“Fred, I can do without the kiss. We’ll see you later, old timer. Don’t take any wooden nickels,” Bryan said and headed for the door.
“Kid, I can’t say it hasn’t been fun watchin’ you go into action and puttin’ down Storm, because he was scum. But other than that—and the extra money you’ve given me—I have to say you have been a royal pain in the ass.”
“Well, that evens it up because you’ve irritated me, too.”
Fred laughed. “Kid, can I tell people about you? The Mormons will want to know why I am diggin’ a grave.”
“Sure, tell them, but wait two days so that I will be well clear of Bluff.”
“Oh, Kid, I meant to ask you. How’s that young feller named Bill Murdock that runs the livery stable? Storm said he had to buffalo him like he did me.”
“He’s got a headache just like you. But I suspect you both have thick skulls and are going to be all right.”
When Bryan rode away from Fred’s General Store, he noticed Storm’s blood in the dust out front, with flies buzzing around it. That old codger Fred hadn’t taken just a few seconds to throw some dirt over it. He shook his head and considered how nice it was to be riding out of Bluff. It had a beautiful setting and the people—most of them anyway—were probably nice, but he’d had to kill a man, and that never set well with him. He would probably want to give Bluff a wide berth in the future.
But he was unable to be shed of Bluff as he had hoped because three men stepped out in the street to block his way. There was a short one who looked like a rat, and he actually wiggled his nose around like one. One was blond, blue-eyed, slender, and uncommonly handsome. Glancing at him made Bryan feel like he himself looked like three miles of bad road. Then the third one—the spokesman and alpha-male if you will—was round. He looked like a pile of circles all stacked up that tried valiantly to take on the appearance of a human. He had red hair, freckles, and a red complexion. He reminded Bryan of a clown because he was wearing bright, clown-like clothing, and his oversize brogan’s looked very much like those big, clunky clown shoes. Everything about him was silly, except for the Winchester 1866 repeating rifle that had been chopped down at the barrel and stock and was known as a mule’s leg. The oaf carried it about like he knew how to use it.
“My name is Earl Simmons, this is William Rodan,” he said, pointing to rat, “and this is Carl Flygare,” the Beau Brummel-looking fellow. I am the bishop of the First Ward Church here in Bluff, and these are my first and second counselors, respectively.”
“I’m Bryan Kohler. Why are you stopping me?”
“Because we got the disturbing word that you killed a man over near the General Store late yesterday afternoon. Do you deny it?”
Bryan shook his head. “No, I killed him all right.”
Earl looked to the heavens for some sort of guidance from the Lord in hopes he would get the wording right for what was to come. Then he began, “The Doctrine and Covenants declares that, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ” (D&C 42:18)
“Is that a fact,” Bryan said.
Earl shook his head in disbelief. “Bryan, your cavalier attitude simply accentuates the loathing we have for you, a common murderer. ‘The murderer shall not have forgiveness in this world, nor in the world to come.’ ” (D&C 42:18)
“Listen, you sanctimonious old fool, let me pass, or the First Ward Church here in Bluff will be looking for a new bishop. I’ve listened to all the religious mumbo-jumbo I can stand. Now move aside.”
Earl shook his head. “No, sir, we will not move aside.” He pointed to a lone cottonwood standing on the bank of the San Juan River. “See yonder tree? We are going to decorate that there tree with your body. You see, we haven’t any law here in Bluff, so we handle all such matters ourselves.”
Suddenly, Bryan’s Colt leaped into his hand. It was like magic, and it startled the bishop and his counselors. They had never seen anything like it. “Earl, if you persist in this nonsense, I will kill you first, and then I’ll knock down your counselors. Count on it.”
Earl stuttered and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “How did you—? Okay, we’ll give you clear passage.”
“See that you do, and don’t get any notions about shooting me in the back because I will be watching.”
“You have our word. Just point that Colt in another direction, will you?”
“That man I killed was an owl hoot. He buffaloed ol’ Fred and was robbing him, and he was riding out of town on my horse. He was a hired gun, heading up to Wyoming to help some rich and powerful rancher run off or kill the small ranchers in the area so he could take over their spread. Now step aside.”
