Bulldog slapped the ends of the reins against the rumps of the horses, and the wagon rolled down the rutted street. Even John Austin hadn’t anything to say. Summer turned to smile at him, but he was looking back, as was Mary, at the group watching them from the porch of the store.
Three
Summer was glad when they left the town behind. Bulldog clucked and snapped the reins sharply on the horses’ backs as they ambled out of the rutted street and onto the prairie. A slight breeze kicked up little eddies of dust along the trail, but did little to dissipate the early morning heat. Summer put on her sunbonnet to take advantage of the shade it offered, and for a time rode silently, reflecting on Bulldog’s mood and trying, fruitlessly, to comprehend his silent, scowling countenance. The area surrounding them was like a vast ocean, only solid and hot. Some half a mile ahead, a small grove broke the emptiness, and it was there that they headed. A group of horsemen waited beneath the cottonwoods.
“Mr. Bulldog?” Summer gestured toward the men when Bulldog turned to look at her.
“McLean men.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a flat tin, dipped a small twig, the end of which was chewed into a brush, into the brown powder, and coated the inside of his lower lip. Summer had seen this done often. Even people in the Piney Woods dipped snuff.
“Mr. McLean’s men?”
“Yup.”
Sadie glanced nervously at Summer and pulled her sunbonnet from beneath the seat and tied it securely under her chin.
When Bulldog pulled the team to a halt under the shade trees, the men on horseback sat motionless and stared at the women. Summer looked at each face before confusion forced her to look away. Not one of the men fit her imaginary picture of Sam McLean, the one who would be the man in charge. The silence was broken by Bulldog’s low laugh. It drew attention to him.
“Wal, now! You fellers just pull in yore eyeballs. This here’s Summer Kuykendall, and the other’n is Mrs. Bratcher.”
“Are you outlaws?” John Austin stood behind Summer, gazing with awe at the horsemen.
Summer looked around in horror. “John Austin!”
Grins appeared on the weathered, toughened faces, and one rider urged his horse forward.
“I’m not sure ’bout the rest of ’em, boy, but as fer me, I’m the ramrod of these galoots when the boss ain’t around. Jack Bruza’s the name.”
“What do you ram, mister?”
Summer cringed. Her brother’s questions were often unintentionally upsetting. He would invariably pick out the word that interested him the most and ask about it.
“Uh?” The expression on the man’s face was typical of those who talked with John Austin for the first time.
The loud guffaws of laughter from the men didn’t affect Jack at all. He grinned with them, took off his hat, scratched his head and allowed his restless horse to edge closer to the wagon.
“Wal . . . I’m a gonna have to study on that one, boy. How’d ya like to ride along with me while 1 tell ya ’bout it?”
John Austin didn’t hesitate. He could never be accused of shyness.
“Can I, Summer? Can I?”
It was hard for Summer to suspend her habit of concern for her small brother. She looked first at the man and then at the prancing horse.
“I don’t think. . . .”
“Jack ain’t gonna let no hurt come to him,” Bulldog growled. “Ya don’t aim to make no sissy-britches out of him, do ya?”
She felt a flush of embarrassment at the rebuke. “Well . . . all right. But . . . be careful, John Austin.”
Mary set up a howl as soon as the boy was lifted from the wagon.
“Me . . . me ride!”
An old man urged his horse up to the wagon. He looked inquiringly at Sadie.
“Ma’am?”
Sadie nodded, and with one arm he scooped the little girl up and placed her carefully in front of him.
“Jist come on up here with ol’ Raccoon, lit’l purty gal, we’ll jist have us a fine ride.”
A youth, not more than fourteen, swept off his broad-brimmed hat, his young face creased with a teasing grin. He turned his horse in a circle, then caused the animal to rear up on its hind legs.
“One of you ladies is welcome to ride with me,” he called.
“Ya just quit yore showin’ off, Pud. Or I’m liable to take a board to yore back side.” Bulldog snapped the reins sharply and the team began to move. “Now cut out the tomfoolery, and keep yore eyes peeled.”
“The man’s name is Raccoon? The boy’s name is Pud?” Summer couldn’t suppress a small laugh. She turned to help the children onto the wagon.
