Tanner's Law

by Charles G. West

  The night seemed endless. With time now to attend to the wound in his side, he took a look at it. There was a long slash where the bullet had creased him, but he decided it was not deep enough to cause any concern. Most of the blood had already dried. His wound taken care of, he had a lot of time to think about the road that had brought him to this dreary gully in the middle of a vast prairie. There were many regrets that filled his mind, but the dominant one was the fact that he was now delayed in his pursuit of Jeb’s murderers. He had been so close, and he blamed his lapse of caution for the predicament in which he now found himself. As soon as he’d seen the four Indians at the wagon he should have retreated to take cover instead of sitting there until they spotted him. Fear that Garth Leach and his brothers would escape his vengeance was the only fear Tanner had. Waiting in his fortress of horseflesh, he promised anew his vow to Jeb Hawkins that he would be avenged, no matter how long and how far. He thought of the girl, Cora, and the brutal way her wretched life had ended. The world would choke on the miserable likes of the Leach brothers if it was not rid of them. He had no other purpose in life than to exterminate them, and he was determined to do it, no matter how many Indians he had to kill in the morning. Just before dawn, thoughts of Eleanor Marshall Bland tried to creep into his sleepy brain. He immediately banned them from his mind.

  Dark shadows turned to gray as morning finally approached the little valley. Soon first light dissolved the shadows, clearing the night away. Stiff and tired, he cautiously moved from his cramped position behind the carcass of his horse, lest someone might be waiting for him to show at the mouth of the gully. His rifle ready, he moved slowly toward the head of the grassy trench. There were no sounds. Scanning the swale across from him, he could see no sign of anyone. Then he discovered that the two bodies that had been on the valley floor were gone. They had been removed during the night.

  The Indians had apparently quit the battle, although he found it hard to understand. Maybe he had made it too costly for them to pursue it. He could only guess. Maybe they were out of ammunition. He realized then that it was when they had shot his horse that they had decided to end the confrontation, choosing to leave him on foot in the middle of the prairie. Now certain that he was alone, he walked out onto the floor of the valley and slowly turned all the way around. The prairie seemed endless in every direction. A man without a horse in this vast expanse had little hope of survival.

  Walking up the swale, he found where the two Cheyenne hunters had taken positions to fire at him. Gazing back at the small gully across the narrow valley, he could understand the difficulty they’d had trying to target him. Down the other side of the swale, he found the place where their ponies had waited. Upon close inspection, he discovered the prints of more than their two ponies, and surmised that they had gathered the other three horses during the night while he sat waiting for them in the gully. Studying the ground further, he was able to pick up the Indians’ trail as they left the valley. It was not as easy to follow as the deep wagon tracks he had trailed for days, but made somewhat less difficult by the presence of one set of shod prints. The thought of following the tracks on foot seemed a bit absurd, but he could think of no better alternative. “I’ve got to find a horse,” he announced to the emptiness around him. “And the only place I know where there is one is in that direction,” he added, looking north.

  His decision made, he returned to the carcass in the gully to collect his belongings. It was a sad chore to leave Ashes to feed the buzzards, and he whispered a short word of thanks as he took from his saddlebags items of vital necessity—cartridges, flint and steel, and his canteen. His supply of food and coffee, along with the utensils to prepare it, had all been lost with his packhorse. Taking the section of buffalo hide he had rolled up behind his saddle, he made a pack to carry the items, using the reins from his bridle to secure it. Deciding it was the best he could do, he paused to take a farewell look at his horse, the carcass riddled with four bullet holes, one almost directly below the “08” brand. He shook his head sadly, turned, and set out to the north at a trot, his rifle in one hand, his small pack on his back. The one thought that plagued him was that he was turning away from the Leach brothers’ trail.

