ChasetheLightning (2 page)

Trey woke with the dawn, eager to be on his way. As always,
his first thought was for his horse. Stretching the kinks out of his back, he
settled his hat on his head and walked over to the where the stallion stood,
grazing on a patch of short grass.

Frowning, Trey ran his hands over the stallion’s neck and
back. The horse’s coat felt smooth beneath his hand. If he hadn’t known
otherwise, he would have sworn someone had come along during the night and
given the stud a good brushing, but that was impossible. And yet, there was no
denying the proof of his own eyes. Someone had groomed the stallion.

He glanced over his shoulder as Ben Needham approached him.

“Hey, Ben,” Trey said, “you didn’t happen to groom the
horses last night, did you?”

Needham shook his head. “Why would I do that? Hell, I been
too tired to groom my own self.”

Trey laughed as he continued to stroke the stallion’s neck.
He'd never heard of horses grooming themselves, like a cat. But ’Pago was
one-of-a-kind, and Trey wouldn't put it past him. He looked over at Ben, aware
that the man had asked him something.

“What’d you say?”

“I was wondering where we go from here,” Needham said.

Trey shrugged. “I’m headin’ north,” he said casually. But it
was a lie.

“Alone?”

Trey nodded.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Find me a little spot where nobody knows who I am and
settle down. I’ve had enough.” He had already found it, a nice patch of ground
near Canyon Creek, but he saw no need to tell Ben that. The last thing he
wanted was for Needham and the others to know where he was headed.

An hour later, after a hurried breakfast of bacon, beans and
campfire coffee, Trey was on his way, alone. They had split the take four ways,
Trey had wished the others luck, stuffed his share in his saddlebags, and
ridden away, just like that. It felt good to be on his own again.

He found himself thinking of Sonny Clark. No doubt the kid’s
body was on display in a rough pine coffin in front of the undertaker’s parlor
down the street from the bank. They’d let him sit there a day or two, a grisly
warning to other outlaws, before they planted him in boot hill. Trey hadn’t
intended for anyone to die but the banker, and he’d failed at that, too. Guilt
gnawed at his innards. He had led them into the bank; like it or not, he had to
accept some of the blame for Sonny's death, but not all. Sonny had been riding
the owlhoot trail long before he threw in with Trey, as had the others. During
the division of the loot, Strouse and the others had made jokes about how
they’d be sure to tip a few for Sonny as they spent the larger share his death
had brought them. Trey hadn't been able to laugh. He had found himself wanting
to say some words for Sonny, something to commemorate the kid’s courage, but
he’d let it pass. From now on, he was going to play a lone hand, and not lead
others into danger.

Before the day was half done, his circuitous route had led
him back to the escarpment above the desert floor, and to a trail known but to
few. Lost in thought, Trey let the stallion set its own pace. Losing the ranch
had been a bitter blow to his old man. Louis D’Arcy had worked hard to earn the
money to buy the land, had worked hard all his life, and then he’d had a run of
bad luck that had forced him to borrow money from the bank. But the bad luck
continued, and he’d fallen behind on the payments.

Louis had gone to the bank and asked for an extension, but
it had been refused. Trey could still remember the day the bank had foreclosed
on the ranch. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the look of
defeat on his old man’s face as they loaded their personal belongings into the
back of the ranch wagon and rode out of the yard for the last time while J. S.
Hollinger stood with the sheriff on the front porch, looking smug and
self-righteous.

Louis had never regained his self-respect. Lost in
self-pity, he had turned his back on his wife and son and turned to booze,
looking for solace in a bottle. Trey had been sympathetic, certain that, sooner
or later, the father he had loved and respected would shake off his defeat and
regain his self-esteem. But it hadn’t happened. D’Arcy had become a familiar
sight in the saloons, working odd jobs for liquor money, cadging drinks when he
could. Trey couldn't remember seeing his father sober after the first year.
Trey’s mother, White Antelope Woman, had done the best she could. She built a
snug lodge and planted a garden. Trey hunted game.

