SHORT STORY: BOUNTY RIDERS

SHADOWS OF FAST-MOVING CLOUDS, lit by the fading sun, sped across the nearby Cooper Mountains, stretched almost to the Stephens homestead. The blistering heat of day was giving way to the cooling, tranquilizing approach of dusk. Here in the Arizona portion of the New Mexico Territory in the early 1850s, the Stephens family—transplants from eastern Pennsylvania—eked out a living on sixty acres of scrub land that scarcely kept a handful of scrawny cattle and sheep alive.

Besides the rectangular white adobe Stephens home, there was little to indicate this was settled land, save a few scrawny chickens and some bony pigs that wandered about outside a poorly fenced in, barely surviving vegetable garden. It was a far more difficult life here in the desert southwest than the settlers had believed and hoped it would be when, just a few short years ago, they had chosen to seek their fortune in America’s growing western lands.

Some quarter of a mile from the house, seventeen-year-old Zack Stephens, sweaty and dirty from a hard day’s work, completed repairs on a break in a rail fence that, like everything about the Stephens place, just managed to serve its intended purpose. While Zack worked, his fifteen-year-old sister, Clara, approached from the house behind him, her figure growing larger over his left shoulder as she neared.

Clara carried a small pail of water and a dipper in one hand. Her other hand was held behind her back as if she were hiding something. Zack noticed Clara’s presence when she was some yards away. He glanced over his shoulder but immediately turned back to work. Clara reached his side and waited, somewhat impatiently, for him to stop working and pay attention to her. She rattled the dipper in the pail and shifted back and forth from one foot to the other. Finally, Zack finished repairing a length of rail and turned toward his sister. She handed him the water with a sheepish grin. He drank warily, keeping an eye on her.

“What? What are you looking at me like that for?”

Zack replaced the dipper in the pail and set it carefully on the dusty soil by his feet. He made sure the precious liquid was secure in the pail by lodging it between a fence post and the stock of a long, double barrel, 12-gauge shotgun with a “Z” carved on the stock.

“You have that look. What are you up to, now, sister?”

She shuffled back and forth, smiling shyly. Zack gave her a hard look, then shook his head and smiled. He signaled with his hand for her to show him what was behind her back. She pulled away and put both hands behind her back.

“Come on, Clara, what do you have there?”

He playfully tried to grab her hands. She managed to evade him again, and he turned back to his work. She quickly produced her hidden treasure, a chunk of coarse brown bread and a hard-boiled egg and held them out for Zack, but he was not looking at her.

“Here, I brought this for you.”

Zack turned and eyed the food. “The others need it more than me, sister.”

“No, they don’t. You work as hard as Papa and don’t eat half as much. You eat so little and work so hard, brother, please take it.”

He looked at the coarse bread and plain, boiled egg, yet licked his lips as if they were a steak and baked potato. Clara handed him the bread and he took it, biting into it hungrily. She shelled the egg and handed it to him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

While Zack munched on the food, Clara stood by watching him. He savored the last of the food, eating small bites that he chewed slowly and deliberately.

“This old desert is just so big, and empty, Zack.” Clara pointed out across the land. “It’s so lonely here. Wouldn’t you like to be in a city, with stores and things to buy and people everywhere.” Zack glanced past Clara but said nothing. “I want to go to California where there are cities and people—things to do. It’s so… so dirty, and hot and empty here.”

Zack hurriedly finished his food and stepped in front of Clara. Over her shoulder, he saw a small group of Indians on horseback, some riding double, coming up to the front of the Stephens home. He stiffened and put his arm on Clara’s shoulder.

“I just hate it here, Zack, I’ve just got to… what?”

“Shh. Stop.” He held up his hand.

“Zack, don’t you shush me. You’re not….”

He grabbed her by the arm with one hand and put the index finger of his other hand against her lips.

“Look.”

She turned and saw the arrival of the Indians at the house. Zack motioned for her to kneel down.

“Stay here.”

He grabbed the shotgun and walked slowly toward the house. Clara followed him.

“Zack!” She hissed. “Don’t leave me here, please.”

They paused for a moment when their father emerged at the front of the house and gesticulated toward the Indians.

“Stay behind me.”

They continued to walk carefully, slowly. As they walked, Zack broke down the shotgun to make sure it was loaded. He closed it back up as quietly as he could, but at least one Indian boy heard and looked over. From the distance that separated them, the Indian boy and Zack, for the briefest of seconds, sized each other up.

Abruptly, the Indians turned and began to ride away, though slowly. By the time Zack and Clara reached the house, they were well away. Their mother and little sister came out of the house to join their father.

“What did they want, Papa?” Clara asked breathlessly. “Who were they?”

“Did you know them, Pa?” Zack pointed his shotgun toward the receding figures of the Indians. “Were they hostiles?”

Mr. Stephens, a tall, lean man with a weather-beaten face, held up his hand to calm Clara and Zack.

“Everything is all right. You two settle down. Clara, come in and help your mother. Zack, better go to the creek, boy, and get us a couple of buckets of water. Your mother will be needing it for supper. Go on now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

When the women went back inside, taking the little girl with them, Mr. Stephens put his hand on Zack’s shoulder.

“Boy, check the shed and the outhouse on your way. Don’t want nobody hiding out there.”

“Should I take the double barrel?”

“There won’t be no need.” Mr. Stephens took the shotgun. “Just check, it’ll be all right.”

“All right, Pa.”

Zack walked around the house to the shed. He opened the door and grabbed a pair of water buckets. Then he did a quick check of the outhouse, and with another check all around the place, headed off to the creek.

——————————

ZACK DIPPED ONE OF TWO buckets into a not particularly deep part of the slow running, narrow creek below the Stephens home. An already full bucket sat on the bank. The creek, really more of a wash, was deep set between two sand banks about six feet high on either side. Down by the water, the Stephens house was out of sight.

It was nearing dusk now, and very still, and Zack took his time filling the second bucket. This was the pleasant, quiet part of the desert day and he drank in the cooling air, the flight of a cactus wren, the light sigh of wind on an ocotillo branch. Suddenly, he paused and turned his head toward the house. A door slammed and a cow lowed.

Zack grabbed the buckets and hurried up the bank. On high ground, in the fading light, he could see the house. There was a flurry of activity around it and audible cries.

He dropped the buckets and tore across the desert scrub toward the house, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Indians! Pa, Momma. Get away from there. Clara, Janie, run. Run, everybody.”

As he got within a hundred yards of the house, the first flares of a fire shot up inside the building. He stopped momentarily to grab a big slab from a pile of scrap wood, then hurried on. Just when he reached the house, three Indians appeared from around the side and he was instantly engaged in hand to hand battle.

The largest Indian was distinguished by a large scar on his left cheek. The younger boy whom Zack had seen before hung to the back. The third attacker had eyes dulled by a gray film that gave him a terrifying appearance. He led the attack against Zack.

Swinging his slab of wood wildly, Zack managed to hit Dull Eyes hard against one shoulder, dislocating it and causing the man to cry out. Before Zack could turn toward the other two, they both hit him solidly with their clubs. Zack dropped like a stone, unconscious, his face slamming into the sandy soil. Blood poured from his head, nose, and mouth.

While Zack was out, the Indians gathered up the screaming girls and what livestock and possessions they could, including Zack’s shotgun, and prepared to ride away. The boy was dragging a goat toward the side of the house when the big man yelled at him.

“Mangas.” The big Indian pointed at Zack and threw a long-bladed knife at the boy’s feet. “Termínalo. Ahora...”

The boy, Mangas, reluctantly let the goat go and even more reluctantly picked up the knife.

“Why, Yellow Hawk?”

“Házlo, ahora.” Yellow Hawk signed for Mangas to scalp Zack. “Do it, now.”

Yellow Hawk and the others mounted up and began to move away. Mangas slowly approached Zack, who began to stir slightly, but was unable to rise. He opened his eyes and saw Mangas standing over him. The young Indian leaned down and grabbed him by the hair. Then with a shake of his head, he hit him with the handle of the knife instead of scalping him.

——————————

THE SUN WAS NOT QUITE up, and a light fog covered the desert floor like a dusty, low lying cloud. A grizzled frontiersman, riding west, rode his horse slowly up the wash below the Stephens farm. It was still, except for the slogging of the horse’s hooves on the moist soil. The rider casually smoked a pipe as he rode through the quiet countryside. Suddenly, from the right, a blood-spattered goat bolted from the sand banks above the wash and dashed wildly in front of the man and his horse.

“What the…?”

The man reined in his horse and watched the goat race down the wash ahead of them and then dart into a thicket by the bank. He stood in the stirrups in an attempt to see over the bank to his left. In a moment, he sat back down in the saddle, but turned the horse left and they headed up and over the bank. On level ground, he could see the smoking remains of the Stephens house to his right. As he approached the house from the front, he spoke out loud, the horse his only audience.

“Slow. Go slow. Can’t tell what’s happened here yet.”

He knocked the fire out of his pipe and pocketed it. He then slid off the horse, almost simultaneously removing a long-barreled rifle from its sheath alongside the horse’s saddle. On the ground, he looped the reins around a nearby mesquite and checked to see that his rifle was loaded. He also checked for the large hunting knife he carried in his right boot.

He approached the house slowly, cautiously. At the door, he stood to one side for a moment, then quickly, ducked through. Inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust and saw that there was no danger within. At the back of the house, however, he saw the body of a grown woman.

“Aw, Lord. What have they done to you?”

He knelt beside the body.

The woman’s clothes were torn nearly off and her body and face battered into a bloody mess. She was scalped. Sickened by the sight and smell, the man grimaced and stood.

“Must be more, this poor soul couldn’t have been alone.”

Rifle at the ready, he went outside and around to the right. The body of a man was near the back of the house. He knelt by it, observing the same brutal scene as with the woman. He picked up part of a broken war club and checked it over.

“Odd, that’s Pima work. Must have been renegades, they don’t usually….”

He suddenly rose, cocked his head to one side, and hurried around behind the house. He found Zack, bashed, bloody and barely alive.

“Here, here, son. Don’t try to move.”

Zack managed to open his swollen, bloody eyes, tried to speak. The man knelt closer in order to hear.

“My…sister…find…help.”

“What’s that, son? Your sister? Don’t worry now, just take ‘er easy. We’ll find your sister. I swear to you we will.”

——————————

THE PUEBLITO OF RIO SECO, southwest of Gila Bend, was so small the stage route from Tucson to Fort Yuma rumbled right by it without stopping. Barely a village at all, it was as barren and arid as its ironic name, Dry River, suggested. There were maybe half a dozen mud, wood, and adobe huts set back on either side of the sandy road leading into the village center.

Commercially, it consisted of a livery stable and blacksmith shop located at the northwest edge of town and, down the road on the east side, a general store. Directly across from the store was El Gato Negro cantina. Beyond town, to the southwest, a small Catholic church stood in silent opposition to the El Gato Negro and its hell-bent clientele.

