by J. R. WRIGHT
That all stopped, however, when Sarah asked, “What will Pierre say?”
Luke had no idea what she was talking about and wasn’t of a mind to wait around to find out. But her speaking of Pierre reminded him, he should have been back by now. Early of a morning was the only time to find deer out grazing in an open clearing. Otherwise, they were deep into the woods where it was cooler, especially now in late July, when it was so miserably hot during the mid-day.
Late July brought Beaver Charlie to mind, as Luke hurriedly dressed. He said he was coming back by here before heading off to the rendezvous. He hadn’t, and the full moon in July was a week ago, which meant the rendezvous must be over, or near to it.
“I want you to move into the cabin with me,” Sarah said, as if anxious for an answer.
“No time to discuss that now,” Luke said and headed out the door to catch and saddle the red horse.
“Men!” Sarah shouted after him, then angrily closed and barred the door against her nakedness.
Luke picked up Pierre’s trail and followed it east at a rapid pace, all the way to the Red River, five miles distant. There he crossed at a wide shallow place and picked up the trail again on the other side. It was only another mile or two until he came to a place where someone had made camp. And that was where he found Pierre.
Back in the dark piney woods a short ways from the camp, hanging from a low limb, was Pierre LeBlanc. He also had a sizable bullet hole in his chest. Grieving heavily, Luke cut the body down and lay it gently on the ground before removing the braided rawhide rope from his neck.
Checking his emotions after a time, Luke went to work looking for signs of who may have done this. Indians, he thought at first, because of the rawhide rope. The tracks around the camp, however, were those made by boots, not moccasins. And the horses that had been there were shod.
Walking the perimeter of the camp, Luke found where the horses had been tied and followed the direction they traveled when they left out. It was west. Knowing he had just come from the west, the first thing that came to mind now was their camp.
Sarah, he thought, as he ran for the red horse. He also thought of Pierre lying there on the ground and would have considered taking him along had the paint horse been around, but he wasn’t. Whoever it was that killed Pierre must have taken it.
Rather than following the lazy trail through the woods left by the others, Luke decided to return to camp the same way he had left it to make better time. Reaching the Red River, the big horse took it at a gallop even though the shallow rocky bottom was treacherous. One misstep could result in a broken leg.
Not far into the trail on the other side brought a surprise, for four horses had joined it and were headed directly for their camp. It appeared to Luke as though three of the horses carried riders, while the other must be the spotted horse Pierre rode.
Debating for a moment on what to do, Luke decided to leave the trail and swing wide to the north. As slow as those ahead traveled, he just may have a chance at surpassing them and getting to Sarah before they did. Away from the dense woods, the red horse was given his head and raced full out for camp.
Once in the woods again, with a clear view of the cabin, Luke reined up. The door was closed, which told him Sarah must be inside yet.
It was then he heard a horse whinny somewhere in the distance. It came from the east, and the red horse heard it too. His ears told Luke that, the way they darted in that direction an instant before the head followed.
The red horse did not answer the whinny. Luke was grateful for that.
From where Luke was, he could see the entirety of the large clearing where the cabin sat and a good amount of the creek beyond that. He doubted anyone could see him, though. Not only did he have the darkness of the woods in his favor, the number of trees here would serve to break up any outline he may present.
The whinny came again, this time from much closer. And with it, the red horse began to fidget and bob his head in anticipation of its arrival. Luke, of course, didn’t understand horse talk, but he gathered by the excitement it caused, the one doing it was a female.
It was then he saw them. They had come into the light of the clearing and halted a hundred yards away. And from where Luke sat, there was no doubt in his mind that the man in the middle was Silas Jones, complete with fancy duds and hat. He was astride a red horse with the same markings as the one Luke sat on. ‘Must be one of the English fillies he had planned to breed Sir Henry to,’ he reasoned.
Now he noticed the man to Jones’ left atop a stocky white horse looked a whole lot like the tongueless man, Timmons.
