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Authors: Ford Fargo

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BOOK: Wolf Creek
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There came another blast of gun fire, and
this time it was closer. Both boy and man stood guard, waited, and
listened. With the passing minutes, it was evident someone was
being chased and those who were shooting and those that were
running were coming closer and closer to the ranch.

“Do you think they’re…”

“Billy, we don’t have much say in this,
except to keep our heads.”

Rifle shots sounded nearer and both looked
down and over the wide expanse. They saw a trail of dust and two
riders were pushing their mounts. Behind, a group of other riders
were in pursuit. They watched the slow approach and as they
gradually got nearer, Billy shouted.

“It’s Patrick! I’d know that paint of his
anywhere. And look! Aaron is riding the grey mustang.”

“I think you’re right, Billy. You stay up
top and cover me. I’m going down.”

Kelly ran with rifle in hand across the
roof, opened the door and took steps, two at a time, to the floor
below. Hurrying to the front of the house, he removed the bar and
opened the thick wooden door.

“Kelly!” shouted Shane. “You can’t go out
there!”

“Go up top and give me cover!” exclaimed
Kelly. “The two hands are coming hard and I’ve got to…”

Shane hurried to the door and watched his
brother run for the cover of a stone water trough. The two men on
horseback were advancing and Shane saw Kelly dash towards a small
shed, nearer to the barn. Rifle fire increased and a group of Kiowa
came from behind the barn and stood aiming rifles and bows at the
two men. Kelly raised his weapon and did not fire as the warriors
before him were in line with the approaching cowhands. The Indians
chasing the two men swerved to either side, allowing the Kiowa near
the barn and on foot to open fire. The two ranch hands had no
chance. A flight of arrows and a barrage of bullets from nearly
twenty Kiowa bristled man and beast. Both fell under the deadly
fire and rolled in a cloud of dust. When the firing stopped and the
dust settled, neither man nor animal moved. The four figures lay
sprawled in awkward positions upon the hard ground.

Kelly, intent on the safety of his two hired
men, looked on with helpless anger. He did not see the warrior
sneak up from behind and strike him on the head. Shane, who had
remained at the open door was fired upon by several Kiowa. The last
thing he saw before closing and barring the door was his brother
being carried by a group of Indians. Running to a shuttered and
closed window, he looked through a small opening and saw the
unconscious man disappear into the barn.

Shane ran up the steps and through the open
door onto the roof. Claude was there with a heavy bandage on his
arm and holding a rifle. His son Billy was beside him.

“Did you see…”

“Yes, we did,” replied Claude.

“We couldn’t shoot,” said Billy. “First we
thought we would hit Patrick or Aaron, and then that Indian came
from nowhere and struck Kelly and we couldn’t…”

“I know,” said Shane. “I didn’t shoot either
because I was afraid of hitting Kelly.”

“What do we do now?” cried Billy. “Patrick
and Aaron are dead and Kelly is with those…”

“Why did he go out there?” asked Claude.
“That’s not like Kelly to take such a risk.”

“No, even in the Great War me brother was a
cautious one,” said Shane. “But in this case there were those two
lads he hired and I’m sure…”

“Look!” exclaimed Billy. “There’s a warrior
on a white horse and a band of men behind him. They have long black
hair and they look different than Kiowa!”

Shane and Claude both looked out across the
prairie, and approaching were the group of Indians Billy pointed
out. The chief rode stiffly erect, on a blanketed white horse and
behind him followed at least thirty mounted braves in single
file.

“Kelly could tell what tribe they’re from,
he was...” said Shane and stopped. “I bet they’re Cheyenne or…”

No one on the roof fired down on the band of
warriors and they approached closer and disappeared behind the barn
as a group.

***

Kelly awoke conscious of the pain in the
back of his head. He could feel blood dripping down and onto his
neck. The big man found his arms bound at the wrists and tied to a
low hanging beam. Two separate ropes held wrist and arm and he
dangled several feet above the barn floor. Someone had torn his
shirt from him and he hung there, helpless, and at the mercy of the
many warriors who stood around him. Kelly turned his bleeding head
and looked awkwardly about, counting at least forty Kiowas. The
many painted braves stared back at him with passive faces. Their
features showed no expression, except for the burning hatred that
came from dark eyes.

