by Don Bendell
The Bushwackers
Strongheart had not even ridden more than ten miles north of Cheyenne, Wyoming, when Eagle, his magnificent black-and-white pinto, started snorting. Eagle’s left ear started turning toward the hillock directly to the west of the trail, which ran north and south. Joshua put the spurs to the big horse and Eagle sprinted forward, and Strongheart heard the bullet crack behind his head as the big horse propelled him forward. Fifty feet on, he spun him around and drew his Colt .45 Peacemaker, firing a snap shot at the top of the bluff where the shot had come from. He ran fast until he came to the end of the low ridge, and he quickly veered left into the prairie grass, bounding around the north end of the ridgeline.
Now, on the western side of the ridge, he saw two riders climbing into the saddles of two bay geldings. The cowboys took off south at a dead run, but it did not take long for the long legs of the sixteen-hands-tall pinto to start catching up.
The one on the right made a big mistake and foolishly drew his .44, turned in the saddle, and tried to make a snap shot back at Strongheart. Joshua did a quick draw and fired, his bullet catching the man under his bottom rib and going through his torso, tearing out the other side. He literally flew from the saddle and landed in a giant patch of prickly pear cactus. Obviously, he immediately started screaming in pain.
Strongheart yelled to the other, “You want to end up like him? Just keep running!”
Titles by Don Bendell
THE INDIAN RING
BLOOD FEATHER
STRONGHEART
CROSSBOW
The Criminal Investigation Detachment Series
CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DETACHMENT
BROKEN BORDERS
BAMBOO BATTLEGROUND
DETACHMENT DELTA
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
THE INDIAN RING
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Don Bendell.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61717-5
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley mass-market edition / January 2016
Cover illustration by Bruce Emmett.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Experience has shown, that even under the best forms of government those entrusted with power have, in time, and by slow operations, perverted it into tyranny.
—Thomas Jefferson
On February 2, 2010, I had a very freaky thing happen. Three years earlier, I had been recognized by the secretary of veterans affairs, R. James Nicholson, during a speech he delivered at the Denver VAMC, in which he stated that I was the perfect example of how healthy a disabled veteran could live by working out hard, not smoking or drinking, and by eating healthy.
However, three years after being recognized, I had a blood clot form, break loose, and hit a valve in my heart, and I had a heart attack. While visiting me the first week in the hospital, my wife of then almost three decades, Shirley Bendell, had a routine physical and was sent to an oncologist. Shirley was diagnosed with chronic myelogenous leukemia with lymphoid blast crisis, which puts you in the fatal final stages of leukemia, usually with only a few weeks to live. On top of that, she had a chromosome cell mutation that nobody had ever survived. For the next two years, Shirley went through ten rounds of chemotherapy, numerous trips to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, a bone marrow/stem cell transplant, and many near-death experiences. On several occasions, doctors told me she would not make it through that day.
Shirley had a deep, abiding faith and tremendous toughness, and she had “prayer warriors” all over the country praying for her. She had been swimming a hundred laps at a time four days per week, lifting weights, doing Pilates, teaching martial arts, and training horses when she was diagnosed. At that time, she was sixty-three years old.
More than three years had passed since Shirley’s bone marrow/stem cell transplant, and she was totally cancer free and, according to her doctors, a living, breathing, walking miracle. She was back doing Pilates, teaching martial arts, riding horses, and staying on the go. A year after her transplant, she and I danced all the twenty- and thirty-year-old couples into the floor at a banquet.
Shirley was by far and away, man or woman, the toughest person I have ever known, and at the same time, the sexiest person I have ever known. We were married for thirty-two and a half years, and during that time I fell more deeply in love with her every day.
She was only the third woman in history to be inducted into the International Karate and Kickboxing Hall of Fame, was a sixth-degree black belt master instructor in four martial arts, had been a recovering alcoholic and prescription drug addict for well over three decades, public about being a former victim of both gang rape and acquaintance rape, an actress, stuntwoman, producer, director, business executive, gymnast, mother, and grandmother, and she covered her head with a prayer shawl every single morning and read the Holy Bible, prayed fervently, and read devotionals daily. When Shirley danced, people on the dance floor often stopped and watched her. With eleven grandchildren, after her transplant, she was at an indoor arena running barrels and pole-bending on a horse, helping me brand and ear-tag cows and neuter bull calves, and teaching karate classes again.
However, 110 days post-transplant, Shirley developed a hideous complication called GVHD, or graft versus host disease. The new cells would travel from one organ to another throughout her body attacking the healthy cells. She was often in a lot of pain but never showed it to people, and on Valentine’s Day, 2014, the disease finally won out. She conquered incurable leukemia, but not GVHD. With her sister and brother-in-law, my son, Josh, and me at her side, Shirley passed away and was finally out of pain and misery after a very courageous four-year battle. I was very sad but also very happy for her. She is now pain free living in a mansion for eternity.
