But Growling Bear’s father, Yellow Shirt, ignored Wolf. He pulled his son to his feet and said, “Come. It is time to go hunting.”
Yellow Shirt turned to the five boys who had been watching the fight and said, “Go to your wickiups. Your fathers await you also to join the hunt.”
Red-faced with shame at having been beaten by Wolf, and still heaving air into starved lungs, Growling Bear brushed past the outcast, his eyes filled with hatred. The other boys followed after him, with Yellow Shirt bringing up the rear.
Wolf was left standing alone. As he always had been. As he feared he always would be. His mother, Night Crawling, had slept with many men, so he had no father to claim him as son. No father to teach him what a boy must learn. How to make his weapons. How to hunt. How to steal horses. How to kill his enemy.
So Wolf had watched and listened and taught himself. He had become better, stronger, swifter, more ruthless. Still it had not won him the acceptance he craved. They had not invited him to come along on the hunt. But he would go hunting anyway. Alone. And he would come back with a bigger deer than any of them.
Wolf collected his bow and arrow and his knife from the wickiup where he lived by himself. He passed by his mother’s wickiup and said, “I am going hunting. I will bring you meat for your cookpot tonight.”
Night Crawling merely nodded. She was aware of the battle her son fought for the respect of the tribe. She did her part to help. She did not boast of her son’s prowess as a hunter. But she generously shared the meat Wolf brought her as well as the skin and horn and the other delicacies that were to be had from the kill, with the other women whose husbands or sons had not been as successful hunting.
Wolf mounted one of his ponies—he had already stolen several from the white men—and rode off in the opposite direction from the hunting party of fathers and sons. As soon as he was beyond sight of the last wickiup, he kicked his pony into a lope and then let him run full out.
No matter how fast Wolf rode, he could not escape from who and what he was. Soon he pulled the flagging pony to a trot, and then to a walk. Almost immediately, he saw the tracks of a deer. It was a large one, and he reminded himself of his vow to return with the greatest prize from the hunt.
He focused all his attention on tracking the deer, which followed a narrow, rocky trail upward along a high cliff. The track narrowed so that Wolf’s foot hung out over a sheer drop. His heart was pounding by the time the trail crested. He stopped short at what he had found.
The deer was forgotten. Below him and stretching out in a wide oval was a lush, grassy valley. From what he could see, it was completely surrounded by impossibly high walls of stone. He could detect no other way in or out of the valley other than the one he had found. Nor could he see any signs of habitation.
Here, then, would be his sanctuary. A place of his own where he would come and be alone and where the stigma of his birth could not intrude. He kicked his pony and began the descent down the narrow deer trail that led into the valley below.
To Wolf’s delight, a stream ran the length of the valley. He followed the trail of sparkling water to where it ended in a large pond in the shadows of the cliff. It was there at the pond that he discovered his valley was not as uninhabited as he had thought. Someone was swimming there.
He kept himself out of sight and was chagrined to realize that it was a white child, a girl. His eyes quickly scanned the valley again. She would not be here alone. There would be other white men. He felt angry. He had already claimed the valley for his own, only to discover someone else had claimed it before him.
But that could be remedied.
The girl in the pond was a child of no more than six or seven. Nevertheless, he approached her stealthily. He did not want her to cry an alarm and warn the others who must be here in this valley with her.
He could not help but admire her grace in the water and her abandon. He could hear her laughter even from where he lay hidden in the rocks. He realized he did not want to kill such a free spirit. But that left him in a quandary.
Should he capture her and take her back to the village? Usually, the Apache did not take female prisoners, as they were useless. This child would be especially so. With no clear plan in mind, he decided to approach her.
To his amazement, the solitary girl left the water the moment she saw him. She stood there dripping wet, wearing only a pair of thin white trousers that came to her knees, totally unafraid. She even spoke to him in the white man’s tongue.
“Hello. Who are you?” she asked.
