A Man Called Sunday (25 page)

Things had happened so fast that Luke wasn't sure of anything at first, except the fact that he found himself on the ground and in great pain. Bogart had beaten him. This was the first conscious thought that occurred to him as his ears seemed to be ringing with the sounds of the shot, mixed with Mary Beth's screams. Forcing himself to think, he knew that he had one chance, and one chance only, so he forced his hand down under his stomach to grasp the handle of the .44 revolver he had slipped inside his belt and waited for Bogart to come closer to gloat over his kill. But Bogart, ever wary of his dangerous foe, stopped short of the body, preferring to fire a precautionary shot at a safer distance.

Aware of the large circle of blood spreading on his shirt, the wounded man realized that his attempt to play dead had not tempted his assailant to come close to gloat. And time was now a determining factor, for he wasn't sure how long he might remain conscious before the loss of blood caused him to black out. He knew he had to act now, even if in total desperation. Calling on all the strength he could muster, he suddenly rolled over, pulling the revolver as he did, only to find that his vision was blurry and his head spinning. With no choice but to shoot, he pointed the pistol at the blurred object standing to watch him and pulled the trigger.

Bogart ducked automatically, but then realized that the pistol shot did not come within yards of him. It was then that he fully realized Luke Sunday was helpless, and he was in total control of his death. “What's the matter, you damn Injun lover?” Bogart roared. “Can't see where you're shootin'? I told you I'd fix your ass before it was over.” He raised his rifle to administer the final strike. At that moment, Mary Beth screamed Luke's name again and ran from the porch to help the fallen man. Bogart found it amusing, and hesitated to pull the trigger, waiting to time the shot when she was only a few yards away from Luke. “You're too late, darlin'. You're gonna be spreadin' them pretty white legs for me tonight.” The fatal shot rang out, but it was not from Bogart's rifle. The huge brute's head snapped back sharply and he staggered backward several awkward paces before crumpling to the ground, shot through the head.

“Damned if that's so,” Vienna Pitts growled. She pulled the Winchester back from the porch railing that she had used to steady her aim and remarked, “Damn thing shoots a little high. I was aimin' at his chest.”

* * *

“I swear, I'm right sorry to hear about John Freeman and his family,” Doc Gunderson said. “They were mighty nice folks. We don't need to lose folks like that here in the valley. We've already got a gracious plenty of the other kind, like that big carcass lyin' in the path up yonder. Me and Buster can drag him up on the bluff and dig a hole for him, so you ladies won't have to look at him anymore.”

“We'd appreciate that, Doc,” Vienna said. “What about the other carcass we got lyin' in the front bedroom. Are we gonna have to dig a hole for him, too?”

“Him? Nah, he's as strong as an ox. He ain't gonna be much use to you for a few weeks, though. He was lucky, if you can call gettin' shot lucky. I can't say for sure, but I'd guess that if that bullet had been an inch or two more toward the center, it'da got a lung. But he ain't havin' no trouble breathin' right now. I ain't a people doctor, but if he was a horse, I'd guarantee you, he'll be back to the stallion he was before.” He nodded toward Buster Carter, who had come along to help. “Buster says he's the feller that killed one of my other patients.” He laughed and shook his head. “He gave me and Buster a fright, I'll tell you.” When he read concern in the eyes of both women, he continued. “From what you ladies told me about those two fellers and what they did to the Freemans, I don't see any reason to tell anybody about who killed who.”

Buster spoke up then. “He's the same feller, all right, but looks like he had reason to do what he did.” When Gunderson picked up his bag to leave, Buster followed him. At the door, he paused to offer his help around the farm to Vienna, who gladly took him up on the offer.

After they left, Vienna went back into the bedroom, where Mary Beth was standing by Luke's bedside. “Asleep?” Vienna asked. Mary Beth nodded. “Well, looks like he might make it. At least Doc thinks so.”

“He'll be all right,” Mary Beth said. “I know he will.”

“While you got him down, you oughta put your brand on him,” Vienna advised with a naughty grin.

