Strongheart

Joshua Strongheart went back to town. He decided to buy some more ammunition, sensing he was in for a fight. Maybe it was apprehension, but on a whim, he turned Gabriel around and rode back to the little smattering of buildings. Before him, directly across the valley beyond Westcliffe, he saw lightning flashes and angry clouds up smothering the top of Hermit Peak. Shortly after, he heard the distant sound of thunder. This was common along this long range of fourteeners, seeing blizzards way above timberline, or thunderstorms, even hearing thunder, but the storms were only above those mountains and seldom came overhead. It was strange to have such raging storms seemingly so near, yet also have beautiful sunny weather.

He walked into his back room and emerged with a hat-box. Opening it, he produced a black hat with round crown and flat, wide brim, identical to the one Joshua was wearing, minus the wide beaded headband. And also minus the large bullet hole produced by Big Scars Cullen during the shoot-out in Maverick Gulch.

Joshua was shocked, and even more so when Jerome said, “I forgot to give this to you. Zachariah Banta from up north rode in here yesterday and told me you would be riding through. He said to tell you simply that your new hat had come in. He had to order it from Texas from John B. Stetson, best hatmaker around, he said.”

“In fact,” Jerome Guy said, placing his index finger alongside his nose, “I would like to contribute to your continued survival, too. I just got a brand-new Winchester’s newest model, the 1873. Instead of the straight .44 you shoot in your old Henry, it shoots a .44-40 center-fire cartridge and shoots much better than that Henry rimfire Yellowboy you have been carrying. I had mine specially tooled and am giving it and several boxes of ammunition to you as a gift. I will be totally insulted if you refuse it or say anything other than thanks.”

Joshua gulped when the wealthy businessman produced the weapon from the back. The lever-action rifle was engraved along the entire barrel, and there was a gold inlaid grizzly bear on one side of the receiver and a bald eagle on the other. The stock was engraved as well. There was just no telling how many hours of labor had been put into the engraving. Strongheart knew that this brand-new rifle was a very expensive weapon.

They went out behind the saloon and Joshua test-fired it, loving the action and the handling. Having shot for only a few minutes, they went back inside, where he quickly cleaned the rifle, thanked Jerome profusely, and left for a destination uncertain and a fate even more so.

If nothing else, Strongheart’s mother had made him study and read constantly. One of his favorites was a poem written nineteen years earlier, in his youth, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, called the “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” after the famous action during the Crimean War the same year.

With a deep voice, Joshua recited the first several stanzas:

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.

He patted Gabe’s neck and laughed, and Gabriel nickered in response. He seemed to raise his head a little higher, collecting himself even more regally, and went into his floating stiff-legged trot, as Strongheart called it. Joshua felt the long tail slap him in the small of the back, so he knew the horse was doing his peacock strutting, with his tail curled up over his rump and hanging off to one side. The horse tossed his long mane from the left side of his neck, and it quickly fell back over the right side of his neck, where it usually lay.

The miles dropped away beneath the long legs and the easy riding fast trot. Joshua thought about other horses he had ridden, and he compared riding them with riding an old buckboard, while riding atop Gabriel was like riding in a Concord stage it was so smooth.

At the bottom of the grade, he turned north and now had the mountains to his immediate left and a wide valley opening out to his right with prairie to the east. He stayed at the edge of the range and kept close to the trees. Strongheart was close enough now that he decided to go into the trees at the first gulch and make camp for the night.

He did, not totally realizing that the gang of Harlance’s was already in camp in their hideout at Hardscrabble, less than five miles north of him. At that time, there was actually the Hardscabble Mining District several miles south and west of him, which contained the nearby Pocahontas-Humboldt and Bassick Mines.

Joshua found a good site and made camp with a smokeless fire. What little smoke it made was totally filtered by the trees so it was not visible by anybody traveling between Hardscrabble Junction, also known as Wetmore, and Florence eleven miles to the north. He heard a few shots well before dark, echoing off the ridges, which he correctly guessed were the young Indians practicing quick draw.

At first light the next morning, Joshua Strongheart dismounted, leaving Gabriel grazing in a small meadow among the trees on a ridge running from the peak directly overlooking the ruins of Hardscrabble and the sleeping outlaws down below. The Pinkerton considered just raining fire down on them from the safety of the rocks above with his new Winchester 1873. The Lakota half of him saw that as practical, but the white half of him, raised by a lawman, knew that he would have no solid argument in any court. He knew these men were training to kill him, plotting to kill him, practicing to kill him, but they had not attacked him, yet.

