War Valley

by Lancaster Hill

  It had to be a Redman, Hawthorne thought. No white pony would be so still and silent. Police, troopers, hunters, trappers—they just sat on their mounts. Even Jim Bridger, who knew bear and deer better than any man, and who wore their skins, was still only Jim Bridger. Indians became one with their animals, spiritually. They were almost like those old man-horses he had once seen a drawing of in a book. Even if an Indian was just leading his animal, there was a bond.

  There was a loud sound of an owl that wasn’t an owl because Hawthorne had not seen any of the birds about. Neither of the white men moved. The identical cry came again from a slightly different position.

  Owls stood still on their perches.

  Shit.

  There were sounds behind them, distant, low—from the Comanche camp. As Hawthorne had watched them through the spyglass, he did what he always did with quarry, calculated how long it would take them to sneak, walk, run, or gallop to where he was. The Comanche had done the same. On foot, without relying on the uncertain step of a horse in the dark, and able to ascend two abreast, the entire party could reach this position in about two minutes.

  Hawthorne had told that to Ahrens, and the Austrian had apparently reached the same conclusion he had. It was time to leave, and not by going down into the valley.

  Ahrens’s gun lit up to Hawthorne’s right, sending a shot in the direction of the sound. Before the loud pop had died, Hawthorne was already up and leaping the log, racing toward his horse. The “owl” screeched again, this time from higher up. He had mounted his horse.

  Hawthorne paused to fire but the Comanche horses had already wheeled away, racing back in the direction they had come.

  “They’re setting up a catchall!” Ahrens yelled from the saddle. “Go the way we were going! Don’t fire!”

  “Catchall” was Keel’s term for a funnel, where one force forced another force into a bunch, then herded that bunch into a shooting gallery. He wanted Hawthorne to go wide around but not shoot at the Comanche in the middle lest they hit each other.

  Ahrens screamed, his cry swallowed in a large, thudding crash. It was either a gopher hole or—

  Shit.

  There were grunts, an oath, the sounds of a struggle. Hawthorne dismounted and ran toward them. He tripped over a rope pulled taut between two tree boles. That was what the Indian had been doing when he was silent. Acting, not just stupidly standing there.

  Hawthorne holstered the gun, drew his knife, and scrabbled toward the sounds of the fighting. He held the bison-bone hilt tight in his right hand, moved with the fingers of his left stretched toward the struggle. He made contact with braids. Instinct closed his fingers like a bear trap, and he clutched a knot of hair tight. The owner swung on him like an eagle on a field mouse, and Hawthorne immediately found his right arm pinned against his chest by the weight of the Indian. That weight lessened almost immediately as Ahrens growled, slapped his hands on the attacker’s back, and pulled him away.

  “Get the other one!” he shouted at Hawthorne.

  The tracker got on his feet and charged. He knew where the Indians’ horses were and came at them from the side, his knife slashing from side to side in case the Indians were waiting.

  The knife cut horseflesh. The animal reared and cried out and something slid from its back, half-hanging on its side. At that same moment the Indian fighting with Ahrens let out a cry the likes of which Hawthorne had never heard, not even from a wounded wolf. Ahrens screamed, there was movement on the ground, and Hawthorne heard someone rushing toward him. It wasn’t his partner, who lay moaning on the ground.

  There was a confusion of sound, but the war cry told Hawthorne where the danger was. It wasn’t from the bundle hanging inches from him. A quick brush of his fingers before the wounded horse bolted away told him it was carrying a body. That was reinforced by the metallic smell of death that wafted on the air stirred by the horse.

  Hawthorne did not know how badly Ahrens was wounded, but that didn’t matter right now. There was a mad Indian up here, and he could hear the rest making their way up the slope. His own horse was ahead, and he dashed for it with every lick of speed his churning legs could get him. He ran into the rear of the horse, grabbed its tail, and swung around to the other side to put the animal between him and the Indian. The horse turned with him and he released the tail, jumped into the saddle, and kicked the horse to a gallop. He heard the brave scream behind him, something ancient and animal, and then Ahrens’s horse was galloping hard in pursuit. The tracker swapped out gun for knife and craned around, firing blindly into the night. One shot, then another, then a third in a spread.

