No one stirred in the hushed gathering of Kiowa. Every eye was on the back of the mysterious stranger sent from the spirit world. Only when his head dropped below the steep embankment and he was gone did anyone speak. Little Elk put his arm around his daughter. “You must remember this, little one. In one moon, we will celebrate the Sun Dance. We must remember to dance for this day.”
Out of sight of the group of Kiowa warriors, Tanner expected them to change their minds at any moment. In case they decided to come after him, he walked into the shallow water to a rock near the edge, then stepped from rock to rock before jumping back to the bank on a grassy plot. From there, he broke into an easy lope back to the bushes where his horses were tied.
In the few minutes that passed after Tanner’s departure, the gathering of Kiowa gradually broke up with much talk about what had just happened. Most of the crowd moved over to examine the body of Joe Leach. Soon his body was stripped of weapons and anything else of value. Yellow Calf, Little Elk, and some of the others walked down to the river, following the path taken by the stranger.
“See!” Little Elk exclaimed, pointing to the footprints left in the soft sand next to the water. “They lead into the water.”
Yellow Calf nodded solemnly. “He was sent by the spirit of the river,” he said.
Chapter 11
“Gawdam, there’s a whole lot of nothin’ in this country,” Jesse Leach exclaimed when Garth rode up beside the wagon.
“Seems that way,” Garth agreed. They had been traveling for days with very little variation in the country before them, rolling hills of grass broken occasionally by ribbons of trees that told of the existence of a stream. They were approaching one such ribbon at the time. “I told Ike to pull his wagon over by yonder stream. You follow him, and we’ll make camp there. It’s gettin’ late in the day, and God knows when we’ll strike another stream.”
“I’ll be damn glad when we get shed of these wagons,” Jesse lamented. “My backside is sore from ridin’ this seat.”
“We oughtn’t be too many more days from Fort Lyon,” Garth said. “The way I figure it, we oughta strike the river sometime tomorrow.” They had decided to cut back toward the southwest a little more the day before to intercept the Arkansas and the Santa Fe Trail again. From there, it couldn’t be much farther to Colorado and Fort Lyon.
While Ike and Jesse pulled the wagons up side by side and unhitched the mules, Garth took the saddle off his horse and led it to the stream to drink. “We’d best hobble these horses,” he called out to his brothers. They had taken care to hobble their horses every night, but the mules had shown no inclination to stray, so they just let them out to graze with the horses.
Later that evening, when they were finishing their supper, Jesse wondered aloud. “Reckon how come Joe ain’t caught up with us yet? He shoulda caught us two days ago.”
“Damn fool probably couldn’t follow our trail,” Ike commented.
“Shit,” Jesse replied, “anybody could follow the tracks these wagons make. I bet he’s found him a little Injun gal back there in that Kiowa camp.”
“We’d better start watchin’ our back trail a little more,” Ike said. “You ain’t lying when you say anybody can follow our wagon tracks.”
“Shit,” Garth snorted, “you’re thinkin’ about that partner of Hawkins, ain’t you? Like I said before, I expect he’s halfway back to Omaha by now.”
“Maybe,” Ike replied, “but he ain’t the only one we’ve got to worry about. There’s Comanche, Cheyenne, and Kiowa out here lookin’ for scalps.” Ike had concern for hostile Indians, but Tanner Bland was the one that worried his mind.
Garth paused to emit a loud belch, then said, “I don’t miss Joe a damn bit, but I do kinda miss Cora. She was a pretty good cook.”
“Yeah, when Joe left her alone long enough,” Jesse said. “Reckon why he shot her back there? Hell, we’d still have a cook if Joe hadn’t kilt her.”
“He coulda taught her a lesson with just a good hidin’ with a stout stick,” Ike offered, “but Joe’s Joe. He couldn’t stand the thought of anybody else dippin’ in his sugar bowl.”
Jesse laughed. “Hell, I dipped into that bowl a time or two. Cora didn’t like it, but I told her I’d kill her if she told.” He chuckled again at the thought of cheating his brother. “I miss that more’n I miss her cookin’.”