He slowly made his way down the ridge overlooking their hideout and simply watched. They had one man as a lookout in the rocks above their camp, but he was out of sight hundreds of feet below Joshua right now. Strongheart lay down with a telescope he carried in his saddlebags and simply watched the morning activities.

He was surprised at how lazy criminals actually were. These men slept until well past dawn, then he could tell they argued over who would stir up the morning fire. The outlaws had the remains of adobe buildings to stay in, which could have been made into very efficient shelters with a little effort. Strongheart had made camp during the night, eaten a nice dinner, breakfast, had hot coffee, good cover, water, and had struck camp, ridden several miles, climbed the mountain he was on, and down to his perch, all while these young men and Harlance were still in bed burning daylight. Their hideout was inefficient and trashy. They finally got a fire going and put a large coffeepot on it. Each man seemed to be responsible for his own breakfast, and two of them were drinking from whiskey bottles. A couple more had only coffee. The others seemed to just eat hardtack and maybe jerky. He saw one man make himself breakfast with a skillet and that was Harlance. Finally, two of them went to the makeshift stable to take care of the horses. Joshua’s horse always ate and drank before he did. That was his rule.

Four of them got into a card game with a lot of arguing, and two practiced quick draw a short distance from the camp. Strongheart watched and started mentally making notes on each man. In a gunfight, if forced, he would probably concentrate on eliminating these two first, as they were practicing. None of these young men impressed him, but there were seven of them altogether. He knew they would not come after him individually, but probably by ambush or by confronting him all at one time.

Fortunately Strongheart had his canteen with him, as they did not really do anything until noon. Then they all saddled up and rode toward Florence. He watched until they were several miles away, and then he sneaked down into their hideout to snoop around.

Joshua found several boxes of Colt .45 rounds, and even a box of .44-40s. He took them, figuring it was more important for him to possess them, than those who would kill him. He also figured that they would accuse one another and that would help his cause even further. He found items that he felt certain had been stolen, probably from Florence, such as women’s jewelry, and he made a mental note of each so he could tell the sheriff and provide descriptions. He figured maybe he could get these men arrested and avoid having to fight them, or at the least avoid having to fight all of them.

Joshua poked around their camp for another hour and decided he’d better get out of there. He carefully covered all tracks and signs of his presence and made his way back to the ridge. Just as he got to the base of the ridge, he heard them riding back toward camp, and he scrambled up the slope, trying not to leave obvious tracks and using every available piece of cover to conceal his movements.

He was slowly moving up when one of the outlaws came toward him. Strongheart rolled slightly to his left and lay still under some piñon branches. Half his body was exposed. His hand closed around the handle of his Colt, as the footsteps crunched menacingly upward. Then, he slowly moved the hand to his knife, thinking it would be better to be silent if he had to kill this man. Closer and closer the steps came, and now the man’s shadow fell across him, but he climbed right by Joshua. Strongheart looked, and the man went another fifteen feet, then crawled into the lookout position over the hideout, rifle in hand. The back of his left side was toward Joshua, who remained motionless.

Now he would need to use the stealth of his red forefathers to get himself out of danger. He was surprised the man had come so quickly to the lookout perch; he must have had another unsaddle his horse. Joshua slowly reached down with one hand and pulled each leg up, one at a time. Strongheart slowly, carefully removed his large-roweled Mexican spurs. There was a little metal bell on each that tinkled against the rowel as it spun. He carefully held the spurs still, put them together, and tucked them in his shirt. Next, he removed his boots and socks. Then he replaced his boots with no socks on under them. Now, knowing he still had many rocks to climb over, he placed a sock on each boot and pulled it up tight. This would help cover his footsteps, although much of his movement upward would be on hands and knees.

Now low-crawling on his belly, arms, and knees, he inched his way up the ridge past the lookout, being careful to move only when nobody below was looking his way. He was amazed that this lookout did not spot him, but the man apparently just was not very aware. It took Joshua two hours to crawl about one hundred yards up the ridge, where he could start moving crouched over from rock pile to tree to bush or cactus. An hour later, he was back up on top and his arms and legs were visibly shaking from overexertion.

He rejoined Gabe, who nuzzled him as if he sensed that Joshua had been through an ordeal. He saddled up and moved deeper back up the ridge, looking for a night location to operate from. The next day he would ride into Florence and then Canon City and try to give the information he had on the stolen property to the sheriff, and maybe see Annabelle briefly. If Joshua could get some of these men arrested for having that property, his job might be easier getting the ring back from Harlance. His pledge would be fulfilled.

