“Ma-du,” Broken Reed pronounced softly, and smiled as she passed Matt on her way to fill her water bucket.
Matt nodded and returned the smile. He watched the ample figure as she made her way down to the edge of the river for a moment before he turned to Ike. “She always says that, Ma-do, when she sees me. What does it mean? Is she callin’ me a coyote or somethin’?”
The question caused Ike to chuckle. “Nah, she ain’t callin’ you nothin’. She’s just callin’ your name, Ma-du—that’s Cherokee for Matt.”
“Oh.” Matt thought about that for a moment, then pronounced it again as it sounded to him, “Ma-do.” He smiled at Ike. “I didn’t figure there was a Cherokee word for Matt. You speak Cherokee?”
“Tsalagi is how they say it,” Ike replied. “There ain’t no ch sound in their language. Their real name, when they’re talkin’ about theirselves, is Aniyunwiya. It means real people or somethin’ like that. I don’t know but a few words—enough to let Broken Reed know what I want. She knows enough American so’s I know what she’s wantin’. We get along pretty good—sorta meet in the middle.” He chuckled at the thought.
Matt sat down next to the cabin wall, letting the warm afternoon sun penetrate to his bones. The days were getting shorter. Ike said that chilly weather could probably be expected within three or four weeks. The thought caused him to look at the deer hides stretched out to dry. Broken Reed had taken over his hides, and was busy softening them. Not willing to wait for the stiff skins to cure, she had already begun sewing Matt’s new clothes, using previously softened hides of her own. Like Ike, she felt there was little time left before the chilly breezes would come sweeping across the prairie, cutting through Matt’s threadbare cavalry britches.
Following his new friend’s gaze, Ike guessed what Matt was thinking. “It won’t be long till you’ll be all dressed up like a wild Injun. Broken Reed works fast. I seen her eyeballin’ them boots of your’n, too—wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t make you some warm moccasins for the winter.”
“I’m obliged,” Matt said. He had been warmly received by Broken Reed and her father, Old Bear. The old man lived in a lodge made of buffalo hides, attached to the cabin Ike had built for his wife. Ike said that Old Bear was the chief of this little band of Cherokees. He had walked the Trail of Tears from Carolina, when so many of his people had perished when the government forced them from their ancestral home. The only symbol of any authority he now wore was a small silver cross, given to him by a missionary. The cross was worn on a rawhide thong around the old man’s neck. Thinking about it, Matt unconsciously reached up and stroked the tiny silver medal he wore around his own neck.
Old Bear’s village was small, with no evidence of prosperity, but the people all seemed to hold Ike in high regard. Matt supposed their fondness for the grizzly bear of a man had a lot to do with the fact that Ike supplied the village with meat and hides. Most of the game around Old Bear’s village had been hunted out, and the food rations promised by the government were slow in coming, and sometimes not coming at all. Ike complained that hunting trips were taking longer and longer, since the game was getting so scarce. When Matt asked why the young men of the village didn’t do more to supply food, Ike responded. “Look around you. You see many young men?” He answered his own question. “Hell, there ain’t no young men. Any that can, get the hell outta here as soon as they can. Wouldn’t you?”
Matt had to admit that he would, given the circumstances. But then, he was a man prone to wander, anyway. He would most likely have left the Shenandoah sooner or later, even had he not been forced to run for his life.
For now, he was content to relax for a while, unburden his mind of serious thoughts, and let his horses fatten up a little on the rolling grassland. The bay and his big blue roan grazed with the Indian ponies, and Matt thought he could at last see some signs that Blue was learning to live without a constant portion of oats. The bay needed time to heal before Matt was ready to load a pack on him again. The horse had managed to wedge a granite shard inside the edge of its shoe, causing a bruise to develop. It was healing rapidly, but the horse still favored it. Too bad the horse doesn’t heal as fast as Ike, Matt thought. The huge man barely favored his wounded shoulder—testimony, Matt supposed, to either an amazing healing capacity, or a magic touch by Broken Reed. Matt was beginning to enjoy this leisure life as he sat with his back to the cabin wall, soaking up the sun from a clear Oklahoma sky.