It hadn’t been a bad life, until that day his father went
into town, liquored up and spoiling for a fight. Louis had gone to the bank,
confronted Hollinger and accused him of stealing their land. According to
witnesses, Hollinger had taken refuge in his office and Louis had followed him
inside and slammed the door behind him. The people in the bank lobby claimed to
have heard him yelling, followed by three quick shots. When the head teller had
tried to open the door, it was locked. When Hollinger emerged from his office a
few minutes later, Louis D’Arcy was sprawled on his back, his shirt soaked with
blood, an old rusty Colt Navy, unfired, on the floor beside him. Hollinger
claimed Louis had gone for the gun, and he had fired in self-defense.

Trey had known that was a lie. His father had long since
pawned his six-shooter to buy whiskey. Trey had had to hide the Winchester he
used for hunting to keep his father from trading that for liquor, too. His
father hadn’t been armed when he rode into town. He’d had no money to buy a
gun, and even if he had, no one would have sold him a gun in his drunken
condition. No one admitted to selling D’Arcy the old black-powder pistol. But
the fact remained, it was there, near the body, and the coroner’s inquest had
returned a verdict of self-defense.

Trey had wanted to go after Hollinger, but his mother had
begged him to take her home to her people. There had been enough trouble, she
had said, and with tears in her eyes, she had asked him for his promise that he
would not go after Hollinger so long as she lived. And because he loved her,
because he could not refuse her, he had given his word. They had buried his
father, packed up their meager belongings, and then burned their lodge and
everything that had belonged to his old man. The next day, he had taken his
mother back to her own people.

Trey had loved living with the Apache in the years that
followed. The time spent with his mother’s people had been the best time of his
life. His grandparents had welcomed them home. His grandmother, Yellow Calf
Woman, had comforted his mother; his grandfather, Walker on the Wind, had taken
him in hand and instructed him in the ways of the People, instilled in him a
sense of who he was, made him proud of his Indian heritage.

The Apache were a close-knit people, loyal to their own. All
other people were looked upon as the enemy. Trey soon discovered that the one
and only ambition of every male was to become a warrior. To that end, he’d had
much to learn. Walker on the Wind had taught him to hunt and track in the way
of the People, to live off the land. His grandfather knew every inch of the
land he called home. Every canyon, every creek, every rock and tree and
waterhole.

Trey learned that a true Apache warrior could travel for
days, carrying what little food he needed, finding edible plants along the way.
He could cover more than fifty miles a day on foot. The land shared her secrets
with the Apache. A stone that had been overturned, a branch that had been
broken, horse manure found along the trail, all carried a message for those who
knew how to read it. Warriors were able to cover themselves with dirt and
plants so skillfully that unwary enemies would come upon them unaware of their
presence until it was too late.

He learned how to read smoke signals, and send them. A
sudden puff of smoke that came and went quickly signaled that strangers were in
the area; if the smoke was repeated over and over, it signified that the
strangers were numerous and well-armed. It was an education in warfare and
survival that had served Trey well even after he had left the tribe.

The Apache held truth in high esteem. He did not steal from
his own. He shared what he had with others, paid his debts, loved his children,
supported those who depended on him.

The People did not eat bear meat, or pork, or turkey, nor
did they eat fish or any other creature that lived in water. But almost every
other animal was considered a source of food: deer, buffalo, prairie hens,
squirrels, and horses. Mule meat was considered the best of all.

Bears were to be avoided, as were their trails and
droppings, as the People believed that bears were the reincarnated ghosts of
people who had been evil in life and were made to live as bears as punishment
for their misdeeds.

They hunted the turkey and the hawk and the eagle for their
feathers; they hunted mink and muskrat and beaver for their skins.

Trey had learned that colors played an important part in the
daily life of the People. Black was the color for the East, yellow for the
West, blue for the South, white for the North. East was the holiest direction,
and the People believed that things were best begun in the East. Four was a
sacred number, as there were four directions, four seasons.

The Apache were a sociable people, and feasts and dances
were held often. Gambling was indulged in not only by women and men, but
children as well.