The three men cleared a path for him.
“No, I want you all standing to the same side so you will be easier to watch. Come to think of it, hand over all of your weapons. Then you won’t be tempted to shoot me in the back.”
“Why that’s outrageous,” Earl said.
“Outrageous or not, hand them over. I’ll leave your weapons just on the outskirts of town. Don’t pick them up and get onto my back trail because if I see you again, I will kill you. I’m already a son of perdition, destined to stoke the fires of hell. So if I kill you boys, what do I have to lose?”
Earl shook his head in disbelief. “It’s true. There is an aura of evil that has settled in and about you. I pity you, my son, because the afterlife holds no comfort for you.”
“Listen, you old windbag, I’ve never killed a man who didn’t need killing. What about Brigham Young’s Avenging Angel, Porter Rockwell? Is he any better than me? Is he allowed to kill with impunity by the likes of you and your kind? Will he be pardoned for the men he has killed?”
At long last, Bryan put Bluff behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bryan rode for a ways and was happy to leave Bluff and the San Juan River behind and emerge out onto unsettled and seemingly unending level ground. The desert unrolled before him to the distant hills where the sun was just peeking above the horizon, casting the land in a surreal, orange shade. The iron oxide rending the soil red made the landscape seem even more otherworldly. Bryan supposed that the land was literally rusting. He felt better having shed the constraints of Bluff and the unsettling memory of the killing. The desert’s clean, pure atmosphere and silence was cleansing. It was almost like a baptism, the only difference being he was immersed in desert rather than water.
He had left humanity behind, what with its pettiness, jealousies, cruelty, and plain cussedness. Now, for a short time, before he need confront the Apaches, he could look over the desert for solace. There was much to see as he ambled along, following the Apaches’ back trail. There was the potential for observing leopard lizards, scorpions, solpugids, rattlesnakes, king birds, Mygale spiders, vinegaroons, mesquite, agave, cedar, creosote bush, and a variety of cactus. And, as luck would have it, he saw many of these desert items, even as he kept a close vigilance for Apaches.
After three days of riding, Bryan rode into Kayenta and settled in for a bath, shave, decent grub at a restaurant, and a feather bed in a nearby boarding house. He had managed to pick up the Apaches’ sign just north of Bluff and follow it south into Arizona territory. Bryan had been lucky because it hadn’t rained and washed away the sign. In fact, the tracks were beginning to look fresher, and he believed he was getting close to catching up with the Apaches and their captives. But once he rode into Kayenta, he decided to spend the night there and freshen up some. He rationalized that in so doing, he would be able to continue the pursuit with renewed strength.
Kayenta had been settled a few years earlier, and it was known as the Mesa Verde region. The population consisted almost entirely of Navajo and Hopi Indians. Bryan left Kayenta the next morning without incident. He was on the prod because he was involved in the unpleasant task of chasing down three murderous Apaches, so he was glad none of the local Navajos or Hopis had given him any grief. Bryan knew his negative thoughts about the Indians were irrational because they weren’t all alike
. They were pretty much like white people—some were good and some were bad.
For the next two days, he rode through several more Indian settlements. Dilkon was one, and it wasn’t much of a community. Here again, Dilkon consisted of Navajo and Hopi people liking to be called the demonyms. Most of the others were also Indian settlements. The country he rode through was beautiful beyond description, but it remained beastly hot.
North of Dilkon, he rode through a bizarre landscape. The ground soil was red, and Cholla cacti of nearly every variety littered the ground. Vast numbers of organ pipe cactus scattered across the landscape, looking as if they were sentinels guarding some fabulous desert treasure. Then there were the pencil Cholla, golden prickly pears, barrel cactus, eagle claws, and the infamous jumping Chollas, which were purported to jump at a man and his horse as he rode by. Considering the fact that there were any number of prickly plants and Indians with prickly arrows poised to puncture a man’s hide, it wasn’t a pleasant place. Then, of course, there was the heat. It was coming near to being unbearable.