“Hi-gi,” Broken Reed interrupted his reverie, and he opened his eyes to see her smiling face. “Hi-gi,” she repeated. “Eat.”
“Let’s eat it before she throws it to the dogs,” Ike said.
Yessir, Matt thought to himself, a man could get plumb spoiled by this kind of treatment. He could understand why Ike chose to live with his Cherokee wife. Broken Reed stepped back to allow the men to precede her, smiling at Matt as he passed by. When Ike followed, she reached out and patted his ample stomach. “Ya-ni-sa,” she teased, and giggled delightedly when the huge man grabbed for her. Too quick for his lunge, she danced away from him.
“I’ll show you who’s a buffalo,” he threatened playfully, and chased her toward the cabin. Matt couldn’t help but grin, watching the youthful antics of his big friend. Their play did, indeed, invoke the image of a buffalo bull chasing after a wolf pup. For a moment, Matt envied his friend. Though only half his age, Broken Reed seemed to glow in Ike’s presence. It was a good marriage.
* * *
Before long, Matt’s contentment with total relaxation waned, and he began to feel the itch to push on to country he had not yet seen. The rolling country around Old Bear’s village had taken on a monotony that prompted him to think about the Rocky Mountains he had heard about. Ike fully understood his young friend’s urge to see the high country. In his earlier years, Ike had succumbed to the same urges. He was just a boy when he followed his uncle out to Montana Territory, to Alder Gulch and many of the other little creeks, searching for gold. Like most of the other prospectors, they enjoyed spotty luck, finding dust here and there, most of which was squandered away by his uncle on strong spirits and card games. “I roamed the wild country for a few years,” Ike said. “Saw a lot of the territory, the Bitterroots, the Wind River Mountains, the Bighorns.” He paused to recollect, a misty look in his eye. “Hell, I reckon I’d still be roamin’ around somewhere out there if I hadn’t rode through Oklahoma Territory about seven years ago, and had Broken Reed throw a halter on me.” He laughed at the thought. “I’ve thought about takin’ her with me and headin’ outta this place, but she’s got relatives here she has to take care of. So I reckon this is where I’ll stay till they put me in the ground.”
“I expect it’s time for me to move on,” Matt stated. “It’s gonna be gettin’ into cold weather pretty soon, and I reckon if I’m gonna head to the high country, I’d best not waste any more time.”
“You sure you don’t wanna light here until spring? It gets mighty damn cold out on the high prairie. A man can freeze to death right quick.”
“I’ll be all right,” Matt assured his friend. “Broken Reed has fixed me up with some dandy winter clothes.” He paused to laugh. “Besides, if I lay around here much longer, I might get as lazy as you.”
Once the seed of adventure had taken root in his mind, it was not long before Matt developed an itch to be on his way. He had no particular destination in mind; he just had an urge to see what lay beyond the horizon. He had always been like that. When his folks were killed, he insisted that Owen should inherit the farm. He had been satisfied with the small parcel down by the river, knowing at the time that he was bound to leave it sooner or later. Had it not been for the war, he probably would have already been west of the high prairie. Now, he reminded himself, there was an additional reason to keep moving: an arrest warrant back east. It was his hope that he had left those who might be searching for him behind.
Ike interrupted his thoughts. “One of the young boys, Crooked Foot, and some of his friends told Old Bear they saw deer sign aplenty while they was huntin’ over near the Flint Hills. Whaddaya say you hang around a little longer, and we’ll do a little huntin’?” It was obvious to him that Matt was turning the prospect over in his mind, so he was quick to encourage the idea. “Most of the whitetails around here have been scared off. Crooked Foot said it looked like a sizable herd on the move. It’s a little early for the ruttin’ season to start. I expect the bucks ain’t hardly started to claim their does yet. They’ll all be fat and sassy, carryin’ their summer weight. Whaddaya say, Matt? We could use that rifle of your’n—be a good chance to pack in a lot of meat and hides for the village.”