A sharp, hot wind kicked up the loose topsoil of the village and slammed it against the sides of the church, the store and the cantina. Loud as that was, it was no match for the noise of El Gato Negro.

Inside the little cantina, notorious scalp hunter Captain Nathaniel “Nate” Wallace and about eight or nine of his men were holed up, drinking, gambling, fighting, whoring to their hearts’ content. There are three past-their-prime Mexican prostitutes working the outlaws, a terrified two-man band banging out terrible music on a bad guitar and worse trumpet, an equally terrified barkeep behind the bar, and an apparently mute Indian who swept a back corner of the filthy, dirty floor.

While his men shouted and caroused, Wallace, known among the Indians and Mexicans as El Carnicero, the Butcher, leaned with his back against the bar, one arm around the shoulders of the only attractive thing in the whole cantina, a very young Mexican girl named Luz Maria.

While Wallace drank and fondled the girl. His two main henchmen—Cross, a filthy man with rotten teeth and a scraggly beard, and the German, a short, relatively clean, but harsh man—counted out the gang’s ill-gotten gains earned from killing and scalping Indians, Mexicans, or anyone with dark hair.

“Two hundred pesos for men, one hundred pesos for women and brats.” The German eyed a stack of bills and coins in front of Cross. “Very kind of the Mexican government to be so generous.” The men laughed. “What’s the count, Cross?”

“I got fifteen hundred pesos.”

“Not a bad haul.”

To amuse his fellow outlaws, the German turned and jammed a not quite empty bottle of whiskey into the playing end of the trumpet. The horn man leapt back in fear, his cut mouth bleeding slightly.

“Ay, Díos mío, señor.”

The outlaws guffawed. Cross pulled a huge hunting knife and jabbed it into the guitar. The guitarist held the instrument in front of himself like a shield. The horn man ran for the front door and was booted and slugged all the way out by the other outlaws. The guitarist tried to escape, too, but was hemmed in by Cross and the German.

“Play, boy, or die.” Cross threatened.

“No, señor, por favor. Please.”

Cross pulled his pistol and put it against the guitarist’s temple. “Play.”

Too frightened to stand, the man fell into a chair and fumbled with the guitar. The outlaws roared.

Across the room, Wallace pulled Luz Maria toward one of the back rooms of El Gato Negro. He swatted her on the butt as they disappeared. Cross watched the boss and weakly imitated him by grabbing one of the fat prostitutes and taking her into an adjoining room at the back of the bar.

The German grimaced in apparent disgust at the carnal debauchery. He then approached the bar, drew his pistol, and threatened to take his annoyance out on the barkeep. The man quickly produced a full bottle of whiskey to mollify the German, who grabbed the bottle and stalked out the front door.

Outside, the German climbed a short flight of steps up to the roof. On the rooftop was a sentry post of sorts with a short-backed wooden chair and small table. A dirty sheet with a large tear in one side had been rigged above as a canopy to battle the heat and bright desert sunshine. The German propped his feet on the table and lay his pistol on his lap. He leaned back and with a cursory look around the sun-whitened horizon began sipping his whiskey.

——————————

WHIMPERING, LUZ MARIA LAY FACE down on a bed, naked, her back and buttocks red and scratched in several places. Wallace stood by the bed buttoning his pants. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a peso, and tossed it at the girl. The coin hit her on the back and she cried out. Wallace sat on the edge of the bed, grabbed her long, thick black hair and roughly pulled her to him.

“Did you like that, my little puta?”

Tears streamed down Luz Maria’s face. “Sí, señor.”

Wallace tightened his grip on her hair and forced a kiss on her bruised lips. “But did you love it, did you, my sweet?”

“Sí.”

“Say it with meaning.”

“I loved it, señor, please.”

Wallace pushed the girl’s head away and stood up. With a sardonic laugh, he slapped her sore butt and clomped out of the room. When he was safely gone, she mustered the courage to spit in his direction.

In the bar, things had quieted down considerably. Several outlaws were asleep or passed out, others quietly played cards. Cross stood by the bar with the wary barkeep. The other prostitutes, the guitar player, and the mute Indian had vacated the bar for safer havens.

Wallace walked into the room and leaned against the bar, surveying his dominion with the same sneer he had for the battered Luz Maria. For a few moments, he stood quietly at the bar, then suddenly his features changed. He became serious, alert. None of the others seemed to notice anything. Wallace turned to his left and signaled to Cross, then headed for the front door. Cross followed his boss outside onto the elevated wood walkway in front of El Gato Negro.

“What’s up, Cap’n?”

“Where’s the German?”

“Don’t know. I was in back like you was till a few minutes ago.”

Cross followed Wallace down a set of steps from the elevated sidewalk to the road. Wallace slowly walked out a few feet. Cross leaned back against the hitching post in front of the cantina. Wallace looked in all directions, his head up as if he were sniffing a scent like a trail dog.

“What do you hear, Cross?” Wallace spoke softly, projecting his voice directly at the other outlaw.

“I don’t hear nothin’.”

“Exactly.”

Wallace looked up at the top of the cantina and spotted the German.

“German.” He hissed.

The German looked down. Wallace pointed down the street, out of town to the southwest. The German moved cautiously and quietly, rose from his chair pistol in hand. He crouched down and peered off to his right toward the southwest part of town and the Catholic church.

From the roof, the German viewed the dusty grounds of the little church. There were a couple of Mesquite and Palo Verde trees by a small well and a tiny cemetery to one side of the church itself—and then, movement among the trees. One soldier appeared, then another, and more. The U. S. Cavalry, on foot, was making its way cautiously past the church toward the cantina and the outlaws. The German signaled to Wallace, crept to the edge of the building and descended the stairs.

“How many?” Wallace asked when the German had joined him and Cross in front of the cantina.

“Can’t tell. Saw three, bound to be more. Cavalry.”

Wallace signaled to the German that they were to get the horses out back and that Cross was to warn the other outlaws in the bar. Cross hurried off and Wallace and the German cautiously went behind the bar where the horses were tied up. They tried to act calmly, but over their shoulders they could see cavalrymen moving closer. With a crash that frightened both men and horses, Cross and the other outlaws came flying out the back door of the cantina. In a moment, the area was ablaze with gunfire.

With their ambush blown, the cavalry openly rushed the outlaws, firing black powder pistols and rifles at will. In the first volley, two of the outlaws were hit. One died by the back door, the other mortally wounded, but not yet dead, fell heavily into the horses and then under them. A couple of horses panicked and broke free, sending several outlaws scurrying after them.

Wallace, Cross and the German mounted and made a break toward the northwest, away from the cavalry, away from town. As they wheeled to ride off, they fired at the approaching cavalry with abandon. The closest two soldiers, one a tall thin trooper and the other still a boy, were shot dead.

With the heated outlaw opposition and the two soldiers killed, the rest of the troop slowed its assault and took cover. Their leader, a young lieutenant, tried to rally the troops, but was winged in the right shoulder for his efforts. He slumped to the ground, seeking protection behind a cottonwood stump. Cross and the German raced away to safety, but Wallace pulled up sixty or seventy yards from the attack and halted his horse.

Astride his mount, Wallace sneered as the survivors of his band managed to capture their loose horses, mount them and make a run from the scene. A brave soldier with a long barreled squirrel gun stepped out into the open by the cantina and picked off a final outlaw. Wallace took a rifle out of its sheath on the side of his horse, carefully aimed and with a thunderous explosion dropped the brave soldier dead in his tracks.

The young lieutenant clambered out from behind the tree stump and with pistol in hand called on his men to charge Wallace. Wallace sat calmly atop his horse, reloading the rifle. The lieutenant, followed at some distance by his men, fired his pistol again and again at Wallace, each round hitting closer and closer to the brazen outlaw.

Just as the lieutenant’s rounds began to kick the dirt up around Wallace, the scalp hunter finished loading the rifle. With a foul smile, he lifted and aimed it at the lieutenant, who stopped still. Again, with a thunderous roar, Wallace discharged the rifle. The round hammered into the officer’s forehead, penetrated the skull and exploded bloody brains out the back and onto the desert floor.

For a brief moment, before his body realized it was dead, the lieutenant remained upright, a strange, bewildered look on his face. Then he crumpled to the ground. His troops scurried off in all directions, seeking anything that would offer them protection from the deadly outlaw.

With a snort, Wallace turned his horse around and galloped toward the retreating figures of what remained of his band.

——————————

AN EARLY MORNING MIST SHROUDED the banks of the Gila River and a Pima Indian village built along its shores. Life was just beginning to stir among the people. A few sleepy women wandered about starting fires or fetching water. A couple of old men also began to move around, and a chunky boy meandered along, yawning and looking for a place to relieve himself.

He started to urinate off the bank into the river but was scolded by one of the old women. The boy walked on out into the foggy desert in search of a good tree or bush. Finally, he located a thick mesquite, walked to the backside of it, away from the village and the bossy old women, and with a satisfied sigh urinated loudly and happily onto the desert floor.

He watched his stream steaming in the cool air, directing it back and forth over the ground. As the stream lessened, he looked up and saw, riding slowly out of the gloomy, misty air a group of mounted men. There were several warriors in the band and the boy saw that they also had two white girls with them. Behind them, an older man herded a small collection of ragged farm animals.

The boy quickly finished his business and with a squeal and a war whoop raced back to the village. In his headlong rush, he nearly ran over an old woman.

“Watch where you run, you great fat pig, you.”

“They’re back!” The boy raced on into the encampment. “They’re back! Mangas and the others. They’ve got prisoners! White girl prisoners. Look! See!”

At the boy’s persistent cries, the village turned out to see the raiding party return. Yellow Hawk and his band rode to the center of the village, where they stopped and dismounted. The village chief, a wizened old man with long gray hair, limped up to greet them.

“You have returned with animals for food, Yellow Hawk?”

“As you can see.”

“They don’t look like much.”

“A little meat is better than no meat at all.”

“Yes, you are right.”

“We have war prisoners, as well.” Dull eyes pulled Clara up for the chief to see.

“War prisoners? This girl? She’s a warrior?”

“She is spoils.”

“And the little one?”

“She’s sickly.” Yellow Hawk pointed to Janie. “She won’t last.”

“Why were they brought here?”

“For the bounty.” Dull Eyes explained.

“What happened to your arm?”

“When we fought the whites, a boy did it to him.” Yellow Hawk explained.

“He was a big boy.” Dull Eyes avowed. “I killed him. Mangas cut his scalp, see?”

Mangas held up the scalps with some trepidation. Clara and Janie began to wail.

“What is the matter with them?” The startled chief looked at the girls. “We can’t have all this yelling, it’ll scare the women and children.”

Dull Eyes threatened the girls with his good hand and their wails diminished to sobs and whimpers. Mangas used the opportunity to slink off.