“I wouldn't, even if I wanted to,” Mary Beth replied, blushing. “I doubt you could tame someone like Luke Sunday.” She gazed at the sleeping man for a few moments before looking up to see Vienna still grinning at her.

“Hell,” Vienna scoffed, “you'd be the one to do it. They tame wild mustangs all the time. We could use a strong man like him to help us run this place. We need all the help we can get, and it don't sound like a bad idea to have a man called Sunday workin' for us.”

Mary Beth shook her head slowly as if exasperated with her partner. Then she took another look at the peaceful face of the sleeping warrior. “I wouldn't count on it,” she said. But to herself, she thought,
We'll just have to wait and see
.

 

Read on for an excerpt from the next exciting historical novel from Charles G. West,

DAY OF THE WOLF

Available from Signet in September 2012.

 

Wolf was as much a part of the violence of the forest and mountains as the savage beast for which he was named, and that name was almost a legend among the Lakota and Cheyenne bands that roamed the Powder River Valley. A ghostlike presence that haunted the rugged hills and valleys of the Big Horn Mountains and the Wind River Range, Wolf was seen on rare occasions by Indian hunting parties, but almost never by white men—soldiers or settlers. Even these infrequent sightings were only by his choice, such as a visit to a trading post or an unusual circumstance, like the time he suddenly appeared to warn two Lakota women and their children, who were picking berries, unaware that they had managed to come between a mama grizzly and her cubs. The women had never seen the lone hunter before, but they were sure that he was the one her people called the Wolf, for he appeared out of nowhere and advised them to take their children back the way they had come. He then distracted the bear until they were safely away.

Ernie Crockett, who traded with the Indians before tensions heated up to the point of open war with the Lakotas and the Cheyenne, said the Wolf was a man and no legend at all. It was likely a name the Indians had created, maybe from a rare sighting of the man disguised with a wolf hide over himself for the purpose of getting close enough to a buffalo to use his bow. It was a tactic used by the Indians themselves, since buffalo were accustomed to seeing wolves skulking around the herd. “Before I packed up my tradin' post and left,” Ernie claimed, “the man came in and traded pelts for .44 cartridges on more than one occasion. He was real enough, just quiet and kinda edgy till he got his cartridges and left.” Ernie chuckled when telling it. “Yep, he was real, all right, but I reckon the Injuns would rather have him be a spirit or somethin'.”

On this day, however, man or spirit, Wolf was facing a situation he had never faced before. He had fought a cougar with no weapon but his skinning knife, and faced down an angry grizzly to the point where the bear had retreated. But he had never felt as uncertain and cautious as he did at this moment. His better judgment told him to back away carefully.

“Where you goin', darlin'? You ain't bashful, are ya?” Seated on a quilt draped over the tailgate of her wagon, her knees spread like the springs of a bear trap, Lorena Parker beckoned with an index finger, enticingly she presumed. But her quarry seemed more intent upon retreating. “I said I'd pay you to take me to Fort Laramie,” she went on. “What did you think I meant? Money? Hell, I ain't got no money. That's the whole reason I'm goin' to Fort Laramie.”

Wolf was distracted for a moment by the delighted giggles of the other two women who sat nearby as casual witnesses to Lorena's negotiations. He cast a wary glance in their direction before turning his gaze back to the buxom woman. His intimate experience with females was limited to a casual encounter with a young Crow maiden when he was little more than a boy. It was a time of innocence that bore no resemblance to the almost certain peril lurking within the jaws of the beckoning trap spread so easily before him. He took another step back.

“I swear,” Lorena remarked, duly puzzled now by Wolf's reluctance. “What's the matter with you? Why don't you skin them buckskins off? You look like you oughta be a ragin' stud.” Closing her knees then and sitting upright, she studied the wary young man. “Maybe I ain't the one you got your eye on. Maybe you'd rather take your trade out on Billie Jean or Rose. Is that it? I expect either one of 'em would be happy to accommodate you.” The suggestion brought a new round of giggles from the two women, and finally caused him to find his voice.

“I'll take you to Fort Laramie,” he stated flatly. “There ain't no charge.”

“You don't know what you're missing,” Rose teased.

