Atonement Continued

 Chapter 35

 The approach was a thing of martial beauty. Not a sound was made as over one-hundred men approached from down wind. They were not Ninja, but they covered the four-hundred yards of open ground like an army of specters up from their graves. The defenders had been ordered to stay alert, but after a long tense day of expecting battle, the Nisenan were done in. Sentries were tempted to close their eyes because they believed it was impossible to climb the walls without making noise. Strings attached to tin cans were everywhere, and the dogs never missed what came to them on the wind.

 But the men in black came with devices that had never been seen in California before. Spring loaded detonators placed into sacks of powder at the last moment would go over the walls. The man made clouds would be given twenty minutes to do their work, then the life span of the chemicals would end, detoxifying the deadly smoke. The second, and more conventional phase of the operation would involve homemade ladders dragged across the field and mounted on the west wall. One-hundred revolver rifles would open fire on men struggling to get oxygen into their lungs. This would be the latest in a long line of undocumented battles that were totally one sided. Knowledge to find gold, knowledge to snuff out life. A unholy heritage passed on in a shadow world.

 Like so many previous opponents of The Company, Sutter was ignorant of what he was dealing with. But he knew enough to be stationed on the east wall that night. He knew enough to signal the men who were all crouched low with their guns loaded with nails. Down below his beloved cannon was hidden inside a pile of grain bags. It was set to fire grape along the wall, and when the proper signal was given, it started the battle a bit early, much to the disappointment of the attackers.

 William and his mountain Indians rose up off the ground shedding their blankets of sod and tumble brush. They weren’t wearing black and they stayed fifty yards away from the walls. The Nisenan were then free to blast anything that moved directly below them. Brains and entrails would stain the walls for many months to come, despite Sutter’s efforts to have them removed shortly after the mass burials. The killing lasted all of forty-five seconds, and for the first time in history, The Company comprised the losing side. Their tactics made it all possible. Their primary objective had been to get their entire force over the walls in a matter of seconds. So all the defenders had to do, was launch a preemptive strike while the bags full of chemicals were being readied for throwing. Very tricky business in the poor light, but William was the observer and the man responsible for giving the signal.

  It was instinctive. In such poor light it could not have been anything else. When with throwing sacks full of deadly powder were cut down with throwing arms extended. The Company’s  secret weapon harmed only one foolish Indian who was scatter brained enough to open a bag and sniff it.

 William swore he would never fight in the dark again. It sure was hell on a man’s nerves. He stood with an empty rifle when the command was given by Sutter to cease fire. Torches were quickly lit and thrown down from above. William waited until there was enough light to work with and then advanced for the purpose of finding Saldivar.

 He found him with four feet of intestines hanging out, and a revolving pistol that had been blown out of reach.

 “I have some---unfinished business for you, Troublemaker. A ball in the forehead---would be--- much appreciated.”

 “Be glad to. But first I need a little info from you. Your pals down in Monterey. Where will they run to now that the jig is up? I’d like to stay clear of their exodus if you don’t mind.”

 “Acapulco.”

 William frowned at the news.

 “Please---I need to know---did the Vatican send you?”

 “Nope, I just sort of wandered in,” said William as he stepped away.

 “Please, shoot me,” Saldivar implored.

 “Can’t---out of bullets,” was the response.

“William, what kind of powder is this?” queried Sutter after venturing out side the walls and opening one of the chemical throwing bags.

 “Keep that stuff well away from any fire,” warned William. “I don’t know what it does exactly, but I’m sure it’s something you don’t want to study close up.”

 “We’ll bury it all then. My word, all these new type rifles will certainly make us a force to reckon with in the future; and we only lost one man in the bargain.”

 “Well---I lost eight. I told the boys to keep on their bellies but I guess they just couldn’t see well enough with weeds in the way.”

 Sutter grimly watched as the Atsugewi scalped every fallen foe; some of them still alive and conscious. He would never approve of Indian ways, but he couldn’t deny that he owed a debt of gratitude to the men who had fought for him outside the walls.

 “Uh---I’m not an expert at procuring wives for Indians---but I will see what I can do for your remaining Atsugewi. I will also find a place for them to winter. Someplace where my Nisenan won’t be able to badger them. Now what can I do for you, William Longpenance?”

 “Heed my advice for starters.”

 “Well, I was willing back when I didn’t trust you completely. Now I should be able to do it with ease.”

 “I doubt it,” responded the scar faced man. “You need to take all those beautiful revolver rifles and hide them until next spring, then ship them someplace north or east. Most importantly: the graves of these Spaniards must be well hidden. You must convince the government that no battle took place here this night. All these men simply rode away south and were never heard from again.”

 “That will be very difficult to accomplish.”

 “Yes it will, but for a man bent on carving an empire out of a wilderness—I believe it can be done. Explain to folks that pass though that the Nisenan have a tendency to exaggerate on numbers. That the fort was really just fired on by a gang of drunken brigands who resented your superior fire power. These things can be done, especially if you make your report at the capital instead allowing government agents to come out here.”

 “Good thinking, William. Now I am still waiting to here what I can do to repay you for your heroism.”

 “Well, I need to get south. All the way to Acapulco. Since about a thousand of these Spaniards here are trying to do the same thing. I don’t think I’ll be able to ship out, and going by land will be a royal pain in the ass, since I hate riding.”

 “I am well situated with the governor,” boasted Sutter. “Many of his friends own sailing boats. I will write you a letter of introduction. Even forgetting about this battle, I can state quite categorically that you have done much to fight lawlessness in California. I think that will be worth a sail boat ride at least half way to your destination.”

 “I’ll take what I can get. I’m just glad I don’t need to go east through the mountain passes. That would really slow things down for me.”

 “Indeed. I’ve nursed more than one frost bitten traveler back to health after he came crawling out of those mountains in the winter. Better to sail on the ocean, with as much gold dust as you care to collect for your journey.”

 “Gold that could be yours, Captain. I gotta say that I marvel at your lack of greed.”

 Sutter grinned at that, despite the aftermath of carnage all around him.

 “Gold merely represents what a man would like to buy. I already have what I want. Of course I’d love to be out of debt, but if I were to become a gold miner, I would also have to become a gold protector. I wear this uniform to impress the Indians, not because I want to carry a gun all my life. Can you understand that, William?”

 “I’m beginning to,” responded the man with a rifle in his hand. “But I’m not going back to that stream. Saldivar might have assigned scouts to keep an eye on the digging sight. One good sniper shot would ruin my plans of leaving soon. Nope, too risky for this fellow. I’m like you; I don’t catch gold fever, just the shivers from too many nights sleeping on the ground.”

 “Not tonight,” promised Sutter. “You will sleep as late as you wish on a very fine cot. I will also fill you full of so much brandy, your head will feel like the last casualty of this war!”

 William smiled at the friendly threat. Alcohol was just one more poison that his body could quickly overcome. But he would pretend to feel hung over---just to please his host.

Chapter 36

 Two weeks later William was hiding under a sombrero whilst sitting on some warped floor boards in front of the Amor Perdida hotel, cantina and whorehouse. (Not necessarily listed in proper order.)

 The good news was that no member of The Company  would invade William’s happy sanctuary. The bad news was that somehow word had traveled south that The Eternal Mercenary had left California on a thirty foot sailing boat, and would have to stop off at one of only several ports located on the way to Panama. Most of the displaced fighting men who had been forced to leave California did not fully understand why their job opportunities had suddenly dried up and blown away. But Company operative Sanchez knew who to blame, and he had taken it upon himself to police the coastline on his way back to Portobello, where he would be reprimanded.

 So Willaim had to be cautious. Information could be easily had for a price, but how could he safely inquire about Jonas Druey while the enemy was offering money for info about a gray eyed man with a scar on his cheek? The answer came in the agreeable form of a lady in distress. Well, actually she wasn’t much of a lady and her distress seemed to be mostly economic in nature. She was trying unsuccessfully to say no to a man who was so big, he probably scared the hell out of riding horses.

 The object of his interest was probably half Nahua Indian and half horny sailor. Not a bad looking specimen of womanhood if you like big shoulders and a square rear end. Anyway, the handful of near by witnesses had turned their backs to the negotiations taking place, as soon as the big man gave them all a threatening glare. The woman was trying to free herself from the man’s vise like grip, but since she knew the fellow well enough to call him a poxy goat, everyone reasoned that it was a private matter that did not concern them.

 William would have felt the same way. Compared to the sacking of a city, arguments between locals were nothing to pay heed to. But William needed a friend, and he had gathered so far that the woman’s sexual clock wasn’t synchronized with the man’s. So he jogged a bit so as to catch up with the man who was fairly dragging the woman towards a neighboring livery stable.

 “Buenos Dias, Senhor. Do you work in the stable?” William asked politely.

 “No, I’m just going to borrow it. And I don’t want it to get crowded,” growled the big man.

 “Well, I need to get my horse. It won’t take long.”

 “Get your horse an hour from now. The stable keeper is getting a drink right now.”

“I am sorry, Senhor, but I must remove my animal right away. He is a God fearing creature and would not want to watch two humans fornicating. It would disturb his delicate sensibilities.”

 “Oh, a smart ass, huh? Well that’s just fine with me. Come right on in with us so there won’t be any witnesses---except for your horse.”

 “Senhor is as wise as he is irresistible to the ladies,” William responded as he entered deep into the large horse barn.

 The big man charged in with his left hand extend to grab at William’s throat. The right was set to cock back and punch at an offending mouth. But the scar faced man shifted in with his left foot leading and his whole body turned forty-five degrees to the right. The left lunge punch went in under the jaw as the big man’s grasping paw was still trying to lock onto a throat. The big man felt himself tilting backward but managed to get a weak hold of his opponent’s shirt while shaking the cobwebs from a small but well encased brain.

 The palm of the grabbing hand was facing William’s chest, and that was fine with William. He pressed the big man’s hand even tighter against the heart and then dropped down and forward onto a lunging knee. The result was interesting. The big man bellowed out like a wounded steer. His wrist bone had been broken, and his eyes were bulging in disbelief.

 “My God, how is that fool going to pay me the money he owes me if he is not able to work?” asked the woman.

 “No idea. But I have some money for you, if you’ll do me a favor.”

 “His kind of favor?”

 “No---at least not right now.”

 “Look out!” blurted the woman.

 The big man had grabbed hold of a pitch fork and was advancing with his left over hand. William picked up a shoeing stool and used it like a buckler. Getting his free hand on the neck of the pitch fork proved easy enough, and even though his opponent was strong, in the end one arm was no match for two. A low level side thrust kick descended on the big man’s shin, but he doggedly held on to the shaft, even though William controlled the dangerous end. With an oath William shifted in again with a straight left punch to the chin. Then as the pitch fork was allowed to drop, William followed up with a right that came with a full wind up.

 The big man dropped onto his butt, and the scar faced man marveled at the strength of the other man’s jaw.

 “Maybe I should have given the guy his hour. If he screws as well as he takes a punch—“

 “He owes me for back favors,” grumbled the woman.

 William took out a portion of the money he had been given by the governor of California and handed it to the unhappy woman.

 “I want you to find out where a Jonas Druey is. Don’t meet with him, just find out where I can find him.”

 “Oh I know where he is,” the woman informed him. He had been gold mining somewhere inland. But for the past three weeks he’s been under Julio Espinosa’s carpentry shop.”

 “You mean he’s buried there?”

 “No no. Come, I show you.”

 William took three steps forward and then remembered something.

 “You come with, and if you yell out for help you’ll be real sorry.”

 “I got to get this thing splinted,” growled the big man.

 William had been armed all along and in response to this he pulled out his knife. The other man showed no fear but you could hear the woman inhaling from where she was standing. William went over to where there was a length of rope and quickly cut off a piece. Taking the length of rope he grabbed the man’s good arm and pressed it up against a support post. Then he tied the arm to it.

 “Now it’ll be safe to play doctor,” muttered William as he cut up strips of horse blanket and combined them with a currying brush that had lost most of its bristles. In no time he had the broken wrist effectively splinted.

 “That’ll hold you until you can find someone who isn’t scared of you,” said William. “But I want you to keep me company until I find this guy I’m looking for. Just in case the urge to get a gun and go target shooting comes over you.”

“Better a bull whip,” said William’s patient as he commenced to limp along with a smirking woman.

 “If I were you I’d try and focus on the little things like how you’re going to wipe you ass tomorrow,” responded the third walker.

 The town was made up of sixteen adobe buildings and a few cow hide tents. Most of the structures were well spread apart. Roughly a quarter mile square in which people owned horses, cows, goats and the odd pepper garden that needed to be respected by the neighbors. Few trees were allowed to reach maturity since hauling fire wood wasn’t any fun. William’s patient wasn’t happy that the building they were heading for was on the other side of the sun baked acreage, but he reasoned that it might be easier to undo his enemy if he first learned more about him. So he refrained from further comment, and waited for something like an unprotected back.

 When they got to the right building, the woman bent over to peer under the floor boards.

 “Hey, Borrachin, someone out here wants to meet you.”

 Slowly---very slowly, a skinny young man with a shock of filthy blonde hair crawled out from under the building.

 William frowned at the creature on the ground. If a drunk slept under a building, it was either because of bad weather, or because there were people about who would kick him in the ribs while he was sleeping one off. In any case, William’s fugitive was not ready to go home and shower his girl friend with gold bought goodies.

 “You’re Jonas Druey?”

 The man squinted up with one eye closed and said, “I don’t like white people. Go away.”

 “You’re a white person,” reasoned the stranger.

 “And I don’t like me, so go away.”

 “You’re not endearing yourself to me, Boy,” warned the scar faced man.

 “Perhaps not,” interrupted the woman, “but he made no trouble for anyone while he was mining, which is more than I can say for the men who drove him out of the hills and into a bottle.”

 “Let me guess, a small army of Spaniards showed up and took over everything.”

 “No, a mucho grande army has taken over everything,” exclaimed the big man with a sneer.

 “Oh shut up you poxy goat,” growled the woman, “They do not require the services if women and they do not touch liquor, so you have nothing to whine about.”

 “Are any of them in town right now?” William asked quickly while Druey reacquainted himself with the art of standing.

 “Si, the place where they treat the gold with chemicals to see how good it is,” answered the woman. “That place always has one of them. But they do not care for most of the town. They have a tent city up where the gold is taken from the ground. A ship arrived in port yesterday and three wagon loads of supplies were taken up to their camp. Before that, they helped themselves to what we had, and beat up five men who resisted.”

 “They must have been in a charitable mood,” William muttered to himself.

 “That’s what I say,” put in Druey. “I was sharing those hills with eight other prospectors and I’m the only one who made it out of those hills alive. I think it’s because I’m white. Anyway, they scared the shit out of me and when I realized that I wouldn’t be taking any gold out of those hills, I guess I got to feeling sorry for myself.”

 “But not for his liver,” the woman half joked.

 “Well, I’m the second piece of bad news. I’m a bounty hunter,” William declared bluntly. “I’m going to collect a reward for bringing you back.”

 “Albert Webber put up the reward?” the young man asked incredulously. “My God, if I could have left him some kind of collateral, I would have done it. I can’t even recollect how many days I went hungry because I couldn’t find honest work. But I knew that gold map was real, and I knew that if I could only get to this place here, I’d be able to make all my dreams come true.”

 “Where did you get the map?”

 “Didn’t get it, just got to look at it for a bit. The owner was a Vatican priest who sailed over with me from Europe. He kept mentioning a man named Simancas who was some sort of rock expert many years ago. The priest was also traveling with some guy. Wasn’t introduced to him but four days after we arrived in Florida somebody slit his throat. That’s when I knew for a fact that he was on to something really big. He didn’t have anything of value except that map.”

 “The map only showed this area?” asked William.

 “No. It was a map of the New World. There was a red dot on central California, one here and one in the Colorado area. But I calculated that this place would be the easiest to get to from Florida. Goes without saying that Colorado would have been closer, but sailing is easier than over land travel. Besides, I figured that if there was to be any competition, it would probably be in Colorado where the fur trappers can double as guides.”

 William scratched his whiskers in thought.

 “Three areas that have gold but not a lot of people. Bad guys move in and fill it with their people as soon as they can mine enough gold to pay for transportation and building. At least a thousand more of them will be sailing past this area now that California is too hot to handle. They won’t have reason to stay here, but they could help pacify the area before moving on.”

 “What is happening in California?” asked the woman. “We see many ships sailing north, but they are not allowed to dock here, except for the supply ship that arrived yesterday.”

 “How’s that possible?” inquired the scar faced man.

 “One of those devils is working for the Mexican government,” said Druey. “He’s declared that there’s a cholera epidemic plaguing us here, so only special ships will come to port.”

 “How long before someone gets word to the next town?”

 “No one has tried. They have men on horseback patrolling all around us,” explained the woman.

 “What exactly are you talking about when you say pacify?” asked Druey.

 “They might ask you people to play along with them even when they outnumber you twenty to one,” said William, “but more likely I think they’ll just kill you all and blame it on cholera.”

 Druey shook his head.

 “It’s one thing to jump a man’s claim, but to take over so much land and the lives on it….”

 “Hell, this is small time stuff compared to what they were trying in California. Anyway, you better discretely spread the word that it would be safer to sneak out of town tonight, rather than wait and see what happens when the next ship arrives.”

 “Or maybe I go tell them that you’re in town. I got a feeling that might earn me some of that gold they are digging up,” said the big man.

 “Oh yea,” agreed William, “they’ll give you a bag of gold dust and then when they’ve gunned down everyone, they’ll take the gold back. On the other hand………”

 William pulled out roughly the amount of gold that the big man might earn in six months as a dock worker and moonshine maker.

 Putting the gold back in this pocket he said, “Go get your wrist properly set. Then go rat on me, or---figure out a way to kill me and take the gold.”

 The big man was dumbfounded by William’s forthright demeanor, but only for a moment. Then he grinned half to himself and limped towards a building that was fifty yards from the newly created assay office.

 “To bad you can’t think as good as you fight,” said the woman in the way of a farewell.

 Jonas Druey nodded in agreement.

 “Assuming that you came in on yesterday’s ship, I think you will find it infinitely more difficult leaving town---especially since I don’t intend to cooperate.”

 “Why, do you want to stay here and get shot full of holes?”

 “Well, we don’t know for a fact that the town is going to get wiped out, but even if it’s true, it might be better than going back to Florida and admitting failure to Stacy and her dad.”

 “Stacy is going to have your baby,” said William, “and you could leave here with enough gold to square your debt with your future father-in-law---if you’re willing to take a calculated risk.”

 The dirt covered blonde stared at a pair of boots that were in dire need of mending.

 “Pregnant? Good Lord. In that case I suppose I need to go for broke. I leave here with money or I die trying.”

 “Good way to think, cause your future father in law is a tough character. I think he might kill you if you come back the same bum you were when you left.”

 Druey swallowed hard. He knew the truth when he heard it.

 “So what’s your name and what’s the game?”

 “William Longpenance,” said the scar faced man, “and the game is cat and mouse. We’re going after some cheese right around midnight.”

 “Steal gold while its in camp?” Druey asked incredulously. “That’s impossible. Besides, shouldn’t we be breaking into the assay office? Most of the gold that’s been mined so far has got to be there.”

 “If that was true there’d be guards all over that building. No. For security reasons I’m sure the gold is being kept in the camp.”

 “Where nearly one-hundred men can guard it.”

 “From idiots like the guy who just left,” William pointed out. “I doubt very much that they will be on their toes. Anyway, we’ll only take two bags each. We don’t want greed working against us.”

 “And horses as well? Every beast of burden is under guard by the new management. We will need to sneak past the patrol riders and then carry out our ill gotten gain some fifty miles south. I’m not saying that it wouldn’t be worth it--“

 “We’ll make for the coast; two miles north of the town dock. My boat will be laying off about five-hundred yards at midnight. If we fail to signal the pilot, he’ll return the following night at the same time.”

 “So you didn’t come by ship.”

 “Hell no. Even the troop ships that are bound for California have spies on board that might be able to identify me.”

 “I thought you said you’re a bounty hunter from Florida.”

 “There’s no law that says a man can’t have more than one calling,” muttered William. “Now draw me a map of that tent camp you referred to.”

 Druey shrugged and said, “What can I tell you? There’s about two dozen tents and each one might accommodate three or four men. There’s a creek twenty yards to the east of the camp but they can’t pitch tents there because the ground is too wet.”

 “And that’s where they pan the gold?” asked William.

 “No. It’s not a panning operation. It’s being dug out of open veins in the step rock another two-hundred yards beyond the marsh land,” the blonde said with passion. “It’s like---God just handing it to you on a platter. That’s why its so valuable, William, because you can get the stuff out very quickly. I could have been rich in a few weeks.”

 William nodded indulgently and said, “I want to know if there are any trails heading to the sea. I also want to know where the latrine area is.”

 Druey frowned slightly, still not entirely clear headed yet.

 “Well---maybe you should go before we do any sneaking around.”

Chapter 37

William Longpenance  crawled slowly down the length of a slit trench that averaged some thirty inches in depth and was twenty feet long. When he reached the other end he was a little bit closer to his objective, but more importantly, he was now unworthy of any sentry dog’s attention. There were eight tents lined up between his rancid vantage point and the largest tent in the camp. Any ordinary man would have rose up and crept on two legs with the moon so conveniently hidden behind a long cloud formation. But William remained on his belly. It would take him much longer to get to the administrative tent, but dawn was a long way off, and the master soldier was long on nerve as well as time.

 Only when he was fully enclosed within the tent did he stand up. To his relief there were only two men sleeping in a tent that could have accommodated twelve. A large circular table had the center support pole fixed in its center. On it was a tally sheet, a scale, and a small stack of ten pound gold sacks. A dimly burning lantern hung from the center pole, and with its help a fighting dagger was also detected by the intruder. William unsheathed it and weighed the likely prowess of the two sleeping men.

 Standing over the larger of the two, William prepared to put all weight behind the poniard. With little hesitation he then drove the blade into the throat, and did not stop pushing until the tip reached the cervical vertebrae. The victim’s eyes popped open but the stare was mindless and incapable of investigation. The palm of the victim’s hand came in contact with the grips of the weapon, but the fingers were as useless as the eyes. William was positioning his own knife over the next victim’s throat by the time the first man’s hand began its slide down to the side of the cot.

 The second man was more slender, but his survival instincts caused the scar faced assassin to regret the order in which he now killed. A grip of iron, fueled by desperation closed on the knife handle and began to pull out the blade while life still surged in the smaller man. William struggled to keep the steel deep within the flesh. A man needed to remain muted in his last few moments, and this particular fellow did not want to go quietly into the night. But William practically got on top of the fellow, and got a snoot full of squirting blood for his trouble. But a tense moment later he was stepping away from another dead man, and as far as he could tell, no one outside the tent was the wiser.

 Improvising a way to carry the gold on his back proved to be more time consuming than the killing process, and William couldn’t resist the temptation to place a ball and cap revolver in each hand. But by the time he got his second coating of enemy waste matter, Druey was convinced that if their boat didn’t show up, the scar faced man would probably just leave the land and walk on water. The young man had never seen such daring, even if luck had more to do with success than anything. Feeling somewhat ashamed of himself for crouching so far from the perimeter of the camp, the young man moved forward to offer this Longpenance fellow a hearty pat on the shoulder. But the wind had suddenly shifted and the ex drunk from Switzerland did not smell quite the same as the men belonging to the camp. The sentry dogs began to bark and their handlers gave them leave to pick out what section of the perimeter needed checking.

 “Did I do a bad thing?” whispered Druey.

 William didn’t answer right away. He squirmed out of his makeshift pack and shoved it at his bewildered colleague

 “You have just been promoted to pack animal. Don’t let the increased importance go to your head.”

 “Dogs are coming!” hissed the blonde.

 “You see that? Well its really the planet Mars. Run towards it and don’t stop until your feet get wet,” instructed Eternal Mercenary.

 William stuffed the pistols into his belt and drew out his knife. When the first dog came into view he turned his back on the advancing animal and began to run on Druey’s trail. Naturally the dog closed in and attempted to cripple his two legged prey by gnawing on the back of the calves. This was no setback. William had understood from the beginning that he would have to deal with sentry dogs, and such creatures were predictable enough. Before heading out, he had fashioned himself a crude set of leggings from an old blacksmith apron.

 The canine was allowed to chew on one for just a second or two. Then while turning at the waist, William dropped to one knee and brought his knife down with a hammer fist blow. With a precision born of centuries of practice, the heavy steel punched into the top of the dog’s skull, transforming the ferocious animal into a quivering sack of panting meat. A minute later William would have to dispatch a second animal almost precisely the same way. That helped, but now the men of the camp had a course to follow. Some of the pursuers held back and scanned for signs of cutting off to the right or left, but the majority of the men rushed straight towards the coast.

 William frowned at the younger man’s lack of speed, but he remained mindful of the fact that Druey was carrying that which William had opted to steal. The night was unusually humid, and by the time William caught up with Druey, both men were fairly drenched in sweat.

 “I’m not a sailor, but I’d be willing to wager that if that boat of yours is on the look out for us, it won’t be able to get to us before our pursuers close in,” the younger man theorized as they jogged along.

 William didn’t answer. His ears were working harder than his legs or lungs. At least they were trying to, and gabby companions didn’t help. Twenty minutes later they reached the edge of a small bluff overlooking a rocky coastline.

 “I don’t---wait---I do see a light. It’s got to be a boat!”

 “But they can’t see us, and they’ll give up and withdraw unless we change that right quick,” grumbled William as he took out flint and steel. A moment later a short shafted torch was being slowly waved over his head.

 “There---the poxy bastards are blinking at us to show that they’ve spotted us. Get down there into the water. Wade out as far as you can. If you climb aboard before me, keep off the subject of the gold if you can. Tell them you’re carrying a statue of a naked lady or something.”

 “Why would I beat you to the boat?”

 “Because I gotta stay behind until you’re further along,” explained William.

 Suddenly two riflemen solidified out of the darkness; jogging in for a closer shot at the obliging torch light. William handed the beacon to the younger man and then pulled out his brace of pistols.

 “Only carry it to the bottom of the bluff. Then chuck it into the water.”

 That advice was given over his shoulder as he advanced on the approaching gunmen. That moment stood as the beginning of an uneven contest, but William was more optimistic than one would expect. The revolver rifle most certainly possessed superior sighting abilities, but that point was mute in the black of the night. Point shooting would serve the victor and William had practices a lot on ships in the middle of the ocean.

 He waited for his enemies to open up first. Their muzzle flashes were a great help, as was their confidence in their longer barreled weapons. Thirty-six caliber balls zipped all around the scar faced man, but William trusted in his luck, which had always kept the vast majority of past projectile weapons from skewering him in one spot or another. Then when it was just about time for the shooters to drift into the lucky shot zone, William finally lit up his own section of the high ground. Two shots, two hits at roughly sixty yards. Very fine night shooting, but it had drawn him away from his avenue of escape.

 Neither opponent had been killed but they might as well have been. The Company  usually killed their own wounded to avoid the services of local physicians. That would include traveling missionary doctors that would offend the spiritual beliefs of the wounded in any case. William turned his back on the fallen as soon as he was sure that they were truly pacified. He was nearly back to the cliff when a shotgun blast put four small caliber pellets in his back.

 Fortunately the way to the sea was downhill. It offered treacherous footing and reenactments of the original wounding with each heavy step; but it was downhill. Because the curse protected him from severe blood loss, there was no danger of going into shock, but his nervous system was like a powerful restraining hand that caused his muscles to go numb and contact as if he had been forced to perform herculean feats of labor. By the time he was along side the skiff, he couldn’t tell if his legs were betraying him of if the surf was just to mean to handle in that spot.

 He kept looking towards the bluff, expecting to see more gunmen making their way down and forward towards the churning black water. But there was zero movement anywhere on the dark rocky bluff. He was free and clear of any pursuers but he couldn’t understand why. The answer came when he was helped aboard the modest sailing vessel who’s skipper was nowhere to be seen.

 “Good things certainly do come to those who wait,” said a faceless image who then picked up the ship’s lantern and held it close to his face.

 It was Chumo, the young but rapidly advancing thug leader, and he looked remarkably happy for someone who had just lost some comrades.

 “I had a feeling, Senhor Troublemaker. A hunch you might say. The owner of this bucket was seen ordering new canvass when just last month he was one step ahead of the creditors. Where did he get his money and why would he cruise these waters for so long, and with only two deck hands?”

 “He didn’t explain it to you?” queried the scar faced prisoner.

 “To some extent. He said that he would be picking up a passenger at this time and location, but he didn’t know which night . Very mysterious, but preferable to loosing his ship to the creditors.”

 “Don’t suppose he has any reason to fret over such things anymore.”

 “Who can say? He and his men were thrown overboard approximately five miles up the coast. They might have made it to shore. Impossible to say.”

 “Is Druey still on board?”

 “But of course. He’s just arrived and he has so much to tell us while we sail south.”

 “And the gold?” prompted William, “shouldn’t that be taken back to its rightful owners?”

 Chumo shrugged while perched on the port edge of the cabin roof.

 “Their job would have been to give it to the next contracted ship heading for the isthmus that you made so much mischief on, Roman. For all intents and purposes, you could say that I am now fulfilling that function. You know; all members of The Company  have what might be called a service record. Mine will make interesting reading after this night.”

 “Will it mention the details of our last meeting?” asked the scar faced man.

 “Well, we might have to alter that just a bit,” answered Chumo, before stepping forward and front snap kicking the prisoner in the groin.

 “Have him dangle below what I believe is called a cat head.”

 “You mean, so he’ll hang against the side of the hull?” asked one of five mercenary sea dogs.

 “Precisely so.”

 “Aye sir. But I should mention that we’ve had sharks following us ever since Rodney threw them goat innards over the side. The prisoner’s legs will be in the water for sure.”

 Chumo’s smile was thin and not worth discerning in the dark.

 “I don’t  think that will slow down the ship very much.”

  “Uh---I reckon it won’t sir.”

 “Begin then,” ordered Chumo before entering the cabin where Druey was trussed up on the floor.

 The later had overheard Chumo’s sadistic instructions and rolled over onto his side.

 “After the fish shorten my companion, I’m next---right?”

 “Not if you behave yourself. You see, Longpenance messed with my people something awful. So, he needs to be punished. But you’re not much. Be happy to slit your throat before throwing you overboard. But we might need you for a hostage until we get to safer waters. Probably not, but you never know. Anyway, I thought I’d explore the possibility that you might have a relative who would ransom you. Does that bring anyone to mind?”

 “Yes and no. Mostly no.”

 Chumo shrugged without care and swaggered out of the cabin.

 

Chapter 38

 The old whaling ship crept through the fog like a ghost of all those who sailed to cleave flesh and mix blood and salt water. Combined with the moonless night, it made the ship’s running lights useless except at close range. The lookouts on the Bullhead were understandably uneasy, but took comfort in the knowledge that they were thirty miles west of all those European ships that had been prowling the California coast. The whalers had a hard time of it trying to figure out why so many ships would sail past Monterey or short of it, then head south, only to return again before the Bullhead could complete its own business and set course for The Horn.

 That mystery gave the men something to talk about besides the battle they had lost. The captain had declared the combat a forbidden subject, but only after three weeks of searching for the wounded beast. Then he shook off any further thoughts of revenge and struck out further west to get clear of all the transport ships that were mostly south bound. They would parallel these suspicious vessels, that never hailed the whaler, and always refused to take aboard a mail bag.

 Captain Gantell reasoned that a half a dozen ships wouldn’t be acting so mysterious unless they were taking coin from the Mexican government and were bound to its rules. Governments could get heavy handed at times, and even the fledgling state of Mexico could kick ass on a one-hundred foot whaler if Gantell stuck his nose too far eastward. So they took an outside track and hoped that the whales might do the same. When the fog rolled in, it meant limp sails, but they were in a strong current that carried them further east than they would have liked.

 The Bull Head displaced two-hundred and forty tons empty, and riding a four knot current it had the makings of a pretty fair battering ram. There was only one prospective target; a sixty foot yacht anchored on a shoal awaiting a morning rendezvous. In all that water, the odds of colliding were a million to one, but there was one man who didn’t pay a lot of attention to odds. His theory had always been that when the higher powers want you dead, you’ll get it even if you have to choke on a piece of meat.

 Time was almost up for some nearby lives. William felt it like a subtle change in air pressure. As always he regretted the fact that he would not be among the chosen, but at least he had been spared a sadistic submersion with the anchor. No doubt it had crossed more than one sadistic mind, but it was decided to keep the scar faced man hanging against the hull, in a fog that only heightened the apprehensions of hanging man.

When the whaling ship materialized, it was more intimidating than any whale’s jaw or engine of war. The prow seemed to be aimed right at him. With almost comic desperation, the warrior twisted so that his left side was presented to the oncoming threat. The tactic was a bit less than what was called for, but William presented the monster crusher with a narrow target just the same. Whether it was the hammer or the anvil, in either case, the prow made contact behind the frightened man. The impact shook the very teeth in William’s mouth. Then the giant ax like ram penetrated lighter wood, and the curve of the whaler’s bow took the space meant for a puny little man’s form.

 Tons of force shoved against William’s back, but the torso could only give until the restraining ropes reached their limit. Both wrists snapped in the blink of an eye and it was just a fluke that the prisoner didn’t end up with a pair of bloody stumps. William marveled at the fact that he was able to take the pain without screaming, but then it occurred to him that he had been hanging for so long, that the lack of blood circulation had acted as a kind of anesthetic.

