The Quantro Story (10 page)

***

His vigilance was rewarded late in the afternoon. A rider cantered into the yard and reined in outside the ranch house, then swung down, pulling his rifle from the saddle boot. The swarthy, stocky man had swapped his greasy buckskins for grey, baggy pants and a shirt, but he was the same man. He hawked then spat into the dust as he stepped up onto the porch, offering his profile to the hillside before disappearing into the house.

Jack Kilhern, the last of the four. Quantro knew there was no mistaking him. Still standing in the shade of the cottonwood, he patted the buckskin's neck as it lifted its head, still chewing on a mouthful of grass. Quantro gathered the reins, then swung up into the saddle and touched his heels to the horse's flanks. As the stallion began to pick its way down the trail, Quantro pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and levered a shell into the breech. They came out of the trees, man and horse, then came to a halt at the entrance to the yard. Quantro reined in at an angle to the house, his back to the sun, so that Kilhern would not see the rifle hanging casually in his right hand.

“Hello the House!”

The rough wooden door opened a crack and then swung wide as Kilhern stepped out on to the porch to examine the caller, a Colt hanging loosely in his hand. Quantro noticed the flicker of the man's eyes to the empty saddle boot of his horse tied to the rail. He thought he detected a twinge of regret when Kilhern realized he had left his rifle on the table in the house.

“What do you want?” the straddle-legged man shouted.

“You Jack Kilhern?” As if he didn't know.

“What do you want?”

“You.” Quantro's voice was low and filled with purpose.

“Who're you?”

“My name's Quantro.” He said it slowly and quietly.

Kilhern's face was blank for a few seconds, then memory dawned and the muscles in his jawbone tensed.

Quantro saw it.

“From Colorado?”

The swarthy man was already throwing himself sideways, bringing up the Colt to bear an the mounted man.

He was too late.

The Winchester came up smoothly and landed across the saddle horn. The only movement on Quantro's face was a flicker of lightning in his ice-cold eyes. The rifle barked in unison with the handgun. Kilhern screamed. The Colt spun away across the boards of the porch and the swarthy man's eyes followed it frantically as he gripped his shattered shoulder with his left hand.

The sound of the Winchester's lever was loud in the silence as the spent casing was ejected and a fresh bullet was pumped into the chamber.

“Get up, Kilhern.”

The voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Quantro merely sounded tired. When the stocky man reached his feet the Winchester barked again and his good arm was ripped open from wrist to elbow. He screamed again. With blood pumping from both his wounds he staggered back to lean on the log wall, arms useless.

Inside the house, Martha Anne Somers' heart leapt when she heard the stranger's rifle shots. She heard the clumsy rattling of boot heels on the porch outside, and when Quantro's voice reached her, telling Kilhern to get up, she almost cried in joy. This was her chance.

But her smile faded when she remembered Kilhern's son. He would hear the gunfire and come running. Although she had never ever handled a rifle before, she would now. She had to warn the stranger. Her eyes reached to the table where Kilhern had laid his Winchester when he came in.

Her mouth narrowed until her lips pressed together in a thin line. Yes, she would go out there and blow Kilhern's head right off his damn shoulders. It would be small enough repayment for all the degradation and humiliation. She snatched up the rifle and opened the door.

The flicker in the doorway caught Quantro's eye. He assured himself Kilhern had no chance of reaching his pistol, but he kept the barrel of the Winchester covering him as he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“Bring the rifle out here, woman, and throw it into the yard, or I'll kill you too, when I've finished with him.”

The door opened wide and Martha Anne Somers stepped out cradling the Winchester. Seeing the stranger, his face grim, she became afraid again. Her voice suddenly dried up, and the warning died with it.

“Kill him. Kill him you bitch,” Kilhern whispered harshly, eyes frantic for an escape route.

Martha looked from the stranger to the swarthy man who had walked into her family's house as if it was his own then murdered her parents without a second thought. And once
those
invisible barriers had been broken, he had handled her as though she was stock bought at the fair, and whenever the fancy took him he raised her skirts. No matter how hard she fought, biting and scratching, he always overpowered her and planted his seed cruelly into her body.

Now she looked back at the stranger on the huge stallion. She opened her mouth to speak and then changed her mind. The hardness of the stranger's cold blue eyes declared the need within him to kill Jack Kilhern, and she knew instinctively that nothing she could say would make him deviate from the course he had set. She raised an eyebrow, then a moment later flung the rifle into the dust.

