Bloody Trail (17 page)

“
You two got something against my
cover?”

The young man sneered at him. “How come you
got to wear that by-God insult to every God-fearing man in town?”
Rob asked.

Spike’s eyes narrowed, and his voice rang low
and hard. “We got a job of work to do, but I still got time to slip
off this animal and make you lisp through some missing
teeth.”

The young man reddened, then kicked his horse
into a trot, as did his trail pard, Red Myers. Spike had taken up a
position three horse lengths behind them, content to mind his own
business should others not stick their nose into it. Spike couldn’t
hold a grudge against the tanner Red Myers—he’d gotten his brains
blown out at the ambush, after all—but Gallagher, the store clerk,
had made it all the way to Indian Territory now, and still seemed
to have a chip on his shoulder about Spike’s Confederate
past.

They’d settled into darkness with only a few
clouds marring the clear night, and the stars splattering the open
portion of the sky—at least, what could be seen through the red oak
canopy. Innumerable stars that seemed to be saying “count us, we
dare you to try.”

Spike Sweeney leaned against the rough tree
trunk and re-lit the carved meerschaum pipe he was never
without—he’d traded a sailor out of the pipe, which was adorned
with carved head of a full-maned African lion as its bowl. If this
manhunt went on much longer, he’d be out of pipe tobacco, and that
would be one hell of a note. He’d be better stocked at this point,
of course, if he hadn’t loaned a couple of bowls full to the
Scottish doctor, Munro, on the night after the ambush—but he didn’t
begrudge it. He’d enjoyed sitting and smoking with Munro, swapping
war stories while the doctor’s patients slept. Spike was partial to
fellow soldiers and meerschaum smokers, no matter which color
uniform they’d worn in the war.

He imagined pipe tobacco, here in the
territories, would be hard to come by. Maybe he’d find some Indian
tobacco he could trade for, if they came upon some friendly folks
who’d left their war paint at home. Finally he knocked the dottle
out of his pipe, bagged the meerschaum, and lay his head down on
his saddle and its pillow of a folded saddle blanket, pulling the
kepi he always wore over his eyes. The smell of horse-lather was
soothing to him, after so many years having it as a constant
companion.

It seemed he’d barely gotten his eyes closed
when he felt a toe nudge his calf. He pushed the kepi back to see
Charley bending over him, a finger to his lips.

“
I done got the creepies on my
backbone,” he bent low and whispered. “Either Danby and his boys
done doubled back, or we got others out there. Crickets keep
quietin’ down—an’ you got to be up soon anyhow.”

Spike knew by the burned down campfire and
high moon that he’d been asleep a while. Pulling on his boots, he
arose, hooked up the trouser belt that he’d loosened, grabbed one
revolver out of its saddle holster, shoved it into the belt, and
palmed the other. He moved close to Charley and spoke quietly. “You
want I should wake the others?” Rob Gallagher, Billy Below, and
Derrick McCain were sleeping hard, two of them snoring loud enough
to announce the camp to someone two hundred paces away.

“
Nope, if we come on some
two-legged critters, gunfire will waken them soon enough. If it’s a
bunch of four-legged coyotes making the crickets nervous, then no
reason. You head out that way—and, Johnny Reb, don’t be shooting me
should we come back together.”

“
I never kilt no one didn’t need
killing, Charley. You try and do the same.”

Charley faded away, and Spike moved in the
direction Charley had indicated. They were moving into a dogwood
thicket at a forty-five degree angle. Spike knew the trickle of a
muddy creek was only twenty yards into the copse, as he’d watered
Hammer there and filled his canteen earlier. Moving quiet was not
an easy task, but he toed his way along, having to push brush away
as he did so. He’d long ago learned, hunting Texas whitetail and
feral hogs, to move a few steps—no more than five—then wait and
listen. It was a hunter’s habit that had served him well during the
war. A man doesn’t hear the enemy moving if he’s moving
himself.

