Return to Sundown Valley

by Cole Shelton

  ‘Did anyone else witness what happened?’ Luke asked.

  Chief Nastas and his son exchanged glances.

  ‘Many white men who lived on Wild Wolf Ridge, where your land is, must have heard and seen what happened,’ Shiye stated.

  ‘And now most of them are dead,’ Luke told them.

  He thought of Caleb and Susan, his family. Then there were Lew Harbinger and the McPhersons, all decent folks. They’d all lived on Wild Wolf Ridge, overlooking the Sundown Valley – now all dead. Maybe, Luke thought grimly, they’d all heard and seen too much and were killed before they talked.

  ‘You said there were three squaws hidden by the creek.’

  Shiye nodded at the women who were looking after the children.

  ‘They saw everything that happened.’

  Luke glanced at them. Two were frail and elderly, the third had a swollen belly, reminding him of Susan, his sister-in-law. When Heck Halliday shot Susan, he killed two people, her and her unborn infant. But Halliday’s time would come, he promised himself – sooner rather than later.

  He looked back down at the smoking embers of the Navajo cooking fire.

  The only living witnesses to the brutal massacre in Sundown Valley were a medicine man and three squaws, all Navajo Indians. Even if they’d agree to testify, which was unlikely, who’d listen to any of them? Certainly not Sheriff George Zimmer. And even if by some miracle Dallas Zimmer and his filthy killers were actually charged with mass murder, what white judge or jury would convict them?

  Luke knew what he had to do: ride back to Spanish Wells and be judge, jury and executioner.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was sunup when Luke Dawson stood by the still-warm ashes of last night’s fire. After midnight Chief Nastas had offered him a blanket and a place inside the largest lodge, but Luke had been content to remain outside. Here, under the stars in Na Dené Canyon, he’d snatched some sleep, just for a few hours.

  He’d been awake since first light. Now he picked up his saddle ready for the journey home.

  The Navajo chief, too, emerged from his domed home before the others stirred from their sleep. He was still wearing Honani’s medal around his neck.

  The chief pointed to the saddle. ‘You are leaving us?’

  ‘Riding out now,’ Luke confirmed.

  ‘You are welcome to stay in our humble camp for as long as you wish,’ the chief reminded him.

  ‘I know this but I need to return,’ Luke reaffirmed. He saddled his bay horse while Chief Nastas watched. ‘Honani, your son and my friend, was a brave warrior. He earned that medal, so wear it with pride, Nastas.’

  ‘Thank you again for bringing it to us,’ Nastas said gratefully. ‘It means a lot to me and the Armijo people – what’s left of us.’

  ‘Your tribe can rise again,’ Luke reassured him.

  ‘Here! In this dry, dusty canyon!’

  ‘No, not here,’ Luke said quietly. ‘I’m talking about back in Sundown Valley, where you lived and hunted from for many years.’

  The Navajo chief shook his head in derision. ‘This is impossible. This is crazy talk.’

  ‘Maybe, but maybe not,’ Luke said, climbing into the saddle. He picked up his reins ready to ride. ‘Farewell, Chief, but I aim to be back after I do what needs to be done.’

  ‘Which trail will you take?’

  ‘Same one that brought me here.’

  ‘It leads through Apache country.’

  ‘I know.’

  The Navajo chief said solemnly, ‘You were fortunate to make it here with your scalp still in place. If you ride back through Apache territory, you may not be so fortunate. There is talk around Navajo fires. Many of us believe Blood Knife and his warriors are gathering for a murder raid. For a whole week, smoke signals have been rising, not just near where you rode, but all over Apache territory. The talk says Blood Knife wants to be more feared than Cochise, chief of the Chiricahua Apaches. To do this he must prove himself to be a great leader, so they say he plans a big raid to bring back many scalps.’

  ‘Does the talk say where this raid will take place?’

  ‘You ask where Blood Knife will murder first?’ Chief Nastas considered. ‘Some of our Navajo elders, in Na Dené and other canyon camps, believe the Mormon Store may be his first strike. There are three other Mormon missions within two days’ ride from the pass. These missions have just six, maybe seven men and their wives. Those missionaries try to help us but who will help them if Blood Knife comes to kill?’

