The Son of Earp Box Set - Books 1-3

by Chuck Buda

  Chapter 30

  Blackness enveloped him. Crouching Bear had to rely on his senses to avoid danger. The plains at night were very dangerous. The wildlife did their best hunting at night. He knew there were coyotes and wolves out here, not to mention the bears. Big bears. Making things even more dangerous was the noise of his movements. He tried to be as stealthy as he could but his exhaustion and injuries made travel difficult. If his tribesmen were nearby, their search would be rewarded with his clumsy running. And who knows how many white men, posse or not, were sleeping on the ground, ready to kill him. He hoped that he would find their camp fires as a warning sign but he knew that dangerous white men, the ones who do evil things, knew better than to burn fires at night.

  Crouching Bear’s feet were sore from running for so long. He had stepped on many sharp stones and prickly plants that he could no longer see in the darkness. Even though his moccasins were made of thin animal skins, they somehow took the edge off the terrain. Those moccasins had exploded off his feet along with his clothing when he transformed into the bear. He felt like a stranger in George’s pants and jacket, but at least he would have a little warmth against the chill of the night.

  He had to stop to catch his breath. He had been running for several hours now. It would be safer to take a break in the dark than when the sun was up. He dropped to the ground and spread out his limbs beneath the stars.

  The moon was half full and left the earth in darkness. Each star shined individually, as if millions of little flames burned in the heavens.

  Crouching Bear closed his eyes tight and listened to the night around him. A coyote howled somewhere far behind his head. The breeze dampened the periodic howls every few minutes. He settled into his mind for the first time since he started fleeing. The vision of James’ face in his eyelids. First James was laughing and telling Crouching Bear about his dreams to travel with Carson and fight bad men. Then James became angry, yelling at Crouching Bear for how he hurt him and Carson. Crouching Bear winced.

  In his heart of hearts, Crouching Bear knew that James would keep searching for him. His friend was too strong and too righteous to give up. He would recover from the battle and he would spend the rest of his life hunting Crouching Bear down. The posse would eventually give up when they ached for booze and women. The tribesmen may even give up after some time. Focusing instead on staving off settlers and other tribes. They too, would long for the thighs of their women. But James was different. He would not give up.

  Crouching Bear searched his mind for answers. Should he have just killed him? If James were dead then at least he would be at peace. Of course, the other choice would have been to stay close and await the boy’s recovery. Then James could end his miserable life and free him from his curse. He couldn’t help but wonder though. Would James pull the trigger? Or would he torture himself more over the choices he would have to make? James would have to kill Crouching Bear which would take a piece of his innocence away forever. Or he would have to hand Crouching Bear over to the authorities and then watch as the townspeople killed him. The people might or might not resent James for bringing him into the fold to begin with. Or he would have to let Crouching Bear run. Which would further torture his soul for not avenging Minnie’s life. And he would be back in the same situation with the townspeople who might or might not resent him forever. James would have to face a very difficult situation regardless of which way it went.

  He exhaled deeply into the crisp air. Crouching Bear’s sorrow consumed him. He realized he could have saved James all the pain by just waiting for his recovery...and then killing himself in front of James. That way James would not be faced with the decisions of handling the justice or turning him in. And didn’t Crouching Bear deserve to wander for eternity without the ancients? Hadn’t he deserved his sentence in life or in death? He punched his thigh in frustration.

  He sat up and squinted to looked around. The night was peaceful so far, but it would not stay this way for long. Crouching Bear knew that things would close in around him. He knew James would still come. The spirit connection that they now shared told Crouching Bear that James was on his way. He envisioned the boy caring for George. But then he would soon re-dedicate himself to tracking him down. And Crouching Bear knew that the next encounter would be the end for one of them. Maybe both of them. He felt it in his marrow. Life would not be fun or easy ever again for him. And now his curse had spread to James. James would be forever tormented by the spirits and their ancient plan as well. The men were tied. Brothers. Forever. In blood.

  Crouching Bear jumped to his aching feet. He scanned for danger and then focused his sights westward. He began to run again, having refueled his limbs with rest. His mind continued to berate him for his fall from grace. At least until the endorphins of the run kicked in. Then his mind became one with his body. No more thoughts. All energy directed at balance and stealth and speed. His legs burned but moved across the earth undaunted.

  He achieved a rhythmic breathing pattern which increased his capacity to withstand the tired ache of his limbs. The crisp air filled his lungs. A few coyotes barked to the south, signaling either a pack fight or a new meal that would soon be consumed. Crouching Bear closed his eyes and ran on. Allowing the spirits to lead him to where fate would have him. The world quivered at the impending struggle. It trembled beneath his feet. Crouching Bear ignored it and ran.

  Chapter 31

  James couldn’t believe how quickly the night settled in. Back at town, there were a few street lamps and enough light shining from windows to at least light the way somewhat. Out here, on the plains, it was darker than dark. It was total blackness.

  He worried about George. He felt a little different toward the man now that they had fought together. It seemed that the battle against Crouching Bear had bonded James to George. After all, as surly as he was, George had saved James from being eaten alive. But even without the battle bond, James couldn’t stomach the thought of George getting hurt or dying on his behalf. It was his decision to strike out and search for Crouching Bear. George had only come along because his mother had begged him to watch out for James. And now he was dying because of James.

