Arkansas Smith (3 page)

‘Savages.’ Walter Smith spat and took a look at the carnage around him.

He felt for his rifle on the floor and, with a smile to his wife, placed it on the wagon seat beside them. He could see the concern in Edith’s face and he placed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her tighter to him. ‘They’re long gone. We’re in no danger.’

‘It’s terrible,’ Edith said. ‘Why do they do this?’

‘Don’t look.’ The old man jumped down from the wagon. He gave his wife one of his handguns and took the rifle with him. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’

‘What are you doing?’ Edith asked, fear very much evident in her voice. She was visibly upset, which was to be expected since they had just come across a body-strewn battlefield. Not something a woman should see. Not something anyone should see. ‘Come back here.’

‘I have to take a look around,’ the old man told her with a frown. ‘I won’t be far. Anything happens you holler and I’ll come running.’

Before Edith could protest further her husband started off
across the field, stepping around hideously mutilated bodies. There were several burnt-out wagons scattered around, a few of them were still smouldering, and the smell of smoke and burning flesh hung heavy in the air. There was such an atmosphere that it seemed as if the screams of the dead could still be heard in the air as ghostly echoes of what had happened here.

Walter shuddered and held the rifle tightly to his chest. At his feet there was a dead girl, a child really, no more than ten or eleven. Her head had been split down the middle by a heavy axe. The gory gash had parted her head and her eyes were so many inches apart they could have belonged to two different people.

He said a silent prayer and stepped over her.

Everywhere he looked there were dead bodies, many of them with arrows protruding from their bodies, some mutilated, scalped, others with no obvious wounds. Many of them were naked and a good number of them had been burnt, charred clothing sticking to blackened flesh. Ahead of him there was a pile of bodies, maybe ten to twelve people, all stacked up one atop the other. Into this gruesome heap the Indians had shot arrow after arrow and then set it alight only the flames hadn’t taken and it was a ghastly sight. It looked like some bizarre human totem pole.

Other than the gentle flapping of the canvas on his wagon behind him, there was nothing to be heard and, standing there Walter felt a chill run the length of his spine. The place became eerie in its silence and he decided to get out of here and report this at the nearest army post.

Didn’t look like he could do anything for these folks, in any case. The only one who could help them now was the
Almighty himself. And it seemed as if he had forsaken this place, relinquished the land rights to the Devil. He looked up into a clear sky and saw several buzzards circling, waiting for him to move on so they could claim the flesh that now belonged to them.

‘I’m coming, Edith.’ He turned and waved to his wife on the wagon. Though she had said nothing and simply sat on the wagon, her face visibly sickened even from Walt’s position.

It gave him the creeps and he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

He started back to the wagon, carefully picking his footing so as not to step on any of the dead when he suddenly heard a movement and froze. He lifted his rifle and turned from side to side where he stood, searching for the source of the sound. But a perfect silence greeted him.

You’re getting easily spooked, he told himself. Must be getting old, too soft for this life. But there it was again, a faint sound and he stood perfectly still, listening. It was a whimper and he realized his wife had heard it too. She was standing up in the wagon and pointing over to a burnt-out wagon, the skeletal frame looking so fragile that it would blow to dust if the wind picked up some.

Walt started to walk quicker towards the remains of the wagon and, when he got there, the sight that greeted him almost stopped his heart. He was a big man and had seen much cruelty in his time but this was like nothing he had ever experienced and he felt a shudder run through him.

‘Woman,’ he shouted to his wife, ‘get over here. Bring a blanket and that whiskey I keep under the seat.’

He stood there, silently, while he waited.

There on the ground was a woman; she looked unmarked,
but was most definitely dead. Between her legs, naked on the ground, was a baby. It was still attached to her by the umbilical cord, but where the mother had departed this world the baby, a boy, was alive but only just. She couldn’t have given birth too long ago and when Walt knelt and touched her she was still slightly warm, but there was no pulse, no heartbeat. The woman stared back at him with empty eyes and he closed the lids with fingers. Left weakened and with no one to tend to her, she must have died giving birth. The baby though, by some miracle, had made it thus far: there was at least one survivor of the massacre.

