by Ralph Cotton
Cheyenne, you lying dog! Red thought to himself. “I warned you and warned you!” he caught himself saying aloud. “Now she’s riding with the damned law, bringing a Ranger straight to us!”
He closed the telescope and gigged his horse up a six-foot path to where the wagon sat on a thin trail. Cheyenne might have made the mistake of not killing the woman, but damned if he would.
At the wagon, he jerked his horse to a halt and looked at the Indian sitting comfortably relaxed on the hard, wooden seat. In the wagon bed, Segan Udall sat making more torches, winding strips of cloth around the end of long, straight tree limbs and dousing them with coal oil.
“Are you sure this is the last trail we need to torch?” he asked Little Foot.
Little Foot just stared at him coldly without an answer. They had set fire to woods and brush surrounding two of the three main trails leading up toward the trading post. This was the third. Anyone with three or more fingers to count on would know it, he thought.
“Do not make me ask you again, cripple,” Gantry warned, his hand resting on the rifle lying across his lap.
“Yes,” Little Foot said grudgingly. “There are three main trails. We have torched two. This is the third.” As he spoke, he held up two fingers, then three to illustrate.
“Keep up your belligerent nature with me, you little goat-footed turd,” Gantry threatened, “and you’ll never see Bagley’s Trading Post again.”
He swung around in his saddle and said to Segan Udall with contempt, “You, arsonist, have you made up enough torches for us to work our way down this hillside, make a circle and come right back up to this trail?”
Segan stopped dousing the new torches with coal oil and gave him a curious look.
“Yes, but are you sure you want to do that?” he said.
In the wagon seat Little Foot listened and just shook his head.
“Hell yes, I’m sure,” said Gantry. “There’s a couple of folks I want to trap down there—cook to a cinder.”
“Whoa,” said Segan, “I start fires. I don’t set out to kill people.”
“Yeah? There’s where we’re different, you and me,” Gantry said with a clever grin. “I set out to kill people, not to start fires.” He nodded toward the fresh torches and said to Segan and Little Foot, “Gather them up, both of you, and climb down from the wagon. We’re working out way down on foot and back.”
Little Foot and Segan looked at each other. Then Little Foot turned to Gantry.
“When he asked if you’re sure,” he said, “he was talking about the wind.” As he spoke he looked down the hillside to the right, seeing large stands of dried wild grass sway on the wind among the rock and scattered woodlands.
“To hell with the wind,” said Gantry. “Get your crippled ass back there, grab up the torches and let’s get to work. These folks will be rounding up this trail toward us within an hour. I want them to run into a wall of fire.” He stepped down from his saddle, walked his horse to the rear of the wagon and hitched it there. “We’ll walk down a ways, light these torches and heave them as far as we can, just like before—let Mother Nature take things from there.”
Gathering several torches under his arm, Segan stepped down from the wagon bed with long matches standing in his shirt pocket. He took several matches and stuck them in Little Foot’s shirt pocket as the Indian lowered himself from the wagon and wobbled for a second until he gained his balance. They both moved back and waited beside the wagon for Gantry.
“I don’t like doing this anymore, Indian,” Segan said under his breath, “not when it comes to killing people.”
“Me neither. I was only supposed to show you two to these trails,” Little Foot said. “I don’t like starting fires and killing anything.”
“Oh?” Segan looked Little Foot up and down and asked, “Why are you here, then?”
“For whiskey money,” Little Foot said without hesitation. “Why are you?” He gave Segan a knowing look.
“You know why I’m here,” he said, “to keep harm from coming to my wife.”
“Your wife . . . ,” said Little Foot, giving him a strange look.
“That’s right,” Segan said. “What about her?”
Gantry heard them as he walked from the rear of the wagon.
“If you think your wife didn’t open her knees for the Cheyenne Kid before you were even out of sight, you’re as stupid as you look, arsonist,” he said with a dark chuckle.
Segan stood staring for moment in stunned outrage as Gantry reached into the wagon bed and picked up a couple of torches and the tin of coal oil. He struggled to keep his head, yet his fists had already started opening and closing at his sides.