“Yeah.” Bulldog cocked his head to one side, as if surprised by her interest. “We call the kid Pud, ’cause he is the puddin’-eatin’est little bastard ya ever did see. I don’t recall jist what his name is. But ya just let a batch of bread puddin’ get made up and that goddam kid’ll eat till his eyes bulge.” He flicked the backs of the straining team. “Raccoon’s name is Fox, but when the boss was a tyke, he couldn’t remember what kind of varmit he was, so he called him Raccoon, and it stuck.”
“Do the boy’s folks live at the ranch?”
“Naw. They was dirt farmers. The old man was a lazy mule and the old woman took off with a peddlin’ man. Jack brought the kid out a few years back. Keeps an eye on him. He’s a good kid, if’n he is mouthy. Stick his head in the fire if’n Jack tol’ him to.”
The day rocked on. It was pleasant sitting on the high seat. The country was lush and beautiful. They followed a creek south, the trail coming so close at times they could see the swiftly running water. Bulldog explained the creek was running full now, due to the rains in the north, but would more than likely be a dry sand-bed before the summer was over.
The riders kept their distance from the wagon, riding mostly to the side and behind. Jack came to talk occasionally with Bulldog. They said as few words as possible, as was the way of men who spent much of their time alone.
“Seen any sign?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing of Slater?”
“Nope.”
“He ain’t far off. Keep yore eyes peeled fer a signal.”
“Ain’t likely to do nothin’ else.”
“I got me a hunch.”
“Yeah?”
“Could be we’ll cross ’em at the gorge.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let Pud do nothin’ hare-brained.”
“He ain’t gonna do nothin’. He’s just full of mustard.”
“We ort to be to the gorge in half an hour.”
“Yeah.”
Jack wheeled his horse and rode away. After that, the men were spaced further out from the wagon.
Happily sucking on the candy sticks, John Austin and Mary lay down in the wagon bed.
“When will we get home, Mr. Bulldog?”
Home. The word came so naturally from her brother that it was seconds before it registered with Summer.
“Afore dark, most likely, if we keep on a clickin’.” Bulldog’s keen eyes were constantly shifting, and he had neglected to dip his snuff for a while. “You younguns lay down, and don’t be makin’ no racket.”
It had all been so peaceful. Summer suddenly felt the sharp spur of anxiety.
“Are you expecting . . . trouble?”
“Ya’d be plumb bad off not to be ’specting trouble in this country. It’s somethin’ that comes sooner or later like a skeeter bite.” Bulldog’s tone was grim. “If’n it comes, ’n I ain’t sayin’ ’twill. You hop over the seat and plop down on top them kids, ’n don’t be pokin’ yore head up fer nothin’.”
Summer smoothed her dress down over her knees with a nervous motion. She started to say something, but would not trust her voice. She looked ahead at the hills. They seemed now to advance on them.
“We’ll do as you say, Mr. Bulldog.” Sadie’s voice was quiet, confident. “Don’t you worry none. Me ’n Summer’ll take care of the kids.”
“I wish you’d put a stop on callin’ me ‘Mr.’ Makes me itchy. Name’s just plain ol’ Bulldog. Ain’t been called nothin’ else fer so long, I’d not answer to nothin’ else but.”
They traveled on in uneasy silence, the rattle of the harnesses and the clip-clop of the hoofs on the hard-packed prairie trail the only sounds to break the stillness.
Slater McLean sat motionless on his buckskin. He rolled the cigarette in his lips, liking the taste of the fresh tobacco, squinted his eyes against the sun’s glare, and gazed down into the valley. He was a big, lean, wide-shouldered man. A quiet man with a weathered face, straight black hair, and eyes so deep blue that they almost seemed black.
He sat easily in the saddle and studied the terrain with care, beginning with the far distance and working closer, letting no rock or clump of brush go unscrutinized. He had learned long ago that careful scrutiny and patience were essential in this country if you wanted to live. It was hot and he drew on his cigarette. A few clouds drifted across the sky, and their shadows traveled the length of the valley. Nothing else moved.
