The Long Trail Home

by Stephen A. Bly

  About noon, Sam crossed Beaver Creek, not more than six feet wide and six inches deep. The water, muddied from the deluge the night before, was beginning to clear. A grassy area, no larger than twenty-five by fifty feet on the north side of the creek, had been recently grazed. On the bank of the creek, up on the plains, he spotted the tracks of at least a dozen horses.

  “He’s still got a day on us, Picket, but he doesn’t know I’m back here.” I wonder what he thinks I’m going to do? I was supposed to push in twelve hundred head. Wouldn’t that have been a mess? No old man. No ranch houses. No horses. We would have had to turn around, drive them right back to Dodge City— and sell them. But you knew that, didn’t you, Lord?

  Sam figured he was straight south of Black Mesa when he dropped down beside McNeiss Creek so the horses could drink from a stream so narrow they could step across it. The creek flowed out of a narrow gorge no more than ten feet across and at least that deep.

  Fortune studied the eroded streambed. From up on the plains this little creek can’t be seen, until someone rides right up to it. By ridin’ single file, you could travel along without being spotted. On the other hand, if they spied you before you spied them, you’d be a sitting duck down here at the bottom of this barranca.

  It’s risky.

  But so is ridin’ straight up to a horse thief.

  He turned his horses into the tiny narrow arroyo and rode up the creek.

  For the next three hours, Sam Fortune followed the barranca. At times it rose up almost even with the flat plains. On the northern horizon, treeless mountains divided the light blue sky from the yellowish-red soil. The dead grass grew in scattered clumps. The occasional sage grew no more than a foot off the ground. There were no trees. No buildings. No roads. No people. No animals. And, there was no wind.

  The only sign of life on the plains was the layers of hoofprints from the remuda being pushed along the plains north of the creek.

  Late in the evening he climbed up out of the creek bed at the base of a treeless mountain range. Sam guessed he was close to the New Mexico border. Up against a rimrock, where the creek overflowed during runoff, grew a thick carpet of light green grass. He picketed the horses, pulled the saddle and pack, then inspected the treeless oasis.

  At the base of the rimrock, the grass had been grazed down. On the north side of the meadow, tracks revealed the horses had galloped toward the hills.

  Kiowa left here in a hurry! Maybe he spotted me. But there’s not enough daylight to tell how old these tracks are. There’s got to be an old campfire here someplace.

  He returned to the creek, following the base of the rimrock. His boot rolled across a rock, and he stopped to retrieve a brass casing.

  .45-70? Kiowa has his .44 and maybe Rocklin’s ’73 Winchester carbine, but that’s a .44 also. This is a single-shot . . . a Trapdoor. . . . The army? Did Kiowa run across a cavalry patrol?

  Fortune retrieved twelve more brass casings as he hiked along the rimrock. Near the creek he came across a shallow cave at the base of the cliff and a fire circle. The ashes were dead, but the dirt beneath them was still a little warm.

  Several more .45-70 casings were scattered near the fire.

  Whose camp was this? Did Kiowa come across a Trapdoor single-shot? Did someone come up on him by surprise, or did he come up on them? Someone chased someone. From the looks of the brass, there were several Trapdoor rifles.

  He hiked back to the pack supplies, pulled out the block of yellow cheese, then broke off a chunk.

  Nothin’ ever gets any simpler. Kiowa is too Indian to stumble onto troopers by mistake. Besides, the army has never been known to camp in a discreet fashion.

  Fortune set up his camp away from the cave, next to the creek where it washed down the mountainside. He led the two horses up the narrow cut and staked them out so they couldn’t be seen from most parts of the meadow. He didn’t build a fire, but perched himself on the Texas saddle, his back against the base of the rimrock. Cheese, crackers, and jerky lay on a rock next to him.

  He folded his legs and propped the .50-caliber Sharps carbine across his lap. To the east he watched the mountain’s shadow stretch for miles as the sun set behind him.

