the Quick and the Dead (1983) (9 page)

He walked on. What to do? It would do no good to go to the McKaskels, and their wagon was far away now, at least a mile and in the wrong direction.

His first idea had been the best. He would go to the Indians. He had a rough idea of where their camp might be, and he started for it.

What followed was nightmare. He hadn't gone fifty steps when he tripped and tumbled into a ravine, losing his staff, but clinging to his rifle. How long he lay there he didn't know nor even when he started out again.

Somewhere along the way he became delirious. The loss of blood had weakened him, and he must have had a mounting fever. Perhaps it was only exhaustion, but all that followed was a hazy time of stumbling, staggering, moving--of falling, lying in the wet grass, rising and driving on. He went through trees and brush, tumbled into another gully and got himself out by crawling.

The moss came loose from the wound so he used grass.

He remembered lying on the grass and feeling hot sun on his back. Then he remembered trying to get up and hands taking hold of him. Somebody tried to take his rifle away and he clung to it. They tried to remove his gun belt and he struck the hands away and went to his knees, and then for a long time he remembered nothing at all.

It was a sensation of smothering and of wracking movement that awakened him. Suddenly he was awake, lucid, listening. He was moving, his body lay on an incline and he was wrapped in something coarse and smelly. His fingers touched his gunbelt. He still had it. A slight movement of his head and his cheek touched the cold of his rifle barrel.

He was lying on a travois wrapped in the folds of the buffalo-hide teepee. He was with the Indians then, and he was being moved. For some reason they were keeping him hidden.

Suddenly the horse that was pulling him stopped with a jerk, twisted a little, then was still. There was a confused sound of movement, the galloping of horses. Then a hoarse voice ... Ike Mantle's voice. "You Injuns seen a wounded white man? We're huntin' him!"

"No see."

"You better not be lyin' to me, you Injun son-of-a--!"

"Ike! Shut up, damn you! That big buck yonder's got his rifle right across his saddle at you!Lay off !"

"Why? There's only six of them and they--"

"Eight," the Huron said calmly. "There are two others somewhere."

There was a moment of silence. "We're huntin' a bad white man," Doc Shabbitt said, "you Injuns find him, kill him or bring him to us, you savvy?"

Nobody said anything.

"I'd like to shake 'em down," Ike said angrily. "What's in all those bundles? What's on the travois?"

"Their lodges, Ike," Purdy said, "just the duffle they have to live with. Hell, if you want that gent so bad, let's hunt him. No use to start a war with these Injuns. We might whop 'em but we'd lose two or three and one of them might be you or me."

Red Hyle swung his horse away. "Let's ride!" he said roughly. "We don't care about him, anyway. Let's find that woman."

"All you think about's that woman," Booster said.

Vallian heard the sudden creak of a saddle, the movement of a turning horse. "What I think about's my own damn business. You want to make something of it?"

"Aw, Red! I was only makin' a joke! Forget it."

"What I want to know," Dobbs said suddenly, "is what's become of Boston? It ain't likehim to ride off with no reason."

"He prob'ly thought he could find that gent," Booster said. "He saddled up early an' lit out. Said he had him a hunch.

"Somebody shot ... just before daybreak it was. Somebody fired a shot off to the north."

"I heard no shot," Shabbitt said irritably. "If there was one it might have been them Injuns."

Con Vallian held himself very still, listening as the sound of the voices dwindled away with the sound of the horses' hoofs.

Boston Pangman gone and a shot fired ... he scowled, puzzling over a vague recollection of something ... he drew his pistol, barely able to get it from the holster within the confines of the buffalo hide teepee. He swung out the cylinder. Two chambers were empty ... and he always reloaded.

He succeeded in getting the pistol back into its holster and slowly relaxed. They were moving again, moving on.

That night they unrolled him from his hide cocoon and bedded him down under some brush near their camp. There they brought him some broth made of venison, and one of the Indian women examined his wound and bathed it in some solution. The warm water felt soothing, and he could feel the warmth penetrating the sore muscles around the wound. She then wrapped the leg in a poultice, and left him alone.

He could lie there in the darkness watching the movement around the camp fire, but nobody came near him again or seemed aware of his existence. He understood that. They suspected they were being watched, and wanted Shabbitt and his men to see nothing that would lead them to suspect his presence.

When it was almost midnight a woman came to him with another cup of broth, then some coffee, almost too sweet with sugar. She sat by him while he ate, and once she put a hand on his brow, but she did not talk and shook her head when he started to speak. Before daybreak he was again rolled in the hide and tied to the travois.

He slept the day through. Twice a woman stopped near him, holding a bottle of water at her side, and he managed to take hold of it and drink. Again at night he was hidden and cared for.