The prospect was tempting. Matt always enjoyed hunting, but the last comment Ike had made convinced him. It would be a good opportunity to help supply the village with meat, and he felt obliged to the people in Old Bear’s camp. They had made him feel welcome, and thanks to Broken Reed’s deft hand, he was now outfitted for the coming winter in warm buckskins. “I reckon,” he finally answered. “Hell, I ain’t on any time schedule.”
Ike’s face immediately lit up with a wide smile. Gazing at the happy reaction from his friend, it struck Matt that he had come to be quite fond of Ike in the short time they had known each other. He was going to miss the man.
* * *
The hunt was quickly organized, with every able male member of the tribe eager to join. Due to the lack of young men in the village, it was a party of old men and boys. They all turned to Ike to lead the party, and with Crooked Foot acting as guide, they started out early the next morning. After taking a final look at Ike’s shoulder wound, Broken Reed nodded her satisfaction with the progress of the healing. She then cast an appraising eye at Matt’s buckskin shirt and trousers, again nodding her satisfaction with the results of her efforts. Though no more than half her husband’s age, Broken Reed tended to fuss over Ike in a fashion more motherly than wifely.
Riding a paint pony, Crooked Foot led them north after crossing over the river, then veered off to a more northwesterly course. According to Eke, if they were to hold that course for a couple of days, it would eventually lead to the Flint Hills and the tail-grass country. The deer Crooked Foot had discovered were far short of that, moving slowly through the hills, feeding on plants and grasses along the many streams, bedding down during the middle of the day in the ravines and dry washes. Once they reached the area where Crooked Foot had first encountered the deer, however, they discovered that the herd had moved farther north. “They ain’t far ahead of us, though,” Ike commented, examining the sign. Crooked Foot nodded in agreement.
Matt had to admire Crooked Foot’s ability to read sign. Only fourteen years of age, the Cherokee boy seemed to know what the deer were thinking just by examining the sharp hoofprints and the droppings. According to Ike, Crooked Foot was born with a deformed ankle bone, causing his right foot to toe in, resulting in a slight limp. His disability failed to hamper him in any activity. In fact, he had come to be admired by both his peers and the elders of the village as a responsible young man.
Confident in his own skills as a tracker, Matt studied a set of tracks that led away from a stream where the deer had stopped to drink. “Looks like they’re splittin’ off into small groups,” he decided. “This looks like a bunch of does, judging by the tracks.” He stood up to scan the terrain ahead. “I’d bet they headed for that patch of woods at the foot of those hills.” He pointed out a stand of cottonwoods about a quarter of a mile ahead. Crooked Foot nodded. The deer were seeking shady havens to rest in before looking for food in the cool of the evening.
There were a multitude of tracks near the tiny stream. Crooked Foot had been right in estimating a good-sized herd passing through the area. “Bucks there,” he said, pointing to a set of tracks heading off in a different direction. The hunting party decided to stalk the does, both for the quality of the meat and the softness of the hides. They divided into two groups. The first was led by Crooked Foot, and started out following the tracks heading toward the cottonwoods. Ike and Matt led the remainder of the party in a wide circle toward a low pass about five hundred yards beyond the grove of trees. Crooked Foot and his boys would flush the deer and drive them toward the pass where Matt and Ike would be waiting with their rifles.
In a short time, the ambushing party was in position. There was little doubt that the two white men would account for the major harvest of meat, but the old men and boys that lay in wait with them would take a respectable share with nothing more than bows. They had all barely gotten set when they heard the whoops and yells of Crooked Foot’s party. “East or west?” Matt asked casually as he cranked a cartridge into the chamber.
“East,” Ike replied, equally casual, and shifted his rifle around to sight along the left side of the pass.
