A Tale Out of Luck (13 page)
The stud still had two ropes around his neck, which ran over the top rails to the saddle horns around which they were tied fast.
“Pull him up next to the fence!” Jubal ordered. He and Skeeter muscled the stallion hard against the rails. “Jay Blue! There’s a hook hangin’ on that tree limb!”
Jay Blue looked and saw a tool that looked like a long fireplace poker. He jumped down from his saddle, trusting his mount and the Kentucky mare to behave themselves at the opposite ends of the same rope. He ran for the hook and grabbed it.
“You gotta snag both nooses at once!” Jubal ordered.
While Jubal and Skeeter kept the wild stud pulled up next to the inside of the fence rails, Jay Blue used the hook to reach between the rails of the pen and snag both nooses around the gray’s neck, though it took some fishing to hook both loops with the stallion lunging and screaming and dancing around just on the other side of the rails. At last he pulled both nooses open.
“Slack!” he shouted.
The ropers stepped the ponies forward and the Steel Dust Gray shook his head out of the choking loops, taking some comfort in the freedom from the hemp.
“Back off!” Jubal shouted. “Give him some room in there.”
They all withdrew from the corrals with their mounts, the Thoroughbred following calmly at the end of her lasso. They went to a nearby patch of shade under a live oak. The three of them stood panting, wide-eyed, amazed at their own accomplishment. Jubal yanked his protective scarf down. A huge smile enveloped his face. Jay Blue had tears in his eyes, and felt his grin stretching from one ear to the other. Skeeter just seemed dazed.
Jubal clasped both young men by the shoulders. “I told you boys last night that good luck comes in mighty peculiar packages sometimes. You messed up bad when you let that mare run off. But you got her back, and that ain’t the half of it. The three of us just cinched the braggin’ rights of a lifetime!”
Jay Blue nodded. “We corralled a myth,” he said.
“We roped the Steel Dust Gray!” Skeeter blurted. “We caught El Grullo!”
T
HE MUSTANGERS
gloated and lunched in the shade of the live oak and made their plans for El Grullo’s future.
“After you boys get that mare home, I need you to make a supply run. I ain’t lettin’ that stallion out of that pen until I’ve tamed him some, so you’ll have to fetch some things for me.” He reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Luz and I made a list last night. There’s some things on there she needs at the cave, so you can stop off there on your way back here.”
Jay Blue took the list. “You sure you’ll be okay here alone?”
“Like I told you, the Indians are scared to death of me. I’m a ghost to them. I’ll be okay if I don’t starve to death, so I need you to get to town and bring me some supplies as soon as you can.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Skeeter said. “We won’t let you down, Mr. Hayes.”
The cowboys left Jubal in the canyon with the Steel Dust Gray, and led their recovered Thoroughbred back toward the east, and the Broken Arrow Ranch. Once out of the canyon, Jay Blue took the list out of his pocket to look it over.
“Good Lord,” he said. “We’re gonna need a pack mule to haul all these supplies to the cave. Sugar, flour, coffee, lard, beans, fatback, yards of cloth, five pounds of nails . . . It goes on and on. And look here at the bottom. Licorice sticks and saltwater taffy!”
“Saltwater taffy!” Skeeter blurted. “I love that stuff! Makes me hungry just to think about it.
¡Dios!
I wish I had some fried chicken!”
Jay Blue folded the list and slipped it back into a pocket while scanning the skyline for trouble. “You’re not the only hungry one around. Look.” He pointed up at the flock of buzzards that had come into view around a bluff.
“I ain’t hungry for whatever they’re after,” Skeeter replied. “Can’t be more than a couple of miles away, though. You want to ride over there and see what’s dead?”
“Alright, but let’s be careful. Daddy says buzzards and crows follow the Indians.”
“If there’s Indians over there, I’d just as soon sneak up and find them before they find us.”
“Let’s keep our voices down now, until we find out what those buzzards are circling.”
Skeeter nodded, and they angled into the wind.
The trail from Fort Jennings had been difficult to follow, but Hank and his old Indian scout, Tonkawa Jones, had made relatively quick work of pursuing the boys. A track here, a broken twig there, a pile of horse dung, even a ripped spider web between two bushes—the most minuscule disturbances kept them on the right path.
As the trackers studied sign, Policarpo Losoya kept an eye on the horizons for trouble. A subtle mourning dove whistle was the signal agreed upon for the day, so when Hank heard Poli’s dove imitation, he looked up from the trail and saw his foreman pointing at the sky. A whirlwind of black wings circled a few miles away to the northwest.
