The Undaunted

by Gerald N. Lund

  Chapter 28

  Monday, January 13, 1879

  David Draper banked the campfire and stood there for a moment, looking down into the glowing coals. Then he walked over to where Tillie had found a patch of grass and made sure her hobbles were secure. He stroked her neck for a moment as she nuzzled his arm, then came back to the fire. Earlier he had cut a dozen or so cedar branches to make a thick base for his bed on top of the snow. He untied his bedroll from his saddle, peeled off the half of a buffalo robe he had purchased some years before, and laid it out across the branches. He put it so the hide side was down and the hair side up. That would provide him a waterproof base in case any melting snow came through the branches.

  Finally, he unrolled his blankets. He wasn’t worried about sleeping warm tonight. A gentle south wind had started about midday, and the temperatures had softened. It probably meant a storm was coming tomorrow, but by then he’d be farther south and at lower elevations. Rain he could live with.

  He removed his boots, took off his revolver and gun belt, and laid them beside his “pillow”—the mailbag covered by his folded slicker. He next took off his belt with its heavy buckle, coiled it up, and shoved it inside his hat so that the hat couldn’t blow away in the night. Finally he stretched out on his bed. He lay back, hands behind his head.

  Above him the sky was clear, and the myriad of stars seemed closer than usual. He could clearly see the long band of soft, filmy light stretching from horizon to horizon that gave the Milky Way its name. Half of a waning moon was up about a third of the way on its journey across the sky. It glistened off the snow in silvery softness. Somewhere in the distance he heard the yipping of a coyote, and the answering hoot of an owl. Together, it all made for good company, and David felt himself relaxing.

  For a change, he wasn’t thinking about Molly. He was thinking about land and cattle. He had been on the road now for twelve days, four days longer than it would normally have taken him to get this far. He had taken a day and a half in the Panguitch area, riding up and down the valley looking for possible ranch sites or land for sale. What he had found was not encouraging. The valley was filling up, and land prices were already rising. So he took two more days and rode over the virtually treeless and bitter cold Paunsaugunt Plateau past Bryce Canyon, then dropped down into Tropic and Henrieville. The temperature difference between the top of the plateau and the valley below was dramatic enough that the first settlers in the valley had felt like they had entered the tropics, and named their town accordingly.

  Here the land situation looked much more promising. These were newer settlements, and the valley was less populated. Eager to bring more people into the area, when the settlers learned of his interest, they welcomed him warmly. They showed him large areas of good, still-unclaimed grassland. If he were to settle there, some of it would be given to him for free. The rest he could buy for fifty cents an acre. They also told him that the surrounding mountains provided good summer grazing. It was a beautiful little valley—in many ways, exactly what he was looking for.

  But could he really bring a woman like Molly to such an isolated and primitive place? He sighed in frustration. The road he had followed was barely a track. Some of the settlers still lived in dugouts cut into one of the side hills. No one had anything larger than a one-room cabin or a simple adobe hut. Then there was the problem of isolation. Even pushing it, it was a four-day trip to get back to Cedar City. He audibly groaned. Cedar City? What was he thinking? Molly’s family wasn’t going to be in Cedar City. They were going to be in San Juan. There were no roads between Tropic and San Juan. It would take weeks to go around. Knowing how close she was to her family, could he really ask that of her?

  As he lay there, growing more frustrated with every minute, he suddenly jerked up. He rose up on one elbow, peering at Tillie. She was a frozen statue, head high, ears cocked sharply forward. She snuffled her breath, peering directly down the hillside below them.

  David was instantly out of his bedroll and groping for his boots. He moved quickly but silently. A bear? A wolf? His ears were straining to hear as he pulled his boots on. Then he went cold. In Panguitch, and again in Hillsdale and Hatch, the locals had warned him to be on the lookout for a small band of renegade Utes or Paiutes who were raiding the homesteads up and down Long Valley. Indians out looking for an occasional loose horse or stray cow were not unusual, but it was reported that this band was led by a white man who rewarded the Indians with generous amounts of liquor in exchange for whatever stock they could steal. One settler down in Orderville had been seriously wounded trying to stop them from emptying his corral.