Finishing the cigarette, he let his eyes wander to his right, where a dip in the ridge would be the logical place to hide and wait for the wagon. It was so logical a place for an Apache; he would wait behind the broken boulders that lined the ridge—and if he took his time and made no sudden moves to attract the eye, he would be on the wagon before Bulldog could spit. Sweat trickled through the dust on Slater’s face. His neck itched from the heat and dust. Nowhere in all that vast distance was there a movement. Yet, somewhere out there were Apaches. He was sure of it.
Yesterday, on his way to town, he’d crossed the trail of a band of Apaches. They had been riding without women and children, which meant they were young bucks out raiding, hot to lift hair and steal horses. No doubt they were a rag-tail outfit of half-starved renegades, and Slater hoped to hell he wouldn’t have to kill them.
The Apaches were not the only problem Slater had to worry about. There was another gang in the area, led by a man named Findlay. Bushy Red, he was called; and as far as Slater knew, he was the only white man in a gang of renegade Apache scouts, runaway slaves and Mexicans. Several times lately he had come across their sign, had found tracks of as many as a dozen or more. They were a mean outfit. The Texas Rangers had run them out of the Brazos River country, and they had drifted south, rustling and raiding.
Slater eased his weight in the saddle and checked the eagerness of his horse. They had been motionless for half an hour. Both had welcomed the rest after the grueling ride across country from Hamilton. But now he gave himself a mental shake. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from the small dark-haired girl who got off the stage. Somehow, he hadn’t expected to see such a proud little creature. She walked with her head up and her chin tilted as if she were six feet tall. He had often wondered what kind of woman the little girl had grown into; she was spunky from what he could tell. But still, he was puzzled by her bringing along the girl from the dance hall. He shrugged. As long as she didn’t cause trouble among the men, he didn’t care.
Slater’s eyes were alert, but his thoughts traveled. The little brother was quite brainy, if Bulldog could be believed. At least the kid was well-behaved. Both of them will be better off at the ranch, he mused. Especially now that Travis had set eyes on the girl. The McLeans hadn’t bothered him for a long time now, but he knew the meeting was no coincidence. And if Ellen had said anything about Sam, the girl wouldn’t have left town with Bulldog.
And there was Jesse Thurston to deal with. His toughness was ingrained. He wasn’t a cruel man, yet he was quick, hard and dangerous. Whatever wells of softness there were in him, were apparent only where Ellen McLean was concerned. That was a strange alliance. He was still lapping up every word or gesture from the woman, and she old enough to be his mother for all her beauty and careful grooming. He had seen Jesse almost beat a man to death for making a remark to Ellen, and she had stood by loving every minute of it. That was before . . . he raised a hand to his scarred cheek, rubbed the rough ridges. Every time he saw his reflection in a mirror, his eyes hardened and he felt almost choked with hate. Yes, he had been right to send Bulldog to meet the stage. His face might have been a shock to her now. He put his heels lightly to the horse’s flanks. Even if she hadn’t written, he had always had it in the back of his mind to fetch her home.
Slater pulled the buckskin up short of the ridge and moved against a dark clump of juniper where he was as invisible as possible to be on the hillside. A small cloud of dust rose above the brush on the opposite side of the slope. He studied it. It could have come from a deer scrambling up from the creek, but it would stir up more dust. He waited. The dust appeared, then vanished, and that meant it was not a deer, but someone not wanting to be seen. He eased himself from the saddle moving slowly, and lifted his rifle, being careful the streaks of sunlight shining through the branches didn’t strike the metal. His eyes were glued to the spot where he had glimpsed the dust. He watched and waited, crouched down behind a clump of brush and weeds. He had stayed high up enough on the slope to be able to see the side of the draw, and yet see the wagon coming from the east. The sun was in the west, giving full light to the valley and shade to the sides of the slope.
Watchfulness was no new thing for Slater. Watchfulness and patience will keep you alive, he had been told more than once. The first to move is often the first to die.
In the hot stillness of the afternoon, Slater could hear the jingle of harness, the soft thud of hooves on the packed trail, Bulldog’s muffled curse as the wagon jolted over a stone. He dared not to take his eyes from the willow clumps. The Apaches would wait until just the right moment. They knew the value of waiting. He had to have a sign soon, so he could fire . . . there it was. A movement of brown and his finger tightened, the rifle leaped in his hands. The sound of the shot echoed in the valley even as the Apache stood, then crashed over, his arms flung wide.
