They Came to Kill

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Fletch had let go of the rifle with his left hand when he almost fell so that he could windmill that arm and try to stay upright. He held the weapon in only his right hand, but he was able to thrust his finger through the trigger guard and fire the rifle one-handed. With no time to aim, it was just a wild shot in the Apache’s general direction.

  Even so, Fletch’s instincts served him well. The bullet struck the warrior in the upper left arm. The impact was enough to stop the man’s charge and twist him sideways. He didn’t cry out, nor did he drop the knife in his other hand, but the shot stopped his attack long enough for Fletch to drop the rifle and haul out the Walker Colt holstered on his hip.

  Fletch had the revolver out in plenty of time, but before he could raise it and fire, his foot slipped again on another rock. This time, his leg shot out from under him and dumped him over backward. He landed at the edge of the stream, and the point of his right elbow struck the ground hard enough that it numbed his entire arm. He couldn’t make his muscles work to lift the Colt.

  The Apache had righted himself and came at Fletch again, hatred and a killing frenzy blazing in his eyes. In the fading light, he was like a lethal red shadow as he closed in on the momentarily helpless young man.

  Three shots roared out, the booming reports coming so close together they sounded like one long, rolling peal of gun-thunder. The bullets crashed into the Apache’s back and flung him forward. He stumbled past Fletch and pitched facedown into the river, throwing water up in a big splash around him.

  As the splash subsided, the Apache’s body rocked a little but didn’t move otherwise. The water began to turn red around him from the blood leaking out of the three holes grouped so closely between his shoulder blades that a man’s palm could have covered them.

  Except for the fading echoes, an eerie silence hung over the canyon for several seconds. Then shouts sounded from the top of the northern bluff as Preacher and Jamie started down the trail to see what the commotion was about. Most of the rest of the group followed them. Dog bounded on ahead.

  Fletch lay there stunned at the river’s edge. Pins and needles jabbed up and down his right arm as feeling began to flow back into it. He stared at the Apache corpse floating beside him, bobbing gently on the current. The warrior’s feet in high-topped moccasins had caught on some rocks, and that kept the body from washing downstream.

  Fletch jerked his head the other way to peer wide-eyed toward Clementine. Relief flooded through him as he saw that she was all right. She had done what he told her and crouched as low as she could in the river. Only her head and bare shoulders were above the surface. The water had darkened her fair hair, and it lay plastered to her skin. Her shocked eyes were as big around as Fletch’s were.

  More sounds from the brush made Fletch twist that way again.

  Ramirez stepped out, smiling as he reloaded the gun in his hand. “No need to thank me,” he said, ignoring Fletch and looking at Clementine. “I am always happy to assist such a beautiful señorita . . . I meant señora, of course.”

  The gunfighter didn’t mean that at all, Fletch thought. Ramirez was deliberately dismissing the fact that Clementine was a married woman. Clearly, he had no respect for that.

  But just as clearly, he had saved Fletch’s life. Fletch knew he wouldn’t have recovered in time to prevent the Apache from killing him.

  Still grinning at Clementine, Ramirez went on. “Of course, if you wish to come out of there and express your gratitude to me—”

  “Clementine, you stay right where you are!” Fletch called as he struggled to his feet. He fought down the impulse to point his gun at Ramirez and order the man to move away.

  Ramirez was holding a revolver, too. If Fletch made a threatening move, the Mexican might shoot him and claim self-defense. Fletch was proud of the progress he’d made at gun-handling, but he knew he was still nowhere near the same lethal level of skill that Ramirez possessed.

  Ramirez sneered at him. “You should be grateful to me as well, boy. That savage would have killed you and taken your woman with him back to his village. He would have made her his slave and given her half a dozen squalling Apache brats of her own.”

  “Shut your filthy mouth,” Fletch said through clenched teeth.

  “Have a care,” Ramirez said. “I don’t care whether you thank me, but you will not insult me.”

  Preacher and Jamie walked up, not rushing since the immediate threat appeared to be over.