For all those years, I was not only totally amazed at her, but I always got excited whenever she walked into the room. Just seeing her quite often took my breath away. Shirley Bendell, you were my soul mate, my best friend, my business partner, my mistress, my dancing and hunting partner, my fishing buddy, my saddle partner, and the love of my life. You insisted that I keep living life to the fullest and find love again. I did, but not a substitute for you. It is a totally different love than I had for you, and you would approve of her. In fact, you predicted exactly what she would be like. All you ever cared about was me and what was best for me. I will always love you and treasure our memories.
Shirley Ann (Ebert) Bendell (3/20/47–2/14/14),
I dedicate this book to you.
Your forever passionate servant,
Don
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to acknowledge my close friend Rudi H. Gresham. Rudi is a fellow former Green Beret officer and Vietnam veteran a
nd has been a wonderful friend. Rudi is also one of the most colorful characters I have ever known. Although he has a bachelor’s degree in chemistry, Rudi became a U.S. Army Special Forces (Green Beret) officer during the Vietnam War and was selected to become the aide de camp to Lieutenant General William Yarborough, who is called the father of the modern Green Berets. Lieutenant General Yarborough was the commanding general when John F. Kennedy made the green beret the official distinctive headgear of the U.S. Army Special Forces, and a statue showing that immortalizes both at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He created Jump Wings for airborne soldiers and came up with other similarly important innovations. Rudi became like a foster son to the general and delivered the eulogy at William Yarborough’s funeral. Rudi helped his friend Ronald Reagan get elected to the presidency and was credited by George W. Bush for helping him get elected, too. President Bush rewarded him with a presidential appointment as senior adviser to the secretary of VA, where he served throughout Bush’s tenure and more. Rudi was given the Special Forces Association Operator of the Year award three times, and many, many other honors. He also owned a successful chain of radio stations in the South.
It is incredible how many veterans Rudi has helped behind the scenes over the years, especially Special Forces veterans. In many cases, they had no idea, and some still have no idea Rudi was pulling strings to help them out. Rudi and I worked on a political campaign together, and I got impatient and wrote an inner-campaign memo complaining about problems within the campaign. It was pretty critical, and I figured that it would get me fired. Rudi was my supervisor on the campaign and told them that if they fired me, they would have to fire him, too. He has done so many behind-the-scenes good things for veterans. He frequently quotes his friend the late Ronald Reagan: “There is no limit to what a man can do or where he can go if he does not mind who gets the credit.”
He is married to the beautiful former Miss South Carolina Faye Breland Gresham, and they have three adult children.
Rudi, my friend, you always choose to be in the background making good things happen for others. This time it is about you. Thank you.
De Oppresso Liber,
Don
CONTENTS
TITLES BY DON BENDELL
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
EPIGRAPH
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOREWORD
1: EAGLE
2: THE ASSIGNMENT
3: THE BUSHWHACKERS
4: MORE SHOOTING
5: RETURN TO DENVER
6: SUN DANCE
7: THE VISION
8: AMBUSH
9: ANOTHER TRIP TO DENVER
10: HARTWELL
11: THE BATTLE
12: GOING EAST
13: THE CHASE
14: REFUGE
15: TOP OF THE DIRT PILE
16: HIDE AND SEEK
17: BACK HOME
18: THE HANDSHAKE
19: THE FINAL BATTLE
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FOREWORD
I started American Indian fancy-dancing when I was just a young boy with the Minniconjou Indian Dancers in Akron, Ohio. We performed quite often and I won several competitions, even against Native American dancers. When my buddies and I played cowboys and Indians, I always wanted to be the Indian and studied American Indian lore all the time. I wore moccasins all through grade school and carried a beaded headband in my pocket and put it on when out of sight of my house. I started bow-hunting while still in elementary school. I had no Native American blood, but it was in my heart. I was like a cherry cupcake with vanilla frosting. I was white on the outside, but red on the inside.
I also grew up in a racially mixed neighborhood until middle school and always got along with everybody, never really understanding the reasoning behind or sense in racial prejudice. To me, it was stupid, pure and simple. By the time I was twenty years old, I was commissioned as second lieutenant in the U.S. Army, a product of Infantry Officers Candidate School, and after Jump School, I found myself at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, earning a Green Beret. It was 1967, and I voluntarily took part in racial seminars for soldiers at Fort Bragg. I was the only white soldier standing with the black soldiers arguing for integration, and I was the only officer in the room.