 In any case, when the whalers ran forward to assess the situation, they found a man hanging in the cleft between the two joined vessels. There was a second helping of astonishment passed all around when it was discovered that the man was bound to the side of the smaller ship. Gantell shoved the spectacle to the back of his mind and addressed the all important issue of his ship.

 “Hull integrity, Mr. Johann!” shouted the captain.

 “Pissing crack, sir---but we’ll want it properly sealed before we take to The Horn,” reported the ship’s carpenter.

 “I’ll be speaking to the master of this wash tub next!” Gantell then bellowed down to a group of maritime thugs.

 “That would be me,” Chumo responded without yelling. “Permission to come aboard?”

 “With alacrity, sir! Since you appear to have the youth for it.”

Chumo climbed up the side of the whaler’s forepeak as if he had been doing it all of his life.

 “On my word, sir, I thought I was far enough west of the shipping lane to station the vessel as it is. It was my intention to meet another ship here in the morning. Now I fear I must make a run for the coast so that the yacht will not be lost all together.”

 “It is my opinion that you will not make it to shore, sir. Best have your open boat ready for use if you’ve a mind to proceed after my warning.”

 The yacht master pretended to mull the thing over for a bit.

 “May I have your name, sir?”

 “It is Gantell, and this is the whaler Bullhead.”

 “Well, Captain Gantell, I feel obligated to try for the coast. Will you now prove yourself a Christian gentleman by forgiving my blunder and allowing me to transfer some valuables of mine onto your ship for safekeeping?”

 “I will show you more Christian charity than you have shown that poor unfortunate who still hangs where you placed him,” said Gantell as he pointed to the figure not far below.

 “That man murdered a watchman and attempted to make off with the valuables that I will now entrust to you. I will have him placed in my cabin if the sight offends you, sir, but I consider his fate, and the fate of the yacht to be intertwined.”

 “You are a hard man, as well as a reckless seaman, but we need not dwell on such things while your hold fills with water. I shall caulk and await the coming of day. Then I will make for the coast and see how you have fared,” pledged the whaler.

 That was all Chumo needed to hear. He went back to the yacht and gave instructions that were loud enough for the whalers to hear. The prisoner’s lethargic yet animated form was hauled up on deck, and two large chests were taken from the yacht’s deck house and brought aboard the whaler.

 One of the survivors of the last great battle between man and beast squinted in the semi-darkness as a lantern was passed over the deformed wrists of the supposed murderer.

 “Lord, but that fella is the spitting image of William Longpenance.”

 Another sailor stepped up to the rail and stared at the men on the lower deck. But by that time the prisoner had been turned so that his face was no longer visible from their vantage point.

 “Lantern light tricks your eyes, Mate. Longpenance is shark shit on the ocean floor by now.”

 The first whaler ignored the comment and approached one of the mercenary sailors who didn’t look too happy at the prospect of returning to a sinking ship.

 “S’cuse me Mate, but did you happen to catch the name of that there murderer you got in custody?”

 “Boss called him troublemaker, but that ain’t none of my concern---or yours,”  growled the sea bully.

 Chumo returned in a long seal skin coat that got every man frowning.

 “Captain Gantell, these two chests contain a fortune in gold dust. That is what our murder-thief was after. Guard it well for me and you shall receive two per cent when we reach the next port.”

 “What of this other ship you mentioned? You said you were to rendezvous in the morning.”

 “Indeed. Gun runners; not the most trustworthy sort. Bear that in mind if you are hailed by this

 “Why are you buying guns?” Gantell asked bluntly.

 “So that I can ship more gold with some measure of security. By chance, are there any firearms on board this vessel?”

 “My pistol and a shark rifle, but I will not use them to defend your property,” stated Gantell.

 “There is never any harm in asking,” replied Chumo.

 A pair of revolvers suddenly appeared in the weak lantern light. Bursts of bright light accompanied man made thunder as the pair of Colts proceeded to cut down every whaler who wasn’t below decks. Then came the grim task of going below with a third revolver to ferret out the cook who died with a meat cleaver in his hand. Then Chumo returned to where Gantell was breathing heavily in a pool of his own blood.

 “Real sorry, Gray beard, but would you feel any better getting it in a hurricane?”

 Gantell tried to deliver a mocking response, but there was too much blood oozing into his windpipe.

 “Yes, I know---I seem like the devil himself right now. But I didn’t cause the ships to collide did I? Pass on in peace, Captain.”

 With that said, gunman placed a final shot in the middle of Gantell’s forehead.

Chapter 39

 Half an hour later everything was set. The bodies were in the yacht’s deck house, and the prisoner with the broken wrists had been transferred there as well. Took and the others were a bit surprised when their boss showed up with a stout pair of manacles and secured Casca to a main support beam that was as big around as a man’s waist.

 “With them broken wrists, that poor sod couldn’t free himself from seaweed,” joked Buck.

 “That is not your concern,” said Chumo as he fitted the manacles just behind the restraining hemp. Know that a fuse has been lit. There will be an explosion in less than five minutes so I recommend that you all return to the whaler.”

 The bully boys didn’t need to hear the order twice. Chumo was alone with his prisoners in a heartbeat.

 “Some say drowning is a bad way to go. Others say it isn’t. You can let me know when we meet in hell, Troublemaker.”

 “You’re just sore because you had to bail out of California. That meant hiring as many transport ships as you could muster. So now the Mexican government is wondering where all those ships will be heading. I guess that means that you didn’t buy a big enough piece of their admiralty or some such thing.”

 Chumo gave a shrug. If he was angry with the prisoner he showed no sign of it.

 “Life has its fortunes, good and bad. In the end, these games that we play don’t really matter. I suppose it just gives us something to do as we grow old.”

 “Uh, I don’t mean to change the subject,” put in the other prisoner, “but don’t you still need a hostage?”

 “Why would whalers need a hostage?”

 With a parting smirk Chumo vanished into the foggy night. A moment later the scar faced prisoner lifted a foot that was only half booted.

 “You gotta catch this boot when I flip it over to you. Inside is a razor hidden within a fold of leather.”

 “You gotta launch on target,” responded Druey. “I’ll follow that miracle somehow.”

 William actually grinned.

 “Alright sonny boy---here comes your life.”

 The heavy leather projectile had to be launched with enough force to clear the owner’s foot and fly the necessary arch to meet with ten fingers that could only clap together like the jaws of a Venus Fly Trap. William gave the fellow prisoner a perfect toss, and that is what made it work.

 “God must like you,” muttered Druey as he worked his fingers into the boot.

 “No, but it’s entirely possible that he likes you, or maybe your girlfriend.”

 The young man’s smile disappeared after a bit and was replaced with a look of frustration.

 “I can’t find it. Why did you have to hide it so well?”

 “Because boots get searched for weapons, that’s why,” growled William. “Now pry under the right side of the sole or we’ll be here forever.”

 Suddenly there was an explosion, and Druey came uncomfortably close to dropping the boot.

 “Forever, Lad,” stressed the other prisoner.

 Druey finally got the flat piece of steel out and awkwardly started to saw with it.

 “A handle would make this easier.”

 “Have you already forgotten what I said about boots being searched?”

 The young man ignored the rebuke and in time managed to saw through rope that could secure a harpoon. Then he briefly examined the thickness of William’s chains before turning toward the cabin door.

 “What I need is an ax. Gotta be one around here someplace. I’ll get a light and then search for one.”

 William nodded silently why noting that the ship was already beginning to tilt forward. By the time Druey returned William was standing in hip deep water.

 “No ax and no metal smith tools. Not above water anyway. But I did find this tomahawk. Maybe the owner of this bucket used to be an Injun fighter. Anyway, it’s gunna hurt like hell when I hit them bracelets.”

 “Gunna hurt more if you miss.”

 Druey nodded and gave it his best shot. The man in the jewelry growled holding down the pain.

 “Sorry,” said the younger man.

 “I’m not. That cut was dead on.”

 “Now I’ll have to do the other side. Metal is too strong to bend.”

 “Yea---go for it.”

 Druey let fly with another surgical strike.

 “Uh----reminds me of the nuns in school slapping my wrists with a stick.”

 “Did they draw as much blood?” asked Druey while he prepared to go after the other wrist.

 “I was just----putting you at ease.”

 “Ain’t happened yet,” said the lad as he chopped down for the third time.

 “Uh---shit---hey---you know what? I think----you could do this sort of thing for a living. Help surgeons with amputations.”

 “Now is not the time to bring that up,” grimaced Druey before launching his last try.

 Not surprising, the fourth chop was less accurate and blood spurted over Druey’s face. William sank to the deck, bringing the water up to his neck.

 “Stay awake!” shouted Druey.

 “Yea---sure,” mumbled the older man.

 Druey stripped off his shirt and ripped it into bandages. He didn’t believe for one second that he could stop the flow of blood, but he had nothing better to do than try.

 “We wait for the water level to come up. Then we grab hold of the mainmast. We’re on a shoal. I think the mast will clear the surface.”

 “Wrists never healed you know,” muttered William with his head swaying drunkenly.

 “I’ll hold you up. We’ll get through this.”

 “You get through this. I’ll watch---“

 The older man sank below the water but was promptly pulled back up. Somehow the two men floated to the upper most section of the mainmast and remained there until the break of day. Druey had several good reasons for letting go of William but he didn’t. Maybe it was because he was a good man. Maybe it was because he couldn’t stand the idea of being alone in the water with the sharks cruising all around.

 It didn’t matter. He hung tight to the mast and his companion as well. Now the sharks were easier to see, and so was a fishing boat that dropped out of a rising sun.

 “I’m going to get through this,” he wept to himself. “I’m going to get back to Florida and make things alright.”

 Two days later William woke up in the closest thing they had to a hospital in San Diego; the house of the fisherman who had sailed to the rescue of two men clutching at their last straw in life. Of course the crisis did not end at the shoreline for William Longpenance. The loss of both hands seemed an almost certainty, even when a highly educated priest was brought down from a northern port. That man was Father Jose de Real, who re-splinted William’s wrists and vowed to remain with him come what may. For several months the convalescence was more like a death watch, but in time everyone in the village came to realize that God was paying attention to their little coastal community. When this was certain enough, de Real decided to explore some possibilities with his new friend.

 “So---in another month or two, you should be able to cut your own meat. Then you should ask yourself what comes after that.”

 “It doesn’t have to be bathing. I’ve grown accustomed to having the women do that,” replied William.

 “Yes, well sadly, I must change the subject. I just received a letter from my superiors, appraising them of the situation. They would like to employ you as a special operative. Um---under my direction if you would not find that all too objectionable.”

 “To do what?” the man asked with an uneasy feeling.

 “Well---The Company  was given three opportunities for great wealth. One was foiled---one is in the process of being foiled---but one remains fairly intact.”

 “So where is the third?”

 “In the Colorado mountain area.”

 “Sounds like a long ride for the United States Army, but I’m sure they would be up to it,” said William.

 “An army would be seen coming. The cockroaches would be long gone before the exterminator could arrive. I need to go there and identify key operatives we believe are at work there. But I need the chosen one to be with me.”

 “What the hell did you just call me?”

 The priest looked embarrassed, but he had been rehearsing for this conversation nearly three days now.

 “William, you should have lost your hands. Your recovery is for all intents and purposes an miracle. Then there is the not so small matter of how you almost single handedly out did a very dangerous criminal organization that has avoided law enforcement agencies for many years.”

 “I still don’t get your point, Priest.”

 “My point William is that what you did is impossible.”

 The patient’s gazed remained blank for three more seconds and then suddenly the lights came on.

 “You can’t be serious. You think I can go another round with those jokers because---I’m under the protection of---you know who?”

 “William, this is not my forte, but---“

 “It ain’t mine neither. I’m taking Druey back to Florida, collect my reward and then live in the Keys until I run out of money. Then I’ll get a job fighting ordinary people. Not Company men.”

 “Yes, you rest up in Florida, and I will go ahead and see what I can learn with the help of people that have already been planted in the area.”

 “You’re the one who should be resting. Back in sunny Italy, not cold and windy Colorado.”

 “I was dealing with The Company long before we met. This business is not new to me.”

 “And it’s not going to be my business any longer,” William stated emphatically. “So don’t get captured again because I won’t be coming after you. Maybe some other miracle warrior, but not me. So help me---you know who.”

Chapter 40

The bounty hunter turned over his so called prisoner to the local constabulary who had been told to have the reward money ready. Jonas would be alright after serving a bit of time in the dog house as it were. The transition from silver tongued scoundrel to respectable gentleman would take a few months at least. That time would go slowly for Druey, who would need to kowtow to his sour puss future father-in-law, quite possibly for the rest of his life. William put all that behind him without effort and was lying on a sandy white beach when a shadow made it plain that he was no longer alone on the secluded shoreline.

 “William Longpenance?”

 The naked man opened one eye and stared up at a fellow who looked like he belonged in an accounting house. Amazingly enough, the over dressed pop n jay wasn’t sweating, despite the tropical heat.

 “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to approach a naked man who obviously wants to be alone because he’s naked?”

 “Er, yes of course, but I am the bearer of urgent news. Father de Real has been abducted, and I have been directed to recruit you for the purpose of locating him.”

 The man in the sand mulled that over for an instant and then said, “Wait a second. Where would this man hunt begin, pray tell?”

 “I have been directed to provide transportation to Santa Fe. There you meet with the local constabulary who will provide escort to a local further north. A guide named Kit Carson will make contact with you and accompany you to---“

 “Colorado,” the sunbather put in.

 “Why yes.”

 “How the hell did he get into trouble so fast!?”  the naked man bellowed at the shoreline.

 The question was rhetorical so William didn’t care that the church agent could only stand there in the sand and shrug.

 “Boy this pisses me off. If I find out that the priest really wasn’t kidnapped---AGAIN---I am going to kick some ass, and I won’t care if the ass is wearing pants or one of those cassock things that they wear.”

 With that the naked man got to his feet and began marching back to his beach house with his contact man in tow.

Chapter 41

The rider looked to be somewhere between forty and sixty. He sat his mule with short legs and long arms that gave him an ape like strength which was useful in his work. He had a plain looking face that was bearded and not well acquainted with soap. He smelled most of the time, but that meant little to his customers, and nothing to his mules or the impoverished whores who aroused pity more than any other sensation.  His attire had some say about his past. He wore U.S. Army trousers of light blue wool with the drop front design. Above that was a white linen shirt that was stained from sweat and a floppy gray hat with a decorative Indian head band.

 Another bit of Indian finery was his boots. They were softer than riding boots but could still turn away the fangs of a rattler. A bit heavy on the fringe, but those thin strips of leather came in handy from time to time. He shaved during the hottest part of summer, but the salt and pepper beard came naturally with his highly mobile existence. He was on the Santa Fe more than eight months of the year, and not answerable to any full time night woman the rest of the year.

 While it was true that he was not much to look at, his voice was deep and almost poetic at times. His mother had endowed him with a better than average education, and that gave him a sense of style, despite the pock marks and black heads that covered his face.

 The freight hauler leaned slightly to his right and let go a medium squirt of Copenhagen worm killer. That amber was still falling when the heavy J. Murphy wagon passed the spot where the lead mule’s rider had let fly. One thing that separated muleskinners from most wagoneers was the practice of riding the steering mule. The lead animal was controlled with a single rein called a jerk line. One long pull would turn the mule left. A series of quick jerks would coax the animal to the right.

 But positively absolutely not now.

 The four mule rig was now in the Raton Pass, the most dangerous place to pull a wagon on the entire Cimmaron branch of the Santa Fe trail. The muleskinner had absolute confidence in the lead animal’s judgment, but the wagon contained three-thousand pounds of forging tools and the ledge on his right was unstable under those circumstances. The wagon master had gotten a fresh start on it just after sun up. At that time the mules would likely be game, and the man would clearly the read the body language of his four legged work mates.

 There were two kinds of grades in the pass: break wheel and break neck. For the next four miles the wagon would be crawling over the later type. The man stayed real focused on the earth around him until he caught the sound of a rifle shot that echoed through the pass. A few moments later a second report bounced off the sides of the mountains. There wasn’t much the man could do about it except roll on towards the mystery.

 The next mile was traveled in silence, and the muleskinner chose to believe that two men were out in the pass somewhere shooting at mountain goats or some such critter. That assumption fell flat when the wagon rounded a shallow turn and a proper view to the north was opened. About six-hundred yards ahead, at the very bottom of the pass, an Indian was prancing around on his spotted pony. It didn’t make much sense until the wagon master followed the Indian’s line of sight to a large boulder and what was behind it.

 The frontiersman was armed with two muzzle loading rifles and a pistol. Unbeknownst to the man on the high ground a Ute warrior lay dead about fifty yards from the shooter. The Ute on horse back was only armed with a bow and arrow and was taunting the rifle man from what he assumed was a safe distance. Also unbeknownst to the muleskinner, two other warriors were attempting to out flank the white man by crawling amongst the sagebrush on their bellies. The Ute on horse back did a fine job of holding the attention of both white men until the heavy wagon caused a rock to break loose from the cliff and bounce down to start a minor sand slide.

 William Lawrence Forrester swore a blue streak when he realized that he was now in the game. Ever so carefully, he dismounted and went back to the wagon where his Model 1849 Sharps rifle was resting. His old buckskin possibles bag was also with the weapon, containing cartridges made of specially rolled paper that contained a bullet at one end and a seventy grain charge of black powered in the remaining portion of the paper tube.

 “Stay still, Toby,” the man said to his lead mule.

 Then Forrester sat himself down close to edge of the cliff some fifty feet ahead of his mules and began to comb the bottom land through his rifle sights. It didn’t take him long to find the closer of the two warriors who were creeping forward with the self discipline that makes a master hunter. About three-hundred yards, but with a delightful downward angle and no wind. The frontiersman was surprised to discover his mouth was dry and his hands sweaty. He almost laughed at that. For the present he was in very little danger. No arrow would reach him and his position was highly defensible in any case. Still, he hated running into Utes under any circumstances.

 He drew a bead on his target and slowly squeezed the trigger while exhaling. He continued to aim at the target even as the push of recoil took him. The .44 caliber bullet exploded a piece of volcanic rock not four inches from the Indian’s left hip. That vexed the rifleman, but it set into motion a series of events that Forrester would never forget.

 The Indian sprang to his feet and sprinted towards his primary adversary. His position had been betrayed, but at least he could provoke a hastily aimed shot. The white man had been under a lot of pressure for a long time now. Under such circumstances men might poorly load their weapons or pull a trigger too early. In any case, a blood brother was on the other side of the White Eyes, and he would have a better chance for a good kill.

 The white man required a moment to deduce that the shooter up above was not trying for him. When the Ute warrior popped out of nowhere, the man with the muzzle loader only had to glance over the barrel to line up on the rapidly growing target. A cloud of white smoke flew out to engulf the charging warrior, and a .54 caliber round ball took the Ute full in the chest. His onward rush lasted two more steps before he crashed heavily onto his face.

 The white man turned to see what the Ute on horseback was doing now. Quite predictably he was galloping forward, but not at full speed because of the uneven ground. The third warrior was then discovered as he rose to sight above his arrow. In a flash the pistol was out with the hammer pre-cocked. Bullet and arrow were freed simultaneously, and while the lead projectile traveled at nine-hundred feet per second, both men seemed to stagger back in perfect unison.

 Now the Ute on the pony was close enough to take a shot, but he didn’t bother. A feathered shaft was protruding just to the right of the white man’s breast bone and between the ribs. A very lucky shot that would bring certain death. The Ute was grimly satisfied but quickly turned his attention to the sniper up on the high trail. The muleskinner was still sitting up there, no longer worried that he might hit a white man by accident.

 The Sharps discharged a second time and the Ute was knocked off his mount. The bullet smashed a rib, drilled through a lung and then created a huge exit wound all in the time it took the Ute to hit the ground. But he was not dead, nor was he inclined to peacefully wait for his spirit to join his brothers. Slowly, with grim deliberation, he crawled towards the enemy he could reach. He would take the man’s scalp and hold it until death took him. Hopefully, it would anger the coward up above with the far shooting rifle.

 The Muleskinner made no attempt to finish off the Ute. In fact, he returned to his team of mules mere seconds after separating the pony from its rider. As the warrior neared the corpse, he found it more and more difficult to breath. But he did reach his objective, and extended his knife arm after grabbing a fistful of brown hair. The small skinning knife bit into the flesh at the top of the dead man’s forehead. That triggered a response that startled the Ute, despite his experience in the field of man slaying.

 The white man’s right hand came up with the speed of a rattlesnake and grabbed hold of the Ute’s knife wrist. Then white man’s own knife drove up into the Indian’s throat. The Ute pitched forward, shoving the arrow even further through the white man’s body and into the ground. That is how Forrester found them, and then concluded that he was sole heir to what possessions lay about. First and foremost was the pair of Hawken rifles that the frontiersman had been fighting with. Both were .54 caliber and in above average condition. Then he remembered the pistol and went to collect that as well.

 With the valuables collected, Forrester checked the man’s vital signs one last time. He grimly noted that the clean shaven man had a scar that ran from eye to mouth. Whatever else might be speculated about the gent, this sure as hell wasn’t his first fight. But it was his last, and his story wouldn’t run well without a name. Forrester was a bit startled when the other white man opened his eyes and stared hard at the man bending over him.

 “I am sorry,” the muleskinner said with a slow and very deep voice. “I thought, you had gone under.”

 “Don’t bury me---and leave me one rifle,” croaked the man on the ground.

 Forrester’s eyes showed no emotion, just a natural honesty that was applied to every situation.

 “You will not live. Any gun left behind will fall to the Utes, if it does not rust first.”

 “Well----some men believe---in last requests. That is what---I am making now.”

 With that, the man closed his eyes again.

 Forrester bent down and checked again for a pulse. He found one, and it was unusually strong. Then he weighed all that he had seen and heard. He weighed the value of a second Hawken rifle. Even though it had been made obsolete by the breech loading Sharps, it was still worth more than the muleskinner could earn in a month. He could also trade it for an Indian woman, but sure as hell not a Ute. Grain for the mules, new boots, powder and ball. Even a simple man could make a long list of things desired but not yet in the hand.

 The semi-fallen Christian shrugged it all off as he gazed down at the man without a name. Fortunes could come and go on the frontier. A good horse could get stolen. A woman could come down with the pox. Not much stayed in your hand in a hard and pitiless world. There was but one grubstake; one possession in life that might see a man through to the end. Amongst men of good nature, there was the concept of fair and square dealings. In this case, to honor the terms of a bequeathing, even when made with a stranger.

 Forrester now had both a Hawken rifle and pistol. No snake at his feet or vulture over head would note the taking of a third gun, but the old man placed the other rifle on the dying man’s chest just the same. Then he noted that the spotted pony had wondered out of sight. It was just as well. Horses often insulted his mules in ways that only a muleskinner could detect, and he had grown intolerant to such things.

 The climb back up to his wagon added another layer of sweat and dust to his skin. He was now richer, but shots had been fired and that would prompt him to move with haste on a trail where recklessness could slide a ton of rock. Indeed, the Murphy wagon side slipped eight miles further down the trail, causing Forrester to wonder if he was being punished for sins of the day or for misdeeds perpetrated in safer locations. It mattered not. A broken axle is replaced with skill, not prayer.

 Fortunately, the wagon was well provisioned for woodworking on this occasion. There was an auger for boring holes, chisels, saws, bevels for setting angles, planes, and even a caliper for laying out arcs and circles. Forrester disdained the measuring equipment. His eyes would tell him when the axle was the right size. The problem was building material. There was some scrub pine growing further up the mountain slope, but he had never worked with anything that soft.

 Of course he could ride the lead mule to a place where better wood was available, but that would mean leaving the wagon unattended. After so much gunfire, that notion did not appeal to him. So he went up above and took himself a glorified Christmas tree. Then he cut his axle and heat treated the wood to make it harder. By the end of the second day, the axle was back in place. At first light he would limp on to Trinidad, and if he could manage it, he would get the Christmas tree axle off and replaced before anyone could see it.

 Forrester had been understandably skittish on the first day of his work. Every so often Toby’s nose would get hold of something and the muleskinner would reach for the Sharps. But a man can only be that way for so long. Sooner or later he has to make peace with his imagination. In time he has to develop an even tempered fatalism concerning the dangers that crawl, walk or fly around him. It has to happen sooner or later. And when it does, that is when the man hunting him will make his move.

 So it was with the second party of Utes. White Moon, Two Sticks, Broken Bone and Lone Dog scouted for other wagons and also made certain that no white eyes were on the south bound trail from Trinidad. Then they waited for the second night fall, knowing that the first night after a battle would be a sleepless one. Forrester was taken alive. In part because none of the men wanted the scalp of a lowly wagon rider, and in part because they wanted to ask him about the man who dies and lives again.

 The muleskinner’s tracks indicated that he had come upon the site of the last miracle, and therefore would have some knowledge of what took place. So the white eyes was bound with raw hide strips and questioned, since he was in fact well versed in the Ute –Shoshone languages. But the parley did not go well. When the Utes spoke of a man who dies and comes back to life, Forrester assumed that they were referring to some old legend that would have naught to do with white men traveling along established trade routes.

 The Indians for their part concluded that their prisoner was being defiant. Perhaps in an attempt to aid the man that the Utes were hunting. In any case, Forrester was judged to be a bad person, because he owned one of the new rifles that created an unfair advantage in battle. The Utes were certainly not the first American Indians to resent the martial ways of the white men. Every time American Indian warriors were permitted to purchase a firearm, it would come with the discovery that there were better weapons in the hands of the men with the long knives.

 But now there was a far greater power in the hands of the white eyes. A medicine that could even heal a pierced heart. The Utes had quickly learned that most white men had no knowledge of this medicine, but at least one man possessed the secret, and he had to be tracked down at any cost.

 “This is a bad plan,” grumbled Lone Dog as he labored with the hole.

 It is a good plan,” countered White Moon. “This man will not run away, and Mother Earth will decide his fate for us while we search for the man who dies and lives again.”

 “Yes, but digging is for women. Why do we not stake him out on the ground?”

 “If he is to die, his skull will be seen from the trail. That will frighten the white eyes. It will remind them that they are not all powerful. At least not yet.”

 Forrester understood more than half of what was being said, but he made no comments, because it all sounded like superstitious blather to him. All he could do was remain stoic as they prepared the hole, and then placed him into it with only his head above the rocky soil. In time the muleskinner actually fell asleep, and dreamt that the dying man with the Hawken rifles had walked into the Indian’s campsite.

 The four Utes sprang to their feet, three of them were surprised to discover that the strings of their war bows had been cut. Only White Moon carried a musket, but he had run out of ammunition two days ago. As for the prized breech loading rifle, it was now in the right hand of a scar faced man. A Hawken rifle was in the man’s left hand. Both rifle butts were resting on a narrow hip and both weapons were cocked. Forrester’s newly acquired Hawken rifle and pistol were without ammunition, and therefore of no immediate use to anyone. So the warriors drew their skinning knives and faced an apparition that was dimly illuminated by a dying fire.

 “I have already told you,” stated the apparition, “that I possess no great medicine. I have no gift for the Utes or anyone else. Allow me to travel in peace, or your people will lose more good men.”

 White Moon was the bravest of the four warriors, but even he found it difficult to move towards the mysterious figure who had come to them out of the night.

 “If there is no medicine, should we then believe that you are a god?”

 “No. Think rather that I am cursed. Shun me as you would a mad man, for I bring only death,” declared the apparition in a calm voice.

 “That is all you wish to say to us?”

 “One thing more: I would have the old man go free. You may have whatever is in his wagon, but I will ride north with this man, and I wish to be tormented no more.”

 “So it always is with the white eyes,” rumbled White Moon. “You want peace, but you need our game, our water, our grass, and the yellow metal that you kill each other for. You want peace, but the Utes cannot share what we have with so many travelers who will not give us gifts, and shoot at us because we do not look like them.”

 “You speak the truth,” admitted the man with the rifles, “but so do I. I will not suffer for the sins of fools who passed by here before me. Take the contents of the wagon and leave us.”

 “We have no use for the metal things in the wagon. We will take the mules and the remaining rifle and pistol .But you must return to our village and speak once more with Long Feather. It was he who sent us out to find you. If we do not return with you, we will be shamed.”

 “Would you be shamed to return with six horses instead of the mules, and say--- fifty pounds of Pemmican?” asked the rifleman.

 Pemmican was the highest quality beef jerky to be found anywhere. Unlike regular jerky, it wasn’t tough, and it was usually mixed with additional flavorings That and honey were two things that Indians just couldn’t get enough of.

 “Where will these things come from?” asked White Moon.

 “From a trading post at Trinidad.”

 After a pause White Moon said, “You and the wagon rider will be allowed to go north and get us our gifts. But when you leave the trading post with our gifts, you will then have to ride to the northeast. If you do not, Long Feather will send more braves after you.”

 “Alright, but we might need more than a day to get your gifts. All the while you are in the town you will be made to feel unwelcome. I will get you your gifts, but I will not fight for you if the white people challenge your right to be in the town.”

 White Moon spoke very quickly with his fellow braves. The scar faced man picked up bits and pieces of the exchange but was not overly concerned with the content of the conversation. One way or another, the rifleman would know what to do.

 “My brothers will remain on the trail outside of town. I will ride into town with you,” said White Moon. “If you dishonor yourself, my people will burn the white man’s village to the ground.”

 “That is fair,” said the rifleman. “I will return in the morning. Dig the muleskinner out now.”

 With that, the gunman backed away from the warriors until he could fade back onto the darkness.

 “He does not trust us,” Two Sticks observed dourly.

 “When a man is outnumbered as he is, it is no insult to move with caution,” replied White Moon.”

 “Yes, but if he did trust us, then he would have stayed and maybe helped to dig the old man out,” observed Lone Dog.

 The other warriors rolled their eyes at that. Without question, Lone Dog hated to shovel. It was fortunate indeed that his wife had a pair of big strong shoulders.

 An hour after dawn the mysterious gunman was riding a spotted pony along side Toby the mule. Forrester was dead tired from his lack of rest, but was happy to be alive and afire with curiosity concerning his scar faced benefactor.

 “I have yet to learn your name,” the man said while watching the Utes as they rode ahead of the wagon.

 “William Longpenance. But I ask that you use an old alias of mine: Case. I am being hunted.”

 “It is well, since I also am named William. William Forrester. I would have you know, that I am a man of conscience, and I regret leaving you for dead. It was a most understandable error, I believe. The shaft of an arrow appeared at the time, to be deeply imbedded in your chest. A prolonged look did not seem necessary, so you were mistaken for dead.”

 “I know what kind of man you are, Forrester. You’re a man who keeps his word, even to the dead. You should have taken every gun I had but you didn’t. Some would call you a fool, but I see you as a first rate traveling companion. I am also certain that you will help me keep my promise to White Moon. The agreement was, after all---as much for your benefit as mine.”

 “It is understood,” responded the muleskinner. Then after ten minutes of silence the wagon master asked, “Are you well acquainted with Long Feather?

 “I spent a couple of weeks in his village. He wanted me to marry up with his daughter, but that wouldn’t fit into my plans.”

 “To go back east?”

 “Eventually, but I gotta take care of some business up north before I can head home.”

 “Then you will need to supply heavily. The wild country has more ways to kill you than the lands of civilized men.”

Those words came back to Longpenance when their trail broke into the Purgatoire River Valley. To the west, there was a glorious view of the taller and more distant peaks of the Sangre de Cristo  mountain range, but in the center of the pocket valley, sat two dozen roughly constructed buildings that straddled a ribbon of mountain water. Volcanic rock dominated much of the rolling foot hill area, but a lone cottonwood tree had managed to grow large and strong on the south bank of the river. Something was hanging from one of the lower branches, and Longpenance had guessed what it was at first sight.

 When they finally neared the corpse they saw a parchment pinned to the dead man’s shirt that read: Traitor.

 The other Utes had parted with the wagon at the valley entrance, but White Moon was still riding ahead of the mules; hardly noticing the crudely made sign.

 “Hey White Moon, maybe you should stay back with your friends,” suggested Longpenance. “That piece of paper there says that Indians aren’t well thought of in this town.”

 “That place is there only because of the white man’s ax. We have bargained, Longpenance. Will you let those men at the trading post come between your word and mine?”

 “No, but your presence might make it more difficult for me to keep my end of the bargain. You would be helping me if you would stay with your friends.”

 “I will stay with the animals,” said the Ute.

 “That will not keep you out of harms way,” said Case. “But I guess the only thing to do is go see just how disgruntled they are with the local natives.”

 “I will have words with proprietor Simon McGregor. He is a long winded fellow, but he will cut to the chase when he sees our long haired companion,” said Forrester.

 Simon McGregor ran a combination general store and saloon. He even had a back room whore who was half Apache. Like most men of the land, he was not married, and had a face that made it seem quite natural. Of course the whore had to milk him from time to time, but she refused to do his laundry no matter how hard he beat her. Just as the muleskinner predicted, the merchant started jabbering as soon as he recognized the bi-annual visitor.

 “Your barrel of nails is in the wagon. Can you tell me how long it would take for you to round up six riding horses, and prepare fifty pounds of pemmican?” asked Forrester as soon as he could get a word in.

 “Maybe eh week. Maybe two,” calculated the merchant, who sensed that something was amiss and went to peer out the doorway.

