Silver City Massacre (21 page)

Cursing himself for being so stupid for thinking that he would be able to shoot either of them before they could see where the shots were coming from, he lay still for a brief moment, trying to decide how bad he was hurt. If they had seen him get hit, and he was sure that they must have, they would probably be coming after him to make sure. They would have to come up the slope to find out, leaving themselves vulnerable in the open expanse between the rocks and the top of the ridge. Because of the possibility of that, he had to make himself crawl back to the top and wait for them.

Confronted with the same uncertainty that Joel struggled with, Strong and Zach were concerned with the risk of leaving their rocky fortress to confirm a kill. “He's hit, damn it,” Zach insisted. “I think it was my shot that got him.”

“Maybe,” Strong countered. “It's hard to say whose shot got him, but he caught one, all right. If you think it was yours, then you can walk on up that hill to see if he's dead.”

“Shit,” Zach replied. “I know damn well he got hit, but I don't know if he's dead. Maybe you wanna go up there and see.”

With neither man willing to take the risk, they waited and watched for some sign until, tired of waiting, Strong said, “We need to know if that son of a bitch is dead or not, so we can tell Boss. Besides, he's got a horse up there that would sure come in mighty handy right now.”

They continued to wait.

Above them, behind the crown of the ridge, Joel was trying to get into position to defend against any advance by the two outlaws. He labored to get to his feet, staggering from the stabbing pain in his left arm each time he tried to use it. The bullet felt like a live coal deep in his back, and he found it was too painful to support the light carbine with that arm while he pulled the trigger with his other hand. He could also feel a steady trickle of blood down his back, and he had no way to stop it.

Finally he accepted the fact that he was in no condition to defend himself, so he reluctantly withdrew, promising Boone, Riley, Elvira, and Ruthie that it was not over yet. With a great deal of effort, he climbed into the saddle and turned the gray back the way he had come.

•   •   •

The wait became almost unbearable as the day wore on, finally coming to the point where Strong was ready to take a chance, rather than wait for nightfall.

“Damn it,” he exclaimed, “I'm goin' up that ridge. I think he's dead, or we'da heard something outta him. You can stay hid here if you want, but if you do, I'm ridin' that horse home by myself, and you can walk on in.”

He stood up then, put his hat on the barrel of his rifle, and held it up over the top of the boulder. There was no response from above them, so he waved it back and forth a few times.

When there was still no shot coming their way, Zach volunteered, “Hell, I'll go up that slope with you.”

At Strong's suggestion, they went up the slope about twenty yards apart, walking slowly while holding their rifles up to their shoulders and aiming at the top of the hill. There was no gunfire to greet them. When they reached the top, they halted until each man was ready, then rushed over the narrow crown of the ridge, ready to shoot. There was no one there. “Gone!” Zach stated the obvious.

“He was hit, though,” Strong said, pointing to a little pool of blood and a bloody trail leading to a place where a horse had stood. “Bad enough so he couldn't fight, but not too bad to keep him from ridin' a horse.”

“Damn,” Zach said in disappointment. “The bastard's still alive.”

“Maybe not for long. He's losin' blood,” Strong said. “He might just be lookin' for a place to die.”

“I wish to hell he'da died right here so we could use his horse.” He looked up at the afternoon sun. “I reckon if we get started walkin', we might make it back to Blackjack before dark.”

“We need to get Larkin's share of the bounty money and his guns,” Strong said as they turned to walk back down to pick up their saddles.

He continued to berate himself as he rode slumped in the saddle for being so eager to finish off the two raiders who had come after him. Thinking he had a chance to get them both, he had carelessly left himself exposed to their gunfire. The farther he rode, the more he became convinced that he was going to have to take time to heal before the score could be settled.

