Then he knew from the sounds that Dukar not only had a rope, but a saddle as well. The outlaws must have concealed their gear somewhere in the rocks when they made their attack on the cave.
Suddenly, he caught sight of the dim shape of a man against the sky. Dukar was mounted and heading for the brush gate. The horse was playing up and the rider was mad at it. He came close up to the brush and tried to grasp some of it while still in the saddle, but the horse gave him too much trouble.
Blade made a neat overhand throw and put the loop over the man’s shoulders without any trouble at all, keeping the rope clear of the brush. He threw his weight back on the rope and the horse played its part as well. Dukar came out of that saddle clean as a whistle and hit the top of the brush with a crash.
At once he fought to free himself from the rope, shouting like a fury. Using all his strength, Blade tore him free of the brush and dumped him on the ground. Dukar still continued to fight frantically and Blade knew that all his efforts were directed to getting his gun from leather. Blade kept the pressure up, dragging the man mercilessly along the ground. Even so, his eye caught the dull glimmer of the gun-barrel. Still holding the rope, he ran in on Dukar and kicked out at the gun-hand. The weapon spun off into the night and struck rock. But Dukar was not through. He launched himself off the ground in Blade’s direction. Blade sidestepped him, shortened the rope and turned, swinging the man from his feet. This time Dukar hit the ground hard and a sharp yelp was knocked out of him. As he lay winded, Blade twisted the rawhide around his neck.
‘Get up,’ he ordered.
Duke climbed slowly to his feet.
‘You bastard,’ he said.
‘Sticks and stones,’ said Blade. ‘Duke, you and me’re going to take a little trip to Denver, Colorado.’
Dukar was suddenly calm.
‘You can’t do that,’ he said, ‘not on a warrant. By my reckoning we’re in the territory of New Mexico.’
‘I don’t care if we’re in Dakota,’ Blade said. ‘I have a federal warrant.’
‘That can’t be true,’ Dukar said.
‘When you killed that guard on the Mantrack road,’ Blade said, ‘he was carrying United States mail.’
There was a whisper of sound. Blade turned his head and saw that the Indian stood there. The sight of him seemed to shake Dukar. He could not see much of the Cheyenne, but he could smell the grease and the paint.
‘You keep that goddam savage off me,’ he said.
The Indian showed his teeth. He said something in his own language. Blade saw it coming and he moved quickly to get in between the two men, but his feet slipped on the rain-soaked ground.
Lying on his back, he saw the Indian strike Dukar several times. There was little noise except for the cry of the white man. One sound there was that was snatched away by the wind. Blade knew then that Dukar had died by the knife.
He got to his feet and felt he ought to be mad at the Indian, but found that he could not dredge up even the semblance of anger. He was drained of his last scrap of emotion. All his mind contained was a dreadful anxiety for the Mexican girl. He patted the young Indian on the arm and the Cheyenne started to sing and dance a little. As Blade started to walk away, the Indian stopped swiftly and with a deft movement of his knife deprived the dead outlaw of his scalp. Not even then did Blade feel anything.
They tramped back to the cave side by side in companionable silence. The silence was broken every now and then by a happy chuckle from the Indian and a note or two of song.
When they entered the cave, Blade felt an air of festivity that was at odds with the horror and violence which had reigned just before he left it. For one thing, there was not a dead man in sight —for which he was thankful. He had seen enough death and violence this trip to last him for the rest of his life. To his surprise, there were no more than five Indians. In the short and bloody fight outside the cave he had been under the impression that there were twenty or more. Except for old Many Horses, they were all young. They were now putting on their clothes and repairing their paint —their best clothes, for a man might wear his old clothes to the hunt, but always took his best to an important fight. Many Horses himself was looking particularly splendid under his full headdress of eagles’ feathers. His shirt, which reached to his knees, was of almost white doeskin and beautifully decorated with beads and quills.
He smiled as Blade and the young warrior entered and said something in his own language. McMasters came forward, grinning, and said: ‘The old man says he made a bet with me you would not come back with Dukar, not with Coyote along.’
‘Pilar,’ Blade said, ‘where is she?’
McMasters turned and grunted a question to the Indian girl. The girl jerked her chin toward the tunnel. McMasters said: ‘Don’t fret. She came back here. She’s all right. I made sure she was. I went into the canyon and watched Dukar depart. He didn’t even find her there. I could of killed him a dozen times, but I knew you wanted him. If I didn’t, you might still be waiting out there in the cold.’
‘Tell Many Horses, the outlaws’ horses are his.’
McMasters slapped him lightly on his uninjured shoulder—‘That’s handsome, Joe. He’ll like that.’