  Chapter 12

  A night without sleep and a day and a half without food began to take their toll on Tanner. With the sun directly overhead in a cloudless summer sky, he was no longer trotting, but still walking at a steady pace. He pushed on, doggedly determined to follow the trail left by the five horses. He was a strong man, but he realized by the middle of the afternoon that he must soon have food and rest. The pitiless Kansas sun seemed intent upon sapping him of every ounce of water in his body, and with his canteen less than half full, this became a serious concern. Still he pushed his tired body onward, for there was no alternative other than to sit down and die.

  By late afternoon, his concentration had come to focus totally upon placing one weary foot after the other, and at one point he realized that he had lost his fixation on the hoofprints he followed. Instead, he had begun following the general contours of the prairie, taking the easiest and most direct route through the rolling plain. The realization stunned him for a few moments, and he paused to look around him in the short grass. Then he saw the faint print where his shod packhorse had mashed down the grass. The Indians had taken the easiest route as well. He was still on their trail, although it was a matter of sheer luck. He berated himself for letting his concentration stray.

  As the sun began sinking toward the horizon, he spied a broken line in the endless prairie ahead. His weary mind was a little slow in registering the fact that the broken line was, in fact, a line of trees, which meant a stream lay ahead. It was a tired man that reached the little stream bordered by willow trees and berry bushes. After he made a fire, he sat down to give his feet some attention. The boots he wore were not made for walking, and they had already been showing signs of wearing out even before his forced walk. The stitching had worn through, allowing the soles to separate in several places. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to be walking across Kansas barefoot before much longer.

  “I think we have lingered here longer than we should have,” Burning Tree lamented as he led the horses up from the river. The summer sun was not kind to the bodies tied across the backs of the two horses. Already, Black Eagle and Crow Killer were swollen, and Burning Tree was afraid that soon they would begin to smell. It was still a day’s ride to their village on the Smoky Hill, and they would have already been there had they not stopped here on this tributary.

  “You’re right,” Walks Fast replied. “I know we should have gotten back as soon as possible, but we could not ignore the good fortune sent our way.” They had been a long time away from their village since starting out on this hunting trip. Their luck had been poor, causing them to ride farther and farther south in search of game. Then their luck had gotten even worse when they found the abandoned wagon. There was nothing of value in the wagon, and the time wasted there resulted in the chance encounter with the white man with the medicine gun. A fatal meeting, the encounter led to the deaths of Crow Killer and Black Eagle. Even though it was important to hurry back to the village with the bodies of their two friends, it would have been extremely hard to keep riding when they happened upon a large herd of deer near a tributary of the Smoky Hill. It was the first sign of good fortune, and in two short days, they packed all the meat and hides they could manage on the white man’s horse they had captured. “I think the spirit of the deer felt sorry for our loss, and we would have insulted him if we had not accepted his gift.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Burning Tree said. “It’s late now, though. We’ll start back in the morning.”

  At first light, they were back on the trail again, following the river toward its confluence with the north fork of the Smoky Hill and their village.

  By the look of the campsite Tanner came upon the next day, he was able to construct a picture in his mind. They had stoppe
d here for more than one night to hunt, it appeared. The remains of several good-sized deer were discarded by the river and the scraps of meat and entrails were already being eaten by a flock of buzzards that ignored the man walking by them. Tanner stooped to check the ashes in the campfire, and found them still warm. “Two or three hours,” he said as he stood up again and gazed upriver where the tracks led. He was close.

  With his stamina somewhat restored after sleeping all night, and finding some nourishment courtesy of a careless muskrat, he had taken to the trail again that morning with sore feet but renewed resolve. The remains of the Indians’ kill left no doubt that they had dined more elegantly than he. Muskrat was not to his liking. Encouraged by the knowledge that they had left this camp no more than two or three hours before, he immediately set out again. The tracks told him that they were simply following the river, so when darkness found him again, he continued following the river, feeling certain that he would overtake them by walking through the night.

  Walks Fast stirred in his sleep—something had awakened him. He rose up on one elbow and listened for sounds. On the other side of the fire, Burning Tree was still sleeping. Thinking it was nothing, Walks Fast was about to lie down again when he heard the horses snort and move about restlessly. He had heard something—maybe a wolf or a coyote had caused the ponies to signal danger. Sitting up, he reached for his rifle and got to his feet. Suddenly he whirled around at the sound of a voice.