Of course, he had no idea what she was saying. To his further astonishment, she extended a hand in welcome. Uncertain, he hesitated.
She dropped her hand and spoke again. “My name is Anabeth Calhoun. Are you an Apache? My uncle Booth told me Apaches are mean. But you don’t look mean. Can you understand me?”
The girl apparently realized he didn’t understand a word she was saying, because she began to use gestures with her speech. She spread her arm to encompass the valley and pointed to the far end, where he could see, now that she pointed it out, a stone house such as white men lived in.
“I live here in Treasure Valley with my father and my uncle Booth. Pa is gone from the valley right now, working in the Two Brothers Mine. He’s already found a little gold, but he’s hoping to strike it rich someday. My uncle Booth is down at the house. He looks after me while Pa’s working at the mine. Would you like to join us for dinner?”
When she reached for his hand, Wolf jerked it away. It was the first time anyone had ever reached out to him in friendship. He continued staring at her. And she continued talking.
“Do you live near here? Do you want to be friends? I would like to have a friend. Booth is fun sometimes, but he doesn’t always want to play. Would you like to play a game now?”
She reached out again and, intrigued, Wolf let her grasp his hand. A second later she had tripped him and sent him flying into the pond.
He lunged up out of the water ready to kill—only to find her pointing at him and laughing.
“Booth taught me how to do that. Oh, it was funny to see you go flying!”
Wolf’s dignity was sorely wounded in the fall, and he quickly looked around to make sure no one had seen this slight child lay him flat. He who had vanquished Growling Bear had been thrown by a mere child! He glared at the girl who had been the source of his humiliation.
She stood there grinning down at him, asking him with laughing blue eyes to join her in appreciation of the mischief she had wrought. Then she stretched out her hand to help him from the water.
Wolf found himself utterly charmed. Reluctantly, then wholeheartedly, he grinned back. In that moment, an irrevocable, unbreakable bond of friendship was born.
Wolf levered himself out of the pool and sat down cross-legged on the stone that edged the water, patting the ground beside him to indicate the girl should join him.
She quickly sat down beside him and began jabbering again. For the first time, he spoke to her in the Apache tongue.
“I will call you Stalking Deer, because that is what I was doing when I found you,” he said. “I will be your friend. But you must not speak of me to those who live with you. And I will keep this secret also.”
He wished he could tell someone about the valley. It was such a magnificent discovery! But it would be impossible to explain to his mother—or anyone—that he had made a white girl his friend. He suffered enough ridicule as it was. And he did not want anyone else to come here. This special place belonged to him and to the child he had befriended.
They talked until the sun began its descent, when the girl rose and tried once again to get him to come with her to the stone house at the other end of the valley.
“I cannot come, Stalking Deer. I must return to my village. But I will come again,” Wolf promised.
By signs, by gestures, by the few words they had already taught each other, they did their best to show that they would meet here again another day. From fart
her down the valley someone called for the girl.
“Hellllooooo. Annabeettth. Where are youuuuuu?”
“I have to go,” the girl said. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Will you come again?”
“I will come.”
When she was gone, Wolf mounted his pony and began the long ascent back up out of the valley.
That evening, when he returned to the village without any meat for his mother’s cookpot, Wolf did not mind the jeers of Growling Bear. He did not even acknowledge the taunts of Growling Bear’s friends. He turned cold, dark eyes on them and dared them to do their worst.
Stalking Deer’s unqualified acceptance had provided a much-needed solace for an oft-bruised heart. The village could treat him with disdain and keep him at a distance. Their scorn no longer held the same power over him. Because Wolf had known he was not alone anymore.
Only now Stalking Deer had told him she was planning to go away forever.
“You cannot leave this place, Stalking Deer.” You cannot leave me.
“You can’t stop me, Wolf.”
“We shall see.”
Anabeth heard the agitation in Wolf’s voice—and the determination—but there were no words of comfort she could give him. “I’ll miss you, Wolf.”