Blade headed for the tunnel. He was very tired and all he could think of was lying down and going to sleep. It was cold in the tunnel and he shivered.
At the first corner, he walked into something and stopped.
‘Joe.’
He put out a hand and touched her face.
Then she was in his arms.
‘Oh, Joe,’ she said, ‘you were gone a long time and I thought he had killed you.’ She stood on tip-toe and pressed her face into his neck. ‘But you are shaking.’
‘It always happens,’ he said. ‘Until it becomes just another nasty habit, you shake when it’s over.’
‘Did you kill Dukar?’
‘No. I had him roped. The Indian killed him. Maybe that’s as it should be. I’ll take you back to the warmth of the fire.’
‘Let us stay here awhile,’ she said. ‘It is good to have you close and to know we shall not have to think about dying.’
Later, Blade made the Indians a present of the bull. They were over-joyed at the thought of fresh beef and slaughtered the animal in quick time. Not long after, they all sat around the fire and cooked the meat on sticks. The Cheyenne were so hungry, they swallowed some almost raw. Later, feeling deliciously over-fed, they all lay around and belched.
With Blade’s arm around her, Pilar said: ‘What happens to me now, Joe?’
Blade said: ‘Your choice.’
‘What will a proud father say to a ruined daughter?’ she said. ‘Such a thing is very important to my people, as you know. No decent Mexican family would allow a son to marry me.’
Blade said: ‘No self-pity, girl. You’re past the Mexican marriage age, which means you said “no” to a good many ricos. Your old man must be pretty mad by now.’ He pointed to the gold which lay where the outlaws had piled it. ‘There’s your answer. A third of that could buy you a large lump of New Mexico. That makes you independent.’
She turned in the hold of his arm and looked into his face.
‘You mean you would give it to me?’
‘It’s as much yours as mine, or George’s, or the Indian girl’s.’
She relaxed in his hold again, smiling to herself.
‘So I may do as I wish.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Here is what I wish. Now George and his girl —her name is Bird, by the way—will go off with the Indians. That is what George says. He is hurt, but he says he will ride slowly with the Indians and winter with them north of here. In the spring, he will be as good as new.’
‘That’s settled George and Bird. What about you?’
‘It is several days journey to my home and the weather is uncertain. I think I should stay here to see if the weather will close in.’
Blade nodded approvingly.
‘That shows
a lot of sense,’ he said.
‘There is meat here—a person could survive up here, warm and dry for a long time, I think.’
‘Even two persons,’ said Blade.
‘It would be even better for two persons. Then maybe they could take a leisurely ride to Santa Fe. It could take a week, two weeks, even two months.’
‘That is so,’ Blade said. ‘There is an old uncle with a good spread plumb on the Santa Fé road. He would be delighted to entertain a beautiful Mexican lady who happened to be in the company of his nephew.’
‘Is the nephew essential?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then I shall suffer him. How long do such entertainments last?’
‘Indefinitely. Then not twenty miles away, there is a certain cousin —a Mexican of great understanding. He would be offended if the uncle were honored where he was not.’
‘And is there a brother or a sister or an aunt or grandmother ...?’
‘All those.’
‘Such visiting could last a year.’
‘It could indeed.’
‘My reputation would surely be then quite beyond repair.’
‘You speak only the truth.’
She turned her head and kissed him softly on the jaw. ‘José,’ she said softly so that McMasters, who was listening intently, could not hear, ‘you are a very nice man and you are offering me salvation.’
‘Which,’ he said, ‘is not half as much as you are offering me, señorita.’
She giggled and fell asleep almost at once.
McMasters spat in to the fire.
‘Joe,’ he said, ‘it’s been a hell of a trip, but I reckon the pair of us didn’t do too badly out of it.’ He stroked the head of the Indian girl and she laid her cheek against his hand.
On the far side of the fire, old Many Horses belched quietly and nodded off to sleep.
About the Author
Peter Christopher Watts
(19 December 1919 — 30 November 1983)
Is the author of more than 150 novels, is better known by his pen names of “Matt Chisholm” and “Cy James”. He published his first western novel under the Matt Chisholm name in 1958 (Halfbreed). He began writing the “McAllister” series in 1963 with The Hard Men, and that series ran to 35 novels. He followed that up with the “Storm” series. And used the Cy James name for his “Spur” series.
More on PETER WATTS
BLADE 1: THE INDIAN INCIDENT
By Matt Chisholm
First published by Hamlyn Books in 1978
Copyright © 1978, 2018 by Matt Chisholm
First Smashwords Edition: January 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Cover Art by Edward Martin
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
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