Kilhern grimaced and spat curses as she went back inside and closed the door. She retreated to her rocking chair and rocked back and forth, listening for the gunshot that would end it all.

“What it is to be loved,” Quantro said dryly as the wounded man cowered against the wall.

Kilhern's mouth opened and closed as the ball of fear knotted inside his stomach. He looked like a fish out of water. His mouth opened again, just as the Winchester's muzzle tilted a fraction. He did not hear the rifle's report as the bullet passed clean through his stomach and lodged itself in his spinal column.

He was already dead.

Quantro remained motionless, the gunsmoke drifting from the Winchester's barrel, as he took a long last look at the fourth
pistolero
. Two years and it was over. The buckskin shifted slightly beneath him, one hoof pawing gently at the ground as though the animal sensed the easing of tension in its rider.

Quantro smiled at the horse's perception, then pulled back on the reins and wheeled, his spurs digging in to urge the best from his mount.

Inside the house, the rocking chair creaked back and forth in the ruts it had worn in the floor over many years. Martha Anne Somers' arms were folded across her breasts, hugging her shoulders.

Her lips shared Quantro's quiet smile.

PART TWO

THE MOTHER MOUNTAINS

CHAPTER 6

They were well into the high country now, and Pete was almost as familiar with the twisting trails there as his Apache friend. He'd done his own share of prospecting in the high Sierra before
banditos
robbed him of his few possessions and left him for dead with a mangled skull, unconscious in the faded grass that grew alongside the rushing waters of the Escondidos. He had been insensible during one of the most vicious rainstorms of that year to lash the ground around him, pounding it into clogging mud. Half out of his mind, lost and dying, he had slithered and crawled, working his way north to Ocho Rios, the eight rivers that only became actual rivers when it rained. The dry
barrancas
were transformed by the rain into raging torrents, the power of the current driving all before it.

Wild-Horse, caught in the storm as he returned from a hunting trip, had found him, face down, drowning in the sea of mud. He recognized the prospector who had traded with him on more than one occasion and took him to a hastily rigged shelter where he cared for him until the storm abated. When the rain ceased and the land was steaming, sucking the water into its dry heart, the Apache had carried him up to the settlement where he had regained his strength slowly. Pete realized that if not for Wild-Horse, then…

He rubbed a hand over his grizzled jaw and looked down at the wounded man in the blanket sling. Maybe the Indian's kindness had affected him. At one time, if he'd found a good horse like the buckskin wandering free, he would not have thought twice about taking it for himself and to hell with the rider, dead or not. Maybe a man was never too old to learn something new.

Wild-Horse led the way up the sheer canyon wall. The trail was so narrow they'd stopped at the foot of the pass and propped Quantro in the buckskin's saddle, roping his feet together beneath the horse's belly so he wouldn't fall off. If the horse slipped on this trail, then he would be dead for sure.

The pass had earned the name ‘Juh's Pass', for it was here Juh, one of the Apache chiefs, had slipped and fallen over the precipice down into the river below. He lived only long enough for one of his sons to reach him.

Pete held the lead-rein of the buckskin and Wild-Horse took charge of the mules. As they climbed, only the creaking of packsaddle leather and a click now and again as a hoof dislodged a loose stone could be heard on the breeze. Pete watched the stiff-legged mules pulling against their harness, shoulders bunched and heads tucked into chests, thrusting their spindly legs up the steep trail. Even as he watched, one mule began to slide, braying loudly, legs churning on the bare rock for lengthy seconds before it found a foothold. Wild-Horse kept them moving, prodding and urging his pony forward to pull against the lead rein. He had no intention of allowing the hard-pressed mules to figure out their perilous situation and become panicky. If only one missed its footing and plunged over the edge into the canyon far below, then the rope that tied each one to the animal behind would pluck them all off the ledge like knots in an anchor rope.

Pete followed a distance behind, his own pony and the strong buckskin making relatively easy work of the climb. He scanned the peaks on the far side of the
barranca
, searching for anything that might seem out of place, but he saw nothing. The hills were silent.

After a time the trail opened out again and they halted to return Quantro to the sling. The ride up the pass had done the wounded man no good at all. If possible, he seemed even weaker, and the infection in his shoulder had brought on a fever. His clothes were soaked with sweat and his face literally ran with moisture. Yet he shivered.

