Shortgrass Song (20 page)

Ab kicked his mount and gave chase.

With a smile on his face, Long Fingers jumped from the porch and ran for his horse in the corral.

Buster turned the wagon to the starboard to circle the ranch again. “Jibe!” he ordered, and Caleb swung the boom across the wagon. “Beam reach. The wind's at our stern now.”

Caleb followed the commands and glanced behind. “Hey, Papa's racin' us!” he said.

Buster turned and saw Ab riding in his wake, waving his hat over his head. Caleb waved back. There was no catching the wind wagon for Ab. Pard refused to approach it. The wheels kicked up chunks of mud and splattered them against the bottom of the buggy.

Long Fingers slipped a bridle bit between his mount's teeth, grabbed a handful of mane, and jumped on. He galloped through the corral gate, angling across the plains to intercept the cloud on wheels.

The wind wagon drove into an old buffalo wallow like a sloop into an ocean swell. Its wheels left the ground when it shot out, and the springs under the wagon seat almost launched Caleb overboard.

“Turnin' starboard again,” Buster said. “Give me a close reach when I make the turn.”

Hand over hand, he turned the wheel as Caleb hauled the sheet in. But the boy took in too much rope, and the boom swung down the center line, the stiff crosswind pushing against the sail. The wagon stalled; its right wheels quit the ground. Buster tried to correct to the port, but the wagon balanced precariously on two wheels for a long moment, then fell over sideways, the pine mast slapping against the ground.

Buster and Caleb landed on the canvas and lay there laughing until Ab rode up. Pard still didn't like the flapping white canvas but could bear to approach it on the ground.

“Buster!” Ab said, jumping down from his horse and pivoting on his peg. “What do you mean carrying that boy in that contraption? Are you trying to kill him?” He stalked toward the overturned buggy, his fists clenched in anger. “Pick him up, let me look at him!”

Buster pulled Caleb to his feet as Long Fingers arrived. Ab shook the boy, turned him around, felt his arms and legs.

“He's fine,” Buster said.

Ab bent over Caleb and scowled at him. “If you ever get in that thing again, I'll take this stick off my knee and whop you with it. I'll whop you, too, Buster. You ought to know better.” He hopped back to his horse and trotted to the ranch.

Caleb knew now that his father would never forgive him. He never heard Ab talk to Pete or Matthew in such a tone. His brothers could have all the fun they wanted, but he wasn't allowed to have any. He was not a full-fledged son of Ab Holcomb. He could sense that he was nothing more than a trial and a burden to his father. It had to be because of the way his mother died. He would pay for that as long as he lived at Holcomb Ranch.

Long Fingers sat stoically on his horse, as if he had missed Ab's entire outburst. “Now I learn something new,” he said to Buster. “A wagon is not always a wagon. It can go like a cloud with the wind. Now you will have a new name, and it is Man-on-a-Cloud.”

Buster put a hand on Caleb's shoulder as the boy watched his father ride back to the ranch.

“Good,” Buster said. “I never much liked being called Buffalo Head.”

TWENTY-TWO

Matthew loved few things more than the feel of a gun in his hands, and hated few things more than standing orders not to shoot. On his first two turns at guard duty, he had panicked everyone on the place by shooting at shadows in the woods. But now he hadn't fired a round in three weeks. His father had guaranteed him that if he gave another false alarm, he would scalp Matthew himself.

He was sitting on the bald hill west of the creek, holding a new Henry repeater his father had bought in Denver. Since he couldn't shoot it, he aimed and made various noises intended to resemble a rifle blast. One of his favorite targets was the dam Buster was building up the creek valley. He could imagine the water leaking out of it through a hundred bullet holes. Another favorite target was the wildflower garden near the cabin. First he would aim at the orange row, then the red one, then the blue one. When he felt particularly sure of his marksmanship, he would aim at the cut flowers on his mother's grave, though, at that distance, the bead at the end of the barrel could have covered four gravestones at once.

The sun was two hours high, and aiming at things was already a monotony. Matthew sat down on the grassy pate of the hill and watched the clouds float across the sky, slowly, the way time passed on guard duty. He watched Buster and Caleb climbing on the dam in the creek bed. He saw Javier training a colt in the corral.

