Western Stories: Four Tales of the West

by Ward, Marsha

  He took a deep drag of the stale air in the room, tapped the deck on the green surface of the table, and commenced to whistle and shuffle. And while he whistled, he very carefully shuffled a custom-built bottom stock. When he parceled the cards out to the players, four monarchs came off the bottom for the Chinaman.

  When the money changed hands, loading the table on Fong's side, Verl arose, yawning hugely. "I guess I'm all tuckered out." He patted his pockets. "Can you let me in, Mr. Fong? I must have left my key home this morning."

  The little man grinned and nodded and scooped up his winnings, and they left the table together.

  Out in the night air, Verl shook his finger in the face of Fong the fortunate. "Don't you ever get in a game again, you hear? That's a single man's vice."

  Fong nodded and clutched his sack tightly to his chest. "You a good friend to tell me that, Verl. So sorry you such a bad card player."

  ###

  War Party

  Black smoke drew Rolla's eye, smoke where there should not be smoke. Then he heard the noise: high, piercing yips, and a woman's scream, and the flat report of gunshots.

  A sand hill girdled with stunted mesquite trees blocked his view of the home place. The boy tongued the grass stem from his teeth as the dun-colored pack horse swung its head, nostrils wide, and the rope between the boy and horse tightened. Water in the barrels sloshed and splashed over the rims. Rolla smelled dank wetness as it cut through the dust on the sides of the casks.

  He heard Pa's angry voice, and more shots, and the eternal yips, chilling his spine. Rolla started to run, pulling the dun behind, but the horse resisted, so he tied a fumbled knot around a mesquite branch. Then he scrambled and panted his way up the slope.

  Rolla reached the top and flopped belly-down behind a tangle-branched creosote bush. He broke a stem so he could see through the shrub, and a tarry odor filled his lungs. Now he saw the source of the smoke. On the right, the dugout roof and door were ablaze, and to the left, hay stacks burned next to the corrals. The boy tried to count the dashing, milling figures with long black hair tied down by rolled bandanas, but because of the dust and smoke, he lost the total.

  Apaches! he thought, remembering a neighbor's warning: "They's got hair down to here, boy, and them dirty white cloths to hide their nekkedness. And most often they's got a white band of paint clear acrost their faces, from ear to ear, nose and all."

  One of the raiders knocked down the corral poles. The stock spilled out, chased by another Indian, and the rest of the band bunched behind, whooping, and drove the protesting animals onto the trail.

  When the Apaches were a cloud of ocher dust, Rolla slid down the hill and, kicking the tree, snapped the spiny branch holding the horse's tether rope. He ran along the path, jerking the animal behind him, not caring about the water.

  The boy came yelling into the yard between the overturned wagon and the stone fence surrounding the garden plot. "Pa!" he called, and saw a dark brown patch on the tan earth near the wagon. The boy dropped the horse's rope and followed scuff marks around the vehicle.

  His father lay in a heap, and Rolla skidded to a halt beside him. "Pa," he cried, and knelt to shake the man. "Pa, wake up. They're gone." Then he recoiled, and held himself rigid at the sight of the stark white and crimson circle on the top of Pa's head. Rolla drew in a deep breath, and took in the dust and smoke, and the sweet-rank stench of blood.

  The first, numbing shock passed, and the boy laid his hand inside his father's coat, checking for a heartbeat. There was none, and he stumbled to his feet.

  "Ma?" he asked, looking around, swallowing hard, and he saw the splash of white petticoats behind the black wash kettle. "No, please," he prayed, feet dragging, as he approached the place where one shoe stuck out from in back of the boiling pot. He stopped, then peered around the column of rising steam.

  Ma lay stretched out, eyes wide, mouth twisted, and the bodice of her gray dress was dark with blood. Her shawl looked like a yellow butterfly on the ground, and Rolla picked it up, fingering the soft wool. The threads caught on his chapped hands, and he clenched his fists over the wrap.

  "Ma!" he yelled, and an echo returned from the hill as he draped the shawl over her terrified features. As he got up, he shook with restrained rage, and for a moment he stood, quivering, as though he were rooted between the two fallen figures. Then the youth dug one grave on the flat behind the corral: a large one beside the two small ones already there in the Arizona sand. After he rolled rocks atop the mounded earth, Rolla took his hat by the crown, pulled it forward off his head, and mumbled the Lord's Prayer before he stamped back to the yard.

