The Rider of Phantom Canyon
Page 19
Strongheart grinned and said, “Nest builder.”
The next morning, they loaded their horses into a freight car on the narrow-gauge railroad that ran up Grape Creek, and they were in Westcliffe well before noon. As always, Zach Banta had gotten word ahead of time about Joshua’s return, so he had already gone to Westcliffe with his buckboard to get supplies.
The three had lunch together, and Zach said, “Reckon she has that big old Bullsquat with her now, and three others. Thet new foreman a hers was at a saloon down ta Cañon City, McClure’s, the other night and was drinkin’ and tryin’ ta show off his new Colt Russian .44 and tripped over a chair leg and accidental-like put a bullet right through his own beer mug. Problem was, he was a holdin’ it up to his lips at the time. It taken the top a his head clean off. The real cowboys she had decided they din’t need no severance pay. They jest took her herd instead. Heerd they was pushin’ it toward Kansas. Now ya only have to deal with four coon-dogs and one hellcat. They are holed up in her ranch. Deputies, nobody has been able ta git in.”
Joshua said firmly, “I will.”
Zach smiled and said, “’Spect so.”
Strongheart said, “I have to stop at the mercantile. Wednesday, I would like you to stay here with Zach until I return. If that is okay with you, Zach?”
Wednesday started to speak, but Strongheart gave her that look that clearly showed this was not up for debate.
Zach said, “Okay with me. Look how purty thet little thing is, and how ugly and old I am. Ya think I mind one bit, yer crazy.”
Joshua got ready to saddle up to leave, and Wednesday jumped forward and confronted him.
“Joshua,” she said, “be careful.”
One thing she had learned to do was kiss as good as any white woman, and she did so now. He smiled down at her and mounted up. He would ride west, then would stop at the mercantile briefly, then turn south.
* * *
Two hours later, he rode through the front gate of Victoria Clinton’s ranch, but the place looked bare except for a large herd of antelope out in the lush green pasture. In a few hours, it would be invaded by a large harem of elk and, at the other end, a large herd of mule deer.
He rode up to the front gate, knowing they were all hunkered down inside. He then skirted the big stone wall and grabbed bundles of dynamite from his saddlebags, lit the fuses, and dropped them at several spots around the wall. Then, returning to the front gate, he dropped two bundles there after lighting them, and he ran his horse back. Joshua waited a few minutes.
The gate exploded into numerous splinters of oak and shards of brass and, less than two minutes later, three separate explosions blew giant sections of the rock wall inward, shattering windows and crashing holes in the big ranch house in several places.
Bullsquat and the three gunmen got behind windows in the living room, their rifles poised and ready to shoot. They heard thundering hooves approaching and tensed up, aiming at the opening where the gate had been. Suddenly, Eagle ran through the gate, but he was carrying nothing but Joshua’s saddle.
At the same time, Strongheart ran through the western hole in the stone wall and tossed his last dynamite package into the middle of the house, this time with a short fuse. He ran quickly outside and ducked behind the damaged wall, and it exploded within seconds. The rest of the home’s windows blew outward, and the three gunmen came out the door gasping and choking on smoke and dust.
They looked all around, guns ready, and finally spun around when they heard Strongheart say, “Boys, up here.”
They saw him standing on the small porch on the second floor, and he drew quickly and fired, fanning his gun, and bullet holes appeared in the chest of each killer, except Bullsquat, whose carbine stock exploded from the bullet’s impact. He was staring at Joshua Strongheart, who was thumbing new shells into his Peacemaker. Joshua jumped down on the ground, facing Bullsquat at fifteen paces.
Bullsquat grinned evilly and rolled up his sleeves, fully exposing the ham-sized fists and tree-trunk forearms.
He said, “All right, Strongheart, Ah’ve seen ya shoot. Now let’s see how ya are with them fists. Ah can take you any day.”
Joshua said, “We’ll never know. You’re heeled. Draw!”
Panic opened Bullsquat’s eyes and he said, “I’m gonna kill you!”
Joshua said, “Bullsquat!”
The big man clawed for his gun and looked into the barrel of Strongheart’s Peacemaker, wondering how he got it out so fast. He saw flames shoot out twice and looked down at his chest, which was now covered in blood. He couldn’t breathe, and he panicked even more and started clawing at his shirt.
Strongheart spun around, sensing a presence behind him, and Victoria Clinton stood there in a sheer negligee. She apparently was ready to use her own weapon.
She said, “Joshua, I’m not going to prison. You are too much of a gentleman to shoot me. I am rich—very rich—and all this can be yours.”
He said, “On the dead bodies of American Indian men, women, and children. I don’t think so, woman. You’re going to prison for the rest of your life.”
She pulled a derringer out, pointing it at him, and said, “No, I’m not going to prison. You could have had me. But you turned it down. Now you’re going to die, and I will be in New Mexico by nightfall, drinking brandy.”
A voice behind him made him spin around, and there was Wednesday, standing where the gate had been, her bow in her hand with an arrow drawn.
She said, “No, you will not kill him. You will die, and you know how pretty you are? My arrow goes into your pretty face, because of what you and your man did to my people. You die now.”
Victoria panicked and felt faint from sheer terror.
With that, Wiya Waste released the arrow, and it sliced right past Joshua’s ear. He turned his head and saw it penetrate Victoria’s forehead and exit the back of her skull, killing her instantly. She fell forward into the dirt, her face a bloody mess.
Joshua turned, and Wednesday ran forward, dropping her bow, and threw herself into his arms, kissing him passionately.
He smiled, looked into her tear-filled eyes, and said, “I thought I told you to stay with Zach. Wednesday Strongheart, if I am going to be your husband, you need to start listening to me.”
A stone fell off the crumbling wall, the first of many in the years to come. Eagle and Pebbles whinnied softly to each other, and several birds in the trees outside the wall chirped. A bald eagle flew high overhead, circling in the valley winds.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Don Bendell is a bestselling author whose style has been likened to that of Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey. He is a 100 percent disabled Green Beret Vietnam veteran and a 1995 inductee into the International Karate and Kickboxing Hall of Fame. Don’s late wife of thirty-three years, Shirley, and he were the only couple in history to both be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Don owns the Strongheart Ranch in southern Colorado, named for his number one bestselling western, its sequel Blood Feather (Berkley/Penguin Random House, August 2013), and the sequels The Indian Ring (Berkley/Penguin Random House, January 2016) and The Rider of Phantom Canyon (Berkley/Penguin Random House, October 2016). There are over three million copies of his twenty-eight books in print. Don hit number one on Amazon three times and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for one of his books, Tracks of Hope: A Modern Day Western (2011, GoldMinds Publishing, Nashville). He has a master’s degree in business leadership from Grand Canyon University and has six grown children and eleven grandchildren, and is a widower after losing his wife/best friend/soul mate, Shirley, to the side effects of a stem cell transplant after conquering leukemia with blast crisis. She passed away on Valentine’s Day 2014 with Don at her side. Don has horses, alpacas, blue-green and white peacocks, chickens, dogs, and cats, and enjoys his two-hundred-acre ranch, filled with Western art as a wonderful retreat where he can work full-time on his
books and feature film projects, and babysit grandkids as often as possible.
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