It was a perfect setup. General Crook had killed an entire band of Tonto Apaches by shooting into a concave cliff face and letting ricochets do the work. The massacre site has since been named Skeleton Cave, and it is somewhere in Arizona. However, the exact location of this spot is being kept secret because Indians consider it sacred ground. A ricocheted bullet will fragment and distort greatly, and when it hits human flesh, it will gouge and rip something fierce. Bryan raised his new .44-40 Winchester and emptied it into the hollowed-out wall, touching off all thirteen rounds. He fired as rapidly as he could pull the trigger, raking the wall from left to right and back again. As soon as he ran out of bullets, he heard a bloodcurdling scream; he knew he had drawn blood. He reloaded the Winchester.
From there, it was a waiting game because Bryan didn’t dare approach the red rocks for fear the Apache was only wounded and not dead. Amanda and he lay baking in the sun for a good half hour before she spoke up. “Whew, it certainly is hot,” she said. “What can we do to end this standoff?”
“I don’t know just yet, but in the meantime, why don’t you take a big swig of that water and then throw me the canteen. I’m dryer than an alkali flat. When you throw it, do it quickly and don’t expose yourself for more than a couple seconds.”
Before long, the canteen sailed over and clanked against the rock. The water was warm and brackish, but it was still refreshing.
“Amanda, I’ve got a plan.”
“Do tell,” she said.
“It’s an idea that just may get me killed, but we’ve got to bring this thing to a head. It’s too hot to hang around here much longer. I’m going to make a dash toward those red rocks, and I want you to raise up and fire that pistol at the rocks four times. But save one bullet for that Apache in case he gets me. By doing that, he will keep his head down, and it will give me a chance to race to the red rocks and get behind cover. Then I’ll have an opportunity to get at him.”
“Is there anything special you want inscribed on your grave marker?” she asked, as she laughed.
“That’s not funny,” he said.
“I know; I’m sorry. Your plan just might work. You run fast, now, do you hear? Okay, here goes. I’m going to unleash the dogs of war. Hmm, I read that somewhere.” She began raking the red rocks with bullets in the vicinity of the Apache, and several of the bullets caromed off the rocks and whined off into the distance.
Bryan didn’t hesitate. He sped toward the red rocks as fast as his legs would carry him. Nothing happened. He wasn’t fired on, but just to be on the safe side, he took cover behind a mound of talus that had sloughed off the red rocks over the centuries. He stayed there for a spell, giving his heart time to slow down. Then he crept toward the area where the Apache had taken shelter. Before he saw the Apache, he smelled the coppery scent of blood. The Apache was very much dead. The shrapnel off Bryan’s bullets had cut him up something terrible. Bryan took the Apache’s rifle; he wouldn’t be needing it any more. It was a new model 1871 Winchester the Apache had taken from some hapless settler during one of their raids. No doubt, the settler, as well, wouldn’t be needing the rifle.
The Apache had a bandolier across his chest that held five bullets, and there was one bullet left in the Winchester’s chamber. When the Apache ran out of bullets, he wouldn’t have been able to get any more. He might just as well use the rifle for a cane or throw it away. Indians had a deuce of a time getting ammunition.
Bryan trotted back to Amanda and Cayuse. “Get up, Amanda, it’s over; the Apache is dead.”
“Well, that was quite an adventure. Whew,” Amanda said as she took a swipe across her brow.
“If that’s what you’d call it, an adventure,” Bryan said as he took hold of Cayuse’s bridle and urged him back onto his feet. Once Cayuse got vertical, he promptly tried to take a bite out of Bryan’s shoulder. But Bryan anticipated it and leaped back out of harm’s way. “I know, old fellow, I had it coming,” Bryan said, as he laughed. He looked over at Amanda. “Somehow, I don’t think he enjoyed being stretched out in this here hot sand.” He patted Cayuse on the neck and then gave him a little hug, forgiving the animal for his obstreperous behavior.
“How far is Hanksville?” Amanda asked.
“About two miles, I’d guess.”