“That’s better.” The chief smiled at the girls. “Take them to Light Hair, she’ll know what to do with them.”

“You’re right.” Yellow Hawk agreed.

“And you.” The chief looked directly at Dull Eyes. “Go see the medicine man and get your arm fixed, it looks stupid dangling down like that. Stupider than your dull eyes.”

“Si, Jefe.” Dull Eyes led the girls away. “I’ll go now.”

The chief motioned for Yellow Hawk to join him.

“Bringing those girls here is a mistake. It’ll bring the horse soldiers down on us. You must trade them right away.”

“Trade them?” Yellow Hawk shrugged. “To who?”

“It doesn’t matter. The Apaches. The Yavapai. Just get rid of them. Fast. The soldiers will kill all of us if they find those girls here.”

“But they’re worth….”

“No. Do as I say. I have spoken.”

“Si, Jefe. As you say.”

——————————

IN A RECTANGULAR BOX OF a recovery room next to the medical dispensary at Fort Yuma, Zack Stephens lay on a bunk, the off-white sheets drenched from his sweat. His head was bandaged and there were ugly, crudely stitched up cuts on his face that a doctor examined.

“These stitches are looking better today. How are you feeling, young man? You’ve been through quite an ordeal I hear.”

“All… right.”

“You seem to be healing well.” The doctor sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ll be good as new soon.”

“My head hurts and I can’t feel some of my teeth.”

“A natural reaction, son. Sometimes it seems like it has to get worse to get better. Before you know it, you’ll be walking out of here strong and tall.”

“I don’t feel strong and tall. I feel like hell.”

“There, there.”

“I’ve got to find my sisters.”

“Take it easy, son. You need to get well first.”

Zack began to cry. “I couldn’t save them.”

“Now, now. Say, son, you’ve got a visitor today. Do you feel like seeing him?”

“Huh?”

“There’s somebody waiting out here to see you. I expect you’ll be glad to see him, too.”

Zack looked at the door, wiped away his tears and propped himself up on one elbow.

The doctor walked to the door. “Come on in. He’s able to see you now.”

A tall, bearded, rather scruffy, pipe-smoking frontiersman walked into the room. Zack looked at the doctor.

“I don’t….”

“This is Irish Dan Parnell, Zack.” The doctor explained. “This is the man who rescued you from the hostiles.”

Parnell walked to the foot of Zack’s bed, took off his hat, and stood there slowly puffing on his pipe.

The doctor sneezed and grimaced. “Do you have to smoke that foul-smelling thing in here?”

The frontiersman removed his pipe with a smile and held it at his side, letting it go out on its own.

“Thank you, sir.” Zack told Parnell. “For helping me… and my family.”

“Was the least I could do.” Parnell shuffled his feet.

“Has there been any word about my sisters, sir? Has anyone seen them?”

“Not that I know of, son. I never knowed they was took ‘til a day or so ago. I thought it was just…just you was all that I found.”

“Yes, sir. I’m beholden to you for that.”

“It wasn’t nothing to it. Anybody would have done the same for you.”

The conversation waned and Parnell began to edge toward the door.

“I know they’re alive, sir.” Zack spoke quickly. “I heard them. I know the Indians took them.”

“Easy, son.” The doctor interjected. “Don’t get yourself all worked up.”

“Can you help me find them, Mr. Parnell? Could you? You’re a real frontiersman, you must know everything about being out here. Where they could have taken them and such.”

“Son, you oughten not to think about it just yet. It’s a hard thing and Indians are tough to figure. They could do anything. Go anywhere. Perhaps it would be best to trust in the Lord. It’ll be his to decide.”

“You won’t help me?”

“Son….”

“There’s got to be somebody can. Ain’t there, Doc?”

“Oh, there’s someone can all right.”

Zack lifted himself up in bed. “Who? Who?”

“I hesitate to say his name.”

Parnell looked at the doctor. “It ain’t who I’m thinking, I hope.”

“Afraid so, Dan. Captain Nate Wallace is who I had in mind. None other.”

Parnell shook his head. “Nate Wallace.”

“Captain who?” Zack asked. “Who is he?”

“Only about the nastiest pole cat you can imagine, boy.” Parnell said. “You don’t want nothing to do with him and his kind.”

“But if he can find my sisters. You said he could, Doc. You think he can?”

“Irish Dan is right, son. He is a terrible, dangerous man.”

“I don’t care. Where does he come from? Where is he?”

“From hell, boy.” Parnell crossed himself. “He comes from hell. He kills Indians and Mexican women and children for money.”

“They kill ours for nothing.”

“All right, Zack, take it easy.” The doctor tried to get him to lie down. “You’ll make yourself worse again. You got to get well first.”

“I’m going to get well, all right. And when I do, I’m going to get my sisters back. Even if it’s the devil himself has to help me.”

“If you fall in with him, son,” Parnell warned Zack, “that’s just what you’ll be doing. ‘Cause, by God, Nate Wallace is the devil himself.”

——————————

INDIAN AGENT RAFE JONES SAT at a table in his small office poring over a stack of papers. The cluttered, dirty room was poorly lit by a flickering coal oil lamp. A .45 caliber derringer rested on the table beside him and he carried a hunting knife slid into his right boot.

Suddenly, but quietly, the front door to Jones’ left opened and Captain Nate Wallace slipped quickly into the room. Jones was startled but quickly went for the derringer. In a heartbeat, Wallace had a cocked pistol nuzzle up against the side of Jones’ head.

“You might ought to leave that little woman’s gun where it lies.”

“Wallace… what are you doing here?” Jones pulled his hand away from the derringer.

Wallace walked around behind Jones, keeping the pistol aimed at the shaking Indian Agent’s head. He saw the hunting knife in Jones’ boot and took it, holding it up in the sparse light to admire it.

“When did you start packin’ one of these, Jones?”

“It’s a dangerous place out here.” Jones shuffled around in his seat, not looking at Wallace. “You know that better’n anybody.”

Wallace nodded his agreement, then compared Jones’ knife to his own, a huge, razor-sharp Bowie knife that he removed from an equally huge leather sheath worn on his belt.

“This is a dainty little thing, Jones.” Wallace ran his knife suggestively across the agent’s crotch. “Just right for servicing squaws, eh? That is what you do with them, ain’t it? Slide the old steel in there?”

“What is it you want, Wallace? How did you get in the fort? Every man jack in the territory is after you. The law, the army, the Indians.”

Wallace laughed.

“How did you?”

“That’s my little secret. You don’t need to concern yourself about it.”

“Don’t need… hell, Wallace, you’ve put me at risk coming here like this.”

“You, you worthless possum face, at risk?” Wallace snorted. “There’s a price on my head. A big one. They’d hang me if they caught me here. You at risk? Ha.”

“All right, all right. Forget it. What do you want with me?”

“The usual.”

“More dollars for pesos?” Jones grimaced. “Already?”

“Already.”

“Why? A peso is the same as a dollar. They buy the same amount. They’re exactly the same.”

“Not to me. Not if you want to buy U.S. land. How can I become a rancher and settle down if I don’t have plenty of this Godforsaken country for cattle to graze on?”

“How much this time?”

“Eighteen hundred.”

“Eighteen hundred. My God, man.” Jones looked up at Wallace, who shrugged. “How can I keep changing these for you? The bank will get suspicious.”

“Tell them you’re changing it for one of the tribes you…uh, help.”

“I can’t do it, Wallace. This is too much.”

“Can’t do it?” Wallace stepped menacingly toward the agent. “Can’t do it? I suppose you forgot them two Indian girls I brought you?

Jones looked away. “There’s no need….”

“What happened to them, by the way? They disappear? Like the others? Maybe the government would like to know what you’re up to. Maybe….”

“Enough. Stop. I’ll change the pesos. Please, stop.”

“That’s more like it.” Wallace smiled.

“You’ll get us all killed, Wallace, if you don’t slow down.”

“Ah, but there are so many scalps, and so little time.”

Wallace leaned back and let out a hearty, loud laugh. Jones cringed and turned away.

——————————

ZACK AND PARNELL RODE SLOWLY across the desert. Heat waves rose from the sandy soil in a false watery curtain, but there was no water near, and few signs of life. Small ground squirrels scurried about in the dry scrub as the horsemen passed by, but little else moved. High above and some distance ahead of the riders, high flying birds circled on thermals.

As they rode, Parnell filled his long-stemmed pipe, lit it, and puffed away contentedly. From time to time, he glanced over at the boy but said nothing. As they passed a cluster of prickly pear cacti, Zack, whose injuries had healed except for some bruises on his face and a cut on the side of his forehead still covered by a bandage, looked over at his riding partner.

“It seems so long ago.”

Parnell took the pipe from his mouth. “What’s that, lad? Long ago, you say?”

“My family… the Indians.”

“Are you sure you want to remember all that, son?”

“It was good of the army to take care of everything. Don’t you think, Mister Parnell?”

“Aye, I do, lad.”

“I’m sure my ma and pa are happy now. They’re in a good place. Isn’t that right?”

“Well,” Dan puffed on his pipe, “We can only hope so.”

The two men rode on in silence for a spell, their horses clumping along slowly and methodically. As they cleared a small sand hill, in the near distance, they saw Zack’s old house.

“Look, Mister Parnell.” Zack pointed ahead. “There it is.”

“And so it is. So it is.”

In a matter of moments, they reached what was left of the Stephens spread. The house frame was relatively intact, but the roof and windows were gone. The whitewashed exterior scorched in a number of places, providing stark testimony to the fire that gutted most of the interior.

They dismounted and cautiously approached the house. Inside they examined what was left of the once vital home. Little survived save the cookstove, some metal utensils and, oddly, a pair of women’s shoes. Zack reached down and picked them up.

“My mother’s.”

Parnell patted the boy on the shoulder and pretended not to notice the tears in the young man’s eyes.

“Could I have a few minutes, Mister Parnell?”

“I’ll just be outside, lad.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Outside, Parnell checked on the horses and fiddled with their cinches and saddles. He looked out on the empty, barren, yet beautiful desert and up into the bright sky, but the birds that were circling there earlier have moved off. Filling his pipe and lighting it, he walked back to the house and along the side where Zack’s father had been killed. He noticed several blackish red spots in the soil and quickly kicked sandy dirt over the stains to cover them.

He walked closer to the house and through a knocked-out window saw Zack bent over, digging around behind what was left of the kitchen counter. The boy pulled something out and stood up. He turned slightly and Parnell could see what he had found. Zack held a leather money bag. It appeared bulky, full.

Parnell turned away from the window and slowly walked back to the front of the house. Zack exited what used to be the front door just as Parnell reached it. The pouch was nowhere to be seen, but Parnell noticed a considerable bulge in the left pocket of the boy’s pants. Zack went straight to his horse and took the reins.

“I suppose I’m ready to go back now, Mister Parnell.”

