The Watch Man 1, page 14
‘Let’s get on down there and see,’ said Lola, starting to rise.
Wade grabbed her arm and pulled her back down, ‘I’d say we’d better approach with caution, what do you say, Cloud Fellow?’
The Indian nodded agreement and made sign language with his bunched fists and flickering fingers.
‘What’s that mean?’ asked Marby.
‘He’s saying we’d better separate and come in from different directions,’ explained Wade. ‘Cloud Fellow will you take the corral side? Marby, work your way down from here holding to cover. Lola and I will follow the creek and come up through the trees.’
They all nodded agreement and without a word made their various ways down and around towards the cabin.
Wade and Lola ducked back behind the rim of the ridge and when out of view of the cabin loped in a wide circle downriver until they hit the creek bank. Sliding down they dropped into the ankle deep water and made their way upstream at a crouch using the bank as cover.
Marby, moved forward on his belly and with rifle held before him he wormed his way down the dip between clumps of brush. His route was the slowest and most difficult as he was almost directly in front of the cabin and he kept a careful eye all around the silent homestead.
Nervously, Marby sweated and prayed to himself in a whisper as he snaked forward, ‘Good Lord, protect this mother’s son. I sho’ wish I hadn’t to do this. Just a po’ boy’s fortune, I know. There any Injuns up there, Lord? You see ‘em you let me know afore hand, okay? Ah’m begging you Lord, ah ain’t allus been a righteous soul ah know it, ah been a sinner and ah do repent on that score. Look to me now, Lord Jesus.’
As Marby made his repentant way, Cloud Fellow had his own cross to bear. His sensitive nose could not smell Indian nor had he seen any tracks to indicate they were about. Wade had been right, if the Apache had been here they would surely have taken the animals and probably left the place burning. Cloud Fellow was sure the old man was dead, neither he nor his dog had moved since they arrived and it was every indication to him that the enemy was near.
Moving forward slowly, then pausing and studying the land in front before moving on again, Cloud Fellow made a slow and careful passage towards the corral moving in fits and starts.
Ever since ‘The Fearing Time’ on the long walk to the reservation at Bosque Redondo, in the days before the great war between the whites, Cloud Fellow had been educated by his elders in the cruel and confusing ways of the whites and he had no particular liking for them. Who could understand a people who killed you one day and played with your children the next? But the Apache he understood, they were traditional enemies, they spoke the same language and shared traditions. It was a good enemy to have and he had no compunction about hunting down and killing these old enemies for there was power in it. The white man’s power was weak, he did not live under the sun nor treasure the things of the spirit, his only path was the one that was lined with gold.
Cloud Fellow was musing on these thoughts when he would have been better prepared concentrating on what was around him. He dropped down beside the long box of a water trough at the far edge of the corral and took his time studying the two animals kept there. They were not particularly fine looking beasts, poorly fed and maintained. He could see that the old man had allowed things to slide after the passing of his woman; perhaps he had given up on life or gone crazy in his loneliness.
He heard the slap of water in the trough and paused to listen attentively but he did not move fast enough and never saw the half-naked Apache brave that rose out of the water behind him and in one swift movement sliced across the Navajo’s throat with a sharp skinning knife. Gasping, Cloud Fellow fell forward clutching at his pulsing neck. The Apache slid over the edge of the trough and stabbed repeatedly at Cloud Fellow’s back with his knife until the Indian moved no more.
It was Marby that noticed the swift movement over by the corral from the corner of his eye. He was no more than fifty yards from the cabin porch when he saw it happen. Shocked into action, he swung up his Springfield rifle, took aim and fired at the stabbing Apache crouched over the dying scout. Marby watched as the bullet strike raised a mist of droplets from the wet Indian’s bare chest. His aim was good and the brave staggered back, falling away from his victim and crashing into the water trough behind before sliding over into a heap.