“I bet he's got himself a little wife somewhere, and he's true-lovin' her,” Billie Jean chimed in. “Is that it, Stud?” Her question was answered with a blank stare of disbelief.

“As soon as your horses are rested up,” he said, ignoring the question, “we'll start out for Fort Laramie. They've been drove too hard.” He paused before adding, “And in the wrong direction.” He turned then and walked away to tend to his horse, silently cursing the luck that had caused him to come to the rescue of the three prostitutes. It was the first time he had ever seen a prostitute, as far as he knew, and he found it hard to believe that a man would part with money to risk a tussle with the two older women.

“Suit yourself. I wasn't hankerin' after it myself,” Lorena called after him, although she could not deny a certain fascination for a man that looked to be akin to a cougar. When he made no reply, but kept walking toward the bay gelding at the edge of the creek, she attempted to excuse her erroneous sense of direction. “That no-good son of a bitch we hired in Cheyenne headed us out this way.” If he heard her, he made no indication of it. “How the hell do we know you're any better'n he was?” she asked in a lowered voice, primarily for the benefit of her two companions, since she was not willing to give him cause to change his mind.

“I reckon we oughta offer to feed him, since he ain't lookin' to take it out in trade,” Rose suggested. “There's no telling where we woulda ended up if he hadn't come along when he did.”

“Most likely Medicine Bow is what he said,” Billie Jean recalled, “if we'da kept goin' west.”

“Or nowhere a'tall after you drove my wagon into that damn creek,” Lorena reminded her.

“Well, I was wonderin' how long it was gonna be before you started blaming me for that,” Billie Jean responded. “I wasn't the one who decided to cross where we did. We all three thought it looked like a good place to cross, so don't lay that blame on me.”

“We shoulda known that darker water meant there was a hole there,” Rose said. “Ain't nobody blaming you.” She paused to recall the incident. “It was kinda scary the way he showed up, though, wasn't it? One minute we were stuck in that hole in the creek with nobody else in sight. The next minute we turn around and he was there, just sitting on his horse, watching us trying to get outta that hole.” She turned her head then to gaze at the somber man leading his horse up from beside the creek.

Lorena didn't respond verbally, but it
had
been a little unnerving. All three women were startled to find the lone rider calmly watching their efforts to undo their mistake. She assumed they had been too absorbed in their predicament to notice his approach, but it did appear that he had simply popped up out of thin air. Her first thought upon seeing him was that they were about to be robbed at best, and maybe killed at worst. She didn't know which for a few long minutes, for he said nothing, his face absolutely devoid of expression. She had not been sure at first if he was white or Indian, for he was dressed in animal skins and carried both rifle and bow strapped in his saddle sling. When he finally spoke, it was to say, “You ain't never gonna get it out that way.” Then he fixed his gaze upon Billie Jean, who had been flogging the horses in hopes of encouraging them to pull the wagon out of the hole that had trapped it. “Stop whippin' them horses,” he calmly directed. She immediately dropped the reins. He nudged his horse out into the creek to check the extent of their problem, and after only a minute or two, took a coil of rope from the side of the wagon, stepped out of the saddle into the water, and tied the rope to the rear axle. In the saddle again, he took a couple of turns around the saddle horn and pulled the rope taut. “All right,” he ordered as he nudged his horse, “haul back on the reins.” The wagon backed out of the hole with very little strain. Letting the rope go slack, he rode back into the water to take hold of one of the horses' bridals, then turned the wagon upstream and led it out on the bank.

“Well, mister, I reckon we're beholdin' to you,” Lorena had remarked, although she allowed that she might have come up with the same simple solution, given a little more time. Her main concern at that point had been to determine the strange man's intentions, now that the wagon was high and dry, although everybody was wet to some extent. His only reply to her comment was to suggest that they should build a fire to dry out. She couldn't argue with that, so she helped Billie Jean and Rose gather wood, while he, without a word, unhitched her horses.
I reckon we're going to rest here a spell,
she had thought, somewhat chagrined.