“Sure and you are, son. Well, let’s be going then.”

They mounted their horses and began to ride away, back toward the fort. They were still within sight of the house when Parnell turned in the saddle.

“I reckon you’ll be using what you found back there to move on, eh, son?”

“You… you saw?”

“If it was me, I’d pull up stakes and head for California, maybe Oregon.”

“Never. I can’t leave without my sisters.”

“What’s done is done, lad. You’ll be better off putting it behind you.”

“No, I won’t. And I’ll use what money I have to find them. All I need is a good scout who knows Indian ways. Someone like you, Mister Parnell.”

“Oh, no, son. It’s not my quarrel. I’ve lived peaceable with the Pima and the Yavapai, even the Apache, for many years.”

“Not even for the money?” Zack reached into his pocket and held out the leather bag. “I’ve plenty here to pay you with, Mister Parnell. Please?”

“Save your money, Zack.” Parnell held up his right hand. “You’ll only come to grief if you keep on this course.”

Zack puts the bag of money back in his pocket.

“I know my sisters are alive.” Zack repocketed the bag. “I can feel it. And I’m going to get them back no matter what it takes.”

With that, the boy spurred his mount into a fast trot and began to ride away. Parnell took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead and face with a dirty old blue bandana. Sighing deeply, he swatted his horse with the reins and loped after Zack.

——————————

IN AN OPEN AIR RAMADA in the center of the Pima Village, Clara Stephens in a dirty, faded, torn dress, tried to give aid and comfort to her little sister Janie. She tended to her in a shaded corner of the ramada where a stick-covered roof provided the only shelter from the burning Arizona desert sun.

The younger girl, whose face flushed brightly, was deathly ill. She coughed repeatedly, spitting up blood. Clara wiped the blood away, but it was quickly replaced with each new cough. Behind Clara, two Indian boys watched with detachment except for an occasional comment in their own language.

“It’s okay, honey,” Clara assured her sister. “Clara’s here. You’ll be all right.”

The little girls tried to speak but only managed to make a bloody bubble with her lips. Clara reached down and held her limp sister in her arms.

“Oh, God, please don’t let her die. Please. Let someone find us, dear God. Help me.”

While Clara spoke, an older Indian woman came up behind the native boys. Grabbing each one by the ear, she chased them away with a slap on their backsides. They ran off laughing.

“Vayanse! Vayan!” The woman yelled at the boys. “Get out of here! You nosey boys, go away.”

When the boys were gone, the woman turned back toward Clara and Janie. She frowned at them. Clara saw the frown and burst out crying.

“Please help me. Help her. Help my sister. Oh, please.”

The woman turned and walked away toward the chief’s lodging. Inside, he reclined on a pallet of animal skins, resting with his eyes open. He didn’t move when the woman barged in. She sat down opposite him on another pallet of animal skins and quietly stared at him.

“Yes, old woman.” The chief spoke after a few moments of silence. “What is it that you want?”

“How could you not know what I want? What does everyone talk about these days? What’s the only thing anyone can think about?”

The chief scratched his head but remained silent and calm.

“Well? You’re the chief.”

“Yes, and you are my wife. And then what?”

“You are as dimwitted as those fools who brought them.”

“Oh, you mean the white girls.”

“With this brain, you are chief?”

“With this wife, I am chief?”

“Your jokes won’t do you any good. You have to answer me.”

“Answer you what? Have you asked me a question?”

“You old coyote, you don’t listen to me.”

“Ask me something, then. I’ll answer, or at least listen.”

“Why did you let Yellow Hawk bring those white-eye girls here?”

“There was nothing to do. They brought them here. Yellow Hawk lives here. This is his home, too.”

“You’re getting too old. You would have stopped this before, but the men don’t listen to you now. They don’t respect you.”

“So be it. So, what is the problem?”

“What is the problem? You don’t see the problem?”

The chief shook his head.

“I’ll tell you, then.”

“There would be no way to stop you.”

She glowered at the chief before speaking. “The young boys and men are ready to fight one another for the older white girl, and the small one is weak and dying.”

“I have not seen this among the men and boys.”

“You are blind.”

“The little girl coughs a lot, but….”

“But nothing, old man. She’s dying right now.”

“Right now?”

“Within one sun.”

“That is bad.”

“Bad? What do you think will happen when the white-eyes know the girl has died? The army soldiers will come. Or worse.”

“Or worse? What worse?”

“The scalp hunters. The ones who slaughter us for money. It’s all the excuse they would need.”

The chief popped up off the floor like a man twenty years his junior.

“Do you think this is possible? That the scalp hunters will come?”

“I believe it.”

The chief stood for a moment, rubbing his chin. When he spoke, it was as much to himself as to his wife.

“We must trade for the girls right away. To the Yavapai, or Apache. We can get several good ponies. We can….”

“We can get them away from here, soon. Do you hear me, old man? Get rid of them now, right now.”

“Yes.” The chief looked his wife right in the eye. “We will get rid of them now.”

——————————

INSIDE FORT YUMA, ZACK, HIS facial injuries almost healed, sat on the wooden walkway in front of a busy mercantile store. While people came and went behind him, he stared off into space. The fort was active with soldiers, frontiersmen, and Indian scouts.

Several riders entered the fort, and one of them, Agent Jones, tied up in front of the mercantile. He dismounted and started to walk past Zack, then stopped.

“How do, boy.”

“Hello, sir.” Zack slowly came out of his reverie.

“You’re that boy’s been running around with Dan Parnell, ain’t you?”

“I do know Mister Parnell, yes, sir.”

“Injuns got your sisters, did they?” Zack nodded. “Word is you been trying to round up help to go get them. That right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they ain’t been no takers?”

“No, sir.”

“Where’s Parnell?”

“He says he ain’t got nothing against them Indians personal.”

“A prudent course, for Parnell. Still I suppose you yourself is set on it.”

“Oh, yes, sir. I will never let my sisters be kept by the Indians. I’ll get them back no matter what it takes. Or costs.”

“I can see you’re hell bent for it. No matter what.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have… uh, money?”

Zack reached inside his shirt and started to extract his stash of money. Jones quickly put a hand out to stop him.

“No, no. Not here, boy. Come with me back to my office. We can discuss the finances there. Perhaps, I know some people who can help you.”

Zack rose and he and Jones walked toward the agent’s office on the other side of the fort.

“Oh, yes, please, that’s what I need, want, someone to help.”

“It might not be cheap.”

“I’m not rich, but I have some money.”

“We can discuss that. I have contacts among the heathens. And with white men who do this sort of thing.”

“I’ve heard of a Captain Wallace. Do you know him?”

Jones held a finger to his lips to silence Zack.

“Maybe he can help?” Zack whispered as they reached the office.

“If you have enough money.” Jones opened the door.

“Wallace is your man. He will get your sisters back.”

“I’ll do whatever I have to.”

“Step on into my office and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m obliged to you.”

“Think nothing of it, boy. Think nothing of it.”

They went inside Jones’ office and he closed the door behind them.

——————————

WALLACE AND HIS MEN HOLED up in a hotel used as a way station for pilgrims being ferried across the Colorado River to the promise of gold and a better life in California. The hotel was a clean, well-lighted place, filled with a mix of hopeful, expectant travelers, and rough-edged locals.

Wallace, Cross, and the German sat at a table in the restaurant. Two chunky waitresses hustled meals, glasses of tea, and slices of apple pie to the motley clientele. The room was lit by a series of strategically placed coal oil lamps. As Wallace and his two main men were served their desert of huge pieces of apple pie, Jones and Zack entered. The German nudged Wallace who casually looked over then turned back to his pie.

Jones, with Zack hanging back a bit, approached the outlaws’ table. They stopped behind the empty seat across the table from the German. Jones waited for Wallace to finish a bite of apple pie before speaking.

“Evening, Captain. Gentlemen.”

Cross glowered at the new arrivals. The German grunted. Wallace took another bite of pie.

“Uh… uh, this, uh, young man here is Mister Zachary Stephens.” Jones pressed on. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him. It was his family’s unfortunate lot to be attacked by a group of hostiles some time back.”

“Yeah, we heard of him.” Cross gruffly interrupted. “So what?”

“Well…gentlemen, the boy lost his mother and father….”

“Touching.” Cross snorted.

“He lost his parents and believes his sisters were carried off by the savages.” “Believes they were carried off?” The German laughed.

“The poor boy was left for dead himself. But he’s sure his sisters are alive.”

“And how would he know that?”

“I can feel them.” Zack stepped forward. “I know they’re alive. Sometimes it feels weaker, but I know they’re still alive. I know it.”

Wallace calmly finished his pie, set the fork on the plate and pushed it toward the center of the table.

“Oh, they’re alive all right.” He belched. “Least ways they was.”

“Have you seen them?” Zack could barely control his excitement. “Do you know where they are? Oh, thank God, thank God. I knew it.”

“Hold your horses, boy. I just said I heard something about it, that’s all. There’s no reason to get all in a lather yet.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“But nothing. You got any idea what you’re up against? These things ain’t easy. We’re dealing with heathens here. If they have your sisters, they won’t give them up for free.”

“I—I have money. Tell them, Mister. Jones. You….”

“I’ve been helping the poor lad since his tragic story first became known to me.” Jones interrupted. “And right away, I said, Zack, my boy, Captain Nate Wallace is our man. If anyone can find the girls, it’ll be Captain Wallace. You bet you.”

Wallace shook his head and laughed. Cross and the German exchanged looks that mingled disgust and lack of respect for the Indian agent.

“Well, as I was saying to the boy, Captain Wallace and his band of courageous frontiersmen are our best bet in a difficult spot like this. Working together, we….”

Wallace lifted his left hand with the index finger raised.

“I believe we can take care of it from here, Mister Jones. I’m sure you have important business to attend to at the agency.”

“But—very well. Young Zachary, I will leave you in the capable hands of Captain Wallace.”

Jones bowed slightly and backed away from the table. The German aimed his finger at the agent like he was going to shoot him. Cross laughed loudly, revealing a set of scraggly, filthy teeth. When Jones was gone, Wallace addressed Zack directly.

“Have a seat, boy.”

Zack sat in an empty chair to Wallace’s left, but the German spoke first.

“What is it you think we can do for you, boy?”

“I’ve got to have help to find my sisters, sir. I don’t know where else to turn.”

Wallace looked at Zack. “Why would we want to get mixed up in something like this, boy?”

“People say you’re not afraid of the Indians. That you hunt them.”

Cross suddenly reached out and grabbed Zack by the collar. “Who told you such a thing?”

At a minute nod from Wallace, Cross released the boy, who tried to regain his composure.

“Everyone at Fort Yuma says it, sir.”

“And right they are, too.”

Cross and the German laughed. Wallace cut off the laughter with a slight motion of his right hand.

“Me and my men have been known to exact retribution from the savages when it was needed. But why would we do it for you? The red bastards steal white women all the time. They don’t usually last long either.”