 “Hey, what’s thet Ute doin in front of the store?”

 “Nothing, just like the man hanging from the tree,” said Case Longpenance. “I won’t stick my nose into that business if you don’t stick your nose into ours.”

 “Thet bastard was sellin new breech loaders to Tall Cloud an his band a cutthroats. He deserved every kick that come out of im b’fore he went still.”

 “Now it’s time fur yoo ta tell what yoor doin with heathen savages,” growled an earthier Scotsman who had three table mates with him.

 Case meandered over to the table of four and peered at the label of the bottle they had emptied.

 “Scotch. That is something that takes a bit of getting used to. Lucky thing frontier life has always been fortified by corn liquor. It tempers a man’s disposition. Makes him amiable, which is a good way to be in a public drinking establishment. Maybe you should switch to it.”

 The Scotsman struggled to his feet and came around the table. The newcomer looked bored and stayed that way even after the drunk threw four unsuccessful haymakers at the scar faced man’s jaw.

 “Hold still ye glaikit cuddie!”

  Case seemed to comply for a moment, then as the Scotsman cocked his fist for another try, Case’s foot snapped out like a cracking whip. The Scotsman bent over quickly with an injury that even a quarter bottle of whiskey couldn’t numb.

 “Well Angus, at least you finished your business with the harlot before getting your stones rearranged,” said a companion who was bleary eyed but non belligerent.

 “We’ll see how well he dances wih a pistol ball in his gizzard!” declared the Scotsman.

 The man at the table let out a sigh and said, “Burt---Harry, take Angus to the river and soak his pride for a bit. Oh, and don’t put him under the stiff. It’s bad luck.”

 The man giving the orders then gestured for Case to come and have a seat. The man looked like he could be half Indian himself. He had a wide mouth and deep set penetrating eyes. He was well dressed for a resident of the frontier, and sounded as if he had been raised back east. Most likely he employed someone to get into the dirt when such things were necessary.

 “Name’s Dick Wootton.”

 “Case Longpenance. The older gent is named Forrester. Indian’s name is White Moon.”

 “Hell I know both of them. Uh, pardon me for a second. Hey Will, when did you take up with White Moon? Don’t you go playin cards with him. I taught that savage everything he knows. You’ll loose your mules and your drawers.”

 Without a smile, the muleskinner turned his back on the table and tried to conduct quick business with McGregor. But Forrester was slow when it came to palavering and McGregor had a bad habit of interrupting, so the two left Case and Wootton to themselves for quite a while.

  I’m trying to get a ranch established,” said Wootton, “ but the damn Army keeps forgetting that I’m not with them anymore. I sort of get engaged as a temporary scout and when I get back half my critters are gone. Damn Utes pretty much help themselves. So I come in here to console myself, and of course it just ain’t natural to drink alone in these parts.”

 “I’m just a little bit confused,” admitted the scar faced man. “You’re on bad terms with the Utes, but you get along with some of them?”

 The man grinned slightly and said, “Just getting started with New Mexican politics I’m guessing.”

 Case nodded slightly.

 “Barkeep, bring us a jug of Bust Head. I don’t want to drink the foreign stuff now that Angus is no longer with me.”

 “That reminds me: I hope that man doesn’t owe you any money,” said Case. “I might have to kill him if he is the sort that follows through with his threats.”

 “I’ll talk him out of it,” Wootton promised with a smile. “But as a matter of fact, White Moon is far more likely to put you under than Angus. Will you take offense if I ask what you’re doing with that Ute?”

 “As long as you’re buying the drinks, you’re my best friend in the whole world and there are no secrets between us,” Case joked with a straight face. “Forrester and I owe the gentleman six horses and some meat. As soon as we pay him off, I’ll be moving on.”

 “To where?”

 “To the northeast until I’m clear of the locals. I don’t want to see anymore Utes after my business with White Moon is concluded.”

 “Is that so? Well, speaking for myself, the Utes are not so very hard to deal with. You just need to employ a bit of common sense.”

 “Is that why that man is hanging out there from a tree---cause he showed a terminal lack of common sense?”

 “In a manner of speaking,” responded Wootton. “On the frontier, you don’t do anything that will make an Indian tribe more dangerous. Breech loading rifles would certainly do that.”

 “Yea, then they’d be able to hold on to their land. Wouldn’t want that, would we,” muttered Case.

 “They’d be able to hold on to it until the Army brought in their cannon. In the meantime, we would have to keep our heads down. In these parts, it’s not a question of right or wrong, it’s a question of what works and what does not.”

 “Yea, and that kind of thinking has kept me employed more often than not.”

 “As a soldier? You have the look of one.”

 “My last hitch was in the Marines during the war,” Case stated carefully, “but I’m done with uniforms and the like.”

 “I’ll drink to that,” the other man declared.

 “Course---I haven’t turned into any kind of pacifist. If you knew of any outlaws that needed proper disposing of, I could be talked into locking horns with them for a reasonable fee.”

 “Bounty hunting in these parts? Best you put such foolish thoughts aside. If you kill a man that’s got paper on him, one of his friends will do for you. If you kill him out in open country, the sound of your rifle will bring the Indians. Either way you die.”

 “Well, I don’t see meeting up with Indians as an automatic death sentence. As you can see, I know when to talk to men, and when to apply sixty grains of Du Pont man killer.”

 “I would venture to guess that you do not have a bigoted bone in your entire body. That will serve you well---provided you are not burned alive or scalped. I drink to your health, sir.”

 Case grinned at the joke: A man can survive with frontier wisdom, but only until his number comes up. Case politely accepted two more shots of paint remover, then excused himself and went outside to find Forrester scowling at a couple of men some twenty feet away.

 “Hey Muleskinner, I thought I saw a squirrel stick his head out of a hole in that axle of yours!”

 The two men laughed uproariously at their home spun humor, and Forrester was grateful for an excuse to turn his back on them.

 “I will be working on my wagon at the smithy for the next day or so. McGregor is getting the horses cut out now, but our order of pemmican is unusually large. An extra woman will be needed to prepare that much meat.”

 “Whatever. Who handles the laundry around here? I got some clothes that could stand up by themselves.”

 “An we be close enough down wind ta notice!” shouted the same frontier jester.

 The two men stopped laughing as soon as Case started towards them. They were a typical pair of mangeur de lards; good for heavy lifting but not much head work. Case stepped up to the bigger of the two and gazed into his dark brown eyes.

 “You gents do laundry?”

 “Shee-oot! Do we look like squaws ta you?” the man asked incredulously.

 Case responded to the rhetorical question with a trip hammer punch that came out of nowhere. Then he looked down at the sprawled out jokester with an expression that was blank as could be.

 “No. You don’t look like a squaw. Not even after a few rounds of Bust Head. I was just wondering if you gents did laundry, and you kind of disappointed me.”

 The small of the pair drew a razor from his boot and flicked it open.

 “Wanna try a sneak punch on me?”

 Case’s expression remained deadpan. Vacant. An unspoken assessment of the pair’s ability to inspire fear.

 “A razor is a deadly weapon, but you can’t throw it.”

 Case drew out his blade; the creation of one Jesse Clifft. It possessed a straight back and lacked the sloped point of a classic Bowie blade, but was the same approximate size and featured a more balanced handle. Not quite as beautiful as James Black’s now legendary knife, but a well designed piece of steel non the less.

 Case launched it underhand; a form of attack that few men would ever expect. The knife skewered the laborer’s floppy hat and neatly pinned it to a tree that the man had been leaning against.

 “God almighty,” breathed the man on the ground.

 “Leave him out of it,” responded the scar faced man with a hint of displeasure.

 The man with the razor turned in bewilderment and then gawked at how his hat had been hung up.

 “Well if that don’t beat all,” he muttered.

 “Since you’re closer, would you mind handing it back to me?” asked Case.

 The man swallowed his pride and did as he was requested. The razor went back into its boot sheath where it would stay for a while.

 “Er—I think you’ll be wanting to meet up with Deer Hair. She does the laundry,” explained the man with the damaged hat. You’ll find her about two-hundred yards off that a way. She’s making a batch of lye.”

 “At this time of the year?” queried Case.

 “Sheep grease suddenly got plentiful. Wootton got hisself a whole passel of em and kilt the sickly ones the other day. No Injun ever passed up a chance fer lard.”

 “I’m obliged,” said Case as he walked away from the two men.

 “Truth to tell, Mister, I’m plumb tickled to know a man who kin throw like you. Damnedest thing I ever saw!”

 “Oh that wasn’t a good throw!” Case shouted back. “I was aiming for your chest!”

 Forrester placed his hand over his mouth to hide his look of amusement. That was an old joke on the frontier. First time he heard it was at the Green River rendezvous back in 39. Was that the meet where Bob Fletcher got killed in a rifle duel? He could not recall. There were sixteen such annual events and everyone of them involved long drinking sprees.

 “Fine display, Mr. Longpenance,” said the muleskinner when they were reunited en route to the smithy. “Bowie himself would have taken his hat off it you.”

 “If you say so. What about that Wootton gent. Is he a reliable source of information?”

 “Uncle Dick? Oh that is for certain. He is a hiveranno among mountain men.”

 “You mean a champion.”

 “Yup. Not as well known as Bridger but I would judge our man the more generous.”

 “Yea but what’s he like outside of a tavern?”

 “Well sir, in his day he was part of a nineteen man party that covered five-thousand miles out of Bent’s Fort. Then took up ranching and drove his herd from El Pueblo to Kansas City. Never lost out to Injuns because he parleys better than any man alive. What is important is the fact that he has always bothered to do so. It is sad that so many white men do their talking with their rifles.”

 “Beats getting scalped.”

 “If a man is too frightened of Indians to palaver, then he should not travel this land,” responded Forrester.

 “There’s some truth to that, but I will remind you that we did some talking with our rifles a while back, and it was the only language that was understood at the time.”

 “I must take your word for that sir. I could not determine the particulars of the killing, and you sir, are still more difficult to read than any tracks I have ever come across.”

 “Oh yea? Well---your brand of English gives me a headache. Anyway, I’m gunna go palaver with an Injun right now. Hope she’s good with needle and thread.”

 “You won’t find a woman west of the Mississippi who is not. Even the whores can work cloth, but a squaw can work anything.”

 Case barely nodded at this boring piece of knowledge. In fact, he was growing more and more tired of everything in this country. He was used to battlefields and the energy of thousands of men rolling over the land with heavy weapons and provision trains that were miles long. Could hunting bands of men in the wilderness ever measure up to that?

 Not very likely----and only the Mexicans provided hope that a large scale conflict might materialize in this melting pot called America.

 Yes, Case was getting bored, but when he broke through a wall of cottonwoods he beheld something that provided a new piece of flint. The woman was bent over at the waist and low cut neckline was pointed straight at the cottonwoods. The woman parted the long hair that had fallen in front of her face and peered suspiciously at the newcomer; not bothering to straighten up.

 “Whatever it is, the answer is no,” she stated in the way of a greeting.

 She looked to be half Ute and half Voyageur. A big strapping lass of five foot nine with good stuff sticking out all over the place. Case noted that she was making lye soap and regretted the fact that he hadn’t been available to carry water for her during the set up.

 Making soap was a pretty simple operation. All you needed to do was get a large container of white ash from a hardwood fire. Add boiling water to it and have a drain hole near the bottom of the container. The water that would slowly leak out would be caught in a second container. In time that water would be mixed with animal fat. The pudding like substance would dry out and harden into precut bars that could be used for many things.

 Many people claimed that lye soap could not only wash clothes clean, but also work as a lubricant and keep bugs away. Case never had a problem with bugs, but he had often sympathized with people who did. Anyway, making soap was just one of many things that a woman had to do everywhere in the world. It was part of living.

 “Forrester brought about twenty pounds of soap in with him. I could get you ten pounds of it if you’d be willing to do my laundry.”

 Her heavy breasts rose and fell with a sigh of resignation.

 “Oh alright, but I’ll be weighing that soap at McGregor’s, just so you know.”

 Case grinned at the woman’s cynical nature, but was also impressed with her command of the English language. This woman was worth impressing, and Case knew just how to go about that.

 “What is your name?” he asked in the Ute language.

 The woman hesitated for a moment and then answered, “Poo-urb.”

 “Deer Skin?” Case ventured in English.

 “No. Deer Hair. Not skin---hair.”

 “Beg pardon. Would you mind if I called you Poo?”

 “Why, don’t you like my full name?”

 “No Ma’am, its not that, its just that I think Poo is kind of sweet sounding. Don’t you?”

 The woman picked up a nearby knife and threw it slightly off to Case’s left. It stuck in one of the cottonwoods behind him.

 “There is nothing sweet about me, Mister. Best you be clear on that straight away.”

 The greatest knife thrower in the world was briefly tempted to go the woman one better but quickly decided against it. Instead, he wisely pushed his linguistic abilities for all they were worth.

 “I do not think that you are from the Ute village. Where do you come from?” Case asked in Ute.

 “My father was French, my mother was sold to him just outside of Santa Fe. I had a good life before they died, but now I’m in this shithole with bucks trying their luck every time I bend over to pick up something.”

 “Well you could try covering yourself up better,” Case suggested. “After I’m gone that is.”

 “I suppose I should know your name,” the woman muttered while retrieving her knife.

 “Case Longpenance. I was in the war with Mexico. Then I went north and got myself captured by Long Feather’s people. They buried me up to my neck at the edge of the village. I guess you could say that I impressed them with my fortitude, cause they dug me up and made me a member of the tribe. But then they got some crazy ideas about me so I decided to clear out before they could hitch me to one of their women.”

 “That is a good story, but it does not please me as much as the promise of soap. Let us go get it now. Then perhaps I will wash you long johns, if the men around us do not put me in a foul mood.”

 “They won’t,” promised Case, who had forgotten all about Angus. Sadly, it was a lapse of memory that was completely one sided.

Case and Poo entered McGregor’s only to find it occupied by the entire population of the trading community. Twenty-seven souls including the whore. White Moon was still outside where he had suffered more than a few insults by those who had followed Angus into the town’s main place of business.

 On a table in front of the Scotsman, was a fancy carrying case that lay open. It displayed a matched pair of flint lock dueling pistols. Case took one look at the weapons and immediately comprehended what the gathering was about.

 “Go weight your soap,” muttered Case before leaving the woman and stepping over to where the dueling kit awaited him.

 “Choose yer weapon,” the Scotsman ordered in a heavy tone.

 With a sigh the scar faced man picked up one of the pistols and checked under the frizzen. The priming pan contained just the right amount of powder. The gun was a mere .40 caliber in bore size and the barrel was only five inches long. Not the most serious man killing device, but for dueling, it made perfect sense. Dueling wasn’t really about killing so much as it was about the preservation of honor.

 “Nice pieces. When and where were they made?”

 “James Freeman of London. 1776.”

 The Scotsman’s voice was a mixture of pride and scorn. He picked up the remaining pistol and walked casually out into a dying day. Case followed him along with most of the others. Angus picked his spot and held his weapon with the barrel pointing straight up. The witnesses fell behind Case, allowing him to proceed alone well beyond the hitching post.

 “Choose yer distance. I care naught fer any back to back nonsense.”

 Case nodded his approval and took a position some twenty-five paces from the Scotsman.

 “Since you be the challenged, yew have ma leave to make the first move,” declared the Scotsman.

 “I thought they only did this shit in New Orleans,” mused Case as he brought his pistol barrel down to a horizontal firing position.

 Angus’ shooting arm rushed to match his opponent’s. A sweaty thumb pressed hard on the top jaw screw, which made up the top of the hammer assembly. The hammer was drawn from half cock to full. The trigger then released the hammer, allowing a piece of flint to strike the frizzen. The frizzen had two functions: First, it caught the flint, causing sparks to travel down along it’s length to the flash pan. Second, it provided a protective cover for the flash pan until the precise moment the spark needed to meet with the powder.

 Ignition within the flash pan would cause a flame to travel through a tiny hole in the side of the barrel, igniting the main charge that would launch a ball of lead. Very often this series of events made up the last instant a man would spend upon this Earth, and it was an instant that left a man oblivious to all that was around him.

 “Take that ye dossinit bamstick ye!” Angus shouted in triumph when his pistol discharged.

 The round ball slapped against Case’s buckskin shirt and caused the man to stagger back a pace. But he maintained control over his weapon and the hammer remained cocked. He gazed down at the hole in his left shoulder and frowned, more from embarrassment than pain.

 “I thought you’d miss me.”

 “An I dinna think yew’d stand on the other side of the valley,” Angus responded with contempt.

 Case pointed his weapon at the middle of the Scotsman’s forehead. Angus didn’t flinch. He knew the men around him would remember that, and it was important to him. All things considered, it was all the man had left.

 Then in the blink of an eye Case’s pistol dropped and the Scotsman’s feet were enveloped in white smoke.

 “By the blood a Christ!” Angus shouted.

 “Leave him out of it,” mumbled Case as he threw the pistol to McGregor and walked away from his vanquished foe.

 Angus lowered himself to the ground and pulled off his boot with an effort. He was more than a little dismayed to find that his right big toe had been obliterated, but in truth, he was hardly in a position to complain. His worthy adversary trudged heavily up to William Forrester and spoke to the muleskinner amidst a chorus of laughter.

 “How long before we can leave town?”

 “I hope to journey on the morrow, but you sir, require surgery and many days rest. I have been informed that the whore is a passable nurse. What is more, there are no comforts for an ailing man between here and Bent’s Fort.”

  “I got word that William Bent blew the fort up. Heard he was pissed off cause business slacked off.”

 “Yup, but there is still enough shelter there for the occasional traveler. He is in the progress of building a new fort some thirty miles further down the Arkansas River, but I do not know how large it will be upon completion.”

 “You just get that meat prepared and pick me a horse that’s easy on bullet wounds. I’m gunna camp with White Moon and his friends until you hit the trail.”

 “Will you ask again, not to be buried?” quipped the muleskinner.”By this time tomorrow you will likely come down with the shakes.”

 “Maybe, but if I go down with a bad fever here in town, what do you think is gunna happen to White Moon? My guess is that them friends of Angus will do more than just throw insults at him. Then the other Utes will rush back to their village and organize a very large war party. Like I told Wootton: I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”

 While waiting for his mount, Case sat with his wound in the relative comfort of McGregor’s store. The proprietor suggested several times that Case retire to the whore’s room, so that she could address his needs. Case was pretty sure the Scotsman was referring to his customer’s medical needs, but that didn’t sound like a good idea to Case. He had met up with a ponderous number of prostitutes in his lifetime, but he had trusted very few of them with his physical safety.

 When his horse was ready, he downed his last drink and went out to take custody of his nag. In truth he never learned to enjoy equestrianism. Horses didn’t seem to like him, and that was just one more reminder that he wasn’t an ordinary man. But very often he would find himself in the midst of a horse culture. At such times, he was forced to live by that old axiom, when in Rome, do as the Roman’s do.

 Of course, that was a whole lot easier to do back in the good old days.

 Case got halfway to his plug when a familiar form came limping towards him from a log cabin.

  “Think ye kin wash yer hands of me thet easy? I’m good fer another round, an this time we’ll spill enough blood ta paint a barn.”

 Angus looked almost comical with his foot heavily mummified with red soaked cloth. But he had a common sailor’s cutlass in each fist, and his heavy limp in no way displayed him as a harmless man. Before Case could say a word one of the short heavy slashing swords was tossed hilt first at the scar faced man.

 “This is foolishness. Both of you are sorely injured and should put this contest until you are mended,” said Forrester.

 “I’ll not breath another day under the same sky as this arse jockey!”

 With that the Scotsman came at his adversary with red faced determination.

 Case was certainly not pleased to see Angus again, but as opponents go, the Scotsman had to be considered something of a luxury. He was always handicapped, and had a splendid habit of choosing weapons that Case was very familiar with. Certainly the short bladed cutlass was something that Case could put to good use, even with a bad left shoulder. So the duel was resumed between soldier and simpleton, and Case gave the locals time to gather around for the second time.

 Since Angus’ footwork was pathetic, and since Case had the most educated fencing eye in the world, the sword fight soon turned into an aerobic contest that pitted the Scotsman against his own bull headedness. Case gave the townspeople a bit of a show, but the nagging pain in his shoulder persuaded him not to set any martial record for longevity. When it became obvious that Angus was beginning to tire, Case gave the next parry a bit more of a side swat and then back fisted the Scotsman in the face with the short sword’s basket hilt.

 Then Case shifted back half a step and delivered a little reminder that Angus’ testicles needed rest, and protection..

 “I need to leave now,” Case said to the top of Angus’ head, “but I think you should stick around.”

 With that Case threw his cutlass down with all his might. The point of the blade drove all the way through the Scotsman’s good foot and into the earth. White Moon held the reins for Case and gave them up without comment or expression. The scar faced man climbed onto his horse with more effort than he had expended in the fight, and the horse twitched nervously like all the mounts he had ever climbed onto.

 “Let’s pay our debt quickly and find friendlier pastures,” Case said to Forrester.

 On that urging alone the muleskinner worked hard to replace his axle and load for the next leg of his journey. He had little room in his wagon for the kind of optimism that Case was holding, but he had not forgotten how he had given Longpenance up for dead not so long ago. There was something about the scar faced man that compelled a man to wait things out, and so that’s how the muleskinner played it.

 Halfway through the following day he was two miles out of the valley when he spotted an Indian style camp with a pair of well done critters spitted over a fire. Forrester got nervous when he closed on the camp and discovered that Longpenance wasn’t with the group. The Utes remained apart from their weapons and only had eyes for the six horses that were tethered behind the heavy wagon. Forrester pressed his hat down further over his head as if to better protect his hair. There sure as hell wasn’t any turning back at this point, and the memory of him being buried up to his neck was as clear as a mountain lake.

 White Moon was the first to approach the collection of horses and assess their worth.

 “Muskrat on the spit? Your pemmican would burn better in the meat bag, I’d wager.”

 “No. That and one horse will be payment for a woman.”

 “Skookum?”

  “Big chest. Strong teeth. Strong hands.”

 The muleskinner nodded with approval at such a sterling assessment.

 “You should show her off to Wootton when she is far along with child,” suggested Forrester.

 White Moon grunted in the affirmative while checking all the animals for flat teeth.

 “Er---I see that the scar faced one is not among you. He did not go under---did he?”

 White Moon shook his head, thus far pleased with his inspection.

 “He not go under. He make medicine for body hurt.”

 “All by his lonesome? I would think him touched, if I was not acquainted with his true state of mind.”

 The Indian ignored him, now completely focused on the task of packing his supply of meat and restringing his mounts for the ride back to the Ute village. Forrester was no great tracker, but even he couldn’t fail to notice the pressed down grass that told of a man trudging straight towards the foot hill woods on their side of the mountain pass. With his Sharps rifle in hand, he followed that trail, finding it preferable to the company of the Indians.

 Amongst the trees the sign diminished considerably, but since there was no advantage in turning right or left, the muleskinner opted to keep a straight course. Well within the trees he soon found Case Longpenance sitting with his back to a cottonwood. The man’s shirt was off, and his knife had just extracted a ball of lead from a surprisingly small incision.

 “You did not have to act as your own surgeon,” said Forrester. “But this is additional proof, sir, that you have the hair of the bear. Of that there is no doubt.”

 “I didn’t feel welcome in that trading town. Besides, I could tell that the ball wasn’t in that deep. The Scotsman must have loaded the pistols while drunk, which is probably how he does everything. Makes me wonder why the Irish get all the attention as the boozers.”

  “Well---our debt to White Moon has been settled. We are now free to proceed to Bent’s Fort.”

  “I suppose the deal ate up all of your wages for this run,” guessed Case.

 “In truth, I owe McGregor fifteen dollars besides, but I have no regrets. I am alive to continue my work, and the Utes will leave us be until more whites come to push against them. Someday I might have to travel this land under army escort---God forbid.”

 “What the white man is doing in the western world is nothing new, Forrester. I don’t blame the Indians for wanting to keep what is theirs, but what is happening to them is a kind of never ending story. I can’t think of a single populated place where borders have always held fast.”

 “The Indians understand this,” put in Forrester. “The Utes have only been here for the last two-hundred years. They came from mountains far to the west. But no invading Indian tribe has ever brought an end to another tribe’s way of life. Only the white man does that.”

 “Not this white man. I’m going to get out of Ute territory, then continue collecting the information I need for going north.”

 Both men were smiling at that when they came out of the woods and watched a war party of Utes ride up to Forrester’s wagon.

 “Oh shit,” breathed Case.

 “They could not have missed White Moon and the others on the trail. Perhaps they will demand tribute and then let us pass.”

 “I’ll try to arrange a deal like that for you, but I don’t think I’ll be getting off as easy.”

 Forrester noted that the lead rider of the war party was rather advanced in years for his position. Then the truth struck him.

 “Would that be Long Feather?”

 “Yup.”

 The mounted Indians wordlessly circled the two white men. Their painted faces were masks that conveyed the hardness of flint.

 “Maybe it is not too late to call the fellow Dad,” the muleskinner whispered under his floppy hat.

 One of the braves dismounted and bound the two white men with strips of rawhide. Then long tethers connected the prisoners to a pair of mounted warriors who would ride in the back of the war party formation. The white men were not cruelly treated. The horses were walked all the way back to the Ute village. But Case was not permitted to speak with Long Feather and that was not a good sign. Case had run out on a powerful host, and now he could only hope that their business would not be concluded with burning coals.

Chapter 42

The Ute village had been set up along the Purgatoire River, in a section of low land a few miles southwest of the Trinidad trading township. This placed the Utes up river from the traders, but since the whites were outnumbered ten to one and were not above doing business with the Utes, the traders just had to buck up and wait for the change of seasons.

 Case never came close to being that spoiled. Where he came from, whole armies washed, voided and even abused themselves up river from where a man might fill his water bag. If the good folks at Trinidad didn’t like the idea of a Ute woman washing her butt up river from them that was just too bad. Case and Forrester had darker concerns at the moment. Indian woman sometimes were allowed to play little jokes on the prisoners, like shoving a small fish up the man’s rear so that the fins would open up when you tried to remove it.

 But in this instance, the women only stared at the two prisoners, who were lodge poled in two separate tepees, with the front hide flap open so that the women’s curiosity could be sated. Both men were understandably anxious about their fates and no doubt would have seen their chief captive in a less ominous light had they known that he was soaking his piles in a specially made hide tub. The elderly Ute had much to say to Case, but first he had to make himself comfortable after such a long ride.

 When the chief finally arrived, it was in a manner that was very much to Case’s liking. A young woman entered the shelter ahead of the chief, carrying a bottle of honest to God Mexican Tequila. Case decided right then and there that he had been a dirty rotten scoundrel for skipping out on such a venerable old gentleman. With a sheepish grin, the woman pulled the cork from the bottle and enabled Case to take a good swig.

 “Well now---I sure am glad you aren’t holding a grudge against me, Long Feather. I realize that it was kind of an insult leaving you the way I did.”

 “Killing the men who were sent to bring you back, was a greater sin, Death Cheater.”

 Case didn’t care much for that name, but he had to admit that it suited him. The Eternal Mercenary never voluntarily surrendered his secret, but on those rare occasions when it slipped out, it gave him a chance to talk about the great riddle that was his existence. It was not something that he ever craved, but if it came with liquor and a well built woman……

 “Those men didn’t look like they were trying to capture me. They looked like they were bent of lifting my hair.”

 “That is not so, but I did tell them to wound you for the sake of capture. You have the heart of the bear that walks like a man. You are the greatest warrior that has ever walked the earth. That is why I thought my ears were playing tricks when White Moon said that you had bought your freedom, instead of keeping it with powder and steel.”

 “The horses and meat were for the release of the muleskinner, but that is not important. You should be thinking about the army. You don’t want them any closer than Bent’s Fort, do you?”

 “If my people had your power, I would not care where the Long Knives are. They would care where my warriors are.

 “I’m getting a little tired of this, Long Feather. I already told you that you cannot have this power of mine. I cannot hand it over any more than I could hand over my lungs. It was put upon me by a man-god.”

 “That is the one part of your tale that cannot be true,” the chief responded. “Many priests have ventured into this land and the lands beyond. For many generations now. They all say that this Jesus was like the beaver: protected in its own way, and wishing harm to no one. How could such a being place a curse on you? Why do you even choose to call your power a curse?”

 “Long Feather---when you found me, the Jicarilla Apache had run me through with a lance and left me to die. They did not scalp me because they feared my blood. My power did not protect me, and the pain I felt was as great as what another man would have felt. I have known many such combats, and never have they brought me wealth or honor.”

 The old man gave that statement fair consideration. Then he said, “I believe you, Death Cheater, but you have never walked in my moccasins . You do not lead people. You are a wolf without a pack. Perhaps this Jesus will look more favorably on men who pray to him. My people would do this if this Jesus would show us his power. You told me that you would never pray to this God even though he has shown himself to you.”

 “It is so. It is also true that he will not protect your people from the white man’s greed.”

 The old man grabbed the bottle and broke the end of it on the center lodge pole. His eyes turned hard as they were filled with a grim resolve.

 “Then we shall use your blood as a poison upon our arrow heads. In the spring, when we hold our  bear dance, we will show the power of your blood. We who call ourselves the Nuciu, will  not keep this power to ourselves. We will give blood arrows to the Paiutes, the Kawaiisu and the Bannock tribes as well. We will make a good war that can only be stopped with the gift of many new rifles from the White Man. After that, I will release you, Death Cheater.”

 “No. My blood is not as powerful a weapon as the White Man’s cannon. Your plan will bring only despair, Old Man.”

 “Despair is like a snowstorm,” replied the chief. “There is always an after time, Death Cheater. Take the good and the bad. They both come to men.”

 Case stared dourly at the old man as he slowly made his way out of the tepee. When the chief was gone Case turned his head and spoke to the woman in her own tongue.

 “I have known leaders in many far places. They are poor promise keepers. The promises become a weight on their shoulders that they cannot bear. Long Feather thinks that rifles will help him with his burdens, but he is wrong.”

 The woman went to the other side of the tepee and closed the flap. Then she advanced on the prisoner and lowered his buckskins pants to his knees. Case turned apprehensive. It was quite possible that the servant had received prior instructions from her chief. Case would likely still be in Long Feather’s dog house for killing a number of his warriors, and Indian women could get real artistic with a knife. But the woman wasn’t armed, and the chief had left the tepee with the main part of the broken bottle.

 With a fox like smile she turned her back on him and bowed while hiking her own buckskin shift up around her waste. As she backed up and prepared to help the prisoner with his growing difficulty, Case muttered, “That old man is smarter than he looks.”

Chapter 43

 Nightfall was two hours past when Case received yet another visitor. By now the prisoner was played out in more ways than one. The newcomer used flint, steel and dried desert juniper to start a night fire and then quickly close the tepee’s flap.

 “Why the hell is it always feast or famine with me?” groaned Case. “You’re the seventh filly  to come calling since Long Feather left.”

 The woman deftly drew a blade and placed it at Case’s throat.

 “Why is it that every time you speak I feel a desire to cut out your tongue?”

 Case’s eyes lit up, despite the threat of sharp steel.

 “Poo? I didn’t know you were free to come here. Wish you could have showed up earlier. Right now you’re the only one who isn’t out of flint.”

The woman let out a sigh and reached around to cut the man’s bonds.

 “I just came from a cousin’s lodge. She told me all about you. I am not saying that I believe any of her words, but if the other villagers think as she does, you might be able to save the muleskinner. Maybe.”

 “They planning to put Forrester under?”

 “Very soon. Blood payment for your misdeeds. It is not what Long Feather desires, but there are other voices in the village that must be heard. I would have brought word of this sooner but there were too many women who wished to see you first.”

 “Yea. I don’t pretend to understand it. Normally when I’ve got a lot of coin in my purse I---“

 “It has nothing to do with that,” the woman interrupted. “They are young widows. They desire your seed in hopes that they can give birth to man children who will have your power.”

 Case’s expression became somber.

 “I can’t say that I regret the misunderstanding, but the truth is they can’t conceive with me.”

 “Ah, then you are not the perfect man after all,” the woman responded snidely. “That will disappoint them, but at least you can save them from a war. Men such as Forrester have many friends in the Bent’s Fort area. If he is burned alive, the soldiers will come here at the urging of the Trinidad settlers.”

 “Yea, I get it, but I can’t offer the tribe anything that will compensate them for their loss. I’m sorry but that is the truth.”

 “Then throw away the truth,” stated the woman flatly. “Make whatever promise is necessary.”

 “Now I can add the Utes to my long list of peoples who do not worship honesty,” grumbled Case.

 “Better a lie than a musket ball,” Poo responded.

 “The musket balls will come,” promised the scar faced man. “Only a proper sense of right and wrong can keep such things away. There is little of that to be found anywhere in the world.”

 “Does that mean you will run from this village for the second time?” asked the woman.

 Case gazed into the soap maker’s eyes and saw the challenge. Such entreaties were a part of his strange existence. In fact, they had moved him towards danger far more times than any order given by generals or warrior kings. Maybe it was just coincidence, but on past occasions he had always run into bad luck every time he turned his back on someone in dire need. For that reason, if not any other, he tended to lean (reluctantly) in the direction of those who spoke of mercy.

 Case wordlessly took a cautious peek out of the tepee and could see Forrester trussed up to a heavy burning pole. Faggots had been piled high around him and the attention of the villagers was divided between the muleskinner and the only man in the assembly who was holding a torch. His name was Gray Cloud, and he was the brother of one of the men Case had killed not so long ago.

