“You should come back to my hogan,” she suggested. “I can watch over you and make sure nothing happens.”
Matt wasn’t sure a schoolteacher from Vermont would be able to stop somebody from trying to kill him, and besides ...
“That would just scandalize these folks even more. They’d run us both out of the canyon, and you didn’t want to leave yet.”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” Elizabeth said. “Things are getting too tense here. Normally the Navajo are very peaceful people, but I’m starting to get a feeling that ... well, that there might be trouble.”
Matt looked up and down the canyon. He felt the same way. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and the skin prickled, as if someone was watching them.
Somebody who didn’t have their best interests in mind.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow, if you still feel the same way, we’ll get out of here.”
Elizabeth nodded in agreement.
Now all they had to do was live through the night, Matt thought.
Chapter 22
Mrs. McCormick had told Sam that she served breakfast at six o’clock. What he found waiting for him when he came into the dining room the next morning was worth getting up that early for.
The rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room and mingled with other enticing smells, like that of fresh-baked bread and sizzling bacon.
Six men sat at the long table, including Noah Reilly. The little bespectacled clerk lifted a hand in greeting and smiled at Sam.
“Mr. Two Wolves!” he said. “Mrs. McCormick told me that you’d taken a room here. I’m glad to see you.”
“You, too, Noah,” Sam said.
Reilly pulled back the empty chair next to him.
“Here, have a seat.”
The table was already set and had food on it. Sam saw platters full of bacon, biscuits, hotcakes, eggs, and hash brown potatoes. A couple of pots of coffee sat within easy reach, and so did a pitcher of buttermilk. There was gravy and honey for the biscuits, molasses for the hotcakes.
It was classic boardinghouse fare and Sam’s stomach rumbled a little as he sat down next to Reilly, letting him know that he was ready for it.
Mrs. Reilly came in from the kitchen, carrying a tray with several jars of different jams and preserves on it.
“Good morning, Mr. Two Wolves,” she said. “Have you met everyone?”
Sam shook his head.
“No, not really, just Noah here.”
“Let me introduce you to the other fellows,” Reilly said.
He went around the table giving Sam the names and occupations of the other boarders, adding jocular asides about their professions such as “You don’t want to get too well acquainted with Cyrus here. He’s the undertaker!”
Sam filed away the information in his head, knowing that he wouldn’t remember most of it. The townsmen were all pleasant enough, although a couple of them were a little reticent in their greetings. Sam had a hunch that was because of his Cheyenne blood.
Overall, though, it was a pleasant meal, and Sam was stuffed by the time he was finished.
“What are your plans for the day, Sam?” Reilly asked as they walked out of the house after breakfast.
“I don’t really have any,” Sam replied with a shake of his head.
“Are you looking for work?”
“I might be.” He wasn’t, really, but he might have to use that as an excuse to hang around Flat Rock while he continued to search for the bushwhackers.
“Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a job. Mr. Wilmott, who lives in Prescott, owns the store but entrusts the running of it completely to me. Right now the profits don’t justify hiring another employee.”
“That’s all right, Noah,” Sam said. “I don’t think I was cut out to work in a store, anyway.”
“That’s true. It takes a certain, ah, type such as me, doesn’t it?”
Thinking that he had offended the man, Sam started to apologize, but Reilly smiled and waved it away.
“No, no, I’m perfectly aware that I’m not the adventurous, swashbuckling sort,” he said. “I think most of the time people are foolish to try to be something they aren’t, so I’m perfectly content to clerk in a store. It’s what I’m cut out for.”
“Well, that’s one way to look at it,” Sam said. He shook his head. “I don’t see how you stay as skinny as you do, eating at Mrs. McCormick’s.”
Reilly grinned.
“The dear lady does set a good table, doesn’t she?” He patted his stomach. “I guess I’m lucky that I burn it all off.”
Now that the sun was up, Flat Rock was coming to life.
Or at least as much life as this sleepy little settlement usually exhibited. A few pedestrians moved along the boardwalks, a couple of men on horseback made their way slowly along the street, and a wagon was parked in front of the general store.
The doors of the livery stable were open, and that gave Sam an idea. He said, “I’ll see you later, Noah,” and walked over to Pedro Garralaga’s place.
The stableman was inside, tending to the animals in his charge. At this hour the heat of the day hadn’t started to build up yet, so inside the barn it was cool and shadowy.
Garralaga said, “Buenos dias, Señor Two Wolves. You are out and about early this morning.”
“I thought I’d go for a ride before the day gets too hot,” Sam said.
“A ride? Where?” Garralaga made a gesture that took in their surroundings. “What’s there to see around here?”
“You never know. A man never stumbles over anything interesting if he doesn’t look around.”
Garralaga grunted.
“There’s not much anywhere in the Four Corners that’s interesting. But suit yourself. You want me to saddle your horse?”
“No, I’ll take care of it.”
Sam’s horse tossed its head and nuzzled his shoulder. He put his saddle on the animal, noting what a good job Garralaga had done on the repairs, and led the horse out into the aisle in the center of the barn.