Marby was swinging back around as two Apaches burst from the house and whooping wildly ran directly towards him. The first Indian fired a pistol and Marby felt the bullet slam into the top of his left shoulder, luckily it was a glancing shot and whilst the bullet ripped flesh from the shoulder it did not totally incapacitate the soldier. Juddering with pain, Marby slapped up the trapdoor of his rifle and frantically rammed in another cartridge. The racing Apache still kept firing as he came on at the run, his bullets whistled past Marby’s head and the Indian’s companion roared a blood curdling war cry as he ran to keep up.
The Buffalo Soldier did not need to aim, the Indian was that close that when the trooper fired, his bullet went into the sternum and straight through the Apache, blowing his heart apart and throwing him from his feet.
Marby tossed aside the empty rifle and was struggling to un-holster his army Colt pistol when the second Apache fell on him. With a swinging strike with his rifle stock, the Apache slammed a blow across Marby’s face, knocking out teeth and breaking his nose. Dazedly, Marby watched as the screaming Indian stood over him and swung the rifle around to level the barrel at the Negro’s chest. Desperately, Marby swiveled under the gun and kicked out to catch the Apache on the shin with his boot. The Indian grimaced in pain at the blow but kept his rifle lodged in the soldier’s chest, then he pulled the trigger.
Wade and Lola came up the slope from the trees as the shooting started. They burst into a run and raced up to the sidewall of the cabin. Wade peered around the corner as the Apache brave standing over Marby bellowed a cry of victory and began to wildly batter at the dead soldier’s body with his rifle butt. Taking careful aim with his Colt, Wade loosed off a shot that sent the Indian spinning. He fired again and the brave staggered away a few steps before falling flat in the dust.
Lola whooped in alarm as the last Indian leapt from a cabin window behind her and caught her a heavy blow on the head with his war club. Wade swung around but the war chief was quicker and threw his club in a spinning toss that struck and stunned Wade’s gun arm. His desensitized fingers opened automatically and dropped the Colt from his hand. With a roar, Pacoté leapt forward over Lola’s unconscious body and ran at full tilt towards Wade. His rush as they collided sent them both over alongside the overhang of the porch floor.
Pacoté was on top and his snarling face close to Wade’s. With only one arm working Wade swung up a fist with his good left hand as the Indian reached for the knife at his side. It was a looping, stunning blow that caught Pacoté hard on the side of the jaw and jerked his head aside. Wade swung his head up, his Derby hat flying away as he struck with his forehead into the Apache’s nose. With a snap that sounded like hard stones slapping together Wade forehead connected and he watched as the Indian’s eyes widened and, almost laughably, they crossed.
Wade wriggled sideways and tossed Pacoté from him. Feeling was beginning to return to his stunned arm as he scampered awkwardly to his feet. Shaking his head to clear it, Pacoté leapt up with agile speed, his knife now in his hand. Wade reached down for the long triangular spike he had ordered manufactured on special request from his metal working neighbor and slipped it from his boot top.
The two circled each other with Pacoté casting a curious eye at the slender yet deadly looking weapon in Wade’s hand. The Indian came forward suddenly in a dash the knife flashing from side to side in raking arcs. The glittering blade flashed at chest height and Wade backed away quickly with Pacoté following after him continuing to slash at the air between them.
As his hand circled past in an overreach, Wade jabbed and the needlepoint spitted the side of Pacoté’s palm. The Indian pulled back, gritting his teeth in a low growl as blood boiled from the wound and ran over his wrist. He ducked down swiftly and then up in an attempt to come under Wade’s guard, as his sharp knife sliced up across Wade’s front it split a long cut through his waistcoat and shirt, cutting its way through the material as if it were paper. Wade glanced down to see that blood had been drawn from a shallow cut on his chest.
Pacoté crouched, ready to come on again with a teasing smile of confidence splitting his lips. Wade waited steadily, his blood running as cold as the stony expression on his face. As Pacoté swung with his knife hand, Wade pivoted on one foot and kicked him hard in the ribs. The Indian coiled over and then back, his body moving like an oiled machine as he leapt in with unexpected agility. Wade managed to block his thrust but with his free hand, Pacoté caught hold of Wade’s wrist and twisted sharply. With a groan of pain Wade felt the long spike leave his hand as his weakened wrist suffered the wrenching twist.