Garth and Jesse were awakened the next morning by the angry swearing of their brother Ike. When Garth asked what had him so hot, Ike told him, “The damn mules, that’s what!” he complained. “Two of ’em run off while we was sleepin’.”
“They ain’t ever done that before,” Jesse said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Maybe some Injuns stole ’em.”
“You half-wit,” Ike snapped. “If it was Injuns, they’da most likely took the horses, and probably scalped us in our beds to boot.” He was plainly still angry over Garth’s lack of caution. “If we’da took turns standin’ guard like I said, we wouldn’t be without two mules this mornin’.”
“Fussin’ ain’t gonna get it done,” Garth said. “Get saddled up. We got to find them mules. If we don’t, we’re gonna have to leave one of the wagons.” Giving it further thought, he said, “Me and Ike’ll saddle up. Jesse, you stay here with the wagons.”
They split up to search, Garth to the northeast, Ike to the northwest, since a few tracks were found heading generally in a northern direction. Jesse, content to stay in camp and drink coffee, made himself comfortable and awaited their return. Both riders were back by late morning, both giving up when there was no sign of the missing mules to be found. With no other option, they loaded all the hides into one wagon with what whiskey and ammunition they had, and set out again for Fort Lyon.
Riding away from the Kiowa camp, Tanner had put a sizable distance between himself and the Indians before circling to pick up a trail. He had not scouted much ground before he found what he was looking for—two sets of wagon ruts, still clearly etched in the short-grass prairie. He paused briefly to look far ahead in the direction indicated. Then, his mind focused on the task he had set for himself, he started out on his trail of vengeance. He rode for two days, following the wagon tracks over the endless prairie, from campsite to noon stop, to campsite again, stopping only when it became too dark to see. He could tell by the time of day he reached the campsites that he was rapidly gaining on his prey. Along his journey, he often sighted antelope in the distance, bounding away as he approached, but there was no thought about hunting, at least not for antelope. His life had been reduced to one purpose, and he went about it doggedly. If he had been able to follow the tracks in the dark, he would have ridden on into the night.
He had been in the saddle no longer than a few hours on the third day when he followed the wagon tracks toward a thin line of cottonwood trees that apparently marked a stream. Riding up over a low ridge, he pulled Ashes to a halt. There, by the stream, stood an abandoned wagon. The sight that made him hesitate to continue on, however, was the four Indian ponies beside it, their riders busily scavenging through the wagon.
His initial thought was that he may have been cheated. But there was only the one wagon, so it could have merely been abandoned by the Leaches, for whatever reason. He realized at that moment that he would not be satisfied to have the three remaining brothers dead. They had to be dead by his hand.
He remained stationary on the ridge for a few minutes longer, trying to decide what to do, whether to take a wide detour around the Indians or to ride down to see for himself that there were no bodies lying there. He hesitated too long, for one of the Indians suddenly stopped, and looking in his direction, pointed. Like him, they seemed undecided as to what they should do. The sudden appearance of a white man alone north of the Arkansas was certainly unexpected. Maybe he wasn’t alone, and in fact was a scout for a large party of soldiers that followed. Maybe the wagon they had found was his wagon. There was good reason to be cautious until there were answers for some of these questions.
> For several long minutes, white man and Indians stood transfixed, watching each other. Still cautious, the four Cheyenne hunters jumped on their ponies and withdrew a few yards from the wagon. There, they pulled up again, still watching the lone white man on the ridge. After a short discussion, they wheeled their ponies, rode off through the cottonwoods beside the stream, and disappeared beyond the ridge.
Tanner remained still for a few moments after the Indians had gone. When it appeared they weren’t coming back, he descended the ridge to have a look at the abandoned wagon. Upon walking around the wagon a couple of times, he could see no apparent damage. It looked to be a perfectly good wagon, causing him to wonder why it had been left behind. Had to be the mules, he decided, and peered inside to see a few scattered worthless items that had been rejected by the Indians. There was nothing that was of any interest to him.