“But—I know they’re still alive. They just have to be.”

“You been out here long, son?” Wallace’s tone softened somewhat.

“A year or so, sir.”

“Then you must see how these things go. Still, perhaps there’s a remedy. But it may be a steep one, if you get my meaning.”

Zack slowly understood the outlaw’s meaning and he reached inside his shirt to extract the money pouch. The German reached across the table to stop the boy from bringing the money out in public, but it was nearly out by then. Just as the pouch cleared cloth, Cross ripped it from Zack’s hands and hurriedly lowered it out of sight beneath the table.

“Hey, give that back.”

Cross quickly pulled a hunting knife and put the long, sharp blade alongside Zack’s left temple. The boy froze in place. Wallace moved quickly to cut off the scene, as several nearby patrons began to take notice of the outlaws’ table. Wallace smiled as if it were all a game and motioned for Cross to lower the knife, then he signaled for Cross to hand over the money.

“There, there, gentlemen. Settle down. No need to get all riled up over nothing. We’re a peaceable group, now, aren’t we? As for you, boy, take this money back and forget you came here tonight. And forget your sisters. We know about these things and word has been around about your sisters. They’ve been with the Indians too long. You’d be wasting your time. Now go on, get out.”

Cross and the German moved to “escort” Zack out.

“Please, Captain Wallace, you’ve got to help me. You’re my last chance. You can have all my money if you’ll just help me.”

Cross and the German stood Zack up.

“All of it, eh?”

“If you let me go along with you.”

Cross snorted and the German laughed.

“Not likely, boy.” Wallace waved his right hand.

Cross and the German grabbed Zack, took him outside and unceremoniously dumped him on the wooden plank front porch. When the outlaws went back inside, Zack sat on the top step of the stairs with his head in his hands. After a moment or so, the outlaws came out of the hotel, clumping by Zack, their spurs jingling, and walked down the steps to the road.

Impulsively, Zack leapt up and followed. As the outlaws reached an alley separating the hotel from a nearby blacksmith’s shop, Wallace walking several feet ahead, Cross and the German suddenly turned, grabbed Zack and pulled him into the dark alleyway.

In a heartbeat Cross hammered several punches into Zack’s solar plexus and the boy collapsed, breathless and in agony, to his knees. While Cross hovered over him, the German reached inside his shirt and removed the money pouch.

“You won’t be needing this anymore, boy.”

“Damn you, you bastards.” Zack cried out, coughing and spitting. “I’ll get you someday.”

For his trouble, the outlaws slapped Zack on the back of the head and gave him a sharp kick in the side. After Cross and the German left the alley, Zack tried to lift himself up. As he did, Wallace suddenly appeared in front of him. Light from a room in the hotel shone across the outlaw’s face giving it a devilish cast. He took several dollar coins from the pouch he had taken from his henchmen and threw them at the boy.

“A word to the wise, son, forget all about this. And forget about your women folks. For the last time, be on your way. This country ain’t for the likes of you. Go on back to where you come from. Leave this country to men. It ain’t no place for a boy.”

Zack glared at Wallace, but the anger and hate in his expression were lost in the darkness of the night. His only response to the outlaw was a pain racked cough followed by loud retching. Wallace plodded off into the night.

——————————

IN THE MIDDLE OF A hot morning that promised to get far hotter, Irish Dan Parnell, led a pack horse on a rope behind his own mount. He was at the edge of a Pima Village that bustled with activity as the people seemed to be loading up their gear and belongings.

Besides a few barking dogs and some playful children, no one took notice of the visitor until he reached midway in the village. Finally, the old village chief emerged from a flat roofed home and spied Parnell. The old man slowly made his way over to the Irishman.

“Buenos dias, Irlandes. It has been a long time. We are honored by your visit.”

“The same to you, jefe. It is I who am honored to be here.”

“Do you need water? Food? Please join us if you do.”

“Thank you, chief, no. I have both in plenty. Your kindness is appreciated.”

“You are always welcome here, Irish. Our home is your home.”

“My thanks again, jefe.

“Have you brought things to trade?”

“Yes, sir. I have tobacco and flour. And other things.”

“That is good, but you can see we are busy today and have little time for trading.”

“With no disrespect, Chief, it looks like the whole village is moving. Has something happened?”

“Nothing bad, no.” The chief dissembled, answering slowly and not looking Parnell in the eye. “But the game gets more scarce each day and the fish are fewer in the river. The many new white people who come, with no disrespect to you, Irish, take up the land we need. We must leave to find a better place. With more food and more land. That is why we go.”

“I have something for you, jefe.” Parnell dismounted. “Something to make your journey more pleasurable.”

He walked back to the pack horse and after digging around in a sack slung over the animal, brought out a couple of small cloth bags. He walked back to the chief and handed them to the old man.

“What is this, Irish?”

“Both are tobacco, chief, one for chewing, the other for your long pipes.”

“Wait here, Irish.” The chief grinned happily and held the bags aloft like they were trophies. “I have something for you, too.”

Before Parnell could make a mild protest, the Chief hurried off to his home leaving the Irishman alone in the center of the village.

Parnell took the opportunity to look around. Other than the general movement, he saw nothing until, at the far end of the village by the river, he spotted a small elevated dirt mound and, by the mound, a colorful piece of cloth.

He took a step in that direction, but just then the old chief emerged from his house, closely followed by his wife. They hurried to Parnell’s side. The chief extended his right hand. In it, he held an intricately carved, long wooden pipe.

“For you, Irish. As our friend.”

“For me? I am much honored, great jefe. My thanks and respect to you.”

“For you, to take now and go.” The chief’s wife frowned at Parnell. The chief gave her a stern look which she ignored.

“Yes, thank you. I must be going on.”

“It is a good day to travel.” The woman pointed toward the desert.

“Don’t be rude, old woman. You will offend our guest.”

“No, no. I have to go now. I’m looking for someone.”

“Looking…for someone?” The chief and his wife exchanged a quick glance.

“Yes, maybe you heard, two white girls were taken from near the fort. One little, one older.”

“Hmmm.” The chief scratched his chin and puzzled over the news.

“No.” His wife quickly answered. “We haven’t heard. Not around here.”

“No? I thought it would be spoken of everywhere. Well, perhaps not.”

“No, Irish, we haven’t heard of such a thing. There are many bad men around nowadays.”

“These were renegades who did it. That I’m sure of.”

“Too many renegades these days.” The chief’s wife agreed. “They can’t be controlled. There are too many. White ones, too.”

“Yes, there are renegade whites, too. You are right.” Parnell took the rope from the pack horse and remounted his horse. “Goodbye, my friends. I hope we will see each other in your new home.”

“We hope so as well, Irish.” The chief raised a hand in goodbye.

“Goodbye.” Parnell doffed his hat.

“Until next time.”

“Until next time.”

Parnell slowly rode away. At the outskirts of the village, he looked back. The chief and his wife had gone back inside, so he headed his horse toward the elevated dirt mound he had seen before. As he neared it he saw, stuck between the ears of a huge, gnarled prickly pear plant, the shiny cloth he’d spotted earlier. Riding close to the plant, Parnell reached out and snagged the piece of cloth.

——————————

YELLOW HAWK, DULL EYES, AND Mangas took Clara Stephens from the Pima village to a Yavapai village to trade her. The girl was dirty, unkempt and scared wild looking. She sat on a broken-down pony led on a rope by Yellow Hawk. Mangas held the shotgun he took during the attack on the Stephens family.

As the small party slowly entered the center of the village, they followed a horse trodden path that ran through the middle of a dozen or so Yavapai homes which resembled the loose canopy and pole construction of the Apache wickiup. The Yavapai turned out to see who the unexpected visitors were. Their chief and several warriors met the group in mid-village.

“How are you, big chief?” Yellow Hawk spoke. “I bring greetings from the Pima people.”

“Welcome, Yellow Hawk. It has been a long time since we have seen you.”

“Life is hard. Time is short.”

“Si, es. And greetings, Dull Eyes, and the young boy.”

“This is Mangas.” Yellow Hawk explained. “Soon to be a great warrior. He has cut the hair of many white eyes.” The Yavapai all looked over at Mangas, who averted his eyes.

“Welcome to you as well, young Mangas. Our home is your home.”

“Gracias, jefe.” Mangas nodded. “I am honored.”

After the greetings were over, the Yavapai gravitated to Clara, who sat without expression on her horse. The Yavapai moved around her. The chief and a couple of warriors reached out to touch her which caused her to flinch. After a moment or two the Yavapai pulled back and spoke again to the Pima.

“You captured this one?” The chief asked.

“Yes, jefe.” Yellow Hawk shook his head. “In a fierce battle. We defeated the white eyes and took this girl as a trophy.”

Mangas moved as if he would speak out but when he saw the Yavapai notice him, he again averted his eyes and said nothing.

“The Pima are brave fighters.” One of the Yavapai warriors declared. “The girl is a good trophy.”

“That is true,” Dull Eyes agreed. “But we have no more use for her.”

“Our people move farther along the Gila.” Yellow Hawk added. “We must join them soon.”

“You are saying the girl is for trade?” The chief asked.

“All things are for trade.”

The Yavapai buzzed among themselves for a moment. Down the village, directly in Mangas’ line of sight, Jones the Indian agent appeared with a group of Yavapai women. The agent carried several items and loaded them into his saddle bags and mounted his horse. For a moment, he looked back, and he and Mangas stared at each other. Then Jones noticed the other Yavapai and Pima, and Clara Stephens. With no outward indication of interest, Jones turned his horse and rode out of the village. Yellow Hawk saw.

“That was Jones, the agent?”

“Yes, he trades with us often.” The chief said.

“I distrust him.”

“All distrust him.”

Yellow Hawk grunted, and he, Dull Eyes, and Mangas dismounted. Leading the girl’s horse, they walked toward a large open-air structure that served as the Yavapai communal gathering place.

“Chief, this white girl is strong. Worth a lot.”

“I trust your word, Yellow Hawk, but she is trouble.”

“The white eye agent saw her.” Mangas noted.

“You would be wise to let her go or trade her elsewhere.”

“You are... not interested in trading this day?” Yellow Hawk held his hands palms upward.

“Oh, yes, my friend. We have much to trade, but not for the girl. She is bad luck, I feel.”

“We should kill her and let the coyotes eat her bones.”

“Calm yourself, Dull Eyes, we can trade her on the other side of the river. In California.”

“Yes, perhaps.” The chief shook his head. “But for now, please accept our hospitality. Stay with us. We will eat and drink and find other things to trade. We have new rifles and shells.”

“From the white eye agent.”

“Yes, young Mangas, you are very perceptive. I can see you will be a great warrior someday.”

“I do not trust the agent. He has no heart or soul.”

“Well said. But he is gone now. His trading done. Please join us. Welcome, my friends.”