His concern was the location of the wound. If it was in his arm or leg, he could doctor it on his own, but the wound was in his back. He couldn't even see it, but he could damn sure feel it, and he knew he was going to need a doctor or someone to treat it. The only doctor he knew of was Crooked Arrow, the medicine man in the Shoshoni village, and the longer he stayed in the saddle, the more he was convinced that he had to have help. The sooner he could get to that help, the better, but he had the worry of the two extra horses back at his camp, plus his supply of ammunition. So he turned the gray's head toward the camp, figuring that he would make it to the Shoshoni village, or he would not. Either way, he had to free the horses first.

Determined to do what he had to do, Joel made the long ride back to his camp in the narrow canyon. As soon as he rode into the small clearing at the back of the steep canyon wall, he painfully climbed down from the saddle and knelt by the pool at the bottom of the waterfall to splash the cold water on his face. The shock of the ice-cold water helped to clear his senses, so that he could force himself to untie the rope hitching rail he had fashioned across the stream. Then, afraid he was going to lose his strength if he stopped to rest, he tied the reins of the horses to a lead rope, and that he tied to his saddle. He left the saddles where they were, planning to come back for them when he was able.

As he secured the packsaddle on one of the horses, he felt a fresh trickle of blood running down his back, but he didn't stop until he had loaded ammunition, supplies, and two Henry rifles he had picked up. Finally ready to ride, he felt exhausted, but he strained to pull himself up into the saddle once more, afraid that if he lay down to rest, he might never get up again. He pressed the gray with his heels and left his secluded camp by the waterfall, hoping to reach the Shoshoni village of Chief Walking Eagle.

•   •   •

Young Black Fox paused on his way to the thick grove of trees downstream from the Indian village when he spotted three horses approaching the village in the fading light of dusk. The two horses in front appeared to be loaded with packs, but as they came closer, he realized that the lead horse was carrying not a pack, but a rider slumped over its neck. The discovery was enough to make him forget the urgency to visit the trees downstream, and he ran back toward the circle of tipis to alert the village.

Responding to Black Fox's cry, most of the villagers came from their tipis to see who was approaching their village. One of the curious in the crowd was Red Shirt, the Bannock, still wearing a bandage, but otherwise strong and healthy. The lead horse looked like the one that Joel rode, but he wasn't sure. So like the others, he watched in silence as the lead horse walked slowly up in the semicircle of puzzled spectators and stopped. The body lying across the gray gelding's neck did not move until someone reached out to touch his elbow. It was enough to cause the unconscious man to slide from the horse's neck and land in a heap on the ground. It was then that Red Shirt realized it was indeed Joel McAllister.

“Joel!” he exclaimed, and hurried to his side. Seeing the bloody shirt, he feared that his friend was dead. He quickly rolled him on his side so that he could press his ear to Joel's chest to listen for a heartbeat. When he heard the slow, steady beating of the white warrior's heart, he called out for someone to tell Crooked Arrow.

“I am here,” Crooked Arrow said, having already joined the gathering of onlookers. “Let me see him.” He knelt on the other side of Joel and, upon seeing the bullet hole in the back of his shirt, he said, “Some of you carry him to my lodge. Maybe I can help him fight this wound. It has already spilled much of his blood.”

Red Shirt and three other men lifted Joel and carried him to Crooked Arrow's tipi, where the medicine man directed them to lower him down on a bed of doeskin and blankets. He removed the bloody shirt and looked at the ugly black hole in Joel's back for a few minutes. Then he came outside with a large pan.

“I need some fresh water to clean the wound.”

Standing with the others close to the entrance flap of the tipi, White Fawn immediately volunteered and took the pan before Owl Woman, Crooked Arrow's wife, could reach for it. She was away to the stream at once. Her eagerness to help the wounded white warrior did not escape her father's notice. She had been especially attentive to the young man when he was there before. Crooked Arrow had thought it merely curiosity then. Now he wondered if it might be more than that. Their young daughter had been somewhat of a puzzle for Yellow Moon and Walking Eagle. She was of an age when most of the other girls had already taken a husband, but White Fawn had shown no interest in any of the young men of the village. Fighting Horse, one of the most feared warriors of the village, was prepared to give Walking Eagle six ponies for her hand. Most young girls would have been proud to be the wife of Fighting Horse, but White Fawn begged her father to refuse. A doting father, Walking Eagle didn't have the heart to insist.