“Where did those two Apaches come from? I thought they were supposed to be camped in a grove of cottonwoods up near Hanksville.”
“Victorio is a canny fellow. He sent them to check his back trail. There’s any number of people who want him dead and he knows it.”
“When these two don’t report back to him, won’t he come looking for them and then track us down?” Amanda asked.
“Of course he will, but he won’t be able to track us because we are going to walk our horses along that sand dune yonder. Yes, we’ll follow it for a couple miles. They won’t be able to track us too quickly because the sand fills back in around a hoofprint. Besides, we’ll soon be in Hanksville, and they won’t attack us there because there are nigh onto a hundred people living there. Victorio only attacks where he has a good chance of coming out on top.”
“Do they really take scalps?”
“They most certainly do.”
“How dreadful.”
“Yes, dreadful . . . I suppose. Let’s ride. I’m looking forward to some restaurant grub, a hot bath, and a feather bed, aren’t you?”
“Heavens, yes! Yes, let’s ride.”
“Wait, wait,” Bryan said. “Let me go get these two fellows’ horses. You can ride one into Hanksville, and I’ll lead the other. It’s called the spoils of war. Indians don’t always have the best horses, but they should give us some bargaining power with the livery stable in Hanksville. I am going to need to buy a new pack horse, and you’ll have to hire the livery to go and fetch your Murphy wagon.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were lucky because they had no further encounters with Apaches, so they rode into Hanksville at eleven in the morning. Bryan looked the town over— what there was of it—and an old expression he once heard came to mind: This is e town with three stores, two whores, and a gristmill. He chuckled as he remembered that old saying.
“What are you laughing at,” Amanda asked, looking puzzled.
“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Bryan said. “There isn’t much here, is there?”
“Yes, it is a rather depressing little burg.”
“Are you okay? You seem to be able to ride bareback without much trouble.”
Amanda looked irritated that he would even bother to ask such a question. “I’ll have you know, I’m fine, because I was born to the saddle. My dad and I used to take long rides up to Wallsburg, Charleston, Midway, Heber, and Center Creek. One time we packed into the Strawberry Valley and camped for a week. Likewise, we rode up to Salt Lake, Ogden, and Brigham City, and we once traveled way out to the West Desert and over into Nevada. That trip took us a month. So don’t worry about me not being able to ride, and don’t for a minute think I can’t shoot, because I can. One doesn’t have to be a man to perform these skills adequately.”
“Amanda, that threat I made about taking you over my knee hasn’t expired. Let me say this, thank heaven we are in Hanksville now, and I can dump you off. You have to be the most contrary female I’ve ever met—worse than an old mule.”
That got Amanda to fuming. “Oh, and I suppose you think you are a prize?”
He ignored that. “Let’s go straight to the livery stable and take care of Cayuse and these two Indian ponies.”
A young boy met them at the livery stable. The little fellow looked malnourished, but Bryan supposed he just hadn’t gotten his growth spurt yet. He looked to be around ten years old, and he was proud to be doing the work of a grown-up. “Do ya wanna board yer horses?” he asked all adultlike.
“Young feller, we do,” Bryan said. “We’ll only need boarding for Cayuse here,” he said, pointing to his horse, “for one night. How much?”
“That’ll be four bits, mister, and
I’ll run a curry comb over him, give him water, a bit of oats, and fresh hay.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Bryan said, and he flipped the youngster a silver dollar. “Keep the change, but I want Cayuse cared for proper. He just carried us across a dry and mighty hot patch of desert.”
“I’ll take special care of him, mister. But what about these other two horses? Hey, are they Indian ponies?”
“They are.”
“How’d ya git ’em?”
“Kind of nosy, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, mister, I was just curious,” the young boy said as he shrugged.
“Let’s just say the Indians who owned these ponies won’t be needing them anymore.”
“Ya kil’t ’em, huh? Ya did, didn’t ya?”
“There’s that nose of yours again, getting you in trouble,” Bryan said.
“Sorry, but what are ya gonna do with these here ponies?”
“Where’s your pop? I want to sell them to him.” Just as Bryan said that, one of the horses started kicking at the stall, a common occurrence at a livery stable.