  The horse kept coming. He decided not to waste any more bullets. He would not be stopping to reload. And if he were caught, he would need at least one for himself. It occurred to him, only now, that he should have shot the poor Austrian. God only know what the Comanche would do to him. Hopefully, he had thought of that himself. He listened for a shot—

  It didn’t come, and then he was down in a dry arroyo, the walls blocking sound from the outside, thundering his own hoofbeats back at him. The Indian was still behind him, though the pursuit ended as the first rays of dawn broke ahead. The Comanche had taken an unfamiliar horse with a police saddle; he would not be able to keep up with his quarry.

  Unless he’s riding over me, alongside the damn gully—

  Hawthorne did not slow until the horse decided it was time. And even then, the tracker listened to what was going on beyond the arroyo, watching for clouds of dust, waiting for an attack that did not come . . .

  CHAPTER THREE

  October 18, 1871

  Realizing that he could not catch the white man, Roving Wolf had left the horse lashed to a large stone and had gone ahead on foot. It would soon be light, and he would be able to follow the hoof prints.

  The Comanche from the encampment would care for the body of Soon to Be a Man. They would undo the great indignity that had been done to it. One or two braves, no more, would walk the young man’s pony back to the settlement to the west and excavate a burial pit for it, in the presence of the mother. While that was being done the other Comanche would follow Roving Wolf, collecting his horse and following his trail. They would also bring the other white man, alive or dead. He would capture this one—alive, if possible. And then it would be for Buffalo Eyes to say what would be done. The war chief had been appointed by the tribal chief and granted full authority to answer the cavalry invasion. He was the keeper of the Medicine Bag, which was on his person at all times. It was a flat pouch containing items sacred to the tribe. So long as he did not make war on a fellow Comanche, he would retain the title. Even Peace Chief Running Cloud did not object to the decision of Buffalo Eyes. Both men held with the plan set out by their ancestors, in these very lands: follow the animals, not the fight. Slay them and the fight vanished like storm clouds.

  As he moved quickly through the breaking light, Roving Wolf hoped that the decision would be to burn the captives front and back, harming nothing vital until their cries had overflowed the valley and reached the ears of other white men. That would flush them from their town and barracks, bring them to the field where they, too, would die.

  The arroyo deepened, the river cut becoming a valley with walls as tall as four or five men. The new day was slightly overcast, throwing no sharp shadows but casting a gray mood upon the rocks and sand. Not more than a shallow creek had run here during the past many seasons, judging by the rocks and a few boulders precariously jutting from the walls; there had been no erosion to speak of. Climbing the walls would have been difficult if not impossible without causing a landslide. The few rivulets he spotted were old and baked. The riverbed was still, any wind blowing across the top; dry vegetation offered nothing for small animals, and the Comanche saw only lizards waiting patiently for a sliver of sunlight and more scorpions down here. There were two wood rats that had apparently died of dehydration, and recently.

  He moved at a slow run, looking for stones and pebbles t
hat had been overturned, watching for the prints or partial impressions of a horseshoe, looking for a splash of water from a deerskin. The man Roving Wolf had left behind was not a tracker, so this one must be. And a good one he was; so far, only a crushed spider, still damp, was the only mark of passage. Farther on, a few hardy dandelions were broken. He had no doubt passed here when it was still dark; an alert tracker would have avoided those, as the Comanche was doing. With the wiry Red Snake in the lead, those who came after would notice the same things he had.

  A bobcat peered over the edge of the arroyo, having smelled the Indian. He looked somewhat emaciated, his demonic eyes peering from a white, celestial face. Roving Wolf had his knife out and swung it up and down, signifying a bite. Whether cowed or unwilling to tackle larger prey, the hungry cat followed its head in another direction.

