Demon's Pass (22 page)

“Do it,” Clay said. “Then get me a couple rounds of ammunition and a candle.”

“A candle?” Parker asked, not sure he heard right.

“Yeah, a candle.”

“What are you going to do?” Pecorino asked.

“I told you, I'm going to kill an Indian,” Clay said in a strained, matter-of-fact voice.

“What do you mean you're going to kill an Indian? Hell, that's all we been doin' since this started,” Tobin said.

“Yes, but we haven't killed the right one,” Clay said. “Sometimes, when the leader gets killed, the rest of the Indians give up the fight.”

A few moments later Parker gave Clay the buffalo rifle, ammunition, and a candle he had taken from the wagon. Clay, fighting the pain, which still had a grip on him, sat down again and took two of the fifty-caliber shells out of the ammunition bag. He separated the bullets from the cartridges, then started pouring powder from one of the cartridges into the other.

“What the hell are you doin' now?” Pecorino asked.

“Damn!” Jason said, his eyes shining brightly. “I know what he's doing! He's doubling the powder load.”

“You gone crazy?” Tobin asked. “You do that, you're goin' to bust a barrel.”

“It's a chance I have to take,” Clay said as he continued to work on the bullet.

“So, what are you going to do?” Tobin asked. “Try and get him next time they come down?”

“No. I'm going to get him now.”

“Now? He's better'n five hundred yards away,” Tobin said with a scoff. “Ain't no way you can get him from here.”

“Light that candle, then hand it to me, will you, Parker?” Clay asked.

Parker lit the candle. Clay tapped the bullet back into the cartridge, then used the dripping candle wax to help seal it.

“You really think you can hit him all the way from here?” Pecorino asked.

“I don't know if I can or not,” Clay admitted. “But I'm damn sure going to try.”

Pulling himself up again, Clay rested the barrel on the side of the wagon. He aimed, then lowered the rifle. “Damn,” he said.

“What is it?” Parker asked.

“I just happened to think. This thing kicks like a mule as it is. With a double load it's going to really kick hard. And with this shoulder, it's going to hurt like hell.”

“You want me to try the shot?” Jason asked.

“You as good with a rifle as you are with that pistol?” Clay asked.

“I don't know,” Jason admitted. “I've never really shot a rifle.”

Clay shook his head. “Anyone else think they can make the shot?”

There were no takers to his offer.

Clay sighed. “That's what I was afraid of. All right, all I have to do now is put it out of my mind. Otherwise, I'll flinch for sure and I'll miss by a mile.”

Clay adjusted his sights, raised it to his shoulder, aimed again, then lowered it for another adjustment.

No one said a word.

Clay aimed a third time. Then the rifle roared, bucking hard against his shoulder.

“Ow shit!” Clay shouted, grabbing his shoulder.

Parker had been looking through the telescope at the Indian with the yellow hand on his face. He saw the brave suddenly jerk, then look down at the hole that appeared in his chest.

“You got him!” Parker shouted excitedly.

 

An Indian named Crow Dog was seated on his horse next to Yellow Hand, looking toward the wagons. He heard an angry buzz, then the smack of a bullet hitting flesh, then he heard Yellow Hand grunt. Looking toward him, he saw dark crimson blood pouring from a very large hole in his chest. Yellow Hand tumbled backward from his horse.

“Yellow Hand!” Crow Dog called.

“What happened?” one of the other Indians called.

“Yellow Hand is shot!”Crow Dog announced.

The Indians were disoriented. Surely, no ordinary rifle could kill from this far away.

“What manner of weapon is this that can kill from so far away?” Young Calf asked Crow Dog.

“The medicine of these white men is strong,” another said. “Surely, if we stay here longer, we will all be killed.”

“Crow Dog, what shall we do now?” Young Calf asked.

Crow Dog had not declared himself in charge, nor, while Yellow Hand was leading them, had Crow Dog been considered as second in charge. In fact, the Shoshoni had no concept of second in charge, but because he was asked by the others, the position of leadership was suddenly thrust upon him. All turned toward him to hear what he would say.