  The horses trotted along in the darkness as best they could. The animals were much more wary of the hidden dangers of night travel than humans. They smelled the snakes and the wolves. They sensed the rough terrain and the shaky footing. So as fast as James wanted them to go, the horses only went as fast as they were comfortable going.

  James had hoped that they would run into the posse somewhere along the route. He knew Sheriff Danvers would understand the best way to treat George’s injuries. Or maybe one of the other men had training in those skills. He figured they would run into at least some type of camp. People were spread out all over the plains, sure. But he should have seen a fire glowing on the horizon by now. He was beside himself with his poor judgment.

  George moaned behind him. James tugged the reins and stopped the horses at once. He slid off his saddle and ran to George. He felt around in the dark for George’s neck and found his prickly stubble. His fingers followed the jawline to his hairy neck and settled upon a throbbing vein. It was still faint, but there.

  “George? You there? Say something.”

  George didn’t respond. James leaned closer and felt a slight breath on his cheek.

  “Hang in there, George. We’re gonna get you fixed up. Hang in there, buddy.”

  James ran back to his horse with a renewed sense of urgency. He had to find help for George. Yanking on the reins harder, he spurred the horses to a slightly faster pace. George’s horse complained as its heavier cargo weighed it down with its uneven load.

  Where could we go? James searched his mind for answers. He wished he knew how to handle this situation on his own. It served as another reminder that he wasn’t as prepared for his adventures as he had thought. He yelled at himself silently for still being a boy, not a man. A real man would have been ready for anything that would have come his w
ay. Food. Shelter. Survival. Anything. But James had run off half-cocked with some clothes and a knife. He didn’t even have a gun until George gave him one. What an idiot he had been.

  He spurred the horses into a bit more of a gallop. George’s horse complained more forcefully this time. The horses had eaten well and drank from the tributary after the men fought. But they didn’t rest very long considering how many miles they logged today. James now began to worry if the dang horses would survive his stupidity too.

  It hit him like a lightning bolt. The medicine man. That’s where James could go. If he didn’t find any camps soon he could head back to the medicine man’s place. Surely, he was versed in the healing of a man. If he could fly James to Crouching Bear through his mind then patching up some wounds shouldn’t be too hard. Although, George’s wounds were pretty severe, he reminded himself. It’s not like George had a twisted ankle or a broken finger or even the squirts. George was missing most of his right arm. And his chest looked like a bloody bowl of stew. Not to mention all the blood that he lost.

  James strained to follow the right direction. It was tricky in the absolute darkness. But he followed the stars the way they taught him in the schoolhouse when he was a little fella. He just had to locate the north star and then he could figure out all the cardinal directions from there. So he did the best he could as he bounced up and down in the saddle.

  His mind began to shift further into the future. What would happen once he got George to Soaring Eagle? Would the Indian help them? He wondered if his assumption was too optimistic. And even if Soaring Eagle helped them, then what would they do? Could George even survive his wounds? And if he did, how long would it take George to recover? Then where would they go? Would they continue on, searching for Crouching Bear? Or would it be wiser to head back to town, alive but unsuccessful? And when they got back to town, what would happen? Would they lock George and him up for going out on their own against the sheriff’s orders? Would Filler take George back as a bouncer in the saloon after he walked out on him without notice? Could James and his mother remain in town or would they be outcast for bringing Crouching Bear into their home? And what about poor Carson? His little buddy. Would Carson know by now the truth behind his mother’s absence? Would the town hold true to their word about hiding her death from the little boy? How would he ever face Carson for lying to him? For withholding the truth? He felt ashamed for being such a terrible friend.

  James realized that he was crying. His heart ached with how badly he had betrayed everyone he cared about. It was all his fault and the harm was spreading around. Minnie. Carson. Crouching Bear. His mother. Now George. He wondered when it would end. It could only end with him finding Crouching Bear.

  James squeezed his eyes against the breeze and leaned forward in the saddle. He had to get George to Soaring Eagle. Time was running short.

  Chapter 32

  Murphy threw another log on the fire. Sparks of ashes splashed the night air, fizzling in the breeze. Sheriff Danvers removed his hat and ran a hand through his curly hair. His back ached something fierce from the long ride. Years of riding and fighting were taking their toll on his body. At thirty-five, he was still fairly young but the miles on his frame told a different story.

  The men had decided to settle in for the night. They were all tired and cranky. The horses had become more ornery too. Sheer darkness closed in around the small team huddled near the fire.

  Jepson read his bible aloud. He offered to fill the silence as the men choked down dried meats and celery. Nobody had minded. The men were too tired to even respond. As Jepson read from the Old Testament, Thomas snored gently under the brim of his hat. His feet rested on some piled wood. Hannigan was picking his nose and raised one leg to pass wind. Jepson paused in his reading, shooting Hannigan a harsh look for showing disrespect for the Lord’s words. Murphy chuckled while he warmed his hands over the flames.