‘Son of a bitch!’ he raged silently. He should have hung them for real when he had the chance. Now Pierre was dead because he hadn’t.
The third man looked to be Indian. Half breed maybe, since he wore a hat like the others. Perhaps he was brought along as a guide. But guide to where? Who had told them where they were? Or better yet, who they were?
Then it struck him – Beaver Charlie! He had gone to the rendezvous. Jones must have been there as a representative for American Fur and inquired of their whereabouts.
Even angrier now, Luke found it difficult to remain calm. Carefully he pulled the big bore from its scabbard on the right side of the horse and cradled it in his left arm. ‘Come on up, you sons of a bitches, and I’ll kill you dead this time.’ What in hell were they waiting for?
Just then, to everyone’s surprise, Sarah pushed open the cabin door and stepped to the edge of the porch. This prompted the tongueless man to raise his rifle.
“Noooo!” Luke yelled, and the horse lunged into the clearing. This brought Timmons’ rifle around to him. Soon thereafter a puff of black smoke came from it, just as the bullet whizzed past his head.
Shifting the big bore to his right arm, Luke charged directly at them.
He saw Jones start to pull a rifle from its scabbard, but soon thought better of it and turned to follow the Indian, who had already retreated into the woods. Timmons was trying to reload but, realizing there wasn’t sufficient time to do so, followed the others.
A short time after entering the woods, Luke came upon Timmons. The bulky white horse he was riding wasn’t built for speed, but for the plow. As much as he hated to waste the load of buckshot on just one man, Luke had little choice. There just wasn’t time to switch to the fifty-caliber in the other scabbard.
Needing to pass Timmons if he ever hoped to catch Silas Jones, Luke fired quickly. The impact of the blast at only a few dozen feet lifted Timmons out of the saddle and tossed him clean over the head of his horse. Therefore, both horses trampled him as they passed over him. Not that it mattered much to Timmins. With a hole through him as big as a fist, it was doubtful he felt anything.
Even though Luke had glimpses of Jones and the Indian along the way, he never had a clear shot until he reached the Red River. There he saw Silas and the Indian just coming out of the water on the other side.
He raised the fifty-caliber just as Jones leveled his own rifle at him. The two guns seemed to belch smoke at the same time. However, Luke got the worst of it. His bullet had clearly missed Jones, but struck the Indian to his back, knocking him from his horse. Luke never saw that; he lay on the ground unconscious, blood oozing from a wound on his head.
When he awoke with a groan a while later, his hands and feet were tied, and Silas Jones was before him, fashioning a noose from a long piece of rope.
“I see you’re not dead,” Jones said, looking down on him. “Now you can have a taste of what you gave me, Mister McKinney. Your friend Pierre took it like a man. Will you?”
“Pierre was shot!”
“Only after he refused to tell us where you were. Timmons removed his tongue, you know?”
Luke hadn’t noticed. There had been blood, but the mouth was closed, as he recalled.
“You bastard!” Luke struggled to free himself. “Why did you come here?”
“For Sir Henry, of course! That, and to even the score.”<
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“But you didn’t die! I chose not to kill you.”
“Well, sir, I wish I could return the favor.” Jones slipped the noose over his head and tossed the loose end of the rope over a low limb. “I guess you and I are just different in that way. Besides, you’re wanted for murder, Mister McKinney. One of Jeb Dunlap’s deputies made it up to Fort Pierre on the second boat out of Independence. He said you killed four people in and around St. Louis – you and that Pierre LeBlanc.”
“Four people…?” Luke questioned.
“Yep,” Jones said, and removed the fancy hat to wipe his brow before tugging at the rope. “You could help yourself by getting to your feet.”
“No, thanks!” Luke was barely able to say before the rope tightened around his neck.
Suddenly a gun sounded from a distance, and Jones fell to the ground beside him, a sizable hole through his upper body. He wasn’t dead, but clearly incapacitated at the moment.