Once he was about five miles out of Dilkon, he spotted dust off on the horizon—a lot of dust. He knew three Apaches and two females on horses wouldn’t stir up that much dust, but it never hurt to be cautious, so he hid himself behind a sandy uprising in the desert. He sat his horse and waited. Before long, the horsemen came into view, and it turned out to be a U.S. Cavalry Unit. The rider out front held the guidon aloft, and all of the men sat their horses stiff-backed and proud. Their metal equipment—bridles, swords, rifles, and pistols—shone brightly in the desert sun. Bryan thought them to be damn fools. How could they hope to sneak up on Indians or hide from them with all of that gleaming metal? Oh well, Uncle Sam had sent them out to handle the Indian problems in the Western territories, and they had managed to do a little good, very little. Captain Crook, in particular, was an excellent Indian fighter, but he had enough sense to ride mules and use them as pack animals instead of trying to drag wagons across a rugged landscape . . . and none of his equipment gleamed in the sunshine, alerting the enemy as to his presence. But it was none of Bryan’s lookout, so he spent little time worrying over it. Fighting Indians wasn’t his occupation. At any rate, he was glad it was the infantry coming at him and not some hostile force. As an afterthought, he hoped they had some extra tobacco; he was running a little short.
Bryan rode out from behind the sandy uprising to wait for them to close the gap. Once they got closer, he was able to get a better look at the group. What he saw astonished him. Toward the back of the column was Amanda. She was astraddle a big roan mare, and there was another young female riding beside her on a pinto pony. He thought he was going to drop his eye teeth.
The commander, Captain Carl Muhlstein, broke rank and edged his horse up in front of Bryan. His uniform was adorned with all sorts of paraphernalia—glistening medals, insignias, spiral shoulder cords, a dark-blue campaign Stetson with a twisted, golden cord and feather—and he sported a gleaming sword. “What’s your name?” Captain Muhlstein asked. The captain sat his horse straight and proper.
“Bryan Kohler, if you must know.” Bryan had always been averse to authority figures.
Captain Muhlstein ignored the rude statement. “What’s your business out in this desert?” he asked. The captain’s imperial demeanor was off-putting.
“It’s none of your damn business what I’m doing out here.”
“That might be true, but did you know there are hostile Indians around here?”
“I’m quite aware of that. In fact, that little lady and I,” he said, pointing to Amanda, “have killed nine Apaches this past week. How many have you killed?”
The captain laughed with derision. “You, sir, have to be playing fast and loose with the truth. We just rescued those two young ladies early yesterday. They were being held captive by Comanches.”
“And you, sir, are badly mistaken. Those were not Comanches—they were Apaches. You’d best go back East before you get your topknot lifted. You must be a West Point graduate, and you think you know it all. Am I right?”
Muhlstein ignored the question.
Suddenly, Amanda came riding up on her big roan. She had slipped by the Cavalry members and galloped her horse right up to Bryan. She jumped off her horse, ran over and grabbed Bryan by his arm, jerked him off his horse, and flew into his arms. Then she stepped back and slapped him. “Why took you so long to catch up with me? It’s been an awful experience . . . awful . . . dang you.” She tried to slap him again but he caught her arm.
“A man can grow weary of being slapped in the kisser,” he said.
“Why took you so long?” she asked.
“I haven’t let any grass grow under my feet. I’ve been on your trail from the moment you were taken captive.”
“What’s going on here?” Captain Muhlstein asked.
“Oh, just hush,” Amanda said. “I appreciate you rescuing me, but we will explain it to you in due time. Bryan’s right—you should go back East before your scalp ends up on some buck’s coup stick in front of his teepee.”
Captain Muhlstein reddened. “Young lady, you have a sharp tongue. If I’d have known you would turn out to be an ingrate, I wouldn’t have bothered rescuing you from those heathens and they would have done unspeakable things to you. Well, that isn’t true, but can you keep a civil tongue in your head?”