It took him several minutes to make the creek,
which was hardly more than a muddy wash, but it was fifteen feet or
more of width in the middle of the thicket that was brush free. His
first step into the clearing made him pull up short and kneel, as
his heel sucked at the mud, and made far too much noise for
comfort. On his haunches, he eyed up and down the creek
bed.

Patience had never been his long suit, but
hunting, men or animals, had taught him his compulsion for moving
had to be quelled. Soon, he made out a slight movement up the
creek, in the direction he thought Charley must be, and hunkered
down even lower and watched and waited. Clouds moved away from the
moon, and dim light flooded the creek-bed.

Almost as soon as the clouds moved, Spike made
out the shape of a man—only a shadow in the tangle of dogwood—and,
as quickly, he caught the glint of metal, then a gurgle, and the
man slumped to the mud and muck. For the count of three, sucking
sounds came from the body, and the arms flailed. Then Spike
realized that while the man was watching him, Charley had slipped
up and put a smile in his throat from ear to ear. He could see
Charley wiping the blade on his trousers, then re-sheathing it. To
Spike’s surprise, it seemed that he’d made out a pair of feathers
as the man had fallen—an Indian?

The scout made a hand-signal to him to keep
moving across the creek, and disappeared.

With a dark streak of blood coloring the creek
beneath his strides, he crossed, doing his best to quiet the
sucking sound of his boots pulling out of the mud before and after
he was in the six-inch-deep stream. In a hundred feet or so, after
a half-hour of toeing forward, he came to the edge of the thicket.
Charley gave him a low whistle from twenty or more paces away, and
he moved, quietly and carefully, to his side.

“
Who was he?” Spike asked in a low
tone.

“
Kiowa. And he wasn’t
alone.”

“
So, where are the rest of
them?”

“
Skeedaddled. See that,” Charley
pointed to the ground.

Spike kneeled and studied the edges of some
prints, but couldn’t make out what it was. He arose and
shrugged.

“
Cattle. Looks like a band of
Kiowa wandered over the Cimarron and rustled up a couple of dozen
head of beef. I’ll bet they think we’re doggin’ their
trail.”

“
So, now we got to worry about a
band of savages—pardon the description.”

“
Hell,” Charley said, “they are
savages.” He offered a tight smile, then continued. “They’ll take
your hair sooner than sit down to a back strap off’n one of those
beeves.”

“
You left one ol’ boy lay back
there.”

“
I did, and I imagine when they
get wind that one of their own have gone missing—odds are, there’ll
be hell to pay. We ain’t heard near the end of it.”

“
Maybe we’d better stand a double
watch the rest of the night?”

“
Sounds right, I’ll take another
two hours along with you, then we’ll wake Gallagher and Billy, and
let McCain sleep. We’d all better make sure our powder is dry come
dawn.”

“
We better high tail it back. The
rest of his band could have flanked us and hit the
camp.”

They made their way back to the creek much
faster than they’d come, dragging the dead Kiowa behind rather than
leaving him to be found. No one else stirred, nor had the band of
Kiowa taken the scalps of the sleeping men.

All of them were beaned up, coffee filled, and
mounted as the sky to the east began to color up. They’d left the
corpse of the Kiowa brave in as presentable a position as possible
for a man with a wide crimson smile from ear to ear and the front
of his backbone showing through his gaping sliced throat—his old
percussion rifle and knife lay across his chest as if he were ready
to take a long trip to meet his Maker. Spike and the other three
had talked hard to keep Charley from taking the man’s scalp,
figuring it might anger the band less. They only hoped that driving
the small herd of beeves on was more important to the band than
waiting for their missing compadre to show up. They hoped, but
doubted it.

Charley took up the point, since he was doing
the tracking, with Billy Below, Derrick McCain, Rob Gallagher
following. Spike Sweeney rode drag, figuring himself the most
experienced of those who’d fought in a group. He knew to watch his
back trail and flanks almost as much as ahead.

Then the outlaws’ trail disappeared, hidden
under that of several unshod horses and a couple of dozen beeves.
Charley reined up and let the others come alongside.