Wood from a tree struck by lightning was considered to be
powerful medicine. Trey had a piece he had taken from a tree he’d seen split in
half during a storm. He had worn it on a string around his neck while he lived
with the Apache. Now, it adorned the stallion’s bridle.

He had learned to make arrows from mountain mahogany or
mulberry wood. He had used the feathers from a hawk for fletching. His most
prized possession had been a bow his grandfather had made for him. It had been
a powerful weapon, strengthened with layers of sinew on the back. An Apache
warrior could shoot an arrow five hundred feet with fatal effect.

Trey had practiced with the bow every day, and every target
had been J. S. Hollinger. And every day, he had vowed to avenge his father’s
death.

He had stayed with his mother until she died of a fever
eight years later.

He had bid his grandparents goodbye, had promised Walker on
the Wind that he would return when he had avenged his father’s death.

His last goodbye had been to Red Shawl, an Apache woman who
had flirted with him on more than one occasion and who had let Trey know that,
had he asked for her hand in marriage, she would not have refused even though
she was several years older than he.

But he’d had no time for a woman, no thought of settling
down. Vengeance rode him with whip and spurs, filling his every thought, guided
his every action.

It had taken time, but Trey had formed a gang. His men were
hard-edged, willing to do anything he asked of them. They had held up one bank
after another until they reached Wickenburg. He’d had every intention of
gunning down J. S. Hollinger but when the time came, he couldn’t do it. There
was no honor in killing a coward. The need for vengeance that had driven him so
mercilessly for so long had faded like smoke in the wind as his old enemy
cowered before him, sobbing and begging for mercy. All that was left now was an
aching void.

Trey rode until nightfall, then made camp in a dry wash.
Dinner was beans and hardtack for himself, a patch of dry yellow grass for his
horse.

Sitting there, he promised both of them a bath and a good
rubdown at the first town they came to.

* * * * *

Amanda woke with a smile. Any other time, she would have
been a little blue at Rob’s absence, but not today. She dressed quickly and
hurried outside, eager to check on her new horse. But the stallion was gone.

Frowning, she checked the empty corral. The gate was shut,
all the rails in place. But the stallion was gone. Had she dreamed the whole
thing? She picked up the brush she had left on top of one of the fence posts,
ran her fingertips over the long white hairs caught in the bristles, solid
proof that the horse had been there. She glanced inside the corral, reassured
by the faint hoofprints discernible in the dirt. The horse had been there—of
course it had. After all, Rob had seen it, too. Perhaps the stallion had jumped
the fence. Or been stolen. Or, most likely, the real owners had come along and
taken it back. But even if that was the case, there should be tracks of some
kind.

With that thought in mind, she circled the corral. But there
were no fresh tracks to be found. No sign that the stallion had been led out of
the corral, no tire tracks, no footprints except her own, and Rob’s. And over
there, the stallion’s hoofprints where she had led him out to graze. If only
Rob was here. He was always bragging about his ability to hunt things down.
Maybe he would have been able to find her phantom stallion.

* * * * *

A vibration in the earth roused Trey from a deep sleep. In
his experience, only two things made a rumble like that: a stampede, or a posse
hard on the trail of its quarry. Caught between shit and sweat, he didn’t stop
to wonder how they had managed to trail him this far so fast.

Gaining his feet, he saddled his horse, rolled his blankets
into a tight cylinder and lashed them behind the cantle. There was no time for
anything else. Swinging into the saddle, he urged the stallion into a gallop.

He rode the stud hard and long. A lesser horse would have
been winded and covered with lather by the time Trey drew rein in a copse of
trees that marked a desert waterhole. Relámpago mouthed the bit impatiently,
still fresh, still ready to run, but Trey needed a break.

Dismounting, he loosed the saddle cinch and let the stallion
blow while he stretched his back and legs. He drank from the waterhole, filled
his canteen, and then let the stud drink before tightening the cinch and
swinging back into the saddle. And then they were riding again, heading east,
setting a more sedate pace. There were no sounds of pursuit. They’d left the
hard-riding posse, if that’s what it had been, far behind, on lathered and
worn-out horses.