This novel deals with the Indian Ring, one of the most unfortunate and shameful things that ever came out of Washington, D.C. It deals with racial prejudice, especially for the true Americans who were here when the white men first arrived. The Indian Ring was real and so was secretary of war under President Ulysses Grant, William W. Belknap, and so were the incidents involving him and his wives mentioned herein. Belknap was the head of the Indian Ring and was impeached by the U.S. House of Representatives after resigning in disgrace, but what about all those in the Indian Ring who were never brought to justice? The character Robert Hartwell is fictional, but could have been a real person. There were many in the Indian Ring who sought personal gain on the backs of the American Indian. That is what is so sad about our nation’s history. There have been those throughout history who want power, fame, and riches; without caring a whit about those they hurt in the process. We should learn from our mistakes, not repeat them.
1
EAGLE
The warrior’s eyes scanned the deep snow, and on the surface of the crusted, frosty blanket were the saucer-sized tracks he had been following all morning. He saw before him a wide fan-shaped track along the top of the snow, and his mind pictured the long tail of the two-hundred-pound male mountain lion, as it crouched here looking at three mule deer who had fled high up and were having trouble moving in the deep, silvery, natural straitjacket. The tall warrior knew what had occurred. The lion had watched the three nibbling deer browse for old vegetation after pawing it away through the snowy morass, while his tail slowly switched back and forth making the fan-shaped track as he prepared to attack.
Dark, intelligent eyes looked at the sign over high cheekbones on the handsome chiseled face, and the brave could see a deep imprint on the snow’s surface where the big cat had hunched down and sprung forward in a fatal charge. His eyes swept the snow in front of him in twenty-yard arcs going back and forth until he spotted the bright red crimson he had been looking for. Earlier, the warrior had constructed a pair of expedient snowshoes by bending spruce boughs into a large teardrop shape and lashing them together, weaving to create a back-and-forth webbing. These were lashed onto his feet, and he had easily glided along the top of the three-foot drifts following this large tom all the way up to this alpine spot. The nearest trees could only by seen by looking down thousands of feet below him. His horse was down there in the dark trees, grazing on lush green mountain gamma grasses. He had dabbed black ash from his campfire below his eyes to prevent snow blindness from the sun glare off the snowcapped peaks he was ascending in the magnificent Sangre de Cristo mountain range, which extended from southern Colorado down through New Mexico territory.
He moved to the splashes of bright red on the snow and saw the area where the lion had jumped on the back of the doe and broke her neck with one bite while gripping her sides with his retractable claws. He had apparently just started to feed and, sated, moved to a higher perch to watch the kill. The warrior knew he was above him somewhere, lying under a ledge watching over the prey while he rested.
A big tom like this would have an area he would patrol every ten to eleven days that would cover fifty to one hundred square miles. He would look for females in estrus, kill any male kittens he could find, and mark his territory. In the meantime, he would make kills like this once or twice per week and feed on it until the meat started to get a little tainted and move on, leaving it for other predators.
The warrior did not get too close to the kill as he did not want to scare the cougar away. Instead, he stood the
re, his eyes scouring the ridge above him, which rose up another five hundred feet or more to become part of Crestone Needle, a peak of 14,197 feet in height. Far below the white blanket he stood on, he could see the crystal-clear bowl of Colony Lake and the blanket of thick green evergreens. His eyes had been scouring every rock overhang and the big tom made a mistake. He twitched his long tail and the movement caught the warrior’s eyes. The cat was bedded down no more than one hundred feet above him. He turned his head, knowing he was being watched intently, but his eyes scanned an approach route, and he moved off to his right over the ridge and out of sight. The wind was blowing from his left to the right, but he knew at over thirteen thousand feet up on these windswept peaks, the wind direction could change fifty times over the next hour.
He disappeared over the ridge and as soon as he was out of earshot, started climbing. He worried on this slope about an avalanche starting. He tried to figure an escape route as he climbed in case one started. However, he lucked out, and an hour later he was in the notch he had used as a navigation spot. If he worked carefully around this ledge, he should come within sight of the big cat fairly quickly.
Ten minutes later, moving slowly now on solid rock under the ledge, he stepped carefully in his winter moccasins. He had removed the snowshoes when he had gotten on the rock. He rounded a bend and the big cat was lying there asleep. The brave averted his eyes, knowing that animals and elite warriors have a sixth sense that alerts them if someone is staring at them. He affixed his gaze on a spot to the left of the cat’s tail and proceeded slowly, cautiously. Twenty feet away, he stopped and raised his bow, nocking an arrow. Just then the cat raised its head and stared straight at him, and his ears laid back on his head. A long low hiss came from behind the bared fangs as the cornered animal readied to lunge itself at this intruder. The warrior released the arrow, and it entered the cat’s chest low next to the left shoulder, and it penetrated its heart, went through the left lung, and exited the left hip near the hipbone. Blood streamed from the big cat as it screamed and bit at the exit wound, and it suddenly dropped down dead.