Still holding onto Pacoté’s knife hand, Wade fell backwards bringing the Indian with him. As he fell he shunted his boot into the Apache chief’s midsection and kicked him high over his head. The Indian catapulted away and landed with a thump on his back and Wade quickly scrabbled in the dust and picked up his spike again.
Pacoté was back up on his feet in an instant although Wade could tell he had had the wind knocked out of him. Once more they cautiously circled each other. Wade considered he was a tenacious foe, a man used to hand-to-hand combat and as fit as anyone Wade had ever come up against. They jabbed and thrust at each other, each man sweating in the air between them that was vibrant with tension and nervous energy.
It happened in an instant.
There was a loud gunshot and Pacoté barreled towards Wade, plunging himself onto the waiting sliver of steel. Pinioned, he stared into Wade’s face with a look full of anger and disappointment. Then his head nodded and his eyes glazed and as he fell, Wade saw over the Indian’s shoulder Lola lying flat on her stomach with a smoking pistol held in both hands.
Wade withdrew the spike and Pacoté dropped away. He felt a twinge of disappointment himself, it had been proving to be a good challenge and although death was the only prize Wade felt cheated somewhat in such a killing.
‘Pesky Indian,’ Lola spat. ‘I got a lump on my head size of a buzzard egg.’
Wade looked down at the body and eased the knife from Pacoté’s dead fingers, ‘I had him, you know? You needn’t have shot him.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ snorted Lola dubiously. ‘Well, I ain’t going to argue it ‘cos right now my heads ringing like a chapel bell where he slugged me.’
Without a word, Wade turned on his heel and walked away. He recovered his hat as he went and replaced it on his head.
‘Where you going?’ Lola called after him.
Ignoring her Wade walked on over towards the corral.
‘Alright then,’ muttered Lola. ‘Don’t ask me how I am.’
She climbed to her feet and stumbled across to the porch where the dead old man and his dog still sat seemingly asleep. It had been a setup all right, killing the old fellow and leaving him there like everything was fine. It was lucky, Lola thought, that they had come in like they did and not charging ahead as she had intended. They would have been dead meat out in the open.
She sat down on the edge of the porch and looked off towards where Marby lay, ‘Shame about that,’ she whispered to herself. ‘He was a good looking kid.’
Lola turned to look see that Wade was returning from the corral.
‘How’s that Navajo? They take him out as well.’
‘They did,’ Wade answered.
Lola noticed the dripping mass in his hand, ‘You didn’t scalp one of them, did you?’ she asked in disgust.
‘Going to scalp all of them,’ Wade said as he made his way over to the two laid out before Marby.
‘What the hell, Wade!’
‘Look,’ said Wade as he knelt to his task. ‘We need to have something to take into Canton to avoid suspicion. With these and the one in my saddlebag, we’ll make a good impression and maybe get close to Sam Kirk.’
‘The one in your saddlebag?’ she pondered and then realization struck. ‘So that’s why you went off after that dead one the scouts found.’
Wade nodded affirmation; ‘This will make five scalps we’ll be bringing in, a good haul by their lights.’
Lola watched his coldblooded butchering with distain.
‘Well, rather you than me,’ she sighed, rubbing her aching head.
Chapter Seventeen
Canton was nothing much to write home about.
No more than a dry collection of deserted weathered wooden shacks and decaying adobe huts around the one central building of note. The Salt and Pepper Saloon, stood as the one major edifice amongst the rest of the desolate town.
The corral was busy though, both Wade and Lola noted that as they rode in. Over twenty horses jostled and moved about the enclosure.
‘Look’s like the gang’s all here,’ observed Lola.
‘And what the heck do we care?’ smiled Wade.
‘You may not, Wade but I got concerns.’
‘It’ll be fine, girl. Don’t disturb yourself.’
‘Twenty wild and curly mean old hair trimmers! I think I got every right to be disturbed.’
