Along The Fortune Trail (14 page)

S
ammy and Blaine made their way silently down the corridor toward the cave opening with rifles ready and the sound of the storm retreating. The scent of wood smoke hit them as they drew closer, and then they saw the flickering of light against the inside of the cave wall. They flanked the opening, hugging each side as they cocked their heads around the edge to peer inside. A fire burned in the middle of the chamber with smoke rising some thirty feet to a small hole through which a hint of light appeared. Several torches fixed in wall crevices threw a dancing glow along the upper walls.

An Indian sat cross-legged near the fire, intently cutting a hide with his knife. He wore buckskin pants and moccasins, naked from the waist up except for a poultice on his side and necklaces of beads, game teeth, and bear claws. His long black hair was shoulder length, flowing from beneath a leather headband with carved symbols. He was a young man.

But all of that was lost as Sammy realized what he saw on the other side of the fire. Three women sat huddled together, their western dresses filthy and torn in places, and their hair matted and unkempt with dirt and debris. Each wore a pair of dirty socks, above which Sammy could clearly see ankle shackles. Their faces were dirty, but there was no mistaking that they were white women. The oldest appeared to be in her early thirties, and the youngest was no more than sixteen. The other was about Sammy's age.

The hair on the back of Sammy's neck stood up. He could feel his blood rising as a wave of anger rolled over him like the fires of hell. Blaine looked at Sammy's face, seared in contempt, and knew what was coming next. Sammy stepped into the opening of the cave and swung his Henry 44 level at the Indian's head as he cocked it. “Blaine—get our horses and bring ‘em in here,” Sammy said, walking toward the Indian who held his side gingerly as he got to his feet.

The Indian held the knife low and did not assume a posture of fighting or defense, understanding that to do so would be to die. The white stranger had him cold.

“Drop the knife,” Sammy said, motioning with his rifle barrel toward the floor.

“Mente hoh dae cuna,” the Indian said with expressionless eyes before he pitched the knife several feet. Sammy could see the dried blood on his side that had soaked through and under the poultice.

Blaine led the horses into the cave, their hooves clicking on the intermittent patches of rock floor. “What are we doin’ with this injun?”

“Tie him up—hands and feet and arms and legs.” Sammy held the rifle on him while Blaine quickly roped the Indian into a cocoon, then pushed him to the ground and dragged him to the sidewall where he rolled him face down.

The horses drifted to the back of the cave, where a brook could be heard running. They began to drink. Several travois, an army strongbox, and all manner of looted goods from ambushed wagons and travelers were strewn about the main chamber. There were also two tunnels that led somewhere else.

Sammy knelt before the women and looked into the pleading eyes of the oldest, whose face bespoke her anguish. The other two were looking down in apparent fear. “Don't worry, we're going to help you … get you back to your people. Are there any more of you?”

The other two looked up at Sammy with sudden hope, mixed with the present terror of their ordeal. “They killed her,” the oldest one said as she began sobbing. “Her name was Sally Hemmings, and they cut her throat for trying to escape. They killed her in front of us. She was the only other one. Please help us! Please get us out of here!”

“We're gonna get you out of here.” Sammy quickly examined their shackles. There was eight inches of chain connecting the two cuffs of each set. They were stamped U.S. Army. “Do you know where the key is for these?”

“He has it. I saw one of them give it to him before they left,” said the oldest, nodding toward the Indian.

Blaine was to the Indian as soon as she'd finished her pronouncement. Rolling him over and pulling the key from his pocket, Blaine tossed it to Sammy, who began working at getting the women free. “I'm gonna see about these tunnels,” Blaine said. “Whatever the plan's gonna be, we better get ‘er figured ‘cause they're comin’ soon.”

“That one on the right leads to a small room with no other exits from it,” the oldest said. “I think the other one must lead outside. I've seen some come back in that way after leaving through this big entrance.”

“How many Indians are there?” Sammy asked.

“Eight, including him. They all have guns and knives.”

Blaine moved quickly toward the tunnel that the woman had said led outside. “I'll see where it ends up if, it ain't too long,” He disappeared into the dark opening.

“I'm Sammy Winds, and my partner's name is Blaine Corker. I need you gals to do what we tell you when we tell you. You understand?” They nodded their heads in unison. “All right, I want you all to move into that room you just mentioned. Is there any light in there?”

“Yes, there's a lamp I can light … but why don't we just leave!? There's more of them than you two. We'd be trapped in there!”

“Ma'am, there's a bad storm outside, and we don't have but two horses. You're just gonna have to trust me. Now let's get movin’.”

Sammy helped each of them to their feet, then pulled a torch from the wall and led them through a short tunnel of just several paces to the smaller chamber. It was circular shaped and about fifteen feet in diameter. Buffalo hides covered most of the dirt floor, and assorted household goods were piled along the wall. The air was dank with a putrid aroma. He handed the torch to the youngest. “Hold this,” he said. “Light that lamp. I'll be right back.”

