Stone Hand

by Charles G. West

  Jason was pleasantly surprised. “Well now,” he started. “Ain’t you as pretty as a prairie flower this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She smiled sweetly for his benefit. “I missed you.”

  “Well, I’m mighty glad to see you’ve perked up some. When I left I wondered if you were ever going to be yourself again.”

  “I decided what’s done is done. I can’t live the rest of my life being afraid to come out of this tent.”

  “Good for you.” He reached out and patted her hand.

  “Daddy said there was no reason to believe that monster is anywhere within fifty miles of here. It’s been almost a month and none of the scouts have heard any word of him. I think he’s not fool enough to remain this close to the regiment anyway, don’t you?”

  “Probably not,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her that he and Long Foot were pretty sure they had been on the renegade’s trail only two days’ ride from the camp. There was no need to put any fearful thoughts in her head. The colonel could be right and the Indian could be headed out of the territory. But Jason wouldn’t bet on it.

  “So I’ve decided to leave for Fort Cobb in three weeks’ time to arrange for transportation back home,” she said.

  “I reckon that is the best thing for you, to go on back East to where your friends are and where you don’t have to sleep in a tent.” He turned to leave but took only a couple of steps before turning around to face her again. “I’m going to be gone for about a week, I reckon. I should be back before you leave.”

  She stood up and offered her hand. “Take care of yourself, Jason Coles.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Jason bent low to examine the mutilated body of a man, middle-aged perhaps, it was hard to tell for the body had been burned badly. The crude cabin was still smoldering. The killing was still fresh for the body smelled of charred meat. It would be a few hours before the stench of rotting flesh set in. Whoever had committed this atrocity was not long gone. The sign was too fresh. He glanced up when Long Foot signaled with his hand.

  “Here.”

  Jason got up and went to the rear of the cabin, where Long Foot knelt beside another body, that of a woman. At first glance, the body appeared to be that of a man. Half buried under some charred timbers, her form was partially hidden. Her scalp had been completely lifted in an attempt to take all of the hair.

  “Damn,” Jason muttered softly.

  Long Foot nodded solemnly. He turned the woman’s head around so Jason could see the face. The left eyebrow had been slashed from her face. “Stone Hand, damn right.”

  Jason nodded his agreement and continued to stare at the horribly mutilated corpse. “She must have had a beautiful head of hair for that devil to butcher her like that.”

  “Not long gone,” Long Foot announced.

  “Not long gone,” Jason agreed. “Look around. Find a shovel or something and let’s get these people into the ground. I reckon we can do that much for ’em.”

  “We need be quick. Damn right. Stone Hand not long gone.”

  They worked quickly, placing the two bodies into one shallow grave. They had never been this close behind the man they hunted and Jason knew they were spending precious time but he didn’t feel right about leaving the bodies for the buzzards. As soon as the man and his wife were in the ground, he and Long Foot mounted and rode off to the north, following a trail that was unusually careless for the phantom he had tracked for so long.

  It wasn’t far before Stone Hand’s natural bent for caution took over and the trail vanished at a shallow creek that was little more than a trickle. Jason and Long Foot scouted around until one tiny dislodged pebble and a partial print provided the clue they needed to determine the renegade’s trail. Jason studied the print for a few moments and then stood up and looked in the direction the trail indicated. It pointed toward a low line of mountains. “That son of a bitch has a camp somewhere. Could be in those hills.”

  Long Foot shook his head no. “Them hills sacred. No Cheyenne go there, damn right.”

  “Why? Burial ground?”

  “No, no burial ground. Sacred. Big Medicine. Spirit of rocks and trees live there. No Cheyenne go there.”

  “Maybe,” Jason said, “but this ain’t no ordinary Cheyenne.” No one had ever known where Stone Hand’s permanent camp was. Maybe that was the reason. Maybe Stone Hand wasn’t afraid of the spirits. What better place to have a camp. “Come on. I don’t want him to gain any more ground on us. We’ll stay hard on his trail but I’m betting he heads up into those sacred mountains of yours.”