‘We’re only after one of them.’
‘Hmm, well just maybe the other nineteen might object to that.’
‘Look,’ said Wade, as they drew up outside the saloon. ‘I’ll go handle the introductions; you just take the horses along to that corral. They need water and feed.’
Lola frowned angrily, ‘What am I? Your personal ‘fetch and carry’ maid, get your own damned horse stabled.’
Wade shrugged, ‘You’re the one doing all the complaining. I just thought that maybe you might like to avoid any confrontational unpleasantness.’
She looked at him a long moment, ‘Get the hell out,’ she smiled suspiciously. ‘You’re joshing me, ain’t you?’
Wade shrugged again, ‘I’m only considering your tender gender in this matter,’ he said innocently.
‘You ass!’ she laughed. ‘I’m going to kick your butt – ‘tender gender’ for God’s sake!’
Wade retrieved the sack of scalps from his saddlebag and slowly turned to look at her directly, Lola noted the transformation.
No longer the bonhomie and gently chiding character of earlier.
Wade could cut an awesome figure when he was on the hunt, then it was that those bland eyes drained of light and suddenly became laser-like and burnt with an intense blue fire. With his long canvas slicker riding like a cloak around him and a Winchester rifle slung across his back, to all intents and purposes he had transformed into some kind of awesome dark avenger.
Even though, she considered, the rest of the time he was amenable enough.
When he walked into The Salt and Pepper Saloon in Canton he was truly in ‘awesome’ mode.
It was a traditional style place, a little more fancy than its surroundings allowed, dimly lit by a central glass-shaded oil lamp hanging by chains from the wallpapered ceiling. Behind the long and decorated dark-wood bar were a rack of framed mirrors and a couple of bracketed smaller lamps. The cash register was an ornate gilded affair the size of a cattle feeder and the elbow high polished counter had a leaning-bar supported by brass fittings. On the floor, beside the fancy moldings out front, three stained but tastefully decorated porcelain spittoons sat, one at each end of the bar and one in the middle. They rested beside an angled footrest on top of a rough canvas carpet that had seen better days. Spit, mud, vomit and general insanitary effluvia had all left their mark on the tired covering.
There were twenty customers in the place and bizarrely, one of them sat as still as a statue on his unmoving saddle pony. The bartender, who was a neat guy in a white jacket, leaned protectively against his momentous cash register as if making sure nobody would go near it. He did not seem to object to the horse being in his establishment but he plainly treasured the till. Or perhaps he was too scared to complain…. for The Salt and Pepper was presently occupied by the entire company of the infamous ‘Apache Company.’
All heads turned suspiciously as Wade rattled the glass paneled saloon doors and stepped inside out of the bright sun. Wade was surprised to note that the majority of the occupants were unarmed except for long bladed skinning knives; he surmised that they obviously had not been expecting any trouble. All of them were decently dressed in suit jackets, some even wore shirt and tie but all had slouch hats on their heads, as was the fashion these days.
It was ten after twelve on the 21st of November 1880 and Wade Durance was about to collect.
With Lola at his back, Wade stood a moment in the doorway as the company silently eyed him up and down and he allowed his own eyes to adjust to the dim light after the brightness outside.
A tall, broad shouldered fellow wearing a round-topped hat sitting at a casual angle on his head and a dark blue shirt with large white buttons had been rolling a hand-made when Wade entered and he had stopped at half roll. Behind his hands at waist height Wade could see he was the only armed member of the company. The gleam of a gun belt showed under the wings of his nice blue suit jacket. Wade, sometimes a fashion conscious man, noted that the fellow also wore lightly colored tan shoes which he considered clashed and was a little out of place with the rest of his ensemble.
‘Help you, stranger?’ the man asked into the silence.
‘You must be Sam Kirk,’ answered Wade, who had been waiting for the first to speak.
‘S’right.’ he said. ‘What’s it to you?’
Wade took a few steps nearer then stopped, ‘I got something for you.’
‘For me?’ exclaimed Kirk.
‘You don’t know me, Sam?’