Ike had already developed a fondness for this quiet young man from the Shenandoah Valley. He was soon to discover Matt’s proficiency with a Henry repeating rifle. With both men concentrating on the narrow pass, the deer suddenly appeared. There were seven, all does, and they burst through the opening, darting this way and that, but generally bolting up the western slope out of the pass. Matt rose to one knee and took aim. Methodically, with no waste of time between shots, he knocked down four of the deer—all kill shots—before the rest of the frightened animals disappeared into the trees on the slope. The waiting hunters immediately gave chase. Matt and Ike remained.
“Damn,” Ike remarked, still marveling at the show of marksmanship, easing back on the hammer of his rifle, the barrel still cool. “You don’t need no help a’tall, do ya?”
“They broke on the western side,” Matt replied contritely, thinking Ike was complaining that he didn’t get a shot.
Ike laughed and got to his feet. “That was some shootin’, partner,” he said, shaking his head in awe.
Crooked Foot and the others ran two of the remaining three does to ground, killing them with their bows. Later in the afternoon, the hunters flushed another bunch from a pocket of oaks farther along the line of hills, taking three young bucks. With a harvest of nine deer, the small hunting party decided it was time to call an end to the hunt, and get about the business of skinning and butchering. The final score was five killed with arrows and four by Matt’s rifle. Ike had not fired a shot. Although he made a show of unconcern, he could not totally hide his aggravation. Crooked Foot seemed especially amused by Ike’s lack of success, and could not help but tease his white friend.
“Next time, maybe we try to catch an old buck, and tie him to a tree. Then you can shoot him.”
Ike laughed, taking the teasing good-naturedly. He knew Crooked Foot actually held him in high esteem. In fact, the boy looked upon the older white man much like an uncle. Still, it bothered him more than he would ever admit that he had not killed a deer. His chance for redemption came unexpectedly, however, and almost as a gift. Riding back to the four does, Ike caught a flicker of movement in the trees on the western slope. Realizing that no one else had noticed it, he kept an eye on the clearing below the trees, and quietly cocked his rifle. Sure enough, the surviving doe of the original seven emerged from the foliage. Frightened and confused, the doe had evidently been chased in circles by the Cherokee hunters. The sharp crack of Ike’s rifle dropped the unfortunate doe at the edge of the clearing, bringing the total kill to an even ten.
“Most times you’ll get more meat if you keep your eyes open instead of your mouth,” Ike told Crooked Foot, with a wink for Matt.
Now the real work began as the hunters began the skinning and quartering. Soon all ten carcasses were hanging from tree limbs, gutted. When most of the blood had been drained, they were cut down and quartered, and readied for the trip back to the village. This time of year it was especially important to dry the meat as soon as possible to preserve it, so the hunters wasted little time in starting back. They had ridden a meandering trail while tracking the deer. On the trip back, it would be a shorter, more direct route.
* * *
Some nine miles away, Broken Reed paused for a few moments to listen. She had suddenly felt a sense of foreboding—something she could not explain, as if aware of an approaching storm. She put a half-finished basket aside and got to her feet. Outside, the sky was crystal blue, with no sign of a cloud. Looking back toward the other lodges and huts, she saw nothing amiss in the tiny village. The women were getting ready for a busy time when the hunters returned. Still, the sense of apprehension would not leave her mind, so she walked down by the river and stood for several minutes, looking toward the hills to the west. She wished that Ike would return soon. The hunters had been gone for two days now. She hoped that they had not had to trail the deer for too long, and might be back before another day had passed.
Broken Reed felt safe from all danger when Ike was at home. Standing now on the bank of the river, she pictured the great hulk of a man with his almost ever-present smile all but hidden in his bushy beard. She knew that Ike was born with an incurable wanderlust, and when he took her for his wife, she expected that one day she would turn and find him gone. But she discovered after seven years of marriage that the huge man possessed a faithful soul. And while the urge to wander sometimes overcame him, he always returned, usually with presents for her and her father. After a moment, she shrugged, shaking the feeling of dread from her mind. Ike and his new friend would soon be back, she told herself. Then she turned and retraced her steps to the cabin, unaware of the gathering evil that was about to strike her peaceful little village.
* * *
“It ain’t much of a village.” Nate Simmons remarked as Brance rode up beside him to take a look.
