The nearest rider—bat ears—was farthest from the wagon, and the big man with the slick clothes was nearest, riding alongside. Woha’li decided his best chance would be to shoot bat ears first, then take the other riders out as they came.
When bat ears was a hundred yards away, the boy sighted carefully, dead center on the rider’s chest, and eased back the hammer.
At its click, the rattler in its crevice raised its head, opened its gaping mouth, and buzzed.
Everything was a blur after that. Woha’li felt and heard his rifle discharge, but he knew his aim was off. He saw the rattlesnake beside him, recoiling to strike, and reacted instantly.
Folly Downs never saw where the shot came from. He was just riding along, thinking about all that money in the wagon back there, and suddenly somethingwhacked him alongside the head and the world turned upside down. He heard the shot, but couldn’t think what it was. He felt his horse shy, felt himself hitting the ground. Then he was looking up at empty sky.
Asa Parker and Casper Wilkerson heard the shot and saw Folly Downs slide off his horse. Above them on the wagon’s bench seat, Kurt Obermire yelled and pointed. He had seen a flicker of movement in a sage stand just as the shot rang out. As one, Asa and Casper spurred their mounts. Asa leaned low over his saddle and pulled his big Winchester from its sheath. Casper veered toward him, brandishing his big stub-barreled greener.
Leveling his .44-40, Asa fired, worked the lever, and fired again. Dust and debris flew from the sage ahead. He held slightly left, fired again, then put a fourth shot just to the right.
Fifty yards out, Casper rode beside him, his hands full of shotgun and his eyes full of murder. At thirty yards he let go with both barrels, right into the sage patch Asa was shooting, and the little thicket seemed to explode. Dirt, gravel, and sundered sage flew, rainingdown like a cloud on the devastated earth below.
At full gallop the riders entered the sage, thunderedpast the fringes where their guns had been at work, and plunged on—thirty yards, forty, sixty—before reining in and circling, watching for any movement, any slightest hint of a target.
With one hand full of rifle and the other full of furious rattlesnake, Woha’li lay facedown in a tiny gully no more than a foot deep. Braced on his elbows, he clung desperately to the neck of a very large and very angry viper and felt debris raining down on his back. The snake beneath him writhed and surged, and he strained desperately to hold it still. Even while the debris was falling a thunder rose, and horsemen were right on top of him. Pounding hooves pummeled the earth inches from him ... and went right on by.
Not even daring to breathe, Woha’li lay frozen still and listened. An inch from his nose, the rattlesnake hissed and gaped, its fangs dripping venom on the hand that held it imprisoned. His other arm, the right one, was almost numb with a searing pain that shot clear to his shoulder. The snake had stung him as he was grabbing it—a glancing blow, like two short scratches, but it hurt like fire. He ignored it as horsemen thundered toward him unseen.
The riders went right over him! He heard them receding, heard their voices as they circled and searched, looking for him. Then he heard again the roar of the shotgun, and men seemed to be shouting all around.
With every ounce of his strength, Woha’li held himself still in the tiny trough that hid him, held the writhing rattlesnake imprisoned beneath him, held its seeking fangs away from his flesh and held his breath. To hide in a forest, one must be the forest.
“Be the prairie,” the Indian boy commanded himself.Nine pounds of powerful rattlesnake writhed and twisted, trying to free itself from the desperate fingers clutching its neck and head, and Woha’li did not move. He lay as still as the prairie.
A covey of bobwhites exploded from cover as CasperWilkerson circled his horse, peering closely at the concealing underbrush. Almost underfoot, seven or eight quail flushed in a flurry of wings, and Casper’s shotgun came up and roared.
Four birds dropped, and Casper heard Asa’s angry shout, “What are you doin’, you fool? It’s only birds!”
“Prob’ly all it ever was!” Casper shouted back. “See anythin’ else?”
“Not a damn thing! But that was no quail that shot Folly! Keep lookin’!”
From a distance, the bull voice of Kurt Obermier roared, “What is it? Did you get him?”
“Haven’t seen anybody! How’s Folly?”