  The boy kicked through the rubble of the corral and found the riding saddle. He caught and tethered the dun, dumped the water barrels, loosened the pack saddle, and pushed it to the ground. Then he hoisted the riding saddle onto the horse's back.

  Although the smoking roof poles had collapsed, and the front part of the house sagged, the fire had burned itself out, and Rolla wrestled the charred door aside and stepped into the dugout.

  He found saddlebags, and stuffed them with whatever came first to hand: a loaf of bread; tins of tomatoes; his store-bought shirt; ammunition for the Winchester he had found under his father's body, brass dulled with blood. Then he rolled and tied a pair of quilts. Last, he picked up the photographic portrait of Matt and Kate Wood on their wedding day, and carried everything out into the daylight.

  Rolla stared hard at the picture, as though by staring he could bring his parents to life. A dark sigh shook his body, and he pressed his lips together, shuddering at the contrast between this almost smiling couple and the mutilated corpses he had buried.

  "I'll get 'em, Pa," he choked, his voice high, thin. "Those 'Paches killed their last white folks."

  He shoved the portrait into his coat pocket, then hoisted the saddlebags behind the saddle, secured them, and tied on his bedroll. The rifle he jammed into the boot, then he loosed the horse, gathered the reins, and stepped onto the chopping stump to reach the stirrup. Mounted, he took one last, bitter look around, then bounced his heels off the mustang's ribs, and it skittered out of the yard and onto the trail.

  ~~~

  It was past noon when Rolla checked his back trail and discovered a man riding a quarter mile behind him. The boy leaned forward and urged the dun into a lope. Later, when he pulled up to give the horse a breather, the man still followed, and Rolla edged off the trail and circled behind an outcropping of sandstone.

  He shucked the Winchester from the boot, dismounted, and tied the horse. Then he crawled to the top of the low butte and waited, shivering as the cold clamped down on his motionless form.

  The man was big, not too old, rode a gray gelding, and wore a gray hat with a black band. A red scarf decorated his neck. His topcoat flapped open as the gelding moved, and once, Rolla caught sight of a gun belt crossed at an angle to his waist.

  An outlaw! he thought, and shivered again. Then Rolla remembered his mission, and anger shook him. "I got a job to do," he whispered. "No grown-up's gonna stop me." He squeezed off a shot in front of the gray horse. "Get them hands in the air!" he shouted.

  First the man quieted the plunging gray, then he slowly raised his hands and peered toward the sandstone mass. "Who's that up there? You sound like a kid."

  Rolla levered the rifle. "Old enough to shoot. Why are you following me?"

  The man started to lower his arms, and Rolla yelled again. "Keep 'em up! Answer me. Why are you on my trail?"

  "Your trail? This is a public road, kid. What do you think you're doing?"

  Rolla stood, and waved the rifle barrel at the man. "You answer the questions."

  "I don't know who you are, kid, but your daddy ought to lay a hand good and hard on your butt. You're keeping me from my business. Them cussed Indians will be to hell and gone before I can catch them."

  Rolla shifted his feet on the sandstone. "What Indians?"

  "Them raiding Apaches who killed my partner, that's wha
t Indians. I'm getting riled, kid. You best put that pop stick down so I can be on my way."

  "What you gonna do to those Indians?"

  The man spit on the ground. "I'm gonna give them a hundred dollars and pat them on the head."

  "I'm coming with you."

  "No chance, kid. Put down that rifle and I'll get along." The man glared at the lanky youth, and lowered his arms. "You're just a dumb kid."

  "I ain't no dumb kid! I got a job to do, same as you."

  "Well, I'm on my way. Shoot me in the back, if you've a mind to."

  "You need me, mister," Rolla shouted, then gritted his teeth against the disappointment.

  ~~~

  The boy trailed the man all day, through the creosote and sand hills of the flatlands, and into the broken, boulder-filled country below the mountains. He had torn a chunk of bread from the loaf in his saddlebag, and chewed it for lunch. Day-blue sky deepened to late-afternoon lavender. Now the shadows ranged long to the east, and the juices stirred in the boy's belly.