  “No Cheyenne go there, damn right,” Long Foot mumbled as he followed Jason’s lead.

  It was a hard trail to follow. Jason expected no less after many weeks of trying to track the elusive Indian. They lost it time and again but they were dogged in their determination not to lose him. Jason could feel it this time. He felt the nearness of the renegade. They were close. The Cheyenne was clever but Jason would not be denied. The trail was fresh, they both felt they had closed the distance between them and the renegade. And then it ended…in the middle of nowhere…leaving them staring stupidly at a sheer rock wall at the end of a box canyon.

  “Damn!” Jason swore and pulled Birdie up short. He quickly wheeled his horse around and dismounted. “He gave us the slip. We missed it somewhere, dammit. He damn sure didn’t ride up that cliff.”

  Long Foot looked about him furtively. “Some people say he’s a spirit.”

  “Don’t start that shit. He’s about as much a spirit as my horse.”

  “Damn right,” Long Foot said, nervously searching the canyon walls with his eyes.

  It was easy to see why they had missed it the first time. A gnarled old tree that appeared to be growing right out of the middle of a huge boulder hid the gulley directly behind it. The gulley cut through the rocks and led up into the hills. It was pure luck that led Jason to the crude trail when he decided to dismount and relieve himself under the scant shade of the twisted old tree.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, then called Long Foot, who was still scouting the trail behind them. When Long Foot joined him, he said, “We could have scouted this place all day and not found this trail.”

  Long Foot bent low to examine the faint impression in the dirt. “Hoofprint, damn right.” He rose to his feet and stepped back to gaze up into the forbidding hills. “This bad place, damn right.”

  Jason studied the Indian’s face for a moment. He knew what he was thinking without asking. Long Foot had no stomach for climbing up into these “sacred hills” and the fact that Stone Hand had ascended this trail probably more than convinced him that the renegade was some kind of evil spirit. He climbed up on Birdie, still watching Long Foot. “Come on. He’s getting a lead on us.”

  Long Foot did not budge. “Can’t go there. Spirit of rocks and earth live there.” He looked at Jason apologetically then added, “Damn right.”

  “Ah, horseshit! If any spirits lived up in them hills, they sure as hell wouldn’t tolerate a no-good son of a bitch like Stone Hand. This is just another pile of rocks and dirt like all the other hills around here. Only this one must have Stone Hand’s camp hid up there somewhere.”

  “This place bad, damn right,” was all Long Foot would offer. It was obvious the Indian had no intention of risking his soul by defying the spirits.

  “Well, I’m going after him. You scout around the north end of this hill, see if you can find a way around to the other side. There might be a trail coming out.” He nudged Birdie and started up the narrow trail into the boulders.

  The going was hard for the first hundred yards. After a steep climb through huge boulders that appeared to have been strewn over the hills by some giant hand, the trail widened by a good six feet. Still it wound through the giant maze, climbing at a more gradual rate now. The place had an eerie quality about it. It seemed of another world. Little wonder the Indians thought it a supernatural place, inhabited by spirits. Jason could not h
elp but feel the foreboding atmosphere that seemed to permeate the rocks and sand. There seemed to be no living thing here.

  The trail was plain to see at this point. There was no effort to hide it. It would have been pointless at any rate because the narrow passage through the boulders was the only access Jason could see. Because of that, he constantly watched the rocks above him. The trail was made for ambush and by this time Jason had a feeling that Stone Hand knew he was being trailed. Long Foot would tell him he was foolish to continue up the narrow cut in the rocks. Death could be waiting around any of the many turns in the trail. Knowing this, his nerve endings seemed to be tingling, so strong was the presence of Stone Hand.