  Roving Wolf drank sparingly and kept up his steady run by imagining war drums being struck, his lips playing out the beat. Before the sun was fully up, he was rewarded with the first whiff of his prey: the smell of the horse hanging in the still air. He quickened the run. He did not know when and where the gently curving valley opened but he wanted to try and catch the man before then, before he could see all around him.

  Roving Wolf smelled the horse more strongly and stopped to judge its distance. It was an action that saved his life.

  * * *

  Bobcats didn’t like horses. That was because horses didn’t like bobcats. Many cats met their end chasing a ground squirrel or rabbit, failing to steer wide enough of a horse, and getting his back snapped or his skull caved-in.

  When Moses Hawthorne saw the “scrawny tawny” nosing along the edge of the arroyo, he knew it wasn’t for him. He also knew it wasn’t for another animal because he had not seen any, save for some dead rodents a piece away. And there was no mistaking the smell of death for the smell of live prey.

  That meant something else had entered the chasm. Something not on horseback. Hawthorne had an idea what—or who—it was.

  The dirt wall was high and uninviting here, but there was a solid-looking projection of flat limestone that looked like it was part of a much larger slab. It was about two-of-him high, but there might be a way to reach it. And above that, the slope was gentle enough so that he could claw himself from the arroyo.

  Hawthorne anchored the reins to a large rock at the foot of the wall then side-walked the horse over, flat up against the steep dirt incline. Using the caked wall for support, he eased himself into a standing position on the saddle. That was nearly enough to reach the limestone; a little jump, from bent knees, and he had it. Hawthorne was able to swing his elbows up, haul himself to the flat surface, and then climb just like a newt on the side of a tree.

  Reaching the surface, he knelt and dulled the barrel of his gun with dirt. Farther ahead, about thirty yards, he saw the bobcat scurrying off. That was where the critter probably saw that what he thought was prey, wasn’t. Hawthorne crept just a few feet farther, to where a turn in the arroyo gave him a clear, straight view for at least fifteen yards. He did not want to go too far lest he step on loose dirt that went sliding down the side and gave away his position. He stayed back from the ledge just far enough to see the turn in the riverbed without being seen.

  The silence out here was like being in a bucket without sides. Just that still. So when Hawthorne heard the gentle padding ahead and below, he knew it was most likely deerskin moccasins on stone. Raising his left arm and crooking it in front of his chest, Hawthorne lay the barrel of the Remington across it. He did not hold his breath but breathed slowly, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth so he didn’t get woozy.

  Hawthorne did not know how much time had passed but he finally saw the head of the Comanche coming around the turn. That was how it worked with animals: you saw the target, you led it a step, you fired. Otherwise, it was a missed opportunity.

  The .44 boomed, sand exploded in a rush, but the Indian was not struck; he had stopped.

  Shit.

  Hawthorne did not know if the Comanche had a handgun, but he knew it would take a moment for him to draw and fire. There wasn’t time to find out. The tracker scrambled toward the edge of the arroyo, aimed down, prepared to fire. But the Indian wasn’t there. He was—

  Shit.

  Hawthorne turned around, toward the northwest, the direction from which he’d come. Arms pumping, the Comanche was racing in that direction, ducking and swaying. He couldn’t afford to shoot wild; the ammunition was in a box in his saddlebag and he had only two shots left. Instead, the tracker jumped to his feet and ran in the same direction, but the Indian had too big a head start. In one fluid move, the Comanche reached the horse, placed two hands on its rump, and vaulted onto its back. In the same move, a hard tug on the reins pulled them free of the rock; the Indian snapped the loop of the reins downward, whipping the flank of the horse. It bolted forward, the Comanche leaning low on the animal’s neck as he rode along the wall.

  Hawthorne did not have a shot as the Indian rounded a turn.

  Shit.

  It would have taken the rest of the day to reach Austin. On foot, with a mounted Comanche eager for his scalp, and the entire canyon and lowlands beyond where he could hide—

  There was a thumping sound coming toward him; hooves.