“Funny how vultures lure the living to the dead,” he said to Tonk. “Let’s go check it out.”
He leaned ever so slightly forward, squeezed with his knees, and the good ranch horse under him took off at a canter.
Jay Blue and Skeeter took their time riding up under the sky full of vultures, keeping a constant lookout for Indians. Then they began to spook the big ugly birds out of tree branches, and knew whatever had drawn them earthward was near.
After searching the terrain for some time, Jay Blue finally saw a foot wearing a moccasin, sticking out from some bushes, toes upward. “Skeeter!” he hissed. He pointed. Together they approached, their hands on the grips of their revolvers.
Coming around the bushes, they saw the body of a young warrior lying on the ground. His wound oozed a glistening red. Black blood stains caked the soil all around the body where the warrior had dragged himself, or rolled over.
“It could be a trap,” Jay Blue said. “You keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll get down and see if he’s alive.”
Jay Blue dismounted, drew his revolver, cocked it, and approached the body. He eased around until he could see the face of the warrior. The eyes were closed.
“He doesn’t look any older than you or me,” he said.
“Is he dead?” Skeeter got down from his mount, tying his reins to the same mesquite sprig Jay Blue had used as a hitching post.
“I can’t tell.”
Skeeter shuffled up beside Jay Blue, both of them covering the Indian with their revolvers. “I think he’s breathin’!”
The Indian groaned—a weak, sorrowful lament. The boys scooted a foot back, as if they had heard a rattlesnake.
“Careful,” Jay Blue ordered. “He might just be playin’ possum.”
“Well, if he is, it’s a damn fine act. There’s possum blood everywhere.”
“What should we do?” Jay Blue said, expecting any second to find himself filled with arrows from an ambush.
“I don’t know!”
“Well, let’s look at the choices. We can put him out of his misery, and he’d never know what hit him. We could just ride off and leave him to the buzzards. Or we could try to help him.”
“What would the captain say to do?”
Jay Blue thought about that for a moment. “He’d say to do the honorable thing. Doesn’t seem to be much honor in killing a man who’s already half dead.”
Skeeter nodded.
Jay Blue put his pistol away. “No honor in abandoning a man to die, either.”
“So how do we help him?”
“Water,” Jay Blue said. He turned to his mount and fetched his canteen from his saddle. “Put your gun away, Skeeter. Prop him up a little, and I’ll pour some water in his mouth.” He pulled the cork stopper.
The warrior groaned when Skeeter lifted his shoulders, but offered no resistance.
“Tilt his head back a little.” Jay Blue poured a few drops of water on the warrior’s cracked lips. The Indian’s tongue came out to lick up the moisture, so he poured more. Clumsily, the wounded man swallowed the water. His eyelids began to flutter.
“Maybe he ain’t so dead after all,” Skeeter suggested.
Just then the warrior’s eyes flew open wide.
“Oh, shit,” Skeeter said.
The warrior glanced at the faces of Jay Blue and Skeeter, then down at the grip of the Colt in Jay Blue’s holster. His hand grabbed the revolver, but Jay Blue was quick to drop the canteen and take hold of the warrior’s wrist.
“Watch out, Jay Blue!” Skeeter had sprung to his feet and now drew his own pistol.
“Don’t shoot him! He’s weak. I can handle him.”
With these words, the Indian eased his struggle and grimaced in pain, shutting his eyes tight.
“
Somos amigos
,” Jay Blue said, knowing the Comanches had learned to speak Spanish long before English-speaking white men moved onto their ranges.
The warrior’s eyes opened again. He let his hand fall away from the pistol grip. His voice came out in a gravelly groan: “Water.” He looked at the canteen, half its contents having spilled on the ground in the scuffle.
Jay Blue motioned to Skeeter, who put his gun away and lifted the wounded man as before. The Indian drank, paused to catch a few short breaths, then drank some more.
“What’s your name?” Jay Blue asked.
“The Wolf.”
“Where’d you learn English?” Skeeter asked him.
“Missionaries. School.”
“Who shot you?” Jay Blue said.
“Cowboys. Buffalo soldiers. Many people dead. Warriors. Mothers. Dead. Chief dead.”
“They say your people killed a white man. I saw him. Lots of arrows stuck in him. Scalped.”