  ‘The soldiers at Fort Beaver need to be told.’

  ‘Fort Beaver is one week’s ride from here,’ the Navajo leader said. ‘If one of our men rode there today it would be two weeks before the bluecoat soldiers arrive, and that’s if they come straight away.’

  ‘I’d send that man now,’ Luke advised.

  ‘You speak wise words, Luke Dawson.’ The chief considered for a few moments before deciding, ‘I will send my son, Shiye.’

  ‘Also, I’d call a meeting of all the other Navajo leaders in these canyons. If you stick together, Blood Knife will see a big bunch of your warriors and think twice about attacking your people.’

  Nastas spat into the dust. ‘It is true Blood Knife would not fight a battle, warrior against warrior, but he will still raid our villages and then run like a dirty coyote. He will strike when we do not expect him to come. He will kill those who are helpless to defend themselves. He will capture women and children. And he will rape women like he raped my wife when she was captured by his filthy snakes in Sundown Valley.’ His voice broke. ‘She still bears the scars and the shame of being forced to lie with him.’

  ‘There is no shame,’ Luke told him quietly. ‘It was not her fault.’

  ‘I have told her this,’ the Indian said.

  ‘Keep telling her,’ Luke advised, climbing into his saddle. Taking his reins, he said finally, ‘And keep believing you’ll return to Sundown Valley.’

  ‘May the Great Spirit ride with you,’ Nastas wished fervently.

  Luke rode away, leaving the Navajo chief standing alone by the dying fire. He didn’t look back, retracing his tracks back out of Na Dené Canyon.

  With the new sun flooding the canyons with light, he rode swiftly to the Mormon chapel and passed the front of the general store. The Mormon Mission looked so quiet and peaceful. Elder Micah James and his family were obviously still snug in their beds, curtains drawn across, snatching a last few minutes sleep before commencing the day’s work.

  But Nastas was right. The Mission was in the shadow of the pass, making it a perfect target for Blood Knife and his renegade Apaches to strike. The Navajos had plenty of horses in their canyon villages so he hoped Shiye would ride to Fort Beaver without delay.

  Luke climbed the slope and headed Buck into the gaping jaws of the pass.

  A long eagle circled high over the ancient rims. Two coyotes slunk away at his approach. He rode deeper into the pass, following a dry creek bed. As he rode, he thought about the injustice done to the Armijo people. This was a violent frontier. On one side, he’d heard tales of wagon trains being ambushed with their pioneer settlers scalped and left for the buzzards, but there was another side too that was not often talked about. Consumed by greed, a few white men – like Dallas Zimmer and his riders – had wiped out whole clans of natives. Mostly these massacres were ignored and went unpunished, the memory of them finally lost in the mists of time, but not this one. Luke Dawson was going to make sure of that. But first he had to make it back through possible hostile territory to Sundown Valley.

  Luke emerged from the pass and reached the jumble of rocks he’d sheltered amongst on his way to Na Dené. This was where those three Apaches had drifted by while he kept low, hidden from their sight. This morning he saw no smoke, no raised dust, no riders. All was silent – maybe too silent, he told himself. He was about to leave the rocks behind when he heard a single hoot, like the hoot of an owl, only owls rarely hooted in broad daylight.

  He drew his
bay horse back into the rocks.

  There he waited, one hand on his rifle.

  Suddenly he heard the sharp whinny of a pony.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a lone rider come out of the pass but he didn’t need to lift his rifle. In fact he lowered the gun, because the rider was Shiye, the Navajo chief’s son. The young Indian was riding a shaggy-maned piebald that raised wispy dust in the sunlight. Emerging from the rocks, Luke waited. With his pony snorting, the Navajo brave came right alongside the white man in a swirl of dust.

  ‘Luke Dawson! We must talk!’

  ‘I thought you’d be on your way to Fort Beaver.’

  ‘Pah! Pah! My father wanted me to ride to the fort to fetch soldiers but that’s an old man’s chore. I sent the medicine man.’

  ‘So you disobeyed your father?’

  Shiye stated, ‘You will remember my father forbade me to ride to your war with my brother Honani.’