 “Well---Forrester does look just like a Rabbi I saved back in Seville, Spain. Maybe that’s a sign from the Jew. Alright Poo, my razor tongued darling---here goes nothing.”

 Case stepped out of the shelter and walked casually towards the assembly. A few of the younger warriors were startled to find the prisoner no longer bound and started towards him. They were stopped by older and more experienced Utes, who immediately perceived that the prisoner had no intention of making an escape.

 The women folk stepped back allowing the scar faced man to close the distance between himself and the bearer of the torch. Long Feather sat in the entrance to the nearest tepee and watched this development with interest.

 “This man is my friend,” Case announced in the Ute language. “If you do not burn him, I will take six of your warriors to St. Louis, where a great medicine man will give them power such as mine.”

 “You will take forty,”  responded Long Feather from his seat.

 Now the assembly parted again so that the chief and the white man could parley with a clear view.

 “I cannot take forty. Such a war party would arouse fear all along the eastern trail. We would likely be fired upon.”

 “At Bent’s Fort, you could get wagons and white man’s clothing. Then the warriors would not look dangerous as they traveled towards the rising sun.”

 Case pretended to consider that. Then after an appropriate pause he said, “I suppose it could work, but I don’t know how long it will take to find four large wagons and enough animals to pull them.”

 “The wagon rider will find you what you need,” said the chief. “His heart will overflow with gratitude, I think.”

 “Spilling the banks, and then some,” confirmed the muleskinner from his grim station.

 “No! I have been promised retribution!” shouted Gray Cloud.

 “That promise can still be kept. The men at Trinidad are jealous of our place on the river. They will provoke war before long,” stated the chief.

 “But they did not know my brother. They did not have a hand in his slaying. What is more, you would weaken this village by forty men to chase a mystery that is as strange as the stars in the sky. You bargain poorly, Long Feather.”

 “And what better path do I fail to see, Gray Cloud?”

 “We burn the wagon rider, who brings ammunition to the white men of Trinidad. We show Death Cheater that such a punishment can be his, over and over again. Then I think he will remember a brother who would go to St. Louis and beg on his behalf. We must keep him here, Long Feather. White men grow in power as they travel east.”

 There were murmurs of approval all around, and Case abandoned any hope that rescuing the muleskinner was going to be easy.

 “Can you purchase four wagons, Gray Cloud?” asked the chief. “The wagon keepers will heed the words of the one called Forrester, but they will not barter with you.”

 “We have the one wagon. If we walk behind it, we will seem even more harmless to the whites that pass us on the trail,” reasoned the man with the torch. “I will go on such a walk, once the wagon rider is a pile of ashes.”

 “This guy could have been a lawyer,” thought Case, who then stepped directly between Gray Cloud and Forrester.

 The Utes were very astute observers of body language, and Case’s change of position caused all the warriors to tense.

 “This matter will be decided between Death Cheater and Gray Cloud!” shouted the chief.

 Everyone relaxed, with two obvious exceptions. Realizing that debate was over, the torch bearer trust his fiery brand at his opponent’s face, expecting Case to fall back. But the attack was expected, and Case simply parried the torch with his buck skin covered left forearm. Then he pivoted one-hundred and eighty degrees and launched a back thrust kick that caught the still advancing Gray Cloud. The Indian suffered a pair of cracked ribs and was shoved back a pace but that only prompted Gray Cloud to drop the torch and draw his knife. Case had demonstrated his strange way of fighting during his first stay with the Utes, so his kick merely brought on mixed shouts of encouragement for both combatants.

 Someone threw a knife point first into the ground at Case’s feet, but the professional soldier ignored it and lowered himself into a stance in which his left hand was extended almost all the way out. That hand swayed in front of steel. Twice it humiliated the knife wielder by playfully slapping the outside of the knife hand. The Ute screamed in frustration and leaped forward to get inside Case’s nimble reach.

 The snake like hand became a steel trap that closed around the knife hand wrist. Gray Cloud’s other hand reached for Case’s eyes but the left hand was child’s play to grasp since there was no sharp steel to guard it. With both wrists arrested, the spectators expected Case to repeat one of the moves he had previously demonstrated with the help of young volunteers. A low crescent kick to the outside of the knee would have been easiest. A hip throw would serve to entertain but not incapacitate.

 Case waltzed his opponent around and forward a few paces then tricked the Indian into pushing forward once again. In the blink of an eye Case got his center of gravity beneath that of his opponent and managed to plant his foot in the Indian’s stomach. Case fell back while holding his opponent close to him. As always, the opponent’s forward momentum was guided to where Case wanted it to go.  His foot was able to leverage the Indian’s lower half so that it rose up and rolled forward, causing the Indian to flip all the way over onto his own back.

 The Japanese would have called this: Tomoe Nage, meaning circle throw. The best part though, was the fact that Case set the throw up so that the Indian would land in the nearest campfire, which caused quite a sensation with sparks flying everywhere. Most of the Utes laughed uproariously, including Forrester, until one of the flying embers started his brush pile on fire.

 Case went to grab the knife that was sticking in the ground. He would need it to release the muleskinner, now that the contest was at an end. But Gray Cloud had his share of supporters. Warriors who believed that avenging a relative was a sacred responsibility. Two of those men rushed at Case from different directions as his hand closed around a handle made of bone. The knife slashed upward from the ground, biting through four fingers before another blade could bury itself in the back of Case’s shoulder.

 Like an enraged grizzly, the scar faced man pivoted on both feet and swung his short length of steel. A man’s voice box was neatly bisected, and his eyes widened without a sound. Case ignored the shower of blood as he pivoted again and round kicked the Ute that had transferred his knife to his other hand and was game for another try. So it was that Case scored a solid head kick, but his calf took a good slice in the process.

 By now Forrester was yelling bloody murder, and Case waded into the flames as fast as he was able. Both men were medium rare by the time they cleared the conflagration, but that was more than could be said about Gray Cloud. His bare upper body had received a number of first degree burns.

 “Pull that damn sticker out,” growled Case as he turned his back on Forrester.

 “It would be better if we could prepare a red hot poker before the blade is removed,” advised the muleskinner. “Sterilization---“

 “Yank the poxy thing out!” the soldier commanded.

 Forrester did as he was told and Case took the weapon with his better arm.

 “Alright, Long Feather, let’s see how many men can die from a single blood infected blade. Should we start with Six Fingers there on the ground? Maybe Gray Cloud after that. I keep telling you people that I am walking death and you just don’t seem to get the message.”

 Case made a show of the blood covered knife while gradually making his way closer to where the chief remained sitting. No warrior showed any hint of fear, but also, no one made anymore hostile moves against him.

 “How many days must we wait before you will be able to travel east?” asked the chief.

 “We will leave tomorrow, assuming that I will be allowed to travel with men who are not bonded to anyone I have harmed.”

 “The men who go with you will not have vengeance in their hearts,” stated the chief, “but do not think to play us false. If you do not keep your pledge, you will be brought back to this place, where you will be yoked like the White Man’s oxen. Also, the muleskinner will burn if you return without power.”

 The white men agreed to these terms, since there wasn’t much else they could do

 “Is there anymore liquor in the village?” inquired Case. “I have one more bottle. I will have it sent to your tepee along with wash water and a servant,” said Long Feather.

 “Make it Poo-urb.”

 The chief called for his niece to deliver the message, and the two white men shuffled off painfully in the direction of the guest accommodations.

 With a muffled oath the passenger lowered himself from the buckboard and trudged to the back of the heavy wagon. The driver stayed where he was, somewhat guilt ridden that his boss had to risk a back injury because the wagon had ventured too close to a slide area. The men were anything but greenhorns, but they didn’t know their animals, and more importantly, they had overloaded their wagon in an effort to supply a project that needed to be finished before winter.

 The driver’s name was Deke Daniels, a reasonably competent man at the reins, but too easily yahooed by strong willed men like the one he was hauling with now. The owner of the wagon braced his high boots as best he could on sandy soil and applied himself to a futile effort. The wheels were buried good and proper, and they weren’t about to come out with two-thousand pounds of load pushing them down.

 “Real sorry, Mr. Bent, but it looks to me like we’ll have to unload the wagon and lead the critters from the front.”

 The other man nodded quietly, realizing that he was partially to blame for this mishap.

Boss William Bent had been a trapper on the upper Arkansas River in his teens, but because his father had been a Missouri Supreme Court Justice, the lad was in a position to better himself with the schooling he had received. He familiarized himself with the trading practices that took place along the Arkansas River, then eventually learned the better part of the Santa Fe trail.

 In 1833 he and his brothers built a massive adobe trading post from which he dealt fairly with white men and Indians alike. In 1835 he married a Cheyenne woman and all his dreams came true until the outbreak of the Mexican war. Bent didn’t mind guiding General Phil Kearney’s expeditionary force into New Mexico, but it never occurred to him that the politics of the area would never be the same again. Bent became far too dependant on the government for a livelihood, and the government didn’t see the Indians the way Bent did.

 The U.S. Army wanted to buy Bent’s fort, and for a insultingly low price at that. So Bent rearranged the furniture a mite with all the black powder he had in his store room. Then after he got tired of sulking, he began plans for a new fort some thirty-eight miles down stream from the old one. But building it would take time. The government didn’t much like his attitude, and many of his old customers had been pushed away by the never ending growth of civilization.

 Bent would have to do much of the hauling and building himself, and now he was one wagon short because Will Forrester had failed to arrive in time to accompany him on a run. He held his tongue in the company of Daniels, but he was dead certain that if Forrester had been leading the way with his mules, the horse drawn wagon would never have gotten bogged down on the north side of the river.

 The men were still lightening the wagon when nine horsemen rode up from the east. Bent’s practiced eye scanned the newcomers in an instant, and saw no immediate cause for concern. Each man carried o muzzle loading rifle in a horse scabbard, but their hands were empty, and they did not appear to be a seedy bunch.

 “It would seem that you are hauling too heavy,” said a man with long hair and a full beard.

 “Yes, but the soil is vexing as well,” replied Bent. “I am not unfamiliar with this section of the river, and I have never seen ground that is so hungry for a wagon wheel.”

 “So you are still ignorant of the particulars of your dilemma. You have not yet come to realize that a large hole was dug in the trail. A false soil has been placed in it so that the wheels would have no support. You are effectively trapped, sir. I would have you know that you have run afoul of Porter Rockwell, and I am sorry that I must trouble you gentlemen for you lives.”

 With that the long haired man pulled a Colt Dragoon revolver from under his coat and extended his arm toward the driver. Daniels was the proud owner of a top grade Lancaster rifle, but the long gun was a muzzle loader, and it was behind him anyway. Rockwell brought the sights of the pistol up to eye level and fired without pause. The driver was hit square in the forehead with a .44 ball that passed through one wall of bone and then flattened out against the back of the man’s skull. The look of disbelief remained on his face for witnesses to behold.

 The shot meant for Bent came with an almost cruel deliberation. Bent waited five seconds for it, and the ball slammed into his chest and settled to the left of his heart.

 “There is coal oil in the wagon,” said one of the riders.

 “Very good. Burn the wagon so there will be much smoke,” instructed Rockwell.

 Soon a column of black was ascending into the heavens.

 “Cimarron Crossing is a dangerous place to wait on a shipment,” said a rider who sat his mount to the right of the group leader.

 “Audacity must be our trade mark,” responded Rockwell. “We must make our presence felt wherever the Army is absent. We will do this until the winter snows drive us back to the southwest.”

 After that there was no more talking. Each rider was left to his own thoughts, and those thoughts were as cold and pitiless as the winter winds that would soon drive down out of the mountains.

 Chapter 44

 Case stole a dour glance at the rising sun and then lowered the beaver bill that protruded from his mountain man cap. He went back to staring at the feet of mules, perturbed that they had to spend so much time facing the early sun.

 “Smoked glass,” Forrester muttered thoughtfully.

 “What?”

 “I was thinking that I would get a pair of reading spectacles and smoke the glass so that the sun would not discomfort me on bright mornings such as this one.”

 Case grunted at the concept and then turned to look behind him.

 “We’re still here, Death Cheater,” said White Moon from his hiking position four feet behind the wagon.

 Two Sticks, Broken Bone and Lone Dog were also bringing up the drag, along with sixteen other braves that had been recruited by Long Feather. Not quite the army of forty that the chief had in mind, but enough men to give Case something to think about.

 “I’m glad that Gray Cloud talked his friends into staying behind. Even twenty Injuns look pretty weird walking behind us like that,” said Case.

 “I will get us two additional wagons at Council Grove, then no one will need walk any further,” said Forrester.

 “I got the impression that you were going to do that at Bent’s Fort,” responded Case.

 “I do not recall making any such statement. Mr. Bent’s wagons are constantly moving equipment and supplies. He is going to build a new fort further down river you know. It is unlikely that he would be inclined to sell any heavy wagons. In fact, he is waiting to acquire the services of my wagon for a single run to the new site. But Council Grove sells wagons to pilgrims, and my credit there is good.”

 Case pretended to scan the surrounding area.

 “I don’t see any pilgrims. Hey White Moon, you see any pilgrims?”

 Case was still smirking at his little joke when one of White Moon’s braves gave a shout of warning. Seconds later, sixty Indians filed out of a wide ravine and formed a line across the trail some one-hundred yards ahead.

 “Cheyenne,” muttered Forrester.

 “Black Foot Cheyenne,” specified White Moon.

 “Well, whatever they are, I’ll bet they find us real interesting,” said Case.

 “We are in the southern most portion of their land,” explained the muleskinner. “The Kiowa are to the south.”

 “We don’t need a geography lesson. We need a troop of cavalry, preferably with a wagon load of corn liquor.”

 “I will parley with them as best I can, but there has been much trouble on the Oregon Trail. A government treaty is being proposed, but I fear that our business on this southern route is a separate matter.”

 Case rolled his eyes at this companion’s propensity for stating the obvious, and he didn’t dare look behind him. He had no words for White Moon, who in turn had no choice but to wait and hope that Death Cheater would keep everyone above ground.

 Somehow.

 When they were close enough Forrester greeted the Black Feet and with great diplomacy asked them if they had honored Will Bent with a visit. The stated that they had been to the fort, and there was nothing left but a blackened ruin. They then inquired about the Utes, who were not only too far east, but dressed like the black men who sometimes fled to the west.

 Forrester explained that the Utes were bound for St. Louis, the city that once hungered for beaver pelts and still accepted buffalo hides if they were of good quality. He decided to tell the truth and state that the Utes wished to see a great medicine man there, and that they wished no combat with anyone.

 “Ha! The Utes are always looking for a fight,” exclaimed the Cheyenne leader Spotted Owl.

“In the mountains, it is so. In this land, it is not,” responded Forrester in their language. “That is why they carry no weapons except knives. That is why they dress as non humans, so that they will not be challenged in this place.”

 “Very well, we will not fight them, but you must come with us to our village,” declared Spotted Owl. Our chief Brown Antelope will want to see this strange thing, and smoke on it to decide what should be done.”

 “My wagon cannot go north from here,” stated the muleskinner.

 “Then you must leave your wagon here and ride your mules,” said Spotted Owl with just a hint of amusement.

 “ I can only do this if there are no other travelers about. Are there any other wagons on the tail to the east?”

 “There was smoke, perhaps one day ahead, but we did not go look at it. Our village will be reached before sundown. That is good, because I would not travel with so many Utes after dark. I would have to kill them, so let us hope that their legs can carry them at least as quickly as a Cheyenne squaw.”

 White Moon’s jaw tensed at the remark, but held his tongue as did the others who spoke Cheyenne.

 “Forrester took out a length of rawhide and attached it to his Sharps. He then slung the heavy rifle across his back and proceeded to unhitch his animals. Case grabbed the only Hawken that Long Feather had returned to him. It was certainly not a weapon to be used in a combat with sixty men. Rather, it was a badge of freedom. Only a few of the Black Feet even looked at it. Most of the Indians had their eyes on the Sharps, which was Forrester’s look out. Fortunately for the muleskinner he was thus far judged as big medicine, what with twenty Utes in tow.

 The Utes traveled with their heads down, suffering the occasional insult and vowing to themselves that some day there would be a reckoning with the rival Indian tribe. Case on the other hand wasn’t sure if this development would work to his advantage or not, but at least the Cheyenne could give him information about Comanche activity further east. Knowledge was a pearl of great price to any man capable of thinking beyond the reach of his weapons; and Case was determined to be such a man.

 When they reached the outskirts of the village, the sun was a red ball touching on ground that Case had fought on and fed with the bones of his enemies. What would the Cheyenne do if they could count the number of suns Case had marched away from? The scar faced man didn’t want to think about that. It was bad enough sharing even a sliver of his secret with the Utes. It was a reminder of how important anonymity was to him. 

 Chief Brown Antelope was already standing outside his lodge, understandably interested in the Utes, and the two white men who rode before them. Like Forrester, the chief of the Cheyenne sect was not young, but he was still strong and capable of going most of the day with naught to cover his upper torso but a bear claw necklace. Case noted two scars on the chest, one over each pectoral muscle. The chief’s long hair was streaked with silver, and his right cheek sported a scar that was much like Case’s.

 “Are these warriors or slaves?” the chief asked Spotted Owl.

 “They are neither,” responded the younger warrior. “They are like the Cherokee. They follow the ways of the White Men, but will always be in their shadow.”

 “They must take your land before they can take ours,” said White Moon. “We will watch you in the coming battles. Your deeds of valor will be remembered by us. But your seed will be cast to the four winds, if not trampled into the earth.”

 Spotted Owl reached for his tomahawk, but Brown Antelope stepped in front of him.

 “Why do you travel east? The White Men do not need your gift of prophecy.”

 “The scar faced one has promised to bring medicine to my people,” White Moon answered carefully. “We go with him so that he will not forget the needs of those who have seen too many winters, or too few.”

 The chief’s face was impassive, but Case was just about certain that such a story would be rejected. It would have been better to say that they were going for gunpowder, but no one arose that morning expecting to attend a Cheyenne meeting.

 “You would keep the white eyes honest, yet they carry rifles and the Utes do not,” the chief pointed out. I am offended on behalf of my Ute neighbors. I will take the rifles, so that the white men will not stand taller than the Utes.”

 Forrester quickly translated for Case, who responded with a statement that turned the muleskinner pale.

 “What words do the white man have for the Cheyenne?” inquired the chief.

 Forrester steeled himself for what might be his last words on Earth.

 “The scar faced one said that you may take his rifle when you can pry it from his cold dead fingers.”

 The remark fell away from the chief like water off a duck’s back.

 “Yes. The white man is nothing without his rifle. He would still be clinging to the shores of the great water that men speak of, if not for the long iron.”

 Case’s response followed on the heels of the translation.

 “Bring on you best knife fighter. I will arm myself with a piece of deer horn, if a sharpened point is permitted.”

 Spotted Owl circled around the chief and said, “I am ready for you, but I demand that you use your knife.”

 “Well, if you insist,” replied Case, who then selected a piece of open ground between two lodges.

 Both combatants drew their blades and slowly circled each other with slightly bent knees. Both Cheyenne and Ute warriors formed a circle around them and began to root for their champion. Case utilized evasive foot work so as to get a good sampling of the other man’s fighting style. He quickly noted that the Indian’s long hair was allowed to cover an eye more often than not. Case would use that to his advantage, but not until he had first entertained one and all with his almost miraculous ability to catch steel with steel.

 Such remarkable fencing technique would always cause a man to back off almost involuntarily until he could no longer stand the shame of being toyed with. His frustration would then bring about his undoing, because blind anger was not a force that could equal Case’s ponderous fighting experience. Spotted Owl’s lunges were ample testament to that fact, and soon enough, the Cheyenne spectators realized that there was a lion in their midst.

 Suddenly Case accidently backed onto a spectator’s foot, and the unhappy Cheyenne shoved the knife fighter forward without thinking, and Spotted Owl finally managed to come in contact with flesh. The forearm cut was superficial, but it was the first blood spilled. (albeit due to Case’s lack of blood lust)

 Spotted Owl retreated as far as he could and then indulged himself in a bit of theatrics. He raised the now blood tipped blade to his lips and made a show of licking the steel clean. Case’s warning was late and not appreciated in any event. While the Cheyenne cheered and the Utes shouted words of encouragement, Case merely maintained a defensive posture, and grimly waited for the Angel of Death to claim another fighting man.

 Spotted Owl lost his look of triumph, his balance, and any hopes for victory all in that order. Crashing to the ground he immediately began to roll about like a man on fire. His groans soon escalated into shrieks, which appalled the Indians who were trained from childhood to mask any signs of pain. Case rarely showed pity for his vanquished foes, but on this occasion he stared down at the withering man as if they were brothers. Brown Antelope noted this, but it was only in the back of his thoughts.

 “Do you carry a poisoned knife, White Man?” the chief finally asked.

 “No, my blood is poison,” said Case through Forrester.

 Every man present stood in dumbfounded wonder; barely able to grasp the enormity of such a statement. No one knew what to say or do next, except for Case.

 “Here me one and all! The forces that work through me are dangerous and cannot be controlled by ordinary men. I live alone, like the white fur trappers of not so long ago. My seed is dead, and I am shunned by all those who learn my secret. It is a bad life. A very bad life. But the Utes want the power of poison blood so that they can defeat the white eyes who grow in number. I agreed to take them to St. Louis. They think the power is created there. It is not, but it was my only chance to leave their land and regain my freedom.”

 “Where is the power created?” asked Brown Antelope.

 “It was given to me by a man-god on the other side of the great water,” explained Case. “No other words are necessary.”

 “And what words do you have for me, Wagon Rider?”

 “I owe him my life,” Forrester said after a pause, “but only a man who is touched would speak of such things as man-gods. Madness is not good medicine for a village. I advise you to allow him to go his way in peace.”

 The chief then turned to face White Moon.

 “And will the Utes allow the scar faced one to go his own way in peace now that your dream has been rubbed out?”

 “No,” responded White Moon. “I am honor bound to return him to my chief. I wish him no harm, but I cannot allow him to go his own way. More than ever now, Long Feather will want this man’s blood as a weapon against the Long Knives.”

 “If you speak the truth, then perhaps the Cheyenne should keep the scar faced one. Are we not closer to the Long Knives than the Utes?” asked White Antelope.

 “It is so,” admitted the Ute leader, “but it is unwise to steal a magic power. The god of that power might then judge you a bad man and turn the magic against you.”

 The Cheyenne chief was not terribly impressed with White Moon’s reasoning. White men were full of surprises, but their possessions never smacked of magic. Still—this was big medicine any way one chose to look at it, and Brown Antelope was wise enough to go slow in unfamiliar territory.

 “I will smoke on this matter. You will all stay the night here and be well treated.”

 Then as an after thought he added, “The wind is from the north-west. The Utes should remember that, when it is time for them to wet the ground.”

Chapter 45

 Will Bent stood slightly stooped, and steeled himself against the after affects of a blow that had terrified him, but allowed him to live. Bob Kelsy and Big John Teelin gazed in wonder at the third man’s unbelievable good fortune.

 “I heard tell stories of such things happening back east with the British,” said Big John. “Course---with thousands of men bangin away, yer bound ta see a miracle or two.”

 Bent had trouble clearing his vision. He had fainted for a bit, and his brain still wasn’t ready to properly separate fact from fantasy.

 “I was shot. I know I was shot,” Bent muttered in confusion.

 “Course you were. Take a closer look at yer belt buckle,” instructed Kelsy.

 Bent squinted down at his buckle and saw what he missed with his first bleary eyed examination. The circle of pig iron was bent pretty bad, and Big John then offered Bent a slightly deformed ball of lead.

 “Found it laying right there. Damn queer that one shot would go bad and the rest would kill clean. Bad luck fer yer friend there.”

 Bent gazed over at the body of Daniels, and silently resolved to find the man’s killer.

 “What’s yer name Mister?”

 “Bent---William Bent.”

 “The Injun trader? Wagh! Must’ve got somebody’s bristles up. Watered down whisky maybe.”

 “Never laid eyes on them before. But their leader openly declared that they had set an ambush for my companion and I. The spokesman identified himself as Porter Rockwell.”

 Bent’s two burly buckskinned Samaritans exchanged a look of surprise.

 “How many men were riding with him?”

 “Nine horsemen, each armed with a rifle. But their leader shot me with a pistol. Colt Dragoon, but the barrel was half cut off.”

 “That there makes it a bigger miracle,” said Kelsy. “That Dragoon ain’t like the other revolvers. It can take way better than forty grains of powder and holds six shots instead of five. The Lord was looking out for you for sure.”

 “It is a sad thing,” grumbled Bent as he struggled to get onto the back of John’s horse. “People have told me many times that I must not consort at length with the Indians, or I will come to a bloody end. But the villains that killed poor Daniels were white men all. They were not highwaymen. They assaulted me and did not even give a clear reason for it.”

 “Can you describe this Rockwell fellow?” queried Big John.

 “He possessed long dark hair and a beard. His eyes were small and he was powerfully built even by your standards.”

 “That is a proper description of him alright, but it is difficult to believe that he could be your man. He would be many miles west of here. Possibly even in California.”

 “How is it that you possess such knowledge?” asked Bent.

 “We are bounty hunters. We are searching for a similar rogue named Clark. It is an interesting coincidence that your man and ours were both Danites  back when the Mormons chose to fight instead of run. Our man murdered a gold smith in St. Charles, Missouri and the family put up a bounty that stands to this day. Supposedly he was seen passing through Council Grove, west bound on this trail.”

Bent held some vague recollection of the Danites, but nothing he could put a bead on.

 “The Danites operated in several states, didn’t they? They were made out to be the most dangerous vigilante group in the country.”

 “Hell, I wouldn’t compare them devils to any torch waving mob,” said John. “Vigilantes get all liquored up so they can stomach a necktie party. But them Danites didn’t need no Dutch Courage, and they didn’t stand on formalities. A slit throat or a bullet in the brain was more to their liking, and it wasn’t easy hiding from them either. But they did a fair job of hiding themselves from the law, even when Governor Boggs put the spurs to his best man hunters.”

 “Did Lilburn Boggs truly issue an extermination order?” asked Bent. “I just couldn’t believe half the things printed in Missouri newspapers back then.”

 “Yup. Executive Order 44, it was called. Thousands of Mormons had to get out of Missouri quick, even though it was the dead of winter. That was back in 38. Then in 42 Boggs got his when somebody shot him. Course you know he didn’t die. Don’t know if the Lord was looking after him or the Devil. Anyway, Orrin Rockwell got blamed for the shooting, but they couldn’t prove it. They damn near starved him in jail though.”

 “Was Rockwell the leader of this avenging clan? I was told that he is one of the most dangerous men alive,” said Bent.

 “Well sir, a fella named Sampson Avard was the original leader, but him and Joseph Smith had a falling out cause Avard wasn’t much good at taking orders. Supposedly the Danites got scattered to the four winds when The Saints were driven out of the Midwest. Now the Mormons are trying to put their own country together in Utah, and Rockwell has church authority in that part of the west. For that reason, it is difficult to believe that he has come east to murder men who are no threat to the new Mormon colony.”

 “If you say so. I only know that he murdered one man and filled me with a terrible resolve,” said Bent. “I will gain the services of some Cheyenne friends of mine and make those nine killers wish their fathers had never met their mothers.”

 “Wagh! You don’t want no Redskins settling any score with White men,” said Big John. “Leave such business to us.”

 “That business may not be to your liking. There will be paper on those men eventually, but perhaps not as fast or as fat as you would expect for nine dangerous men.”

 “Well, Mr. Bent---we’ll risk it as long as them villains don’t head for New York or some such place. Now let’s get you back to your property. Maybe when we get there you’ll get to feeling generous with whatever tangle foot you got bottled or jugged.”

 The frontier trader let out a sigh.

 “Indeed I shall. After what I’ve been through, I believe I could out drink Jed Dickson’s pet bear.”

 “I have seen such foolishness in the past,” said Kelsy. “Even a tame bear is dangerous when its mind is befuddled.”

 “True,” admitted Bent. “Dickson and his friends have been stitched up more than once because of that beast of his. But I cannot complain. The bear was a grand customer before the fort blew up.”

 The two frontier bounty hunters again exchanged glances. It was plain that they would have enough to talk about on the ride toward the setting sun.

Chapter 46

 The night went exceptionally well for Case and Forrester. Two Cheyenne women visited their lodge and gave them something to think about besides escaping. Being men of big medicine certainly had its up side, but the rise to grandeur often precedes a bone breaking fall. So it was that in the following morning Case and Forrester were taken to the largest teepee in the village. There he would receive an honor, the kind you run from if you see it coming.

 Normally a teepee would consist of three main poles and eight additional framework polls some fifteen feet in length. But this particular structure was the cathedral of all lodges. It could shelter almost every man in the village, and allow them to stand upright as well.

 “Did you sleep well?” asked Brown Antelope after the white men entered the meeting lodge.

 “No, but we are not complaining,” said Forrester.

 “Such is life,” stated the chief without humor. “A mixing of Fat times and lean. A warrior copulates, hunts, and tests himself against others. But it is not the Camp of the Dead that awaits worthy souls down the path of life. It is the learning place, set with many hardships, distractions and deceptions.”

 The muleskinner didn’t translate the last part of the statement. He just stood there until Case tugged on his sleeve and asked, “So what’s his point?”

 Forrester ignored his companion and said, “Chief Brown Antelope, I am a simple man, I do not understand these deceptions that you speak of.”

 “The Ute with the tongue of a coyote spoke of a magic power. I have seen the White Man’s diseases as well as his medicines. I do not call these things magic. The things of this world are not always understood from a distance, but they are not magic. A brave and worthy man finds his justice, and thus, the path he should be on. I do not know what to do with this scar faced man, so we shall have him follow in the steps of Fire Horse.”

 “Is that why we are in the teepee of the Sundance?” inquired Forrester, who now wore an expression that Case didn’t like.

 “It is,” answered the chief, “unless the white man refuses the trial.”

 “And if he refuses to pull, you’ll hand him over to White Moon,” the muleskinner stated with certainty.

 “I will not war with the Utes because of a white man. I can only give this Death Cheater, a chance to earn his own freedom. I have brought the sacred piercing bones. Explain to him what must be done and then have him decide.”

 Forrester nodded unhappily and then turned to his apprehensive companion.

 “Case, at this time of the year, the Cheyenne hold a religious ceremony called a Sundance. That is why this very large teepee has been constructed.”

 “I know about the Sundance,” said Case. “They fast, go without sleep and smoke strange stuff in order to experience visions.”

 “Yup. They also hurt themselves to prove to The Great Mystery that they are worthy of good fortune, in whatever form it might take. I think it is also an opportunity for strong men to impress their fellow tribesmen.”

 “You’re telling me that we’ve been invited to the forthcoming shindig?”

 “It is not a time of mirth or frivolity, Case . It is nothing like the rendezvous that the mountain men enjoyed. It is serious business. The village Sundance will commence next week, but today, you are being challenged to undergo the most difficult aspect of a Sundance ceremony.”

 When the two white men had entered the lodge, Case had noticed that a thin, willowy pole was secured to the teepee’s massive center pole. The vertical rod was fifteen feet in height and was joined at the top with two very long strips of rawhide. The top portion of the pole would bend like a fishing rod if sufficient pulling force was applied to the rawhide strips. But the most important thing of all was the fact that the tethers featured small loops at the bottom end, so that they could join with a pair of objects that Brown Antelope was displaying in his open hand.

 Case gazed down at two sharpened bones that resembled large sewing needles approximately six inches long. Then he remembered what a mountain man had told him one night some five-hundred miles to the west.

 “Ah shit. What does he want to challenge me for? I’m not trying to join his tribe and if I had thought that the women would lead me to this, I would have kept my legs crossed.”

 “The chief said that you must follow in the steps of Fire Horse.”

 “That does not sound good. Fire Horse sounds like the name of an over achiever. Probably suffered from penal envy.”

 “He was a trapper who ventured through this territory about thirty years ago,” explained Forrester. He was enslaved and managed to win his freedom by hanging from the cords. He did this from high noon until sundown.”

 “You mean with the bones?” Case asked incredulously. “Now wait a minute. I never heard any stories about the guest of honor actually hanging with bone needles under his skin. Aren’t you supposed to just lean back a bit, but stay on your feet?”

 The muleskinner gazed awkwardly at the ground and said, “story goes; he needed to win the love of a Cheyenne maiden. So he took the pulling test full measure.”

 “Well, you ain’t no maiden,” Case pointed out.

 “Can’t fault you there,” conceded Forrester. “I will just have to find a way to give those Utes the slip before we get back to Long Feather’s camp.”

 Case Longpenance let out a sigh and stared at the same piece of ground.

 “As long as we’re in Cheyenne territory, those Utes are going to be extra vigilant. You aren’t likely to get away.”

 “You got clear of them,” argued Forrester.

 “They weren’t on their guard back at the Ute village,” countered the scar faced man. “Besides, I’m good at wiggling out of tight spots. Slipped out from under the bed of more than one husband who came home early, and that’s a fact.”

 “I have never trifled with another man’s wife---nor despoiled any female who was not coughing out her last years. So perhaps Jesus will take into account that I have lived a humble existence,” Forrester said with a forced smile

 “You wouldn’t say that if you could see the big picture,” said the scar faced man. “But from your point of view, I guess you’re the one who needs the most help right now. So---I’ll show these western Picts what a man of my caliber can do.”