“Big man from the stone house, we will see
how you like pain—and then you will die.”

Kelly didn’t know it, but the chief of the
Kiowa was named Stone Knife, and it was he who spoken.

Kelly stared at the leader and thought hard
on what response to give. It irked the big man to have come so far,
survive the famine, the war, and so many other hardships, to die
like this. To have this come at a time in life where he had so many
desires filled, was especially hard to take. Kelly knew with
certainty that he would die here, trussed up like a hanging pig,
and he would never again be able to ride across his wonderful
ranch. Worse, he never would have a chance to tell Elizabeth how he
cared for her, and to ask her to be his wife. He had waited too
long, and now there would never be time to tell her more.

“You better get to it, then,” was all Kelly
could think of to say.

“You speak to me?” replied Stone Knife in
pretty good English, his voice deep and resonant. “I hear nothing
you have to say. White men like you promise, but never keep their
word. The blue soldiers came and attacked our village. One of the
survivors saved a horse and rode out to our party to tell us what
happened. They killed our people without warning, without reason,
while the men were away on a hunt. It makes no difference to them
if it is women or children they kill. So we will kill, too. We take
as we please, as your people have taken from us.”

With that comment, Stone Knife pulled a
narrow sharp blade from a sheath at his waist and, with the tip, he
reached up and slowly carved a long deep furrow across the chest of
the man who hung suspended from ropes. Kelly winced with the pain
of it but said nothing.

Stone Knife’s eyes blazed fire, as did many
of the warriors Kelly was able to see.

“White man says nothing, but we will see.
Before my men finish, we will hear your screams. Long and loud,
they will…”

“Stop!” spoke a stern voice.

It was said three times, once in English,
once in Cheyenne, and once in Kiowa. The speaker was Strong Horse,
the Cheyenne Chief. The older dignified man came forward to greet
Stone Knife. Behind their chief followed a group of armed Cheyenne,
each carrying a Henry rifle or an older Springfield.

“You dare to tell me to stop?” questioned
Stone Knife in English.

“This man is under my protection,” replied
the Cheyenne chief. “I gave him an amulet the day he saved my
daughter, Little Spring. I gave him my word.”

“I see no such sign,” replied Stone Knife.
“This man will die.”

“No!” replied Strong Horse, and with that he
gave a wave of his hand. The Cheyenne behind him raised rifles to
the ready, but did not point them directly at any Kiowa.

“We agreed in counsel that we would…” began
Stone Knife.

“We did, but this is different,” replied the
Cheyenne chief. “Let no trouble come between us in this matter.
What brave took my amulet of protection from this man? Many of your
men do not speak English. Ask, and…”

Stone Knife, the Kiowa leader, spoke sternly
and loudly in his own language. There was brief silence and then a
young warrior came forward holding the amulet in his hands. Stone
Knife took it, struck the warrior across the face with the back of
his hand, and then handed the necklace to the Cheyenne chief.

“Cut him down,” said Strong Horse.

Another order was given by the Kiowa chief
and Kelly saw two of his men carry a ladder and place it against
the beam. One warrior climbed up and cut one rope loose. Kelly was
held up by one arm. When the other rope was cut, he dropped to his
feet. Landing hard, the Irishman caught himself and regained his
balance. And then he pushed the remaining bits of rope down his
wrists and rubbed where the hemp had burned flesh. Kelly stood
erect, looking at both leaders and said nothing. Then the Cheyenne
chief came near and, with one movement, placed the symbol of
protection around the white man’s neck. Leaning close, the chief
whispered in Kelly’s ear.

“So the Kiowa do not hear. You saved Little
Spring once, perhaps you can again. Soldiers attacked Kiowa village
where Little Spring visited. The survivor who brought us the news
said he did not see her among either the dead or the living. I come
to free you to help find her.”

The Indian chief whispered this message very
quickly and then stepped back and this time he spoke loudly for the
Kiowa’s benefit.

“Now go!” said the Cheyenne chief. “I keep
my promise of protection.”