Pete eased some water into Quantro's mouth and mopped the wet face with a damp bandana. If he could last this long, Pete thought with admiration, then he might even make it to the settlement.

They moved on, climbing throughout the afternoon until the Apache found what he was looking for. A narrow pass led off the rock ledge to open out into a sheltered hollow. A cool clear stream ran through the centre, and there was a ring of fire-blackened stones. A rough-hewn pole was hidden in the brush, cut long ago by an Apache for using as a bar to set across the entrance to prevent their animals from straying. Not that the mules would be interested in straying, for they were too exhausted, and their moans were replaced by the sound of strong teeth grinding as they contented themselves grazing on the rich grass.

They stretched Quantro out under the shelter of an overhang and gave him water. With the fever in him now he had begun to talk. Sometimes his voice was only a low mumble, but at other times he spoke clearly. Pete found himself answering the wounded cowboy's plaintive voice before he realized it was only a one-way conversation. But he listened, and from the fevered ramblings he began to piece together some background, the first he knew of the man. Most of it was meaningless of course, but the odd sentence struck home.

Wild-Horse reminded Pete it was his turn to hunt, so the white man collected his rifle and left the camp. He ranged among the rock outcrops and circled until he found a ridge that would bring him out at the place where the stream disappeared into the ground above their sheltered hollow. He traced the watercourse up the mountain, inspecting the ground on either side until he found a place where game had been to drink that morning. He settled himself among a cluster of rocks downwind from the game trail and waited.

He did not have to wait long.

As the light began to fail, the animals came in to drink before moving up the mountainside to their night feeding grounds. He watched the procession of wildlife until a small group of deer emerged from the trees, frolicking playfully as they edged towards the water. Pete selected a young buck, smaller than the rest, but more than adequate for their needs. He rested the Winchester carefully in a notch in the rocks and sighted along the sleek gunmetal of the barrel.

The buck moved into his sights and he followed its progress as it crept to the stream, glancing about. When the sleek brown animal was convinced of its safety it stretched down its long delicate neck and began to drink. Pete eased the rifle barrel down and gently squeezed the trigger.

When the smoke cleared every living animal had vanished as though they had never been there in the first place. The small buck lay on its side, half in the water that was slowly coloring to match its blood. It was a clean head shot. The deer had not known a thing about it.

With dusk drawing in, Pete did not bother to skin and clean his kill, but hoisted the still warm flesh over his shoulder. The animal's head hung limply away from its body, blood dripping on to the ground as he walked back down to the camp.

Wild-Horse grinned and took the load from him, laying it next to the fire as he cleaned it and cut the meat into strips, then skewered them on sticks planted in the earth.

“I hear only one shot. Good hunter.”

Pete grinned in return and rolled himself a smoke as the Apache prepared the meat.

“We'll take the rest up to the settlement. Spotted-Deer will find a use for it. Make one of her special stews.”

Wild-Horse looked up from his slicing at the mention of his wife. He too had been thinking of her. As much as he loved to sleep wild and free under the stars, he looked forward to sharing his bed with her in his wickiup. Soon he would have a strong son, her time was growing near. He smiled as he thought of the habit she had got into of smacking him playfully when he laughed at the way she waddled, the big full moon of her ripened womb sticking out in front as a warning of her coming.

They kept no watch in the high mountains for they were safe there. Once or twice in the night Pete stirred and caught sight of the Apache's shadow as he checked on their injured companion. Pete smiled and rolled over to sleep.

***

They reached the settlement the next day. The sun stood two hours after noon in the blazing sky when the lookout came running down the trail to meet them. They had seen him a long way off, waving his Remington rifle over his head as he perched on a high ridge that afforded an unbroken view down the approach to the settlement.

The whole camp turned out to meet them. Red-Fox, the young chief, stood proud at the front of the gathering, his arms folded across his chest, as he welcomed the returning travelers. Everyone was pleased to see them, supplies were running low.

Pete enlisted aid to carry Quantro to his own wickiup, leaving Wild-Horse to show off the sacks of coffee and flour and the boxes of ammunition. The women fussed round as the Apache handed out the sticks of candy that were a special treat, and the bolts of cloth. The small band of Apache had little chance to eat sweets unless one of the more enterprising braves brought in the honeycomb of wild bees, and they fell on them avidly.

When the uproar died down, Red-Fox took Wild-Horse on one side and questioned him about the injured
Americano
. When he had listened to the tale, he agreed to let the wounded man stay until he regained his strength. He would surely die without their help.

