Battle Fury Page 14

  ‘I married a reckless damn fool,’ she said.

  ‘Pa reckless?’ Kate said. ‘Oh, ma, you can’t say that.’

  Martha turned and withered her with a look—‘You just don’t know your father, child. Once he gets the bit between his teeth. There ain’t ... isn’t no stopping him.’

  Melissa ran into the house crying that pa and Joe were going to catch the cholera. Martha told her to hush up and quit talking like a fool—pa knew what he was at if nobody else did around here.

  As Will rode north with Joe at his side, he noted that there were too many Lazy S cows straying near to the creeks in which the miners were panning for gold and sinking their shafts. It was natural on their part. They had grown from calves knowing that they could drink there. Will reckoned they were too much of a temptation for the gold-seekers. If the diggers were going to eat his beef, by God, they’d pay for it. He’d have the boys drive the cows east and try to hold them on the far side of the valley on the third creek. What he did when the grass was eaten down on that side, he didn’t know.

  They crossed the divide into Broken Spur and they saw at once that, if any men had fled because of the fear of cholera, there was no lack of men who wanted the chance to find gold more than they feared the dreaded sickness. They asked the men on the creek if they knew who was supposed to have the cholera and it was some time before they found that the victim was a Swede who worked higher up the creek. A mile further on, they stopped to ask a red-headed Irishman if he knew which man had the cholera.

  He looked a little puzzled, then he pointed to the bank some thirty yards away and said: ‘Sure, there was a feller here who was after sayin’ he was a doctor. This Swede, he says, says he, has the cholera, he says. That put the fear of the livin’ God into us, sor, as ye might expect. For a while, there was fellers that were sayin’ we should all run for our lives. That’s the truth now. Honest to God.’

  ‘Where’s the sick man?’ Will demanded.

  ‘Yon man wid the pick in his hand.’

  Will saw a tall gaunt man, up to his waist in the hole, swinging a pick mightily.

  ‘He don’t look so sick to me,’ he said.

  ‘Sick is it?’ cried the Irishman. ‘Sure, the man took a turn is all. You know what these furriners are, man.’

  Will was puzzled. He thought a while and looked at Joe.

  Joe said: ‘This doctor. What he look like?’

  The Irishman thought.

  ‘A big feller,’ he said, ‘with wee short legs to him. Like a bull he was with a mighty forceful way to him.’

  Will described Ed Brack in detail to the Irishman and the Celt nodded his head vigorously, exclaiming: ‘Sure, you’ve described the feller to a T and no mistake. D’ye know’m then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Will. ‘I know him. I get to know him better each year that passes. I know that stinkin’ skunk better’n I know my own brother.’

  The Irishman looked a little puzzled at the vehemence of the man on the horse.

  ‘Is that the truth now?’ he said politely.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ Will said and turned his horse away from the creek. Joe followed him.

  After a while, Joe said: ‘This trail ain’t takin’ us’ns home.’

  Will said sourly, ‘I always said you was sharp when the rest claimed you was plain stupid, Joe.’

  Joe took no offense.

  ‘I make a guess you’d headed for Brack’s place.’

  ‘You see?’ said Will. ‘You’re smarter’n smart. You’re almost goddam intelligent.’

  Joe said with a kind of agonizing patience: ‘Could you just stop that fool horse for one little minute and let them brains of yourn deeliberate a while on what you doin’. I mean, man, I wouldn’t want for to spoil your fun nor nothin’ like that. I done a whole lotta plumb foolish thangs in my time, as well you know, but I ain’t never gotten so far outa my skull that I rid up to ole Ed Brack’s place an’ said: ‘Here I is, blow some holes in me for the Hell of it.’ ‘

  Will stopped his horse and snarled: ‘Joe, you don’t like what I’m doin’, you turn around an’ head for home.’

  ‘When you mean, you get real nasty—you know that? You aim to brace that low-assed white sonovabitch an’ you sure goin’ to need somebody that knows what he’s about.’