Ab and Pete were working cattle somewhere. Matthew swept Monument Park with his eyes, looking for them, from the mountains to the Pinery and southward out over the open plains. He spotted a rider in the shadows along the creek bed downstream and watched for a second, trying to figure out if it was Pete or Ab. Then there was a second horseman, and he knew it had to be both of them. Then there was a third.

Those were not Holcomb horses. Those were … Cheyenne!

He fired his rifle in the air and ran for his horse. By the time he reached the creek he could hear the warriors whooping. A tingling sensation crept from under his shirttail and crawled all the way up into his hat. It gave him power. He rode to the top of the cutbank about the time Buster and Caleb got there on foot. He saw Pete and his father coming in off the plains, barely beating the Indians to the cabin. Javier was there, too, shooting a pistol at the attackers.

The war party had come so quickly that Matthew, Buster, and Caleb were unable to reach the safety of the house. The three of them dropped back under the rim of the creek bank for protection. Gunshots were already coming from the cabin.

Matthew dismounted. Holding his reins, he rested his elbows on top of the creek bank. He aimed at the Indians circling the house. One of them climbed up on the roof to look down the chimney. Matthew took careful aim and fired. To his surprise, the brave twisted in the air and rolled down the cedar shakes, dead.

“That's Kicking Dog on the paint horse,” Buster said, crawling up by Matthew's side. “Give me the Henry, and take Caleb with you into the woods. I'll hold 'em back.”

“I ain't givin' my rifle to nobody,” Matthew said. “You take Caleb to the woods yourself.”

“Give me the gun, boy.” Buster reached for the rifle barrel, but Matthew jerked it away and pointed it at him.

“I'll shoot if you try to take it, Buffalo Head.”

Buster saw a hateful glint in Matthew's eyes and considered it a possibility that the boy might really shoot him. He had no choice but to grab Caleb by the arm and run for the timber across the creek as Matthew fired again at the Cheyenne and levered a fresh round from the magazine.

Buster and Caleb crossed the creek below the dam and hid in the trees. When they turned to watch the battle, they saw Matthew retreating, riding across the creek. Four braves leapt the bank behind him and chased him into the trees. Just before the Indian ponies ran into the timber, a puff of black smoke knocked one brave from his horse, and the others turned and ran into the trees at another place farther down. The downed Indian tried to get up, but another blast of smoke erupted from the trees, and the brave rolled into the water.

“Matthew got another one,” Caleb said, pointing.

“Come on,” Buster said between gasps for breath. “We got to find more cover.”

The gunfire from the cabin faded as Buster and Caleb retreated farther up the creek, looking for a thick stand of trees. Buster knew of a little draw that entered Monument Creek from the west above Holcomb Ranch. A thicket poured down from the foothills and filled the draw. It wasn't very big, but it was the best chance of survival for him and Caleb. He wished for a gun. Only Matthew stood between him and the three raiding warriors, and he wasn't sure the boy could hold them off long.

Two loud blasts sounded downstream, and Buster knew they had come from Matthew's repeater. He peeked out from the tree line and saw Matthew retreating again, only two Indians chasing him now. When the boy turned into the timber again, the Indians stopped and talked a moment before going in after him. One of them went through the willows lining the creek bank and rode up the hill to the west. The other charged east across the creek. They had decided to go around the boy with the repeater. They weren't after Matthew anyway. They wanted Caleb. The Comanche had probably offered a bounty of a dozen horses for his return.

Buster pulled Caleb by the arm as he sprinted toward the draw upstream. Glancing back, he saw one Cheyenne warrior riding across the creek. The thicket was just fifty yards ahead, yet he didn't know if he would reach it in time. His slick boots slipped on the slope of the creek bank, and branches whipped him as he raced. He stumbled into the draw just as the brave crossed the creek toward it.

Caleb tried to lie down in the bushes, but Buster dragged him deeper into the cover by the collar. The boy gasped for air but seemed unable to draw any. Finally, Buster dropped him between the trunks of two big trees and picked up a stick.