He said through clenched teeth, “He gave me his word—”
“That he wouldn’t force himself on her, you damned rube,” Gantry laughed, finishing his words for him. “I haven’t seen a woman that Cheyenne has had to force himself on. Women draw to him like flies to sugar.” He laughed again. “She just might be forcing herself onto him, over and over and over—”
“Stop it! Take it back, you son of a bitch!” Segan blurted out, moving a step toward Gantry.
“Come on, arsonist,” said Gantry, his Colt streaking up from his holster, cocked, aimed at Segan’s belly. “You caught me by surprise last time. I’m ready for you this time! Make your move. I’ll put a bullet—”
Segan’s big hand swatted the Colt straight down from Gantry’s hand and knocked the gunman backward with a long but fast roundhouse punch to his jaw. The Colt exploded on the hard ground and sent a bullet slicing through the tin of coal oil.
Little Foot stood staring as the two men fell to the ground, the wagon horses turning nervous at the sound of the gunshot. Beside the wagon, coal oil poured freely from its tin and spread on the ground and back under the wagon.
Uh-oh! This is going bad, Little Foot told himself. He limped in, grabbed the Colt and stepped back with it in his hand.
“Both of you, stop!” Little Foot shouted, raising the Colt and firing a shot straight up in the air.
On the ground, the two men separated quickly and rose to their feet, staring at the Colt in Little Foot’s hand.
“Don’t shoot, I’ve stopped!” said Segan, moving toward the armed Indian.
“I’m not!” Gantry shouted, wanting revenge. He snatched a torch up from the ground, ran up behind Segan and began beating him on his head and shoulders with it. The blows came so hard and fast that all Segan could do was roll away and curl up, covering his head with his forearms.
Little Foot fired the Colt in warning once more. This time Gantry turned to him and gave him a hard stare.
“It’s over, cripple,” he said. He held his hand out toward Little Foot. “Give me my gun.”
“Don’t . . . do it,” Segan warned in a strained voice.
But Little Foot stood watching intently as Gantry walked toward him with a murderous look in his eyes. “You’ll give me my damn gun if you know what’s good for you.”
“Wait,” said Little Foot, letting out a tight breath. He let the hammer down on the Colt, turned it backward in his hand and pitched it butt-first to Gantry.
Gantry caught it and looked at it in surprise with a thin smile, as if he’d not really expected the Indian to give it up.
“Well, well, much obliged, cripple,” he said. Then he cocked the Colt and fired. The bullet caused Little Foot to stagger backward.
On the ground, Segan lowered his face to the dirt and shook his head as the shot resounded out and echoed along the hillsides.
Chapter 12
Red Gantry stood facing Little Foot, who swayed in place, both hands holding his right side just above his hip. Blood ran down from his side and down his leg, seeping through his thin trousers and spreading atop his calf-high moccasin. Beside Gantry the wa
gon horses were spooked, nickering as he held the one nearest him with his free hand.
“Here’s how it all played down, cripple,” he said to Little Foot. “I tried my damnedest to get along with the two of yas, but you’re both too hardheaded. You were half-drunk to begin with, talking weird, about scalping and that kind of stuff.”
Little Foot just stared.
Gantry gave him an evil grin and wagged his Colt toward where Segan still lay on the ground, half-conscious from his beating with a torch handle. “This one, all he talked about was getting back with the others and killing Cheyenne.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t reason with him—had to kill him.”
“You . . . won’t get away with this . . . Gantry,” Little Foot said in a strained voice. “The Great Spirit . . . will see to it you—”
“Hold that thought,” Gantry said, cutting him off, “while I go put a bullet or two in ol’ arsonist’s head for him. I’ll take care of you next thing, I promise.”
“You murdering bastard . . . you snake,” Little Foot growled through his pain.
“Huh-uh, it’s too late to try sweet-talking me,” said Gantry. He chuckled. “Just wait right there.”