The two groups of warriors gathered inside the ramada to eat, drink, and talk. Mangas grabbed a large piece of meat and a piece of tortilla and stood near Clara Stephens, who was now surrounded by curious Yavapai women and children, watching the horizon toward which the agent, Jones, had ridden.

——————————

ZACK STEPHENS SAT WITH HIS head in his hands in a back room off the Fort Yuma doctor’s quarters. He had been there since the attack of Wallace’s men and the doctor had let him stay to recover. After a few moments, he rose and paced around the room, then sat down again just as the doctor knocked and entered the room.

“How are we doin’ today, son?” Zack was silent. “There, there, boy. All is not lost. There’s someone here to see you.”

“I don’t want to see anyone. Not anyone.”

“Come on now, buck up. It is a tough world out here. You’ve got to be strong, lad.”

“What for? I can’t do anything. No one will help me, no one….”

Zack’s complaint was suddenly shut off by the unannounced, boot clumping arrival of Dan Parnell.

“Maybe I can help you now, Zack.”

“Irish Dan.” Zack looked at the frontiersman in disbelief.

“Parnell,” the doctor laughed, “you have an amazing knack for showing up when I least expect you.”

“All the better to keep you on your toes, sawbones.”

“Where have you been, Mr. Parnell?” Zack stood. “I never thought you’d come back.”

“Doctor, could I have a moment alone with the boy?”

“Certainly, Mr. Parnell, I can see you need to talk. I understand. Zack, if you need anything, just holler.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“I’ll be just out here should anyone need me, Mister Parnell.”

“Appreciate it, doctor.”

“You have good news, Mister Parnell?” Zach asked, after the doctor was gone. “I surely hope so.”

“It’s hard to say, son. Maybe some bad, maybe some good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve just come from the Pima village over on the Gila….”

“Was there word of my sisters? Was there?”

“Take it easy.” Parnell held up his hand. “Not exactly. No word as such. The Pima were packing up to get out. Moving their whole village on up the Gila.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, that means something big is or has been up. I didn’t see any white girls with them, but they were mighty fidgety when I sort of asked what was going on.”

“You think they have my sisters?”

“No, I don’t. But I believe they may know something about them.”

“Let’s go, then. Let’s go to the Pima and demand they help us get them back.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea. They’ll be far away by now. No use.” Zack hung his head. “One thing, though, I have to ask you, son.”

Zack looked up at Parnell. “What?”

“Do you recollect what your sisters was wearing the day of the attack?”

“Same as always, I reckon. Some kind of gingham dresses. Different colors, I suppose.”

“Would you recognize a piece of one of them?”

“Reckon I might.”

Parnell produced the piece of cloth he found on the cactus at the Pima village. Zack’s eyes widened.

“This is Janie’s dress. My little sister. Where’d you get it?”

“Found it at the Pima village. Near one end of town.”

“And?”

“And it was by a small, new grave.”

Zack was silent for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Take me to that grave, please. You said the Pima were leaving. I want to see for myself.”

“It’s too late now, today, and besides, there was no sign of the older girl. If we intend to save her, we need to get ready and head out in the morning. If the hunch I’m feeling is right, we’ll know the fate of both your sisters soon enough.”

“What do you know, Mister Parnell? What do you mean?”

“I just got this sixth sense about it. It may be a dangerous gamble. This whole thing is beginning to smell of Nate Wallace and Jones, the agent. And if Jones is in it, then the Yavapai may be in it, too. We could walk into something nasty, son. Are you up to it?”

“I want the Indians that took my sisters to pay, and I got a personal thing against Wallace and his damned German and gang.”

“Well, if I’m on the right track, I got a good idea where they’ll be. We’ll head out before first light. You game?”

“I’m game enough. Just show me where we’re going.”

“All right, then, well do it.”

——————————

THE SUN WAS NOT YET fully up, but the clear sky was bright over the quiet Yavapai village. A light breeze rustled through the Mesquite and the Palo Verde, gently moving the few wisps of smoke remaining from late lit fires. It was so still and tranquil in the village that not even the dogs were straying about and the ponies’ heads were hung in restful slumber.

Beneath the open air ramada, Yellow Hawk, Dull Eyes, and Mangas slept soundly, weapons lying carelessly around them. The white girl, Clara Stephens, was nowhere to be seen. A rooster crowed and an awakening horse snorted.

Inside a Yavapai house midway in the village, Clara Stephens stirred. Huddled in a threadbare, dusty blanket, she was with three other women, all Yavapai. Nearest her was a plump teenage girl who slept soundly, on her left a woman of perhaps thirty years who tossed and turned. Directly across was an older woman, who yawned revealing several missing front teeth. Though sleepy, she was vigilant and kept a sharp eye on Clara. When Clara saw the older woman watching her, she rolled away and hid her head.

Outside, the quiet village was bathed in the rays of the now fully risen sun. Some life began to stir, and a young boy padded out of his house and urinated in the bushes nearby. As he turned to go back inside, a horse whinnied, then another and several others began to move about, their hooves stamping on the dusty, desert ground. The boy lifted his head and listened. He sniffed the air. A dog barked.

There was a slight rumble audible, almost like thunder from a far distant storm, but the rumble grew louder, increased again. The boy stepped out into the pathway through the village and lifted his left hand above his eyes to block out the blinding rays of the sun. Suddenly, the noise intensified, and it was clearly the sound of horses, many horses, riding out of the sun toward the Yavapai village. Turning so fast that he fell, the boy raced back through the village yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Riders! Horses! Wake up! Horses! Riders!”

He rushed down the village pathway toward the ramada where the Pima slept. The village began to awaken, and people moved about in their houses. The sound of the incoming riders came closer and closer to the village. The boy continued crying out and raced up breathlessly to the Pima in the ramada. The first to react was Dull Eyes, who rose up brandishing a rifle. The boy skidded to a stop as Yellow Hawk and Mangas also leapt up.

“What is it?” Yellow Hawk grabbed the little boy. “Why are you yelling?”

“Riders… coming… now!”

Yellow Hawk pushed the boy to one side with his rifle. The three Pima squinted into the blinding eastern sky. As they did, the approaching riders broke into the village, guns blazing.

The Yavapai, now aware of the danger, rushed outside. Women scurried in every direction with children, sleepy-eyed men hurried about brandishing weapons, but the attackers, Captain Nate Wallace and his brigands, had the advantage of surprise and fire power. They roared through the village shooting down anything that moved…men, women, children. It was indiscriminate slaughter.

In moments, the riders reached the ramada and with amazing ease shot down Yellow Hawk and Dull Eyes who fell lifeless, their bodies riddled with outlaw bullets. Mangas, firing Zack’s stolen shotgun, put up strong resistance even as the Yavapai chief and several of his main warriors fell. Weaving around in front and back of burning houses, Mangas picked off two or three of the outlaws.

But the cause was lost. Wallace’s vicious band, having wiped out the majority of the men in the first wave of death, began to systematically kill every living being in the village. They spared no one and no thing. Dogs, horses, chickens, all were killed.

Mangas found a dirt hill and hid behind it. He watched as Wallace went from house to house until at last the outlaw leader found the one with Clara Stephens in it. Wallace drug the girl out, simultaneously fighting off the older Yavapai woman who had watched over the white girl. When the woman kept fighting, Wallace shot her dead and then did the same to the other two women who ran crying out of the house.

Mangas leapt up from his hiding place and fired at Wallace but was too far away for the buckshot to do any harm. As Mangas fumbled to reload the shotgun, the German appeared by Wallace’s side. The German took careful aim with a long barrel pistol and fired at Mangas. The shot hit the young Pima in the left side of his chest and knocked him backwards over the round hill and out of sight.

In the village, with most of the Yavapai dead or dying, the outlaws brandished scalping knives. Some of them helped Wallace throw Clara Stephens up onto a horse while the main group began moving through the village to begin the ghastly taking of scalps. Screams of agony blended with the smoke and dust filling the air above the burning village.

——————————

SOME THREE OR FOUR MILES from the Yavapai village, Parnell and Zack rode around the side of a small hill and up onto a rise. Parnell immediately held up his hand to stop Zack.

“What? What is it, Mister Parnell?”

“Listen.”

In the silence they could hear the clear report of gunfire cracking in the early morning air.

“Damn it, just as I feared.”

“What?”

“It’s Wallace. He got here first.”

“Come on, then. Hurry.”

Zack reared in the saddle to spur his horse on, but Parnell reached out and stopped him.

“No.”

“But there’s no time to waste. Clara could be in there.”

“Listen, lad.” Parnell continued to hold back the boy’s mount. “We’ll ride fast but not at a gallop. We have to keep our wits about us. When we get near, if it is Wallace’s men, follow my lead. And keep a cool head, no matter what you see. You understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Then let’s go.”

The two men spurred their horses and rode toward the sound of diminishing gunfire, dust kicking up from behind.

——————————

WHEN ZACK AND PARNELL REACHED the vicinity of the Yavapai village, they reined in their horses, dismounted and took up defensive positions behind a rocky sand hill overlooking the village. Below them, they watched the final stages of the outlaw slaughter of the Yavapai. Smoke rose from the burnt shells of several houses. Animals and humans lay all around, dead and mutilated. Among the carnage walked several of Wallace’s outlaws, left behind to complete the foul task of scalping every last victim.

Even from this distance, the scene was horrid enough to cause Zack to lower his head. Suddenly, Parnell tapped him on the shoulder. The boy slowly raised his head to see the Irishman pointing to their left, in a westerly direction. Zack looked out to see a cloud of dust close to the ground in the distance. The cloud was diminishing, indicative of movement away from their position.

“Wallace?” He asked Parnell.

“Wallace.”

“Let’s go after him.”

“We will. But first we take care of these filthy bastards.”

“How?”

“You go around to the east on our right, I’ll come around the other end of the village. Keep your wits about you, boy, don’t shoot me.”

Zack nodded and Parnell moved off to the left. Zack made his way around to the east end of the village, the direction from which the original attack came. He moved carefully, slipping behind a large prickly pear and then a tall, thick saguaro.

At the very end of the burned-out village, he hid behind the wall of a partially standing adobe house. Ahead and to his right, he saw the immobile, prone body of Mangas. To his left, moving toward the sand hill behind which Mangas lay, two outlaws slowly walked through the rubble, bloody knives in hand.

“I think I seen another one over here somewhere.” The taller of the two men spoke.

His partner pointed at the sand hill ahead of them. “I’ll check over this hill.”

“Hurry up, we gotta catch up to the others.”

“Go on, get the horses. I’ll be right there.”

The tall outlaw walked away then, back toward the center of the village. His partner continued looking for more bodies to scalp. Zack watched his every move. After a few moments the outlaw reached the sand hill behind which Mangas lay. The young Pima crawled backwards on his stomach, very slowly, down the hill toward the banks of the river. When the outlaw cleared the top of the hill, Mangas immediately stopped moving and played dead, but too late. The outlaw pulled a pistol he had tucked behind his belt.