Things had not gone according to Lorena's plans since she had decided to leave Cheyenne, where the competition in her line of employment had gotten too crowded for women of her age. One of her regular customers, Lige Ingram, had claimed to know the country like the back of his hand and, for a price, would take on the job as her guide. Her decision to accept his offer was not due to his claim to know how to go to Fort Laramie. There was a well-traveled trail between Cheyenne and the fort, but there had been recent trouble with the Sioux. Lige persuaded her that he knew shortcuts that would also lessen the danger of meeting an Indian war party. She looked upon it as insurance, for she felt responsible for Billie Jean and especially Rose. Billie Jean really needed no one to look out for her, but Rose was an unfortunate victim of fate who should not have found herself engaged in the ancient profession that Lorena and Billie Jean embraced. Her story was one of innocence betrayed by an unlucky encounter with a pair of rapists and the stigma the incident left upon her in the tiny community where she was born. Although her abusers were caught and punished, she found she would be forever branded and ruined as far as young men who knew her were concerned. Feeling there was no future for her in her hometown, she left to try to make a new life for herself. Unfortunately, she found that her only way to survive was to market her youthful body. Her story was not a great deal different from other soiled doves, but Lorena felt an obligation to watch over her. So when Lige lit out in the middle of the night, evidently content to settle for half of the agreed-upon fee he already had in his pocket, Lorena was burdened with a feeling of increased responsibility.

As far as Lige was concerned, he was probably lost, anyway, she figured, for he had led them away from the common road in a guise to make them think he was taking a shortcut. Good riddance, she had thought, even though she hated the loss of the money and assumed that they should simply continue in the same direction he had been leading them. Now, with an agreement with this mysterious stranger, she couldn't help but wonder if her situation was now worse. She had not feared Lige Ingram, for she speculated that the three women could probably handle Lige if he chose to take advantage of them. But this wild-looking creature who had gotten their wagon out of the creek might be an entirely different kettle of fish.

On the other side of the fire, Wolf was no more comfortable with the unexpected partnership than Lorena was. He still counted it as bad luck to have ridden this way. But after having come upon the three women, he had offered to lend a hand simply out of concern for the two horses that Billie Jean was flogging so relentlessly. Upon hearing their accounting of the unfortunate contract with Lige Ingram, he had not felt right about leaving them to find their way to Fort Laramie on their own—although the fort was easy enough to find. So he decided he would take them a little farther west until reaching Chugwater Creek. Then he could be done with them, for from that point, they could follow the Chugwater to its confluence with the Laramie River. Once they reached the Laramie, they could simply follow it to the fort.

Although eager to take his leave of the three women, he could not deny a measure of fascination for their unashamed lack of modesty. All three had removed their outer garments and hung them by the fire to dry while they proceeded to prepare a meal in the flimsiest of undergarments, seemingly oblivious to his curious eye. He found himself hoping that their clothes would dry quickly. There were other things about the women that he found interesting, however. He was especially curious about the coffee mill Rose used to grind the beans. It was a square, wooden box with intricate carving on the sides and a cast-iron crank on the top. After pouring the coffee beans in the top, she turned the crank for a while, then pulled out a small drawer in the front of the box which held the ground coffee. He had heard of coffee mills before, but this was the first he had actually seen. If his mother had one when he was a small boy, he didn't remember it. He was impressed. It certainly was an improvement over his method of crushing the beans with a rock.

Lorena took note of his curious eye as he watched their every move and fixed his gaze upon her preparation of pan bread. “Have to let it rise a little,” she explained, although he had not asked why she had left the pan on the warm coals at the edge of the fire instead of cooking it closer to the center, where the coals were hotter. “Then it'll be ready to bake,” she said. He nodded in response, understanding then. A fleeting memory darted across his mind of his mother baking bread in an iron stove, but he quickly blinked it away, sending it back to the childhood that had been a prior life. Lorena glanced at Billie Jean, who was watching the two of them with a smile of amusement on her face.
He's like a child watching me
, Lorena thought.
He must have been living under a rock all his life
.

Lorena's thoughts were probably natural under the circumstances, but her mistake was in judging the man's fascination as a sign of innocence in all things. To the contrary, he knew the savage world he chose to live in better than any man. . . .