Anxious to hurry the strangers along, Old Bear answered. “No, no white men,” he replied.
At that moment, Brance and the others pulled up beside him, the men gawking at the old people standing stoically in the center of the camp. “He says he ain’t seen no white men,” Tyler called back to Brance.
“He ain’t, huh? Well, I wonder if he’d tell us if he had.” Looking from one side to the other, he answered his own thought. “I don’t see nothin’ that would be worth hangin’ around here for. I expect he’s probably tellin’ the truth.” He pulled back on his reins, preparing to leave.
“Hold on a minute, Brance,” Corbin remarked, catching a glimpse of Broken Reed peering at them from the cabin door. “Maybe we oughta take a look in these huts. There might be somebody hidin’ out.”
Following Corbin’s gaze, Church saw at once what had caught his eye. “Yeah, Brance, we might as well see what’s here.”
“Maybe we could get somethin’ to eat,” Spit added, not yet aware of the real interest behind his two companions’ remarks.
“There ain’t nobody hidin’ out in this damn hole,” Tyler blurted, before Brance had a chance to reply. “We’re wastin’ time.”
“Maybe the boys are right,” Brance retorted. “Wouldn’t hurt to take a little rest before we ride again.”
“I ain’t got no time to rest,” Tyler shot back. “Let’s get movin’.”
Brance decided it was time to demonstrate who was the leader of the gang, and consequently, who called the shots. “Well, Tyler, I reckon you’ll be movin’ on by yourself. The rest of us are gonna see what we can find in them huts.”
The two headstrong outlaws locked eyes for a long moment in a test of wills, each man intent upon intimidating the other. It might have developed into a power play, but Tyler knew the men would back Brance and not himself. Knowing this, he finally shrugged it off. “Suit yourself,” he said, and rode off toward the river.
Brance watched him for a few moments before turning back to Old Bear. “Now, then, old man, let’s take a look in them shacks.”
A sense of alarm surged through the small gathering of Cherokees as they watched the heavily armed white men dismount. Old Bear attempted to stand in the way when Corbin and Church started for Ike’s cabin. “Get outta the way, Grandpa,” Corbin said, shoving the old man aside, a malevolent grin of anticipation fixed upon his face. There was immediate reaction from the Indians, and several of the men stepped forward, but any thoughts they had of resisting the invasion of their village were stifled by the drawn guns of the outlaws.
“Now, don’t go gettin’ riled up,” Brance warned, his pistol leveled at the closest Cherokee. “We’re just gonna have a look-see in them huts. If you behave yourselves, we’ll just take what we want, and be on our way.” He was about to say more when he was interrupted by the sound of hooves behind him. Turning around, he discovered Tyler driving straight for him at a gallop. Brance’s first reaction was to bring his weapon to bear on the charging man, thinking that Tyler had decided upon a power play after all. Tyler ignored him, however, and pulled his horse to a sliding stop in the midst of the Cherokee villagers, causing them to scatter to avoid being trampled under the hooves.
Leaping from the saddle, his face twisted with rage, Tyler grabbed Old Bear, and pulled the startled old man up close to his face. “That’s my brother’s bay stallion down there with them Injun ponies! Where is that damn Shannon? Where is he?” When Old Bear did not respond immediately, Tyler cracked him across the head with the barrel of his pistol. “Where is he?” Tyler demanded again. Old Bear, dazed by the blow, could not reply at once. “Damn you!” Tyler shouted, his face a mask of unbridled fury. He stuck the barrel of the pistol against the side of Old Bear’s head, and pulled the trigger. The gathering of Indians gasped as one as they witnessed their old chief slump to the ground in death.
A cry of anguish rang out from Ike’s cabin, and Broken Reed burst through the doorway, running to her father’s side. “Well, lookee here,” Corbin chortled delightedly, catching Broken Reed’s arm as she passed. “Where you goin’, sweetie?” He looked around to gloat at his friends. “Look what I got.” His comment was specifically aimed at Church, in light of the competition between them to get to the face they had seen through the open door. His gloating was short-lived, however, for in the next instant his smile suddenly froze on his face, then turned to a look of horrified shock as Broken Reed’s long skinning knife sank deep under his rib cage.