  Luke said, ‘He figured you were too young. He probably thought he’d lost one son to the Apaches, Honani might not come back, so he didn’t want to lose you.’ He added significantly, ‘Specially as he figured it was a white man’s war.’

  ‘I was sixteen then,’ the Navajo brave said. He thumped his naked chest with a firm fist. ‘Now Shiye is a man, a warrior. I make my own decisions. This morning, when my father returned to his hogan for more rest, I gave orders to the medicine man. As we speak, Kachina rides to the fort.’

  ‘So why are you here?’ Luke demanded.

  ‘You need me,’ Shiye said simply.

  Just then Luke heard another hooting sound.

  This one rose high and echoed over the mesa he’d been planning to ride across.

  ‘Apache,’ the Navajo said.

  ‘Figured so.’

  ‘And there are ten, maybe twenty of them,’ Shiye told him.

  ‘How do you know? I can’t see any.’

  ‘When you left Na Dené, I rode to our canyon rim. From there you can see three long ridges in Apache Country north of the pass. The third ridge is the highest. On cloudy day it is covered but there were no clouds this morning. You would not have seen riders from slope you rode, but I saw them. Many riders, Luke Dawson. They would have seen you. They know you’re here.’

  ‘And they surely know you’re here too,’ Luke reminded him.

  ‘Shiye is not afraid.’

  ‘Don’t look now,’ Luke said softly, ‘but there are three of the varmints coming out of the pass right behind us.’

  ‘Others will be ahead on the high mesa,’ the Navajo predicted.

  ‘So we’re trapped between them.’

  ‘I know this country better than you, Luke Dawson,’ Shiye said. ‘This is Apache territory but I often ride up here.’ He added, ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘So what’s your suggestion?’

  ‘There is a narrow way through these rocks. Follow me.’

  Shiye raked his piebald with his heels, pushing the pony towards a gap between the massive boulders. It was a mere slit in the rocks, not easily seen. A man would have to know it was here. Looking at the mesa ahead, Luke saw a smoke signal floating slowly into the azure sky. The Navajo was right. The Apaches were up there sure enough. He glanced back at the pass, noting the three warriors drifting their way.

  Keeping his head low, he nudged Buck into a slow walk and followed Shiye to the gap. The Navajo rider squeezed between two bald boulders, waited for Luke and pointed to a grassy ledge. A second smoke signal drifted up from along the mesa rim as Shiye led the way over the dry grass to the mouth of a dark cave.

  The Navajo rode straight into the cave.

  Luke urged Buck inside, following the Indian’s piebald pony down a twisting passage. The sharp clatter of shod hoofs sounded through the cavern. Suddenly a shaft of light caught them both. This cave had two entrances and Luke looked ahead to where the passage widened, then made a rainbow arch before spilling out over a grey ledge.

  The two riders emerged from darkness to dazzling sunlight. They were in a small canyon wedged beneath the southern slope of the big sagebrush mesa. The two smoke signals were still rising, but further away. Shiye pointed to a track that hugged the foot of the mesa slope. They rode together down the ledge and joined the crumbling trail.

  Luke checked over his shoulder. He saw no Apaches by the cave; the puffs of smoke were becoming even more distant. Had they given the Apaches the slip? The track forked away from the mesa and twisted through some junipers. A northerly wind sprang up, stirring the red dust. Just before noon they let their horses drink from a waterhole. After taking a swallow from his canteen, Luke checked their back-trail and the towering mesa. Not even a wisp of smoke. No dust rising. Only a heated silence.

  But then he saw the lone Apache on the next rim. He was an old buck, lean, wearing only a breechcloth. Astride his pinto pony, he sat motionless, like a marble statue, carved against the azure sky. Like a raptor ready to swoop, the Apache was looking down the barrel of his rifle at the riders by the waterhole.

  Luke didn’t need to alert Shiye because the Navajo had seen him too. They both lifted their rifles but the wily old Apache, his gun already levelled, fired first, sending a shot into the shimmering water. Then he began backing his pony into some timber.