I must talk to Yellow Moon about this problem,
he thought.

In a few minutes, White Fawn returned with the pan of water and took it inside the tipi. “I can help you clean his wound,” she volunteered, surprising Owl Woman, who had assumed she would have that responsibility. Indifferent, however, she shrugged, gave White Fawn a cloth she was holding, and stepped out of the way, but not before giving her husband a knowing glance. White Fawn went quickly to her task, cleaning the dried blood from Joel's back, carefully rinsing the fresh blood that continued to ooze from the wound.

The cold water served to bring Joel out of his fit of unconsciousness for a brief moment and he opened his eyes, not knowing where he was. The first thing that registered with his muddled brain was the image of an angel's face hovering close over him. Still groggy, he did not question it, and thought that he might even be dead, but he felt that someone was watching over him. So he closed his eyes again and slid back into sleep.

“Good,” Crooked Arrow said, “I'll dig the bullet out now.”

White Fawn stepped back out of the way, but she remained inside the tipi while Crooked Arrow probed for the rifle slug embedded deep inside the muscles of Joel's back. The bullet did not come out easily, but Crooked Arrow eventually managed to dislodge it. When it was out, he cleaned the wound again and applied a poultice containing a mixture of healing herbs. Then Owl Woman stepped in and bound the wound with a length of cloth. Crooked Arrow turned to discover White Fawn still standing there, on her face a question of concern.

“He is strong,” Crooked Arrow told her. “But he must rest and let it heal.”

Outside the tipi, only two of the people who had first gathered still remained, Red Shirt and Walking Eagle. White Fawn stepped outside and smiled when she saw them waiting. Speaking to Red Shirt, she said, “Your friend will be all right. Crooked Arrow took the bullet out of his back, but he must rest.” She could see the deep concern on his face relax a bit and he nodded solemnly.

Walking Eagle spoke to her then. “You must go to our lodge. Yellow Moon wants to talk to you.” White Fawn smiled. She had a fair idea what her mother wanted to talk about.

Crooked Arrow came out to join them as White Fawn walked away. He looked at Walking Eagle and smiled. “I think you might have a problem on your hands.”

“I know this,” Walking Eagle replied. “She seems taken by the young white warrior. Maybe her mother can talk to her.”

Unaware of the problem they spoke of until that moment, Red Shirt was taken by surprise. “Joel is a good man,” he stated for his friend's part. “He is an honorable man.”

Walking Eagle looked at him and smiled. “I believe that he truly is, but I don't know his heart. I am thinking about my daughter's heart, and I am afraid it might be broken if he has no interest in her. That is all.”

Changing the subject then, he asked if Joel was well enough to move. Crooked Arrow told him that he expected Joel would be best served to stay where he was for the night, and then he should most likely be awake and alert.

“Good,” Walking Eagle said, and turned to Red Shirt. “We will take him to your lodge in the morning,” he said, referring to the small tipi that had been erected for Red Shirt's convalescence.

“I will take care of him,” Red Shirt said, and unconsciously worked his wounded shoulder back and forth, testing its condition.

He was much relieved to know that Joel was going to be all right, realizing the gratitude and high regard he had for his white friend. Many days had passed, and many things had happened since Joel caught him trying to steal one of his horses. He valued his friendship highly.

•   •   •

Crooked Arrow was right. Joel was strong, and was alert the next morning, insisting upon walking to Red Shirt's tipi, instead of being carried. The effort caused his wound to start bleeding again, resulting in a minor scolding from White Fawn, who had come to witness the transfer of the patient.