Close to the stream, he saw the signs of a campfire. A few yards away there were fresh droppings where the horses and mules had evidently grazed. Extending his circle a little farther out, he found tracks leading away from the stream. The depth of the wagon ruts verified that the one remaining wagon was now carrying both loads. The tracks also told him that the Leaches had changed their course to one of a more southerly direction, probably to strike the Santa Fe Trail, he figured. Looking at the tracks, he felt a renewed sense of urgency, for it was obvious to him that he was not far behind the three murderous brothers.
“He is one man, alone,” Burning Tree said as the four Cheyenne hunters peered down from the western ridge that bordered the shallow valley.
“With two horses,” Walks Fast added. On hands and knees in the prairie grass, he moved closer to the crest of the ridge to get a better look.
Upon first spotting the white man on the ridge above them, they had been undecided on whether or not to run. At Burning Tree’s suggestion, they decided to circle around to the east to see if there was, indeed, a cavalry patrol following the white man. He wore no uniform, but the army scouts were usually not soldiers, so he could have been a scout. Now, as they gazed down, watching him searching the wagon and campsite, they knew he was alone.
“I think he looks for the others who left the wagon,” Crow Killer said. “I say we should kill him and take his horses.”
Walks Fast nodded his agreement, emphasized with a grunt. The other two hunters quickly agreed as well, and all four crawled away from the top of the ridge to return to their ponies.
With one foot in the stirrup, and about to throw the other over the saddle, Tanner suddenly flinched when he heard the snap of the rifle ball pass over his head. Almost instantly, he heard the sharp report of the rifle that fired the bullet. Without taking time to think about it, he threw his leg over and kicked Ashes hard. The big horse responded immediately, charging full speed toward the end of the valley, with the four Cheyenne hunters racing down the opposite slope in an effort to cut him off.
Lying low on the big gray’s neck, one hand holding the packhorse’s lead rope, Tanner implored the horse for more speed as rifle balls cracked around him from behind. Damn! He cursed his carelessness. I should have made sure they were gone. It was too late to do anything but run now, for there was no place in the shallow valley to take cover. The trees bordering the stream would have been the only choice to make a stand, but they were too far away when the first shot was fired. He had to put his faith in the gray gelding’s stamina.
Looking back at his pursuers, he realized that Ashes was losing the race. The increasing strain on his right arm told him that the packhorse was holding him back. With the Indians steadily gaining on him, he had no choice but to drop the packhorse’s rope. Ashes responded by increasing his speed, but Tanner could see that the big horse was beginning to tire. Bullets began snapping closer around him, thumping the grassy plain on either side of him. Taking another quick look behind him, he saw one of his pursuers break off to chase the packhorse. The other three galloped after him, their fast Indian ponies continuing to close the distance between them and the tiring gelding. As the distance decreased, the Indians’ accuracy improved, the bullets getting closer and closer until one finally ripped through Tanner’s shirt, creasing his side with a fiery stinging that forced an involuntary grunt. He knew it was simply a matter of time before he caught one dead center. With no option left to him, he jerked Ashes’ reins sharply over when he came to a narrow gully and pulled him to a sliding stop. Coming out of the saddle at once, he led his horse back into the gully. It was not deep enough to provide complete cover for Ashes, but Tanner figured the Indians hoped to capture the horse. Consequently, they would direct their fire away from him.
As quickly as he could, he grabbed the Blakeslee cartridge box from his saddle and scrambled up to the head of the gully. It was no more than knee-deep at the head, but it was enough to give him cover if he lay flat on his belly. Intent upon convincing his pursuers that he was not worth the risk of their lives, he took careful aim, waiting until he was absolutely sure of his target.