“Wait!” ordered Stone Knife, the Kiowa
leader. “Know this, white man. This time you have your life, but
next time you will regret the day you came to our land. Today, I
take your horses, your cows, and someday soon, I will take your
life!”

Kelly looked into the faces of both chiefs
and nodded. And then slowly, with as much dignity as the shirtless
Irishman could muster, he started to walk toward the mass of Kiowa
warriors. None moved, and then their leader barked an order in his
own language and the braves parted. Kelly left the barn and
continued to walk towards the stone and adobe house. As much as he
wanted to hurry, he did not. By the time he came to the door, he
heard the bar removed and saw it open. There stood Shane.

“I don’t know what you did to get free, but
whatever it was, God bless you, brother.”

Both Irishmen turned, and from the barn they
saw mounted Cheyenne and Kiowa, each led by their chiefs, take
opposite directions as they rode swiftly away. Flames were already
rising from the sides of the wooden structure, and they watched as
smoke rose, and more yellow fire began to rise toward the roof.

Deputy Quint Croy limped up to the door.
“How come they’re splittin’ up?” he asked. “And how did you get
loose?”

Kelly nodded toward the departing Cheyenne
warriors. “The chief of that bunch realized I’m the one saved his
daughter Little Spring a while back, and he wouldn’t let Stone
Knife kill me. Now him and his Cheyennes are settin’ off to look
for his daughter, seems like she ain’t still at Old Mountain’s
camp.”

Quint started. “Little Spring? I know where
she is, she’s back in Wolf Creek. She said Charley Blackfeather
rescued her. Can I have the loan of a horse? I have to catch up to
those Cheyennes and tell ‘em.”

“Are you crazy?” Shane said. “They were just
trying to kill you a little while ago.”

“Maybe I am crazy,” Quint said. “But for
some reason I feel like that chief knowin’ his daughter is safe
might make a difference in how this whole thing plays out.”

Kelly clapped his shoulder. “Come with me,
then, deputy, and we’ll get you mounted. The Kiowa got all our
stock, but there’s several riderless Indian ponies still running
around, between all of us we can surely catch one.”

Chapter Five

The tight ropes bit into Charley
Blackfeather’s wrists. He knew he was still in better shape than
Captain Tom Dent, who—effective an officer as he was—did not have a
lifetime’s practice sitting a trotting horse without using his
hands. Nor were the bonds as abrasive as the insult that lay behind
them, and the fact that the preening jackass Major Joab Putnam was
lording it over them, all while basking in the so-called glory of
his unprovoked attack on Old Mountain’s village. Charley had not
even had time, before being bound, to ascertain whether Old
Mountain was among the dead or wounded. Either way, the prairie was
going to burn now, Stone Knife would make sure of it. Putnam would
get his chance to fight Indians—really fight them, not just
slaughter defenseless women and children.

They were headed back to the fort. Tom would
get a court-martial, but, as an independent Indian scout, Charley
doubted he would even get such a mockery of justice. He would
likely be put up against a wall and shot as soon as they got there,
as a lesson to other Indian scouts who would witness the event.
While Charley understood Lieutenant-Colonel Vine’s desire to use
his accumulated leave to visit his family, he wished the man had
chosen a better time; Putnam had only recently been transferred to
Fort Braxton, and no one had known yet what an idiot he would be
once he was temporarily in charge.

Charley wasn’t sure whether Putnam’s
decision to divide his forces was more evidence of his idiocy, or
rather that his sense of self-preservation had kicked in. The Major
had sent companies B and C and part of A out into the prairie to
patrol for hostiles, as per his original plan, but had decided to
personally take a third of company A back to the fort to deliver
the “prisoners” Dent and Blackfeather, something he had originally
said he could not spare the men for. Now he was at the head of a
column of twenty men, riding away from the glory he had been so
intent on finding. No doubt he had come to the same conclusion as
Charley—that the Kiowas under Stone Knife, the warriors, would be
hell-bent on revenge. So now he was using the insubordination of
Charley and Tom as an excuse to slink back to the safety of the
fort, bringing along a sizeable bodyguard to protect him along the
way. Charley found this behavior almost as disgusting as the things
the major had done previously.

BOOK: Wolf Creek
8.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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