As he did, he passed the stalls where the mounts belonging to Stovepipe Stewart and Wilbur Coleman were kept. He’d halfway expected to run into the mysterious cowboys by now, since they seemed to turn up wherever he was, but so far he hadn’t seen any sign of them.
Obviously they were still in town, though, since their horses were here.
Sam said so long to Garralaga and rode out of Flat Rock, heading south. He had only the vaguest idea of where the Devil’s Pitchfork Ranch was, but he knew it lay south of the settlement.
If he had told anyone he was heading for John Henry Boyd’s spread, they probably would have advised him that he was loco. Boyd, Lowry, and the rest of the Devil’s Pitchfork bunch had shady reputations to begin with, and now they were all stirred up because they believed the Navajo had killed two of their men and rustled fifty head of cattle.
Sam didn’t believe that, but he knew he was running a risk by riding on Boyd’s range. If any of Boyd’s men caught a glimpse of his coppery skin, they would probably shoot first and then figure out who he was.
This trip served two purposes, though. Sam didn’t want Caballo Rojo’s people being blamed for something they didn’t do. If the army was drawn into this, it would only make the trouble worse. The best way to avoid that was to find out what had really happened to the rustled cattle.
Also, Sam was still trying to draw out the men who had attacked him and Matt. He couldn’t give them a much more tempting target than this.
Of course, that meant he was risking his life, but he thought it was worth the gamble. He hoped so, anyway.
If nothing else, the landscape was spectacular in its stark beauty. Dark, rugged mesas thrust up imposingly from the flat land around them, as did towering spires of red sandstone. Ranges of rocky hills bordered vast sweeps of empty ground. Cliffs jutted up and ran for miles. Colors faded from brown to tan to red to black. It was almost like being in an alien world devoid of life,
Sam thought.
But here and there, pockets of life did exist. Canyons cut into the hills and cliffs, and in their shaded reaches, springs bubbled up, allowing hardy grass and stunted trees to grow. Higher up in the mountains, the slopes were dark with pine and juniper. This was a hard land, but it would support people who knew how to use it.
The Navajo possessed that knowledge. It was part of their heritage, going back centuries.
Most white men didn’t know how to use the land the way it was, Sam reflected. What they knew was how to change it. They would find a way to bring water into dry country and make it bloom. They would lay down steel rails to span vast distances. They would gouge holes in the earth and rip minerals from its heart.
In truth, Sam didn’t know which way was better. But there had to be a land somewhere that would finally defeat the ingenuity of the white men.
If such a place existed, it just might be the Four Corners. Maybe someday they would realize that and leave it to the Navajo, the Pueblo, the Hopi ... the people who were born to this forbidding landscape.
Despite those musings, Sam was still alert. His gaze roamed constantly over the country around him. Because of that, he was able to spot a thin line of smoke rising into the air a couple of miles ahead of him.
That was probably smoke from a chimney, he thought, and a chimney meant the headquarters of the Devil’s Pitchfork Ranch. So he was on Boyd’s range now.
Or rather, the range that Boyd claimed the use of. All this land was supposed to belong to the Navajo. Obviously that didn’t matter to some people.
If the trouble between the white settlers and the Indians escalated to the point that the army was sent in, that would give the politicians back in Washington the excuse they needed to invalidate the treaty establishing the reservation.
Sam had no doubt that they would do it, and that thought made him frown. In other places, evil men had attempted schemes such as that. Although he and Matt had never encountered any themselves, Sam had heard about them. In Denver, he had overheard men discussing just such a plot that had been broken up by the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen and other members of his family.
Sam didn’t know if that was what was going on here, but it was possible.
And he found himself wondering if that bushwhack attempt on him and Matt could be connected to it in some way. That seemed far-fetched, but reality was often stranger than any fiction could ever hope to be.
He came to a pair of shallow hogback ridges about a mile apart. They ran roughly parallel for at least two miles, and the smoke rose at the far end of the valley they formed.
Also at the far end of the valley, looming over it, was an odd, three-pronged rock spire. As Sam looked at it, he realized that it resembled, at least roughly, a pitchfork.
That was where the ranch had gotten its name, he thought.
There wasn’t much grass in the valley, but there was some and cattle grazed there.
Sam reined in and sat there looking toward the far end of the valley. That was where Boyd’s ranch house was located, he thought. And it was from this valley that the cattle had been stolen.
He lifted his horse’s reins, ready to start riding back and forth until he found the tracks that fifty head of stock must have left.
Sam had just heeled his mount into a turn when he heard a bullet whip past his ear, followed instantly by the sharp crack of a shot.
Chapter 23
Sam didn’t know where the shot came from, but he could tell from the sound of the report that it had been fired from a rifle, probably a Winchester.
He also knew that the rifleman would have a harder time hitting him if he was moving, so he continued pulling his horse into a turn and jammed his heels into the animal’s flanks to make it leap ahead in a gallop.
Sam leaned forward over the horse’s neck to make himself a smaller target. As he did so, he saw a puff of gunsmoke spurt out from a spot about halfway up the ridge to his right.