  ‘I know what I’m at. I don’t need no nurse-maidin’.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe.

  Will sighed and slapped the neck of his horse with the lines. They moved on steadily across the valley. Inside the hour, they saw the smoke from Brack’s cookhouse fire. They couldn’t see the house because the ground was broken and there were some mottes of trees between them and the building.

  Will halted.

  ‘Seein’ as you’re here,’ he said, ‘you might as well make yourself useful. Now I’m a-goin’ to ride in fair an’ open. You come in kinda surreptitious. An’ you have your rifle handy.’

  ‘Just so long as you talk outside,’ Joe said, ‘li’l ole Brack don’t so much as look at you wrong without me seein’.’

  ‘All right,’ said Will and rode on.

  This time, he thought, was different from all the others when he had headed for Brack. Sure, the odds against him now were wrong, but just the same Brack was most likely in a different frame of mind right this minute. He had diggers on his water and he was desperate. Will believed that it had been Brack who had spread the rumor about cholera in the diggings and to have done a thing like that showed he was backed up against a wall, The Utes had most likely rampaged through his valley and maybe Brack had been hit by them. He would soon know.

  He came within sight of the house and paused a moment to survey the scene before him.

  There was no sign of movement. Will was only on slightly raised ground and had a good view of this upper part of the valley. Away to the right, there were a couple of dozen buzzards wrangling over the body of what could have been a dead steer.

  His eyes rested on the house. The door was shut. He looked at the barn. The door was shut there, too.

  My God, he thought, Brack’s forted up.

  There was something ironically amusing in that. Will lifted the lines and moved on down the slope. He would have to go warily. Brack would be a spooked man and spooked men were dangerous. The smoke drifted reassuringly from the stone chimney.

  Will went as far as the southernmost corner of the corral and called out—‘Brack.’

  There was no reply and he thought he caught the faint glitter of a rifle barrel at one of the windows.

  His horse snorted and tried to sidle away from the house. That should have been warning enough. Normally, Will would have taken the advice of that horse because the animal had sense and the man knew it. Who knows what mental process forced Will forward to walk across the yard? Maybe he was so set on facing Brack that all other thought was forced from his mind. He was still mad all through and that was a fact. Anyhow, he stepped down from the saddle and looped one line around a fence-pole. As he did so, the animal reared back and tried to free himself and Will spoke to him sharply.

  ‘Brack,’ he shouted, ‘I’m here to talk. Don’t you do nothin’ foolish now. We have to settle this thing.’

  Right in the center of the yard, he halted.

  The anger drained away fast as water from an upturned bucket.

  He saw the Chinee.

  The man lay on his back, mouth and eyes wide. A second mouth gaped where the amber roundness of his throat had been. The blood from the wound had soaked the top of his blouse darkly and the ground around. His pigtail was gone and with it the scalp.

  Will found that his mouth was bone dry. He knew that he was scared out of his wits and he would need all the wits he could gather together. The Indians had been here. They were still here.

  So, what to do?

  Act natural if he could, then turn and leg it for his horse and trust in the benevolence of the Almighty.

  No sooner was the thought in his head than he heard the creak of the barn door
and a whisper of sound.

  He started to turn, his right hand clamping down on the butt of his pistol. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the moving figure of a man. The face was painted like that of a gargoyle and from out of the intricate design, the eyes glared savagely. The man was stripped to the waist and the flesh of his copper-colored body was also painted. He was hung about with necklaces, bracelets, powder-horn, feathers. He saw the stone-headed club arc.

  His gun was half-out of leather when the blow fell and he was able to no more than jerk his head to the left a few inches. The heavy weapon struck him on the shoulder and smashed him to his knees. He felt as if his shoulder was broken.

  Dimly, he was aware that the door of the house burst open and men rushed from it. He measured his length on the ground, rolled onto his left side and managed to heave the gun clear of the holster.

  A man yelled.

  Now they kill me, he thought.