  Preacher told the big cur, “Dog, search.” As Dog bounded off, the mountain man went on. “If there are any more ’Pache hereabouts he’ll find ’em and let us know.”

  “You reckon this was a lone scout?” Jamie asked as he frowned at the corpse floating in the shallow water.

  Preacher rubbed his grizzled chin. “Mighty far north for a whole war party. It don’t surprise me to see one of the varmints venturin’ this far from his usual stompin’ ground, though. They’re notional folks.”

  “From here on out, we’d better have even sharper eyes. If there are any more around, they’re liable to head back south and carry the word that a bunch of white men with two wagons are headed toward ’em.”

  “Not all of us are white men,” Ramirez snapped as he finally holstered his Colt.

  “To the Apaches, you might as well be,” Jamie said. “They hate Mexicans just as bad. Maybe even worse.”

  Ramirez shrugged in acceptance of that statement.

  Jamie jerked his head toward the corpse and told the other men, “All right, get him out of there. We’ll find a place where we can cave in the bank on top of him. I don’t feel like going to any more trouble than that.”

  “I got the carcass,” Greybull said as he stepped forward to lift the dead warrior out of the water. He draped the body over his shoulder as if it didn’t weigh any more than a bag of flour.

  While several of the men trooped off to take care of that grim chore, Jamie turned to the river and said, “We’ll clear out of here now, Clementine, so you’d better go ahead and finish that bath of yours. Then you and Fletch get back up to camp as soon as you can. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “All right,” she said from where she crouched in the water.

  Fletch figured that position had to be getting pretty awkward and uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. MacCallister.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Jamie told her. “Just bad luck. We didn’t figure on running into any Apaches just yet. But it could have been a lot worse.”

  Fletch knew that was true. The words threatened to choke him, but he said, “Ramirez . . . thank you.”

  “De nada,” the gunfighter said. “I didn’t do it for you.” He turned and strode away.

  Quietly, Preacher said, “You know the only reason he was down here where he could help you out is because he was tryin’ to sneak a look at Clementine, don’t you, Fletch?”

  “I know,” Fletch said. That disturbing thought had already occurred to him.

  “Keep a tight rein on your temper, son,” Jamie advised. “It won’t do Clementine any good if you go and get yourself killed.”

  “If I tried to shoot it out with Ramirez, you mean?”

  Preacher said, “You ain’t up to that yet.”

  “Yet?” Fletch repeated. “You think I ever will be?”

  “I’d just as soon we never find out,” Jamie said. “Reckon there’ll be enough blood spilled on this trip without us doing it to each other.”

  CHAPTER 22

  After the near-tragic encounter with the Apache, everyone was nervous and the camp remained on high alert. Instead of standing guard in two-man shifts, as they had been doing at night, Jamie ordered that three men would be awake and watchful at all times.

  Nothing else happened. The hours of darkness passed quietly and peacefully. However, all the members of the party were a little hollow-eyed the next morning, evidence that in spite of the tranquility, sound, restful sleep had been in short supply.

  Jamie noticed that Fle
tch never got very far from Clementine’s side as the group had breakfast and got ready to pull out. Thankfully, Ramirez kept his distance and never approached the young couple, let alone make any more leering remarks. Jamie was thankful for that.

  It was a solemn bunch that started into the canyon when the sun was about a half hour above the eastern horizon. Preacher, Jamie, and Dog went first to scout out the area. When Dog had returned to the camp the previous evening, Preacher could tell from his demeanor that the big cur hadn’t found any more Apaches—but that didn’t mean more of them couldn’t have slunk into the canyon during the night.

  The wagons came next, with the Wylie vehicle taking the lead. Fletch was on the box by himself, at his insistence. He was worried that if the wagon happened to tip over because of the rough path, Clementine might be hurt. Instead, she would ride down double with Audie. She didn’t like being told what to do, but Fletch explained that he would be able to concentrate better on the task if he wasn’t worried about her safety.