Crow Killer cried out sharply and tumbled over backward, landing wounded in the grass. Burning Tree and Walks Fast instinctively veered off to seek cover from the white man’s rifle. Driving their ponies hard, they made their way over a high swale, where they dismounted and clambered back up to firing positions. Coming behind, their companion leading Tanner’s packhorse stopped short when he saw Crow Killer lying wounded on the ground. The wounded Cheyenne’s horse stood a few yards away, seemingly oblivious to the rifle fire now cracking back and forth between the man in the gully and the two Cheyenne behind the swale. Making a fatal decision, Black Eagle dropped the packhorse’s rope and slid off his pony. Thinking to use Crow Killer’s pony for cover, he ran toward his wounded comrade, keeping the horse between him and Tanner’s line of fire. “I’m coming for you,” Black Eagle called out to Crow Killer as he approached. Spooked by the man running toward him, Crow Killer’s horse suddenly bolted, leaving Black Eagle exposed to the gully. In an instant the young Cheyenne lay dead beside his friend, a rifle slug in his forehead.
Burning Tree cried out in angry despair when he saw Black Eagle fall. He and Walks Fast immediately sent several rounds cracking toward the gully in response to the white man’s deadly fire. Already, the price for the white man’s horses was higher than they would have been willing to pay. In the gully, Tanner watched closely to pick up the muzzle blasts from the Cheyenne’s rifles. As a result, his next shots were closer and closer to his attackers, sending dirt flying right before their faces.
The two Cheyenne slid back from the brink of the swale. “His gun is too good,” Walks Fast said. “I don’t have many cartridges left. I think maybe we had better leave this white man alone, and take Black Eagle and Crow Killer back to the village.”
“I’m down to three cartridges,” Burning Tree said. “I think you are right. We can’t get close enough to get a good shot at him.” He looked up at the sky. “It will be dark soon. I think we should wait till then, when we can get to Black Eagle and Crow Killer.”
“Maybe we can’t get a good shot at him, but we can get a good shot at his horse,” Walks Fast pointed out. “I had hoped to capture his horse, but since we can’t get close enough to kill the man, we can put him on foot.”
Down in the gully, Tanner edged up closer to the lip in an attempt to keep the Indians from pinpointing his position. There had been a lull in the firing from the swale above him, and he was concerned that the two surviving warriors might be trying to circle around behind him. He looked up at the sky. The sun was already sinking low. If he could keep them at bay until dark, he would lead Ashes up the side of the ridge behind him. The thought had no sooner entered his mind when the shooting from the swale began once more. Thunk, thunk. The sickening sounds of rifle balls impacting solid flesh jolted him, as Ashes screamed out in pain.
Close to panic, Tanner scrambled back to tend the wounded horse. Unable to stand because he, himself, would then be a target, he tried to pull Ashes down on his knees, only
to hear two more shots rip into the horse’s flesh. Mortally wounded, Ashes collapsed and rolled onto his side. Tanner, totally distraught with anger and disbelief, could do nothing to save the dying horse. He had counted on his attackers’ desire to steal his horse. Unable to help beyond alleviating the horse’s pain, he held his revolver to Ashes’ head and ended his suffering.
Devastated by the loss of his horse, he sat there staring at the carcass for a moment before he called his mind back to the business of staying alive. Scrambling to the head of the gully again, he scanned the length of the swale across from him, searching for signs that the Indians had moved to new positions. There was no sign of them, but at least they could not approach his position without crossing fifty yards of open ground. I guess we’re just going to wait each other out, he thought. All was quiet in the shallow valley.
When darkness finally descended upon the gully, Tanner thought about his previous plan to steal away in the night. The thought now of being out in the open prairie on foot, when his adversaries were on horseback, did not seem wise. He had to admit he didn’t know enough about his enemy to predict what the Indians would do. He had shot two of their number. They might wait all night in hopes of finally killing him in retaliation. Or, he thought, they might make a try at sneaking up on me at night. In the end, he decided to risk the latter. When darkness set in, he made his way back down the gully to position himself behind his horse’s carcass. With his back against the end of the gully, he sat with his rifle laid across Ashes’ rump and his extra cartridges on the ground beside him.
Tanner's Law Page 15