  Boots on, he retrieved his pistol and strapped it around his waist. Then, moving carefully on hands and knees, he started toward his saddle, where his rifle was still in its scabbard.

  “Leave it!” a deep voice yelled at him from the trees to his right.

  David forgot the rifle. He dropped and rolled, yanking at his pistol, scrambling for cover behind his saddle. There was a bright flash and the blast of a rifle. He heard the snap of the bullet as it passed just above his head. Suddenly a man burst out of the trees, and in the pale moonlight David saw he held a rifle. He leaped up, raising both hands high in the air and waving them frantically back and forth. “All right! All right!”

  “Drop the pistol!” the man barked.

  David did so, keeping his hands plainly in sight.

  “That’s better,” the same voice said. He shouted something that David didn’t understand, and instantly David heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape bend down and pick up his pistol. He gave a low cry as it was jammed hard against his back. Speaking almost in his ear, the second man hissed something unintelligible. David had interacted enough with Indians to recognize that this was not another white man, like the man with the rifle. His heart sank. This was not good. This was big trouble.

  Then behind him, just out of his line of sight, David heard the crunch of more footsteps. He turned his head enough to see two more men—also Indians, judging from the floppy hats and the bows strung over their shoulders. His mind was racing. How many more? And where were they? The reports had said a “small band” of Indians and a white man. Did three Indians constitute a small band? Or were there others? Probably. At least one, staying back with their horses. His mind was working furiously.

  The man with the rifle came forward. He was tall and heavily built. A thick beard covered the lower part of his face. He grunted something in the same Indian tongue, and the man holding the pistol in David’s back stepped away from him.

  “Unbuckle your gun belt and toss it back to him,” the big man growled.

  David awkwardly complied, using only one hand, keeping the other high so they wouldn’t think he was going to try something. When it was loose, he tossed it lightly to the Indian.

  “Now step back.”

  David did so, and the Indian moved around to where he could cover him with the pistol.

  There was another burst of Ute or Paiute, and the Indian darted over to David’s saddle and retrieved his rifle. He also picked up the mailbag. He walked them over to the leader and held them out.

  Never letting the muzzle of the rifle waver from David’s chest, the big man set the rifle and the bag down. He grunted something again, holding out his hand. The Indian turned sullen, but finally holstered David’s pistol and tossed that on the pile as well. With a jerk of his head, the big man gestured toward Tillie.

  David turned to look. The two Indians were moving slowly toward her, talking softly in their native tongue. Tillie didn’t like it, and she was backing up slowly, tossing her head. The one who had shoved the pistol in David’s back trotted over to join them.

  “You only got the one horse?” the man barked at David.

  “That’s right.”

  He called that information to them, then came forward warily. When he was close enough he jammed the end of the rifle hard against David’s chest, causing
him to wince. “You the mail rider?”

  David nodded, still breathing hard from both shock and his burst of exertion.

  “How much money’s in the bag?”

  “Mail riders don’t carry money,” David said, keeping his voice even.

  “People send money through the mail to their families.”

  David was quickly regaining control. “Well, I certainly don’t go through the mail to find out who.” Then he added, “You know that stealing United States mail is a federal offense. You’ll have the Pinkertons after you.”

  There was a bark of derision. “Oooh,” the man exclaimed. “The big bad Pinkertons.” He jabbed David again. “Open it. I know you have the key.” He backed off a couple of steps.

  Just then, Tillie snorted, then whinnied sharply. They both turned to see what was happening. The three Indians had spread out in front of Tillie and were moving in slowly toward her, hands out, talking softly. Tillie snorted again, backing up in little hopping steps because of the hobbles. Then the closest Indian lunged forward, grabbing her by the halter. Triumphantly, he shouted to his companions.

