by Cole Shelton
‘I told Widow Rose I’d be back, as usual, but . . . uh . . . I’ll stay here tonight,’ Wishbone decided hastily, ignoring his daughter’s frown.
In less than an hour Wishbone was snoring in his room, Annie curled up awake in hers, with Luke Dawson not sleeping but resting on the spare bunk close by the warmth of the potbelly.
Honani sat hunched over the small fire he’d lit an hour ago, just before midnight. He’d followed the old creek trail since leaving Luke, riding beside running water that bubbled and gleamed under the rising full moon. Finally, however, his pony needed a spell, so he made camp here under a silver spruce.
Yellowy flames licked small logs in a circle of stones. Right now he didn’t feel like eating, not even the hardtack he had, but tomorrow he’d shoot a deer.
Looking into the dancing flames, Honani wrestled with what had happened. Why had his father and the other Navajos left the village they’d lived in for centuries? Had the elders, whom he’d not always agreed with, decreed the tribe should return to the ancient home of their Armijo clan in the sacred Na Dené Canyon?
But why? Had they been forced to leave by Zimmer? Surely the young braves would have put up a fight! If there had been a full-scale land war between the Navajos and the Triple Z, someone would have told them when they passed through Spanish Wells.
Or maybe not? Many white men cared little or anything at all about the Indians. Luke Dawson, of course, had been an exception, but then he was like a brother.
Honani told himself that the answers he sought would surely be found in Na Dené Canyon. He recalled in the night silence how many other Navajo braves had regarded him as somewhat of an outcast for leaving his tribe to fight in a white men’s war. All except his younger brother, who’d wanted to ride with him. His father, Nastas, however, had forbidden the sixteen-year-old Shiye to leave. Yes, Honani had many questions to ask his family, but above all, he longed to meet them once again.
The Navajo was right on the creek bank so he leaned over to scoop water from the creek. When he did so, the Medal of Honour he wore around his neck glinted in the moonlight. He was certainly proud of receiving the medal, but now that achievement was fading fast in the light of coming home to white men’s steers grazing where once his people had lived.
The fire glow played over his bronze face as he reached over to place the coffee pot in the embers.
Right then he heard the distant howling of wolves. It was a big pack, a very big one.
Suddenly, the howling stopped. All was silent.
Instinctively, the Navajo’s fingers closed around his army rifle.
CHAPTER SIX
Lying awake on his bunk, Luke Dawson heard six shots. They came from a long distance away but they were clear as church bells, four together, the last two a few seconds later. Luke rose swiftly to his feet, opened the cabin door, stepped outside and listened as the echoes faded slowly into the starlit night.
Clad in his tattered old shirt, grubby long-johns, socks full of holes and fur hat, Wishbone shuffled from his room with the last inch of a red-tipped cigarette drooping from his lips. Muttering, he joined Luke at the door.
‘Reckon they came from Whispering Pass,’ Luke judged.
‘Figured that too,’ the old trapper confirmed. He thought about it. ‘It’s a bit late for a hunter to go shooting deer, but he might fire bullets to scare off a pack of hungry wolves sneaking too close to his campfire.’ He recalled, ‘That’s happened to me a couple of times.’
‘The creek trail goes through the pass,’ Luke reminded him.
‘Now I know what you’re thinking, Luke,’ Wishbone said, flicking ash from his cigarette. He elaborated, ‘Your Navajo pard took that trail.’
‘He sure did, Wishbone.’
The trapper consulted his old wooden wall clock. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but now it showed ten minutes to one. He calculated, ‘First light’s six hours away.’
‘I’m not waiting for first light.’
Wishbone protested, ‘Goddamnit, Luke! You can’t go scoutin’ around in the dark!’
‘I’ll latch on to the creek trail and follow it up into the pass,’ Luke told him. ‘Hopefully I’ll just find a few dead wolves.’
‘And that’s probably all you will find,’ Wishbone snorted.
‘But I’m riding, all the same.’