“He’s bleedin’ like hell!” Obermier shouted. “His cheek’s gouged wide open! God, I can see into his mouth through it! An’ he’s got a hole through his left ear! Somebody come help me with him!”
For long minutes the search continued. Then Asa said, “Whoever it was is gone now! Let’s get back to the wagon!”
Once again, the riders passed within yards of Woha’li without seeing him. Half-buried in gravel, sand, and shreds of sage, he was as invisible as a Cherokee can be.
When he was sure they were gone Woha’li raised himself carefully, keeping his tight grip on the rattlesnake.His right arm throbbed, swollen and awkward.The men had returned to the wagon, where bat ears was on his feet now, staggering around and moaning, holding his head with a bloody hand.
Carefully, Woha’li rolled out of the little depression,bringing the snake with him. The creature was as big around as his forearm, and almost as long as he was tall. Powerful coils writhed around his arm, compressing the flesh cruelly, and the extended fangs were like curved ivory needles, nearly an inch long.
Watching until the men were turned away from him, he freed his arm of the rattler’s coils, then turned and flung it away from him. Landing among sage clumps, it coiled and buzzed, then stretched out and disappeared into shadows.
“Utsonati, ” Woha’li whispered. “A’ali‘i a-awaduli.” Rattlesnake, be my friend. You are in my blood now. I have your spirit. “Utsonati, unali’i,” he added. “Go in peace.”
His rifle was clogged with sand, and when he tried to jack a shell into its chamber it jammed. The boy suddenly felt very small, and very tired. His arm hurt like fury, making him dizzy. His gun was useless now, and he hadn’t killed anybody. He felt like crying, but he cursed himself and fought back the tears. Didanawa-i—Cherokee warriors—did not cry.
Half an hour later he watched the prairie schoonerlumbering eastward, and when it was safely away he headed south. He moved slowly, weaving drunkenlyand dangling one arm. He would clean himself at a little creek, retrieve his horse and belongings, clean and reload his rifle ... then he would rest. He needed to rest, until Utsonati’s poison wore off.
That might take a day, or several. And he would be sick. But the snake had shared its spirit with him, and it would strengthen him if he knew how to make it his own. He would rest, treat his swollen arm with a poultice of sage and mud, and then he would just wait it out. When he could, he would start again.
He had found his prey—four of them, at any rate—and drawn first blood. True, he had not hurt them much, but next time it would be different. Next time ... next time they would wish that they had never come across a bone cart operated by peaceful harmless Cherokees.
Woha’li had a war name now, like the didanawa-i of old. Next time those men were in his sights, it would not be just the boy Woha’li they faced. It would be Utsonati, the rattlesnake.
MacCallister’s ride to Fort Dodge was one of the strangest journeys he could recall. Except for one crusty veteran with topkick chevrons, the cavalry patrolconsisted of one shavetail state militia officer as green as new clover and a gang of rosy-cheeked State of Kansas recruits who didn’t know horseshit from high ground.
The second time Lieutenant Colgrave refused to divulge the reason for Falcon’s impoundment, SergeantLyles eased the civilian aside. “He don’t know why he’s got you,” he explained. “He’s just actin’ on orders, an’ don’t know what it’s about. You wanted for somethin’?”
“I am not,” Falcon stated.
“Well, all I can suggest,” the sergeant said, “is just make the best of it. You’re lucky he hasn�
��t took your guns—”
“He’ll play hell trying!”
“I suggested as much. Anyhow, you’re not under arrest, but the lieutenant does mean to bring you in.
“He’s taking me to Kansas, and he doesn’t even know why?”
“That’s the new army,” Lyles shrugged. “Just like the old army was. Never tell anybody anything, just give orders. These boys here couldn’t wipe their butts if somebody hadn’t issued standin’ orders how to do that. Not bad young’uns, some of ’em, but they’re green as crick moss.”
Falcon made the best of it. There was nothing to be gained by provoking the lieutenant or any of his green troops. The problem with shavetails and recruits,he had learned a long time ago, was that when confused they became trigger-happy. Many a man had died of no hard feelings, in scrapes with unenlightened soldiers.