  The first Indian came running back to David and his captor. He grabbed the bridle, which was draped over David’s saddle, then trotted back. As he approached his companions, holding it out for them to see, the one holding Tillie’s halter snubbed her head down and held it tightly. The third man grabbed one ear and twisted it hard, pulling Tillie’s head with his full strength. Tillie whinnied in pain, but her head dropped, and the one with the bridle darted in. In a moment, they had the bridle in her mouth and slipped it up and over her ears.

  When they released her head, Tillie laid her ears back and snapped viciously at the closest man. They laughed, yelling warnings to each other. Tillie snapped again, and they jumped back. And in that instant, David had the first flash of hope. He glanced at his captor, who still held the rifle steadily on him, now about ten feet away from him. But the big man was watching the battle between horse and man, grinning at the sight.

  David turned back. One of the Indians reached down between Tillie’s front legs. There was a dull flash of moonlight on metal, then the leather hobbles fell free. Tillie didn’t like that, either. She tried to rear up, but was jerked down again sharply. Her ears lay back again, but again, the one holding her head didn’t give her enough slack to be dangerous.

  “I think they like your horse,” the man chortled. He reached down and picked up the mailbag. “Give me the key,” he demanded.

  David pretended not to hear, pretended to still be engrossed in what was happening over with Tillie. “If they plan to ride her,” David warned, “they better get the saddle. She hates bareback.”

  The big man roared. “You think I’m gonna tell an Indian how to ride a horse?”

  David’s mind was racing. If there was someone staying back with their horses, it was probably just one man. And the horses were probably a good hundred yards or more away, or David would have heard them. He tensed.

  He drew in a silent breath, then poised himself, hoping against hope that they would try to mount his horse. They did. As the first Indian held Tillie’s head tightly, the second one grasped her mane and threw himself up on her back. At that same instant, David gave a shrill whistle. Tillie’s head jerked up so fast and so hard that it sent the first Indian flying. The next instant, she erupted into an explosion of bucking, twisting, pounding fury. The second brave had barely straightened himself on her back. The spine-cracking jolt sent him flying as well.

  David didn’t wait to see what the third Indian was going to do. He leaped forward, bringing both hands together to form a club. The big man had turned to gape at the battle going on to his left. He heard David and swung around with a cry. The rifle blast nearly deafened David, but he was already past the muzzle and knocked it aside, then swung at the big man’s head with a fury of his own. The man saw the blow coming and tried to duck away, but he was too late. David’s interlocked fists connected with the side of his face, snapping his head back sharply. He dropped to his knees, one hand coming up to ward off another blow.

  Ignoring the pain shooting through his hands and arms, David grabbed the rifle by the barrel and snatched it out of the big man’s grasp. In one smooth movement, he whirled, swinging the rifle like a club. The man’s hands were up to shield his face, leaving his body unprotected. The swinging butt of the rifle caught him squarely on the left side of his chest. There was a soft snap as a rib or two broke, followed by a scream of agony. He fell, writhing and screaming, to the ground. David leaped in, kicked his rifle and pistol clear, then levered another shell into the chamber and whirled to face the Indians.

  The one was still down, rolling in the snow and howling with pain, holding one arm. The other two were staring at David. Then one of them started clawing for the bow over his shoulder. Dropping to one knee, David fired. A plume of snow exploded about ten feet to the right of the nearest Indian. He jacked another shell in and fired again. This time it was five feet away. They jumped back, yelping in surprise. He pumped another round into the chamber. “Get outta here!” he shouted. “Go!” He fired a third time, this time into the air.

  That did it. They grabbed their companion and dragged him to his feet. He screamed, holding his arm like it was broken. Off they went, slipping and sliding as they raced away down the gentle slope toward a grove of junipers about sixty or seventy yards away. He fired again just to let them know he was still there.