Sarah rode up on the paint horse, leapt down, and removed the noose from around Luke’s neck.
“You’re shot!” she shouted frantically, reaching to examine the scrape across the side of his head just above the left ear. He pulled his head away. It was painful, but he guessed he would live.
“Where in hell did you come from?” Luke asked, shocked to see her, but damned grateful she was there.
“The paint horse came into camp. I was worried after those gunshots. Where is Pierre?” she asked while cutting him free.
“Pierre’s dead!” He got to his feet and took the rope just removed from his neck and slipped it over Silas Jones’ head, in the process slinging the fancy silk hat into the dirt nearby.
“Don’t do this…!” Jones shouted his last before losing that ability.
Sarah turned away while Luke watched until Jones kicked his last. He wanted to be sure this time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
As it turned out, the Indian guide, who hadn’t even carried a gun, suffered only a shoulder wound. Luke came upon him just as he gathered his horse and allowed him to ride away without further harm.
Sarah and Luke prepared Pierre’s body for burial and lowered him into a grave purposely dug next to Breanne. He thought the world of her and the feeling was mutual. They made sure he had his pipe with him along with all his remaining tobacco.
Luke did manage to find Pierre’s tongue and placed it back into his mouth. This was done because of a story Pierre had once told about the Indians. They believed if they weren’t put to rest with all the parts, they would not be admitted to Indian heaven. When Pierre arrived at wherever he was going, Luke wanted to be certain he had the ability to tell his stories. That was the least he could do for this man he so admired for his unique wisdom.
“If we weren’t pleasuring one another, I may have gotten to Pierre in time,” Luke said while kneeling at the grave, Sarah by his side.
Sarah didn’t know what to make of this. Was he blaming her or himself for Pierre’s death? She guessed they both ought to be ashamed for what they had done that morning – her husband dead by only a few months – Luke’s wife likewise. But no way was she going to blame that for Pierre’s death.
“Failing to save a person does not make one at fault,” she finally said, just to let him know how she felt. And when the heat came over her next, perhaps she would sin again, if he was willing.
“I guess I ought to thank you for saving me,” he said and let his eyes find hers. “I’d be dead if you hadn’t come along.”
With that she leaned in for a kiss. She realized how stupid that was when he ignored it and sprang to his feet.
“Not here!” he yelled and walked away.
Sarah did not go after him. She remained there spreading the dirt over the grave, then went to the creek for rocks. Her plan was to cover both graves with the biggest rocks she could carry so it would be forever evident a once loved human lay under each mound. She would do the same for Frank someday, when she got the courage to go back to that place that haunted her so.
It wasn’t long before Luke was back. He joined her at the creek and began carrying rocks as well.
“Maybe you should let me look at that wound on your head now?” Sarah asked. She could see it was scabbed over, even though he now wore his hat low on that side.
“I have a feeling Beaver Charlie is the reason Pierre is dead. He must have gotten liquored up over at that rendezvous and said too much. That’s what brought Silas Jones and that Timmons here. Damned old fool! He’s the one that ought to have his tongue removed. I’d take the hoof nippers and yank it out myself, if he were here now.”
“Wouldn’t change anything,” Sarah said.
“It would put a stop to him telling anyone else,” Luke returned. “Otherwise, I see no purpose in us staying on here. They’ll just keep coming.” He thought of Jeb Dunlap now and wondered what Silas Jones meant when he said something about him and Pierre being wanted for four killings. There was the Cajun whore he was wrongly accused of killing. Hans had done that and pointed the finger at Luke. Then Pierre killed Hans in self-defense. So who were the other two? He hoped it was nobody he knew and cared about. But he couldn’t think of who that may be.
“Where would we go?” Sarah asked, excited at the prospect of getting back to civilization.
“I never did hear where you’re from?”
“Frank and I came from Ohio. We traveled overland. It took us months,” she said. “But I have an aunt in Independence.”