  He was still in that position, his chin on his chest, stars tossed about the July sky, when Picket whinnied. Sam jumped straight up, found both of his feet sound asleep and promptly fell flat on his face in the grass and dirt. He had pushed himself up on his knees when he heard the thunder of horse hooves from the north.

  The remuda . . . someone’s bringing them back to the meadow.

  Staying low, Sam snuck back up the barranca where his two horses pranced and strained at the picket ropes. The remuda approached the base of the rimrock, not more than fifty feet from his position. He could see their silhouettes but not who, or how many, herded them.

  When Picket and the red roan settled down, he eased forward out of the barranca and hunkered down along the base of the rimrock.

  If I had been chased out of this camp once before, I wouldn’t go right back and build a fire in the cave. I’d . . . I’d come over here where the creek tumbles out of the mountain. If I got pinned in, I’d make a break up the mountainside and probably hold off any who tried to follow.

  Fifty feet away he heard the jangle of spurs.

  That eliminates Indians and the boys in blue.

  A shadowy figure approached, carrying a saddle over his shoulder. Sam strained to see if there were others. The saddle blocked any outline of the man’s face. He waited, carbine at his side, finger on the trigger.

  The man came within ten feet, threw down the saddle, and grabbed for his holstered revolver. This time Sam had no doubts about the silhouette.

  “Don’t pull it, Kiowa, I’ve got the Sharps pointed at your belly!” Fortune barked.

  “Sammy? Oh, man, when I caught a whiff of that tonic water, I figured it was a lawman. You got yourself shaved in Dodge City, I take it.”

  “That was three days ago. Drop your gun belt, Kiowa.”

  “Well, that’s strong stuff. You didn’t happen to bring some gals back with you, did you? . . . What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  Kiowa’s holster dropped to the grass. “Sammy, this ain’t funny.”

  “Neither is ridin’ back to the ranch findin’ Rocklin dead and you and the horses gone. Light a match.”

  The flare of the sulfur match revealed Kiowa Fox’s chiseled, brown face and piercing black eyes. “You think I killed Rocklin? He died of that snakebite.”

  “He had two bullets pumped into his chest at close range. Sit down.”

  “Sammy, this is crazy.”

  “Do it!” Fortune snarled.

  “Oh, I’ll do it . . . I’ll do it because I didn’t kill Rocklin. We both know that I could run away in the dark and you wouldn’t shoot me. We both know Sam Fortune couldn’t shoot Satan in the back, especially if he were unarmed. I can’t believe you’d come after me like this.”

  “And I can’t believe you think I wouldn’t come after you.”

  Kiowa sat down in the dark, cross-legged, and pushed his hat back. “Don’t that prove I didn’t do it? I knew you gave your pledge to Rocklin. That meant I would have to kill you, too, sooner or later. I wouldn’t have let you sneak up on me, if I was set to kill you.”

  Kiowa glanced back over his shoulder. “Sammy, I’ve got to ask you a favor. Let me sit over there against the rimrock next to you. You can stick the carbine in my ribs if that’s the way you feel, but there just might be some Black Mesa boys after these ponies, and I don’t want to get shot in the back.”

  “Black Mesa boys? Carryin’ .45-70s?”

  “Yep, and that’s what saved me. I could squeeze six rounds from Rocklin’s carbine for every one of theirs. McClellan saddles, trapdoors . . . they must have
ambushed the boys in blue.”

  “Start from the beginning, Kiowa, and make it believable. I’ve got a lousy feeling in the pit of my stomach about all of this. Tell me what happened when I was in Dodge City.”

  “Did you push the cattle out to the ranch already?” Kiowa asked.

  “I found out that Rocklin’s cattle had been sold, and the crew went back to Texas.”

  “You mean, there’s no crew and cattle waitin’ for us to bring the remuda?”

  The case hardened steel trigger felt cold on Fortune’s finger. “Nothin’ there but a fresh grave.”

  “I knew you’d bury him.”

  “You still have told me nothin’.”

  “If there’s no ranch to go back to, we can push these horses down to Tramperas or even La Cinta and sell them.”