Sammy went back to the main chamber and dragged the Indian by his feet on his belly toward the other chamber. The Indian moaned lowly along the way as his poultice was rubbed off, reopening his wound. When they reached the other chamber, the lamp was lit and the women stood in the middle of the room. Sammy pulled the Indian alongside the wall, then quickly rummaged through some of the looted goods. He found cloth and ripped off three long strips, wadding up the first and stuffing in the Indian's mouth. He wrapped the second strip over the Indian's mouth and tied a knot at the back of his head. Then he tied on the last strip as a blindfold. The Indian lay on his belly with his head turned sideways and his cheek on the dirt. He breathed hard through his nose, causing little dust clouds to rise in front of his face each time he exhaled.

Sammy removed the pistol from his left holster and handed it to the oldest. “Do you know how to use this?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, then pulled back the hammer to the first click to check the action. She used both hands to let the hammer back to the non-cocked position as she pressured the trigger. “All the way back when I want to shoot,” she said as a statement rather than a question.

“Yes ma'am. All the way back to the second click. You're gonna hear some shootin’ out there soon. Just hold steady. If any Indians come through that door—anybody other than my partner or me—shoot ‘em. And if this one gets outta line somehow, shoot him.

She looked over at the Indian. “He's the only one of them who hasn't assaulted us.”

“Well, he'll likely kill you now if he gets the chance.”

Sammy walked over to the wall and picked up a tea kettle-sized rock. “If he starts tryin’ to make noise, one of you take this with both hands and hit him right on top of the head—hard!—until he stops. What's your names, ma'am?”

“I'm Emily Evans … and this is Margaret Lew and Claire Studdard.” The two younger ones looked at Sammy, but did not speak.

Sammy nodded his head at each. “Emily. Margaret. Claire. We're in this together now, and we'll get out of it together. Stay strong and quiet. I'll see you all in a little bit.”

And then he was gone.

T
en Loco slid gracefully off his horse and tied it. The hunt was successful, and he and his men were relieved to be out of the brutal storm and back at the cave that had served as their winter camp. Ten Loco and his men were all Chiricahua Apache, who had left the tribe a year earlier. He had been named Ten Buffalo for his hunting prowess, but was eventually dubbed Ten Loco for a series of transgressions that led to his banishment from the tribe. The other braves, each partially involved in Ten Loco's crimes against Apache custom and etiquette, decided to leave with him rather than face Apache justice.

With Ten Loco as their chief, the renegades had made their living attacking and murdering anybody unfortunate enough to be traveling as a small party. Their plunder, among other things, had netted a decent stake worth of gold, which Ten Loco used to trade for rifles, cartridges, and other goods from a corrupt army provisions agent. His braves particularly liked the whiskey that came with each transaction. Ten Loco always carried his gold with him in palm-sized leather pouches that hung from the back of his waist sash like so many counter balances.

The women of the cave had been plucked separately during ambushes on single wagons and buckboards, shattering the lives of folks who had been calling on neighbors or going to town for supplies. Claire Studdard saw her young husband shot dead off their buggy as they traveled to a neighbors cabin for Christmas day supper. When Claire arrived at the cave, Sally Hemmings had already been there a month. The others came soon after. When Ten Loco savagely cut Sally Hemmings’ throat in front of the other women, he left her body at their feet for a day, and they were not allowed to move from it.

Ten Loco carried a rifle in his right hand as he moved toward the cave opening. The others were untying the two elk that had been butchered down to prime cuts and tied among six different horses. Ten Loco was almost to the entrance when he saw the partial hoof print in an area under the overhang where no snow had fallen. He stopped. It was the partial print of a shod horse. He looked closely at the area for any other tracks, but saw nothing. Then he noticed the unnatural pattern of dirt, and he knew what it meant. The area had been rubbed over to erase tracks.

Ten Loco slowly backed up to his men, his eyes warily scanning all around as he moved. With hand signals and gestures, he silently communicated the threat and directed three of his men to scout and enter the other cave entrance. Ten Loco and the remaining Apaches moved toward the main opening with two on each side.

At the cave's edge, he motioned for the others to stay concealed behind the outside corners, and then he dropped to his belly with his rifle and slithered forward to where he could see inside. The fire burned strongly with fresh fuel and the wall torches were in place, but no one was in sight. His eyes slowly surveyed the interior, which was some seventy-five feet deep and cast in darkness at the rear. He strained his eyes to see, but could not make out the back wall or the small alcove at the rear of the cave where the brook ran. A boulder inside the cave to his right could conceal one man at best. All else seemed normal, and the many contents of the cave appeared to be undisturbed.