“We will leave this place of death,” he said. “Come, let us return to Black Crow and our people.”

 

Pecorino and Tobin patted down the mound of dirt that covered Marcus's grave. Clay read the same passages over the grave that he had read over those of Parker's parents.

“You knew Marcus a long time, didn't you?” Parker asked as they made camp that night.

“Since the war.”

Parker held out Marcus's hat. “If you don't mind, I'm going to keep this.”

“No, of course I don't mind. Don't know what you want with it, though.”

“It's just a memento.”

“I think Marcus would have liked for you to have it.”

The pain of his wound kept Clay from sleeping that night so, as the others snored, he stared up at the stars and remembered the day he first met Marcus Pearson.

 

 

 

As Clay lay there in the dark, he felt a lump in his throat, and tears in his eyes as he remembered his old friend. He was glad the others were asleep, and that there was no one to see him grieve.

Chapter 15

It was now six days since Elizabeth had killed Bloody Axe and made good her escape. But the question was, escape to where? During the time she had been with Bloody Axe he had wandered around so much, climbing, descending, twisting back on himself, that Elizabeth lost all sense of direction.

For a while she could tell east from west by the rising and setting of the sun, but for the last two days the sun had been obscured by low-hanging clouds. And even if she could see the sun, even if she could ascertain the cardinal points of the compass, what good would it do her? She didn't know if Two Ponies' village was north, south, east, or west of her present position.

That brought up another question. If she did know where Two Ponies' village was, would she want to go there? Or, would she rather try and find a white settlement?

Elizabeth was also desperately hungry. Since her escape from Bloody Axe, she had only caught two fish. Yesterday, she found some wild onions. But, realistically, if she didn't find some sort of civilization soon, she feared she would starve to death. Or, she thought as she shivered with the cold, she would freeze to death. She had no idea what the date was, but she was well aware of the fact that each day was colder than the last.

As darkness fell, she burrowed into a pile of dead leaves, pulling them around her for what little heat they could provide. Lying there, waiting for sleep to come, she mouthed a prayer. “Oh Lord. Deliver me from my travail soon, or take me now.”

 

When Elizabeth awoke the next morning, she heard voices. Although there were a few words she could understand, most of the conversation was unintelligible to her. She thought it significant, however, that none of the voices seemed excited or angry. Only curious.

When she sat up, she saw that she was surrounded by Indians; men, women, and children. All of them, young and old, male and female, looked at her with uninhibited curiosity. At one time in her life Elizabeth would have been terrified, but her experience with the Cheyenne had changed all that. Intuitively, she knew these people were no danger to her. On the contrary, they now represented her only hope of survival.

“Have you anything to eat?” Elizabeth asked, speaking in English.

One of the men said something, and a woman unfolded a bundle, then removed a piece of dried meat which she gave to Elizabeth. Elizabeth thanked the woman for the meat, then began eating ravenously, aware of their intense stares, but so absorbed by her hunger that she paid no attention.

“Who are you?” the same man who had translated her request for food asked her. Elizabeth didn't know if he was their leader, or if he was their spokesman, merely because he could speak English.

“I am Elizabeth Stanley of Illinois,” Elizabeth answered. “How are you called?”

“I am Standing Bear, of the Ute.”

“I thank you, Standing Bear of the Ute, for the food.” Elizabeth spoke the words in English, but she made the universal hand signs that she knew were understood by all the tribes. Turning to the woman who had provided the meat, she made the sign of gratitude a second time. The woman smiled.

A young girl approximately seven or eight years old moved unabashedly toward Elizabeth and reached out to take a strand of her blond hair in her fingers. Holding the hair in her hand, she looked at it in wonder.

The woman who had given Elizabeth the meat spoke harshly to the girl and pulled the girl away.

“It's all right,” Elizabeth said. Then, smiling at the little girl, she used Bloody Axe's knife to cut off a lock of her own hair, which she extended toward the little girl. The little girl looked at the woman for consent. The woman nodded, and the little girl took the hair and began examining it closely.