Joshua rode until he found a jumble of boulders that would provide all he wanted in a camp, except water. Then he decided he would go ahead and move farther along the ridgeline and get closer to Florence, where he was headed the next day, plus he needed water for his horse. That could prove to be a fatal mistake, but he had no way of knowing it beforehand.

He headed along the ridge and finally decided to drop down into a deep wooded gulch that had a fast-flowing small stream in it. He would simply stay well upstream, where he was sure the outlaws would not venture, and make a good camp. There were many large rock piles in the gulch, and it was surrounded by high, rocky cliffs on both sides. He would simply have to be careful to make his camp a little higher than the stream, in case of flash flood. Strongheart knew how often dudes died in the mountains simply because they had no idea about the suddenness and extreme power of flash floods.

A man might make camp in a gulch or canyon in the mountains, unaware that a major rainstorm was occurring thousands of feet higher, at the head of the gulch. Suddenly, a wall of water, boulders, logs, and debris, sometimes twenty or thirty feet in height, would come roaring down the gulch with no warning and drop at close to the speed of gravitational pulls because of the gulch’s steepness. Like a giant avalanche of water instead of snow, such flash floods sometimes washed away whole parties of travelers, who were unaware until the wall of water was upon them, striking with such force it often killed them instantly.

Strongheart found a good spot among many large boulders, well up above the stream, but with water easily accessible for his horse to drink. There were many thick trees around to filter smoke and plenty of lush grass for Gabriel. The problem was he was now out of earshot and eyesight of the outlaws, assuming they would bed down in camp for the night.

They started to, until someone noticed that his box of .45s was missing. He accused another one of the Indian lads, and soon the knife fight was raging. Harlance intervened with a bullet in the air and a stern lecture about needing to cooperate or perish. He made the two shake hands, and he figured they had all been practicing hard and getting stir crazy in the hideout. They would go into Florence, visit the saloon, and find a brothel. His men, he decided, needed to let their hair down this night, so they rode toward Florence right after sunset.

After a hearty and leisurely breakfast, he broke camp a little later than usual and started out for Florence well after sunrise. It was a sunny day and the white on distant Pikes Peak glistened as he rode toward it southern slopes. As with many mountain sites in the West, riding there actually took a couple of days, but it looked not that far away.

At the same time, Harlance, knowing daylight was the enemy of the outlaw, was trudging around Florence on his horse trying to locate and round up his young charges. Having finally gathered up his gang, he took them to a small café on the main street to buy them breakfast. He figured that after the previous night, and his treating them to breakfast, they might not fight among themselves again. He knew he needed this force to keep him alive. He had no idea whether or not he was buying any last meals. The men were young and cocky and sure of their abilities, never doubting for a moment that they could all take Joshua Strongheart, even in a stand-up gunfight.

The seven ordered a large breakfast and Harlance told the cafe owner to keep the hot coffee coming. They were all halfway through the meal and starting to feel almost awake when the door opened up and a tall man walked in, wearing a new black round-topped, wide-brimmed hat. He had long, shiny black hair and was obviously half-white and half-red. It was Joshua Strongheart.

Harlance’s eyes opened wide, and his hand flashed down for his six-shooter, but he heard a click and saw the cocked Colt Peacemaker in Strongheart’s hand, while a second cocking sound came from the fancy Winchester he held in his other hand. That gun Joshua slowly moved back and forth, covering the gang of men, who foolishly all bunched up too close together.

The explosion split the air, and simultaneously Harlance’s left hand flew backwards and immediately started burning like there was a branding iron being held to it. The café owner screamed and ran out the back door along with the one other patron, a gray-haired old oil engineer. Harlance looked at his hand, and the little finger and ring finger of his left hand were missing. He quickly yanked off his scarf and wrapped it tightly around his hand. Tough as horseshoe nails, he would not let on how much pain he was in.

They removed their gun belts, except for two who carried belly guns and had no holsters. Then Joshua backed out the door. That was all he could think of at the moment, and by the time he got down the main street a short distance, he knew it was a bad idea—when he felt a bullet clip his left calf, heard a series of gunshots, and saw wood splinter on walls nearby.