Ten Loco trained his eyes on the other entrance and waited for his men to appear. It was halfway back on the left side and close to the passage where the women were hiding. He watched intently for several moments until his men materialized like ghosts at the edge of the tunnel. They were looking over at him. He gave several head nods signaling for two to break to the left and the third to go right. Then, like a spider that moves in any direction with equal grace, Ten Loco slid backwards out of the entrance and leapt to his feet. He and his men moved into final position. Hugging tight to each side of the opening, the Apaches slid around the corners and were quickly inside the cave.

Ten Loco did not like the dark veil at the back of the cave and swung his rifle toward it just as the deafening blast reverberated forth and the bullet took him through the front of the neck. The next bullet came an instant later and ripped into his chest and through his heart, exploding it to pieces. Ten Loco was dead before he hit the ground.

The muzzle blasts continued from the darkness like a lightening storm in the night, flashing a halo around Sammy with each shot and then returning him to blackness for the briefest respite as he levered his Henry 44 like a machine. Caught in the open, the other Apaches with Ten Loco swung their rifles wildly toward the phantom shooter of the darkness and fired hastily. They missed. Sammy killed two more before either got off a second shot. Fright overtook the other Apache who had been next to Ten Loco. He dove for the entrance and quickly crawled out of the cave and the line of fire.

Blaine Corker was thirty feet to Sammy's left behind the boulder that Ten Loco had wondered about. As soon as Sammy fired his first shot, Blaine levered his Winchester at the three Apaches at the other entrance directly across from him. He killed one with his first shot and hit another in the shoulder just as the Apache fired back and quickly backed into the tunnel from which they'd come. The third Apache darted into the passage leading to the women. A moment later, a shot echoed from the passage. Then another, and another. Sammy ran to the passage yelling before he entered, “It's Sammy Winds comin’ in. Sammy Winds!”

Emily Evans held the pistol at the ready, but lowered it upon seeing Sammy. Her face was a mixture of rage and fear. The room was smoky and overwhelmed with the acrid smell of gunpowder. Sammy looked down at the dead Apache. He'd been shot three times: twice in the chest and once in the head. Sammy looked to the other Apache who'd been tied up. He'd been bludgeoned, and the pool of dark blood beneath his skull had mostly soaked into the dirt. He was dead.

“Hold tight. I'll be right back,” Sammy said, and bolted from the chamber.

Blaine was checking the last of the Apaches when Sammy reappeared. “They all right?” Blaine asked.

“She put three holes in him, and they stoved in the tied up one's head.”

“Good.”

“These ones all dead?”

“Done for. My heart's poundin’.”

“Yeah I know. Let's get after the two that's left. I don't wanna be worryin’ about them.

“I hit the one ‘fore he lit up this tunnel.”

“The other ain't hit. He went right out the front. Hope he didn't scatter their horses—we need at least one more. How do you want to play it?”

“I'll take the tunnel. You take the front.”

“All right. Fire your pistol twice or yell if you're up against it. I'll do the same.”

Blaine headed slowly into the tunnel without a torch, deciding it would make him a clear target if the Indian were still about. Hugging tight to the wall with his cocked pistol out in front of him, he moved as quietly as possible, putting each foot down with great care to avoid crunching anything. It didn't seem possible that the Indian would still be in the tunnel, but he didn't want to die being wrong. Now in complete darkness, he moved slowly, knowing from his previous trip up the tunnel that a corner was coming up. It would be a likely place for a surprise. His heart pounded like a blacksmith's hammer rapidly hitting the anvil, so much so that Blaine worried the Indian could hear it if he were there. Inching along the wall, he felt for the corner, as sweat rolled down his forehead, and he wondered how that could happen in such cold. The corner was suddenly there beneath his hand. He readied himself for an encounter, straining with all his being to smell anything or hear anything other than the faintest sound of the storm. He snaked around the corner, and there was nothing.

Now he could see the dim light about thirty feet ahead of him where the tunnel turned to the last leg that eventually led outside. Blaine stepped forward with more confidence that the Indian was long gone. The silhouette suddenly appeared at the turn ahead. It took an instant to realize it was not Sammy. The flash from the muzzle accompanied the thunderous boom and was followed by the sound of a double ricochet. Blaine felt the searing pain in his thigh as he flattened against the wall and fired his pistol again and again. The silhouette jerked, but the muzzle flashes continued from the other end of the tunnel. Then he heard the more distant but unmistakable report of a Henry 44. The figure at the end of the tunnel was blown to the side and collapsed.

“It's me, Sammy! Don't shoot!”

“I hear ya! Come on in!”

Sammy made his way past the dead Apache and down the dark tunnel where he found Blaine holding his thigh. “You all right?”

“I'm shot in the leg. Damn ricochet got me. I think it's bleedin’ bad.”

“Let's get back in the cave. I can't see anything here. That other Apache got away. I don't think he's comin’ back—knows it's only him left. He scattered all but two of the horses. I think they came back on their own.”