‘You’re stubborn as a flaming mule, Luke Dawson,’ Wishbone muttered. ‘However, if you’re intent on taking a ride, use one of my hosses. Your bay looked deadbeat, so saddle up my big chestnut. He’s yours for as long as you need him. Name’s Red Jack, stabled next to Annie’s mare. Mind you, he won’t appreciate being taken out of the stable at this hour, but being a hoss wrangler you’ll soon show him who’s boss.’
‘Thanks, Wishbone.’
‘Look, I’ll ride with you,’ Wishbone decided to volunteer.
‘Your place is home with your daughter.’
‘Annie can keep Widow Rose company,’ Wishbone said. He stubbed his cigarette on the potbelly’s top. ‘Give me one minute. I’ll get into my trapper’s clothes, fetch my gun and be with you.’
Luke wasn’t going to argue with him. Besides, he’d been away for four years and old Wishbone would surely know any new shortcuts to the creek.
‘I’ll saddle your chestnut,’ Luke said, leaving Wishbone to stumble back to his bedroom to put on some clothes.
Luke was about to leave for the stable when Annie’s bedroom door opened and she stood there holding a flickering oil lamp. Awakened by the sounds of talking, she too had scrambled out of bed and hastily donned her long brown dressing gown.
‘What’s going on, Mr Dawson?’ Annie asked.
Luke reached for his rifle. ‘Taking a ride, Annie.’
‘Right now?’ she exclaimed.
‘Heard some shots,’ Luke said. ‘Probably nothing to worry about, Annie, but as a precaution, Wishbone and me aim to do some checking. Meantime we’ll take you to Widow Rose’s place.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of staying here and looking after myself, Mr Dawson,’ Annie blazed indignantly.
‘I’m sure you are, Annie,’ Luke agreed wryly, ‘but look at it this way. The widow-woman, Mrs Finlayson, will surely feel safer if you’re there keeping her company.’
Annie thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, if you put it that way. . . .’
Leaving her, he strode to the stable behind Wishbone’s cabin and proceeded to saddle Red Jack. It wasn’t long before he heard a footfall behind him. Annie arrived holding up the lamp for him so he could see better. The lamp’s glow framed her too and Luke couldn’t help but notice the way her woolly dressing gown clung deliciously to her shapely figure. For the second time since arriving here, Luke told himself she was no longer the tomboy he used to know. Again he wondered why she didn’t have a man. As he was thinking this, Wishbone hobbled into the stable and threw his saddle over a sleepy-looking piebald. Meanwhile, Annie ran to her room and shrugged into her deerskin pants and top.
With two horses saddled, Wishbone told his daughter to climb up behind him so they could take her to the widow’s cabin.
‘Two of us would be too heavy for Baldy,’ Annie protested. ‘How about I ride with Mr Dawson? Red Jack’s so strong he’d take three riders.’
Before Wishbone could argue, she balanced on a stall rail, mounted up behind Luke and wrapped her arms around his chest. She fitted against him perfectly. He felt her heart beat against his back as they rode up the track to Widow Rose’s cabin.
While Annie dismounted, Wishbone hastily explained to the widow why they were here.
‘Ride careful, Pa,’ Annie said as Widow Rose prepared to usher her inside. She smiled up at the Union soldier. ‘You too, Mr Dawson.’
He grinned. ‘No need to call me Mr Dawson. The name’s Luke.’
‘Keep safe, Luke,’ she said softly.
Luke and Wishbone rode away from the cabin.
He knew Wishbone thought he was crazy investigating half a d
ozen gunshots after midnight. After all, there were trappers and hunters throughout the high country, many of them resting up in night camps where savage wolves could be a problem. It was highly likely one of them had fired a barrage of shots at the scavengers. All the same, Honani was up there somewhere and the loyalty forged in many battles meant he had to take this ride to Whispering Pass. Unless Honani had already ridden right through the pass and was too far away, in all probability they’d meet up with him, share hot coffee by his campfire and then go their separate ways.
At least he’d ride back with peace of mind.