“He got drunk again last night and he’s still in bed.”
“Go get him. I want to sell him these ponies.”
“I daresn’t wake him up ’cause he’d give me a hidin’.”
“Where is he then?” Bryan asked as he looked around. “I’ll get him up.”
“You’d better not,” the youngster said, looking fearful. “He’ll have a powerful headache this mornin’, and he’ll take his bullwhip to ya.”
Bryan barged into a shotgun shack and found a grizzled, rail-thin man in a wholly inadequate bed, snoring away. The bed had ropes stretched across the frame that suspended a horsehair-stuffed mattress. The bedding didn’t look like it had been changed going back to when Hector was a pup. The room was close and stuffy, and it stunk to high heaven. Bryan went over and pulled the gunnysack curtains back, and he opened the window to air out the place. “Get up,” he yelled at the dissipated-looking man in the bed. “This is no way to run a business. You should be ashamed of yourself, letting this little feller here do all of the work.”
The man lurched from his bed, and once he was on his pins, he grabbed his head and moaned. “And just who are ya,” he bellered, “and what are ya doin’ in my bedroom?”
“I’m a paying customer, and I have a couple horses to sell you,” Bryan said.
Amanda and the little boy stood in the background and watched the spectacle. The place stunk so bad that Amanda thought she might get sick, but the little boy seemed all right. Amanda supposed he had gotten used to the smell that permeated his father’s bedroom.
“I’m gonna take a bullwhip to ya,” the man said as he growled.
“My name is Bryan and this is Amanda. We just crossed a patch of hostile desert and fought Apaches. So you see, we were already in a bad mood, and then we find out you get drunk all the time and let this little feller do all the work for you. Well, when we found that out, you can imagine how much madder we got. Now you listen to me. We want service and we want it now. Do you understand that, uh, what is your name?”
“My name is Earl Widdison, if it’s any of yer business.”
“Okay, Earl, get out here and let’s do some horse trading, that is, unless you want me to take my business to another livery stable.”
“Ya’d be hard put to do that ’cause there ain’t another livery stable in Hanksville,” Earl said.
“Okay then, get out here and let’s horse trade.”
Earl stepped out into the bright sunshine. The heat intensified his roiling stomach and headache, and he moaned in pain.
“Earl, you’re a disgrace. First of all, do you have a good mule for sale? I need a dependable pack animal.”
Earl moaned again. “Yeah, I have a big ol’ mule I keep in a corral out back. Follow me,” Earl said.
Bryan stepped into the corral and looked the big, old, red mule over with a knowing eye. He lifted a hoof, looked at his teeth, felt his legs for any abnormalities, and ran his fingers through the animal’s hair, checking for scarring. “I’d judge this animal to be about ten years old, and that’s pretty old. But I suppose he’ll do in a pinch. How much do you want for him?” Bryan asked.
Earl scratched his belly. “I want fifty dollars for him, and he is worth every penny of it,” Earl said.
“You old fraud, I’ll give you twenty-five dollars for him and not a dime more. That’s all he’s worth and you know it.”
“Give me thirty and ya’ve got a deal.”
“Done,” Bryan said as he forked over thirty dollars.
“Now take a look at these Indian ponies. What’ll you give me for them?”
“They’re kinda scrubby lookin’; I don’t want ’em.”
“I didn’t say they were prize horseflesh, but they are worth something. So let me ask you again, what will you give me for them?”
“Twenty-five dollars apiece,” Earl finally managed to say.
“Earl, you’re no good at this. They aren’t worth that because you can probably only get thirty dollars apiece for them retail, and that isn’t a big enough profit margin for you to make it worth your while. See, I want you to make enough money to take care of this here little boy.” He ruffled the kid’s hair. “I’ll give you fifteen dollars apiece for them, and then you’ll be able to double your money.”
“Done,” Earl said, repeating Bryan’s earlier statement.
As soon as Earl handed back the thirty dollars, Bryan put the money in Amanda’s hand.
“What’s this for?” Amanda asked. “This money doesn’t rightly belong to me. I won’t take it.”