  The horse came charging back. The Indian had wheeled it around and was squatting on its back, having figured out how his quarry escaped the arroyo. The Comanche sprang to the limestone ledge, landed uncertainly on top, and without breaking momentum stumbled forward. He slammed into the wall, his hand digging into the dry, hard earth. Hawthorne leaned over, prepared to fire, and got a face full of dirt. The shot went wild and the Indian used the distraction to claw to the surface.

  Roving Wolf charged, running low like a bull, and Hawthorne discharged his last shot. With the instincts and skills of a seasoned hand-to-hand combatant, the Comanche had been watching the man’s footing, his eyes, his right arm, the hand with the weapon. Each had a function to perform before firing. A strong stance, eyes on the target, arm moving into position, fingers of the hand tightening on the grip. It developed as slowly as an approaching storm cloud to the Indian. An instant before the white man fired, the Indian turned to his side and threw his left shoulder into the man’s chest. The Remington thundered across the Comanche’s back, scraping his flesh across the spine as the men made contact. The impact sent the tracker flying backward, off his feet, over the edge of the arroyo. He landed on the rocky riverbed with a snap of leg bone and rib as he landed on his back.

  Standing on the lip of the crevice, breathing hard and looking down, Roving Wolf spit down at the man who had defiled the body of his flesh. Sheathing his knife, he walked back to the limestone outcrop and made his way down.

  * * *

  “What the hell is it now?”

  Hank Gannon woke stubbornly a little after dawn. The sun was persistent out here, like a dance-hall girl who did not want to leave your side.

  “How? Why?” his fellow officer Eli “Skunk” Reynolds had once asked, before Hank had started wooing Constance Breen. As if the nickname given him by the girls had not been explanation enough as to why they shied from him.

  “It’s my diet,” Gannon had informed him as they sat at the bar.

  “That requires explaining,” Skunk had replied.

  “The apple I have, before lights-out. Cleans the teeth. Freshens up the breath. Also a bath every few days in the river—not just wetting my legs to the knees in a horse-crossing.”

  Gannon did not miss Skunk, a marksman who was lucky to have eagle eyes, because he was ignorant as a flapjack. In fact, the former officer was finding out here that he did not miss anyone except Constance. He wondered how long she would continue to hold a candle for him. Another month? Another week? That was the only burn in his gut, the thought that her parents just might impose on her to allow some other man to call on her. Like that weasel Steven Bard, the bank teller, son of Thor Bard, the swamp-snake bank owner. The more ti
me he spent out here as a plainsman, the more Gannon started thinking in pretty basic terms like: I really should’ve sunk my teeth in the throat of that pale-skinned coin-counter and put an end to him. At night, in the dark, chewing on bark instead of an apple to retain some semblance of hygiene, he would lie on his pelts and think about his life and habits, which was what he had stayed out here to do. He would stare at the sky and wonder if the coating of civilization was really so thin that his animal self could come out after just a month or so? Apparently so, since he felt closer to his horse and his fellow predators and his skins than he did to human beings. Even measuring days in the unpopulated wilderness did not seem quite so essential. It wasn’t payday, it wasn’t church day, it wasn’t mail day or a birthday or a barn dance. Why keep track? And though it was liberating not to have to consider nonessentials, Gannon also found himself pondering things less and, more and more, just snarling at things like a mad dog—

  Like when gunfire intruded, as it did now—a mechanical, tinny imitation of thunder. A grunt of displeasure had burbled in his throat before the words formed in his head.

  Gannon rose and urinated on the campfire to make sure it was out, then talked to himself as he went to his horse. He did that to make sure he didn’t forget how to use language.

  “Can’t say for sure because of it rolling over a lot of territory,” he said, “but those shots don’t sound organized, like hunting.”

  The horse stood mute and facing the sun, as if in silent prayer. Maybe it was, for all Gannon knew.

  “I don’t really want to see,” he said, “but here’s the thing. I start running from my own kind, I will become more like a rabbit or rodent and less like a hunter. That make sense to you?”