While her attention to the white man was not looked upon with approval by many in the village, she was not judged too harshly primarily because her strong-minded behavior was well-known. When she was content that Joel was comfortably settled in the tipi, and had eaten something, she returned to her regular chores, leaving her patient in Red Shirt's care.

“Good you gonna be all right,” Red Shirt told Joel when he woke from a short period of sleep after eating. “I afraid you not come back no more.”

“I didn't get the job done,” Joel said, grimacing as he tried to get in a comfortable position on the blanket. He went on to tell his friend all that had happened since he had left him in the village to recover. “I came close to gettin' the last two of those bastards that came to clean us out, but I got careless. As soon as I'm on my feet again, I'll finish what I started.”

“We finish,” Red Shirt corrected.

Joel smiled. “That's right, partner,
we finish
.”

Thinking about it for only the first time since he made it to the village, he asked Red Shirt about the horses. He had only to look around him to see what had happened to the packhorse load he had brought with him. It had all been moved into the tipi.

“Horses with Shoshoni herd,” Red Shirt said.

Already planning his strategy for his next attack on Beauchamp, he informed his friend that he was thinking about switching over to one of the Henry rifles he had picked up from the dead.

“I don't think they're quite as powerful as the Spencer, but they're a helluva lot easier to handle when you want rapid fire. It's easier to find forty-four cartridges than fifty-fours, and we can use the forty-fours in our pistols. It's up to you whether or not you wanna do the same. If you do, I'm thinkin' we oughta make Walkin' Eagle and Crooked Arrow a present of our Spencers as kind of a payment for takin' care of us.”

“Hmm. . . . maybe so,” Red Shirt replied, thinking it a good present for each man.

Joel went on. “I brought plenty of cartridges for the Henrys. I'd wanna do a little practice shootin' before I have to use it in a fight.”

“You not ready yet,” Red Shirt cautioned, afraid his friend was not giving his wound proper respect. “Have to let wound heal.” Then a joke occurred to him. “You can't go till White Fawn say so. She keep close eye on you.”

“White Fawn?” Joel asked, not aware of the girl's special attention to him. He had assumed that she helped Crooked Arrow as a matter of routine.

“Yeah,” Red Shirt said with a chuckle. “She keep close eye on you.”

Giving it some thought then, Joel pictured the face that brought him something to eat that morning and realized it was the face of the angel he had seen upon first awakening the night before.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

Red Shirt laughed heartily. “White Fawn think white warrior big medicine. I think she looking for husband.”

“I doubt that,” Joel replied, finding it difficult to believe the girl would have any such notions toward him.

He had more important things to think about, he told himself. For as long as Beauchamp and his two men were alive, Riley, Boone, and the women could not rest in peace. So healing quickly and returning to finish the job were all he could concentrate on. He was to find, however, that other thoughts were difficult to prohibit, especially in the silent hours of the night, and sometimes he would have to admonish himself for losing sight of his goal.

•   •   •

It was late at night when Strong and Zach had stumbled into the barnyard at Blackjack Ranch, staggering under the burden of their saddles. Lamps in the main house had long since been blown out, so no one had been aware of the two gunmen's return—no one, that is, except for Fuzzy, who was still up in the bunkhouse. With none of the hands to cook breakfast for, there was no need to get up early, so he allowed himself the pleasure of sitting up later in the evening. Since they were on foot, he had not heard them walking up to the door to startle him when the door suddenly opened.

“What the hell . . . ?” he had started when they walked in the door. “I didn't hear no horses comin' in.”

“'Cause we ain't got no horses,” Zach had replied.

Fuzzy had looked at the door behind them, expecting others to file in behind them. “Where's the rest of the boys?”

“They got delayed,” Strong had replied. “You got anything to eat?”

“There's some biscuits left over,” Fuzzy had offered. “I was gonna have 'em for my breakfast, but you can eat them, and I'll make you some coffee.” He had paused to take a long look at the two weary travelers. “Ain't you gonna tell me what's goin' on?”