“For once in your life, would it be possible to not argue with me,” Bryan said. “Take it. You lost your husband, and you are stranded here in Hanksville. You’ll need money for your food and board and for transportation back to Provo, whatever form that might be. I’m not sure they have a stagecoach service that runs through here. You might end up riding a freight wagon back to Provo.”
“Thank you, Bryan,” Amanda managed to say because Bryan’s generous offering touched her heart.
Bryan fixed his eyes back on Earl, besotted Earl. “Earl, do you have a couple of draft animals for hire?”
“I’ve got a couple Percherons I keep in a stall out back,” Earl said as he pointed to the rear of his livery facility.
“Amanda here,” he cut his eyes to Amanda, “has a Murphy wagon for sale, and it is in prime condition. What will you give her for it?”
“Fifty dollars,” Earl proffered.
“Earl, you just never learn. You’ll give her one hundred dollars for it and be getting a bargain at that. The wagon is worth twice that, as you know.”
“Okay, I’ll give her one hundred dollars fer it. But this is like buyin’ a pig in a poke.”
“No it isn’t, Earl,” Bryan said. “My word is my bond. I’m telling you the wagon is nearly brand new and in prime condition. Oh, one other matter concerning the Murphy wagon. All of the contents belong to Amanda, and you will give them to her when you return to Hanksville.”
Earl rubbed his temples and looked distressed. “Uh, what do ya mean when I return?”
Bryan laughed. “Oh, I forgot to mention that the wagon is ten miles out on the desert, and you will have to go get it.”
“I ain’t got the time to go traipsin’ out on the desert to pull in some danged wagon.”
Bryan handed him ten dollars. “This should help pay for your time and effort.”
Earl snatched the money. “Yeah, that’s more like it. Say, why is that blamed wagon stranded out there in the first place?” Earl asked.
“Apaches attacked Amanda, killed her husband, stole part of her cargo, and made off with the mules.”
“Hey, I’m not goin’ out there to get that wagon and run a risk of gettin’ my hair lifted,” Earl said as he shook his head.
“Yes you are, Earl, you’ve already struck the bargain. Those Apaches are headed toward Colorado.
There are ten of them, and I intend to thin them out some. I’m going to follow them and pick off a few that get separated from the band. I figure on saving settlers’ lives in the doing of it. Besides, I’m a bounty hunter, and I’m heading that way anyway. There’s a feller over on the Picketwire by the name of Ed Muir who robbed a bank in Helper and killed a clerk. There is a five-thousand-dollar bounty on him, and he is wanted dead or alive.”
“Well, if them there Apaches have moved on, I suppose I will go git that wagon.”
“Good.”
The little boy tugged at Bryan’s sleeve. “Mister, I just knew ya kil’t them Apaches. When I grow up, I’m gonna kill me some Apaches because they are mean.”
“You might, but for now, I want you to take care of Cayuse. Now listen up, you little rascal. What’s your name anyway?”
“Bobby.”
“Listen up, Bobby. Cayuse kicks and bites, so don’t get close to his mouth or hooves.”
“I won’t, mister, and I’ll take good care of him.”
“I know you will, Bobby. Oh, and when you get done, I want you to hurry over to that restaurant over there named Rosie’s Kitchen. I will have a breakfast sitting there waiting for you. A growing boy needs to eat, ain’t that right?” He ruffled Bobby’s hair again.
“Gee, mister, thanks. I’ll be right over ’cause I sure am hungry this mornin’, and there ain’t no grub in our larder—only a bottle of that danged whiskey.”
Rosie’s Kitchen had one long table with wooden benches for the customers. Bryan and Amanda seated themselves at the table and looked around. The place was bad on pleasing décor, but they hoped the food would be good. “You really bullied old Earl over at the livery stable,” Amanda said.
“He had it coming. I hate a drunk, particularly one who is abusing and whipping up on a helpless child.”
“I agree with you,” Amanda said as she gave him a huge smile. “It was very touching the way you treated Bobby.”
Murder in Mushroom Valley Page 4