  “Stand real still,” Tanner commanded, his voice soft but forceful. “You understand white man talk?” Startled, Walks Fast nodded. “I just want a horse,” Tanner said. Noticing that the other Indian was now waking up, he cautioned Walks Fast, “Tell your friend to stay where he is and he won’t get hurt. Are you Kiowa?”

  “Cheyenne,” Walks Fast replied.

  “Cheyenne, huh? Well, I got no quarrel with the Cheyenne, but you attacked me and shot my horse. All I want from you is a horse, and I’ll leave you be.”

  Fully awake now, and aware of what was taking place, Burning Tree rested a hand on his rifle and slowly rose to one knee. “You killed two warriors,” he said accusingly.

  “You tried to kill me,” Tanner replied. “So I figure we’re square as long as I get a horse.” He gestured with his rifle. “I reckon you’d best drop that rifle on the ground. If you hadn’t woke up, you’da just lost one horse and I’da been gone.”

  “What makes you think you can kill both of us before one of us shoots you?” Burning Tree rose to his feet, still holding his rifle. “You are a foolish white man to come here. You will die here.”

  “Nobody has to die,” Tanner insisted, “but if you raise that rifle, I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

  A thin smile began to spread across Burning Tree’s face an instant before he suddenly jerked his rifle up. Unprepared for the reflexes of the dark-haired white man, he bent over in pain with a rifle ball in his gut. As soon as he pulled the trigger, Tanner dived onto the ground and rolled over, cocking his Spencer as he rolled. In his haste to shoot, Walks Fast missed the sprawling white man. Tanner’s second shot slammed into his forehead as Walks Fast fumbled to reload his single-shot weapon.

  It had all happened in a matter of seconds, with no time to think. Tanner’s reflexive actions had no doubt helped cause Walks Fast to miss. Even though a repeating rifle, Tanner’s Spencer was not fast enough to eject a spent cartridge and load another in the chamber faster than a man could pull a trigger. He had been lucky that the Cheyenne had not anticipated his evasive action. Knowing this, Tanner cocked the trigger guard, ejecting the spent cartridge, and cautiously rose to one knee, his eyes scanning back and forth between the two bodies on the ground. When there was no sign of life from either, he rose to his feet and walked over to Burning Tree’s body. Expressing his regrets to the dead man, he muttered, “I didn’t come to kill you, but you forced my hand. You coulda just given me a horse. That’s all I wanted.” Glancing then at the other body, he shook his head sadly. The killing was unnecessary. These men were not his enemies. The thought caused him to return his focus to Garth Leach and his brothers, and the urgency of his mission.

  Looking over the camp, he wasted little time in making decisions. With five horses to choose from, he quickly picked a stout mottled gray pony as his first choice, since it had lines similar to Ashes’. Having no desire to bother with herding four horses, he decided to take his packhorse and a paint pony.

  He stood before the remaining two ponies, still tied to a cottonwood limb and loaded with their grim cargo. “I ain’t got time to worry about the dead,” he offered apologetically, while cutting the ropes that secured them to the horses. Rigor mortis had already set in, causing the corpses to hang stiffly in place. Grabbing them by the feet, he gave each body a shove and dumped it on the ground. Then he removed the ponies’ bridles and released them. Next, he dumped the load of venison from his packhorse, keeping only enough to eat before it spoiled.

  The mottled gray pony was decidedly skittish when Tanner approached him, backing away while eyeing the strange white man cautiously. Afraid the horse might suddenly bolt, Tanner paused to consider the possibility that he might wind up chasing the horse on foot. The thought brought an instant memory of Jeb Hawkins chasing a Union sorrel across a creek in the Shenandoah Valley. It almost made him smile. Stepping back a few feet, he looked around to find a couple of parfleches near the buffalo robes that had served as beds. “That might do,” he announced and picked up one of the robes. When he turned to approach the horse again, the sole of his boot flapped loose, and he almost tripped. Taking a moment to look at the worn-out boot, he decided to see if he could find replacements for them, figuring anything would be an improvement. The pair that came closest to fitting his feet was on one of the corpses he had dumped from the ponies. His feet were so sore that he didn’t bother to be concerned about the source.