He did set the pace, though. With every mile northward, Falcon pushed ahead, riding alongside Colegrave and easing ahead of him, forcing him to increase his mount’s pace to keep up.
For Falcon, it was a mildly amusing way of passing the time. He had encountered his share of Cole-gravesin the past—fresh young lieutenants plucked prematurely from the cradle and solemnly designatedas officers and gentlemen. In the field, a lieutenant’sfunction was to be a “leader of men.” In exact military protocol, this meant that he was expectedto always be in front of his charges, never behind them. Among army scouts, it was considered almost a duty to enlighten lieutenants as to how the real world worked.
Unobtrusively, the plodding march became a sort of race, with Colegrave pushing harder and harder to stay at the head of his column and soldiers spurringtheir mounts to keep from being left behind. The lieutenant’s furious glances now and then assuredFalcon that Colegrave understood what he was doing, but just didn’t know what to do about it.
They crossed the Cimarron at a place where the bluffs outlining the wide valley were more than a mile apart. All along the bottomlands were the smokes, tracks, and marks of settlers settling into a new land. Within view, Falcon counted three distinct settlements scattered across the miles.
“The ‘great American desert,’ ” Lyles commented,observing a farmstead from a distance. “Fifty, sixty years ago this whole region was declared uninhabitable. Look at it now. Fillin’ up!”
“Well, they’ve got their work cut out for them,” said Falcon.
Behind him, Private Finch muttered to Private Lester, “So have we ... just keepin’ up with our prisoner.”
It was no great workout for Diablo. The big black took the forced march like a Sunday stroll, but for two days the cavalry’s horses had been near exhaustioneach time they stopped to rest.
Of them all, only Sergeant Lyles seemed to enjoy the sport. Falcon noticed how the old topkick’s eyes sparkled with constrained mirth each time LieutenantColgrave spurred his horse to regain the lead position in his patrol.
For anyone watching as the unit filed across Crooked Creek and lined out toward the distant smokes of a sizeable settlement ahead, just who was bringing in whom would have been a good question.
TEN
Trails by the dozens converged toward the old ford of the Arkansas River and the seething little settlement beyond. North of the Cimarron had been sand hills, but once past them there was more and more settlements. Every creek and gully, it seemed, was lined with fresh soddies and hardscrabble little steads. There were even patches of raw soil where the grass had been broken out for plowing.
In the distance, on the River’s south bank, were several sizeable farmsteads. On the nearest one, the charred remains of a burned-out barn stood stark against the background.
Where there were people, there was always trouble.
And it all seemed to concentrate toward Dodge. Falcon could almost smell the place, even from upwind.A pall of smoke hung in the air—smoke from dozens of cook fires, blacksmiths’ forges, tannery embers and stoves—before catching the wind above the low hills to feather off to the east.
Along the main trail, at the edge of town, bales of overripe winter hides were stacked before low-slungsheds, awaiting cartage. Great mounds of sun-bleachedbone sprawled roof-high along wagon paths, and every kind of shack, shed, hovel, and tent crowded the well-marked line where the city limits began. Beyond were more substantial buildings, many of them still sapwood new.
The main street was a drover’s lane, close to a hundred yards wide where it entered the town, narrowingbeyond a maze of slat-fenced pens and cattle chutes. The railroad depot there was as varnish-new as the iron rails coming in from the east. This was the new railhead for the Texas herds, replacing Newtonand Ellsworth in that trade.
Most of the structures in the town were squat soddiesand dugouts. But where the street narrowed, high buildings faced across a busy thoroughfare, many of them dressed up in garish false fronts.
The buildings on the south side of the street backed up to river flats where a wagon camp stood like a second town at the edge of town. Falcon counted at least thirty prairie schooners out there, sharing space with an array of lesser vehicles and a pair of huge Conestogas that dwarfed all the rest. The associated livestock—draft horses, mules, and oxen in various enclosures along the river—num—bered in the hundreds.
“Homesteaders.” Lyles pointed. “First spring flock, headin’ west.”