But Little Foot wasn’t about to stand waiting helpless, doing nothing to save himself. As soon as Gantry turned and stepped away from the horses, back alongside the wagon, and onto the dark wide circle of coal oil, the wounded Indian jerked a match from his shirt pocket. He struck it down his leather suspenders, pitched it underhanded and jumped back as flames leaped waist high, engulfing Red Gantry.
The burning outlaw let out a long, terrible scream. The tin of coal oil ignited where the potent fuel spewed from the bullet hole. The force and pressure of the burning coal oil propelled the tin container eight feet into the air, shooting out a long tail of liquid fire. Gantry—in his mindless panic—caught it on its way down and clutched it tight against his chest.
“My God!” Segan shouted, wincing hard at the sight of Gantry running off down the hillside, flames streaking out behind him.
But Little Foot didn’t wince; he didn’t so much as blink. He watched stonily as Gantry bounded, ran and rolled, sizzling and screaming. At the same time the team of horses took off in the other direction, the reins to Gantry’s horse spinning free from the rear of the wagon. The wagon speeded away, flames licking and waving behind it. Gantry’s frightened horse ran in a wild circle and came right back to Little Foot and Segan.
Segan lay staring in horror. In a shaky voice he said, “They say when a person’s on fire you should knock him down and roll him in the dirt.”
“Yeah?” said Little Foot. “Next time we’ll know.” He stared down at a black, greasy rise of smoke where Gantry had finally fallen among the rocks. Every few yards away, another patch of brush stood aflame in Gantry’s wake. In the other direction, a hundred yards off, the wagon horses stood freed of the burning wagon.
“We’re through here,” Little Foot said, stepping wide of the burning circle of coal oil, over to where Segan lay in the dirt. He reached a hand down and helped Segan to his feet.
“What about the two riders he saw down there?” Segan asked.
“What about them?” asked Little Foot. “They heard the gunshot. They see the smoke, the fire. They’ve got no choice but to get through it.”
“Then what about us?” said Segan, not seeming to know what to do.
“I don’t know about you,” said Little Foot. “I’m taking the horse and getting out of here. I’m wounded.”
Segan looked at Gantry’s horse and said, “We could double up.”
“Huh-uh,” said Little Foot. “Don’t even think about it. Get one of the wagon horses if you don’t want to walk.” He turned and limped away toward Gantry’s horse without looking back.
“I’m going after my wife, that’s what!” Segan called out.
“Good for you,” Little Foot said over his shoulder without looking back.
“If I get one of the wagon horses, can I ride with you a ways?”
“Suit yourself,” said Little Foot. “But I won’t wait for you. I feel my warrior blood rising.” He pressed his hand to his wound and kept walking.
* * *
On the trail below, the Ranger and Gilley had heard the gunshot and the screams echo down the steep, sloping hills. Moments later, as they drew closer, they saw the sudden stream of fire rolling up from the burning brush among the rocks, followed by the rise of smoke. They stopped long enough to see the wind sweep the fire across their trail.
Watching, the Ranger felt Gilley’s fingers go around his forearm and tighten there. “I—I don’t think I can take any more of it,” she said.
“Yes, you can,” Sam said in a confident tone of voice. “The way the wind is blowing right now, we’re going to space ourselves and weave right through it.”
He turned his gaze toward her. They looked at each other’s soot-streaked faces above the bandanas covering half their faces. Sam saw the fear in her eyes. He didn’t want to lie to her.
“It’s going to be hot, but we’ve got to keep moving. If we stop, it’s got us.” He took her hand in his and walked on, giving a jerk on the reins, pulling the frightened barb up on his other side.
“You’ve been through lots of these wildfires, then?” Gilley asked nervously.
The Ranger didn’t answer.
“Sam, have you?” she persisted.
“No, Gilley,” he said. “I’ve never been through anything like this in my life. But it doesn’t matter, we’ve got no choice. We’re getting through it.”
Ahead of them the fire billowed and rose and twisted high and sidelong across their trail. Yet there was something in his voice, a strength and determination that sounded equal to that of the roaring flames.