  A mocassined foot caught him in the face and knocked him back into the dust. His eyes, mouth and nostrils seemed full of dust and he was stifling. Something clipped the side of his head as he lifted it and he heard himself groan. The ground shook under the beat of ponies’ hoofs and he knew that there had been men hidden and mounted behind the house.

  Distantly, he heard the slam of a rifle. That would be Joe and he wouldn’t have a chance.

  The last thing he knew was that he was on his hands and knees searching for his dropped gun. A man laughed. Then he collapsed on his face and he didn’t know any more.

  Chapter Nineteen

  His head ached intolerably. When he moved, his shoulder felt as though it had been shattered. He felt as if he were a very old man just about ready for the grave. It was a sad and alarming sensation. He didn’t want to open his eyes and see his last sight of the world.

  The soft murmur of voices reached his ears.

  A man said: ‘You won’t get away with this, you red-assed bastards,’ and the man was angry almost beyond speech. A white man. Brack.

  Will opened his eyes and saw Brack. He lay on his belly with his hands tied behind his back, his legs bent backward and lashed to his wrists. He must have been in considerable discomfort. The man’s face was contorted with suffering and rage.

  The Utes stood and squatted around, chatting amiably among themselves.

  He looked at the sky and saw that the day was just about done. From inside the house, a man screamed. The terrible sound set up an uncontrollable shivering in Will. He tried to raise himself on one elbow and found that his hands were tied behind his back. The rawhide that held them was so tightly drawn that his hands were dead. His legs were free. A man should be thankful for small mercies, he supposed.

  Brack was still shouting at the Indians. One of them strolled up to him and struck him with the haft of a bow. Not even that stopped Brack. Any kind of opposition was unbearable to the man.

  Will said: ‘Shut your loud trap, you fool, or they’ll kill you.’

  Brack turned and glared at him.

  ‘Aw, Christ,’ he said. ‘I thought the one good thing that had come outa this was they killed you!’

  Will ignored this and said: ‘Who’s that they’re takin’ to pieces inside?’

  ‘Summers,’ said Brack. ‘When they’re through with him, they’ll most likely start on us.’

  ‘You have any more men around?’

  ‘Not too many,’ Brack said, looking bitter. ‘Most of the crew lit out for the creeks to pan for gold.’ That was news to Will and even in those circumstances, he could see the ironic side of it. ‘Four of us holed up here, five counting the Chinee. The rest’re dead but Mike and me. And Mike don’t have too long to live I shouldn’t wonder.’

  The Indians were watching them, listening to their strange words.

  But they didn’t kill Summers, not then. Several of them drove him stumbling from the house. He looked a mess, almost impossible to recognize. His shirt had been torn off him and his torso and face were a mass of blood. The sight of him turned Will’s stomach. When he halted, he swayed and moaned, and seemed incapable of taking in the scene around him.

  Will thought: What happened to Joe? Had he gotten away? Had he taken word to the family? That was their only chance.

  Summers collapsed in a heap. Will knew he was dead.

  There was a short Indian wearing a white man’s silk-hat with a feather in it. This should have made him a comical sight, but it did not. It seemed to accentuate the menace in the man. He was giving orders. Horses were brought up. The man in the silk-hat gave more orders, gesturing authoritatively. Brack was kicked to his feet after his legs had been released from their bonds. A brave came up to Will and signed for him to get up. With some difficulty he climbed to his feet.

  He walked up to Brack and said: ‘Joe Widbee was around. Did you see if they killed him?’ He could not believe that the apparently immortal Negro was dead.

  Brack glowered at him.

  ‘After they jumped you,’ he said, ‘a whole bunch of them rode for those trees yonder and there was a whole lotta shooting. They didn’t get it all their own way. Maybe they got him and maybe they didn’t.’

  ‘You’d best pray they didn’t,’ Will said.

  Brack said: ‘We don’t have a prayer. You know that? These devils will take us to pieces and they’ll laugh.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Will. He had the feeling that Brack was on the edge of breaking.