His brother, Crawling-Snake, was not so eager to have a stranger in their midst. Especially a
blanco
. Wasn't he one of the same people who had driven the Apache off the land to begin with? Crawling-Snake was a
Netdahe
Apache; he had taken an oath that meant Death to the white men and all intruders. For him, there were no other people on the face of the earth but the Apache. He would have none of it. Let him die, he said.

Red-Fox was wiser than his brother. He saw no point in wasting life, even if it did belong to an
Americano
. The big blonde-haired one may return the favor someday to an Apache in need of help. Much to Crawling-Snake's disgust, Red-Fox's oratory skills made short work of the few doubters and Quantro was granted sanctuary until he was fit enough to ride.

When it became obvious he was so overwhelmingly out-voted, Crawling-Snake spat on the ground and stalked away.

***

Wild-Horse's wife, Spotted-Deer, sent her younger sister to help Pete care for Quantro. She was a young maiden, almost at the age when she would have to choose a husband. Her skin was smooth as cream and rich as coffee. Thick, shining black hair framed her pretty face and dark, watchful eyes observed the world about her with a twinkle, giving some clue to the humor she possessed. She was long-limbed, tall for an Apache, but she moved with the grace and dignity of a wild bird in flight.

It hadn't been hard to choose her name. White-Wing. As clean and fresh as the mountain air itself. Wild-Horse looked on her with much affection. With her father dead, as her brother-in-law, he had taken on the responsibility of looking after her. With a smile, he thought of the day when one of the young braves would trade many ponies for the privilege of escorting her to his marriage bed.

White-Wing found Pete leaning over the wounded
Americano
in the dim light of the wickiup's interior. She noticed he bore a thoughtful expression. He sensed her presence and looked up, then his mouth twisted into a crooked smile as he moved over so she could see her prospective patient.

Shyly at first, she began to tend to Quantro. She wiped the sweat from his fevered brow and wrapped him in warm blankets when he shivered, tenderness and compassion in her eyes when he trembled like a new born foal. She cooled him, washed him, and coaxingly fed him when he would take a little warm milk or broth. She gathered herbs and cleaned his inflamed wound, then gently bound it. She sat by him day and night, often dozing, her head nodding on her ample bosom, the thick black hair drawing a curtain over her face.

Each time he groaned or muttered, she would stir from sleep and stare at him, afraid that if she took her eyes from him his life would slip away from between her fingers. She spent many hours merely watching his craggy face, her doe-like eyes tracing each line the weather had etched into its surface. Her fingers too, wonderingly touched his fine, shoulder-length blonde hair, so different from the men of her tribe.

Pete often sat on the other side of the wickiup, taking pleasure in watching the graceful form of the girl at work on the unknown American. She had none of the city woman's inbuilt defense mechanisms of hiding her feelings, and he was able to read her expressions easily. He knew Crawling-Snake had been boasting to his own little group of followers he would take White-Wing for his wife and she would bear him many fine sons who would be strong and drive the
blancos
off the land that belonged to the Apache. Pete smiled as he wondered if White-Wing knew about Crawling-Snake's intentions and what she would say about them. He wondered too what Crawling-Snake would say if he was here to watch her work on the injured man.

Many of the Indians at the mountain hideaway disliked Crawling-Snake for his intense, overly aggressive personality. Every Apache could be hostile when it suited, but he seemed to carry his hostility around like a lance, waving it above his head. The Apache Nation had spent too many years running and hiding and fighting the ever increasing number of
Americanos
. Each time the fighting was over they had been shunted from reservation to reservation as treaties were broken time and time again. To the Indian who stood up and gave his word, then acted upon it, the little pieces of paper the white man signed had come to mean not a thing.

Now they were safe in the mountains, the majority of the band wanted nothing more than peace; a chance to live their lives the way they chose, as their fathers and their fathers before them had lived, wild and free under the starry sky the Great Spirit had provided for them. It would seem the white men were so greedy, if they could reach out and pluck the very stars from the sky, they would do so. After all, they had taken everything else. The hearts of the women had cried too often when they had seen new-born babies sucking pitifully on their mothers' empty breasts, and the hungry eyes of the older children as they tramped the trails. When
Chawn-chissy,
the cruel winter, stalked the high mountains there had been no refuge, no respite from the driving winds and blinding flurries of snow.