“Keep hold of my hand,” he said, giving a firm squeeze. “Stare down at the ground if you have to, but don’t stop . . . don’t turn loose no matter what.”
They walked on, at times through what appeared to be a long, wide tunnel of orange, billowing flame. With her head bowed, she still caught sight of the flames licking above them, appearing and disappearing like angry fiery apparitions. Then, just when she knew beyond doubt that the fire would surely take her to the ground and devour her, it would dissipate as the wind died down, caught its breath and readied itself for another round.
“Gilley, are you with me?” she heard the Ranger ask her. She tried to answer, but she wasn’t sure if the words came from her lips or only resounded inside her own head.
She felt the Ranger’s arms raise her off the ground as the fire and wind fell away for a moment. Then she felt herself atop the horse, slumped on its neck, feeling it trudge forward beneath the blackened sky.
“It’s moving away from us,” she heard the Ranger say, or thought she heard him say.
“Thank God . . . ,” she heard herself say as if from somewhere deep inside a terrible dream, and she allowed herself to fall away into unconsciousness with each rise and fall of the horse’s hooves.
* * *
It was late afternoon when the Ranger led the barb up along the switchback stretch of trail leading to Bagley’s Trading Post. Gilley Maclaine still lay collapsed on the barb’s back. Traveling through the final two miles of thick pine smoke left a patina of black smudge covering her, the horse and the Ranger as they trudged the last few yards to the hitch rail and stopped and swayed in place for a moment. Sam pulled the bandana from across the bridge of his nose. His saddlebags hung over his shoulder covered with a thin layer of ash and black soot.
“Keep moving, stranger,” said Dewey Fritz, who stood watching from a front window. “Take your pal and your worn-out cayuse with you, else I’ll scattergun you where you stand.”
Something in the man’s voice sounded like a bluff. Sam didn’t believe it. He looked all around at the silver-gray haze
hanging like a thin veil over the trail and the land surrounding the trading post.
“Can’t do it,” he said in a hoarse and raspy tone. “I’m an Arizona Territory Ranger in pursuit of bank robbers. This woman is nearly done in. She needs water. I can pay for it—”
“Woman?” said Dewey, cutting him off. He strained for a better look at the small figure slumped atop the barb, a bandana covering her face.
“Ranger Burrack . . . ,” said another voice, this one belonging to the wounded Bagley. His voice sounded weak and pained. He lowered it and said to Fritz, “Let them in, Dewey. I’ve got . . . things the Ranger needs to hear.”
“All right, come on in, then,” Dewey said, stepping out onto the porch, a shotgun draped over his forearm, a bandana gathered beneath his fleshy chin. “I’m just doing my job here. Don’t think harshly of me, Ranger.”
Sam looked him up and down, too tired and smoked out to care.
“I heard Bagley’s voice. Where is he?” he said, his voice still dry and raspy.
“He’s inside,” said Dewey, stepping down as Sam reached up and lowered Gilley to the ground. “Want me to carry her?” He sounded excited at the prospect.
Gilley managed to raise her head and look at the big bartender, then turn to the Ranger.
“I’ve got her,” Sam said, putting a tired arm up around her and lowering her from the barb’s back. He held her leaning against his side.
Dewey watched them closely as they staggered up the steps and into the trading post.
“Get them some water, Dewy,” came Bagley’s pained voice.
Inside the front door, Sam looked all around as Dewey hurried away behind the bar, picked up a large water gourd and came walking back with it.
“Back here, Ranger,” said Bagley, sitting at a small table in a shadowy corner. He watched the Ranger hold the mouth of the gourd to Gilley’s parched lips and let her drink. “I’ll tell you before you get here . . . I’m a mess. I’ve been shot bad.”
“Who shot you, Bagley?” Sam asked, lowering the gourd and pouring a little of the cool water into his hand. He raised his cupped hand and swabbed the water around on Gilley’s face. Then he walked back to where Bagley sat at a short table among stacks of wool blankets, beneath a row of pegs holding cooking utensils along the wall.