 The muleskinner was moved almost to the brink of tears.

 “You have more of the Christian spirit in you than you would likely admit, Case Longpenance.”

 “I’m not a Christian,” growled the strangely irritated man. “I’m----complicated.”

Chapter 47

 The Arkansas River was a quarter of a mile wide at Cimarron Crossing. During the spring flooding  season the muddy water would average eight feet in depth, but during the low water months a wagon could cross with only a wet under carriage to show for it. It was a quiet, empty place most of the time. Not as well suited for development as other locations both up and down river from that crossing, yet very useful to those who merely whiched to cross without thought of putting down roots.

 U.S. Army Dragoons escorted the wagon trains that passed through this area, and sometimes they would ride half a day ahead and look for signs of men who killed for a living. A reconnaissance in force rarely surprised the Indians, but it conveyed the message that if you want to attack the approaching wagon train, you will have to pay a heavy toll in blood.

  The American Dragoon was not a cavalry trooper in the strictest sense. He fought from horseback only when ambushed, and he preferred to do the ambushing himself. His favorite tactic was to leave his horse in a secure spot and creep up on is enemy like a foot soldier. The horse was a means of transportation and was kept out of harms way as much as possible.

 Of course such conservative tactics had their limitations, and it is not surprising that more aggressive cavalry tactics became the norm during the Civil War. But if you were an Indian fighter in the first half of the 19^th Century, you had to be able to play the enemies’ game, and that included stealth movements, especially for the purpose of reconnaissance.

 Lieutenant Ronald Coleman knew that, which is why he and his men crossed the river five miles upstream and then approached the wagon crossing from the northwest. Such preventative medicine was justified by the sight of campfire smoke on the north shore of the river. Coleman was mindful of the fact that the campers might very well be friendly Indians hoping to trade with the whites. If that was so, it meant that they were probably Kickapoo, and would not stay long for fear of running into the more dominant elements of the Cheyenne.

 Coleman had less than half a squadron with which to protect the wagon train. Thirty soldiers were still with the wagons and twenty-two men were walking their mounts behind him. Each man was armed with a Springfield Model 1847 Musketoon. The muzzle loaded carbine fired a .69 caliber ball and was 7.4 pounds to carry. The weapon was not popular with the troops, who made many derogatory comments about it. The effective range was only about thirty yards, and the recoil was unpleasant.

 On the other hand, it was easier to reload on horseback, and made for a wicked shotgun if a trooper could find the right sized lead shot to use. But the complaining would go on until the invention of the trap door action breech loader. Then the troopers would have to find something else to bitch about.

 Coleman advised his men to keep their barrels pointed upward so the balls wouldn’t slide halfway down the barrels. He also taught basic swordsmanship. (Whenever a trooper was lucky enough to get issued a saber.) But by and large their most effective survival tool was the ability to convince their enemies that a smaller, less defended wagon train will come along in the future, so it is not a good idea to fight and die today. The uniforms helped with that. They were hot in the summer and not warm enough in the winter, but sometimes they caused the Red Man to think that the soldier was a better fighting man than the frontiersman who wore clothing that made more sense.

 In any case, it was not yet winter, so the uniforms were no hindrance, except perhaps to an old three striper with the runs.

 Sergeant Crawford was having one of those days. He had gotten a bad batch of chewing tobacco and he was dropping out of formation on a fairly regular basis. But in between those times he kept his men quiet and inline, which is more difficult than you might think when you have to do it all day long. Crawford’s stomach wasn’t happy about the smoke up ahead. An empty fording area would have sent them back to the wagon train so much faster. Still, campfire smoke was better than an arrow out of nowhere.

 Most of the Kansas landscape provided only light cover, but along the river there were enough cottonwood trees to set a fair sized ambush. That’s why the white men always slept poorly and were constantly craning their necks this way and that. No Indian tribe had ever been obliging enough to come towards them with bagpipes blowing in the wind.

“Thought I saw some movement outside of the trees for an instant,” muttered the lieutenant.

 “Lord hope they be Kickapoo, sir.”

 “Well, if they are, maybe you can unload that rotten tobacco of yours, Sergeant. Of course, if you did, you’d probably make those Indians as blood thirsty as the Apache.”

 “I’ll be saving it for my brother-in-law, sir,” the non-com said with a grin.

 The officer allowed his boyish grin to show for an instant, then prepared to split his force in two. Crawford would take a dozen men and swing around to the left. Coleman would take his men and advance to within one-hundred yards. Then a man who was half Cherokee would have the dubious honor of mounting and riding up to the crossing after yelling out his intentions in half a dozen languages.

 Everything felt alright. One small fire did not a large encampment make. No hostiles had been reported in the area for many months, and the Cherokee had a bored look on his face. The order to move was in Coleman’s mouth when a large cottonwood turned into column of manmade thunder. Wounds appeared on most of the men, but even the most experienced combatants could not perceive anything except a tree that was engulfing them in a huge cloud of white smoke.

 Coleman took a hit in the stomach. It hurt like hell but didn’t knock him down or reduce his capacity to reason. Crawford was a different story. He took a projectile in the left eye, and it passed all the way through the brain. Half the men were now lying on the ground either motionless or nearly so. The officer brought up his single shot pistol but the only thing he could make out within the cloud of smoke was the tree. That blasted infernal tree of destruction.

 Theorizing that there was a cannon positioned behind the tree somewhere, he ordered his men to mount and charge before it could be reloaded. That was a mistake. It made the remaining men easier targets for the snipers who were lying on their bellies off to Coleman’s right. The men were covered with brush and blankets of sod. The camouflage was impressive, but not as impressive as their weapons. Eight men were armed with a unique type of revolver rifle that dropped men from their saddles and left Coleman slightly bent over amongst the dead and wounded.

 “Drop your weapon, sir!” a voice shouted from the rifle battery.

 Coleman lowered himself to his knees, then let the pistol drop while he fought to remain conscious.

 “Now the saber,” said one of the men as he and his confederates rose up from their shallow trenches.

 “What are you---some hell spawned variation of the Comanchero?” muttered the young officer as he awkwardly unbuckled his scabbard belt.

 “No. We bathe more than once a year, and we are not motivated by unholy silver.”

 Coleman focused on a man who had just appeared from behind the tree of destruction. He was holding a revolver that had not been fired. The man was bearded and had small dangerous looking eyes that were very familiar.

 “What in God’s name---did you do to us?” the officer asked while slipping slowly into shock.

 “This tree bears bitter fruit,” joked the bearded man as he pointed to what looked like three heavy frying pans mounted on the tree trunk at different heights and angles.

 “What?”

 “Explosive devices that launch dozens of pieces of buckshot,” explained the victor. “My own invention. I was going to call them claymores but decided on death blossoms instead”

 Coleman tried to digest that while clutching his aching belly. The bearded man passed him by without another thought and gestured for his men to accompany him to the secondary ambush position.

 “Sir, how did you know those soldiers would approach from that direction?” asked one of the snipers.

 “Because they performed the same flanking maneuver the last three times they escorted pilgrims though this area,” explained the bearded man. “In a manner of speaking, Daniel, I prefer to let my enemy choose the site of an ambush. The first step is to find a talkative soldier and buy him a drink. No information is useless, and some things said can gain you a fine one sided battle like the one we just experienced.”

 “But sir, if that officer lives, he will be able to explain how his force was wiped out. Would it not be better to keep the enemy ignorant of our hanging bombs for as long as possible?”

 The leader chewed that over for a moment and then let out a small sigh.

 “I fear you have the right of it, Daniel. Very well, remove the blasting pans from the tree, and slit the officer’s throat. In fact, knife all the survivors. There will be witnesses enough among the pilgrims. Now it is time for a bit of quiet, so the travelers will not fear to venture further.”

 The subordinate nodded slightly and marched back to carry out his orders. The man who was going by the name of Rockwell then made a mental note to keep an eye on his lieutenant. Daniel was just a bit too opinionated. That could prove dangerous to him in time. Logic was all very well and good but he needed men around him who would obey orders without question. How else could order the slaying of innocents? How else could he order the purgings that would need to take place.

Chapter 48

 A storm had rolled in from the northwest. Lightning and thunder pounded the pocket valley and contributed in large measure to the drama unfolding in the communal lodge. At it’s center hung a white man who was bare from the waist up, so as to display the dagger like bones that now protruded from the sides of his pectoral muscles. Normally the Sundance trial would only require that the piercing bones go under the skin. Then the subject could lean back some twenty degrees of so. Ten to fifteen pounds of pressure would be placed on the leather cords as the willow pole was bent into an arch. Painful yes, but causing no shortage of volunteers.

 Now the man being tested was hanging full weight from the main central support post. Mere skin could not support so much weight, so the piercing bones had been driven under the chest muscles themselves. William Forrester was not one to show a wide variety of emotions, but on this guilt laden afternoon his face stood out in contrast with the many Cheyenne braves who sat in rapture at the sight of so much courage and strength.

 The placing of the bones had tested Case’s ability to contend with pains experienced often enough on the battle field. The pain of an arrow or lance wound. But when it was time to hang the body, that was when Case had to struggle just to keep from passing out. From that critical moment onward, a slow drum beat would measure out an agony that would seem to last for ages, regardless of how long a man could hold on.

 In time the body created it’s own form of mild anesthesia, and Case went into a mild form of shock. But the nervous system kept trying to right itself, so that the pain could once again equal those first few terrible seconds off the ground. With his hands at his sides Case kept still. He endured, but not just for the sake of his companion, but because he wanted to show The Jew, that he could also show great perseverance. He could equal the strength that was demonstrated some eighteen centuries past; and his witnesses would be the uncorrupted plains Indian, who’s womenfolk could peel the skin of a prisoner and then sleep soundly.

 “Must this go until sundown?” the muleskinner asked Brown Antelope.

 The chief never took his eyes off the man suspended a few feet in front of him.

 “It is not for me to decide. The man who takes the sacred bones into himself decides how long the cords shall bear weight.”

 Forrester chewed on his mustache and wrestled with the temptation to offer up his Sharps rifle in exchange for Case’s freedom. He remained silent only because he understood that the bone piercing trial was not a proper time to bribe anyone. (Assuming that the chief could be bought.)

 “It is for you to decide how much strength a man must show to win his freedom. You are the captor, and you are comparing him to those men who were tested in the past.”

 “That is true, and it is also not true,” said the chief

 “But you will sit with the others until sundown, if the white man does not call out before that time.”

 “I will.”

 Forrester rose to his feet and went to stand in front of Case Longpenace. The later was white faced and bleary eyed. His breathing was shallow and the sweat was no longer dripping from the tip of his nose. Angry blotches of red showed where the bones resided within the flesh, but there was no external bleeding. The man hung still, because to thrash about would only compound the agony.

“Call enough. I would not ask Jesus himself to hang longer for my sake!” declared the muleskinner.

 Case’s dull expression was suddenly replaced with a look of grim determination.

 “You---keep---saying---the wrong---things.”

  Forrester yanked out his knife and prepared to cut the man down. But before he could do so, a powerful hand took hold of his wrist.

 “Would you---sit down---and stop being---such a damn pain?”

  Forrester backed away in awe. Then the closest Cheyenne reached up from his seat and pulled the amazed white man to the ground. Forrester realized that if he tried to interfere with the trial again it would cost him his life. What Case was doing would be remembered as long as a single Cheyenne remained on the Earth.  All the other men in the lodge silently kept their vigil until the sun finally slipped below the horizon. Everyone joined in a solemn song, then four of the Cheyenne cut the white man down and separated the cruel bones from the swelling flesh.

 “His heart has not failed him,” declared the chief, which was the signal for the other braves to begin countless war cries meant to convey admiration and respect.

 Then the man was carried to a lodge were he would be nursed and watched over with even more reverence than what Case had experienced in the Ute village. White Moon stated soon after that he would relinquish all claim to his prisoner if he and his men would be granted safe passage out of Cheyenne territory. This was granted and the Utes began their long walk home. The following day Case was well enough to sit up and receive visitors.

 Forrester was quick to pay his respects, and to express his gratitude with words that were not overly elaborate or embarrassing to the receiver. Then Chief Brown Antelope arrived and requested Forrester to act again as translator.

 “You are now free to go or stay with us,” said the chief. “The Utes are not so very stupid. They would not insult my people by claiming a man who has earned our respect.”

 “Will you allow them to leave with their scalps?” asked Case.

 “It is done.”

 “Then I must leave this place and head east,” said Case. “Long Feather will send all of his braves to recapture me.”

 “Your blood would be useful in a war with the Pale Faces. But the end would be the same. The cannon is unstoppable. It is sad that Long Feather does not see this.”

 The scar faced man shrugged and said, “He would be a bad chief if he did not place his people above my freedom. I do not fault him for wanting me back. But as you say, my sacrifice would not save the Utes from the American army.

 “Will you cross the river called Mississippi?” asked the chief.

 “No. I will only go far enough to protect your village. Then I will head south. I seek to learn all that I can about the Comanche and their dealings with the Comancheros.”

 “I know little of the Comanche. The Kiowa dwell between us and their grass is not as good as ours. But I know the Utes. They will not make war on the Cheyenne Nation.”

 “No. Just this village. Just long enough to haul my ass back into the mountains where they could make you pay dearly for revenge.”

 “If we can alert the other villages, then you could stay here,” said Forrester.

 “To do what? I can’t make any money in this part of the country. No. I’m heading east for three or four days anyway.”

 “If that is your wish, I would suggest that we proceed to Fort Mackey. It is being built by a Lieutenant Colonel Edwin Vose Sumner of the 1^st U.S. Dragoons. He owes me for a pot bellied stove, and possesses much knowledge of the lands south of his location.”

“You think he might know how the plans for Fort Union are shaping up?”

 “Perhaps. But as I said once before, you could be in for a long wait.”

 Case’s expression turned inward and he replied, “Forrester, waiting is something I do better than any man alive.”

 Brown Antelope felt a strange chill run through him. He knew that he was in the presence of a great mystery and wondered if that mystery might be more lasting than the four winds that blew across the land. He would gaze onto many a future camp fire and wonder what force had passed his way.

 Life was pain.

 Life was unanswered questions.

Chapter 49

The man who called himself Rockwell stood on a high piece of ground and pointed his spyglass at the lead wagon. His timing (as always) was perfect. The setting sun was directly above him, allowing people in the distance to view him as their wagons slowly approached the crossing point that was down stream of the mysterious onlooker. Standing alone, in the open and unarmed, he was not a provocative target. (Especially not at three-hundred yards.) But the recent gunshots had put the starch back in the otherwise lackadaisical soldiers, so they advanced ahead of the wagon column with their carbines at the ready.

 “Where did the shots come from?!” shouted a dragoon sergeant from his position on the river.

 The man with the spyglass pointed to where the wagon train was bound for and shouted, “The soldiers are chasing Indians!”

 Predictably, the remaining detail galloped forward intending to cross the river ahead of all the wagons. But before the first hooves could get muddy, a rider came charging up from behind yelling, “It’s a trap! Dismount!”

 Dragoon Sergeant Paddy O’Neil didn’t need to be told twice. He immediately echoed the command while turning his animal to the left. With no fire to return the dragoons quickly guided their mounts back behind the first wagon and then did two things simultaneously: The soldiers formed a half circle ahead of the lead wagon, and instructed the other wagons to form a protective circle one-hundred and fifty yards to the rear.

 Then O’Neil turned to the newcomer and said, “Yer a might far a field Kit.”

 “Ground passes by quick while chasing the likes of that fellow,” said Kit Carson.

 “You know him then.”

 “Don’t usually shot at strangers who just stand there,” responded the newcomer, who then proceeded to rest his long barreled Hawken rifle on a large boulder.

 Interestingly enough, the man with the spyglass remained on his stand; his demeanor a stark contradiction to what the newcomer had to say.

 “Aim high me lad. Yer ball will drop like Horny Dave’s trousers at that range.”

 The newcomer placed his forefinger within the ornamental trigger guard, where not one but two triggers awaited. The back trigger was a set trigger, which he squeezed without delay. In doing so, he turned the forward trigger into what was known as a hair trigger. That feature would give the shooter a one half pound squeeze, which would help a lot at maximum range.

 The shooter let out half a breath as the trigger finger reached half a pound. Then the heavy rifle pushed back on the man’s shoulder and belched out a load of white smoke. O’Neil was thankful for his position because it enabled him to watch a hat go flying from a man’s head.

 “Serves me right for taking the advice of a drunken Irishman,” growled the shooter.

 “Coleman confiscated me Mother’s Milk two days ago. Half the men on the train have been waiting fer me ta get the horrors, but that sort of thing is fer ordinary men who are Germans and Frogs and such.”

 The shooter ignored the long winded Mick and reloaded quickly while keeping his eyes glued to the pompous bastard who had lost his hat. The man was still on his perch, like nothing had happened.

 “He is a valorous fellow, but then those religious types can be that way,” the shooter half muttered to himself as he prepared the Hawken for another shot.

 “I’m still waiting on his name, Kit.”

 “Porter Rockwell.”

 The sergeant’s mouth dropped open as Kit Carson brought out a fresh percussion cap. But as the scout shouldered the heavy rifle, his target turned and dropped down behind some tall brush.

 “Coleman should be sneaking up on their rear ends soon enough,” said the non-com.

 “Coleman and the others are probably dead. That is why you must remain with the wagons and hope that the bushwhackers do not attempt to salvage the situation. .”

 “And in the morning?”

 “Get this wagon train heading back to Big Bend. As soon as the sun is down I’m going for proof that my target was Rockwell.

 The sergeant scratched his head in bewilderment.

 “It did look like him. But he’s a lawman now in the Utah territory. I’d bet me drunken cat on it.”

 “He carries a church badge, and follows church orders,” amended the scout from Taos New Mexico. “I’m thinking that he has secret orders to halt western immigration until his master can assemble a kingdom in Utah that is too powerful to contend with.”

 “Don’t talk nonsense, Man. President Fillmore appointed Brigham Young first governor of the territory.”

 “Yup, on the recommendation of an abolitionist lawyer. Washington is thick with em these days. I don’t trust Brigham Young and if he wants a passel of women to call his own he should become an Injun.”

 “Not much future in being a Redskin,” muttered the sergeant.

 “Wish I could say the same for lawyers,” Carson responded.

 Two hours later Carson’s bony frame was snaking through the sandy bottom land. He was thankful for the moonless night, and the fact that O’Neil was willing to follow instructions from a man who was not employed by the 1^st Dragoons. That was the funny thing about being a scout; men would have to decide whether or not to trust their lives to you. Sometimes they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Then the scout might pay the ultimate price for leaving his overpopulated homeland back east.

 Carson was lucky to run into O’Neil, who’s duties as a soldier had brought him into the Santa Fe area more than once. Turning a wagon train around when its inhabitants are only set to move westward, is not an easy task. It was a job happily given to the sergeant. It was bad enough that he was not being paid to leave his young wife and chase after an extremely dangerous man. He was in no mood to listen to the grousing of a bunch of tenderfoots who didn’t know a rattlesnake from a length of hemp.

 The scout averaged about one-hundred yards per hour with his belly crawl. This creep was harder than most because the men he was hunting took baths. That was the only explanation for it. He’d come to a flattened out section of grass and stick his nose to it. But he got nothing. No stink, no tobacco, no nothing. Carson kept at it until he was beyond every vantage point on his side of the river. Then it was time to cross---and he sure as hell didn’t feel good about that.

 He took out a piece of cork and shoved it into the muzzle of the Hawken barrel. Then he removed the percussion cap and pressed a thumb over the ignition nipple. His powder supply was in a water proof powder horn acquired from a young bull so there were no worries concerning that. Carson also carried a small medicine bag around his neck which contained his fire starting moss. He would add the caps to it before taking to the water, which was not deep, but could get a crouching man mighty wet all the same.

 When he reached the other side, he was still alive, and convinced that his quarry had withdrawn to the other side of of a solitary hill. There they would mount their horses and head for a natural depression that could hide a campfire as well as themselves. Carson would go back for his horse and then slowly work around the hill where the brush seemed heaviest. Then he would try to put himself in Rockwell’s shoes and guess where he and his followers would ride to get clear of the area.

 “Porter Rockwell,” he thought as he re-crossed the river. “Lord Almighty---I’d rather go after a grizzly that’s got it in for me!”

Chapter 50

Case and Forrester and the mules were reunited with the wagon and more than a little pleased to discover that nothing had been removed from the box.

 “I do not doubt that your extraordinary feat of manhood is responsible for the lack of thievery,” said the muleskinner as he hitched up his team.

 “I suppose, but if this wagon was full of Sharps rifles, I’d have to hang by those chest stickers until the end of the world to keep your cargo in that box.”

 “And then throw a boulder at the moon,” added Forrester in agreement.

 The two men rode the wagon in silence for a while, then the scar faced man made a difficult decision and asked, “do you think Jesus suffered more than I did?”

 Forrester required no deliberation.

 “Of course he did.”

 “What makes you so sure?” pressed Case. “If he could do miracles, then maybe he could dull his own pain.”

 “The Devil would not allow such cheating,” responded Forrester.

 Case’s jaw almost hit his lap.

 “What are you talking about? There wasn’t any devil on that hill. Just a man-god who opened up his mouth too many times and got mixed up with some really bad politics. I don’t know how or why he got screwed up with those damn Pharisees.  I just know that he did, then I---uh—that is--- some Roman soldiers where made out to be villains for doing their job!”

 The muleskinner frowned at the strange outburst and said, “I have often wondered what damage would be inflicted upon the world if God and Satan were to fight with all there power. I competition for humanity might be the sensible alternative. Bargains struck, and scrupulous adhered to. Most Christians believe that the mortal death of Jesus, was part of such a bargain between great powers.”

 Case rolled his eyes at that assessment.

 “By the balls of Jupiter! How does a man who rides over mule shit, then spill the banks of English.”

 “My mother did not ride over mule shit,” explained Forrester, “and I would remind you that honest work is a poor reflection on the size of a man’s wit.”

 “You’re still doing it,” growled Case.

 “You brought up the subject of the crucifixion, not I. Now I feel entitled to ask how you came by your opinions.”

 “The same way all men come by their beliefs: by listening to their elders,” lied Case.

 Nothing more was said for the better part of the afternoon. Then suddenly Case twisted around in his seat and stared at the bend that they had just rounded.

 “I think I hear something.”

 Sure enough, after a few moments a lone rider appeared and galloped up to the wagon.

 “What in tar nation,” muttered the driver

 White Moon took a position on the wagon’s right and looked like he was posing for a photograph.

 “Why aren’t you heading home with your brother warriors?” asked Case.

 “I cannot return to my village. I would be shamed. I will go with you.”

 “To what end?”

 “One with blood and honor,” answered the Ute. “I cannot match your power, but I can ride beside you and live in your story.”

 “If you were a Comanche, I’d be interested, but I believe you’d be nothing but trouble where we’re heading.”

 “Camp Mackay would probably trade him traveling gear in exchange for labor and any meat he could bring in,” pointed out the wagon master.

 Case snorted at the idea.

 “What will he hunt with? He’s got nothing but the Cheyenne horse that he must have stolen last night.”

 “Soldiers probably have a souvenir bow and arrow set, or maybe even an old trade musket they could borrow him. After he’s proved his worth with the carpenters that is.”

 “I’ll let him ride ahead of us until we get there,” Case said reluctantly, “but if the owner of that horse shows up, don’t expect me to get involved.”

 That satisfied all parties concerned and enabled the men to travel in silence until they reached the Cimarron Crossing and traversed the shallow water before sundown. One the opposite bank Forrester let loose with a squirt of tobacco and stared around in puzzlement.

 “Many wagons,” said White Moon.

 “A train that did not cross the river,” elaborated the muleskinner. “They came as far as this bank, then turned around and headed back towards Camp Mackay. That can only mean that their scouts detected danger ahead.”

“Well, they should be at the camp when we arrive. If they call for reinforcements before coming back here, I just might get to talk to a scout who knows the lands to the north,” reasoned Case.

 “Your interest in Colorado is curious.”

 “Let me know if it gets on your nerves,” responded the scar faced man.

Chapter 51

In June of 1851, Camp Mackay would become Fort Atkinson. But in the late fall of 1850, it still went by its temporary name. It was just as well. Atkinson  was not exactly original. There was a Fort Atkinson in Nebraska between 1819 and 1827. There were also forts by that name in Louisiana and Iowa. The Kansas outpost would be 150 feet on the north side, 355 feet on the east and west sides and 80 feet on the south wall after an extension was added. On the average, eighty men were kept busy constructing their future home while an equal number of Dragoons would come and go on patrols or escort duty.

 The fort was built of sod and adobe brick and in just two years would begin to fall apart. But Lt. Col. Edwin Vose Sumner had no such concerns when it was being built. It was a good place to fight Indians from. Certainly better than any hill or ravine out in the middle of nowhere. So when the Carlson party of sixteen wagons returned with Sergeant O’Neil commanding, the Colonel gave immediate orders to prepare for a siege.

 “I don’t believe the camp is in for it, sir,” the non-com stated as soon as he was able.

 “Why do you say that, Sergeant?”

 “It was Kit Carson who warned us that we were heading into an ambush. When we stopped the train short of the river, and even took a shot at the enemy leader, nothing came of it. Lieutenant Coleman and his advanced party were nowhere to be seen, but the enemy let us be when they saw that we weren’t going to cross the river. So I’m thinking that Lt. Coleman and his group might have reduced the enemies’ strength to the point where they couldn’t tangle with us on fair ground. If so, they won’t be attacking us here.”

 “If so you must have heard shots,” said the Colonel.

 “Yes sir, but not all that many. For a moment there we thought we heard a cannon going off, but that’s not very likely.”

 “You mentioned a leader. Are we talking about Cheyenne or Kiowa?”

 “Neither sir, he was a white man. In fact, he was the spitting image of Porter Rockwell. Mr. Carson said that it was truly him, but that don’t make a lot of sense to me sir.”

 “Me neither, Sergeant, but there are some folks who claim that Rockwell is insane, and I’d be inclined to take Kit Carson’s word on just about anything. Is he tracking the enemy now?”

 “Yes sir. That’s the only good news I’ve got for you. Mr. Carson thinks that our advanced party got the worst of the fight we heard, but it seemed too short to me, sir.”

 “In any event, tomorrow we will search for Coleman’s detail. We will also send the wagon train back to Big Bend and have them camp there until they can get an escort from Fort Leavenworth.”

 “Begging your pardon, sir, but them pilgrims don’t have enough food for that kind of delay.”

 “Colonel Belknap will deal with that problem. I’m inclined to think that Leavenworth still has beans left over from the last war.”

 “The ladies on the wagon train fed us better sir.”

 “They were in a position to do so, O’Neil. We on the other hand are merely in a position to keep them alive. Since you’re so close to retirement, I’ll allow you to continue your escort duty back to Big Bend.”

 “No thank you, sir. I’m anxious to see if Lieutenant Coleman is alright. I’ll have the men ready to move at first light.”

 The old Irishman saluted smartly and headed back to tend to his horse. He only slightly regretted turning down the escort duty. An apple pie was a glorious way to avoid the scurvy.

Chapter 52

 Kit Carson crushed a horse apple with his boot and concluded that the animal had crapped sometime last night. That had been a sleepless night filled with anticipated bushwhacking that never occurred. . At first light Carson was able to ascertain that the marauders had planned every move to perfection. A ravine cut by a river tributary had shielded their exit from the bank area.

 The lone hill had failed to show it, but at least it helped him find the dead soldiers so he wouldn’t waste any more time fretting over the possibility of wounded. Once on the trail, it was a simple matter of closing the distance. The enemy had traveled all through the night and into the next day. Carson could not say the same, but his quarry wasn’t certain about their course, whereas Carson was dead certain about his.

 The marauders rarely looked back. They expected the Dragoons to stay with the wagons. They were still ignorant of the scout who would track them to the Halls of Montezuma if need be. Of course the bushwhackers weren’t planning on leaving the territory. On the second night the marauders made camp, and Carson spent about two hours getting situated down wind of the fire so as to get an ear full.

 He was successful in that regard. The man who called himself Porter Rockwell was the sort of leader who liked to repeat himself, for the benefit of those followers who were short on brains and long on brawn.

 “Let us review the overall strategy. Clear Creek is isolated and controlled by our forces. Our engineering people will use advanced science to gather gold from the creek itself. Their goal is to obtain enough wealth to purchase all the land for several miles, as well as hire mercenaries to guard extended borders. Then in the following year we will mine underground and hopefully produce enough gold to accomplish in the Colorado area, what we tried to bring about in California. But in order to form our own country, we not only need material wealth, we also need to crush the Mormons, and weaken the United States military.”

 “Crush, sir? I thought we were just going to use the Mormons as a temporary scapegoat,” said one of the brighter men. “I realize that they have ambitions, but they’re not warriors like us.”

 “They become what they need to be,” corrected the leader. “Mark my words: if the gold deposits near the mountains equal those found in California, it stands to reason that the empire builders on both sides of us will do all that they can to gain part of that wealth. But we must have it all, if we are to immerge from the shadows and become a country. Now I was counting on the building tools known to be on that wagon train, but I believe we can construct a suitable shelter on the Purgatoire River without them. In any case, tomorrow I will have Alexander ride north to make contact with our comrades on the Oregon Passage. If they encounter any wagons with suitable building tools, those implements will be pack hauled down to our building site without delay. I’m gambling that we have at least another month before the snows give us any trouble.”

 “Sir, shouldn’t we be operating further north?,” asked a subordinate named Daniel. “I appreciate the need to draw the American dragoons away from our comrades on the Oregon Trail, but we’re so far south that we can’t support them if that should prove necessary.”

 “It won’t become necessary,” stated the leader, “because we are about to get a great deal of help from a source that is near us, and is also delightfully expendable. A load of Sharps rifles will be arriving where William Bent is constructing his new fort. With those rifles I intend to kill two birds with one stone. Those rifles are the property of The Brotherhood, and the wagon driver is one of the faithful. His mission is to let Bent stumble onto the rifles and discover that the weapons are bound for Utah. Then Brother Charles Atwater will arrive with his men dressed as Indians. The Savages will make off with the rifles, much to the disparity of the witnesses.

 The rifles will then be given to the Ute Indians on the condition that they kill off the Cheyenne and just about everyone one else in the area except us. At the same time Mr. Bent will report yet another shipment of modern rifles heading for Utah, and no one will be able to ascertain where they are coming from.”

 Daniel hesitated for an instant and then said, “Sir, wouldn’t it have been more logical to give the rifles to a Cheyenne tribe? The Utes are further west.”

 “So is our make believe Mormon crisis. So are the passes the Army will need to travel through with heavy cannon.”

 The leader then drew a crude triangle in the dirt near the fire.

 The Santa Fe trail has two branches that rejoin together to form a triangular loop. We must operate within this loop to keep the wagon trains at bay. But we are also in the process of convincing the United States Government that Brigham Young is organizing an insurrection. Now the Utes are on good terms with the Mormons who give them cigars and whiskey. But we will give them Sharps rifles, so that they will kill any messengers that attempt to take letters in and out of Mormon lands.

 Of course some will manage to get through, but not enough to effectively contradict the idea that the Morons are severing ties with the United States. In any case, we need to maintain a broad front for the U.S. Army to deal with. That is why it is necessary that we operate as far south as we have gone.”

 “But if we do not give any guns to the Cheyenne, we will have no scouts to inform us when the Army has entered our sector of the trail loop,” Daniel pointed out. “They could stumble on us and wipe us out to a man.”

 “If so we will be replaced by those who are still grinding their teeth over the failing in California. We will be replaced by brothers who will not allow Clear Creek to become another Sutter’s Mill.”

 “The Roman was to blame for California,” said a man named Andrew. “But after the Mexican war, that devil most likely headed back to Europe. He won’t be meddling in our business a second time.”

 “California was a worthy project,” said the Rockwell double, “but it was too aggressive. We know now that we shall never have our own country. The Brotherhood of the Lamb was always meant to exist within a host body that is ignorant of our existence. But to get hold of the natural resources of a land before anyone else can; that is never a foolish idea. It is God’s will, or the greatest geologist that ever lived would not have dropped into our laps so many years ago.”

 “Excuse me, sir, but he did not drop into our laps. He was sought out by far sighted men who understood that slaughtering Aztecs was not the best way to find gold,” said Daniel.

 “Nor is slaughtering Utes,” countered the leader. “Therefore, tomorrow he head for the rendezvous point where we shall await the shipment of modern rifles. Now get some sleep. It is unlikely that the Army will send out any Cherokee trackers after us, but I’m not going to risk it. We will ride hard tomorrow and may God have mercy on the horses.”

 Kit Carson backed off after a few moments of silence. Then he carefully made his way back to his mount and pointed the animal’s nose toward the distant Fort Mackay. If any prospectors were running without the benefit of a wagon train, they would show up at Mackay in hopes of traveling in a Dragoon patrol’s wake.  Such men might be willing to travel to Clear Creek, after entering into a kind of partnership with the likes of Carson.

 In any case, the army needed to be informed about this strange gang of bushwhackers who obviously were bent on making as much trouble as any Indian tribe could inflict. Whoever those characters were, they needed to get their rear ends kicked out of the territory, so that peaceable frontiersmen like himself could stake out the best claims before the eastern dudes overran the place.