“
We’re still on the outlaw trail,
but we are also riding into double trouble. Watch careful and help
me spot if these trails split. Let’s hope they do, and we can fight
shy of following the Kiowa.” He pointed to each of them in turn.
“And ever’ damn one of you watch for ambush. This thick cover would
hide a herd of buffs.”

They all were relieved when they pulled up
into some low hills and the cover thinned to spotted post oaks—at
least, until they spotted a dozen Kiowa quietly sitting their
mounts on the skyline a quarter mile ahead.

Billy Below had to call out to Charley, as the
scout was concentrating on the trail. “There’s a thunder pot load
of trouble up ahead.”

Again, Charley pulled rein and waited for the
others to come even.

“
Five against a dozen ain’t good
odds,” Billy said quietly when he reined up.

“
Rotten, fact is,” Charley said.
“Won’t do much good to run—we been pushin’ these horses too hard.
I’m going on up alone to parlay. And that’s not all of them, as
they would have some watching that herd they rustled, wherever they
got ‘em hid out. You boys get your ready on.”

Billy looked at him skeptically. “You ain’t
thinkin’ of changin’ sides are you?”

Charley stared him down, then said, “Well,
Billy boy, if I do, then the odds will be some worse, won’t they?
If you don’t know which way my stick floats by now, you never
will.” He nudged his horse forward and left them all to wonder,
then he turned back and spoke over his shoulder as he rode away.
“’Course, your hair would look just fine on my coup stick.” He
laughed, and gigged his horse into a lope.

Spike couldn’t help but laugh as well, but it
was short-lived and nervous. He looked the country over as Charley
moved away, then spoke up. “There’s a little thicket up the hill a
ways—there,” he pointed, “with some admirable rocks for cover.
There’s a green spot there, maybe a little spring or seep. Should
it come to that, break for there.”

“
Who made you straw boss?”
Gallagher muttered.

Spike eyed him carefully, then said in a low
tone, “Tell you what, young fella, you ride on out of here hell for
leather on that beat up nag of yours. Maybe you can lead them away
from the rest of us, and while they’re taking your hair, eatin’
your liver, and divvying up your folderol, maybe we can sneak out
unmolested.”

Gallagher reddened, but said nothing
more.

“
The rocks it is,” Derrick McCain
agreed. “Maybe we should wander that way?”

“
Let’s see how it plays out with
Charley. We don’t want to make those folks nervous while Charley is
parlaying with them. We got three hundred or more paces on ‘em,
should we make a run for it. That should give us time to get
hunkered down and tucked behind cover a’fore they get on
us.”

They sat their mounts casually as Charley
reached the band. It soon became obvious by the hands flying with
sign talk that the parlay wasn’t going well. However, in moments,
Charley spun his horse and trotted back to join them— followed by
two Kiowa braves. The braves reined up twenty paces
back.

Charley wasted no time instructing them. “Take
half the supplies out of the panniers and load what you can in your
saddle bags. I’ve given them the mules and what we can’t
haul.”

“
The hell you say,” Billy Below
snapped, and Derrick McCain and Rob Gallagher chimed in.

“
Hold on,” Spike said. “You want
to give them your hair or a couple of butt ugly mules and some
dried meat? Get the ammunition, for sure.”

“
You want it, you get it, straw
boss,” Rob Gallagher groused, and sat unmoving.

Spike, thinking it no time for long drawn out
discussion, dismounted and headed for the mules. Derrick McCain
leapt off his animal, dropped the reins, and followed. In moments
they had the panniers half unloaded, then Spike took up both lead
ropes and led the animals to the waiting braves, who took them up
and without looking back, trotted away, yelping in
triumph.

Spike remounted and reined over beside
Charley. “Did they ask about their chum?”

“
Nope, and I sure-as-hell’s-hot
didn’t bring it up. I did get a peek at a fresh scraped hide one of
them had thrown over the rump of his horse. It had a Crown-W brand.
Old man Sparkman will be spittin’ sparks when he figures out he’s
missing two dozen or more head of prime beef.”