  He swung around, rifle coming up, but his former captor was no longer a threat. He was curled in a ball, arms hugging his chest, moaning in pain. In three steps, David reached his own rifle and pistol. He picked them up and tossed them clear. Then he grabbed his saddle and ran back to where he had a good view down the moonlit hillside. He dropped it and flopped down behind it. It wasn’t much, but it was all the cover he had.

  Not ten seconds later, four horsemen came bursting out of the trees. David jacked another shell into the chamber, but then lowered the rifle. They weren’t coming up the hill. Stretched out low over their horses’ necks, the four braves raced away, shouting and whipping their horses into a hard lope. Feeling a tremendous rush of relief, he stood, lifted the rifle, and fired one more shot into the air just for good measure. Then, trembling violently, he slowly sank down to the snow, leaning back against his saddle.

  Wednesday, January 22, 1879

  It was the last of lingering twilight when David entered the outskirts of Cedar City. A light snow was falling, the large flakes swirling slowly downward in the still air. Tillie plodded along, head down, hooves muffled in the snow. And, anxious as David was to get her to the stable and himself into a hot bath, he didn’t push her. She had earned the right to plod.

  They had left here twenty days before. With the two side trips he had made, and with having to backtrack to Orderville to turn over his prisoner, David guessed she had carried him for close to four hundred miles. She was near the edge of her limit as much as he was.

  Like Tillie’s, David’s head was down as he slumped in the saddle. He was physically spent, mentally exhausted, cold clear down to his bones, and so ready to be out of the saddle that he could barely stand it.

  He was suddenly aware that Tillie had stopped. David lifted his head. Just ahead of them, standing squarely in the middle of the road, was a dark figure.

  “Hello, Tillie,” Molly McKenna said softly. She came forward and began to stroke Tillie’s face. “So you finally brought him home to me.”

  David stared at her. There was a dusting of white on her shoulders and bonnet. “What are you doing out here?”

  Molly laid her head against Tillie’s. “How’s that for a greeting, Lady Tilburn? Not so much as a ‘Hello, Molly.’”

  “Hello, Molly,” David said, swinging down out of the saddle, wincing as every muscle in his body protested. “What are you doing out here?”

  She came to him, taking his hands in hers. “Hello, David.” And then, surprising him and herself, she kissed him
quickly and lightly on the lips. “Welcome home.” She reached up and rubbed at his chin. “My goodness. Do you never shave when you’re on circuit?”

  “Right. I should have asked one of those fancy hotels for a razor.”

  She stepped back, giving him the once-over in the fading light. “You need a haircut, too.”

  “Well, I planned on taking care of all that in the morning. I didn’t plan on meeting this beautiful woman in the middle of the street. How long have you been waiting?”

  “An hour. The post office in St. George sent a wire, telling us when you left, so I figured it would be sometime this evening when you arrived.” Her eyes lowered. “Are you vexed?”

  “No, of course not. I’m delighted to see you. It’s just—”

  She cut it off, slipping an arm through his. “I’m just teasing you.” She rubbed Tillie’s nose again. “You look exhausted. Both of you. Come on. You ride, I’ll walk alongside.”

  “You want me to get back in that saddle? What are you, a sadist?”

  That was more like it, and she laughed happily. “Are you too tired to walk, Mr. Hero, sir?”

  He groaned. “No. Don’t tell me.”

  “Yep. It’s all over town. We knew within a couple of hours of when you turned your prisoner in at Orderville. Went out over the telegraph. Made all the papers the next morning.” She lifted her hands and formed a headline in the air with her fingers. “‘Mail Rider Captures Outlaw Gang. Singlehandedly Fights Off Three Hundred Indians.’”

  He started, then realized she was teasing him.

  “I saved a copy of the paper for you so you can show it to your grandchildren.” She jumped aside to avoid his swiping hand. “I also sent a copy to your father.”