Amanda shook her head. “I suppose I have been ungrateful. I’m sorry.” She walked over and patted the captain on his leg.
Captain Muhlstein cleared his throat. “Now what’s going on here? Do you two know each other?” He looked first to Amanda and then to Bryan.
“We were traveling together when the Apaches captured Amanda,” Bryan said.
“Are you man and wife?”
Amanda slugged Bryan in the arm and he laughed. “No, we ended up being traveling partners by happenstance,” Amanda said.
Muhlstein shook his head. “Traveling together without the bond of holy matrimony is highly improper. You should be ashamed,” the captain said.
“As if it’s any of your danged business,” Amanda snapped.
Captain Muhlstein cut his eyes over to Bryan. “Why are you out wandering around in this inferno?” he asked.
“I have been trailing Amanda and that other girl,” he explained, pointing to the girl at the back of the column. “I was dead set on trailing them all the way into Mexico, if necessary.” Bryan looked to Amanda. “Amanda here has been a pain in my rear end, but I didn’t want her molested by the Apaches, tortured, and killed, nor did I want her sold into the sex trade down in Mexico.”
Amanda slugged him in the arm again. “You are simply beastly,” she said.
The captain sniffed. “So what do you propose? Will you take them off my hands? Having two females with a company of men is a disturbing element.”
“Yes, that’s what I propose, and God help me for being the fool that I am.”
Amanda slugged him in the arm again. “If Cheryl Price and I,” she pointed to the teenage girl at the end of the column, “aren’t welcome to ride with you, we will just stay with the captain here and he can take us into Bluff.”
“No, no. I, too, dread the thought of taking you girls along and delivering you into Bluff for two reasons—I dislike your prickly personality, and having two women riding along with a company of cavalry soldiers is not a good idea. These men are separated from their wives and sweethearts by thousands of miles, and having you along is most unsettling for them. Men will be men, and they will be most attentive to you two, seeking your favors and not watching for Indians. No, no, it will never do.”
Bryan chuckled. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep them?” he asked.
“Quite sure.”
The young girl rode up. She looked to be about twelve years old. She was a blonde with beautiful blue eyes and smooth, classic features. She would have been stunning if she hadn’t been so thin. She was but a wisp of a girl wearing rags. She wore a drab, brown gingham dres
s that was torn and soiled, and she had on a little bonnet. Her feet were stuffed into a clunky pair of men’s brogans.
“At this juncture, we will take our leave,” Captain Muhlstein said. “We are traveling north to Utah to help the Mormons fight the Blackhawk War. We hear tell the Utes are giving them grief.”
“Thank you, captain,” Amanda said. “I really do appreciate you rescuing us.”
“Likewise, thank you,” the little blonde managed to say.
“Good luck fighting those Utes,” Bryan said. “But, before you depart, let me give you a bit of advice. Get rid of everything that sparkles in the sun. Those Utes will be able to see you coming from miles off, and they will surprise you and give you a hot reception.”
“Thank you for the unsolicited advice, but why don’t you leave the Indian fighting up to me? After all, I am a West Point graduate.”
“I’ll do that, captain, it’s your funeral. Out here in the West, that diploma from West Point and a buffalo nickel will get you a warm beer at one of our saloons. But thank you for saving these girls. By the way, one more thing before you leave. How did you manage to take these girls away from those three Apaches led by Victorio?”
“We accidentally rode up on their camp. They were just setting it up, and they hadn’t yet put a guard in place. I couldn’t believe it; they offered no resistance. They just mounted their horses and sped off into the desert, leaving the girls and part of their food and equipment behind.”
Bryan nodded his head in the affirmative. “Victorio is no one’s fool. The numbers didn’t add up for him. He knew it would be suicide, running the three of them up against . . . what do you have . . . fifty men here?”
“No, I just think they were cowards.”
“Cowards? The Apaches? Not hardly.”
“Well, why did they scurry off then?”
“I told you, the numbers didn’t add up, and besides, they decided if they left the girls behind, you would be less inclined to pursue them.”
Murder in Mushroom Valley Page 14