True to Wishbone’s prediction, the chestnut did not take kindly to being ridden by a stranger, especially at night, but Luke’s firm handling and reassuring talk settled the horse. Although this was country he knew well, he was glad Wishbone had insisted on riding with him. The old trapper pointed out a thin, winding track he’d forged while Luke was away fighting in the war. Instead of having to reach the creek first, Wishbone’s new trail climbed directly north and then ran across the timbered rim that jutted out a mile below Whispering Pass. A quick ride along this rim brought them to the familiar creek trail Luke knew well. It had saved them an hour’s ride.
The tall pines tended to block out the moon and many stars as they rode towards the towering cleft between two mountains. After a while, they came upon a clearing where they were able to read recent hoof prints left in the clay. They’d been made by a smaller horse, maybe a pony. Maybe Honani’s brown pony. Then, a mile later, Luke saw other hoof marks made by more than one horse. These prints were very fresh, made just a couple of hours ago.
Following the trail, Luke and the trapper rode swiftly across a timbered, fern-clad flat, rounded three bald boulders and reached the big, yawning mouth of Whispering Pass. Here the creek ran faster, racing over stones, bending the reeds. They rode their mounts into the pass. The eerie howling of wolves came to them.
Following the creek now, Luke rode in front, Wishbone just behind him. The stark granite walls of Whispering Pass rose high on both sides and the riders felt the cold eerie wind that gave the pass its name.
The trail twisted and turned with the creek. The night grew darker as the overhanging walls of the pass blocked out more stars. Luke glimpsed white eyes and furtive shapes slinking in the darkness. He heard the snap of twigs and the crackle of dry leaves being trodden by padding feet.
Luke and Wishbone were now both being brushed by arrowhead pine branches as they mounted deeper into the pass.
They heard the ghostly howling of a nearby wolf pack in the night. Minutes later, Luke smelled smoke. Then they both glimpsed a small ruddy glow through the timber.
They urged their horses between two spruce trees and saw over a dozen wolves circling a campfire. The hungry grey predators were yelping, snarling and snapping as the riders burst through the undergrowth. Riding hard just ahead of the trapper, Luke fired a single shot that felled a grey wolf. Immediately the pack fled for the pines.
Coming closer, Luke smelled burning flesh. He made out the dark shape of a man sprawled across the smouldering remains of a cooking fire. Blackened tatters of material were fluttering amidst the smoke. Flames were still licking the blood-soaked body, roasting him.
Overcome by cold, terrible dread, Luke Dawson rode across the clearing. Still holding his rifle, he slid from his saddle and with one hand hauled the body off the burning coals. For a long moment he simply crouched there, staring in sheer horror at the charred corpse.
Wishbone emptied his saddle, retched violently and stood back.
‘My God! Honani!’ Luke cried hoarsely.
‘Hell’s bells,’ the trapper croaked.
There were two holes in the base of the dead man’s scorched neck and another four scattered either side of his spine, accounting for the number of shots Luke had heard echoing in the night.
‘All six in the back,’ Luke said tonelessly. ‘Whoever did this must have snuck up on him.’
‘Yellow bastards,’ Wishbone spat out.
Luke turned the body over.
Honani’s face was hideously swollen and scarlet, his eyes mere hollow sockets. His lips were burnt to ashes. Part of his cheek had been burned right through to the bone. He’d known soldiers to weep when their friends were killed in battle but right now he held back the tears that could so easily flow.
Instead, he was consumed with terrible rage as he made a silent vow: whomever did this would rot in Boot Hill.
His eyes drifted over the Navajo’s body again. There was no hair on the crown of his head, not even a few lingering strands, and he noticed a deep groove across the top of his forehead. Wishbone saw what he was looking at.
‘He’s been scalped,’ the trapper wheezed.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Filthy Apaches!’ Wishbone spat.
Luke scouted around. The Navajo’s pony, saddle and bedroll were gone. His food pack, tin wallet and rain slicker were nowhere to be seen. His guns had been taken. His killers, whoever they were, had taken all his worldly possessions. Luke assumed there was more than one killer because the clay around the dying fire had been churned over by many feet.