The Wolf shook his head. “Not my people. We come to hunt. The arrows Comanche, but not alive Comanche. The chief tell me.”
“He told you what?”
“
Ghost
arrows,” the Wolf whispered.
“Looked like real arrows to me,” Skeeter said.
The Wolf angled his eyes toward Skeeter. “Real arrows. Made by ghost.”
“He’s delirious,” Jay Blue said. “He needs medicine.”
The Wolf seemed to be fighting to keep his eyes open. Then his hand reached out and grabbed Jay Blue’s wrist with more strength than expected. “Ghost arrows,” he insisted. “My people not kill white man.” The grip loosened around Jay Blue’s wrist, the eyes closed, and the Wolf slipped back into unconsciousness.
“What the hell was that all about?” Skeeter said.
“I don’t know. But, whatever it was, he sure as hell meant it.” Jay Blue sighed. “One of us has to stay with him. If he lives, he’ll need more water. He might even get hungry. I’ll stay if you don’t want to, Skeeter.”
Skeeter shook his head. “I’ll stay.”
Jay Blue nodded. There was nothing to argue about. It was just as dangerous to ride alone as it was to stay alone. “I’ll be back in twenty-four hours. I promise. If he dies, just head home.”
They took Jay Blue’s bedroll from his saddle and spread his blanket on the ground next to the Wolf. They lifted him onto one side of the blanket and folded the other side over him to keep him warm. Jay Blue rode to the nearest water hole and filled his canteen with clear spring water. He would leave both canteens with Skeeter and the Wolf. They started a fire, just large enough to boil some beans, flavored with bacon, should the patient gain enough strength to eat.
They devised an escape plan. Skeeter’s mount was tied securely down in the timber, whence Skeeter could run through the brush should he get attacked while waiting for the wounded Indian to die.
“Don’t worry, Skeeter. By the sound of things, the army has run the Indians clean out of the country. Or killed ’em all.”
“Right. Nothing to worry about now but that ghost warrior.”
“Don’t put any stock into that crazy talk. Comanches are superstitious to begin with, and he was probably hallucinating because of all the blood he lost.”
Skeeter sniffed aside his concerns and forced a smile. “You better get going.”
Jay Blue nodded and gave Skeeter an encouraging slap on the shoulder. He mounted, smiled at his friend, and reined his pony to the east.
But, in spite of his words of encouragement to Skeeter, Jay Blue couldn’t help putting some stock into what the Wolf had said. Not that he believed in ghosts. But,
someone
had killed that man he saw shot full of arrows at the fort, and Jay Blue’s instincts told him to believe the Wolf when he said his people had had nothing to do with it. The resolve in the Wolf’s voice had made him think that the warrior actually believed a ghost was responsible.
So, who
had
killed that stranger? Whoever it was had likely fomented an Indian uprising because a handful of souls from that Comanche band had probably survived the cavalry attack. They would take word of the massacre back into
Comancheria
. Comanches lived by the code of revenge. This wasn’t over. Scalps would peel.
T
RYING TO KEEP UP
with Poli and Tonk as they dodged and ducked brush and timber would ordinarily have made great sport, but right now Hank was too anxious about his boys to take much pleasure in the excursion. They rumbled across hills, creeks, and prairies in the direction of the flock of vultures for ten or twelve minutes before Poli pulled up at a vantage point.
“Look!” the foreman said, pointing.
A rider leading a horse had just come out of a tree line a rifle shot away. At a glance Hank knew that it was Jay Blue, trailing the Kentucky mare. He whistled through his teeth, and saw his son react.
“Good job, Poli!” He gripped his foreman’s shoulder with gratitude before spurring his winded mount ahead to meet his son. His relief was tempered only by a nagging concern over Skeeter, who was nowhere in sight.
“Son!” he cried, coming within earshot.
“Daddy! Am I ever glad to see y’all!”
“Son, where’s Skeeter?”
“He’s okay. Not far back.”
Hank’s relief came out in a weary groan. He got down to loosen the cinch on his still-heaving mount. Poli and Tonk did the same.
Jay Blue stepped down to their level out of respect and gestured with pride toward the Thoroughbred. “We got the mare back! And that ain’t all!”
Hank turned away from his saddle and stalked toward his son. “Jay Blue, I don’t care about the damn mare.” He took the boy in his arms and hugged him roughly, slapping his back as if putting out a fire. “I thought you’d been killed a dozen times by now.”