Chapter Five

The more Sam Brady thought about it the angrier he became.

He’d lost two men last night during what should have been easy pickings. And he himself had been winged, a slug creasing his left arm, but he’d bound the flesh wound and now that it had stopped bleeding, the pain had receded to a dull throb. He just hoped infection didn’t set in and he was well aware that out here, without the attention of a doctor, even such a minor wound as this could prove fatal.

Someone had come up behind them, placed them in the crossfire between the newcomer and the wagon’s people, and as unlikely as it seemed, the old bandit knew who that the newcomer must have been. It was that damn Arkansas Smith – somehow he knew that. Only Smith or an Indian could get that close to Brady without him being aware of it.

There was no other answer – Smith must have survived the caves.

‘Damn the man,’ Brady spat tobacco juice into the fire. ‘Why won’t he just die?’

‘Who?’ Tommy looked up from the fire, his simpleton eyes reflecting the flames of the fire, his lips pursed as if still holding the question.

Brady got to his feet and walked over to a small tree at the edge of the clearing. He pulled his knife from its sheath and stabbed the flesh of the tree; over and over he delved the knife into the soft wood of the sapling, tearing away chunks as if it were his mortal enemy.

As if it were Arkansas Smith.

‘Arkansas Smith,’ he said and spun on his feet. His eyes blazing, he held the knife out before him as though challenging anyone who felt the urge to disagree.

‘Smith’s dead,’ Tommy said and laughed but none of the other men joined in with the hilarity and all eyes were directed on the bandit who had led them for so long. Even the two Comanche stared at the old man with something like awe in their eyes.

‘Is he?’ Brady said with venom that silenced the laughter. Tommy may not have been the smartest of men; frankly he was a good throw behind an idiot, but he had learned enough about the old bandit called Brady to recognize the need for silence. ‘Then like the Lord he’s been resurrected.’

‘Ressi-rec?’ Tommy’s face clouded over.

‘Brung back to life, fool,’ Jim Carter said and elbowed Tommy in the ribs.

‘Brung back to life,’ Brady mumbled and walked over to the Comanche known as Kicking Horse. The bandit knelt so that he was face to face with the Indian, who was lounging on the ground. ‘You said there was no other way out of those caves.’

‘There isn’t.’

‘Never trust an in’jun,’ said the man known as Blade, on accounting of how he liked to skin people with the Bowie knife he carried, but everyone ignored him.

Brady pulled his Colt and stuck its ugly eye up against the Indian’s forehead, which caused his companion Flightless Eagle, who was seated next to Kicking Horse to reach for his knife, but suddenly there were four guns pointed at him and the Indian held his hand clear of the weapon.

‘Then how did Smith escape?’ Brady asked and pushed the gun tighter against the Indian’s head, leaving an indentation in the skin.

‘Maybe he turned into a great bird,’ the Indian said matter of factly. ‘And flew out above through the walls of the cave.’

Brady stared at the Indian and he considered pulling the trigger, blowing his brains out, but that would be pointless. He holstered the weapon and stood up.

‘Listen to me, you heathen fools,’ Brady said, staring at the two Indians. ‘Arkansas Smith can’t turn into no damn bird. There must have been another way out.’

‘He can turn into a bear,’ Flightless Eagle said.

‘What?’ Brady knew these Comanche could talk considerable mumbo-jumbo but this was too much for the aged bandit.

‘It is true,’ Kicking Horse said. ‘Many tales are told of the man the white-eyes call Arkansas Smith. The Comanche call him the Whispering-Wind. He appears out of nowhere and is a changeling. He can come as any of the creatures under the Great Spirit’s sky. I saw him once turn into a bear.’

‘You saw him?’

Kicking Horse nodded. ‘I was but a boy and the man called Arkansas was surrounded by braves. He turned and fled into a great forest and then emerged as a bear. Eight of the ten braves died that day and the bear man escaped.’

‘Why you fool,’ Brady said. ‘The bear must have already been in the forest. Men can’t change into bears or any other animal.’

‘No,’ Kicking Horse was insistent. ‘This was a man bear. I saw it.’

‘Well I’ll turn Arkansas Smith into a dead man,’ Brady spat the words out and looked at the Indian with incredulity.

‘The man called Arkansas Smith is bad medicine,’ Flightless Eagle put in wisely.

‘Well maybe he turned into a mole and burrowed his way out of them damn caves,’ Brady said and stomped over to the fire. He knelt and poured coffee into a tin mug and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled his hat up from where it hung between his shoulder blades and plopped it back on his head.

‘Heathen fools,’ he muttered and spat tobacco juice into the fire.

The last few weeks had been a war and Brady felt like a weary general who had seen one too many battles.

He’d had a bad feeling about this from the get-go and although never one for caution, Brady wished that this time he had listened to his own intuition. That a posse had been sent out after them was no surprise. The last job had been an army payroll, and came after a string of bank and stage hold-ups, so it was to be expected. There was a large bounty on Brady’s head and lesser amounts on the heads of each of his rapidly dwindling gang. At first the posse had been of little concern and Brady had merely kept ahead of them and waited for them to lose his trail, but the realization that the men were being led by Arkansas Smith had filled the bandit’s heart with dread.

What was it they said about the man called Arkansas Smith?

That he walked like an ox, ran like a fox, swam like an eel and fought like a demon. He could spout like an earthquake, make love like a wild bull and swallow an Indian whole without choking. And what’s more, according to the two Comanche fools he could change into any animal at will.

‘Arkansas Smith,’ Brady said without realizing he had spoken aloud. His men all looked at him but none said a word.

They’d first noticed the posse somewhere around Fort Laramie and had fled down towards Cheyenne but the posse kept pace, more than that it gained on them. Brady’s gang had decided to lay in wait for the posse, ambush them. They had chosen a likely spot and positioned themselves in the rocks above a wide but shallow lake. The posse would need to cross the lake and the outlaw felt confident that he and his gang could wipe out most if not all of the men in the ambush. Once they had reached the lake there would be no cover for the posse and nowhere to run. The outlaws would be able to pick them off like targets in a shooting gallery. It should have been as easy as that.

And so Brady had spread his men out at strategic points in the rock face while they lay in wait for the posse, who could be seen as a faint dust cloud on the far horizon, to approach. While the bandits waited, Brady casually picked at his nails with the tip of his knife. He would look up from time to time, notice the posse had gotten that much closer, and then go back to the task at hand. Soon the posse were close enough for Brady to peer through his telescope and make out their faces. It was then that the bandit discovered Arkansas Smith was riding point, leading up the team of a dozen or so men. That had shocked the bandit. He had heard the rumours that Smith was now some sort of lawman but he hadn’t believed it. And yet the sight he had seen through the lens confirmed it.