Chapter 53

Camp Mackay was just about the largest propped up barricade Case had ever seen. He was almost certain that if he were to stomp his foot with enough force, the entire ring of sod and poorly set earth works would fall right over. Clearly, their chief construction engineer must have been sent out west for shagging a commandant’s wife or daughter.

 Well, it didn’t matter much to Case. There was at least a dozen Indians wearing white man’s clothing, and only one of them needed to know about the lands that extended into Texas. While Forrester presented himself to the commanding officer, Case prepared to make use of one of his favorite social door openers. He had noticed a broken wagon wheel still attached to an overturned wagon. Drawing his knife, he threw the pig sticker at the 12 o’clock spoke from a distance of seven paces.

 Three times the knife went flying and three times the heavy blade stuck in the hard wood. Soon thereafter he was in the company of three Cherokee Indians who were willing to play the newcomer’s game. The four men pretty much equaled each other in skill, but there was one Indian scout who hinted with his throwing that he might be just a tad better than the other three. His name was Ashwin, and he was a gamester of the first rank.

 “Never before have I seen a white eyes who could throw so well,” the Indian said politely.

 “I am equally impressed with your English, sir,” responded Case.

 The other Indians chuckled slightly but Ashwin merely smiled.

 “The Cherokee are very familiar with the White Man’s ways. Unfortunately, it has not benefited us as well and we had hoped. Both my parents died on the Trail of Tears back in 1838, but I do not hate you white men for that.”

 “Why not?”

 “Because I realized that the United States government simply does not know what it is doing most of the time. It tries to control whole nations of people. That is not a natural thing. Killing and enslaving an enemy when he is weaker than you. That is more natural. But I suppose the Christian religion is responsible for the odd kindnesses that sometimes come on the end of a long knife.”

 “Civilized warfare? Yea, I guess I’ve seen my fare share of that sort of thing. Anyway, I’m fond of saying that you Indians have got to think like individuals. As a race, you’re pretty much all through.”

 “Why do you think we are here?” asked Ashwin with an amused look. “Scouting comes natural to us. It is better than farming or digging outhouses in a town.”

 “Ah---not to change the subject, but I’ve been admiring that elk skin vest of yours. Any possible way I might win it throwing again?”

 “The Indian pretended to think it over for a moment and then said, “I will throw with you once more. At twelve paces instead of seven. If you win, the vest is yours. If I win---I get your rifle.”

 “A Hawken is a heavy piece for a scout.”

 “My horse will carry it for me until I am ready to shoot,” replied the Indian.

“Yea, that works until something spooks your horse, but who am I to stand here and call your horse a coward.

 The Cherokee ignored the bad joke and asked, “Do we have a bet?”

 “We do,” confirmed the white man.

 They flipped a coin to determine who would throw first and the honor went to Ashwin. They lined up a fresh wheel spoke and the Indian threw his blade with little ceremony. It stuck halfway to center which caused a gathering audience to nod in approval. The blade was removed and everyone waited on the scar faced man. The white man placed an almost hypnotic gaze on the wagon spoke, and then did a most remarkable thing. He turned his back on the target and gazed off in the opposite direction.

 Everyone was stymied, but the frontier teaches patience, so every man among them kept their mouths shut. Then suddenly Case’s back foot stepped over and both feet pivoted smartly. The knife was above his shoulder before the turn was even completed, and the big man killing blade streaked out with an ever so perceptible whistle.

 “Holy shit,” muttered a private who was still learning how to throw.

 Case’s blade was about an eighth of an inch closer to center, but it was the launching technique that added so much to the close victory.

 “You must have been practicing when I was still in short britches,” commented another of the soldiers.

 “You got the right idea,” said Case as he turned to face the other thrower.

 “A dollar a day, when you can pay me,” stated the Indian.

 “We head out as soon as you’re saddled,” said Case.

 “Aye, but not to go south. We’re all heading back to the Cimarron crossing, and maybe to hell beyond that,” corrected a sergeant named Timons.

 “I didn’t know you were actually in the army,” Case said to the Cherokee.

 “He isn’t, but we need every mother’s son for what might be ahead,” replied the sergeant.

 “Ah bull,” said Case. “Forrester and I just had a nice long visit with the Cheyenne. Trust me, the natives are not restless.”

 “We’re talking about Porter Rockwell and his pack of holy rollers,” growled Timons.

 “I believe you are referring to the Pentecostals, Sergeant,” said an overweight soldier with reading spectacles on his nose.

 “Crap,” responded the non-com. “Get your arses moving. That includes you, Mr. Scar Face.”

 “You have no authority over me,” Case stated.

 “Out here we got never ending martial law. Do as you’re told or else.”

 Case rolled his eyes and then went to get his mount. To his surprise, Forrester was also preparing to head down the trail.

 “You think your mule wagon can keep up with these Dragoons?”

 “That is not my purpose. I shall carry food and ammunition beyond the Cimarron crossing, so that the horse soldiers can range farther a field.”

 “Great. Now who’s this Porter Rockwell character?”

 “He is proof that the Mormons are not followers of Jesus. He is the hand of retribution, and that hand does the bidding of Brigham Young.”

 “I don’t want to hear about Jesus. I want to hear about this Rockwell fellow.”

 “With pistol, knife or fist, he has no equal. He avenged many a Mormon back in Missouri. When Brigham Young took his followers west, we did not expect to see the Avenging Angel again, yet he has returned. It would seem that he wishes to stop the wagon trains until his people are prepared to dictate terms of travel though the western passes. I think the Mormons are tired of being oppressed. It would seem that from now on, they will attempt to deal with their fellow Americans from a position of strength.”

 “If you say so. All I know is that I’m being shanghaied without the benefit of a ship or water. Couldn’t someone at least come up with a decent sized war before shoving me into it?”

 Col. Sumner brought his mount up for a moment and stared at the newcomer with the strange sense of humor.

 “Is that what you want; warfare on a grand scale? Well sir, we’re within striking distance of the Cheyenne, Kiowa, Ute, Apache and Arapaho nations. Of course I’m not counting the small fry. Each man is armed with a carbine that is great for defending a log cabin but out of doors everything is a mite too far off to hit. Your Hawken has more accuracy but that will not comfort you when fifty braves come at you at once.”

 “Not to change the subject, Colonel, but all I hear is talk about Mormons who don’t believe in turning the other cheek,” said Case.

 ‘Yes, but they aren’t going to wipe us out. The Indians on the other hand---“

 “Sir, we found what’s left of the Coleman detail! All dead, sir!” shouted Sergeant O’Neil has he and his men rode in to join the men who were about to ride out.

 “Caught out in the open were they?” inquired the officer.

 “No sir. They came in under the shade of trees growing along the river bank. That would make them bad targets, unless the enemy could get within sixty feet or so.”

 “In the daytime? I can’t believe it.”

 “That’s not all sir. It looked to me like most of them took grape shot from a cannon. Then the rest caught flanking fire from revolvers. Wounds were smaller than a .69.”

 “A cannon would leave tracks unless they scraped them away.”

 “No sign of any such thing, Colonel. Maybe they had some kind of Navy swivel gun. I just don’t know what else to think.”

 “Any sign of Carson?”

 “Yes sir. He is heading west along the north side of the river.”

 “Very well then. We will proceed to where Mr. Bent is constructing his new trading post.

 The sergeant frowned that that.

 “But sir, that’s one hell of a long ways off.

 “Yes, and if we’re lucky, someone will come along while we’re gone and destroy the place. Then we’ll have an excuse to build all over again. This engineering work is an embarrassment.”

 The sergeant grinned as he went for his horse. He didn’t like engineering officers; especially incompetent ones. Hopefully this one would end up earning his pay with a rifle---or even a shovel.

Chapter 54

Camp Mackay wasn’t the only structure west of the Mississippi that looked like it was going down more than it was going up. William Bent’s second emporium in the wilderness was also having engineering difficulties because its chief contractor had come down with the shakes. No one knew the cause of the malaria like fevers that could strike a body down without warning. Only thing that mattered was that when they got hold of a man, they could make him look like he was demon possessed on his sweat covered cot.

  The fort builder was the last man that Bent wanted to see incapacitated. A one-hundred and eighty by one-hundred and thirty foot fortress was no big thing to the army, but to William Bent Private Citizen if was the whole west laid out under a watchful God. So when his chief engineer took sick, he didn’t let the other workers guess how to erect the fifteen foot high adobe walls. He just sent them on hauling details while a pair of camp tenders plied the contractor with all the boiled water he could stand.

 The corner section was just large enough to support an improvised thatch roof in case of rain, and a trench was dug to complete a defensive triangle. But no frontiersman wanted to fight like a gopher, so the trench was used mostly to store perishables.

 When the stranger showed up with a lightly loaded wagon, only Harvey Kemp and Jake Goodwin were at the building site to greet him. (Not counting the sick man who was sheltered in the corner section of adobe)

 “Howdy Friend. What outfit you down from?” inquired Kemp.

 “Golden Cross Transport out of St. Louie,” responded the driver. “My name is Nicolas Tralain.”

 “Boss never mentioned that outfit. What you got fer us---iron work?”

 “Oh I’m not dropping off, sir. Just like to rest my horses someplace where my shipment will be safe. Got one-hundred Sharps rifles under that tarp, and I sure wish there was more than just the two of you gents to help me guard them.”

 “They got Sharps rifles for sale in St. Louis?” Kemp asked excitedly.

 “Not exactly,” the driver replied. “The smoke poles came down from Philadelphia. They were made at the A.S. Nippes gun works then sent down to us for further transport.”

 “But if you’re bound for Ft. Marcy you’re on the wrong trail, mister.”

 The driver shook his head. “Ain’t heading south. I’m bound for the Utah territory.”

 “You mean those guns are for Mormons,” Goodwin asked incredulously. “That ain’t natural. All them desert folks wanna do is hump each other’s brains out. We’re the ones who have to fight Injuns that get pissed off at the army. Them rifles should go to folks like us.”

 “That ain’t for me to judge,” said the driver, “but it sounds to me like the army is doing as much harm as good in these parts.”

 “Sometimes,” admitted Kemp. “They go chasing after some bad Injuns and accidentally shoot up some good ones. Mr. Bent gets real upset when that sort a thing happens. He’s what ya call a first class dip-lo-mat with most redskins in these parts.”

 “Good to hear. Maybe I’ll be safe here then,” said the driver as he unhitched his team of four.

 “Well, park that rig across our open flank, so we got a kind of completed triangle of sorts. Two short wall sections won’t protect us from nothing, but we can tip the wagon over if need be and then have a three walled enclosure that’s better than a L shape.”

 The driver stared beyond the open flank, as if he could see what would come from that quarter.

 Kemp licked his lips in thought for a moment and said, “Listen here, you can’t be much more than twenty. I’ll bet you get a terrible itch sometimes. Fer one of them rifles, I could get you the best humping Kickapoo woman within a hundred miles.”

 The driver struggled not to show his contempt for the would be flesh peddler.

 “It would cost me my job. Besides, what would I do with the woman after returning to St. Louis?”

 “You sell her when yer about three or four days this side of the Mississippi,” the man answered as if speaking to a dolt.

 “I’ll have to pass,” said the driver with his face turned away.

 At sundown the laborer was still fuming over his inability to do a deal with the driver when suddenly everyone was given something more important to think about. A lone rider came in at full gallop, and by the looks of him, he wasn’t looking for a woman either.

 “Arapaho!” the man shouted as he brought his mount out of its run.

 “This far south? Can’t remember the last time the Cheyenne let that happen,” said Goodwin.

 “My guess is they be waitin fer dark. What you boys got---whisky?”

 “Better, Sharps rifles,” said Kemp.

 “By the powers,” breathed the newcomer, who had a fist wrapped around a muzzle loading Ohio Rifle.

“Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” Goodwin said with a smile.

 “I can’t. I don’t have any bullets,” confessed the young man. “I’ve got percussion caps for ignition, but no lead.”

 “What!? What damn fool hauled rifles without all the possibles?” Kemp demanded to know.

 “Oh let it be!” commanded the newcomer. “Boy, be these rifles .52 caliber?”

 “Uh---yes. I think.”

 “Well, my Ohio rifle is a .50. I once saw a man wrap an undersized ball in leather. Worked pretty fair. Don’t suppose you got any thin leather to play with.”

 “I think we do, but our muskets are all .69, so it’s your lead or nothing,” said Kemp.

 “I don’t mind sharing, but have yer muskets ready all the same. If the leather don’t take, you’ll want to use yer own pieces to take at least one red man into hell with you.”

 The driver studied the newcomer with suspicion. He was wearing a capote made from heavy woolen Indian blankets. Green in color, it was probably a very handsome coat in its day, but now it was filthy and blood stained in more than one place. Most of the pants was hidden, but it was obvious that he was wearing soft buckskin pants of some sort. The man also had on Indian style snow boots that would not last as long as a hard boot, but would be far more forgiving on the feet. Last but not least, he wore an old coyote cap with a beaver tail bill.

 The man himself was all beard and long hair, with weather beaten skin. Maybe in his late thirties. It was damn hard to tell.

 “You got a name you want to share? I’m Kemp. The one that looks like a farmer is Goodwin, and the young one is Tralaine. Got a sick man back in the corner there. For a spell his name could have been God. He sure gave orders like he was that high above us. Now he’s just sick old Williams.”

 “I’m John Hatcher,” the newcomer muttered while digging out a shiny new rifle and studying it with fascination.

 That shut Kemp up for a moment, and encouraged Goodwin to take his place.

 “We’re pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Hatcher, and we’re grateful that you rode in to warn us the way you did.”

“My horse was done in and I was expecting to find more than three men behind the brick work,” the mountain man said honestly.

 “And I thought you were down in Mexico buying horses for Mr. Bent,” said Kemp.

 “Yup, but I lost my bullet mold in the damn river day before last. Had to get me a new one from Zac Belmont before heading out. Lucky thing for you Bummers. I just caught on to them scalp hunters before crossing the turkey neck. Gotta admit, they got me more then a little puzzled. Most pee-culiar lookin Injuns I’ve ever seen. But they don’t mean us any good. That there is the only thing that matters.”

 Hatcher grabbed the trigger guard of the Sharps and pulled down on it. That opened the action of the rifle and exposed the back of the firing chamber. Normally a slightly oversized bullet would be pressed into the front of the chamber with the barrel angled downward. Then a paper tube filled with black powder would be pushed into the chamber behind the bullet. When the action was closed, a shearing block would cut the paper in the back, exposing the powder to a percussion flash. But on under the present circumstances, the defenders would just pour powder into the chamber from their powder horns.

 The real trick would be the ball. The leather would have to be cut into an oversized patch with a hole in the center. The nose of the bullet would be shoved through the hole with the patch material draped around the sides of the bullet. That way the undersized ball could catch the spiral grooves inside the barrel. That would spin the projectile and enable it to travel in a straight line. Too little leather and the bullet would lack sufficient spin. Too much, and the action might be damaged from an excess pressure build up

 Hatcher was pleased when he was given his first few pieces of hide and discovered that the thickness felt pretty good as it was forced into the chamber. He was even more pleased when Goodwin came us with some glue that would bond the leather to the lead so it would be easier to work with when the sun was down. They’d just have to have the stuff laid out on a blanket or something.

 “There they are!” Goodwin shouted.

 Three dozen riders filled out of a distant patch of woods and sat their ponies with their backs to a setting sun. They were four-hundred yards out, and in no particular hurry to test the marksmanship of the defenders.

 “They’re giving us time to think on our position,” said Kemp. “They must know that we don’t have the right sized lead.”

  “Or maybe they want us to know what’s coming, and they’re just waiting for a bit more darkness,” said Goldwin.

 “Is that what you think, Mr. Hatcher?” asked the driver.

 “If they know about these rifles, yes.”

 “Well, then I’m for giving them up. Since there’s no lead for the guns, maybe we can get the army after them before they can raid any wagon trains,” said Tralain.

 Ordinarily there would be at least two dozen men at the building site, each armed with either a Springfield musket or a trade gun of some sort. Under those circumstances Tralain’s suggestion would have been flatly rejected. But because there were only four men on their feet, and one delirious with fever, Goodwin and Kemp didn’t want to be the ones to decide what would happen to the rifles.

 “Even a corner of a building is better than a tree or a boulder,” said Hatcher. “I ain’t going to give up these fine weapons just because some Injuns are partial to the idea. Let em come in and show us some hair of the bear first.”

 “Now wait a minute,” jumped in the driver, “thirty-six braves with what you call hair of the bear, would most likely chop us to pieces before we could change our minds about dying for something that weighs about nine pounds. I’m in charge of those rifles and I say we don’t get killed over them. I’ll just haul the wagon off a few hundred yards and then high tail it back here. Alright, Gentlemen?”

 The mountain man spat out a plug of tobacco and fixed the younger man with a calm but determined look.

 “You ain’t taking this wagon anywhere this night. You try to move it, and I’ll be testing my first leather bound bullet on you.”

Tralain swallowed hard, but maintained eye contact with the hairy mountain man.

 “Alright. Fine---have it your way. I suppose the men at the Alamo showed the same kind of pluck. But they’re all dead now, and it didn’t gain Houston a thing.”

 “How would you know?” asked Hatcher while fiddling with an end section of the wagon tarp.

 “What you doing with that?” asked Goodwin.

 “Rifles ain’t crated with screws, only short nails. Easy work for my knife. I’m gunna slip the rifles out one at a time here. I want you boys to pass em back to where your sick man is without anyone out there seeing you do it.”

 The men did as they were directed, and whenever the driver issued a complaint, Kemp or Goodwin just stepped on his boot until he stopped bitching. By the time the task was completed, the distant riders were completely enveloped in darkness, and everyone imagined that a flanking movement was in progress.

 “How much powder do you men have here?”

 “A pair of twenty pound kegs. One full, and the other has maybe three pounds left,” answered Kemp with a hint of pride. “Mr. Bent believes in talking to Indians, but he also believes in being ready for anything.”

 “Hell I know that. Gimme the full keg.”

 “What fer?”

 “Gunna blow up the wagon.”

 “And take away our third wall?” protested Kemp.

 “Sounds sensible to me, Mr. Hatcher,” said the driver. “The guns are worth a lot more than the wagon is, and that trick just might convince the Indians that we’re not worth a fight.”

 “Good to hear,” mumbled Hatcher as he bored a hole through a cork stopper, “cause we don’t have time to make a proper slow burning fuse. The best we can do is pour out a powder trail that will run along the ground here, then climb up this here board ramp to where I’m fixing to have a paper tube that will get placed in the cork hole. I figure if you’re lucky, you might have four seconds to light the end of the trail and get back to us behind the wall.”

 “I don’t think I can do it.”

 “You have to. You’re the spriest, and you brought this damn unescorted wagon here in the first place. So it’s your job.”

 “Well, why can’t we make a longer powder trail?” asked Tralain.

 “Cause we can’t spare the powder. We gotta have enough left over for fightin if the Injuns don’t go away.”

 “You think they will,” asked Goodwin.

 “Iffin I was them, I wouldn’t,” Hatcher said matter-of-factly.

 The driver licked his lips and waited for Hatcher to complete his improvised explosive. Thank the Master that this flea bitten two legged animal was intelligent enough to keep the rifles safe, yet give the marauders an excuse for not coming in close.

 “Alright Boy, get a stick from the cooking fire and set yourself for some proper footwork.”

 With such a dangerous task at hand, the driver seemed to grow harder in the time it took for him to pick up a taper. When he touched off the powder his face became a mask of effort and determination. Twelve powerful strides and then a bit of a surprise for everyone. The driver launched himself like a swimmer diving horizontally from the edge of a pool. He dove head first into the trench works and was just a few inches from impact when the wagon became the center of a horrific shockwave. Man made thunder caused everyone’s ears to ring everything that wasn’t weighted down went flying in all directions.

 The construction site was enveloped in a huge cloud that was difficult to see now that the cooking fire had been scattered, but it could certainly be tasted and smelt. All the men coughed and kept their faces as close to the ground as possible for a couple of minutes. Then Hatcher picked up his Sharps and stepped clear of the stone work so that his voice could be heard in all directions. He shouted something in Arapaho, then in Cheyenne, then in Kiowa.

 “What’s he saying?” asked Goodwin.

 “He’s saying that only four modern rifles are left, and that if anyone wants them, he can come face Freckled Hand.”

 “Is that what the Indians call him?” asked the driver.

 “Kiowa do, but I reckon everyone who trades along the Santa Fe knows the name,” said Kemp.

 The men got down into prone firing positions and stared dourly at their open flank. It was a damn good thing that they had cleared out all the trees for two-hundred yards, but the Indians could still belly crawl up close to one-hundred yards and then let go with plenty of musket lead.

 “Maybe we aught to get Mr. Simmons out of his bunk,” suggested Goodwin. “He makes the best target of us all, even if he is in a bad way.”

 “Leave him be. They could raise his hair and he wouldn’t know it. That puts him way up on us,” said Hatcher.

 “Right as rain. Them Injuns don’t even wait till yer dead before they scalp you. Saw a man once: Injun sitting on him and sawing while the poor bugger was kicked the ground like---“

 “Shut up!” hissed Goodwin, who only got a grin from Kemp in return.

 Hatcher’s eyes suddenly narrowed and he studied a gray shape for a long spell before finally bringing the sights of his Ohio rifle to bear. Then for an instant, the night was beat back by a flash of muzzle fire and a distant voice cried out in pain.

 “Now that is interesting,” said Hatcher as he discarded his own rifle and picked up the Sharps and its improvised supply of ammo.

 “What is?” queried a concerned Tralain.

 “Injuns don’t cry out like that when they get hurt.

 “Can’t believe every savage can hold his tongue when a rifle ball hits him,” muttered Goldwin just before the distant scrub land lit up with the muzzle flashes of three dozen guns.

 “Judas Priest, this is like a war!” Kemp almost shouted.

 “Well at least you’re still alive to notice!” retorted the driver.

 “Work yer pieces!” commanded Hatcher, who then fired and reloaded the Sharps as fast as he could in the near darkness.

 Loading from a prone position was awkward for the four men, but it would have been considerably worse if they had been using front end loaders. The bad light, the lack of experience and the fear of a second volley all had their effect on the men. But they benefited from the fact that the men on the other side of the conflict had not come for a battle. Nor did they wish to accidentally shoot one of their own now that there were so many questions that needed answering. So they fired a second volley over the defender’s heads and then withdrew to conduct a brief war conference.

 Two of the fraudulent red men were drilled through the back while retreating but Hatcher and Kemp had no way of knowing that their improvised rounds had dealt mortal blows in the dark. All they could do was reload and sweat by the bucket while waiting for another volley. After a long period of silence Goodwin crawled over to where the last bricks had been mortared into the corner section. He cautiously peeked around the lip of the stone work and was relieved not to find any savages skulking towards him.

 “I’m thinking they’ll come up behind us sooner or later,” whispered the laborer.

 “Would have done it already if these here rifles were the only thing holding em back,” Hatcher reasoned. “So I’m thinking there’s something else.”

 “Like what?” asked Kemp with a dour expression.

 “This here is Bent’s property. Running down a wagon load of Sharps rifles is one thing, but killing Bent’s hired help is another.”

 Kemp snorted from his place in the earth.

 “Injuns don’t look on property the way whites do. Bent can talk to Injuns sure nuff, but Bent ain’t here and his shadow does not fall on us.”

 “If that is what you think then you should crawl out of here before the noose tightens,” said Hatcher.

 “I would if there was more cover,” Kemp shot back, “but I don’t figure I’d get far, so I’ll stay and get my hair lifted with Mr. John Hatcher, the only man to out shoot Jim Bridger.”

 Hatcher studied the night sounds for a bit, not all that enthralled with his present company. Then after a while he took a swig from his canteen and said, “I ain’t the only man to outshoot Jim Bridger. I’m just the only one inclined to brag on it.”

 “I reckon modesty is more becoming in some folks than other,” Kemp muttered.

 “Would be a ponderous burden for this child,” responded Hatcher while pushing additional bullets through leather diaphragms.

 A full hour passed by before Hatcher got wind of something and ordered his men to steady their pieces. Then another thunderous volley kicked up the dirt around the men and tore into what was left of the wagon wreck.

 “I think they finally got the elevation right,” muttered Goodwin after firing at one of many muzzle flashes.

 The men out in the dark had decided to sacrifice one of their own. When this became obvious to the wagon driver, he concluded that drastic action would have to be taken if he wanted to remain alive. So while the other three men set themselves for the next volley, Tralain pretended to check on the still unconscious engineer.

 “Get back in the hole,” growled Hatcher, “we can’t afford one less rifle!”

 Tralain waited until the rifleman was drawing a bead on another target, then reached into his coat and pulled out a Colt Baby Dragoon revolver. The compact five shot revolver did not abound in accuracy, but for back shooting at twenty feet, it gave adequate service. Goodwin was the first to take a .31 ball in the spinal column. He died thinking he had been shot by a flanking Indian.

 Kemp witnessed the treachery but was holding a single shot rifle that had yet to be reloaded. So he dropped the heavy weapon and reached for his musket. His hand closed around the long barrel just before a ball smashed into his skull.  Then it was Hatcher’s turn to stare betrayal in the face as the revolver was cocked for the third time. Again the little pistol spat flame, but the ball only grazed the mountain man. The shot had gone wild because of a larger explosion that had taken place behind Tralain.

 The engineer was sitting up in his cot, a smoking .69 caliber pistol became too heavy for him and it fell on the cot between his legs. Then another volley raked the semi-enclosure and Williams fell back on his cot. He was cured of the fever, and every other discomfort affixed to his mortal shell.

 Then the night marauders scrambled to their feet and began a one-hundred and fifty yard charge at a now solitary defender. Hatcher picked up his Ohio rifle and prepared to make one last shot. He preferred to die with his old gun in hand because it felt better. That and a close up view of his attackers would make for a perfect death. He was real curious to know which tribe they came from. He deftly shot the fastest of the runners and then got powerfully confused when more than one man fell down.

 It was too dark for him to see the Cheyenne arrow sticking out of the second man’s back, but a flash of light appeared far out on the right flank, and that gave Hatcher something to smile about. The newly arrive force was smaller but cloaked in mystery so the make believe Indians retreated as if of a single mind. Hatcher was still wondering about that when Hank Pots jogged up to the demolished wagon.

 “Hatcher? John Hatcher?”

 “Yea Pots---it be me.”

 Sixteen white men and three Cheyenne Indians rushed in after Pots and fanned out across the killing ground. After a few moments of silence, reports were shouted out in more than one language.

 “White men?” Hatcher asked incredulously before sprinting up to the nearest corpse.

 “Ain’t that a kick in the head,” said Pots. “Course, it does make a bit of sense when you think on it. Mr. Bent has a few enemies. What better way to get shed of him and put the tattle on the Injuns.”

 “But Bent hasn’t been here for quite a spell.”

 “But he would have been here if that devil Rockwell hadn’t come back out of Utah,” reasoned Pots. Bent wants this place supplied, but he wants Rockwell even more. Bent will be foot loose until The Avenging Angel is brought to ground.”

 “Lot of head scratching goes with this. If Bent can make sense of it all, I’ll bring up them horses for him for free, by God.”

 “We not work for free,” said a Cheyenne standing over a freshly scalped corpse.

 “I ain’t forgotten,” said Hatcher with an up raised hand.

 The mountain man went to where the rifles were stashed and picked up three. He handed them to the Cheyenne knowing that the mercenary scouts would now be his friends for life.

 “Teach us to load, Freckled Hand.”

 “He will soon enough,” Pots assured the Indians, “but first he needs to explain why there would be any back shooting.”

 “Ain’t got the why of it, Pots. Goodwin and Kemp both got shot by that young fella still clutching the Baby Dragoon. The engineer came out of his fever long enough to plug him in turn. But then an Injun volley put the engineer under. You opened up with your pieces about two seconds later, and I am obliged.”

 Pots shook his head in wonder and said, “Hatcher, I best remember never to play cards with you. You are the luckiest critter I seen in all my born days. People killing every which way and you come out of it without nary a scratch. If we was all back in Ohio, a jury would probably have to pick over the bones of your story for a month or two.”

 “It do look complicated,” admitted Hatcher, “but all the bullet wounds will tell the same story I just did.”

 “Stands to reason,” Pots said with a small nod. “You wouldn’t have sent these Cheyenne to find my boys and bring us here on the run if you planned on murdering anybody this night. I’m thinking the driver was gun running for Rockwell. If his band of cutthroats is already armed with Sharps rifles, then I reckon he’ll be sending more of the same back to Utah.”

 “But he wouldn’t want to back shoot his company unless------unless he knew that them Injuns weren’t really Injuns,” muttered Hatcher.

 Rockwell might have his reasons to dress some of his men up like Injuns, but if that driver was also a Rockwell man, why would he get himself on the opposite side of a fight?” mused Pots.

 “Hell and tar nation,” exclaimed Hatcher. “I ain’t been this confused since downing my first jug of tangelfoot. I ain’t gunna rest until I got me some answers.”

 “That goes fer all of us,” replied Pots, “but a Sharps rifle fer each man would tide us over fine enough until we get them answers.”

 “My pleasure, Gents, but yer gunna need to do a bit of work with .50 ball if you want to shoot them things right off. I will show you my brilliant invention which requires a patch of leather, nimble fingers and a practiced eye. Course I’ll expect some grave digging done in exchange.”

 Satisfied shrugs went all around and each man grabbed a pick or shovel to go with their new sharps rifle.

Chapter 55

The Dragoon commander halted his column as the approaching rider dropped out of his run and approached the soldiers with a puzzled expression.

 “Good day to you sir. I am Lt. Col. Edwin Vose Sumnar. Do I have the honor of addressing the famous Kit Carson?”

 “Well, I don’t know how much of an honor it is, but Sergeant O’Neil there will vouch that I’m Carson alright. I’m real pleased to be meeting you half way like this, Colonel. You need to get your men down towards Trinidad as quick as you can.”

 “What would we find down there, Mr. Carson?”

 “Marauders, sir. The likes of which are kind of hard to describe.”

 “How so?”

 “Well, their leader is impersonating Porter Rockwell, and they called themselves The Brotherhood. Don’t know quite what to make of that, but they got a bunch of the new Sharps rifles, and they intend to give them to the Utes.”

 “Why in God’s name?”

 “They want to cut off the best lines of communication between the Mormons of Utah and the U.S. Government. I guess they don’t want Brigham Young protesting his innocence when the Mormons are accused of trying to take over the west.”

 “You are referring to the territory that the Mormons have named Deseret. Yes, Brigham Young does have some rather lofty ideas concerning the land west and south of him. But that dream has nothing to do with us, Mr. Carson.”

 “Well sir, I don’t have all the facts, but I don’t believe that anyone should be manipulating the U.S. Government into a fight that ain’t entirely necessary. Sounds to me like that’s what these Jaspers have in mind.”

 “Very well, I’ll dispatch a rider to Fort Marcy as soon as I’ve assessed the situation at Bent’s Fort. “

 “You mean the new one that’s being built or the old one that Bent tried to blow up cause it’s not needed much anymore?”

 “Which ever one is currently housing Mr. Bent,” specified the officer. “Bent is an expert on the area. What he has to say, I want to hear.”

 With reluctance, a scar faced man in the attire of a frontiersman prodded his horse ahead so that he was mounted next to O’Neil.

 “Excuse me for butting in, Colonel, but if The Brotherhood is operating in the Trinidad area, then that’s where you’ll be needing fire power, not along the Arkansas River. So I’d like to break with you here and now if you don’t mind.”

 “You sound as if you have some knowledge of this mysterious gang of brigands, Mr. Longpenance.”

 “They’re more than a gang, sir. They tried to take over one-fourth of California just a few years ago. They knew about the gold near Sutter’s Mill so they tried to get their hands on that whole area. Maybe they’ve got similar ideas about the land south of here.”

 “You have first hand knowledge of this? Strange that such a thing could be kept quiet.”

 “They’re not fond of notoriety, Colonel. They are very good at disappearing when their luck turns sour. They can also make their enemies disappear along with them.”

 “All the more reason to confer with Bent. He doesn’t have much love for the army these days but he’s still the best source of information west of Council Grove.”

 “Yes sir. Well, good luck to you, sir.”

 “I didn’t say you could run off, Mr. Longpenance. At the very least I’m going to want every scrap of knowledge you have concerning the marauders. Fall in next to me please.”

 With a sigh, Case did as he was told, realizing that it was his own big mouth that was keeping him on a westward course. Now he would have to lay out a string of half truths, to keep the colonel from learning too much about the Brotherhood of the Lamb. That wasn’t going to be easy for Case. Especially with a very curious Kit Carson riding directly behind him.

Chapter 56

 When the Dragoons finally reached the Bent’s construction site, they were pleased to discover that William Bent was there and was more than willing to receive army visitors. Only because, for once, the army had something on hand that Bent wanted. So once the courtesies were behind them, the two men got down to the all important dickering.”

 “Mr. Bent,” the army officer began in his gravest tone, “you are an American, even out here in this howling wilderness, and therefore are duty bound to assist your government when lives are at stake.”

 “Colonel, this stopped being a howling wilderness when the Mexican war required that an army pass along this route. But that is beside the point. What matters is that I will no longer be short changed by anyone, including the government. If you want something from me, you will pay the price that is required sir.”