The two were soon joined by the rest of the gang, and the seven outlaws formed a line on the low ridge overlooking the valley. Brance studied the modest cluster of tipis and log cabins. Then he looked at the few ponies grazing on the far side of the river. “It’s a sorry lookin’ village all right,” he finally commented. This was the third village they had discovered after having followed the Illinois for over twenty miles. At first glance, they all looked about the same, devoid of any sign of prosperity. Brance was beginning to lose interest in his search for revenge. Each little Indian village they came to offered nothing to compensate for their long ride through the Cherokee Nation. The rest of the men were already grumbling among themselves, complaining about the tedious journey with no opportunity for reward—all but one.
Tyler gave his horse a sharp kick, and the animal started down the ridge. “We ain’t gonna find the bastard settin’ up here lookin’,” he snarled.
The others made no move to follow his lead, hanging back to complain. After waiting until the violent man was out of earshot, Church voiced the complaint that was on everyone’s mind. “Dammit, Brance, this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere. There shore as hell ain’t nothin’ in the whole damn Injun Territory worth stealin’. How long are we gonna follow that mad dog? Them two we’re lookin’ for might not’ve headed back here, a’tall. For all we know, they mighta headed on north to St. Louie, and right now they’re settin’ in a saloon somewhere while we’re out here eatin’ dust.”
His comments were met with mumbled echoes of agreement. Eli nodded thoughtfully and turned to his longtime partner. “Church is right, Brance. We sure as hell could be doin’ somethin’ a whole lot less wearisome.”
Brance gave it some thought. Although his passion to settle with the young fellow called Shannon was admittedly cooling somewhat, Brance still felt some reluctance to let him get away. What Church said was true—Shannon and the man he took up with might not have ridden this way at all. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. We’ve rode a helluva long way to give up now.” He nodded toward Tyler, already halfway down the ridge. “Tyler sure as hell ain’t thinkin’ about turnin’ back.”
“Hell,” Spit chimed in, “let Tyler do whatever the hell he wants.” He spat to punctuate his remarks. “That crazy son of a bitch might keep ridin’ till he hits the Pacific Ocean.”
Sensing that he might be seeing signs of dissension among his men, Brance glanced at his lieutenant. Seeing Eli’s nod, he made a decision. “All right,” he said, “we’ll ride on down and look this little village over. If Shannon ain’t hidin’ out here, we’ll say to hell with it, and head toward Missouri.” That seemed to meet with everyone’s approval, so they started down the ridge after Tyler.
Surprised to see riders approaching their village, the people walked forward to see what manner of white men would have reason to be in this part of the Cherokee Nation. Past experience had taught them to be wary of whites traveling the territory, so it was with a somewhat guarded posture that Old Bear greeted Brance’s gang. Reading the eyes of the foremost rider, Old Bear sensed a need for caution. The man had the look of a hunter of men.
“Hey, old man,” Tyler demanded, “you speak white man’s talk?”
“Some,” Old Bear replied.
“We’re lookin’ for two white men that maybe come ridin’ through here. You see any white men in the last week or so?”
Anxious to hurry the strangers along, Old Bear answered. “No, no white men,” he replied.
At that moment, Brance and the others pulled up beside him, the men gawking at the old people standing stoically in the center of the camp. “He says he ain’t seen no white men,” Tyler called back to Brance.
“He ain’t, huh? Well, I wonder if he’d tell us if he had.” Looking from one side to the other, he answered his own thought. “I don’t see nothin’ that would be worth hangin’ around here for. I expect he’s probably tellin’ the truth.” He pulled back on his reins, preparing to leave.
“Hold on a minute, Brance,” Corbin remarked, catching a glimpse of Broken Reed peering at them from the cabin door. “Maybe we oughta take a look in these huts. There might be somebody hidin’ out.”
Following Corbin’s gaze, Church saw at once what had caught his eye. “Yeah, Brance, we might as well see what’s here.”
“Maybe we could get somethin’ to eat,” Spit added, not yet aware of the real interest behind his two companions’ remarks.