  He dismounted and looped Birdie’s reins around a scrubby bush that was growing between the rocks. He was close to the savage. He could sense it. He drew his rifle up close in front of his chest and started walking toward the next bend in the narrow passage. Suddenly a small bird fluttered off her nest, scolding loudly as she passed directly over his head, and it occurred to him that there had been no sound of any kind before that. He stopped stone still. Maybe he had scared the bird but his instincts told him different. He took it as a warning and dropped to his hands and knees, watching the jagged column of rock that hid the trail beyond the turn ahead. His nerve endings were alive. This was it, his instincts told him. He knew Stone Hand was waiting on the other side of the jagged column. Slowly he inched up to the rock, glancing overhead every few seconds, expecting an attack at any instant. Everything was quiet again, as quiet as death, as he advanced inch by inch toward the edge of the rock. He knew that hell itself would be waiting beyond that rugged monument. Still he pushed ahead until he reached the very edge of the boulder. He stopped and listened. The silence was stifling. Very carefully, he rose to one knee and listened. After a few moments that seemed more like an hour, he decided it was time to fish or cut bait. He knew he had to move fast if he was going to catch Stone Hand by surprise. He took a couple of deep breaths and prepared to leave the safety of the boulder. Once he committed, it would be a question of who caught who by surprise. He hesitated a moment more. “What the hell,” he mumbled and launched himself, rolling across the narrow trail.

  He came to rest on his belly, his rifle raised and ready to fire at whatever he came face-to-face with on the narrow path. There was no one there. The path was empty. Jason quickly scanned the trail from side to side, his rifle aiming and in sync with the movement of his eyes. He lay still for a moment, his breathing the only sound he heard. He had been sure Stone Hand was waiting for him on the other side of the boulder. Lying there, pressed against the rock wall of the trail, he looked further up the trail. Up ahead the path widened again. And beyond that he could see a small open area of grass and a few scraggly trees.

  He rose to his feet. So, he thought, the renegade did have his secret camp up here. No sooner had he thought it when he was spun around by the impact of the lead slug into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground once more. The crack of the rifle reverberated through the narrow stone walls as he rolled over on his back, fumbling desperately to bring his own rifle to bear. Stupid! he thought, for having presented the Indian with a stationary target. The narrow canyons exploded with the eerie scream of a Cheyenne war cry as Stone Hand leaped from the rocks above, his war ax poised to finish the wounded scout.

  In the time it took for Stone Hand to close the distance between them, which was barely seconds, Jason calmly raised his rifle and took dead aim. He fired twice, cutting the Indian down not ten feet from him. By then the pain in Jason’s shoulder had increased until it felt like a fire was burning in his flesh and his arm became numb and useless. He raised the rifle with one hand and held it on the crumpled body before him. For a few seconds, Stone Hand did not move. Then he slowly began to struggle to pull himself up to his knees.

  Jason strained to raise the rifle to bear on the man in front of him. Stone Hand pushed himself up on his feet, his right hand holding his side in an effort to stem the flow of blood that covered his fingers. Dazed and confused by the stinging fire in his midsection, he glanced at his rifle, lying some ten feet away in the sand. Jason could see that the savage was thinking of attacking again but the sight of the rifle pointing at his stomach caused him to reconsider. He seemed puzzled that the white scout did not shoot him again. Instead, Jason continued to hold the rifle on him. Stone Hand could not know that the hand that held the rifle had gone completely numb and was incapable of squeezing the trigger.

  With obvious effort, Stone Hand backed slowly up the trail, watching Jason intently.

  Jason did not move, he couldn’t. He simply sat there, his rifle aimed at the renegade, who appeared to be dragging himself off to die like a wounded coyote. At that point Jason was content to let him go. He couldn’t get far before he was bound to collapse. Jason was sure of this, just as he knew from having been shot before that the numbness would soon leave his shoulder to be replaced by intense pain.