 “But I can’t provide you with army personnel so that you can operate your own fort,” protested the colonel. “It’s bad enough we have to escort wagon trains that have no business blundering across half the continent!”

 “Actually, I only need one of your men. I ask for a man who is probably resented by most of your company in any case.”

 “The cook?”

 “No Colonel, I’m referring to your building engineer. You dragged him along didn’t you?”

 Sumnar struggled to keep an innocent face.

 “Yes----but I must repeat that it is your duty to aid your fellow countrymen when lives are at stake. It is appalling that you should withhold vital information in this manner. I am aghast, sir, simply aghast.”

 “Will you meet my price, Colonel?” the frontier merchant asked without a hint of shame.

 “Yes you scoundrel. But winter is not far off. He will be of limited use to you then.”

 “I’ll send him on his way with the first east bound patrol that passes after the freeze up.” pledged Bent.

 “See that you do. Now, what do you have for me?”

 “I got several white men buried out a ways that were pretending to be Indians. Don’t ask me which tribe cause their costumes weren’t all that good. They shot the building site up some and killed my engineer, but I’m not convinced they came out here for that purpose. I also planted a back shooting wagon driver that brought in a load of Sharps rifles but no ammunition.”

 “You mean he back shot one of your people?”

 “Two, and almost got John Hatcher. Damn queer thing if you ask me.”

 “Perhaps not. I would suggest that the wagon driver and the Indian impersonators were conspiring to steal the Sharps rifles and blame it on the local natives.”

 “Yea, except they could have done that without coming to the one place where they’d have to fight a battle. Most of the time I got me a passel of workers here. Most of them boys were bringing in a couple of wagons and made camp a few miles out so they could come in after daylight. But some Cheyenne scouts brought word of trouble so Pots and the boys risked a fast night ride.”

 “How many rifles were in the wagon?” asked Sumner.

 “Eighty,” lied the merchant, “got em stacked up right over yonder.”

 The officer swept the clearing with a glance.

 “I only see your wagons, Mr. Bent. Where is the rig that brought in the rifles?”

 “We blew her up,” said John Hatch as he approached with a mug of rum. “I figured them rascals might not fight so hard for a load of scrap metal, so we fooled em into thinking that the shipment got blown up.”

 “Ah---very clever. Then you are the gentleman I should be speaking to, and not this other fellow who has hoodwinked me out of an engineer.”

 “Mr. Bent don’t hoodwink men who deal straight with him,” Hatcher almost growled. “A man builds a fort with his own sweat and blood and the government thinks it can come along and pick it up fer a song.”

 The colonel rolled his eyes at that.

 “I suppose I’ll be hearing that sort of talk the entire length of the Santa Fe. Well sir, the government didn’t want to pay top dollar for your property because the war department knew that the location would become unfavorable in a few years. We all have to plan ahead, Mr. Bent. A good example would be your former colleagues who thought they could sell beaver until the end of time.”

 “There was a bit more to it than that,” responded the famous entrepreneur. “When the army came through my land, their livestock ate up all the grass, the soldiers drove the game away and my storehouse was used to hold army materials that did not put a penny in my pocket. As far as I’m concerned, Colonel, the U.S. government hurt me more than the Mexicans ever would have.”

 “Am I to suppose that the scouting you did for Gen. Kearney taught you nothing about the realities of moving an army overland?” shot back Sumner. “For God’s sake, what is any of that compared to loosing life or limb?”

 The tension became thick enough to cut with a knife until a fourth man entered the conversation.

 “Mr. Bent, your pretend Indians don’t belong to any wagon train, and most likely aren’t hide hunters either. It would benefit us if you could get word to the nearest Kiowa tribe that we’ll pay in powder and shot for a fresh trail leading southwest,” said Carson.

 “I don’t understand, Mr. Carson, if our quarry is bound for the Trinidad area, why do we need scouts; Kiowa or otherwise?” queried Sumnar.

 “Them Jaspers won’t be on the trail.  They’ll take a parallel course east of it. That territory is shared by several tribes, but the Kiowa are our best bet. If Mr. Bent is willing to provision the Dragoons, and if the Dragoons are willing to head that far south, I’m thinking that we just might get a chance to attack an enemy camp provided the Kiowa are willing to bird dog for us.”

 Bent smiled at Carson’s martial savvy.

 “There’s a Kickapoo boy who will be stopping here sometime tomorrow. He speaks Kiowa and has served me many times as a courier. As for the provisions: we’ll have to head on to my old fort but that’s on the way in any case. If it’s all agreeable to Col. Sumnar.”

 “I am inclined to support Mr. Carson’s initiatives, but I do have a few questions for Mr. Hatcher, if he’s still willing to speak with me.”

 During the conversation that followed, Carson slipped away and went looking for the scar faced man who seemed to know something about the marauders. He found Case shaving at a near by creek, and approached him with enough noise not to startle the man.

 “Excuse me Mr. Longpenance, but I’d like to make you a proposition of sorts.”

 “Alright by me,” answered Case, “since the colonel is keeping me from my own line of work.”

 “A line of work that could get you killed,” Carson pointed out, “whereas my plan is considerably less risky.”

 Case put down his razor and stared expectantly at the professional scout.

 “I hope you’re good at keeping secrets, Mr. Longpenance, because I got one that will make you think that God has a very strange sense of humor.”

 Case rubbed his chin for a moment and then said, “Mr. Carson, I’m real good at keeping secrets, and I don’t believe that God has any sense of humor at all. Now please get to the part where I can make money.”

 “You told the colonel that a criminal organization tried to get all the gold in the Sacramento area for themselves. Well, sir, it looks like they are trying it again in the Colorado region. I know exactly where, but I’m not about to lock horns with a pack of killers until I know more about them. I am certain that you did not disclose to the colonel all that you know about these marauders. If you will do so now, I will show you where a future Sutter’s Mill is located.”

 Case’s smile was as chilly as the autumn air.

 “You managed to listen in on a campfire meeting, is that it? Now you’ve got some useful info. But you can’t horn in on their activities unless you got a whole army to back you up. Not a few partners, my friend, but a whole damn army.”

 “Well sir, you didn’t let on to the colonel that the secret society was that big, but I don’t see how it makes much difference. If they’re not Injuns, they’ll stand out plain enough and that will make them easy targets. Here---let me show you…”

 The scout drew a map of what would someday be the Colorado-Kansas-Nebraska area.

 “From Missouri you got two trails: The Oregon branches off to the northwest and the Santa Fe branches off to the southwest. Now this Clear Creek is located almost exactly between them two branches, making it fairly isolated. It won’t stay that way forever, but right now it would be pert near impossible for outsiders to move about without the Injuns knowing about it. We find out what route they take going in and out and we can send them to the promised land with ex trappers looking for work. No reason to even get the Army involved.”

 The Eternal Mercenary was slightly comforted by that bit of news.

 Slightly. But he wasn’t thrilled that a man like Carson wanted to lock horns with his age old enemies. He had counted on a one man stealth operation, and that was still what he had in mind.

 The scar faced man shook his head and said, “Mr. Carson, I didn’t just leave California, I was run out. The whole thing was kind of like when you knock a hornet’s nest out of a tree. I just barely escaped their vengeance, and I survive because I am willing to start my life over again in far away lands. But you would stay in the west and give them a target to aim at years after you think the fight is over with. No Mr. Carson. You will not take anything away from these people and profit by it. I know that for a fact.”

 The frontier scout let out a sigh. He heard the gang members speak of the California gold rush, but their efforts there might have been relatively modest. Certainly in the newspapers there was never any mention of a secret society bent of taking over the best tracks of land. A fair number of killings to be sure, but that was not surprising considering what was at stake. Carson was already convinced that this Brotherhood was dangerous, but so was most everything else west of the Mississippi. Besides, men like Carson had a passion for the unknown, and that could include secret societies of some sort.

 “I know what danger looks like, sounds like, and smells like,” answered Carson. “If I get wind of anything that would make my wife a widow, I’ll out run you getting clear of it. That there is a promise my horse will keep. All I ask is that you keep an open mind until it’s time to shoot me for being a fool.”

 Case chewed that over for a second. There wasn’t any doubt that Carson could be of service to him, but could he deal with the scout and still keep his distance from The Brotherhood? He doubted it very much.

 “I’ve got less respect for your survival instincts than Sumnar does---but I’m not through listening just yet,” said Case.

 Carson was encouraged by those last three words

 “First I want to make it clear that you don’t have to fight. Out here Sumnar is the law, but once we get to Trinidad he’ll cut you loose because there will be other men who---“

 “I don’t want to go to Trinidad. I’ve been there and it’s not worth seeing twice,” growled Case.

 “If that’s how you feel about it, you can ride around that one horse town and meet up with me again after we’ve resupplied and picked up a few local men. I know where to find them Jaspers and I’m gunna capture me one. Then you can help me fool em into thinking that the jig is up. Make em think that the army is about to fall on em like a grizzly on trout.”

 “How the hell am I supposed to do that?” inquired Case with an ever increasing scowl.

 “By saying all you really know about the gang and that you’ve already reported the whole thing to the government. I don’t mean to offend you none, Mr. Longpenance, but you’ve only hoed half a row with the colonel. You know a whole lot that you don’t want to share, but I can make it easy for you, as well as profitable. We can blind fold the prisoner so he can’t even identify you later on. All I ask is that you have one conversation with the man. That’s all.”

 Case paused for an instant and then said, “Mr. Carson, if you scouted the way you figure on other things, you’d likely lead a wagon train into the New Orleans red light district. You don’t know what you’re doing and it’s going to have to stay that way.”

 With that the scar faced man walked away.

Chapter 57

Sumnar was given a wagon load of supplies so that for once, dragoons wouldn’t have to listen to their stomachs growling on the trail. John Hatcher and his benefactor Pots had stashed their Sharps rifles for future retrieval. But they did a good job of looking thrilled when Colonel Sumnar offered them each a new breech loader as a recruiting enticement. Their job was challenging but not overly dangerous. They would go out with the Kiowa once a parallel trail was located and then close on the enemy from behind. When the marauders would make camp for the night, one of them men would cut over to the Santa Fe trail and find the dragoon column.

 When Case got wind of all this he wasn’t thrilled. Mostly because the plan might actually work. Then Case would once again find himself at odds with The Brotherhood of the Lamb; and that never ever worked out to his advantage. But as it turned out Case had nothing to worry about. Only one Kiowa brave managed to find the trail of the marauders, and he simply disappeared, leaving his pony to run wild until it was caught a few months later.

 The dragoons made their way to Trinidad without incident and were well received by inhabitants therein. They were the first white men to enter Trinidad from the north in over two weeks. That was a bit disconcerting, since William Bent had provisioned a wagon team that should have reached Trinidad ten days ago but didn’t.

 As for Case, he wasn’t in the mood to shoot it out again with Angus, so he left the column just north of town and circled around to where the Indian woman Poo had been making her soap. Just as before, he found her alone with her work. Gently scraping with a piece of obsidian (which was one of her most prized possessions) she was removing meat residue from the long wide strips of back sinew that had been cut from a deer carcass. Making cordage from hemp was easier but less stylish, and anyway, no part of a game kill was ever wasted. That would constitute a sin the likes of which few white men understood.

 A strip of sinew fell off her make shift table and she bent over to pick it up.

 Just as her hand closed on the object she said, “Touch my back side and I will be getting more material from yours.”

 Case’s hand stopped short of its intended destination and he let out a sigh.

 “By now I would think that you would want to honor yourself with my embrace, like all those other women who appreciate greatness when they see it.”

The woman smirked at the man standing over her and said, “Those women chew their teeth down to nothing making boots soft for a man who could work them into the ground. Let each and every one of them give you a child. I am too wise for that. You are like a sunset that runs away no matter how much a woman would like to continue admiring it.”

 Case’s smile was one of gratitude.

 “Those women were seeking status in the only way they knew how. You are better than they are because you straddle two worlds. That’s important, Poo, because no single world lasts very long.”

 “That is so. Long Feather will demonstrate this in a very short time I think.”

 “How so?” Case asked with a wary expression.

 “Two white men came to Long Feather’s village a few days ago. They promised one-hundred fast loading rifles if Long Feather would gather all the clans together and fight for the white men.”

 “Fight who exactly?”

 “White settlers, soldiers, and their Indian scouts.”

 “Did the men have much in common. Did they look as though they might have been related?”

 “No. One looked like a Spaniard, the other had a beard and lighter colored eyes.”

 “Hmm. Spanish immigrants who were living in California a few years back. Now they’re here,” Case stated grimly.

 “My father told me a little about the Spanish when I was a girl. He said that they controlled California until they lost their war with the Mexican revolutionaries in 1821. I suppose a great many Spaniards remained in California and raised children there. But I can’t imagine why any such people would come out here to cause blood shed.”

 “I can,” responded Case, “and the bottom line is that you’ll have to leave this territory with me.”

 Poo’s laughter had a musical quality about it that was pleasing to the ear, but conveyed a counter productive attitude that Case would have to alter forthwith.

 “Well now, I didn’t think you were here to get your laundry done, but I didn’t think you’d want to put up with my razor like tongue much past a roll in the hay!”

 “I like a woman who is able to recognize her own faults,” said Case. “It makes for easier communication.”

 “Something we both want, Case, so please explain to me why I should leave with you.”

 “I’m planning to head just a bit further north. That way I won’t have as much ground to cover when the worst of the winter is behind me. In the spring Long Feather will be killing all of your customers. Eventually the army will come here and take him down, and all the surviving Indians in the area will be relocated to some shit hole of a place that you won’t like. So you might as well clear out with me now.”

 “I believe you,” the woman said with somber eyes, “but I want to know about those Spaniards. Why do they want to turn this territory upside down?”

 “If I tell you, will you promise to leave with me?”

 The woman looked around for a moment and then said, “I don’t like this place, but so far its been better than the life I would have in any Indian village.”

 Case fished out a twenty dollar gold piece and tossed it to the woman.

 “That’s so that if we have to part company hastily, you won’t be left with nothing.”

 “Will you also buy me my own horse?”

 “Sure, but it might turn out to be a broom tail.”

 “Just so it carries me and not the other way around. Now, what about those Spaniards?”

 “Well, they don’t represent the Spanish government, but they had access to some important old records. Back in the days of the Conquistadors there was a man who studied rocks. He must have been a genius at what he did, because he was able to pinpoint every large gold deposit between the Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean.”

 “Truly?” the woman asked with wide eyes.

 “It’s looking that way to me. Anyway, this large gang of outlaws got their hands on the man’s diary and headed for California. The idea was to buy up all the gold fields before the owners could find out what they had. They murdered a few people, including someone who was very special to me. So I raised a little hell and brought the authorities down on them. Then I got the hell out of California. Now it looks like they’re got a similar operation going in the Colorado area.”

 “So you will kill them and get the gold?”

 “No, I aim to mine my own gold a couple of miles away from the prime diggings. It’ll be risky, but well worth the gamble I’m hoping.”

 “Where exactly is the gold?” pressed the woman.

 “I don’t know. Only Kit Carson knows. He wanted to form a partnership with me and I turned him down. But I suppose I’ll just have to reconsider that, but on my terms. Now if I’m going to buy you a horse, I’d better do it before the dragoons leave Trinidad, because I’m not very popular in that community.”

 “You’re saying that Kit Carson is with the white soldiers?”

 “Yea. He’ll probably go out on a probing mission before long, but I doubt that Col. Sumnar with cut him loose until reinforcements arrive from Fort Marcy. So I’ll get a chance to speak with him before we light out for colder pastures.”

 With almost childish enthusiasm Poo ran over to Case’s horse and leaped up to position herself just behind the saddle.

 “I’ve always wanted to meet Kit Carson,” she said happily.

 “Uh-huh,” Case responded while ambling over to the left stirrup.

Page 58

 In the central portion of a long rock strewn gorge, a man named Emanuel stood beside a shallow stream where a strange looking apparatus awaited him. The device was a sluice; a wooden trough measuring twelve feet in length and thirty inches wide at the feeding end. The open box was positioned in the stream so that creek water would lightly flow through the man made channel. At the bottom of the trough were riffles made from metal plating material. Their purpose was to cause small barriers to the water flow which created eddies. That gave the heavier soil such as black sand and gold a chance to drop to the bottom, behind the riffles.

 The black sand was a major indicator that the prospector could be in a good spot to find gold. But it also served to hide the gold, so the faster it could be discarded the better. This particular model of sluice was outfitted with an ingenious series of self cleaning magnets that sped up the process. It was just one of many innovations that had been brought to Clear Creek by a large group of geological engineers and veteran prospectors.

 The mysterious employers had a three year plan: Gather enough gold the first summer to buy the Secretary of War and several other key bureaucrats. They would see to it that the Army would forbid westward expansion in their area and keep the local Indians preoccupied with concerns further south. Then the second season would be spent producing enough wealth to actually purchase thousands of acres of land and bring in more aggressive mining techniques. The last season would populate the region with men who would be loyal to The Brotherhood of the Lamb---even if they held a misguided notion of what it was.

 Nearing the end of phase one of their operation, the men fretted over the fact that they were not outfitted with warm clothing. If the Indians were to close their evacuation route out of the mountains, and if an early storm were to hit at the same time. The men would freeze with dozens of sacks of gold on their persons. All because the organizers had been pinching pennies back in the spring. Miners and gunmen alike hated the bean counters, who would stay alive in the future, only because they were cloaked in anonymity.

 Half a mile downstream a large log building had been constructed to shelter the workers and various engineering projects. Their plan was to evacuate the gorge when the ice formed, and leave the facility to the guards who would watch over it until spring. Every man along a four mile section of the creek was waiting for that freeze. They didn’t like the mountains, where the air was thinner than usual and Indians and grizzlies alike might see them as trespassers.

Of course each man was armed with a revolver style rifle and a dozen mounted fighting men patrolled the bank areas from dawn to dusk. But that only created the illusion of safety. Every man working a sluice or seeing to the creature needs of the work group was mindful of the fact that California was a Garden of Eden compared to the Rocky Mountains. Arrow, fang or freezing wind would not hesitate to confront any member of The Brotherhood of the Lamb. Men without compassion were still men, and they were puny little things under the shadows of the mountains.

A man dressed in a worn eastern coat marched up the bank to where the sluice tender Emanuel had been quick to get back to work. Boss and laborer would meet like this an average of once a day, and while Emanuel didn’t care much for the man, he welcomed any respite from being on the bank alone.

 “Output is twenty percent higher than all five sluices up stream of you,” reported the boss, “so I’ve decided to move them all down between your position and the barracks. But don’t let me catch any of you gabbing. Time is our mortal enemy and I don’t want one minute of daylight wasted, do you hear?”

 “Si, Senhor Douglas.”

 “And that’s another thing: no more Spanish. You may not look like an Anglo  but I want everyone sounding like one,” growled the blonde haired blue eyed overseer.

 “I’m real sorry, sir. Must be the thin air getting to me.”

 “Sheep dip. You want to taste thin air? Walk up Pike’s Peak on our way home. Over fourteen thousand feet. We’re only five-thousand feet above sea level here. This is nothing. Only challenge coming our way is the ice. We’ll have to leave eventually but I want to put it off as long as possible. So I’m going to have the guards breaking the ice up for each sluice station when that becomes necessary. Security isn’t going to be a problem from now on. It’s getting too cold for man or beast in this gorge. Curse these early mountain winters.”

 With that the overseer marched on toward the next sluice station which was far above the next bend. Emanuel stared after the man, visualizing a musket ball slamming into his back.

 “Damn Anglos are going to treat us like shit,” thought the Latin laborer. “California should have been ours. Then things could have stayed the way they have been for centuries. Damn that Roman. Curse him until the end of time.”

  Emanuel stabbed into the stream bed with an anger that had been bred into him. A hatred that would survive as long as a certain man walked the face of the Earth.

Page 59

Simon McGregor shook Carson’s hand until it almost went numb. The frontier scout kept up his smile, but wasn’t really pleased that the one horse town was enamored with him. The saloon whore was especially annoying since Carson had every intention of remaining faithful to his new bride. Salvation came in the form of the half cast woman Poo, who pointed a knife at the prostitute when she butted in once too often.

 “Mr. Carson, we’ve got nine good riflemen willing to ride with the Dragoons now that your working point for them,” said the saloon keeper. Any one of them would be honored to show you the best way to sneak up on the Ute encampment. Mind you, we know that you don’t really need anyone’s assistance in that area, but they could save you just a wee bit of time and time is precious what with the days growing shorter and all.”

 “Yes, well, I’ll be conferring with Colonel Sumnar within the hour. He’s having his horse re-shoed and I was wondering if you might have some apples left over.”

 “Sadly, no sir. But I do have something that will make you glad that you came to this remote place when we were in dire need,” said the proprietor. “Just give me half a moment.”

 McGregor rushed into a back room and two minutes later emerged with four wooden carrying cases. He opened each of them to reveal three Paterson Colt revolvers and a larger Colt Dragoon revolver.

 “Very nice,” said Carson, “but you have no doubt noticed that I already carry a Paterson Colt on my belt. A second one would be a luxury that I cannot afford at this time.”

 “We’re not here to talk about money today, Mr. Carson. We’re here to talk about survival. If the colonel is going to fight the Utes on our behalf, the least I can do is better arm the men who lead the way. I’m thinking an extra piece for you, Mr. Carson, and the other two Patersons could go to the colonel and his second in command. As for the big dragoon pistol; I’d be willing to hand that over to Case Longpenance if I knew for certain that he’s going to be with the soldiers.”

 “Did Case not say as much when we first came in here?” asked Poo with a cold look.

 “Yes he did,” confirmed Carson, “and I can’t think of a single man I’d rather have at my side.”

 That appeased the half cast woman, who then took hold of Case’s arm.

 The scar faced man picked up the big dragoon pistol and said, “It’s a little smaller than a Colt Walker, but still heavy enough to drown a poor swimmer.”

 “Four and one half pounds,” admitted McGregor, “but you could line Indians up to the next sunrise and punch a hole through every one of them.”

 Case nodded and said, “Yea. I got to use a Walker for a bit in the last war. The tiny percussion caps gave me some trouble but it sure could kill men once it was ready to go.”

 “Fact is the Walker was as well built as the Dragoon but that is neither here nor there,” said Carson. “I’m going to take you out back and show you the best way to set the caps.”

 “What’s to show?” Case said with a shrug. “They just push on with a finger or thumb.”

 “Guns can be finicky, but there are tricks to learn that make them less so,” said Carson with a grin while leading the way to the back door.

 Poo, McGregor and several others were intent on following but Carson held up a hand.

 “I want to speak with Case in private for a moment. Perhaps this would be a good time to surprise the colonel with his wonderful gift. Poor man still packs a single shot Johnson. Albeit of his own free will.”

 The two men stepped out back into the fading light of late afternoon.

 “How many rounds came with the case?” asked Carson.

 “None, but I got a bullet mold,” answered Case.

 “Good. You can pour your own rounds before the drinking commences. We’ll be heading out at first light most likely. Now let me make you one final offer: I’ll write a letter of introduction to a man who can help you travel the Missouri in exchange for a plan of action against this Brotherhood outfit.”

 “We’ve been over this,” Case said with hard eyes.

 “Every man and every group of men have some weakness. I just want to know what theirs is. I don’t expect anymore from you than that.”

 “That tells me that you are going to face your greatest challenge woefully unprepared,” said Case. “But on the other hand, the Utes probably outnumber us four to one so I’m gunna stop fretting over you right here and now.”

 “My own family does no less,” joked the scout.

 “Alright---The Brotherhood can appear in large numbers for a time, but sooner or later they have to scurry away like cockroaches,” said Case. “Their greatest fear is the light of public scrutiny. They need to remain unknown. But that doesn’t keep them from seeking vengeance when someone knocks over their apple cart. You have a wife. That right there is the best reason to forget the whole damn thing. Believe me, my knowledge of such things was gained at a terrible price.”

 “I do not doubt the seriousness of this business,” Carson responded in a humbler tone, “but you have never walked a mile in my shoes. I have taken armies into places where good people were residing. Those people were shoved off their land because they could not continue to exist in the path of advancing civilization. Now I learn of an evil force that intends to do great harm and you want me to leave it be simply because it is more dangerous than a Indian village. No sir. Even if there was no gold, I could not do that. In truth sir, I think it will be a most agreeable diversion confronting men who actually belong in jail.”

 Case let out a sigh and stared again at his pistol.

 “So---what’s the big deal about placing percussion caps on nipples?”

 Carson took out a piece of hard wood the size of a pencil stub.

 “You push them on with something like this. Decreases the likelihood of a misfire.”

 “One more tool I’ve got to keep track of,” grumbled Case. “Oh for the days when men fought only with swords.”

 “Light weight gents like myself were kind of up against it back in those days,” pointed out Carson.

 “Not if you were part of a well trained group,” said Case. “That’s why the Indians keep losing.”

 Carson nodded grimly.

 “Yea---and men like myself have to take advantage. Hell of a shame. But I guess it beats dying.”

 Case stared off at the setting sun; showing no sign of agreement.

Page 60

 Shortly after dawn Colonel Sumnar took his force out of Trinidad and headed for the Ute village. Kit Carson rode ahead and conducted a reconnaissance of the upper Purgatoire River area. When he returned to the battle group, he brought with him some glad tidings.

 “The number of horses in the village indicate that at least three-quarters of the men folk are not present,” he reported. “I was tempted to look for sign on the far side of the village but that would have meant returning after dark.”

 “I would not have found that intolerable,” commented Sumnar.

 Carson remained silent but John John Hatcher was less diplomatic by nature.

 “Mr. Carson was thinking that if he returned late, you soldier boys would come ahead, count a few ponies and decide to attack the village. Against my advice to be certain.”

 “I do not engage in genocidal practices,” Sumnar stated with in a hard tone.

 “You capture Long Feather’s women and children and you’ll be in dire straights even if you give each and everyone of them their weight in trinkets and honey,” Carson stated emphatically.

 “Well, we didn’t come out here to get fresh air, Mr. Carson. As I understand it, this Ute chief is no longer in his prime. Is there a chance he remained behind in the village?”

 “Yes sir, but we need to know where most of his braves are before we make our presence known along this river.”

 “Poo could walk into that village and find out plenty,” put in Case. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted her to come with.”

 “Ain’t the reason I was thinking of,” joked Hatcher.

 “Only catch is: she’ll have to spend the night with them and return to us the following day. Wouldn’t look natural for her to leave the village at sundown,” reasoned Carson.

 “So be it. We’ll fall back far enough to allow camp fires and rendezvous with the woman here at noon tomorrow,” said the colonel.

 “One cooking fire for the entire assembly,” Carson recommended. “I’m heading back in since no further planning will be necessary for a spell. Also, I’d be pleased if Case would keep me company.”

 The scar faced man didn’t look pleased, but he nodded slightly and held back with Carson for a word in private.

 “I’ll sneak around with you if you’re scared of the dark. But there isn’t going to be anymore discussion about a certain gold deposit. We need to be clear on that.”

 “Oh I never talk when I’m putting the sneak on Indians,” Carson said solemnly. “We’ll be as quiet as a pair of mice all night long.”

 

Chapter 61

 The man who called himself Porter Rockwell shifted impatiently in his saddle while the Utes enacted a drama that was many generations old. A thousand big shaggies were stampeding down the length of a pocket valley that was meant to shelter them from the coming winter winds. On this day it would be a death trap for several dozen of the herd. On the far end of that strip of low grazing land, a bottle neck was manned by the best archers in the tribe. The lesser marksmen, along with the braves who possessed the fastest ponies where driving the panic stricken beasts towards the slaughtering grounds.

 A good number of the dumb brutes had already been shot by mounted archers, but this was no ordinary hunting day. On this day Utes were taking hides and meat for other people, who ordinarily would be left to their own devices. This day they hunted for the Paiute peoples who dwelled some thirty miles distant. Long Feather wanted their braves to join his before the winter gained full strength, and that could happen any week now.

 “Aren’t you overdoing it just a bit,” Rockwell grumbled to a smiling White Moon.

 “I have not seen such a buffalo herd in three winters now,” exclaimed the warrior. “It is a divine omen.”

 Superstitious savages,” thought Rockwell.

 “We cannot ask the Paiutes to come here so late in the season unless we bring them much meat and hides. That is what they need, just as the rifles are what we need,” stated the Indian.

 “Yes---about that---I will need two more weeks to bring you your rifles. But I will have many bottles of whiskey for you tomorrow---to um, make the waiting easier.”

 “Why did you not mention this to Long Feather?”

 “Because I hoped that I was mistaken. The absence of a messenger has convinced me that the rifle shipment has been delayed. But they will be delivered within two weeks.”

 “This is not good. Long Feather is still very angry that Death Cheater is no longer with us. His trust in the white man is drying like an old woman’s skin.”

 “Of course it is. Long Feather is a wise leader, and he knows that the white men will continue to push toward the setting sun until the grass no longer grows. I come from across the great water, but I am not one of them. Soon you will have rifles that will make the winter hunts easier, and when the Paiutes see your new rifles, they will come when you call, in hopes of gaining weapons of their own.”

 “I do not know if Long Feather would agree to that. A friend with a bow could become an enemy with a rifle.”

 “Your only true enemy is the white man,” insisted Rockwell, “but I pledge not to arm the Paiutes with new rifles without the consent of your chief.”

 “Two weeks, Rockwell,” warned the Indian before galloping off to join in the last of the slaughter.

 Rockwell’s lieutenant brought his mount forward a couple of steps and stared apprehensively at his superior.

 “This could get complicated. There are many native clans between here and the Utah region. How do you arm some of them yet deny rifles to the majority?”

 “The same way the United States Government has been acquiring land; with treaties that only have to last a couple of years. The Utes will eliminate our most immediate concerns and demonstrate to others that it is wise to deal amiably with us. Of course when I say us, I am referring to the phantom Mormon who transports rifles to Utah while arming Indian allies at the same time.”

 “Forgive my chronic pessimism, sir, but I cannot believe that we will be able to paint the Mormons as villains for more than six months. The winter will be our ally for a time, but the real Rockwell is bound to become a fly in the ointment before the gold extraction can really pay off.”

 “It is a gamble,” conceded the Rockwell lookalike, “but then what great thing was ever accomplished without some measure of audacity? Also, you need to keep in mind that we have other distractions a foot further east. The Kansas slavery issue will be one more cat for the U.S. Army to try and herd. We will help sow the seeds of madness from the Mississippi to the front gate of the Mormons. It will take every man we have in the New World as well as many hired miscreants, but we must make this effort. It will be our last chance to build an empire of our own. Come now, let us be off before these savages treat us to a buffalo tongue or perhaps something worse.”

 As the two men moved carefully up a dry creek bed, a tall patch of weeds moved without the benefit of wind or wild life. Kit Carson shook his head slightly as his companion returned to him from the area where the two horsemen had been standing.

 “You got a little careless there, friend Case. You can’t afford to rush your movements with so many scalp collectors close by. Lucky thing for you their blood is up with them big shaggies.”

 Case ignored the rebuke and continued to crawl another twenty yards until he reached the security of a large boulder. There the two men would be safe enough.

 “Case? You look like you seen a ghost. What’s got your hair up?”

 “They’re at it again,” growled the scar faced man.

 “Something wrong with your memory, son? We had conversation on this before---but I’m willing to discuss it at greater length if it pleases you.”

 “It does not please me. But your word carries more weight with the military so I guess I have to make you my partner of sorts.”

 “You won’t be sorry,” promised the scout. “Now the first thing we have to do is catch up with them two gents that just left and capture one of em. We’ll do that at night so your noble looking face won’t—“

 “Screw that. I’m going to renew what was a fine, almost spiritual relationship with Long Feather. If I can get him back on my side, that bastard who calls himself Rockwell will have to run where there is no civilization to hide in. Like you said: every tribe will be admiring their fine, yet to be molested hair.”

 “You are not a very good judge of what is possible and what is not,” Carson said with a scowl.

 “You just make sure that Sumnar doesn’t do any harm until I’ve had a chance to work things out with the Utes. Hopefully finding all those buffalos with put them in a good mood.”

 “It is my opinion that Long Feather will slit you from crotch to eyeball with a dull deer antler.”

 “Such a fate has hung over my head while fleeing more than one whorehouse,” mumbled Case while starting to crawl back to his tethered mount.

 Carson cradled his heavy rifle and followed along on his elbows while thinking, “What kind of whorehouses is he talking about?”

Chapter 62

Framed by a setting sun, Case Longpenance stood outside Long Feather’s hide house and did his best to ignore the challenges being made by a dozen young bucks who hoped that a returning fugitive would be fair game.

 (They were not the smartest young men in the tribe.)

 The high pitched hysterics and close swipes with blade and stone ended when the chief suddenly emerged from his domicile. The two men exchanged blank stares that were far more dignified than any expression worn by the youngsters.

 “Did you bring tobacco,” Death Cheater?” the chief inquired.

 “From the one known as Kit Carson.”

 Like most scouts, Carson was not overly fond of the weed because the scent of tobacco might betray him to enemies down wind. But he kept a supply as a form of currency. Bartering was a way of life for both the Red Man and the White. Case was allowed to enter the chief’s home without guards, and it was a reminder that a warrior needed to display a contempt for death, even in his old age. Only after they were lit up and tranquil did the chief inquire about Case’s return.

 “I was wrong to leave without your knowledge. In the lands toward the rising sun, secrecy is a path with fewer stones. But in this land, a warrior should walk a straight path toward his enemies, and never leave a friend’s village like a thief in the night.”