Releasing Broken Reed’s arm, Corbin staggered back a couple of steps, and stared down stupidly at the bone handle protruding from his shirt. Broken Reed wrenched herself away from Church’s outstretched hand, and ran past him to her father. Everything had happened so suddenly, and without warning, that the spectators, both outlaw and Cherokee, were momentarily stunned. Brance was the first to recover, and with no further hesitation, walked over and methodically put two bullets into the grieving woman’s back. Broken Reed slumped across Old Bear’s body, dead.
Confusion reigned for the next few minutes. With nothing more to fight with than their bare hands, several men of the village attempted to attack the intruders. The outlaws quickly responded, shooting two of the men at point-blank range. This effectively stopped the Cherokees’ attack, but not the revenge-crazed Tyler. He promptly started shooting every Indian in sight—women, old men, even children. The result was a bloodbath, as some of the others in the gang joined in the massacre. Those who could fled toward the river, but few escaped the blistering curtain of lead.
After no more than five or ten minutes, the storm of gunfire subsided, and in the eerie quiet that followed, only one sound pierced the silence: Corbin screamed in terrified pain when he tried to remove the steel blade from his innards. Staggering around, half crazed with shock, he babbled incoherently while he sought in vain to relieve his agony. The blade, however, refused to come out, having evidently wedged against a rib.
“Damn, Corbin,” Spit remarked with no show of compassion for the suffering man. “I reckon you didn’t figure on that, did you?” He seemed mildly fascinated by Corbin’s dilemma, although he was not moved to offer help. He turned his head momentarily to spit on the corpse of an old woman near his feet. “A man has to be careful messin’ around with Injun women,” he offered as he turned to join the others who were already pillaging the huts. Walking past the bodies of Broken Reed and her father, he glanced down to notice the silver cross hanging from the rawhide thong around Old Bear’s neck. Grinning to himself for being the first one to notice it, he knelt down and removed it from the corpse. “Hell, I could use a little of the Lord’s protection, myself,” he said aloud. Then he chuckled and spit when he added, “Seeing as how it did so much good for you.”
The only member of the gang to offer assistance to Corbin was Nate Simmons. He lingered behind the others to help the suffering man as Corbin’s strength began to desert him. With Nate holding onto one arm, Corbin sank heavily to the ground, staring at the patch of blood that was rapidly spreading across his shirt. “It pains somethin’ awful, Nate,” Corbin whined. “I’m afeared I’m dyin’.”
“Maybe not,” Nate said, effecting as gentle a tone as a man of his rough nature could create. “You just set quiet for a spell, and then we’ll see about gettin’ that knife outta your belly.” He knelt beside the wounded outlaw for a long moment, watching him closely. “You know, just in case things don’t turn out for the best, I’ve always admired that brace of pistols you’re wearin’. I’d appreciate it if you’d let the boys know you’d like for me to have ’em.” Corbin, in no condition to answer coherently at that point, merely stared up at Nate with eyes wide with terror. “You just rest here a spell,” Nate said after a few moments, then left to join the others in the search for plunder.
The search failed to yield much of value for the gang of outlaws—a little food, some trinkets of little worth, and some cooking utensils. Tyler stormed from lodge to lodge, looking for further indication that t
he man he hunted was somewhere near, or might be planning to return. There was nothing but the bay stallion grazing with the Indian ponies on the other side of the river. But at least that gave him hope that Shannon would return to the village. It was unlikely that he would have traded the bay for one of the Indian ponies.
“Well, that weren’t hardly worth the ammunition we spent, were it?” Eli looked around him at the dead bodies lying like bundles of rags upon the bare ground. “The rest of them Injuns took off.”
“I reckon,” Brance replied as he casually reloaded his pistol.
“Reckon what we oughta do about Corbin?” Eli asked.
Brance paused to think. He had forgotten Corbin for the moment. “I guess we’d better take a look at him,” he finally decided, “if he’s still alive.”