“I knew it, you little bastard. Playing dead on me, were you?”

Mangas rose to his knees and pulled a knife. The outlaw drew a bead on him. Suddenly, there was the powerful report of a rifle and the surprised outlaw, mortally wounded in the chest, turned to see Zack standing across the scrub land from him, smoke curling from his rifle barrel. The outlaw fell to the ground dead.

Mangas and Zack exchanged looks of mutual recognition, but had no time to size each other up as the tall outlaw had quickly reacted to the shooting. He ran toward his fallen comrade.

“I see you, boy, you’re gonna die.”

Zack broke eye contact with Mangas to face the new threat. As he did, two loud shots rang out from the other end of the village. The tall outlaw stopped his advance and for a moment looked toward the sound of the shots. When he turned back to face Zack, the boy’s rifle was trained on him. The outlaw raised his weapon, but before he could get it chest high, Zack squeezed off a booming, echoing round. The shot hit the outlaw square in the forehead, a red hole appearing between the eyes, midway up the skull. For seconds, he wavered in that zone between life and death, then the lifeless form crumpled and fell backward onto the ground.

As soon as he realized he was no longer in immediate danger, Zack turned toward where he had last seen Mangas, but the young Indian was gone. Cautiously, slowly, Zack made his way to where the young Pima had lain. When there, he kicked the first outlaw with his boot and pushed him over to check his face. The man, blood still running from the wound to his heart, was definitely dead. Zack reached down and took his rifle and pistol, tucking the six-shooter behind his own belt.

Climbing back to the top of the sand hill, Zack surveyed the area below him toward the river. He saw no sign of Mangas. Then, for just a moment, there was movement near the edge of the river, a horse, an Indian pony, moved slowly along the bank.

He squinted to see if there was anyone hanging on to the horse, but at that distance he couldn’t tell at first. Then, an extra leg appeared behind the horse, a human leg. He raised his rifle to fire, but paused and leaped down behind the hill. Rifle at the ready he watched a rider approaching. Peering over the edge of the hill, he saw it was Dan Parnell and he was leading Zack’s horse.

“Zack, boy, where are you, lad?”

Zack leaped up from behind the hill, causing Parnell to draw down on him, ready to fire. He froze in place and Parnell caught himself in time. The Irishman uncocked his pistol and shook his head.

“Damn, boy, I nearly shot you.”

“Irish Dan, Irish Dan. We did it. We got ‘em.”

“Aye, that we did, lad. But we’ve got a hell of a row yet to hoe. Saddle up, boy, there’s a hard ride ahead of us.”

Zack mounted his horse, rifle in hand, and they headed back westward through the devastated village. They passed the dead mutilated bodies of innumerable Yavapai.

“What filth this Wallace and his band are.” Dan spat on the ground. “All these people dead. Scalped. Poor buggers. All dead.”

They passed the bodies of Yellow Hawk and Dull Eyes lying beneath the charred remains of the ramada. They were scalped, their clothes covered in their own blood.

“Those two there, boy. That’s Yellow Hawk and Dull Eyes, the ones who took your sisters.”

“Yes.”

“The Lord will judge them now. They’ve paid with their own death. Everyone is dead.”

They contemplated the massacre for a few minutes more, then spurred their horses to a trot and rode out of the ruin that was, only hours before, a vital, living Yavapai village.

——————————

SETTLED AGAINST THE BACK WALL of a small canyon, the Wallace gang’s hideout consisted of two wooden cabins, one larger than the other, facing each other across the rocky desert floor. Coming into the Saguaro, mesquite and prickly pear-filled canyon, the larger of the two cabins was on the left. The smaller on the right.

Two outlaws stood guard at the entrance to the canyon. One was up on a large boulder near the front passage watching for intruders. The second was further back toward the cabins. He sat on a dead saguaro smoking.

The canyon appeared to be a dead end, but at its very back a barely visible horse trail offered an escape route for the outlaws. This trail was monitored by another guard, who leaned against a corral containing most of the outlaws’ horses. Fresh mounts were tied up in front of the large cabin.

Despite recent events, the outlaw hideaway seemed calm, even tranquil. All was quiet, save for a light rustling of the wind through the mesquite and desert scrub. Smoke curled from a small chimney pipe coming out of the roof of the larger cabin.

Inside that sparsely furnished cabin, Clara Stephens worked over a hot wood stove that sat in a far corner of the room. She was cooking a stew and trying to make biscuits with the meager supplies provided.

Wallace, Cross, and the German were at a small table boisterously counting up the bounty from their recent raid on the Yavapai. On the table before them was a pile of black-haired scalps and two bottles of whiskey from which they frequently drank.

“It’s a good take, a damned good one.” Cross sat one of the whiskey bottles down. “But not as good as we did that time down by Ajo.”

“Here’s another adult male.” The German lifted a scalp and dropped it back down on the pile. “Another one hundred pesos.”

“To the government of Sonora.” Cross raised his bottle of whiskey.

Wallace poured himself a large drink from the other bottle into a dirty water glass, then handed the bottle to the German. The three men toasted their ill-gotten gain.

“It’s going to be over five thousand.” The German estimated.

“Piddling wages.” Wallace snorted.

“Not like back in ‘39, ey, Captain?” Cross laughed

Wallace grunted and poured more whiskey in his glass.

“What was ‘39?” The German asked.

“We made a killing, so to speak. Must have brought in $50,000 that year. Remember, captain?

“More like $60,000.”

“$60,000.” The German whistled.

“That was the year Captain Wallace seen the Mexicans couldn’t tell the difference between their own people’s scalps and the scalps of the blasted Indians. We really cleaned up then, didn’t we?”

“Cleaned up the whole damn territory almost.” Wallace and Cross guffawed. The German nodded approvingly.

As the laughter subsided, Clara brought over the pot of stew. Wallace swept the scalps onto the floor and the girl began ladling out big portions of the foul looking concoction into large wooden bowls.

As she worked, Wallace began to take notice of the girl. He took in the shape of her breasts and hips underneath her dirty dress. She tried to ignore him, but he reached out and played with the folds of her dress. Impulsively, he pulled her to him.

“Come here, girl.”

“No. Stop.”

He forced her, resisting, to sit on his lap. He held her roughly and forced a kiss on her.

“Please don’t.”

Wallace continued manhandling the girl until she slapped him hard in the face. Surprised, he let her go for a moment and she leaped up. Cross grabbed her from behind and Wallace rose as if to strike her. She cowered beneath his raised fist, but then he seemed to lose interest and sat back down. He signaled to Cross to release her.

“Let her go.”

“If you don’t want her, boss. I’ll take her.”

“I said, let her go.”

Cross reluctantly released the girl, who hurried back to the relative safety of the stove.

“Get us some bread, girl.” Wallace ordered. “German, hand me that bottle of whiskey.”

The German reached the bottle over to Wallace, who poured himself another big drink. Weeping silently, Clara pulled the biscuits from the stove oven and prepared to serve them to the men. Sullen and quieter now, the outlaws continued hammering down the whiskey.

——————————

AS HE HAD WHEN THEY approached the Yavapai village, Parnell found higher ground for he and Zack to scout the area before deciding on a plan of action. They saw the two guards at the front of the canyon, the cabins, and the guard back by the horse corral. Zack had moved up next to Parnell when the frontiersman signaled him to stay down. He put a finger to his lips, and they watched as a rider suddenly appeared at the head of the canyon. The guards waved the man in.

“It’s the agent, Jones.” Zack whispered.

“Curse his filthy hide.”

They watched Jones salute the guards then ride on to the large cabin where he hitched his horse alongside the three mounts in front. He hopped down and hurried into the main cabin.

——————————

INSIDE THE MAIN OUTLAW CABIN, Wallace, Cross, and the German were devouring stew and biscuits. They ate sloppily, their beards and mustaches full of stew pieces and biscuit crumbs. Suddenly, the front door opened, and Jones entered. In a heartbeat he was greeted by three drawn .44 caliber pistols, all aimed right at his chest. He stopped in his tracks.

“P—please, don’t shoot.” He stuttered, both hands raised high. “I’m here to warn you.”

“You bloody fool, Jones.” The German slowly lowered his weapon.

“I could blow your damn head right off, Indian trader.” Cross brought his pistol down as well.

“And I ought to let him do it.” Wallace did not lower his pistol. “Do something like that again, and I will.”

“Sorry, captain, but I came to warn you. You know me, I always do right by you.”

“Shee-it.” Cross laughed.

“So, warn me.”

“It’s that meddlesome doctor. The one back at the Fort.” Jones looked across the room, noticing Clara for the first time. Cross saw.

“What’s the matter? Never seen a white woman before, squaw man?”

Jones stared at Clara, but she lowered her head to avoid his gaze, then turned and faced the stove.

“So, what has the doctor done?” Wallace waved his pistol at Jones.

“Somehow,” Jones tore himself away from looking at the girl, “they got wind of the Yavapai, uh, situation back at the fort. Now, that busybody doctor got them all riled up about it and that girl there. They say they’re coming after you.

“The damn cavalry.” Cross blew out a deep breath. “Whew.”

“Yes, the cavalry. And anyone else that old sawbones could muster. Vigilantes. They want your hide, Wallace.”

“Lot of people want my hide.”

“I say we head straight for Mexico.” The German proposed.

“You afraid of the army, German?”

“Don’t you understand. It’s not just the army coming. Indians, whoever hates you all.”

“The army couldn’t whup their own mother.” Cross declared. “I say we stand and fight.”

“It’s a large force. Civilians, too. They may….”

“Shut up, Jones.” Wallace rose from his chair. “All of you, shut up. It’ll take them a good day or more to track us. No reason to panic. Cross, send a couple of boys out as scouts. We’ll get ready here and then head out in the morning.”

“I could go with them.” Jones edged toward the door.

“You stay here with me.” Wallace motioned for him to sit. “I want to see where you’re at.” Jones sulked but made no effort to leave.

Wallace signaled to Cross who headed for the door. “Send one of those idiots that let our Indian Agent friend in so easily.”

“Yes, sir, boss.”

——————————

FROM THEIR OVERLOOK OF THE outlaw camp, Parnell and Zack saw Cross come out of the larger cabin and go into the smaller one. He shortly emerged again followed by two other outlaws.

“Something’s up,” Parnell pointed. “Look.”

Down below, Cross gesticulated, and he and the two men grabbed the three horses in front of the larger cabin and led them up to where the two guards were at the entrance to the hideout. Cross motioned to the first guard and then the guard and the two other men mounted the horses and rode out of the camp. Cross spoke with the remaining guard for a moment then headed back to the larger cabin.

When Cross reentered the cabin, Parnell backed down the hill to his horse. He reached in his saddlebag and came up with two sticks of dynamite. He made his way back to Zack’s side.