He spun around and the six gang members were outside the café shooting with their newly acquired skills. Joshua tucked his .45 into the holster and brought the Winchester up. There was one thing that Dan had taught him, and that was that a man who kept his head in a gunfight would fare far better than anybody who simply tried fast draw. That kind of action was for pulp books. Joshua brought the rifle up and shot one young man through the heart. He simply folded up like an accordion.

Joshua also felt something rising up in him, maybe anger, or maybe righteous indignation: Here were six men firing six-shooters wildly at him. That was also when he noticed that Harlance had dashed back into the café. Joshua walked forward slowly, shooting a second man through the shoulder. He cocked the rifle and felt something slam into his stomach. He fired again at the man and caught him full in the chest. These two men down were the two he’d identified as the most careful shooters. He had not even realized he was operating in the way he had already programmed his mind to work. Another bullet slammed into his thigh just as he shot again, missing horribly as he was spun halfway around. His leg did not feel like it would hold him up.

The warrior quickly cocked and fired at another outlaw; he caught him in the middle of the forehead and half the man’s head disappeared. His body remained upright for a split second, then he fell forward on what used to be his face.

The outlaws were still firing wildly and reloading as fast as they could. Dogs were barking, and Joshua could hear women screaming and a child crying somewhere. Another bullet slammed into the left side of his abdomen, and Strongheart knew he was dying, but these men were all going with him, and in the aftermath, they would find Annabelle’s ring in his pocket. He felt weak and dizzy now, but he started laughing thinking about the look on Harlance’s face when he realized why Strongheart had been pursuing him.

He fired once more with the rifle and saw another hopeful young gunfighter fall. Joshua’s leg was broken, but he was still moving forward, intoxicated now by battle lust. He dropped his Winchester and drew his six-shooter and fanned shots at the remaining two men. He saw one get hit twice in the chest, and the other as flame spat from the young man’s gun.

Strongheart literally saw a red flash coming at his right eye and felt something slam into his right temple, and suddenly the world went black. The sounds and echoes of gunfire quickly faded, and he heard that same dog barking, and he heard his own laughter, then nothing. He fell into a deep, dark pool of blackness.

The outlaw and highwayman, the cold killer Harlance McMahon heard the shots of the gun battle die down a half mile behind him as he galloped his horse toward his hideout to grab his gear and get the heck out of there. He could not believe that crazy fool had gone through all that Strongheart had done simply to keep a promise. Harlance just could not conceive of that kind of honor or principle in anybody. When the fight started, and he saw Strongheart turn and start firing instead of rushing for a building, he remembered what had happened at the stage holdup when they thought this same man was dead. He had no clue the warrior was lying motionless on the main street of Florence right now, filled with bullet holes. He just knew that the shooting had stopped, and he was certain he had no gang left. He was right. They were all dead. Killed in a gunfight by the one man they had trained and practiced to kill.

Harlance rode his horse hard, although he knew better. He wondered if Strongheart knew where his hideout was. He wondered if Joshua was wounded and maybe slowed down. He would put plenty of miles between himself and Florence before he would even stop to eat or rest.

An hour later, he could not help himself. Harlance and Jeeter had been raised in the mountains and the mountains were what they knew. He turned right, or west, and headed back toward Westcliffe. Twice he rode up on ridges to glass the country back toward Florence and see if Strongheart was in pursuit.

The outlaw just could not get it out of his mind that the crazy half-breed had traveled all those miles and fought so many men only to keep a promise. He just could not understand that kind of thinking. He had never been so frightened in his life, and he did not understand why. He’d known plenty of tough men.

The problem was, though, Harlance had never in all his years, with all the toughs he’d known, met a man with the heart and emotional toughness of Joshua Strongheart. Harlance hated the man, maybe because he could never be like him, not in a day. Not in a million years.

The outlaw started being more sensible with his horse. He had been riding the owlhoot trail too long to ride such a good mount into the ground. He decided he would take it easy, at a brisk but careful pace, in the climb back up to the Wet Mountain Valley. He would stop at the saloon in Westcliffe and have a whiskey. Heck, he thought, he would have a bottle of whiskey. Then he would either head over Music Pass into the San Luis Valley or maybe he would have to go Cotopaxi and go west from there.

After McMahon had heard the shooting stop and wondered if Strongheart was saddling up to pursue him, the tall warrior had lain on his back as people emerged from buildings. Blood dripped out of several gun holes in his body. The right side of his head was misshapen, and his right eye was swollen completely shut. He continued to lie on his back as wide-eyed citizens walked up slowly, and all that moved was his long, shiny hair blowing across his rugged face.