  Sheriff Danvers leaned back against his saddle bag. He gazed upon the starry sky, wondering what life would be like if he could reach the heavens. He thought to himself that it must be so beautiful up there. Peaceful. And no need to chase down fugitives. His career was long enough to span dozens of manhunts. Most of them were led by him, and he had ridden along on a few more with other sheriffs. All manhunts were the same. One man would run as far as he could until the posse caught up with him. It was inevitable. The fugitive would run out of water or food and have to make a last stand. They either died in their boots or were captured and brought to justice. Danvers had never lost a fugitive, nor had he personally known of one who got away. Of course, there were the legends of famous outlaws who escaped the clutches of the law. He knew there were exceptions to the rule. But few and far in between. Part of Danvers feared this particular manhunt.

  This chase was different. An Indian was a savage animal. Accustomed to living in the wild, able to withstand the elements. A white man was anchored by his habits. Once a man knew comforts of a bed and food and the warmth of a woman’s body, the desire to stay the course easily wavered. It was only a matter of time until the man’s psyche caved. The walls of one’s own mind pressing in were far more valuable to the chase than the most skilled posse. All the posse had to do was stay on the trail and stay close. The fugitive did all the work themselves through human weakness.

  Danvers rolled a cigarette. He liked to puff away a bit before closing his eyes. The tobacco soothed his mind which in turn gave his body the permission to shut down. Being a sheriff, a man had little time to relax. Something was always amiss or there was need for representation. A presence at a meeting here, a bunch of handshakes at a gathering there. His job was round the clock and he preferred that. His soul was restless and being so active kept him rooted. Otherwise, he would have jumped on his horse and ridden around the world one hundred times by now.

  As he blew a cloud of smoke into the sky, Sheriff Danvers thought about the Indian. Several things worked against the Indian’s chances. First off, he was on foot which would make it quicker to catch up to him. Second, he had nowhere to run to. His tribe had booted him out and he couldn’t go back to town. So he would have to run and keep on running. Of course, these factors just might work in the Indian’s favor too. Being on foot, it would be harder to track his movements. Horses always left tracks. There was no avoiding it. But a man on foot could conceal his trail better. And with nowhere to run to, the possibilities for his whereabouts were limitless. As long as his legs carried him, that Indian could head in any direction and travel to the ends of the earth.

  His gut warned him that he was dealing with something far more dangerous than he was accustomed to. He couldn’t reconcile the cannibalism. Sure, he had heard tales of Indians eating white men or crazy mountain men who were forced to eat human flesh to survive. But this was too close to home. This Indian not only killed that poor working girl. He ate her. Only bones and some meat were left behind. That made this fugitive that much more dangerous. He ate someone when he wasn’t even starving or trying to survive. A chill slithered down his pant leg as he tossed the remnants of his cigarette into the fire.

  Jepson closed his bible and said goodnight. Nobody responded. He rolled over and pulled a blanket over himself. Hannigan snored louder than Thomas. Murphy watched the sky with his arms folded behind his head. Sheriff Danvers laid back and propped his hat over his face. The smell of the tobacco on his beard filled the small opening around his nose. He heard a prolonged fart from one of the men. Then silence.

  Danvers closed his eyes and pictured sitting on his porch with his dog, Shooter, at his feet. He smelled Laurie’s apple pie wafting from the window. A relaxed retirement life to wait out his days. He would enjoy his cigars and reading those Shakespeare histories he had enjoyed as a schoolboy. His hopes and dreams were disturbed by visions of violence and bloodshed. The apprehension of an undefinable evil clouded his pleasant repose. A sense of foreboding filled him as he tried to block out the scenes from his mind. He couldn’t help but feel that he might n
ot make it home from this manhunt. Let alone live long enough to enjoy the retirement of his dreams. He rolled to his side and knew he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. He cussed into his hat. “Aw, shit.”

  The words fell on deaf ears as all the men slept. Except for the sheriff. Instead, he used his time to plot through the next day’s moves. He had to catch that Indian bastard. He had to catch him very soon.

  Chapter 33

  Crouching Bear squeezed between a few hackle-berries. It was dark and he thought this grove would provide some cover for him to rest for a few hours. He would only allow himself to take a short breather before putting more miles behind him under cover of night.

  The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. He suddenly felt a presence. He squatted down and sniffed the air. His senses picked up a fragrant brew that his people would use as a sleep aid. It was a unique blend of herbs and cinnamon. The smell was faint but undeniable.

  A soft clicking sound on his right caught his attention. It reminded him of an old Indian game that parents played with their children. The parents would hide and the children had to search for them. When the kids got close the parents would make a clicking noise to let them know they were nearing their location. It doubled as a safety mechanism signaling ‘friend’ as opposed to ‘foe’. A foe would remain silent to spring upon the child and harm them.

  Crouching Bear quietly crawled toward the spot the clicking came from. As he felt his way through a thicker patch of undergrowth, he heard a voice speak in his tribal dialect. It was almost a whisper but loud enough for Crouching Bear to identify. His heart stopped. Only an Indian would know how to speak the language. Could this person be one of the warriors searching for him? Had he been so careless as to wander right into his own death trap?