“There ain’t nobody hidin’ out in this damn hole,” Tyler blurted, before Brance had a chance to reply. “We’re wastin’ time.”
“Maybe the boys are right,” Brance retorted. “Wouldn’t hurt to take a little rest before we ride again.”
“I ain’t got no time to rest,” Tyler shot back. “Let’s get movin’.”
Brance decided it was time to demonstrate who was the leader of the gang, and consequently, who called the shots. “Well, Tyler, I reckon you’ll be movin’ on by yourself. The rest of us are gonna see what we can find in them huts.”
The two headstrong outlaws locked eyes for a long moment in a test of wills, each man intent upon intimidating the other. It might have developed into a power play, but Tyler knew the men would back Brance and not himself. Knowing this, he finally shrugged it off. “Suit yourself,” he said, and rode off toward the river.
Brance watched him for a few moments before turning back to Old Bear. “Now, then, old man, let’s take a look in them shacks.”
A sense of alarm surged through the small gathering of Cherokees as they watched the heavily armed white men dismount. Old Bear attempted to stand in the way when Corbin and Church started for Ike’s cabin. “Get outta the way, Grandpa,” Corbin said, shoving the old man aside, a malevolent grin of anticipation fixed upon his face. There was immediate reaction from the Indians, and several of the men stepped forward, but any thoughts they had of resisting the invasion of their village were stifled by the drawn guns of the outlaws.
“Now, don’t go gettin’ riled up,” Brance warned, his pistol leveled at the closest Cherokee. “We’re just gonna have a look-see in them huts. If you behave yourselves, we’ll just take what we want, and be on our way.” He was about to say more when he was interrupted by the sound of hooves behind him. Turning around, he discovered Tyler driving straight for him at a gallop. Brance’s first reaction was to bring his weapon to bear on the charging man, thinking that Tyler had decided upon a power play after all. Tyler ignored him, however, and pulled his horse to a sliding stop in the midst of the Cherokee villagers, causing them to scatter to avoid being trampled under the hooves.
Leaping from the saddle, his face twisted with rage, Tyler grabbed Old Bear, and pulled the startled old man up close to his face. “That’s my brother’s bay stallion down there with them Injun ponies! Where is that damn Shannon? Where is he?” When Old Bear did not respond immediately, Tyler cracked him across the head with the barrel of his pistol. “Where is he?” Tyler demanded again. Old Bear, dazed by the blow, could not reply at once. “Damn you!” Tyler shouted, his face a mask of unbridled fury. He stuck the barrel of the pistol against the side of Old Bear’s head, and pulled the trigger. The gathering of Indians gasped as one as they witnessed their old chief slump to the ground in death.
A cry of anguish rang out from Ike’s cabin, and Broken Reed burst through the doorway, running to her father’s side. “Well, lookee here,” Corbin chortled delightedly, catching Broken Reed’s arm as she passed. “Where you goin’, sweetie?” He looked around to gloat at his friends. “Look what I got.” His comment was specifically aimed at Church, in light of the competition between them to get to the face they had seen through the open door. His gloating was short-lived, however, for in the next instant his smile suddenly froze on his face, then turned to a look of horrified shock as Broken Reed’s long skinning knife sank deep under his rib cage.
Releasing Broken Reed’s arm, Corbin staggered back a couple of steps, and stared down stupidly at the bone handle protruding from his shirt. Broken Reed wrenched herself away from Church’s outstretched hand, and ran past him to her father. Everything had happened so suddenly, and without warning, that the spectators, both outlaw and Cherokee, were momentarily stunned. Brance was the first to recover, and with no further hesitation, walked over and methodically put two bullets into the grieving woman’s back. Broken Reed slumped across Old Bear’s body, dead.
Confusion reigned for the next few minutes. With nothing more to fight with than their bare hands, several men of the village attempted to attack the intruders. The outlaws quickly responded, shooting two of the men at point-blank range. This effectively stopped the Cherokees’ attack, but not the revenge-crazed Tyler. He promptly started shooting every Indian in sight—women, old men, even children. The result was a bloodbath, as some of the others in the gang joined in the massacre. Those who could fled toward the river, but few escaped the blistering curtain of lead.