  “Are you stallin’ from tellin’ me what happened, because you’re tryin’ to concoct a lie, Kiowa?”

  “You’ve got a bad case of righteousness, Sammy. Didn’t you tell me that Rocklin said that if he died, the horses belonged to us?”

  “He said if the snakebite killed him, not if one of us shot him.”

  “The snakebite did kill him; that’s what I’m sayin’.”

  “Give me the story.”

  “Rocklin was doin’ OK the day you rode off to Dodge. In fact, he kept sitting up trying to write a few things. He couldn’t eat any food, but he could swallow water if he worked at it. We both figured he was on the mend. A man can even survive a day or so without water.

  “I checked on him about midnight, but he insisted I go on to bed. I left a canteen by his side so he could keep his lips wet—they were chapped somethin’ bad. The next mornin’ I let him sleep until I had breakfast cooked. When I went to check on him, he was dead. I saw the canteen open and tossed down on the floor, and his mouth full of water. I think he drowned, Sammy. His throat was so swollen that he drowned.”

  The remuda milled around nervously. Fortune studied the dark horizon. “How did a drowned man get shot?”

  “I’m comin’ to that. Well at first, I didn’t know what to do. I figured I’d leave him right there until you returned. But I had no idea how many days you’d be gone or how long it’d take to move the herd to the ranch. I stewed around until afternoon. I hesitated to bury him, because I feared someone would accuse me of killin’ him.”

  “The two shots in the chest are still tough to understand.”

  “Sammy, keep quiet until I’m done. You’ve got me hung for murder, and won’t even listen to my story.”

  “I’m listenin’.”

  “Well, the bay stallion was kickin’ other horses in the corral, so I led him down to the cottonwoods and snubbed him up tight—to drain a little meanness out of him. While I was there I decided it would be a good place to bury Rocklin. That’s when I fetched the shovel and dug the grave.”

  “What grave?”

  “You said you buried him.”

  “I dug a grave for him,” Sam announced.

  “Didn’t you see the one I dug?” Kiowa challenged.

  “No.”

  “Where did you find the shovel?” Kiowa asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  “It was in the bottom of the grave I dug.”

  “Are you tellin’ me you dug a grave then didn’t bury Rocklin in it?”

  Kiowa rose to his feet.

  “Where are you goin’?”

  “The horses are gettin’ snuffy. Let’s slap the saddles on, just in case we need to ride.”

  Fortune stood beside Fox. “Who’s out there?”

  “No one, I hope. Can I strap the gun back on?” Kiowa asked.

  “You haven’t explained the bullets in Rocklin’s chest. Saddle up, but leave the gun on the grass.”

  “Sammy, you ain’t bein’ very friendly like.”

  Fortune retrieved Picket and began to saddle the buckskin. “You were diggin’ a grave in the cottonwoods, that I didn’t find. Go on with your story.”

  “My ‘story’? I’m givin’ you the truth. Anyway, I was down about four feet in the grave, shoveling away, when four men came ridin’ in to the ranch on three horses.”

  “The same that hit the corral before?”

  “I figured the one’s a little upset about you shootin’ his horse.”

  “Maybe they made the fake wolf howls,” Sam pondered.

  “That could be. Anyways, they had the remuda out of the corral before I could leap out of the grave. They kept me pinned down in the cottonwoods with those .45-70s. I’m not sure who pumped the lead into Rocklin’s dead body. I wounded one as he ran out of the cook tent with some grub. He might have been the one. I think they meant to steal all the goods, but they ran off with the horses once I started throwin’ lead.”

  “And you saddled the bay stallion and gave chase?”

  “When I went up to the tents and saw what they did to poor Rocklin, it made me so mad—I saddled him up and bucked around the yard for an hour ’til I could get him settled down to ride. Then I went after them. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

  Fortune was silent for a moment. “Yeah, I reckon I would’ve.”

