Devil's Canyon (24 page)

“Some of you grab a blanket and rub some life back into that horse,” Faro said, “and then give him a measure of grain.”

“Here's some whiskey,” said Collins. “If he's still alive, it'll bring him around.”

“I found a pulse,” Tarno said, “but it's almighty weak.”

“You should have left the heathen out there,” said Durham contemptuously. “He'd have been one less we'll have to shoot.”

“This Indian's no danger to anybody,” Faro said. “He has only a knife.”

It was true. The Bowie, attached to a rawhide thong, dangled down the Indian's back, beneath his buckskin shirt.

“Get his moccasins off, so's we can rub some life back into his feet,” said Shanghai.

Faro removed the frozen moccasins, and what they saw sobered them all. The Indian's left foot was horribly mutilated. It appeared to have once been broken at the ankle and had twisted inward.

“My God,” Dallas said, “the poor varmint's crippled, and under that buckskin, he's all bones. He was half starved before the storm got him.”

Collins and Snyder got a quantity of whiskey down the half-frozen Indian, while Faro, Shanghai, and Dallas worked with his hands and feet. Tarno had a blanket and was rubbing down the horse.

“His horse ain't been eatin' no better than he has,” Tarno said. “He's so weak he can barely stand.”

“There's no room for the horse near the fire under the shelter,” said Isaac Puckett, “so why don't we start up a fire outside that he can get to?”

“Go ahead,” Collins said. “We seem to have plenty of wood.”

Despite the wind-driven snow, they soon had a roaring fire going, and the horse did not have to be led to it. Moreover, some of the other horses and mules came to it, enjoying the warmth.

“Uh-oh,” said Tarno, “we've started somethin'. Now we got another fire to watch.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Faro said. “This snow shows no signs of blowing itself out, and we may end up shooting wolves to protect our livestock. The fire will be a help.”

“The Indian's pulse is stronger,” said Shanghai.
“When he's slept off the whiskey and gets a bite of grub, he'll be all right.”

“Huh,” Durham scoffed, “what the hell good is a crippled Indian? For that matter, what good is an Indian with two good feet?”

“He ain't near as crippled as
you
are, Durham,” said Tarno. “Just in a different way.”

“He may not be a Ute,” Shanghai said. “He may have been banished from his tribe. Some tribes do that, when their people become old and infirm, or disabled.”

“How cruel,” said Mamie McCutcheon. “The old and the crippled are less able to take care of themselves. This poor fellow's just skin and bones.”

Durham laughed. “He's a man, Mamie, and the part that'll interest you is probably in good order. Why don't you adopt him?”

The gambler was standing directly behind Mamie, and it was the wrong thing to have said. In a swift move that endeared her to them all, she turned and planted her right fist in Durham's face. When he stumbled backward and sat down in one of the fires, nobody lifted a hand. Instead, there was laughter and shouting as Durham sprang to his feet with the seat of his trousers and the tail of his coat afire. Throwing himself into a snowbank, he wallowed around until the fire was out. He lay there wiping his smashed, bleeding nose on the sleeve of his coat, glaring at them all in undisguised hatred.

“By God,” said Withers in awe, “the ride from Santa Fe was worth that.”

“It was,” Kritzer agreed. “Ma'am, you've just earned my undying admiration.”

“Thank you,” said Mamie modestly. “Maybe I ain't always what I should be, but I'll never mistreat the old, the crippled, or the hungry, Indian or not.”

“Amen,” Felix Blackburn said. “What ye do unto the least of mine, ye have done unto me.”

The most unlearned among them recognized the scripture, and Durham wisely kept his mouth shut. He got to his feet and went to the farthest wagon, where his saddlebags were. There he began rummaging for clothing to replace that which had been damaged.

*   *   *

“Tarnation,” Shanghai said, “only way I know it's another day is that my gut's howlin' for breakfast. It's snowin' just as hard as ever.”

“Yes,” said Faro, “and I look for us to have a wolf problem before the end of the day, even if the snow lets up.”

“The Indian's awake,” Puckett said.

“Tarno,” said Faro, “you're half-Comanche. See if you can understand him, and maybe get him to understand you.”