The gunshots had stopped firing at the cabin, and Caleb wondered if the Indians had killed or captured Pete. The sound of his own heaving slackened, and he could hear the rush of the creek, the whistle of a chinook in the treetops. Then he recognized the clop of hooves. The Indians were sneaking into the woods to get him. He was afraid of what Snake Woman would do to him if the Cheyenne took him back to the Comanche. He thanked God Buster was with him.

A warm foul smell hung in the still air of the underbrush. Caleb couldn't take a breath without it filling his nostrils. It made him wrinkle his nose. It was the thick odor of primitive death. Something was rotting.

Buster had his stick poised over his shoulder and was watching for movements of the two braves when he felt Caleb pulling on his sleeve. He brushed the boy's hand away and concentrated on the enemy, one coming from the mouth of the draw and another from somewhere above. The tugging came again at his sleeve, and he scowled down at the boy.

But Caleb wasn't looking up at him. Instead, the boy's eyes were fixed on something in the shadows just up the draw. Buster followed his line of sight. There, hammered into the ground at the base of a tree, was the wolf-getter, its trigger baited with rotten meat swarming with flies.

He put the stick on the ground and pulled Caleb across a small clearing to the wolf gun. He heard a Cheyenne horse kick a stone behind him. Carefully, he eased the hammer of the pistol down. The warriors were corning nearer; he could hear branches raking across the buffalo-hide shields they carried. He yanked the wolf-getter from the ground and pulled the rotting meat from the hook, flies singing war songs around him. He bent the hook to get it out of the way of the muzzle.

Moccasins hit the ground, and Buster knew the brave coming from the mouth of the draw had dismounted. Pulling Caleb between him and the tree, he cocked the wolf gun and turned back to the little clearing he had crossed. In seconds the warrior materialized, dappled with tree-strained sunlight, a shield in one hand and a revolver in the other. The wolf-getter spoke, its forty-five slug catching the dog soldier in the chest and knocking him back.

Buster sprinted across the clearing for the brave's weapon but saw the wounded warrior trying to muster the strength to raise his pistol. The spike on the wolf-getter was Buster's only weapon. He pounced on the brave and drove it into his chest, then took the pistol away and motioned for Caleb to run to him.

Caleb didn't care to run toward the bloody Indian, but he followed Buster's orders. He had taken no more than three steps when he sensed a presence behind him. It was as if his own echo followed in his footsteps. Buster's eyes grew wide and the captured revolver swung up. “Get down!” he yelled.

But Caleb was too afraid to drop. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the dog soldier reaching for him. Caleb's foot caught on something and he fell. The pistol fired, and the warrior collapsed beside him. Caleb scrambled back to his feet and buried his face in Buster's chest.

“You're all right, boy,” Buster said. He listened. “We better go see how everybody else made out.”

They caught the two Indian ponies in the draw, both of them wearing fine ranch saddles probably stolen on another recent raid. They heard horses coming, and when they ventured out of the thicket, they saw Ab and Javier riding toward them, calling their names.

Pete was riding behind Javier. “Caleb!” he cried.

Matthew was along the tree line, stooping over one of his dead Indians. Buster and Caleb rode the Cheyenne horses toward Matthew to meet the other men. When they got close, they found Matthew with the brave's hair in one hand and a knife in the other.

“How do you do it?” he asked his father. “How do you scalp 'em?”

“I know how,” Javier said, sliding down from his Mexican saddle. “One time there was a bounty on Indians in New Mexico, and we scalped them to keep a count of how many…”

“What in Hades do you think you're doing?!” Ab said. “Matthew, get your hands off of those lousy plaits. We don't scalp. It isn't Christian.”

Matthew let the dead man's hair fall in the dirt. “But, the Pikes Peakers scalped Texans at Glorietta Pass.”

“Who told you that?”

“Those freighters here last fall.”

“That's a lie. Even scalping Texans isn't Christian, and they're the scalpingest bunch of heathens the devil ever created. Buster, get Caleb off of that wild Indian pony before it kills him. How many Indians did you get?”

Caleb slid off of the captured horse.

“We got two,” Buster said. “Caleb found the wolfgetter, and I got one of 'em with that. They're both back in that thicket.”

“Who got this one?” Ab asked.

“And that other one back there?” Javier added. “It wasn't me. I missed every one I shot at.”