“I’ve been thinking of going west, and Independence is a good place to leave from. Or so they said when I was there last. Maybe it’s not too late to catch a boat from Fort Union. It’s due west of here, a week’s ride.” At least, that’s what Beaver Charlie had told him when he was here.
“When can we leave?” Sarah asked excitedly.
“How does tomorrow morning sound?” Seeing her excitement, Luke became excited as well. “We won’t take the wagon, just the two red horses and the pack mules.”
“The way them red horses have been going at each other since this morning, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Sarah said, watching them frolicking in the clearing back from the creek.
“My guess is they’ll have had enough of each other by morning,” Luke said. “If not, we’ll leave the filly behind and take the paint horse in its stead.”
“She’ll just follow,” Sarah said. Which was what she planned to do if Luke failed to invite her along west, once reaching Independence. A determined mare in heat will break fences to get to a stallion; she knew that from experience.
“Then we’ll hobble her so she can’t keep up.”
“You just do that, Mister McKinney,” she said and came in for a kiss. This time she got it.
That night Luke dug up the gold buried beneath the cabin floor and took the beaver pelts down from the rafters. As far as Breanne’s things, they would stay in her steamer trunk where they had always been, along with the Bible and pearls she treasured. He didn’t feel right about giving any of it to Sarah, so it would all be left behind. Pierre’s new buckskins Sarah would wear on the trip, along with his flannels and moccasins, which fit her perfectly. The traps he would leave as well. If he ever returned someday, he may wish to trap again.
Then there were the six rifles, numerous mackinaw blankets, and other things bought for trading; they would take all of that if the mules could handle the load. Most could be sold or traded once in Independence.
By mid-morning the following day, Luke took one last look around and then drove a wedge in the cabin door. He went down to the graves one last time, saying his goodbyes to each of them and promising to be back from time to time for visits. In the meantime, they had each other. What more could he ask for under the circumstances, as sad as it was? The two people he loved most in this world, buried side by side.
All the while he did this, Sarah hung back with the horses. When he was finished, they rode away: him on the red stallion and her on the filly, each with a pack mule in tow.
Both wanted to look back, but neither did. It would have been too hard in light of all that had happened here. They were each fighting back tears as it was.
They rode throughout the day and into the night, finally making camp at Sarah and Frank Martin’s old ranch yard. They tossed their bedrolls not fifty feet from the burned cabin, where the remains of Frank lay.
Luke would have preferred to be on the hill above, but Sarah wanted to be close to Frank this last night, before putting him in the ground the following morning. Unlike Luke, she wasn’t going to promise to return someday. She knew she never would.
At first light Luke went to work gathering what he could find of Frank Martin into a blanket. It wasn’t much, just the blackened skull and some larger bones. The hot fire had done a good job of turning the remainder into ash, and Luke shoveled some of that into the blanket as well.
Sarah refused to watch any of this. She spent her time on the hill axing out a hole, which wasn’t much either, due to the small amount that needed burying. Afterward they gathered rocks and covered the grave just as they had for Pierre and Breanne.
While Sarah spent time at the grave, Luke saddled the horses and reloaded the pack mules. He was anxious to leave this land of ghosts. The burnt out Indian village where Breanne had died was just an hour to the north. Then back at the Red River were Silas Jones and that tongueless man, Timmons, left where they had died.
When they left an hour or so after sunup, Luke guided his horse to the northwest. He wanted to be far wide of the Teton village when passing by it later in the day. Little did he know at the time, but this route took them to a huge lake. To get around it required them to go even further north.
However, before leaving the lake late in the day, they made camp. Luke saw fish flopping near shore and became hungry for what he hadn’t eaten in many months.
Having nothing resembling a fish hook, or anything at all resembling fishing gear, Luke proceeded to show Sarah how Pierre had taught him to fish Indian style as a kid. Once he had removed his boots and rolled up his trouser legs, he gently waded out into the water. Once he figured out the routine of the fish that swam about his legs in the clear water, he slowly lowered his open hands into it.