“What’s that for, Mister Parnell. What are you fixing to do?”

“There’s no telling how many of those varmints are in that little cabin. I aim to blow ‘em out of there.

“What if my sister’s in there?”

“No way. She’s in the big one with Wallace and his cronies. She’s too valuable to him, he won’t let her out of his sight.”

“What about the two guards left?”

“The one at the back by the corral has done dropped off. He’s asleep, the fool.”

“How do we do it?”

Parnell pulled a large hunting knife from his belt and ran it along under his own chin as if slitting a throat. Zack gulped. Parnell handed the boy the big knife.

“Wha—what about you?”

Parnell pulled up his pant leg to reveal another knife in his boot.

“This will be the tough part, son, but we’ve got to get rid of the two guards. Then we blow the little cabin and I figure Wallace and his two confederates will come out at the explosion. We ambush them then.”

“I don’t know. I never cut nobody’s throat before.”

“You’ve got to, lad. We have to surprise them if we want to get your sister back. You can do it.” Zack looked doubtfully at the long, wide-bladed knife in his hands. “You take sleeping beauty back there. I’ll get the other one up front. Be ready to shoot when the explosions come. We’ll only have one chance with Wallace. He’s twice as mean as a rattlesnake and harder to catch and hold.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck, boy.”

“Y—yeah.”

Parnell moved off to the left, away from Zack who slowly and reluctantly worked his way down the hill towards the back of the camp.

Because the rear guard was asleep, he was easy to sneak up on. But that was little help to the indecisive Zack. He made several tentative steps toward the guard, but each time pulled back. Finally, his nerves got the better of him and he lost his grip on the knife. It fell to the ground, banging loudly off a rock. The guard awakened, slowly at first, eyes barely opening, then he realized what was up and he leaped to his feet brandishing a rifle.

In a panic, Zack went for his pistol and managed to drag it out and aim it at the guard. For a moment they both stood still, weapons trained on each other. Then, to the surprise of each, Zack’s gun discharged. The round hit the man directly in the heart. For a moment, he remained upright, shocked, then he fell backward onto the rocks, dead. Dumbfounded, Zack stared at the motionless outlaw. Then, without warning there was a tremendous roar as the first stick of Parnell’s dynamite went off back at the small cabin.

“Oh, my.” Zack leaped into action, raced toward the outlaw cabins. Just then the second stick of dynamite blew. “Dear Lord, help me.”

At the sound of Zack’s pistol going off at the back of the camp, the outlaws inside the main cabin had jumped up, grabbed weapons and taken up defensive positions behind wood covered windows. As they did, the first stick of Parnell’s dynamite went off causing general confusion. They jumped back and forth from window to window and then the second stick of dynamite exploded.

“Help me, Oh, Jesus, help me.” The agent, Jones, cried out in terror. “It’s the army. We’ll all be killed.”

He made a beeline for the front door, hell bent to escape. Clara also tried to run, but Cross quickly grabbed and held her, leaving Wallace and the German to deal with Jones and the unseen attackers beyond the cabin.

The agent made it to the front door and rushed out, but he only got a few feet before the German reached the doorway with pistol drawn. He fired twice, both rounds hitting Jones in the back, and the agent fell face first, dead on the ground. The German had little time to savor his kill, however, as pistol shots rang out and wood chips from the door flew around his head. He sprang back into the building, slamming the door shut behind.

“How many of them are there?” Wallace cried out.

“Couldn’t tell. At least two, three, maybe more.”

On the other side of the room, Cross continued struggling with Clara. “What do we do with this damn girl?”

“Tie her up.” Wallace told him. “She’s worth too much to leave.”

“We ought to kill her anyway.”

“Shut up and do what I tell you.”

Wallace grabbed a length of rope from a nearby table and tossed it to Cross. Just then, the door burst open and a mortally wounded outlaw staggered in burnt badly and bleeding. Clara used this moment of confusion to make her break.

She kicked Cross hard in the groin, doubling him up, and then ran out the front door. The wounded outlaw fell dead on the floor and a limping Cross, the German, and Wallace made for a large wooden window at the back of the cabin.

Cross swung the window open and was face to face with Irish Dan Parnell who instantly fired twice. One bullet hit the outlaw squarely in the chest, the other went right through his left eye. Cross fell dead, his body hanging half in, half out of the cabin.

The German appeared in the window behind the slumped body of Cross and Parnell raised his pistol again but was too slow. The German shot first, hitting Parnell in the left shoulder. The round spun the frontiersman around. Despite his wound he fired several shots back at the cabin, missing the outlaws but coming close enough to chase them back.

Inside the cabin, chaos fully reined.

“Come on, German.” Wallace yelled as he ran toward the front door.

“After you, Captain.”

“Come on you foreign bastard.”

“Go easy, we don’t know how many of them are out there.”

“If it’s that damn girl’s brother, I’ll kill and scalp the little son-of-a-bitch.”

“Getting out alive is all that matters.”

Recklessly they burst out of the cabin, pistols drawn but directly into Zack’s line of fire. Clara was behind him and he shielded her with his body.

“Get away, sister! Run!” He raised his pistol.

Clara scrambled off as Zack aimed his pistol and fired quickly. One round nicked Wallace high on the left thigh and he twisted away in pain. He fell against the German causing his shot to miss Zack, and in the collision he dropped his own pistol. Zack fired again and hit the German solidly in the chest, knocking him flat. He then took aim at Wallace who searched for his pistol. Unable to find it, the outlaw drew a huge hunting knife from his belt and rushed forward madly. Zack pulled the trigger again but the pistol misfired.

In the blink of an eye, Wallace was on the boy, knocking the pistol out of his hand and seizing him roughly. With a powerful backhand motion, he knocked Zack to the ground, semi-conscious. Clara, who had watched her brother’s struggle, charged Wallace. She hit and scratched him, but he quickly and roughly subdued her.

“Your brother and your pretty hair’s gonna be all mine, little girlie.” Wallace laughed.

With a sharp punch, he knocked Clara out. She fell beside her brother who, staggering and fuzzy headed, tried to stand. Wallace lifted him by his hair and held the hunting knife aloft, its sharp blade nearing Zack’s scalp.

At that moment, the wounded Parnell came around the corner of the cabin. He drew a bead on Wallace but just as he did, from the rolling smoke of the burning, smaller outlaw cabin, Mangas suddenly emerged like an apparition of bloody, vengeful death.

The outlaw pushed Zack away and turned to face the new threats. With a wild cry, Mangas fired the shotgun, buckshot ripping into Wallace’s chest. The outlaw stumbled back and dropped his knife. From instinct he reached for his pistol, but his holster was empty. Mangas fired the second barrel flush into the outlaw’s body. Wallace fell to the ground, dead at last.

For a long moment, the three remaining men, Zack, Parnell, and Mangas, looked at each other in silent amazement. Clara scurried back to Zack’s side and held onto him tightly. Then Mangas held up Zack’s shotgun in a gesture of shared recognition and triumph.

“Zack.” Clara tried to get her still dazed brother to understand. “That’s one of them. He’s one of the Indians that stole me and killed Momma and Daddy… and Janie.”

Parnell aimed his pistol at Mangas.

“No, wait.” Zack cried. “He just saved my life. Our lives, Clara. He was with the others, but he’s different, different than them.”

Parnell lowered his pistol and Zack signaled to Mangas with an upraised hand, palm outward. Manges shook the shotgun in the air, then tossed it over toward Zack.

At that moment, the group simultaneously turned toward the front of the canyon. With the thunderous sound of hooves hitting the ground, a cavalry detachment rode in. At their head was the Fort Yuma doctor. With them, in custody, were the three outlaw scouts that had left the hideout earlier.

The detachment came to a halt in front of Zack and the others. Parnell picked up movement to his right, turned and looked for Mangas, but the young Indian had vanished—disappeared behind the smoke and rubble of the smaller outlaw cabin. The doctor and a young captain dismounted and approached. The doctor quickly set in checking the injuries of the survivors, Clara first.

“Let me take a look at you, young lady.”

He gave Clara a cursory examination and smiled benevolently.

“No worse for the wear, considering what you’ve been through. You’re a strong, and lucky, young woman. This galoot here just wouldn’t give up on you, you know?”

“Yes, sir, I knew he wouldn’t.”

“And you, Zack Stephens, another bop on that noggin of yours, boy, and you’re going to be addled.” Zack tried to laugh. “You’ll be fine, son, both of you will with some rest. We’ll get you back to the fort and you’ll be all right again in no time.”

Finally, the doctor checked Parnell’s gunshot wound.

“Looks like you got lucky, too, as luck goes, Mister Parnell. Bullet went right through you. We’ll bandage you for now and I’ll fix you up good as new back at the fort.”

He began applying a temporary bandage to Parnell’s wound.

“Easy there, Doc. It still smarts.”

“Sir,” the captain addressed Parnell, “one of our lead scouts tells me he saw a hostile near here. A young warrior, probably one of those involved in kidnapping the young lady here.”

“Well—”

“No, sir,” Zack interjected. “Your scout must have been mistaken. The ones that took my sister were all killed with the Yavapai in their village. There weren’t no survivors. Saw their bodies myself.”

Parnell and Clara exchanged looks as did the doctor and the captain. There was a silent pause.

“Perhaps you’re right.” The captain finally spoke. “The scout must have seen someone else.”

“Yes, captain.” Parnell nodded. “I’m sure that’s it. Your man saw someone else.”

The captain tapped the front of his hat with two fingers in a casual salute. The doctor finished with Parnell’s temporary bandage and then he and the captain moved off, rejoining the detachment.

“Well, miss.” The frontiersman said when the three of them were alone. “This is quite a brother you have here. He never once gave up on finding you.”

“You done everything, Dan, er, Mister Parnell.”

“I’m so grateful to you, Mister Parnell, and to my brother.”

“Maybe we’ll go on to California now, Clara, like you always talked about.”

“Do you mean it, Zack?” Clara hugged him. “Could we? Oh, yes, I want to now more than ever.”

“Would you come with us, Mister Parnell.” Zack and Clara looked hopefully at the weather-beaten face of the frontiersman.

“Yes, please do.” Clara smiled happily.

Parnell shuffled his feet, then looked down. “That’s mighty nice of you young folk to invite me and all, but….”

“But?” Zack asked.

“I reckon I’ll be stayin’ on here in the territory. This is my place, my country. This is where I belong.”

Parnell motioned for Zack and Clara to walk ahead and join the waiting doctor and the captain who held horses ready for them to ride.

“Well, sir.” Zack reached out his hand which the frontiersman shook. “If you ever change your mind.”

“Much obliged, son. Now let’s saddle up. We got a fair piece to go yet.”

“Yes, sir, we surely do.”

The group mounted their horses and rode off toward Fort Yuma and into the unseen but now hopeful future.