“He’s still alive,” Eli said, nodding toward the stricken man lying on the ground.
Together, they walked over to Corbin. In a few minutes, they were joined by the others. All gathered around the suffering Corbin to gawk and voice their speculations on his chance of survival. No one was inclined to offer any suggestions as to what should be done to ease his pain. Finally, Brance, feeling it his place to take action, pushed the others aside, and bent low over Corbin to take a closer look. “Well,” he decided, “the first thing we gotta do is get this damn knife outta him.” That said, he promptly placed his boot in the middle of Corbin’s chest, and taking the knife handle in both hands, exerted all his strength upon the reluctant blade.
Corbin’s agonized scream pierced the still air as the deadly blade was suddenly released. Brance jumped back quickly to avoid the spurt of blood that followed the withdrawal. Holding the bloody blade up for the others to see, Brance said, “Ain’t that a nasty-lookin’ pigsticker?” He then wiped it clean on Corbin’s shirt-tail. “We’d best stop that bleedin’, or he’s gonna die sure enough.”
No one moved right away, content to let one of the others do something to help poor Corbin. “I expect he’d lay more comfortable if we took them pistols off’en him,” Nate Simmons suggested, and knelt down to unbuckle Corbin’s gun belt.
“Here,” Eli said, tossing an Indian blanket at Nate. “Stuff a corner of this on that wound before he bleeds to death.” Nate did as he was told, but it was too late for the tormented man. Corbin’s eyelids began fluttering, and his babbling became more and more faint.
“What’s he sayin’?” Church asked.
“He’s talkin’ to the devil,” Spit quipped. “He’s sayin’ save a place at the supper table for ol’ Church.”
Spit’s remark brought a chuckle from the rest of the group—all except Tyler, who was unable to acknowledge humor in any form, no matter how awkward the situation. “He’s a dead man,” he offered, scowling. “We’d best be thinkin’ about Shannon.”
Corbin offered no resistance when Nate pulled the gun belt from under him, even though it dragged his body a couple of feet. “Whaddaya reckon we oughta do about him?” Nate asked as he got to his feet again.
“Nothin’,” Brance stated matter-of-factly. “Like Tyler said, he’s a dead man. And don’t go gettin’ no ideas about them pistols. I expect we’ll draw straws for ’em.”
Nate immediately complained. “Corbin wanted me to have these here pistols. He as much as said so a few minutes ago when the rest of you went lookin’ in them shacks, and I was the only one lookin’ out for him.” He dropped back on one knee beside Corbin, and shook the dying man by the shoulders. “Ain’t that right, Corbin?” Corbin, already on the devil’s doorstep at that point, made a gurgling sound as his final breath struggled through the blood in his throat. Nate looked up hopefully at Brance. “See, he’s tryin’ to tell you.”
“We’ll draw straws for the pistols,” Brance declared emphatically. “Right now, though, let’s drag all these bodies into one of the huts if we’re gonna camp here a while. We can set the hut on fire, and burn ’em up. If we don’t, they’re gonna start to stink before too long.”
“Corbin, too?” Nate asked.
“If he’s dead,” Brance replied, no longer concerned with his former comrade. “But I suspect it’d be a good idea to get our horses outta sight. Spit, why don’t you and Church take ’em over behind the huts, on the other side of that rise yonder.”
The outlaws followed Brance’s orders—with the exception of Tyler, who stood watching the activities with the ever-present scowl etched into the lines of his face. He had not as yet made up his mind as to whether he was content to sit in the Indian village and wait for Shannon to return. What if he didn’t return? Then Tyler would have wasted precious time while Shannon rode even farther away, consequently increasing the chances he would never be found again. Brance might be content to wait here in ambush. That was more like Brance’s style. But Tyler was a hunter; he preferred to stalk his quarry. Still, there was the matter of Wesley’s bay stallion on the far bank. Tyler wheeled his horse to face the riverbank, and sat there for several minutes, studying the horses on the other side, especially the bay. Standing several hands higher than the smaller Indian ponies around him, the bay was far and away too good a horse to leave behind. Maybe Brance was right. Shannon would probably be back for the horse. But not if the stallion had gone lame, he thought. He decided to cross over and take a closer look.