  The buffalo robe held the odor of campfire smoke with a hint of something like green bark. He decided it was not unpleasant. With the robe in hand, he again approached the gray.

  Moving slowly, he cautiously advanced toward the wary animal. Uncertain, the gray took another step backward as Tanner came near, but it did not bolt. Carefully reaching for the reins, which were no more than a rope looped around the pony’s lower jaw with a half hitch, he held the horse steady. The gray did not fight him, but it still eyed him suspiciously. Tanner moved in close and rubbed the robe against the horse’s muzzle, letting it smell the familiar odor of the Indian. Tanner had no idea which Indian the horse had belonged to, but the gray seemed satisfied to accept him as a friend. “Atta boy,” Tanner said softly. “You’re gonna be all right.” He stroked the horse’s neck for a few minutes before climbing up in the saddle made of wood and buffalo hide. The horse accepted its new master without resistance. “Good boy,” Tanner uttered. “We’ll see how you take to a real bridle and saddle.”

  He didn’t take the time to ride his new horse before hitching a line between the paint and his packhorse. He figured he and the gray could get accustomed to each other on the way back to the gully, where he intended to pick up his saddle. With one last look at the scene of carnage he was leaving, he shook his head and muttered, “All I came for was a horse.”

  Retracing his journey of the past few days, he found his new mount to be exceptionally nimble, and certainly quicker than Ashes had been, an asset he was already aware of, remembering how the Cheyenne had steadily gained on Ashes during their chase down the valley. He could not say the Indian saddle was entirely uncomfortable, but he knew that he definitely preferred his own. The next day he introduced the gray to a bit, having kept his bridle to fashion a backpack with the reins. The horse fought the bridle, trying to expel the hard bit repeatedly but in the end accepting it.

  There was no danger that he might have difficulty finding the little gully where he had held off the Cheyenne attack. The site of the battle was clearly marked when he was still a mile distant, by the ring of buzzards flying overhead. When h
e crested the last rise, where the Indians had positioned themselves before, he was revolted by the feast taking place below in the gully. Giving the gray his heels, he galloped down the slope.

  The sudden charge of the three horses toward them was enough to cause the buzzards to take flight, but not for very long. Finding poor Ashes ripped and torn by the beaks and claws of the ravenous birds, Tanner was moved to strike out in anger at the first brave buzzards that returned to flop down again near the corpse. Firing his pistol, he shot two of the scavengers, sending the flock scattering noisily, only to land again a short distance away to watch the intruder upon their banquet. Tanner holstered his weapon and, working as quickly as he could, unbuckled the girth strap on the saddle. To pull the strap and the stirrup from under the carcass, it was necessary to use the horses.

  He had plenty of rope from his saddle, so he tied one loop around the gray’s withers and the other end to his saddle. Amid raucous jeering from the chorus of buzzards, he led the pony forward, pulling the saddle free. Unwilling to further witness the devouring of his horse, Tanner loaded the saddle on his shoulder and led the three horses up the valley, away from the noisy feast.

  “You didn’t care a helluva lot for the bridle,” Tanner said to the gray. “I’ll bet you’re gonna fight like hell when I throw this saddle on you.” The horse lived up to Tanner’s prediction. With the other two horses tied to a clump of sagebrush, Tanner attempted to introduce the gray to a western saddle. The horse bucked the saddle off before Tanner could buckle the girth strap. Tanner patiently threw the saddle on again while the horse sidestepped around in a circle, trying to evade the strange contraption. After two failed attempts, he managed to get the girth buckled, then had to hold on to the reins while the gray tried to buck the parasite off its back. Finally deciding that it could not rid itself of it, the horse calmed down enough for Tanner to tighten the girth.