After no more than five or ten minutes, the storm of gunfire subsided, and in the eerie quiet that followed, only one sound pierced the silence: Corbin screamed in terrified pain when he tried to remove the steel blade from his innards. Staggering around, half crazed with shock, he babbled incoherently while he sought in vain to relieve his agony. The blade, however, refused to come out, having evidently wedged against a rib.
“Damn, Corbin,” Spit remarked with no show of compassion for the suffering man. “I reckon you didn’t figure on that, did you?” He seemed mildly fascinated by Corbin’s dilemma, although he was not moved to offer help. He turned his head momentarily to spit on the corpse of an old woman near his feet. “A man has to be careful messin’ around with Injun women,” he offered as he turned to join the others who were already pillaging the huts. Walking past the bodies of Broken Reed and her father, he glanced down to notice the silver cross hanging from the rawhide thong around Old Bear’s neck. Grinning to himself for being the first one to notice it, he knelt down and removed it from the corpse. “Hell, I could use a little of the Lord’s protection, myself,” he said aloud. Then he chuckled and spit when he added, “Seeing as how it did so much good for you.”
The only member of the gang to offer assistance to Corbin was Nate Simmons. He lingered behind the others to help the suffering man as Corbin’s strength began to desert him. With Nate holding onto one arm, Corbin sank heavily to the ground, staring at the patch of blood that was rapidly spreading across his shirt. “It pains somethin’ awful, Nate,” Corbin whined. “I’m afeared I’m dyin’.”
“Maybe not,” Nate said, effecting as gentle a tone as a man of his rough nature could create. “You just set quiet for a spell, and then we’ll see about gettin’ that knife outta your belly.” He knelt beside the wounded outlaw for a long moment, watching him closely. “You know, just in case things don’t turn out for the best, I’ve always admired that brace of pistols you’re wearin’. I’d appreciate it if you’d let the boys know you’d like for me to have ’em.” Corbin, in no condition to answer coherently at that point, merely stared up at Nate with eyes wide with terror. “You just rest here a spell,” Nate said after a few moments, then left to join the others in the search for plunder.
The search failed to yield much of value for the gang of outlaws—a little food, some trinkets of little worth, and some cooking utensils. Tyler stormed from lodge to lodge, looking for further indication that the man he hunted was somewhere near, or might be planning to return. There was nothing but the bay stallion grazing with the Indian ponies on the other side of the river. But at least that gave him hope that Shannon would return to the village. It was unlikely that he would have traded the bay for one of the Indian ponies.
“Well, that weren’t hardly worth the ammunition we spent, were it?” Eli looked around him at the dead bodies lying like bundles of rags upon the bare ground. “The rest of them Injuns took off.”
“I reckon,” Brance replied as he casually reloaded his pistol.
“Reckon what we oughta do about Corbin?” Eli asked.
Brance paused to think. He had forgotten Corbin for the moment. “I guess we’d better take a look at him,” he finally decided, “if he’s still alive.”
“He’s still alive,” Eli said, nodding toward the stricken man lying on the ground.
Together, they walked over to Corbin. In a few minutes, they were joined by the others. All gathered around the suffering Corbin to gawk and voice their speculations on his chance of survival. No one was inclined to offer any suggestions as to what should be done to ease his pain. Finally, Brance, feeling it his place to take action, pushed the others aside, and bent low over Corbin to take a closer look. “Well,” he decided, “the first thing we gotta do is get this damn knife outta him.” That said, he promptly placed his boot in the middle of Corbin’s chest, and taking the knife handle in both hands, exerted all his strength upon the reluctant blade.
Corbin’s agonized scream pierced the still air as the deadly blade was suddenly released. Brance jumped back quickly to avoid the spurt of blood that followed the withdrawal. Holding the bloody blade up for the others to see, Brance said, “Ain’t that a nasty-lookin’ pigsticker?” He then wiped it clean on Corbin’s shirt-tail. “We’d best stop that bleedin’, or he’s gonna die sure enough.”