There were people everywhere—men in eastern finery rubbing elbows with frontiersmen in buckskins,grizzled buffalo hunters clearing their own space as they walked, duded drummers and gamblerslounging in the morning sunlight beneath railingswhere half-dressed women hung out their wash and their wares. Here and there were furtive defeated-lookingIndians in ragged white man’s clothing,a few sauntering drifters sporting sidearms, and a collection of wagon travelers keeping to themselves.
The rutted streets were a riot of wagons, surreys, drays, carts, and pedestrians, where bonneted women scurried across from produce market to generalstore and grimy children played tag among the wheels and hooves of the traffic. Two livery barns, a rattletrap hostelry, a newly opened hotel, a bathhouse,several gambling halls, and fourteen saloons—DodgeCity seemed to have just about everything a seven-year-old town might offer.
Along the south fringe of the settlement were the stout pens, counting chutes, and branding corrals of a cowtown awaiting the summer herds.
“Dodge by God City,” Sergeant Lyles proclaimed. “Hardly manind’s finest achievement, but the whiskeyhere flows more reliably than the river usually does.”
The sprawling little city, in its snug pocket on the plains, was indeed a sight to behold as Lieutenant Colegrave took imperious command of his troops and paraded them up Trail Street. Even in this season,the place crawled and bustled with coinciding humanity. It was anybody’s guess how many people actually lived in and around Dodge City on any permanentbasis. Probably no more than two or three hundred. But compared to the empty prairies he had crossed, it was a metropolis.
With early spring and all the trails open, the count of people was several times the permanent population.Rail and stage traffic from the east, drovers from the south, pack trains from the west, and the sprawl of commerce pushing down from Hays and Great Bend all collided at Dodge. The place was a brawling volatile powder keg where law and order were as fragile as a whiskey whim but just as determined.
They plodded through the town as a parade might, with crowds gathering to watch them pass. There were catcalls and derisive comments from men in the crowd, and some explicit suggestions and invitations shouted by dance hall women on the upper balconies, but no real incidents.
Falcon had the feeling that hard eyes were on him as he rode by—that sensation of hostility that can make a westerner’s scalp tingle like warning flags. Here and there he spotted familiar faces—men he had seen at other times and other places, though none he could put names to.
It wasn’t unusual, in any western town where men gathered in passing, to see faces one had seen before.The West was filling up, some said wryly, but there w
eren’t all that many people yet in the vast land. Roads were few and trails were known, and those who went from place to place often encounteredeach other many times.
Eyes accustomed to seeing what must be seen in wild country developed a knack for seeing everything,all the time. And Falcon MacCallister had such eyes. Scanning the crowds as they passed, he saw and catalogued a dozen or more men who looked familiar. And some of them recognized him, too.
“We’re not stopping here?” he asked Colgrave.
“No, sir,” the lieutenant rasped. “Not when we’re on duty. Fort Dodge is just five miles east.”
A mile or so out they passed another burned-out place, just off the road. Both house and barn had been destroyed, and a field of kitchen greens trampled.
“Night riders did that.” Sergeant Lyles pointed. “That was the bunch we chased down to the border. Just across, in No Man’s Land, we saw a big camp of outlaws, and the lieutenant went after all of them.”
“The ones that I saw?” Falcon asked. “There were more of them than there are of you.”
“Nobody ever said these greeners didn’t have sand.” Lyles shrugged.
“I swear to God!” Captain Abe Burroughs sputteredas he pumped Falcon’s hand in the little adjutant’soffice at Fort Dodge. “You are Falcon MacCallister! Jamie Ian’s son! It’s an honor, sir! Heard about the job you did in the Apache campaigns.Nice bit of work, that.”
“Thanks,” Falcon said. “Now would you tell me what I’m doing here, captain?”
“Oh, that.” Burroughs looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid some of our younger officers are ... well, overly enthusiastic at times. Please accept my apologies.Lieutenant Colgrave’s detail wasn’t looking for you. They wouldn’t have even been over there in the Neutral Strip, but for hot pursuit of a gang of night riders. But there they were, and there you were, and ... well, you understand. There’s been a great deal of reassignment since Kansas became a state, and things get confused.”
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