  The Indians were mounting. They were about to move out and it looked as if they were taking Will and Brack with them, alive. A small spark of hope lit in Will’s breast.

  An Indian went up to Brack, swung him around so he faced west and shoved him in that direction. Brack swore at him. The Indian hit him with the butt of a spear and Brack kicked the man in the groin. The fellow fell to the ground, holding his genitals and Brack stomped him in the belly. The others sat their horses, watching. The Indian struggled to his feet, picked up his spear and beat Brack repeatedly until he fell to the ground. The Indian then prodded him with the sharp end till he rose to his feet. The other Indians were nodding and smiling. Brack’s face was flecked with dust and blood.

  Will said: ‘Brack, you’re a bigger damn fool than I thought you was.’

  Brack said a rude word and started to tramp west. Will fell in behind him and, surrounded by the mounted Indians, they headed across the valley of the Broken Spur. Dark was starting to come down. Will wondered if night would offer them the opportunity to escape, but he doubted it. The Indians weren’t wasting any time and they made no allowance for the fact that their prisoners were on foot. With bow and spear used liberally, they kept the two white men at a trot. Pretty soon both middle-aged men were sweating, breathless and exhausted. Will reckoned his heart would give out on him before a Ute hatchet did the job.

  After a while, Will lost all sense of reality. He kept his legs going mechanically until they collapsed under him and the Indians beat him to his feet again. Brack was in much the same state. They fought on wordlessly through a mental and physical haze, somehow hanging on to life.

  Around midnight, they were out of the valley and climbing into the hills. It was the climbing that finished them. They both went down and nothing that the Utes could do would move them. The Indians seemed to realize this and stood around and talked it over.

  When he had gotten some of his breath back, Brack said to Will: ‘We don’t go on, they’ll kill us.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Will.

  But apparently, the Utes did not yet want their two captives dead. Will reckoned they were keeping them as hostages in case a punitive expedition came after them. It was the sensible thing to do. Right now, the Utes decided they were pretty tired too and decided to stop there the night. Uncovered by blankets, exhausted and wracked by thirst, Will and Brack fell asleep where they lay.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Joe Widbee saw what was happening down there in the yard of Brack’s ranch-house, he thought that he was up against no more than four or fi
ve Indians. Without hesitation, he opened fire after he saw Will Storm go down.

  The range was long and with the first three shots he didn’t do so well. After that he became aware that there was a deal more Indians about than at first seemed apparent. Some dozen of them came from behind the house, mounted and intent on murder. It didn’t take him more than two seconds flat to be convinced that they were headed in his direction and that it was him they intended to murder.

  He had no longer than was necessary to decide that he couldn’t do much for Will and that if he were going to mount his horse at all he had best make a try before those Indians were between him and the animal. That was easier said than done because the horse was a good distance from his present hiding-place among the trees. He sent a couple of shots in the direction of the advancing tribesmen, but they had no more effect upon them than a couple of flies would.

  Knowing that his situation was desperate and might at any minute be as fraught with as much danger as Will’s, he turned and started legging it through the trees. He had taken no more than twenty paces than he heard some of the riders whoop into the timber, while others of them raced their ponies along the edge of the motte of trees.

  He knew that, so far as reaching his horse was concerned, that the situation was hopeless and, as he heard the beat of hoofs almost immediately behind him, he swung around for a shot.

  There was a befeathered and paint-daubed rider coming directly for him. The man let out a cry of triumph as he saw Joe stop and lowered the point of the spear he carried. Joe hastily reversed his rifle, stepped to one side and batted the Indian from the saddle. The man landed on his back and the wind went out him with a noise that could have been heard in Denver. Joe lunged after the riderless horse and heard more Indians coming up behind.

  As he gained a grip on the pony’s single trailing line, a thrown spear passed him so close he nearly suffered wood-burn from the haft. Fighting the pony which was trying to pull him off his feet, he leveled his rifle one-handed and fired. He didn’t know if he made a hit, but the rider swerved to one side and plunged into some brush.