No one moved right away, content to let one of the others do something to help poor Corbin. “I expect he’d lay more comfortable if we took them pistols off’en him,” Nate Simmons suggested, and knelt down to unbuckle Corbin’s gun belt.
“Here,” Eli said, tossing an Indian blanket at Nate. “Stuff a corner of this on that wound before he bleeds to death.” Nate did as he was told, but it was too late for the tormented man. Corbin’s eyelids began fluttering, and his babbling became more and more faint.
“What’s he sayin’?” Church asked.
“He’s talkin’ to the devil,” Spit quipped. “He’s sayin’ save a place at the supper table for ol’ Church.”
Spit’s remark brought a chuckle from the rest of the group—all except Tyler, who was unable to acknowledge humor in any form, no matter how awkward the situation. “He’s a dead man,” he offered, scowling. “We’d best be thinkin’ about Shannon.”
Corbin offered no resistance when Nate pulled the gun belt from under him, even though it dragged his body a couple of feet. “Whaddaya reckon we oughta do about him?” Nate asked as he got to his feet again.
“Nothin’,” Brance stated matter-of-factly. “Like Tyler said, he’s a dead man. And don’t go gettin’ no ideas about them pistols. I expect we’ll draw straws for ’em.”
Nate immediately complained. “Corbin wanted me to have these here pistols. He as much as said so a few minutes ago when the rest of you went lookin’ in them shacks, and I was the only one lookin’ out for him.” He dropped back on one knee beside Corbin, and shook the dying man by the shoulders. “Ain’t that right, Corbin?” Corbin, already on the devil’s doorstep at that point, made a gurgling sound as his final breath struggled through the blood in his throat. Nate looked up hopefully at Brance. “See, he’s tryin’ to tell you.”
“We’ll draw straws for the pistols,” Brance declared emphatically. “Right now, though, let’s drag all these bodies into one of the huts if we’re gonna camp here a while. We can set the hut on fire, and burn ’em up. If we don’t, they’re gonna start to stink before too long.”
“Corbin, too?” Nate asked.
“If he’s dead,” Brance replied, no longer concerned with his former comrade. “But I suspect it’d be a good idea to get our horses outta sight. Spit, why don’t you and Church take ’em over behind the huts, on the other side of that rise yonder.”
The outlaws followed Brance’s orders—with the exception of Tyler, who stood watching the activities with the ever-present scowl etched into the lines of his face. He had not as yet made up his mind as to whether he was content to sit in the Indian village and wait for Shannon to return. What if he didn’t return? Then Tyler would have wasted precious time while Shannon rode even farther away, consequently increasing the chances he would never be found again. Brance might be content to wait here in ambush. That was more like Brance’s style. But Tyler was a hunter; he preferred to stalk his quarry. Still, there was the matter of Wesley’s bay stallion on the far bank. Tyler wheeled his horse to face the riverbank, and sat there for several minutes, studying the horses on the other side, especially the bay. Standing several hands higher than the smaller Indian ponies around him, the bay was far and away too good a horse to leave behind. Maybe Brance was right. Shannon would probably be back for the horse. But not if the stallion had gone lame, he thought. He decided to cross over and take a closer look.
The bay shied away from the ominous figure approaching from the river, limping noticeably as it loped along the bank. Tyler pulled up immediately. He had his answer. The horse was lame. Shannon had probably just passed through this little village. Tyler immediately started scouting along the river, first one side, and then the other until he found what he searched for. There were many tracks, some old, some new, heading in many different directions. But there was one trail of a dozen or more horses, one of which was shod. This was the trail he sought. There was no way to tell, but he guessed that the shod horse was not part of a party of ponies, merely riding along the same trail. He took one look in the general direction in which the trail pointed, and started out immediately. Behind him, he could hear whooping and hollering as Brance’s men fired the hut. He didn’t bother to look back.