  He sat there until Stone Hand was out of sight around a bend in the narrow passage. As he had anticipated, he slowly regained the use of his arm, although the pain was like a hot knife. Slowly, and with great effort, he pushed himself up, using the stone wall of the passage for support. On his feet at last, he waited for a few moments until he was sure he was steady. He ejected the spent shell from his rifle and cautiously inched his way up the trail after Stone Hand. He was aware now of the pounding in his chest. His heart was hammering against his ribs as he focused his eyes on the bend in the passage, ready for what might be lying in wait for him. Still he advanced slowly toward the turn, step by step. He was certain he had gotten the best of the brief encounter. The Indian had been hit twice, hurt too badly to fight. Jason knew a kill shot when he saw one and it was his guess that he had dragged himself off to sing his death song. Still he would exercise extreme caution, just as he would with a rattlesnake until he was sure it was dead. He was even with the stone corner of the bend now and once more he steeled himself for the sudden exposure he must make. As before, he made his move quickly with rifle raised and ready to fire. But there was no one there. He stood there for a few moments, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He heard his rifle clatter on the rocks at his feet and realized he had dropped it. His arm had gone numb again. He pulled his pistol out of his belt with his left hand and moved again up the trail.

  At first Jason thought the renegade had disappeared into thin air again. A second look told him he was wrong for there was a trail of blood leading to an opening in the rock wall of the passage. Jason quickly moved to the opening and slipped inside, dropping to one knee as soon as he was out of the sunlight and engulfed in the cool darkness of the opening. It was a foolish move, he told himself, going into a cave after a wounded animal. But it was too late by then. He had committed himself. Hugging the side of the cave, he blinked rapidly, trying to see where he had landed. After a few moments with no bullet ripping into his flesh, he assumed he was not going to die after all, at least not at that moment. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see that he was indeed inside a small cave in the rocks. There was a passageway leading off to the rear of the cave. Obviously this was where the wounded man had dragged himself. Jason followed. He knew the man was dying, otherwise the savage would not be on the run. He would have tried to set an ambush.

  His eyes were totally adjusted to the darkened passage now and he could see that he was in a stone chamber that had once been a waterway, probably centuries before, maybe before man ever set foot on the land. The walls were smooth and worn, the floor solid rock, covered now by a thin layer of dust. In the twilight of the tunnel numerous streaks of fresh blood glistened in the wayward rays of sunlight that managed to filter through the cracks in the ceiling. Jason continued slowly, his body close against the wall of the tunnel, wary of the ambush he might be advancing toward. Still he pushed on. He wanted to confirm his kill.

  And then the tunnel ended, closed off by a solid wall of rock. Jason stopped cold
and immediately dropped to one knee, searching both sides of the cave, overhead, behind him. Where did the trail go? He could feel his heart pounding again as he braced himself for the attack he feared was coming. Where was the bastard? He was beginning to think the Indians’ tales about Stone Hand were true. Maybe he was a spirit. He damn sure vanished within this stone tomb. There was no possible explanation for it. The light was not good in the passage but he could definitely pick up the trail of blood leading to the stone wall at the end of the tunnel. There was a dark area directly before the wall, darker than the rest of the floor that led up to it. Jason inched forward to inspect it when he realized that it was a hole in the floor of the cave. His heart was racing again. This was where the savage had disappeared to.

  Exercising extreme caution, he peered over the edge of the hole into empty black space. He backed away for a moment to consider the apparent probability. There was no doubt that the Indian had taken this way out. The hole was just wide enough to permit a man to drop into it. There was no telling how deep it was or what lay at the bottom of it. He looked around until he found a sizable rock, then he dropped it into the hole and listened. He counted to eight before he heard the rock contact what sounded to be water. “That’s a helluva drop,” he muttered.

  Jason backed away from the hole and sat down with his back against the wall of the cave. By now his wound was burning with a numbing pain and he knew that he had to take care of it pretty soon. But first he had to think over the events of the previous minutes. The Indian had been wounded pretty seriously when he dragged himself in here to die. It did not surprise Jason that Stone Hand would fling himself into the dark pit rather than have his body mutilated or taken back to the reservation for display. Jason didn’t blame him but it wasn’t the way Jason wanted to end it. Now the reservation Indians would be convinced Stone Hand was indeed a spirit with no body to exhibit as proof of his destruction. The colonel would be disappointed but there was nothing he could do about it.