“The Spanish once owned this country,” Tarno said. “If he knows any Spanish, we can talk.”

“
Nombre?
” said Tarno, kneeling beside the Indian.

“
Oso Espiritu
,” the Indian replied.

The Indian spoke Spanish fluently. Faro and some of the others understood some of the conversation, and it ended only when Felix Blackburn brought a tin cup of coffee and a tin plate of food. The Indian accepted the offering gratefully. Tarno then began to tell them in some detail what he had learned.

“He's a Paiute,” said Tarno, “and Paiute country is
somewhere far to the west. He's been driven from his tribe to die. His foot was mangled in a fight with a grizzly, and the bear escaped. A superstitious medicine man convinced the tribe that our Indian's soul had been stolen by the bear, so they named him
Bear Spirit
and cast him out.”

“My God,” Dallas said, “what are we gonna do with him? He can't wander through these mountains alone, with a twisted foot and only a knife.”

“If he don't starve,” said Shanghai, “the Utes will kill him. It's surprising they haven't already.”

“I don't know what's to become of him,” Collins said, “but he's human, and I won't see him left to starve or be murdered. He has a horse. He can go with us. Tell him that, Tarno.”

“Good decision, Collins,” said Faro.

Tarno conveyed the message to the Paiute, and he put down his tin plate. When he spoke, it was loud enough for them all to hear. “
Gracias. Muchas gracias
.”

Felix Blackburn refilled the tin cup with coffee and the tin plate with more food, and the hungry Indian accepted it gratefully. Despite the continuing storm, everybody seemed cheered by the decision to help the homeless Paiute. Durham looked upon them all with disfavor, but nobody seemed to care what he thought. The storm raged on, and before the end of the day, there was bone-chilling evidence that Faro's prediction was about to come to pass. Somewhere to the west, borne on the wind, came the mournful cry of a wolf, and on the heels of it, like an eerie echo, there was a distant answer.

“They're coming,” Faro said. “Throw some more logs on that outside fire. I'm going to start another, and we'll try to keep our livestock between them.”

“Lord, yes,” said Tarno. “It'll be hard as hell to see 'em in this blowing snow. We'll need the light from the fire, so they can't get right on top of us.”

Quickly the second fire was started, with enough space between the two for the gathering of the horses and mules. The animals needed no urging, for the crackling flames were saving beacons in an ominous world of swirling white. With the line of wagons and their protective canvas at their backs, and with armed men at both flanks, the attacking wolves had to come at them head-on.

“They've stopped howling,” Collins said hopefully.

“When you don't hear the varmints, you'll soon be seein' 'em,” said Dallas.

The first attacking wolves took the last approach any of them had expected. There was the sound of ripping canvas as two of the brutes sprang to the top of one of the wagons. Three Winchesters roared, sending the dead wolves over and away from the wagon. But it seemed almost like a diversion, for more than a dozen wolves charged the camp head-on. Horses and mules spooked, and in crowding closer, spoiled the aim of many of the defenders. A horse reared, a hoof striking Faro's shoulder with such force that he was slammed against the side of the wagon. Dazed as he was, he wasn't ready for the wolf. It sprang, driving slashing front claws into Faro's shoulders. Arms numb, he tried to reach his Colt, but could not. Lowering his head to protect his throat, he went limp. He had to get on the
ground so that one of his comrades could shoot the beast. The scene was total chaos as horses and mules screamed, wolves snarled, and the roar of Winchesters became a continuous roar of thunder.

As Faro went down, expecting at any moment to feel the wolf's fangs tear into his throat, a miracle took place. The recently rescued Paiute had been under the wagon, and he came out with a cry as chilling as that of the wolves themselves. With his left arm the Indian got a choke hold around the wolf's massive neck. In his right hand was his Bowie knife, and he began driving it repeatedly into any part of the wolf he could reach. Seeming to forget Faro, the wolf turned his head, snapping and snarling at this new threat. Faro rolled away, getting his hands on his Winchester. The firing had all but ceased. The entire front of Faro's shirt was bloody as he staggered to his feet.