‘My dear God,’ Edith said, standing next to her husband. She held a thick blanket and the half-drunk bottle of whiskey. She smiled weakly at her husband. ‘The poor little thing.’

Walt took the whiskey from her, mouthed a long slug and then pulled his Bowie from his waistband. He poured some of the whiskey over the blade, catching the drips under his free hand. He then licked the sodden hand and knelt and held the umbilical cord in one hand and took his knife to it, slicing it clean, close to the baby’s body. There was a quick spurt of blood and the child let out a weak and pathetic cry.

The old man picked up the baby and handed it to his wife and the warmth of the blanket.

The poor mite felt spindly and weak.

‘Born on a battlefield,’ Walt said.

Had a child ever had a worse start to life?

Edith’s eyes filled with tears. She held the baby close to her, warming its clammy skin. They both knew the child had virtually no chance of survival but they had to try. They had the house cow tethered to the wagon which would provide milk, so at the very least they could feed the poor thing, so
there was a slim chance that they could save the child.

‘Arkansas,’ Walt said. ‘Call him Arkansas. Since that’s where we is.’

‘Arkansas Smith.’ Edith said and smiled when the baby gripped one of her fingers in a tiny fist. He seemed to approve of the name. ‘I think he likes it.’

In truth, they had yet to cross the Missouri border and Arkansas was still some miles off. The old man had never been the best of navigators and by the time they reached Fort Comanche and learnt their mistake the name had come to suit the baby. Arkansas it would remain. Good job I didn’t think we were in Dung City, the old man had often joked.

With the advent of first light the doctor again changed Will’s dressing, paying particular attention to the pus and gore on the spent one. There was some infection, but he said he expected Will would be able to fight through it. He placed a thick poultice beneath the fresh dressing and then nodded with satisfaction. He would call at the cabin every other day for at least a week, he promised, and then gave Arkansas strict instructions as to his friend’s care. Fluids, and not of the rye-based kind, were important. Water, some coffee was permissible. And it was imperative that Will eat a little several times a day if he was to regain the strength to fight the sapping fever that had set in. He had left a bottle of medicine for the pain and said he would apply a fresh poultice to the wound the next visit.

The doctor had then left for town.

Arkansas had offered to escort him, but the medic insisted on going alone, he would have no trouble handling the horse and cart and besides, the doc had
pointed out, Arkansas’s talents were better suited here, in care of his friend. Arkansas had to admit the doctor had a good point there. And although the doctor didn’t say anything it was evident from his manner that he was eager to go. Perhaps he was spooked at Arkansas’s suggestion that someone had been watching the cabin overnight. After all, it was an irrefutable fact that Will had been attacked and shot in this very cabin. Someone had sure enough done that.

Arkansas had watched the doctor ride out of sight and then immediately set about fixing up the cabin. He had checked on Will but found his friend in a deep, drug-induced sleep, his breathing sounding regular and strong as his body fought off the infection that was currently seeping poison through his body.

He was going to make it: Arkansas was sure of it. He closed the bedroom door and set about righting the damage done to the place. The windows took a while to fix; the panes of glass Arkansas had bought in town slotted in perfectly to their frames, but Arkansas had to use small nails to secure the glass in place. Once that was done he started on the fence and after several hours of backbreaking but enjoyable work he had the corral together.

He stood back, wiped sweat from his brow, and admired the results of his toil. The place looked as good as new and it would take a very sharp eye to find any sign of the destruction that had happened here only days ago.

Arkansas went back inside to check on Will. He
found him awake, sitting up in bed. His complexion looked better now that his usual colour had returned to his cheeks, but there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and his grey hair looked slick. His eyes were clear with no sign of the bloodshot so evident only this morning.

‘How you feeling?’

Will gave a weak smile. ‘Like I was stampeded on by a herd of buffalo and then some.’

‘That good?’ Arkansas said with a smile, and poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the upturned crate. He handed it to Will who now had the strength to take the glass and guide it to his own lips.