  Before an hour passed, the man halted for the night, and Rolla stopped the dun behind a large, round rock. The man dismounted and cared for his horse, then hobbled it, turned it loose, and started making a fire.

  Orange streaks like flame raged against the western sky, and Rolla shivered. Now the cold would come, and he had no walls to ward off the wind. He wondered if he could get close enough to warm the chill from his face, but decided to wait until full dark to try.

  The boy moved back into deep boulder-shadow and got off his horse. He tied the mustang and loosened the girth. Then he crept back through the gloom to his watching place.

  The man was moving around, piling wood, stirring beans, making a pot of coffee. When the fire blazed up, Rolla saw a rifle laid close by.

  After a time, the man stood and stretched, then grabbed the long gun and disappeared into the cave-like blackness beyond the circle of firelight. Rolla stiffened, breath suspended, wishing he could quiet his thundering heart. He strained to listen for movement, but only the slight moan of the wind around the rocks came to his ears. Then feet stirred gravel, and one of the horses nickered. Rolla took a shallow breath and listened once more, and was surprised when he shifted his eyes and saw the man again by the fire, squatting, his back to Rolla.

  The night breeze brought dust, and the boy felt the need to sneeze. He fought it, gripping his freckled nose between his thumb and finger, and the urge receded, but when his hand dropped to his side, the sneeze escaped.

  Again he held his breath. Then the man's voice came low to his ears. "You might as well come and get warm, kid. I already took care of your horse."

  After they ate, they sat by the fire, and the man nursed his coffee, glanced at Rolla, frowned, then sipped from the smoking cup.

  Rolla shifted his leg to relieve a cramp, listening to the wind creaking through the mesquite branches. He started when the man broke the stretching silence between them.

  "Why you out here, kid? You ought to be home at a warm hearth, on a night like this. You running away?"

  Rolla squeezed his mouth hard as he remembered the hearth of home, gutted and fire-blackened. Then he lifted his chin as hate blazed in him. "Those Indians, they murdered my pa and ma. Cut 'em up, too. I'll make them pay, you'll see."

  The man sat quiet for a long time, then Rolla blurted out, "They gotta pay!"

  "I figure that's my chore, kid, making them pay." The man stood and kicked a log into the fire. "It's a man's job."

  "I'm near man-grown, twelve next birthday. We'll hitch up together, get the job done quicker."

  "I don't need your help, kid."

  "Then you'd best brush off them scorpions, mister."

  The man's panic bloomed, and his eyes shifted from side to side, trying to find the menace. "Where, kid? Where are they?"

  Rolla almost laughed at the dancing, quivering figure in the firelight. He got to his feet and brushed the first bug onto the ground. "Hold still, mister. There's another one on your neck." He flicked it off, too, then stepped on the pair.

  The man sighed, and breathed quickly, then quieted. "I guess you think that's funny, a grown man scared of a critter?"

  "It was a mighty comical sight," Rolla grinned. "Feel better now?"

  "I will in a while." The man kicked the scorpions into the fire, scrutinized the ground, and carefully sat. "I guess I'm beholden to you, kid. You got a good eye and a quick hand, and the only thing in this world that scares me is them creepy bugs."

  "See, you need me to keep a watch for them." Rolla's face went hard. "Besides, we got the same task. We best join up."

  The man barked a laugh. "If you'll have me, now." He put out his hand. "Ben Peabody."

  "Rolla Wood."