On the third night, lying alone in the brush, he heard a faint stirring near the camp. His hand rested on his gun, and he listened again. Something was drawing near, moving very quietly. He heard a faint sound of metal striking a branch, a hoof-fall. Somebody was riding toward the camp, riding in the darkness.

He listened, straining his ears. The Indians appeared to be sleeping, the dogs made no sound. He drew his gun.

The movements drew nearer. He was still in no shape for a fight, although he seemed to be regaining his strength, but he did not want to fire a shot unless there was no alternative.

He eased back under his blankets, ears straining for sound, his eyes upon the darkness. He must not shoot ... not until he knew what he faced.

The movements ceased. Firelight flickered on the branches overhead. Suppose they simply fired into him without appearing in the open where he could see them? Suppose they gave him no chance?

Movement started then stopped again. Was the mysterious rider looking into camp? Was he close enough for that? Why weren't the Indians awake? Why weren't the dogs barking?

He turned his head and looked toward camp. All was still. The coals glowed and a tendril of flame burned some unconsumed branch on the far side of the fire.

He thought suddenly of the McKaskels ... where were they?

The horse moved again, nearer.

He lifted himself to one elbow, the pistol in his hand. He moved back the blanket and pulled himself against the trunk of a small tree, waiting.

The steps drew nearer. The horse blew slightly through its nostrils, and suddenly he had a hunch. Catching a limb of the small tree he pulled himself erect, balancing on his one good leg.

Holding his gun ready he made a small chirping noise with his pursed lips.

There was silence, and he could picture the horse standing, its ears up. And its rider?

The horse moved forward, pushed through the brush, and suddenly an Indian, rifle in hand, was beside him.

The horse appeared, head up, ears up, nostrils distended.

"It's all right, boy," Con spoke softly. "It's all right. It's me."

It was his own horse. Somehow, through the night and the day and the miles, his horse had found him. The horse came up to him, and Con put his hand on its neck. He tied the horse to a branch near his bed. The Indian disappeared in the brush on the far side of the fire. Con got back into his bed and pulled the blanket over him. He looked up at the horse. "It's all right," he said, "you're home again." And then he added, "as much of a home as we're likely to get."

Chapter
X

For several days the wagon moved westward, and they saw no human being, nor sign of any. They had left off to the south the trail to Sante Fe and the westward lands, while the Overland Trail was far away over the northern horizon.

The rains had left water in buffalo wallows and holes beside the route they followed. At night they pointed their wagon-tongue westward, using the North Star as a guide, and by day the sun. The way they had taken was one no wagon had followed for it was far from water-holes and they were risking much in the days ahead.

They were quiet days. The wagon, relieved of much of its load, moved easily over the prairie grass. On the third day McKaskel killed a buffalo calf and, a few days later, a deer that he saw among the reeds near a small slough.

Each day the horizon was empty, they saw nothing, heard nothing, yet when a week had passed the water grew less, and Duncan grew worried. "We may have to turn south," he said, "I think we're running out of water."

"Let's try it another day," Susanna pleaded. That day they saw a band of wild horses ... hundreds of them who ran off a short distance and then stood, heads up, nostrils flared, looking toward them.

"I wonder what happened to him?" Susanna said suddenly. "Ever since the shooting that night, I've been worried."

McKaskel nodded. "So have I. And I've wondered if we shouldn't have stayed and waited for him."

"He said nothing about coming back," Susanna said. "He was a strange man."

That afternoon, only a few miles from their nooning, they came suddenly upon a small creek. They saw the tops of the cottonwoods first, then the fold in the plain where the creek ran. "It's early," Susanna said, "but let's stop." They found a flat just back from the creek among scattered cottonwoods, some of them huge old trees six or eight feet in diameter. There was much brush, and firewood enough for an army. They built a small fire, broiled some of the buffalo meat, and Tom caught a half dozen fish in the space of twenty minutes. If the stream had ever been fished, it must have been a long, long time ago. The water was clear, cold, and pure.

"I don't know what streams are in this area," McKaskel said. "I've no idea what this is. We should be west of Sand Creek, and we thought that was it we crossed some days back ... it was running mighty shallow."

"It's water. Let us be thankful." They gathered wood and stowed it in the tarp. They emptied both barrels of the remains of the water they had carried and refilled them with fresh water.

That evening, just before sundown, Duncan McKaskel killed another deer.

"I'll never forget this place, Duncan. It has brought us so much, water, wood, and fresh meat."

"Where's Tom?"

"Down by the creek. He was making a sailboat out of an old tin can and some sticks."

They sat still together, watching the slow finger of their smoke, lifting toward the sky. "This would be a good place, Susanna," McKaskel said, glancing around. "It has all we need. I think that flat-land up there would grow wheat."

"I want the mountains, Duncan. You promised me mountains."