That was the direction he was headed.
He was charging right toward the hidden bushwhacker.
Bushwhackers, he corrected himself as he spotted another jet of powder smoke from a different place on the ridge. There were at least two of them—again.
These would-be killers seemed to like working in pairs.
Sam gritted his teeth. This was what he had wanted, to draw the bushwhackers into attacking him again.
This time he intended to take one of them prisoner so he could get some answers. Chances were, the man wouldn’t want to talk, but threatening him with some Cheyenne torture would probably loosen his tongue ... whether Sam intended to follow through on those threats or not.
He was getting ahead of himself, Sam thought as he sent his horse plunging back and forth at zigzag angles to keep the riflemen from drawing a bead on him.
First he had to actually capture one of them.
And to do that he had to keep from being killed.
His horse suddenly gave a wild leap underneath him. Sam knew the animal must have been hit. As he felt himself come out of the saddle, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups. That was all he had time to do.
Sam sailed free through the air for a breathless second before the ground came up and slammed into him. He landed on his shoulder and rolled.
Pain shot through him, but he ignored it as his momentum made him roll over a couple of times. He let it carry him up onto one knee and looked around for some cover.
He knew he was going to need it.
Sure enough, more slugs plowed into the ground around him, spraying him with grit and gravel. Sam got his other foot underneath him and shoved himself upright.
Several good-sized rocks lay a few yards to his right. He flung himself toward them as another slug burned past his ear. A desperate dive landed him among the rocks. He hugged the dirt as a couple of bullets whined off the big chunks of stone.
A slug hit the ground right beside one of his outstretched feet, close enough that the impact made him wince. He drew his legs up as much as he could.
From up on that ridge, the bushwhackers could see down into this cluster of rocks. The area that was protected from their bullets was a tiny one. Sam tried to fit himself into it, but as big and rangy as he was, that wasn’t easy.
He made himself as small as possible and then tried to catch his breath. His left shoulder ached from falling on it, but he moved his arm around enough to know that nothing was broken, only bruised and battered.
He moved his right hand to his hip. The Colt was still in its holster. Sam drew the weapon, and even though he knew the range to the ridge was too great for a handgun, he felt better holding the revolver.
If he stayed where he was, maybe sooner or later the bushwhackers would get tired of the standoff and come after him.
That was when he would have his chance to use the Colt.
On the other hand, if they were smart they might just try to wait him out. The sun was climbing in the sky, and he didn’t have any shade here. It wouldn’t be too many hours before his position would become unbearably hot.
Then his choice would be to leave his cover and probably get shot down, or stay there and bake.
The rifle fire stopped. Sam figured the two bushwhackers were up there on the ridge talking about the situation and trying to figure out what to do next.
He wondered if the shots would draw any attention from the Devil’s Pitchfork. The sound of them might have reached the ranch headquarters.
But if the bushwhackers were two of John Henry Boyd’s men, which Sam supposed was possible, then it wouldn’t really matter.
Sam lifted his head just enough to glance at the ridge. As he did, a bullet slammed into the rock about a foot away. A stone splinter stung his cheek. More shots blasted and sent slugs ricocheting off the rock as he ducked down again.
Well, they were still up there watching and still wanted him dead, he reflected. He had established that beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Staying as low as possib
le, Sam turned his head to look for his horse. He didn’t know how badly the animal had been wounded.
To his relief, he saw the horse grazing on the hardy bunchgrass about a hundred yards away. A bloody streak on its hip showed where a bullet had creased it for the second time, causing the violent reaction that had cost Sam his place in the saddle.
Sam’s gaze lingered on the butt of the Winchester that rode in a sheath strapped under the left stirrup.
He wished he had the rifle. Pinned down like he was, the Winchester wouldn’t do him much good, but with it the odds might not have seemed quite so overwhelming.
He blinked as beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and trickled down into his eyes. The heat was getting worse.
Already his mouth felt like cotton.
The shooting had stopped again. The bushwhackers were going to wait and let the sun do their work for them, Sam thought. How long could he stand it before he was forced into the open?
With no warning, more shots abruptly blasted out. Instinctively, Sam lowered his head even more, but after a second he realized that he didn’t hear any bullets ricocheting off the rocks around him.
Not only that, but the sound of the shots was different as well. They were coming from somewhere else on the ridge.
And they weren’t directed at him.
The duller boom of six-guns being fired came to his ears. It sounded like quite a battle was going on up there.
Sam risked a look and caught a glimpse of two figures on horseback vanishing over the top of the ridge. They were moving fast, and the shots that still rang out hurried them on their way.
Were those the bushwhackers, Sam wondered, or had whoever was trying to come to his aid been forced to flee?
Either way, he knew this might be the only chance he had to get out of this trap. He leaped to his feet and broke into a long-legged sprint toward his horse.
No bullets came searching for him. When he reached the horse, he yanked the Winchester from the saddleboot, worked the lever to throw a round into the chamber, and whipped around toward the ridge, ready to return fire if any came his way.
Arizona Ambush Page 12