“I will come again,” he told her. “When I have had time to think on what you have said.” When he had come up with a way to convince her to stay.
“I won’t change my mind,” she warned. “I’m going to leave. I have to leave. I don’t have any choice!”
Anabeth stumbled away, unable to bear the stoic look on Wolf’s face any longer. They had been friends long enough, and she knew enough about him, to understand that his feelings ran deep. He would be back. Wolf never said what he didn’t mean.
During the next week, Anabeth couldn’t shake the fear that something would happen to wrest away her dream of a new life with her uncle in Colorado. Which was when she recalled her suspicions about Wat Rankin. She woke on the morning Booth was to meet the outlaws with the sure knowledge that she couldn’t let her uncle go back to face Rankin alone.
She called out to Booth from her bedroom, but he didn’t answer. When she padded barefoot across the wooden-planked floor from room to room, she discovered that Booth had already gone. He had left a note for her.
Dear Kid,
I took a little gold for the gang and put the rest somewhere safe. Will be back as soon as I can.
Don’t follow me!
Booth
For all of two seconds Anabeth considered waiting in the valley for Booth to return. Then she dressed as quickly as she could, saddled her horse, and headed for the line shack where Booth was meeting the outlaw gang. Her feelings of foreboding increased the closer she got to the shack. Something bad was going to happen. She just knew it. The dun was tired, but she urged him to a faster run. Time was running out on her dream.
As she approached the shack she could hear angry voices. Oh, God. Please, let her not be too late!
Anabeth slipped off her horse and kept herself hidden from view in the rocky terrain that surrounded the shack. All the members of the outlaw gang were visible. Except Wat Rankin. Where the hell was he?
“What took you so long!” Snake was demanding of Booth. “We been waitin’ here for hours.”
“Weren’t no posse come lookin’ for us,” Teague said. “Got away clean.”
“Where’s the gold?” Grier demanded.
“Rankin sure knew what he was talkin’ about,” Teague said, rubbing his hands together. “Good thing we hooked up with him in Santa Fe.”
“Where is Rankin?” Booth asked. “I’ve got something to say to him.”
“Here.” Rankin stepped into the doorway of the shack, his thumbs tucked into his belt. His lips were curved in a sneer. “Speak up, Booth. I’m listenin’.”
“I said there’d be no killing. I meant it. Get your things, Rankin, and clear out.”
There was a rumble of protest from the other six outlaws gathered around the front of the shack.
Booth stared them into silence. “Two men were shot and killed, and Rankin is responsible. As long as I’m boss, I’ll give the orders, and you’ll follow them.”
“So maybe you shouldn’t be boss anymore,” Rankin said.
Booth felt the hairs stand up on his arms. His hands slipped down to his sides where his two pearl-handled guns were holstered. He looked from one to another of the men ranged before him. “Any of the rest of you feel that way?”
Grier and Teague looked belligerent. Snake’s tongue slipped out to lick his lips. Whiskey took a drink from the jug on his shoulder. Reed coughed. Solano wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Booth’s gaze slid back to the yellow-haired man in the doorway. There was real danger here. He could feel it. Like wolves that turn on their own, he could be savaged by the same men who had ridden by his side.
“You planning to draw on me, Rankin?” Booth asked.
Wat held his right hand away from his revolver. “Wouldn’t think of it, Booth. By the way, where’s the Kid? Thought he’d be with you.”
“It’s none of your business where the Kid is,” Booth retorted. He watched Rankin’s eyes, but there was nothing to tell him one way or the other what the miscreant was thinking. If anything, he felt danger even more strongly.
“You gonna divvy up that gold now?” Whiskey demanded.
There was a look in Whiskey’s eyes, just a flicker of bloodlust that warned Booth how much trouble he was in. “Just let me get the gold and—”
Booth turned his back casually, as though he wasn’t aware of the slobbering fangs of the beasts that surrounded him. A movement at the corner of the shack caught his eye and distracted him for an instant.