  “I had to follow the remuda at a distance. I dropped down into that barranca—that’s the way you came up, didn’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “I came right up that little creek and found them camped here early this morning. I stampeded the remuda north, but they had picketed their saddle horses, so they came after me. About seven miles north of here, I found an outcrop of boulders and made my stand. I killed two of them. The third one and the wounded one rode straight up into the mountains. I figured it would be a couple days before they could report to any others and come after me.”

  “Or they might come right back after the horses?”

  “That’s a possibility. I surmised to give the horses rest in this meadow for an hour, then start across the plains.”

  “That’s your story, Kiowa?”

  “That’s the truth. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I’ll tell you what I believe for sure. Rocklin’s dead. He has two bullet holes in his chest. Someone stole the horses. And I didn’t see any dug grave.”

  “Did you go down beyond the cottonwoods?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you got to trust me, Sammy.”

  Fortune pushed his hat back and ran his fingers through his hair. “Kiowa, I do trust you. Now, let’s ride back and find that grave.”

  “Boy, that’s trust all right.”

  “Listen, I’m not tyin’ you up, disarmin’ you, or coldcockin’ you. I just need a little encouragement. Besides, you don’t want to wait here and see if those Black Mesa boys found some pals and are coming after you.”

  “You’re right about that. This rimrock is miserable cover, especially at night. Do you really believe my story?”

  “Yep,” Sam replied.

  “I want to see it in your eyes. You’re a lousy liar.”

  “Light a match.”

  The moment the flame blazed in Kiowa’s face, a shot sounded, and limestone chips flew off the rimrock wall.

  Both men dropped down to their haunches. The horses milled in a circle.

  “Draw another shot, Kiowa. I’ll send them one of these .50-caliber telegrams.”

  From a kneeling position, Kiowa Fox fired off two quick rounds with his revolver, then rolled left. As soon as Sam spotted gunfire flash from the distant barrel, he squeezed the trigger on the Sharps carbine.

  In the distance, there was a scream—and a curse.

  “You think they have reinforcements?” Sam called out.

  “If they do, they have us pinned in.”

  “Let’s run them through the barranca, single file. It will
be easy to hold them back from down there, and they can’t spot us from up on the plains until daylight.”

  “You want to lead the remuda or push them?” Kiowa called out.

  “You lead,” Fortune shouted. “Me and the .50-caliber Sharps will trail.”

  Two more shots exploded in the night sky. Bullets buzzed like mad bees above Sam’s head. The cavvy of horses, anxious for leadership, followed Kiowa into the narrow arroyo. Sam pushed the roan ahead of him and then plunged into the darkness of the barranca. They slowed to a trot as the horses adjusted to the water and rocks under their feet.

  Fifty yards into the arroyo, several shots fired over Sam’s head. They’re just guessin’ at the range. Two can play that game. He turned and fired a shot straight back into the dark.

  He heard the report of return fire. Two more bullets whizzed over his head only a foot or so. The little, steep-walled canyon was coal black, but the night sky outlined his course. Sam squeezed off another shot straight back between the barranca walls.

  This time there was no return fire.

  They kept up the pace through the canyon until they broke out on the plains at the confluence of Beaver Creek. As the eastern sky turned gray, Kiowa held up to a near dead, cottonwood stump, and Sam circled the remuda.

  Kiowa, draped forward over the horse’s neck, coughed out each word: “Did we lose ’em, Sammy?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I didn’t hit him but shot his horse in the bottom of that barranca. Lots of bullets were fired, but we didn’t make much of a target in the dark. If I clipped a horse, it ought to slow them down. I reckon we can stay up on the plains now and make better time. We got away easier than I thought.”

  “It wasn’t all that easy, partner,” Kiowa groaned.

  Sam rode near. There was just enough to light to see the pain in Fox’s face. “Kiowa?”

  Dark red blood oozed down the back of Fox’s shirt. “Ain’t this somethin’, Sammy? After all the gunfights we been in and then to take a random bullet in the back. It’s just my time. You’ll be next, I reckon. Bury me in that grave I dug. I didn’t kill Rocklin, Sammy . . . you got to believe me on that.”