  Shiye’s bullet bored into a juniper trunk, blowing splinters of wood into the Apache’s chest while Luke’s lead ripped flesh from his left arm. The Apache’s scream of pain carried to them from the rim. Moments later, he vanished into the timber cover and fired five shots in rapid succession.

  ‘That’ll bring every Apache in the territory here,’ Luke said as the Indian’s fusillade echoed out over the wilderness.

  They remounted their horses. Luke and the Navajo rode from the waterhole, but Apaches attracted by the explosive sound of gunfire lined the edge of the mesa behind them. Then four others emerged from the timber on the rim ahead. They exchanged gunfire with the rim riders, killing one. Glancing over his shoulder, Luke glimpsed at least a dozen Apaches raising dust as they rode down the mesa slopes.

  They were in a deadly crossfire now as bullets blasted at them from the timber in front and the mesa slope behind.

  Riding hard, they reached a dry creek bed as slugs ricocheted off its dry stones. Three Apaches stormed down from the timbered rim, anxious to be first in for the kill. Luke shot the foremost rider clean out of his cloth saddle while Shiye turned his gun to fire at the bunch pouring off the mesa. Hot lead peppered the creek bed. White-eyed with fear, Shiye’s pony reared and dumped the Navajo over the creek bank.

  Shiye clawed his way up, facing the oncoming riders.

  ‘Blood Knife!’ the Navajo yelled. ‘He is leading them! We need to kill him – it’s our only chance!’

  It was as if Blood Knife had heard him. The Apache chief slowed his pony, exhorting his warriors before urging them to ride past him and charge the dry creek where the invaders of his territory were holed up. Stirred up by Blood Knife’s oratory, the Apaches stormed forward at the same time as the riders coming down from the rim opened fire again.

  Shiye squinted down the barrel of his rifle.

  ‘Wait,’ Luke told him.

  ‘Blood Knife is mine. I have been searching for him for many moons. He disgraced my mother and he disgraced our family,’ the Navajo declared hoarsely as a bullet whistled past his left ear. ‘He is mine to kill.’

  ‘But use my gun,’ Luke said, passing his Sharps rifle to him. ‘It’s a helluva lot more accurate and shoots three times as far as your old hunting gun.’

  Shiye grabbed the Sharps rifle with grateful hands while Luke, crouched beside him, began pumping his Peacemaker. Bullets raked the creek bed as the Apache riders loomed closer.

  Seeing a space between the charging Apaches, the chief’s son drew a careful bead on the man he and all the others in his Armijo clan hated.

  He aimed straight at Blood Knife’s chest and pulled the trigger.

  The rifle thundered and bucked against the Navajo’s shou
lder.

  Blood Knife clutched the right side of his chest where blood was gushing through his Mexican tunic, slumped over his pony’s head and toppled sideways into a sage bush.

  An old Apache brave, who had claws secured around his neck with a leather cord, let out a piercing yell, drowning out the war whoops that faded into silence. Not another shot was fired. Warriors leapt from their ponies and ran back to their fallen chief, making a ring around him. Then the old man with the claws began to sing a mournful dirge that rose high above the rims and the mesa.

  ‘The death song of the Apaches,’ Shiye explained, handing the Sharps rifle back to Luke. ‘Their chief, Blood Knife, is dead. They are angry, very angry. They will try to track us down and scalp us, but right now there is something more important on their minds. First, before they do anything, they must obey Apache custom.’

  ‘Which means sending his spirit to the Happy Hunting Grounds?’ Luke figured, remounting Buck.

  Shiye nodded gravely. ‘This will not take long. They will make sure of that. Then, Luke Dawson, they will come for us.’

  ‘In other words, we get the hell out of here,’ Luke said.

  ‘Well said,’ the Navajo agreed.

  The Apaches who’d been staked out on the timbered rim were riding across the flat now to join their blood brothers. Their eyes were loaded with bitter hatred and desire for revenge as they rode across the dry creek bed. They couldn’t wait to kill the white man and the Navajo but the religion of their ancestors demanded that Blood Knife’s spirit be released first. One of them was almost tempted to disobey the beliefs that had been ingrained in him since childhood, but the rider alongside him uttered a guttural warning and the moment passed.