  "Time to sleep, Rolla. Mind you, shake out your bedroll."

  ~~~

  Two days later Rolla and Ben, following a trail overlaid with many tracks, heard gunfire. The shots came in volleys, and they looked at each other, frowning.

  "I think the Cavalry found our Indians first, kid." Ben wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "They can't be far off. Let's go join the war."

  Rolla pulled his rifle and checked the load, and rubbed his thumb over the bloodstain on the brass frame. Then he shoved the gun into the boot, and kick-started the horse.

  The trail was rocky and led upward to the summit of a mesa, so their progress was slow and dusty and frustrating. After an hour, they arrived at a precipice and dismounted. The drop into a river canyon was sheer, and they could see through the haze of gunsmoke a ledge about 500 feet below, lined at the edge with a breastwork of high boulders. Several Indians huddled against the rocks, shooting arrows and bullets at the soldiers surrounding them.

  "We've got 'em now, Ben! They can't get away from us all." Rolla hugged the brass buttplate of the Winchester against his shoulder, and fired down the cliff. "There's one for Pa," he shouted, flinging off his hat and raking his hair. He worked the lever. "That's for Ma!" he screamed over the boom of the rifle. He fired again and again, ignoring the shock of the recoil until pulling the trigger only produced a dry click.

  The boy reloaded, conscious of Ben's rifle speaking beside him, and then his gun rejoined the din. But his fury outlasted his ammunition, and when the gun was empty, Rolla tossed it behind him and kicked rocks off the edge into the canyon.

  "Kid," Ben called, beckoning him to put his shoulder against a horse-sized rock. They strained and shoved, and finally it rolled, bouncing and crashing down the cliff-face. They found another boulder, and pushed it down onto the Indians, continuing until their energy was spent.

  Rolla caught his breath, then renewed rage sent him down the eyebrow trail toward the skinny, broken bodies at the cave's mouth. He skidded to a halt, breathing in gasps, and looked around. An Indian woman lay at the entrance, clasping a half-naked baby in her arms. A round hole stared from her forehead, and the child's back gaped open to white bone. One old Indian moaned at Rolla's feet. The boy grabbed a knife secured at the man's waist. He thrust his fingers into the black hair. Bile rose in his throat as he started to cut the scalp.

  "Got a grudge, boy?"

  Rolla spun around, releasing the hair. An ancient, slouch-hatted trooper stood spead-legged in the trail, gripping a carbine. His face was a plowed field, seamed ridges separated by the tree stump of his pursed mouth.

  "My pa and ma--"

  "I reckon you didn't hear what them Tucson rowdies did to the Indian maids they ketched. I can't blame this bunch for painting up."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "I'da gone on the warpath myself if I'da come home to my daughter cut and bleedin' from top to bottom. Violated and slashed up, them gals was. Some younger'n you."

  The hand with the knife trembled. Rolla could barely see the stains on the blade. "But they killed my folks."

  The trooper nodded. "And a lot of others. That's why I'm here." He brushed at the dust clinging to his time-worn trousers. "But if you look at this from the Indian
side, whites is whites, boy. Killing's their idear of getting even."

  Rolla clamped his lips together, hard, trying to stop the shaking. He looked around at the splashes of white and red and pink, at the glistening entrails spilling from one dark body, torn open by a boulder he and Ben had rolled down the cliff.

  "Do it feel good, taking revenge?"

  "No!" Rolla screamed, and hurled the knife into the canyon. Then he clamped his hand over his mouth, but the torrent escaped through his fingers. He slipped to his knees between a lacerated leg and a feather-bedecked bow, vomiting and shuddering and crying.

  When the spasms brought up only air, the boy heard the crunch of boots on gravel and saw a red scarf fluttering between Ben's thumb and fingers. Rolla's gaze swept from the man's scratched boot tips to his white, twisted face.

  "I thought I'd be happy," the boy rasped, then took the scarf and wiped the filth from his face.

  "We both thought wrong." Ben hitched up his gun belt, then put out his hand, and Rolla grasped it, getting to his feet.

  "I hurt inside, like I'd been smack under one of them rocks." The boy's voice whispered like sandpaper scraping a boulder.

  Ben coughed into his hand. "I figure it'll be like that for a time, kid." He looked around, from the sky to the cave to the canyon, then back to Rolla. "The Army'll stick you in an orphan home. Maybe you better join me down on the San Pedro. I got a place, where I run cattle and scratch out a little ore from time to time." He cleared his throat. "Now Tanner's gone, I need a partner. How about it, kid?"

  Rolla looked at the soldiers, walking around, checking bodies, and picking up weapons. "I got to think about that, Ben. I want to go home and see how things are."

  Ben chewed his lip, head tipped to one side, arms folded across his chest. "At least we can head south together, kid," he said, unfolded his arms, and squeezed Rolla's shoulder. "If you change your mind, you can find me at the Box P. Just follow the river."