Anabeth!
Booth grunted, shoved forward as a bullet slammed into his back. He whipped his head around and saw the gun in Rankin’s hand.
He never got his Colts out of the holsters before he was shot in the left arm by Snake and the right hand by Solano. Before he could move his wounded limbs, Grier and Teague plucked his pearl-handled guns from their holsters and threw them off into the bushes. He was totally at the gang’s mercy now.
“Your days of leadin’ this gang are over,” Wat said. “But if you wanta live, you better tell us where the Kid is.”
“Forget it.”
“He’s prob’ly in that secret valley,” Reed volunteered.
Wat’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Then maybe you better tell us where that valley is, Booth.”
“No.”
“Put a couple of bullets in his knees,” Wat said to Grier and Teague. “Maybe that’ll show him we mean business.”
Anabeth recoiled with each gunshot, and bit her lower lip until it bled to keep from crying out. Her whole body trembled with outrage. Tears welled in her eyes. Even if Booth lived now, he would most likely be crippled and never walk again. The next time she looked, her uncle was lying on his side on the porch, gripping his legs above the knees. He groaned once from the pain and then was silent.
Anabeth thought about jumping from the bushes and fanning her hammer, sending bullets flying. She was lightning fast with a gun, but could she get seven of them before one of them got her? The answer to that question was no. And getting herself killed wasn’t going to help Booth.
“Where’s the Kid?” Wat demanded.
“Go to hell,” Booth said. He stared at the outlaws who had been his friends, but was met with merciless eyes.
Rankin rested his boot on one of Booth’s mangled knees and said, “Talk.”
“You’re one yellow-bellied—”
Rankin put his weight on the injured knee, and Booth screamed with pain.
“You got one last chance to talk,” Rankin said.
“You can kill me, but the Kid’s going to come after you,” Booth gasped. “I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for what your lives are going to be worth when he finds out what you’ve done.”
Booth watched the outlaws shift anxiously, sa
w the sweat break out as they nervously shuffled their feet. He wished there was some way of telling Anabeth to stay hidden. He was a dead man any way you looked at it. There was no sense in her getting killed, too. He hoped like hell she didn’t take his talk about revenge to heart. Those were words meant to keep the gang from going after her long enough for her to make her escape. He regretted not telling her exactly where the gold was hidden. Maybe, with luck, she would find it anyway and get herself to Colorado.
“Finish him off!” Rankin said.
Anabeth watched with horrified eyes as Reed and Whiskey put two more bullets in Booth. It was clear from Booth’s grunts, and the way his body flattened, that they were mortal blows.
Anabeth! Get the hell out of here! Run!
It was a warning shouted in Booth’s head, one that never found voice as the muscles in his bullet-riddled body eased and slackened on the ground.
Anabeth ducked back completely behind the shack. Her stomach clenched and spasmed. Booth was dead! There had been nothing she could do to save him.
She slid down and hugged her knees, hidden by the bushes at the base of the shack. Maybe if she hadn’t come here her uncle would still be alive! She had distracted Booth with her appearance only moments before Wat Rankin had shot him in the back. Maybe if his attention had been on Rankin—
But Anabeth knew deep down that Booth hadn’t had a chance against Rankin. There was no defense against the sort of yellow-bellied cur who shot a man in the back.
Maybe, in that first instant, if she had pulled her gun, she might have helped Booth shoot his way free. But shock and fear had kept her frozen until it was too late. Until reason told her she would only get herself killed if she tried to help him.
Anabeth felt a sob rising in her throat and choked it back. If she made any sound at all the outlaws would surely find her. She pressed her face to her knees and held her breath. And prayed they wouldn’t discover her presence.
“Hey! He’s not wearing the money belt,” Snake said.
“Look in his saddlebags,” Rankin said.
“There is only a little here, señor,” Solano said, handing Booth’s saddlebags to Rankin.
Kid Calhoun Page 5