Sammy helped Blaine down the tunnel and back into the cave, where he got him seated by the fire. He could see Blaine's pants were soaked with blood. “We're gonna have to tend that right now. Work at getting your britches off. I'm gonna bring those horses in.” Sammy strode quickly to the chamber where the women were. “You can all come out now. My partner is injured. Shot in the leg. We need boiling water and clean cloth. I'm goin’ outside to get some horses. I'll be back directly.” He turned and disappeared.

Emily was overcome with a sense of hope and relief more powerful than any she'd felt in her life. “Oh girls! We're going to be saved!” They all looked at each other, tears instantly welling up like a dam held back by terror and fear for so long. Emily caught herself. “There are things to do. Margaret, you find suitable cloth for bandages. Claire, get a pot and collect some water. I'll set up the cooking rig.” The women broke apart and hurried toward their tasks.

Sammy brought in the Apache's two ponies and tied them in the alcove at the rear near Dobe and Seesaw. Then he brought in some of the elk the Apaches had left behind and set it near the fire where water was heating and Emily was cleaning Blaine's jagged wound. Margaret and Claire watched. “This storm is a bad one. We're here for tonight and we'll ride in the morning,” Sammy said. Then he moved around the cave and dragged each of the bodies outside, piling them together after taking several of the coats. He took Ten Loco's leather pouches of gold and stacked the Apaches rifles at the rear of the cave. Then he returned to the fire.

“The bullet is still in my leg,” Blaine said. He had skivvies on and a blanket covering his lower half. He held a wad of cloth against the wound to stem the bleeding. Blaine was initially embarrassed about being pantless, but his modesty had given way to the gravity of the situation. Emily had helped him get his second boot off and then his pants.

“There's a sewing kit here,” Emily said. “I'll see if I can get that closed up some.”

Sammy examined the wound on the front of Blaine's left thigh. “Roll over. Let's see if we can find that bullet.” Blaine rolled over and Sammy could see the purplish bruise on Blaine's hamstring where the bullet had stopped. “I can see where it is. Not too deep on this side, I don't think. Almost made it all the way through. It has to come outta there,” Sammy said, pulling his knife and holding it in the fire.

“I'll get the sewing kit,” Emily said.

“Claire, would you hold this in the fire some more. I need to get something,” Sammy said.

“Get the damn whiskey! I reckon I'll need it,” Blaine said.

“That's what I'm gettin’.”

Sammy returned a moment later and handed the bottle to Blaine, who promptly took a big swallow. “Easy on that. I'm gonna need it to clean these wounds when I'm done carving on you.”

“Carvin’! Hell, I ain't a damn turkey!”

“You won't be any more useful ‘n one if we don't get this bullet out.”

Blaine took another pull at the bottle. “Then get to carvin’!”

Sammy looked at the young girl. “Thank you, Margaret. I'll take that knife now. You girls hold his leg tight down there on his calf. Emily, you hold that lamp in close.” He held the knife with its tip glowing red and poured a little whisky over it, then moved it to just above the area he intended to lance. Sammy took a slow, deep breath. “Okay, hoss … here we go.”

Sammy pressed the knife tip up against the purple distended skin, taut as a swollen melon. He applied pressure and moved the knife slowly and evenly for several inches, the incision rolling open easily because of the swelling.

“Mmmmmmmmmm!” Blaine trumpeted without opening his mouth—a bronchial roar that sounded like a strange melodic note, resonating a wall of will against the pain.

Sammy held the incision partially open with the knife's edge and saw the glint of metal deep in the meat. He used his left thumb and forefinger to spread open the incision as best he could and then cut directly around the metal, peeling back the tissue which quickly vanished beneath the pool of blood that filled the incision. Sammy put the knife down and reached in with his fingers, rooting around to get a grip on the bullet that had been transformed to a jagged shard.

“Ahhhhhhh!” Blaine yelled with as much restraint as he could manage.

Then, like a prospector who had seized the prize, Sammy held up the bloody metal trinket and showed it to Blaine. “That's sure enough a ricocheted bullet,” Blaine said, looking relieved at having it out of his leg.

“Yep,” Sammy said, and tossed it into the fire. “Here comes a little whiskey.” Sammy poured the golden spirit into the gaping incision.

Blaine grunted. “Too bad that hole can't swallow.”

Emily sewed up Blaine's leg and tied on bandages while Claire and Margaret cooked elk and made fry-bread and coffee. Sammy rummaged through some of the looted goods and found paperwork that he tucked away. Then he sat where he could see both entrances to the cave and studied his map, the thought of their circumstances upon him. He had an injured man and three women who needed to be returned to their families, if they still had any, or at least to civilization. He knew it was likely to be a tough conversation, but a plan could not be shaped until it occurred.