The bay shied away from the ominous figure approaching from the river, limping noticeably as it loped along the bank. Tyler pulled up immediately. He had his answer. The horse was lame. Shannon had probably just passed through this little village. Tyler immediately started scouting along the river, first one side, and then the other until he found what he searched for. There were many tracks, some old, some new, heading in many different directions. But there was one trail of a dozen or more horses, one of which was shod. This was the trail he sought. There was no way to tell, but he guessed that the shod horse was not part of a party of ponies, merely riding along the same trail. He took one look in the general direction in which the trail pointed, and started out immediately. Behind him, he could hear whooping and hollering as Brance’s men fired the hut. He didn’t bother to look back.
Chapter 10
With the pack horses loaded with meat and hides, the Cherokee hunting party prepared to start back to the village. They decided to return on the eastern side of the river. It would be a more direct route back, and should save them almost half a day’s travel. Matt rode at the front of the party between Ike and Crooked Foot, listening to tales of buffalo hunts that Ike used to participate in when he was a younger man. “There’s still buffalo aplenty,” Ike declared, “but not around here no more. You’ve got to go north of here, and west, to the High Plains, to get buffalo now.” Matt listened with great interest as his friend told of seeing wide valleys filled with a virtual sea of the grunting beasts as they flowed through the high country, hooves thundering, tails flying. It was a sight he told himself he would like to see.
Starting out late in the afternoon, the hunters were in the saddle for only a few hours before the sun sank behind the hills and a campsite had to be selected. They settled for a spot by a narrow stream, bordered by a line of willows, and went about the business of tending the horses and building a fire. In short order, there was deer meat roasting and coffee boiling.
After eating his fill, Matt poured a second cup of the strong black coffee, and sat down beside Ike. Ike offered up some conversation for a few minutes, but before long the weight in his stomach began to pull at his eyelids, and soon his head started nodding. In a matter of minutes, his chin came to rest on his chest, and Matt figured that was the end of his friend’s chatter for one day. He turned to comment on it to Crooked Foot, but the Cherokee boy was peering out into the twilight to the south, obviously distracted.
“What is it?” Matt asked.
“Someone is coming,” the boy answered in Cherokee. Then, in English, he said, “People come.”
Matt instinctively reached for his rifle, but Crooked Foot did not appear to be alarmed, merely curi
ous. The Indian boy said something in Cherokee, and several of the others within earshot answered. Soon the entire hunting party was on its feet and looking toward the prairie to the south. One of the older men nudged Ike, and he sat up. Then, from the willows on the other side of the stream, a voice called out. It was immediately answered by the hunters. Soon the air was filled with excited voices.
“What is it?” Matt asked for the second time, looking to Ike for explanation.
“Bad news,” Ike responded, as the visitors emerged from the willows. “These folks is from our village. They’re sayin’ some white men with guns attacked the village. A lot of folks are dead.” His words were short and cryptic, as he thought about his wife and the danger she might be facing. Her safety his one concern, he scrambled to his feet and ran to meet the stragglers from his village. “Broken Reed?” Ike called out to them. “Broken Reed?”
“Gone under,” someone answered his anguished cry, “Old Bear, too.”
The words stopped Ike in his tracks, and for a moment, his brain refused to function. “Come on,” Matt said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s get the horses saddled.” After a long moment, Ike nodded his head, and without a word, followed Matt to the horses. Leaving a few of the boys behind to tend the pack horses and the meat, they started out under a moonless sky. Grim and silent, the band of hunters rode behind the two white men as they followed the river in the darkness, each man and boy gripped by thoughts of what they might find.
* * *
“Is he awake?” Eli asked when he walked back up from the river.
“Hell, I reckon,” Nate answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “I looked in the window a while ago, and he was still settin’ there in the corner, holdin’ that damn pistol. It looked like his eyes was open, and he was starin’ with that damn look he gets when he’s seen the devil.”
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