‘They cleaned him out,’ Luke Dawson said. ‘Stole everything, even his Medal of Honour.’
‘Probably hanging in an Apache wickiup,’ Wishbone remarked.
‘Maybe,’ Luke said.
Wishbone needed a cigarette right now so his shaking fingers built one while Luke walked around the clearing. Luke halted, finding spent shells scattered on the far side of a fallen log. This was where the lethal shots had been fired. Scouting around, he saw hoof prints clearly defined in the soft black clay. He struck a match for light and examined them closely.
‘It wasn’t Apaches,’ Luke said.
‘But he was scalped—’
‘Fact is the murdering back-shooting swine were three, maybe four white men,’ Luke announced from the edge of the clearing. He explained, ‘Apaches ride unshod ponies. The horses ridden by these lowdown cowards were shod at a blacksmith’s forge.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘The sidewinders who killed Honani were as white as you and me,’ Luke said bluntly. ‘My friend was deliberately scalped to make it look like Apaches were responsible.’
Wishbone frowned. ‘But why?’
‘That I intend to find out.’
Puffing on his cigarette, Wishbone stood over the Navajo. Their trails had crossed more than once and they’d traded in the village that used to be in Sundown Valley. No man should die like this. No man should go to his grave looking so grotesque as this. He retched again and finally threw up.
‘Wishbone,’ Luke said quietly, beside him now. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Name it, Luke.’
‘My Navajo friend deserves a decent, safe burial place and that’s not here in the wilderness. Those wolves are watching us from the darkness. If we bury him here, once we leave they’ll be back to try to dig him up. I’m asking you to take him back and bury him deep on my Bar LD land. Meanwhile, I have business to attend to. I don’t need to tell you what I have in mind.’
Wishbone shook his head. ‘Luke, Honani wouldn’t want you to get yourself killed on his account.’
‘I’ll wait here till first light and latch on to their trail,’ Luke told him.
‘Even if you manage to track them down, there are three or four of them,’ Wishbone protested, recalling what Luke had said. He warned, ‘You can’t take on that number!’
‘I can try.’
Luke helped Wishbone rope the Navajo’s burned body to his horse. The trapper hauled himself back into the saddle and picked up his reins.
‘I’ll bring Red Jack back as soon as I can,’ Luke told him. ‘If I don’t make it, my bay horse is yours.’
Wishbone rode into the night.
Luke stood by the dying fire.
He had three hours to wait before dawn.
Thinking about his soldier friend, Luke stared into the flames t
hat became glowing embers and wisps of smoke.
He spent a long, lonely vigil remembering his loyal friend, thinking of when they’d fought side by side, reliving the many times they’d faced the enemy together in the searing heat of summer and the icy cold of winter. He swallowed deeply, recalling that proud moment when he’d watched Lance Corporal Honani receive the nation’s highest military honour. There was no way he’d let those murdering thieves get away with stealing that medal!
He reflected that they’d both ridden home together from the war, each man yearning for peace and a good life. Within hours of their return, Honani had been murdered, ruthlessly shot in the back.
They’d both returned to greed and death.
And Luke Dawson was now a hunter ready to kill.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was first light.
The smudge of grey over the far eastern rim of Whispering Pass turned into blazing gold as Luke Dawson followed the hoof prints to the creek bank. There he mounted Red Jack and rode through the freezing water to the bed of reeds on the other side. He saw where horses had ploughed a path through the tall, stalky reeds to a ferny flat. Here snapped ferns and hoof marks in the clay clearly showed him the killers’ trail.
Halting the chestnut, he took a close look at the tracks in the new light flooding into the pass. There were five sets of hoof prints. One would belong to the Navajo’s pony, which meant there were definitely four riders he was trailing. By now they were six hours ahead of him.
The tracks followed the creek out of the pass, then headed northeast across two wide flats. Luke was glad they were well ahead of him right now because any man with a rifle on the far side of a flat could pick him off easily as he rode the open space. Deer watched him from a distance and a lone buzzard circled overhead as he finished crossing the flats. The trail was fresh, easy to read through this high country wilderness.