‘Thanks,’ Will said, after draining the entire cup. ‘I must be on the mend,’ he said. ‘I’m starving. I could eat a horse.’

‘I could fix some eggs and bacon,’ Arkansas said. ‘I picked up some supplies in town when I got the doc.’

‘Sounds good,’ Will said, and winced at a sudden wave of pain. ‘My side feels like it’s been kicked by a mule.’

‘A forty-four calibre mule,’ Arkansas replied, and was about to go and prepare the meal when he heard a scream from outside.

A woman’s scream, shrill, panicked, terrified.

Arkansas grabbed the Spencer and handed it to Will and then, his own Colt clear of leather, he ran outside.

‘You said he was dead.’ John Lance paced the small room, a cigar clamped between his teeth. ‘You said
you’d killed him. And yet now you come here and tell me this?’ Small specks of ash fell from the cigar as he spoke. ‘Kill you two is what I should do.’

Clay and Jim exchanged looks and then glanced towards Jake for assistance, but none was forthcoming. Jake, ranch foreman of the Double L, right-hand man to John Lance, and good friend of both Jim and Clay, stood there at the door and looked on impassively. If he was going to speak up for them he was taking his time about it.

‘Tell me about this Arkansas Smith,’ Lance said, and flicked the ash from his cigar.

For a moment there was silence as both Jim and Clay fidgeted, neither of them wanting to take the initiative.

‘Well?’

It was Jim who spoke. ‘That’s who he said he was. I don’t know if he is, or where he came from, or how he got here. All we know is that he took the doc out to McCord’s place.’

The two men had ridden through the night and then spent the best part of the morning debating whether to tell Lance about the doctor and the newcomer who claimed to be Arkansas Smith. In the end they decided it was prudent to do so. They didn’t tell him though that they had doubled back and confronted Dr Cooter on the way back to town. The way things were going they decided to keep that to themselves.

‘You evidently didn’t kill McCord.’ Lance didn’t like this turn of events at all. If McCord had survived,
which seemed likely, and named Jim and Clay as the men that had attacked him, then that would implicate his own good name. They worked for him and maybe the law would see that they had been acting on his orders when they had shot him. And what of this Arkansas Smith? This man with a big reputation? ‘I should kill you two,’ he snarled again, as if there was no other option.

‘Weren’t our fault, sir,’ Clay said. ‘I shot McCord myself.’

‘Then you’d do better to leave the whiskey alone and improve your aim,’ Lance told him and tossed the stub of his cigar into the fireplace. ‘You two’ll have to hide out somewhere until we know what’s happening. If McCord names you two you’d be better off away from here. We’d all be better off.’

‘I don’t think he’d know we was behind it,’ Jim said, ‘even if he does survive.’

‘No?’ Lance looked out of the window, the sky brilliantly blue, and the sun impossibly bright.

‘No,’ Jim shook his head. ‘We and the other boys went in too quickly. Clay plugged McCord as soon as he appeared in the bedroom doorway. It happened too fast for him to have seen anything.’

‘And he weren’t moving when we ransacked the place,’ Clay added. ‘He sure looked dead to me.’

‘That’s too much chance for me to take. Not now that we’re so close,’ Lance said. ‘No, until we find out what’s going on, I want you two far away from here. I’ll send word when I want you to return.’

Jim and Clay looked at each other and then to Jake
for support, but, once again, none was forthcoming. Lance continued to pace the room, seemingly lost in thought. A long silence hung over the room until John Lance turned on his feet and took a long lingering look at the two cowboys.

‘The fact that McCord may be alive doesn’t change anything. We’ve got the signed document.’

Both men nodded, eagerly. The document was the important thing. At least that part of their mission had been a success.

‘Clear out immediately,’ Lance said, and pinched the bridge of his nose against the startings of a headache. ‘Ride over to the old Bowen place. Hide out there and stay put until you hear otherwise.’ His voice was firm and everyone in that room knew there was no point offering further argument.

John Lance had spoken.