one with the shoulder wound attacked me and was choking me.” She pointed toward Tanner then. “This one killed him.”

  “Ahh,” Little Elk murmured thoughtfully. Looking again at Tanner, he was still cautious. The sun behind Tanner caused his face to lie in deep shadow from the hat pulled low on his forehead. The effect was almost eerie. Little Elk decided it best to converse with the man in white man’s talk. “You did not harm the girl?”

  “I came for this one only,” Tanner replied, pointing at Joe’s body with the muzzle of his rifle.

  “Ahh,” Little Elk murmured again. Turning to the others, he spoke in the Kiowa tongue. “He did not harm my daughter. He came only for the worthless white man. I think he may have been sent from the spirit world.”

  Having heard the rifle shot, others came to the riverbank, led by the chief, Yellow Calf. Surprised to find the lone white man standing motionless and silent, his face absent expression, Yellow Calf immediately looked
to Little Elk for explanation. Little Elk quickly spoke. “I think he was sent from the spirit world to save my daughter and to kill the wounded white man.”

  Little Elk’s words jolted the Kiowa chief’s sensibilities. Thinking of the murderous raid he and his warriors had just made upon the white wagon train, he took another long look at Tanner, still standing apparently fearless as if ready to battle the entire village. Speaking to Little Elk again, he said, “Maybe he has come because of the white people we killed.”

  “He said he came only for the white man,” Little Elk repeated.

  Yellow Calf was inclined to kill the strange man, but Little Elk was a wise man, and what he said might be true. It would be best to be cautious. Turning back to Tanner, he asked in English, “Is it true you were sent to kill the white man?”

  Tanner, standing patiently for the shooting to start, was confused by the apparent discussion between the two Kiowa elders. He assumed that, seeing him standing ready with his repeating rifle, they were discussing the number of lives that might be lost before he could be slain. Upon hearing Yellow Calf’s question to him, he responded simply, “I came for this one.” He pointed again at the body.

  His answer caused a ripple of murmurs among the crowd of people now gathered. Yellow Calf looked at Little Elk and nodded solemnly. He, too, was convinced that, man or spirit, Tanner had been sent to protect the girl and rid the earth of a vile and evil white man. Speaking in English again, he said to Tanner, “We thank you for the girl’s life. Go in peace.”

  Surprised, and completely confused by the chief’s words, Tanner did not immediately withdraw. He hesitated for a moment while he thought the situation over. His mind, up to that point, had been dedicated totally to revenge upon those who had murdered Jeb and the others. This included the Kiowa warriors facing him now. Moments before, he was resolved to taking as many of the guilty warriors as he could with him to hell. His mind, now racing with thought, battled with the decision. Jeb’s actual murderers were the Leaches, and his desire to punish them reigned above all others. If he walked away from this riverbank now, he could still hunt them down. These Indians, he decided, were only the instruments of murder. The guilty parties were the Leaches. It would be a sin to let them get away with the massacre they instigated. With that conclusion, he turned and walked slowly back down the riverbank.