The sudden attack caught the Indians by surprise. They were shrewd and careful fighters, elusive, never trusting a wild charge if they could accomplish their purpose by concealment. Now mounted, whooping Indians came racing toward the wagon, firing and missing. It was diversionary action that Slater and his men were too experienced to fall for. The men crouched behind the wagon, the women and children lay flat in the wagon bed, the frightened team, their heads pulled up by the quick-thinking Bulldog, stamped their feet and moved restlessly. Slater put the butt of his Winchester against his shoulder and fired, his shots seeking out the hidden enemy, firing carefully, squeezing off every shot. Answering fire from the hillside suddenly ceased.
The silence seemed to charge over the hill. Rifles lowered, and in that instant the nearer Indians sprang from the cover of the willows. One big brave lunged his horse straight at Slater. Slater sidestepped and hit him in the small of the back with his rifle butt. The Indian hit the ground and rolled over, lance in hand. Slater hit him again to make sure he was unconscious. A horse was down, screaming. Colt in hand, Slater wheeled, and felt a sharp, stinging pain in his thigh that almost brought him to his knees. From behind the wagon came a crash of shots. Two more Indians fell, and a third fell headfirst off his racing pony and turned head over heels in the grass. The other two broke, seeking shelter, Firing coolly, the men of McLean’s Keep poured lead into the brush. Then again, the sudden silence.
Slater waited. No sound followed except from the wagon; a child was crying, the sound low and muffled. The attack was over. The Apache, like ghosts, vanished, melting into the landscape.
Summer had been trying to figure out the reason for Bulldog’s anxiety when the first shot was fired, the sound bouncing off the hills. The reaction was instantaneous. Bulldog hauled up on the reins and the horses turned halfway across the trail in their effort to stop. Before she realized what had happened, she and Sadie were over the seat and she was flat on top of the squirming John Austin, who was trying to get out from under her so he could see what was going on.
>
“Stay down and be still, or I’ll hit you!” Summer gasped out the words.
With pounding heart, arms and legs locked around the boy, Summer fought off panic. The noise from the guns beside the wagon was deafening. She heard something far away on the side of the slope that sounded like a shriek. The team stirred restlessly, and the wagon creaked as it followed the movement of the horses. During the lull in the shooting, she could hear hooting and yelping noises that made her blood run cold.
Time dragged. The shooting was unpredictable. Once, Summer heard a muffled curse; shortly after, the whine of a bullet hit the end of the wagon. There was silence, then someone began shooting up on the right of them. This was the hardest part, not knowing what was going on. She opened her eyes and stared into Sadie’s green ones. They were large with fright and the freckles stood out on her white face.
“Shhh, baby. Shhh . . . Mama’s here,” Sadie crooned to the frightened child in her arms.
“You’re heavy, Summer. Can’t you get off now?” John Austin’s voice was tired, bored. It made Summer angry.
“You hush up! We’re not getting up till they tell us we can.”
The wagon creaked as someone climbed up into the bed. Hands beneath her armpits lifted her to her feet.
“You done good. You done real good.” Jack helped Sadie to sit up. She cuddled the frightened little girl to her.
“Was anyone hurt?” Summer held on to the wagon seat, her legs suddenly weak.
“Only a couple little nicks. Ain’t nothin’ that needs to be messed with. You all sit tight.” He jumped down from the wagon. “Slater’ll be glad when you get home tonight!” He turned to Summer gravely.
Slater. Later, Summer was to remember it was the second time she had heard that name. It had a familiar ring.
“We’ll take the guns and that’s all,” Bulldog instructed the men. “They ’spect it. The rest of their plunder we leave. It’s sacred to ‘em. N’other thing. We don’t go a killin’ any wounded, if’n there is any. Killin’ in a fights one thing, bashin’ in heads of wounded is another. We ain’t out to kill no ’Paches if’n they ain’t out to kill us.”
Dorothy Garlock Page 4