  Neither Noah Stuart nor Chester Merrick had any experience handling a wagon and team under such rugged conditions, but one of the Molmberg brothers—Jamie wasn’t sure which—volunteered to step in, communicating that with just a few words and gestures. Jamie knew from his previous experience with them, as part of the wagon train he’d led, that they were both excellent teamsters.

  The rest of the group followed slowly on horseback as the wagons jolted and swayed down the rough path caused by the bluff caving in at some point in the distant past. In some places, the rocks proved to be too much for the wheels to make it over. When that happened, the men had to dismount, then grunt, heave, and sweat as they moved the barriers out of the way. Without the strength of the massive Greybull and Nighthawk, some of the larger rocks probably couldn’t have been budged.

  It was slow going, and the wagons didn’t reach the sparsely grassed, relatively level ground alongside the stream until past mid-morning. Everyone rested for a short time, grateful for the respite.

  Jamie and Preacher were confident that no Apaches were lurking in the area. Jamie leaned toward the idea that the warrior Ramirez had killed the day before had been a lone scout. But sooner or later, the rest of the band that man had belonged to would get curious about why he hadn’t returned. Somebody was liable to come looking for him, and not just one somebody, either. It would be a whole war party.

  “We’ll have to postpone our midday meal today,” Jamie said as he addressed the group. “We want to be sure we have time to make it up the other bluff. We don’t want night to catch us partway up that rough trail. Let the mules take it easy for a few more minutes, and then we’ll get started again.”

  “Hear that?” Tennysee asked with a grin. “It’s the mules that got to rest. Us human beans don’t really matter!”

  “I know what’s important,” Jamie said dryly. “Unless you want to be hitched to one of those wagons, Tennysee . . . ?”

  The lanky mountain man held up both hands, palms out. “No, sir. I’ll do mighty fine without that.”

  A short time later, they headed upstream toward the ford Preacher had located. Stuart and Merrick were back on their wagon for this part of the crossing. Where the river widened, the water came up only to the wheel hubs, so once the balky mules were persuaded to step out into the stream, getting to the other side wasn’t a problem.

  When they reached the trail up to the top of the southern bluff, the even more arduous work began. The crates and bags of supplies were unloaded and stacked on the riverbank, along with the crates containing surveying equipment from Stuart and Merrick’s wagon. While that was being done, Jamie sent Audie, Deadlead, and Powder Pete up to the rim to stand guard.

  “While you’re at it, keep an eye on the sky as well as watching for any signs of Apaches,” he told them. “I haven’t heard any thunder in the distance, but I don’t want to, either. If you see any rain clouds over those mountains to the west, let us know right away.”

  “Of course,” Audie said. “But even if it were to rain in the mountains, any flooding would require some time to reach this point.”

  “I know. I just want to be able to hurry things along if I need to. Not that I’m planning on wasting any time, to start with.” Jamie looked at the bluffs rising on both sides of them. “Never did like spending much time in a place where somebody else had the high ground.”

  Once Fletch and Clementine’s wagon was unloaded, the mules from the surveyors’ wagon were brought forward and hitched onto that team, as well. That made eight of the beasts, which Jamie figured would be enough to haul the unloaded wagon to the top, no matter how steep and rough the trail was. Since no one had to ride the box to work the brake on an ascent like this, Fletch joined one of the Molmbergs at the head of the team, grasped the harness, and began leading the mules up the trail.

  Again, it was slow going. At times, rocks had to be lifted or rolled out of the way. Greybull and Nighthawk did most of that work, too, being careful not to let any of the small boulders start rolling downhill and cause an avalanche. By the middle of the afternoon, the first wagon was on top of the bluff. The mules were unhitched and led back down to be hitched to the surveyors’ wagon.

  Grueling task though it was, everything went smoothly. By nightfall, the last of the supplies had been carried up and placed in the wagons again.

  “Well, it took all day and everybody’s worn out,” Jamie said to Preacher as they sat on their horses and looked over the canyon they had just crossed. “I’m glad to be on this side, though.”