“My God!” Shanghai shouted.

“Help the Indian,” Faro said.

But even as he spoke, there was only an ominous silence from beneath the wagon, and his fears quickly became reality.

“The Paiute's dead,” said Tarno. “That big bastard of a wolf got to his throat. Looks like he killed the varmint with the last of his strength before he died.”

“Damned strange,” Dallas said. “We lost only one horse, and it belonged to the Paiute.”

“He was just a homeless Indian and an outlaw,” said Faro, “but as a man he stood nine feet tall. But for him, I'd be dead. Who else was hurt?”

“Felix and Withers,” said Collins, “but they'll heal. Some of the horses and mules need doctoring, too.”

“Some of you tend to Felix and Withers, some of you to the livestock, and the rest keep watch in case the wolves return,” Faro said.

“Out of that shirt, or what's left of it. You've been clawed worse than Felix or Withers,” said Mamie McCutcheon.

Faro needed help getting the shirt off. His clawed arm and shoulders already had begun to stiffen.

“For the time being,” Collins said, “I think we'll wrap the Indian in some blankets.”

“Do that,” said Faro.

Blackburn and Withers had already been stretched out on blankets. Mamie and Odessa McCutcheon had water boiling on two of the fires, and Levi Collins had brought the medicine chest, along with several bottles of whiskey.

“Go ahead and join them,” Mamie said, spreading a third blanket.

Faro did so, watching Kritzer, Snyder, Dallas, Tarno, and Shanghai rope the dead wolves and drag them away into the darkness. The horses and mules still huddled close to the fires, terrified at the wolf scent and the smell of blood.

“How many of the gray devils?” Faro asked.

“Eighteen dead, including the one the Indian knifed,” said Collins. “My God, that took courage.”

“Maybe more than you realize,” Faro replied. “He could have stayed under the wagon until one of you shot the wolf.”

“But any one of us would have been too late to save you,” said Collins.

“Yes,” Faro said, “It was his life or mine, and he
made the choice. It's enough to humble a man. He'd known me only a few hours.”

“No matter,” Felix Blackburn said. “A simple act of kindness taking only a few minutes can make an impression that lasts a lifetime.”

“It just did,” said Withers, who had been listening.

“Strange as it may sound,” Collins said, “I believe this crippled Paiute saw the fight with the wolf as a means of redeeming himself, to prove his courage.”

“It's about the only thing that makes any sense,” said Faro. “Losing an impossible fight with a grizzly cost him the use of a foot and the respect of his tribe. That's enough to destroy an Indian, and when life drags a man down low enough, he's likely to start thinking of death with honor. I lost a friend on the battlefield at Gettysburg. He had taken a bad one in the spine and had been paralyzed from the waist down. He wouldn't allow himself to be moved, except to leave him with his back to a tree. When the rest of us were driven back, he kept firing until the enemy rushed his position.”

“God,” said Odessa McCutcheon, “it must have been terrible, leaving him there.”

“It was,” Faro said. “He was my brother.”

“The water's boiling, Odessa,” said Mamie. “Come help me.”

By the time the men who had dragged away the dead wolves returned, the roar of the storm had subsided. The snow was only an occasional windblown dusting, and incredibly, a few stars twinkled timidly in the western sky.

“This couldn't come at a better time,” said Dallas.
“There's snow drifts deep enough to swallow a man on a horse.”

“Yeah,” Shanghai agreed, “and it gets some complicated when you got a skittish horse on one end of the rope and a pair of dead wolves on the other.”

“Did you see any more wolves?” Collins asked.

“No sign of any,” said Tarno. “I reckon we accounted for enough of the varmints to make an impression on the others. How bad are the wounded?”

“Faro's wounds are the worst,” Collins said. “Could be a week before we can move him.”

“Three days,” said a groggy Faro Duval.

“Won't matter if it takes a week,” said Dallas. “When this snow melts, there'll be mud like you've never seen.”

“That's something we can't change,” Collins said. “We'll consider the wounded first and then the terrain ahead. Has anybody seen Durham?”

As though in answer to the inquiry there came a prolonged, rattling snore from beneath one of the wagons.