  “And it didn’t flood and wash ever’body away,” Preacher commented. “Well, we knew it’d be a rare occurrence if that happened.”

  “Can happen, though,” Jamie said.

  “Can,” Preacher agreed gravely.

  Jamie turned his horse to peer southward. “I figure two more days, and we’ll be getting into Apache country. That’ll be time to start looking for a good base camp.”

  “Iffen they don’t hit us first, between here and there.”

  “We want them to come to us,” Jamie said, “but not before we’re ready for them.”

  Everybody was tired, as Jamie had said, but they were also relieved that the difficult canyon and river crossing had been made without any mishaps. That relief brought a festive air to the camp that evening.

  After supper, Dupre brought out his fiddle and began playing a sprightly tune. Tennysee and Powder Pete locked arms and began dancing around in a circle, waving their free arms and jerking their knees high, prompting laughter from most of the others.

  Pugh got a laugh, too, when he asked mournfully, “Don’t nobody want to dance with me?”

  “Ummm!” Nighthawk said.

  The big Crow shook his head.

  Clementine said, “Well, I want to dance,” and took hold of Fletch’s hand. They had been sitting on the lowered tailgate of their wagon, but she slid to the ground and tugged Fletch along with her.

  Preacher stood with Jamie on the other side of the campfire and watched as Fletch took Clementine in his arms and the two of them began whirling around in the intricate steps of a Virginia reel. Scratching Dog’s ears as the big cur sat beside him, the mountain man said quietly, “Now, this could prove interestin’.”

  “Yeah, I thought the same thing,” Jamie replied. “It’s only a matter of time until somebody decides they ought to have a dance with Clementine, too.”

  Tennysee and Powder Pete continued their capering. Some of the men began to clap in time with Dupre’s fiddle playing. After the strain of the past twenty-four hours, everyone seemed to enjoy relaxing and letting off a little steam.

  Then Edgerton stepped up, tapped Fletch on the shoulder, and said, “I’m cuttin’ in here, boy.”

  Fletch and Clementine stopped dancing. Dupre missed a note but then carried on as Fletch turned to face the dour mountain man.

  “I don’t—” he began.

  “No, Fletch, it’s all right,” Clementine said quickly. “Mr. Edgert
on is a gentleman, and it’s just a dance.”

  Fletch hesitated, then said to Edgerton, “You don’t strike me as the dancing type.”

  “Everybody has memories, boy,” the man rasped. “How I am now ain’t necessarily the way I always was.”

  Another second went by, then Fletch nodded. “All right.” He stepped back so Edgerton could move in and take Clementine in his arms.

  “Appreciate it, ma’am,” Edgerton muttered.

  They began dancing, and as Jamie watched, he was surprised by how light on his feet Edgerton was. He held Clementine at arm’s length, too, and didn’t try to pull her closer to him. He actually was acting like a gentleman.

  Dupre came to the end of the song. Tennysee was breathing a little hard from his exertions. He leaned over, rested his hands on his thighs for a moment as he caught his breath, then said to the Frenchman, “Play another ’un, Dupre. I’m just gettin’ warmed up.”

  Edgerton took his arm from around Clementine’s waist and let go of her hand. Nodding gravely, he said, “Thank you, ma’am. That reminded me of some good times in my life, long ago.”

  She summoned up a smile and told him, “I’m glad I could help, Mr. Edgerton.”

  Dupre poised the bow just above the strings of his fiddle. He was ready to launch into another tune, but before he could do so, another figure stood up and stepped in front of Clementine.

  “I will dance with the woman now,” Dog Brother declared.

  CHAPTER 23

  Dupre didn’t start playing, and everyone else around the campfire fell silent as they stared at the half-breed Comanche standing in front of the blond, beautiful young woman.

  Not surprisingly, it was Ramirez who spoke up first. “This is not one of your savage dances where you stomp around or shuffle your feet to make it rain, Indian. Get away from the woman.”

  The faintest hint of a smile touched Dog Brother’s lips as he said, “I am half-white. That means I have twice as much right to dance with her as you do, Ramirez.”