 The old man nodded thoughtfully.

 “It is true I was filled with anger. My eyes told me that Death Cheater was a gift from the Great Spirit. But last night I had a vision in which an old Ute woman melted like the snow and was replaced by a white skinned girl. I still gaze at your power and try to understand it as I try to understand the sun. But I know now that your power does not serve the Nuciu, anymore than the strength of the bear would serve us.”

 Case was pleased to hear that, but he still had a hurdle to jump.

 “Chief Long Feather, I ask that you turn your back on the one called Rockwell. He is a coyote man and his followers are worse than the white soldiers that even now prepare for combat.”

 “I cannot. My warriors need the fast loading rifles. As you have said: the soldiers ride across our land, and threaten our way of life,” the chief stated evenly.

 “Yes they do,” agreed Case, “but it seems to me that there are two ways in which you can obtain the rifles: One is by becoming Rockwell’s servant, and the other is by taking his rifles in open battle.”

 “The Nuciu are not chiefed by a double tongue. I have agreed to drive away the Cheyenne with the rifles that Rockwell would bring.”

 “What if there were no Cheyenne to drive away?” Case inquired.

 “I do not understand the question,” the old man said after a pause.

“I have been a guest in the village of Brown Antelope. I am honored by his friendship, as I am honored by yours. If I ask him to move his village, he just might do it.”

 “I would look for a forked tongue if any other man were to say that. But you are a great wonder, Death Cheater. I will wait to see what can be done.”

 “Then give me one week to move the Cheyenne to the east. Then you can meet with Rockwell a week after that and explain to him that he does not need your warriors to deal with the Cheyenne. But, on the other hand, he does need to pay a tax for inhabiting this area. Say---a wagon load of rifles perhaps. If he tells you to go to hell, you’ll just have to come up with an appropriate response.”

 “I would like to meet with Brown Antelope. I would value his thoughts on the soldiers that you spoke of.”

 “Your presence would aid me, but I must ride long and hard to his camp. As you know, I do not enjoy riding horses, but many times I am forced to do that which is disagreeable.”

 “Then I will order the young braves to stand aside so you may depart,” said the old chief while struggling to get to his feet. “It is possible that even a great warrior like yourself is tired of confronting foolish young men who think they are your match.”

 “You have no idea,” Case thought to himself.

Chapter 63

 Brown Antelope was not pleased with Case’s bizarre (not to mention extremely difficult) request. In the summertime, when a tribe is low on food and fuel, relocating is not looked upon as a severe hardship. In fact, the frontiersmen who came west from places like Ohio or Kentucky often marveled at how efficient the moving process could be. However, late autumn was another matter entirely. By that time, all the tribes would be heavily supplied with winter food stuff that would not be so easy to move.

 But Brown Antelope possessed a special type of wisdom. The Cheyenne chief perceived that Case Longpenance was not just a man with a high pain threshold. He was a man who served supernatural forces that primitive men could easily accept as reality. Case was accepted as an agent of good. That was all the chief needed to know. So the Cheyenne moved, and The Brotherhood of the Lamb ended up facing some political ramifications that prompted them to relocate men who otherwise might have provided heavy security for their mining operations.

 It proved to be an unnerving spring, when it finally came for the European cult members and their special laborers. With only a minimum of repeating rifles, the foreigners lived under a daily shadow of fear, and their security riders kept a tight perimeter around the mining site. This made Case’s dreams come true, and Carson was easily won over to the idea of mining in secret, a few miles down stream.

 Case and Poo did most of the panning while Carson kept a bead on the only upriver ground that could accommodate a horse and rider. Sometimes the two men would trade off for a few hours, because a mountain stream is colder than a witch’s tit, and Case’s unusual physiology did not spare him that discomfort. There were a few close calls when they were almost discovered by riders that grew brave after several weeks of peace and quiet. On those occasions the three furtive miners would slip into heavy brush that had been transplanted to provide them with a curtain of green and brown.

 The horses had to be kept several hundred yards off, and Carson had to keep a look out for wolf and cougar sign, not to mention the task of hand feeding the critters since they were roped and incapable of taking their own sustenance. The animals were relocated when the horse apples became numerous. That and a good wind would bring in the predators otherwise.

 All three humans dined on raw fish and tubers and didn’t complain because a steady appearance of gold dust promised to change their lives forever by the mid summer. Of course both Carson and Poo wanted to remain and continue mining until the first frost, but Case kept reminding them that a fortune in gold wouldn’t do them any good if they ended up buried in snow. But just as the picket riders became more venturous in time, so did Kit Carson. (Of course it came more naturally for him.)

Even though Case advised against it, the frontiersman just couldn’t resist a look at the bee hive that would occasionally send a hornet their way. When he finally got a peek at the operation, he wasn’t overly impressed. Four large sleuths were set up at equal distances, extending upstream to the nearest bend. A dozen large tents had been pitched on a large piece of high grown on the southwest curve of the waterway, and four extremely bored looking riflemen sat their mounts on the opposite bank, where the horses could drop their meadow muffins clear of the frequented foot paths.

 Carson couldn’t easily make out the rider’s faces, but he was pretty sure that none of the four had visited the cold camp downstream, which meant that there were at least eight mounted riflemen to go along with the sixteen men he could make out by the sleuths or the tents. The fact that they had bothered to build a corral didn’t say much, but Carson noted that the smell of animal waste wasn’t that bad, suggesting that the horses were not confined for long periods of time.

 That puzzled him. The cold camp had been trespassed on only a few times in the month they had been squatting there. That meant that the picket riders had a greater interest in the upstream area of the mountain pass. But why? Carson was sorely interested in anything that might be a concern to the men he was now hiding from. So he decided to walk his mount along a distant ridge to his left. It would mean not returning to Case and his Spitfire until late tomorrow, but he felt obligated to learn all that he could about their surroundings.

 The plan was to take the creek down to the Arkansas River when the mining was done, but even when flanked by mountains, it is wise to know all compass headings. Carson was confident that his choice of byways would not betray his presence. It would have been so, if it hadn’t been for a mountain lion that just happened to be sunning himself on a bolder up and away to the left of the trail blazer.

 Carson’s horse halted abruptly and directed its senses toward the big cat.

 “Yea---there he be,” muttered the horse’s owner, “but he could not jump down on us even if he was part flying squirrel.”

 Suddenly the cat let out a warning cry that echoed on the nearest canyon wall. Carson overestimated the intelligence of his horse at that moment and didn’t have a strong enough grip on the bridle and reins. The horse bolted and turned about with great haste. Carson could have gotten hold of the tail, but he wasn’t about to do that after witnessing the untimely demise of one Timothy O’Donald. That man grabbed a panicky horse by the tail, and got his jaw bone driven up into his brain.

 “Ain’t nuthin worse than a nine-hundred pound coward,” growled the human, who stood there as helpless as a New York dandy, or someone from London, England even. His rifle was still in its scabbard, and sadly, he had placed his pistols in a sealskin bag when a thunder shower threatened to strike.

 The cat took a slightly greater interest in the human, but remained on his sunning platform. Carson was relieved, but not overly so. He was still armed with his fighting knife and his skinning blade. The later was short for more precise cutting, but still a fine weapon in the hands of a determined fighter. In any case, there would be no cougar pelt taken today. The horse would be encouraged to slow down by the uneven landscape, and Carson would catch up with his mount before nightfall. The horse had no barn to return to, and its owner could track the silly beast easily enough.

 Two hours passed and Carson’s ridge gradually ascended until it became the highest point within half a mile. The frontiersman grew uneasy. He was loosing daylight and much of the lower terrain was already masked in shadow. He remained unhappily focused on his vulnerability until a glorious vision met his eye. The distant profile of his troublesome, but soon to be forgiven mount. It had skidded down off the ridge and was standing calmly in front of a large formation of scrub brush. Carson scrambled down the ridge himself and noted that the loose rocks might have been more of a hazard than the mountain cat. Odd that the horse chose that place to get closer to water.

 Suddenly Carson’s body went tense. He realized in the gathering shadows that the reins were not yielding to a horse’s natural desire to turn its head about. In fact, the horse was tethered by those reins. There was the slightest possibility that the reins had gotten caught on a unusually dense piece of brush, but more likely his mount was the cheese in a king size mouse trap. Kit Carson dropped to his belly and began to crawl toward bottom land vegetation that was denser than what he horse was standing in.

 The men in hiding were half buried in the soil and did not respond the instant Carson went to ground, but soon enough the man catchers realized that the trap was less than perfect and that their quarry was showing his rear end. Carson’s wishful thinking was measured in yards of grass meant to hide prairie dogs, not men. His avenue of escape almost became a tangible thing to his reckoning until a squad of hard running men surrounded him and sighted in on his ground hugging form.

 No one laid a hand on him, and he was escort felt almost like an honor guard as they all rode back to the camp that he had previously inspected. It caused him to think that perhaps he would not be interrogated Indian style, if he could convince them that he was alone.

 He was a might short of the bulls eye on that reckoning.

Chapter 64

Case ignored the new batch of thunder clouds that rolled over the Sawatch Mountain Range. It was dark now and getting pelted by cold rain was the least of his concerns as he strained to make out what was taking place on the river down below. Kit Carson was tied to a line that extended from a heavy sleuth on one side of the stream, to a support post of the horse corral on the other. The object was to keep him standing in four feet of very cold water, and the coming rain only meant that the guard’s lanterns would have to struggle to stay alit in the coming downpour.

 The professional soldier let out a sigh and returned to where his Indian companion was anxiously waiting for him.

 “Their giving him a bath,” Case reported.

 Poo nodded her understanding. Cold water torture worked fine in rainy weather, but it was more time consuming than a good old fashioned burning.

 “Can you get him out?”

 “No chance. Half a dozen guards on both sides of the river. More guns less than fifty yards away. His ass belongs to them now. Nothing to do but go get our horses and clear out before daybreak.”

 The Indian woman showed a flicker of remorse, then began to lead the way back to the horses. But before they were halfway to their secret camp, the weather turned phenomenal. The rainfall became so heavy it was difficult to breath. Whips of fire were immediately followed by cannonades of super heated air. The scar faced man had seen many storms in his long life, but he could only remember a handful that might have equaled this one. Those tempests all had a purpose beyond the ebb and flows of natural forces. They were a calling, and they never failed to gain the attention of The Eternal Mercenary.

 “I changed my mind,” said Case. “I think with this storm to shield me I just might be able to get Kit out of there.”

 “Very well. I will bring the horses to this spot,” responded the woman.

 “No. Take your horse and the gold and ride on to the Fort Mann ruins. Wait for me there.”

 “Why so far east?” inquired the woman as she removed wet hair from her eyes.

 “If you knew those bastards the way I do, you wouldn’t have cause to ask. Now get a move on. I got a feeling that this storm won’t last past dawn.”

 An hour later Case was wading in icy water some twenty yards downstream from a bone white Kit Carson. Predictably, the guards had taken shelter in the nearest tent, which was very close to caving in what with all the water that was hitting it. Case kept the water at chin level, wading with bent knees against a formidable current. Every now and then the lightning would give away his position, but only to the uncaring rain drops that made the water dance around his head. When the rope was cut, the prisoner’s face disappeared briefly under the water. Carson’s legs were now useless and even in waste deep water the frontiersman was in danger of drowning.

 Case and his burden headed down with the current. The water level continued to rise and the rocks under foot threatened to betray his weight as the current grew with intensity. After twenty minutes Case thought he heard a shout rolling down on the water after them, but all he could see was curtains of rain and flashes of swaying scrub brush far off to the sides. Only when Carson’s breathing became severely labored did Case choose to take the man out of the river and drag him up a cleft in the south embankment.

 After a while Carson’s eyes opened and he took stock of their situation with a drunken expression. Then he pointed to the top of the embankment with a shaking index finger.

 “Up there,” he half croaked.

 Case gazed at the formation of rock, sand and mud and instantly concluded that he couldn’t get them both up there. But then it occurred to him that maybe that wasn’t what Carson had in mind. So the scar faced man forced his water logged body to climb up soggy earth that gave purchase ever so grudgingly. Twenty feet was all it took to transform Case into a kind of mud monster that remained filthy even with so much cold water raining down on him. The soldier frowned at his sorry state, but at the same time scanned the bank area in the direction they had come. That prompted him to drop his chin in the mud and focus on a movement some fifty yards upstream.

 A man was struggling to follow the muddy bank. A revolver rifle was covered by a seal skin coat that extended all the way to the top of high boots. Case wasn’t sure just how dependable his own weaponry would be under the circumstances, but since he didn’t want to make any noise, he decided to do this the old fashioned way. Like an exposed tree root, he lay in the mud and let the enemy draw closer. Kit Carson was now the bait, and with his limbs numbed to the bone, the frontier scout couldn’t have done a better job of just laying there helpless as a babe.

 Case pressed his head even further into the muck to distort the shape of his head. Only one eye was free of mud but that was good enough for him at the moment. The gunman was wary of his surroundings but the only thing that gained his attention was the still form of the recently escaped prisoner.

 “How did you get free?” growled the gunman while taking out his weapon to signal his slower associates.

 Suddenly the prisoner came alive and got a two handed grip on one of the man’s boots. The gunman’s laughter was like the bark of a wolf.

 “If you’re trying to overpower me, you’ll just have to grab a bit higher,” he declared with distain.

 A split second later something fairly large dropped down on him from the top of the embankment. It grabbed something more vulnerable than an ankle after smashing the man down onto his back. The gunman realized with widening eyes that his breathing privileges had suddenly been revoked, and Carson had gotten hold of the carbine barrel. But just before losing consciousness, the gunman managed to fire off a round into the muddy bank.

 “Oh shit and bother,” muttered Case as he snatched up the weapon and zeroed in on a man who was beginning to materialize out of a sheet of rain.

 The gun fired, but less than ideal shooting conditions caused the ball to sink into the approaching man’s leg.

 “Here, you hold on to this and I’ll hold on to you. We’re going back into the water,” said Case.

 Carson wasn’t happy to hear that, but he grabbed the revolver carbine and allowed himself to be baptized once again. The rest of the night the two men battled with the cold and wet, but if there were any pursuers on their tail, it did not become apparent. By morning the rain had stopped, and Carson’s body temperature had gone from eighty-eight degrees out of the water to a feverish one-hundred and three. Logic demanded that they proceed immediately to their horses, but Carson was allowed to remain flat on his back while Case once again sought the highest ground to reconnoiter. He waited tensely. Centuries of experience told him that hell was coming to breakfast, and he would have to meet it with four rounds and a knife.

 The Eternal Mercenary weighed his options while staring at the nearest bend in the river. One thing was certain: he wasn’t going to leave Carson. That damn storm was no chance occurrence The Jew had brought it on. Casca Rufio Longinus recalled with an almost photographic memory the other times freak weather phenomenon had either opened a door of opportunity, or saved him from an enemy. Those events always had one thing in common: at the time, he was meeting the urgent needs of someone other than himself. Every now and then The Jew would enable him to save someone’s life.

 He had often toyed with the idea that saving nice folks from harm might be some kind of side line. Maybe a way of atoning for that huge past misdeed of his, that also involved one hell of a lot of punishment. The centuries old warrior had tried to pray to the departed soul of Jesus on more than one occasion. But it was plain enough that the old rules were still in force. Gods don’t speak to men. Play the cards you are dealt and hope that the hands don’t get worse than they’ve been.

 Case could only wonder what might make a frontier scout like Kit Carson important to Jesus. In the past Casca had contributed his talents to innocent young girls, small children and the occasional weird holy man type. Carson certainly didn’t fall into any of those categories, but he did fit into the category of: “Save this man or I’ll shove seven plagues up your ass.”

  The scar faced man was still thinking about that when the sound of gunshots drifted down to him from upstream. It sounded like a small battle, with some reports closer than others. Common sense dictated that he should grab Carson and skedaddle. If The Brotherhood was being attacked by Indians, some trigger happy young buck might put a bullet in Case before he could identify himself as a friend of Brown Antelope or Long Feather. On the other hand---there was all that lovely gold to consider.

 With thoughts of Liz to inspire him, Case made his way back upstream. As soon as he spotted the first Cheyenne he made a show of dropping his rifle and walking straight towards the mounted warrior. Case was somewhat dismayed when the warrior urged his pony into a full run with a tomahawk at the ready. The man on foot considered the option of retrieving his rifle, but noted that half a dozen other warriors were now turning to gaze his way and they each held a rifle.

 Drawing his knife, the scar faced man studied the horse’s approach with the most practiced eye in the martial world. At the right moment his blade came up and checked the upper shaft of the tomahawk. His hand and wrist strained under that brief meeting that thwarted the downward strike. The horse carried its master away and around for another attack. Case anticipated more leaning the next time around, also a bit less speed. His assessment was right on, and this time the unwitting Cheyenne actually severed his own weapon in two, trying to get past the insulting knife block.

 Best way to make an Indian crazy is by getting him to wreck his own weapon. Case monitored the casual approach of the other braves and set himself for the next attack that came with a knife. The frustrated warrior brought his mount right up alongside Case and then dropped off his steed with a vicious downward stab. The white man simply shifted out of reach and then readied his blade as the young warrior frantically recovered from his useless descent. The Eternal Mercenary focused all his attention on the piece of steel that advanced ahead of a determined, adrenaline fueled young man. He met that steel with his own, pushing it aside just far enough to gain a safe advance of his own.

 Then his forward foot rose up and snapped kicked the Cheyenne in a place that is sensitive to white and red men alike. Case then circled his opponent’s discarded horse and marched briskly to meet up with the approaching riders.

 “Your fighting is done, if you are Death Cheater,” one of the riders assured Case.

 “I am he---and my fighting is done if that young badger has had enough embarrassment for one day.”

 The Cheyenne on horseback coaxed his mount forward so that it would block the advance of a very angry young man.

 “I am Four Fingers, son of Brown Antelope, and I pledge your safety until you go your own way.”

 Case noted the chewed off digit and rightly concluded that the Indian was on his second name.

 “Have you killed all the men in the gold mining camp?”

 “Yes, as they emerged from their shelters. The ones that were hunting you were killed with arrows before the main attack began.”

 “I am glad of this, but I asked your father to move his people to the east so that there would be no war with Long Feather. Why do you go against your father’s will?”

 “Long Feather’s scouts are not in this area, and I have heard that much yellow metal has been gathered at the camp. I will use it to buy guns in the spring. Perhaps to stand against Long Feather and the many guns that he is getting from the one called Rockwell.”

 Case made no effort to hide his disapproval.

 “Four Fingers, last night there was a great storm, but it was nothing compared to the storm of white soldiers that will come to this land. Long Feather is an old man. Soon he will be replaced. Do not make bad blood between his tribe and yours. Obey your father’s wishes and try to understand that rifles are not everything.”

 “Yes, Death Cheater, I know that your power is more important than rifles. But will you stay and keep peace in this land, or leave it to wander far away? Rifles are not everything, but without them we are like rabbits in an open field.”

 “You will still be rabbits if the soldiers attack you with cannon. The men you killed have many brothers who smoke and talk with the leaders of the soldiers. They wish to take the gold in secret, but they will take it with the help of other whites if that is the only way. A rifle is false strength. You will understand this when you run out of bullets and the soldiers are all around you.”

 Four fingers weighed that for a moment and then said, “We will take the gold that is in a large tent and buy horses and wives. But first I must ask Running Badger if he is willing to mount his horse and leave Death Cheater in peace.”

 On the outside the young warrior was still spitting mad. But the mentioning of a wife made a considerable difference in the lad’s willingness to obey the war party leader.

 “I will walk my horse for a time,” responded the slightly bent over warrior. “He is tired, and it is my wish to bath in the river so that I may be rid of the foul touch of my enemies.”

 “Whatever you say, Kid,” Case thought to himself.

Chapter 65

 It took Kit Carson the better part of a week to recover from his illness, but in all that time he never failed to put in a good ten hours in the saddle each day. Neither he nor Case talked much as they followed the bank of the Arkansas River. Carson had been too sick and the scar faced man never wanted to encourage questions that might go in a bad direction. But their female companion was still up ahead somewhere, and Carson had caught wind of something when Case and the Indian woman had first paired up.

 “Don’t reckon you were living alone back east.”

 “Nope,” responded easily enough. “I started out as a friend of the family, then one of the womenfolk just sort of grew on me.”

 “Does that mean that you and Poo will be heading down separate trails before you reach the Mississippi?”

 “More than likely. Why, you want to take over sometime after that?”

 “Hell no,” responded the frontier scout. “Just the opposite. I don’t aim to travel with either one of you from that point on. She’s going to be hating men for a while and she’s too damn good with a knife.”

 Case snorted at that.

 “You don’t really think she’d stick you high wide deep and frequent do you?”

 “Most likely not,” Carson admitted, “but I’d have a hell of a time explaining to my wife why I’m short a body part that we are both fond of. I’m not going to risk it since I don’t have to.”

 “Ah ha!” exclaimed Case. “You don’t trust yourself with her. You want to remain faithful to your wife and you know it’s a long ride back home.”

 “I won’t dignify that remark with an answer,” Carson half growled.

 Case let it go. He knew he was right and he didn’t need to rub the matter into the nose of a morally superior man. Just the same, it was a mistake to bring it up. A big mistake, as a matter of fact.

 “Haven’t you ever felt that you could obey the sixth commandment if you met the right woman?”

 “You Catholic?” inquired the scar faced man.

“Yup. Had to convert because the wife is Mexican.”

 “No wonder you’re scared of Poo. You’d have to confess to some guy who’s never been screwed in his life,” said Case with a neutral expression.

 Before Carson could respond a team of horses began to round the nearest bend. It was an agreeable enough sight, since they belonged to immigrants who would be more afraid of Case and Carson than the other way around. When they drew closer they noted that the covered prairie schooner was home and transport for a family of five. The father had a muzzle loading double barrel shotgun across his lap, a grim reminder that there was no law out here and a man had to protect his family with pheasant guns and a prayer.

 Both Case and Carson tried to look as harmless as possible. (Something Casca had trouble with even after many centuries of practice.) Carson was used to pilgrims and started the amenities by doffing a hat that Case had appropriated for him.

 “Kit Carson here; bound for the Fort Mann ruins. This is my traveling companion Case Longpenance.”

 “I have heard of you sir,” responded a much relieved family man. “We will breathe a bit easier for a time, knowing that you are in the area. My name is Samuel Heitz and this is my wife Clare.”

 “What are you people doing out here alone?” Case asked abruptly.

 “We are bound for Santa Fe,” the tenderfoot explained unnecessarily. “We missed the last wagon train, but my reasoning is that the Indians won’t expect any lone wagons to be traveling a few days behind the last assembly, so they will be off tending other business until the next scheduled exodus.”

 Carson let out a sigh and proceeded to do what he was trained to do, namely convince green horns that they are in need of leadership.

 “Mr. Heitz, you are paralleling one of the most important rivers west of the Mississippi. But even if that were not the case, the Arkansas River would still be a never ending supply of water for any creature living in these parts.”

 “But of course, sir. Just yesterday I bagged three waterfowl. The river is a most useful source of food.”

 “For the Indians also, Mr. Heitz. They hunt along rivers. That is their business, regardless of where the wagon trains may be.”

 “Yes---well, I do acknowledge the possibility that we could run into Indians, but we simply could not wait for the next train. I am a watch repairman and I could not support my family back in Council Grove.”

 “That’s quite a ways up the trail isn’t it?” asked Case.

 Carson nodded and said, “Mr. Heitz, I would describe you as a lucky man, but each of us has only so much of that out here. Please sir, accompany us back to Fort Mackay. I will personally recruit a trustworthy Indian guide who will then escort you and your family through Cheyenne territory. I am acquainted with an Arapaho who frequents this trail. He would be perfect for the job if I could find him.”

 The family man showed little enthusiasm for that idea, but he had spent a number of sleepless nights on the trail and appreciated the fact that Santa Fe was still a long ways off.

 “How long would we have to camp near Fort Mackay?”

 “Five days to a week.”

 The watch maker stared unhappily at the ground. Carson could see the internal struggle. He had seen it many times before.

 “Mr. Heitz, I’ve seen men make it down this trail without a horse or a gun. But no man will make it without patience. It is a key ingredient for survival and that is a fact.”

 As hard as it would be, the family man decided it was time to fess up.

  “When we got to Fort Mackay, we were told we would not be allowed to continue without an escort. So---we pretended to go back, then circled around the area and got back on the south bound trail.”

 “I see. Well, you could hole up at the Fort Mann ruins. You may recall that its only two-hundred yards from the Mackay site, but since most of the soldiers are away, I suspect that the remaining guards will not venture out to bother you before I can get you a guide.”

 “You will do that for me---after I deliberately disobeyed Army orders?” Heitz asked incredulously.

 Carson shrugged awkwardly.

 “I have a great deal of respect for men like you, Mr. Heitz. True---you don’t know what you’re doing half the time, but you got enough sand to put everything you own in a wagon and head off into the unknown. I watch over folks like you because---it is an honor to do so. All I ask is that you heed my warnings when it is time for them.”

 The spindly shanked watch maker looked as if someone had just pinned a medal on him.

 “Drawing back his narrow shoulders he said, “We have placed ourselves in your hands, Mr. Carson.”

 “Uh---Mr Heitz, did you happen to see a woman riding alone? Good looking woman with half cast features,” put in Case.

 “None alone,” replied Heitz while looking to his wife for confirmation. “But we did see a woman like that in the company of eight other men. One of them was the spitting image of that devil Porter Rockwell. But it couldn’t have been him, because he’s in California.”

 “Did this group of men speak to you at all?” asked Case.

 “No. They just rode past us and scared the dickens out of me when I saw that Rockwell look a like.”

 Carson dropped slightly behind the wagon and said, “The fact that we don’t have the real Porter Rockwell to meet up with does not guarantee a bright future for us. Most certainly not for Poo if she is truly the woman that Heitz passed on the trail. Pray that your spitfire has a look a like, just as Rockwell does.”

 “You do the praying,” responded the scar faced man. “That’s not how I deal with problems.”

Chapter 66

The man who called himself Porter Rockwell regarded the prisoner with a measure of grudging admiration. One eye was swelled shut from the first interrogation, and now she was snarling with rage in response to a second degree burn on her right cheek. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he didn’t enjoy tormenting women. The pleading looks he would receive would always disgust him. But this look of animal ferocity was a new experience for him. True, she was a heathen savage, but oh what strength could be found in these aboriginal females.

 For just an instant Rockwell pictured such women being used to procreate a new generation of soldiers for The Brotherhood of the Lamb. But that thought was erased with a quick mental contrition.  What good is strength if it is Devil spawned?

 Rockwell weighed the use of torture methods that would more likely induce screaming, and an increase in cooperation. They were a couple of miles north of Fort Mackay, in a sixty acre patch of woods. It had been decided to take out the guards at the nearby fort, to continue with their policy of harassment. But when they found all that gold on the half breed slut, Rockwell realized that something in the mountains was very much out of order. Information was always held at a high premium, but never so much as now. But how to get it without driving a female mind insane?

 Daniel approached the center of the camp with a large leather sack; a sack that was exhibiting movement of its own. The other men who were lounging nearby continued to look on with neutral expressions. The same expressions they had worn when red hot iron had been pressed to yielding flesh.

 “Caught a small rattler. Thought we could hand her upside down and place the bag over her head like we did with that Rabbi we caught last year. Remember?”

 Whether Daniel was intentionally trying to break the woman’s will or not, the suggestion brought on a positive result. Both men saw a change in the prisoner’s hard dark eyes and expertly worked as a team to exploit it.

 “Daniel, that man had outlived his usefulness, yet continued to insult us. This woman on the other hand, has much to share with us, and was compelled to insult me because I caused her pain. You are comparing apples to oranges my friend.”

 “I only know that you became very frustrated with the Jew when he bit his own tongue off,” responded Daniel. “This one will be no different. She has been trained to deny her enemies the smallest satisfaction. Let us have some sport and be done with it.”

 “Not that I’m offended, but aren’t you men even the least bit interested in---you know---what men are usually interested in?” inquired the female prisoner.

 “No, we belong to a religious order that preaches self discipline,” stated Rockwell.

 “Oh. Well---that is very ----interesting,” said Poo, who was hoping for an opportunity to get her hands on something she could squeeze good and hard.

 “I wish I could say the same for this interview,” muttered Rockwell. “The sun will soon be below the mountains and I do not like doing this sort of work in the dark. Very well Daniel, you may have your little treat this evening.”

 “It is not just that,” Daniel said defensively. “Some of the others have been stealing glances at her. It is best to remind them that a woman’s beauty is an illusion. A swelled up face is---“

 “Alright, I talk about the gold,” the woman cut in.

 Both men regarded the prisoner with deadpan expressions.

 “I’ve been panning at Clear Creek for over a month. I had to stop and run for it when my partner was captured. His name is Kit Carson. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

 “Indeed I have,” responded the leader of the group. “His skills almost explain how you could manage to pan for gold on the same river for a month and not get caught.”

 “Well, yes, there is a bit more to it than that,” admitted the woman. “The mounted guards kept scouting up stream for the most part. They would only come our way once and a while. They were very concerned about what lay to the northwest.”

 “Savages,” muttered Rockwell half to himself. “Perhaps allied to the same vermin that helped themselves to the weapons we were transporting. Yes---it is just possible that this Carson fellow could help us get those rifles back.”

 “If he’s still alive,” Daniel put in. “If our mining people follow standard procedure, he will be interrogated and ---“

 “Yes Daniel,” the leader interrupted with a tired voice. “But this Kit Carson fellow has demonstrated a genius for survival in the past, so we will act on the assumption that he will still be alive when we reach the dig site. We will take this female with us, in hopes that she will provide us with useful leverage.”

 Rockwell inspected the leader bindings that kept the woman effectively hog tied.

 Brother Nathan will take the first watch, then Samuel. I will rouse the group at first light. Say your prayers and settle in now.”

 The female captive gazed at the campfire with mixed emotions. She would survive this encampment, and hopefully get a chance to do something imaginative with Rockwell should he live through her inevitable rescue. Poo liked to think that Case and Kit Carson would be coming to save a friend, but the pragmatic side of her reasoned that the gold was more of a guarantee than anything else. She had been hearing rumors to the effect that half the world was moving to far off California because the yellow metal had been discovered in great abundance there. Poo hated to think that the same thing might happen on this side of the great divide. But if it did happen she would adapt. In that way, she was more like her father than her mother.

 Poo’s cheek would bother her most of the night, as would her uncomfortable position. Still---she would sleep and dream for a little while, and in that dream Mr. Rockwell would look very funny with a fire brand up his ass.

Chapter 67

 Case briefly studied the last corpse with a borrowed Army lantern. Shot from behind, which meant that he was probably the first man to go down in the sneak attack on Fort Mackay. Kit Carson had already completed his assessment of the situation and was about to return to the neighboring Fort Mann ruins to inform the Heitz family of their discovery.

 “They might as well have been lined up against a firing squad wall,” Case muttered. “Most of them were playing cards. That and the revolver rifles made it a one sided shoot.”

 “Yup. Hate to say it, but they are most likely the same Jaspers that scared the Heitz family. Since Poo didn’t meet us at the Fort Mann ruins, I reckon she’s with them. I’m also figuring that they are members of the same bunch that gave me my bath during that God awful storm,” said Carson.

 “They do belong to the same bunch,” stated the scar faced man. “My guess is that they’ve left some sort of sign we can see in the daylight that will make Col. Sumner think that the Mormons are at it again.”

 “Well---I don’t see how they could have known about the Indian attack on Clear Creek, so I figure that they would still be trying to draw the Army away from that area,” Carson reasoned further.

 “Yea, and when they find out what’s become of their gold digging operation, they are going to be really pissed off. I’ve thrown enough bad luck at them as it is.”

 “Then we best get to them before they reach the gold diggings,” said Carson. “All we got to do is take a parallel course back up stream that is the opposite of whatever false trail they cut for the Colonel.”

 Case listened to the plaintive cry of a coyote and asked, “Wanna get these gents under the ground?”

 Carson nodded grimly. “I haven’t always had time to bury the dead, but I do it when I can.”

 “Yea---same here. But let’s make it one grave for the lot. We’re going to need some shut eye after you explain to Mr. Heitz that you don’t have time to find him a scout. Good luck with that one.”

 “I will tend to it while you search out a pair of shovels,” said Carson.

 “He’ll understand, or he’s an even bigger dimwit than I took him for,” Case grumbled half to himself.

 With perfect timing Heitz’s long barreled shotgun broke the stillness of the night.

 “Oh shit,” breathed Carson who then recklessly galloped off without his companion.

 Several tense moments later Carson charged into the remains of Fort Mann only to discover that Mr. Heitz had bagged himself a raccoon.

 “What in tar nation….”

 “I’m sorry if I startled you, Mr. Carson. This was the first game to come our way since yesterday and anyway, these creatures can keep a man up all night with their high jinks.”

 Carson visibly relaxed in his saddle and said, “Mr. Heitz, you don’t have to worry anymore about soldiers sending you back to Council Grove. The men charged with guarding the new fort are dead. All of them shot down in cold blood.”

 “Indians?”

 “No sir, the Porter Rockwell twin and his bunch. That is my thinking.”

 “What do you mean twin?”

 Carson let out a sigh and replied, “This villain commits crimes and places the blame on the real Porter Rockwell, who is in California at this time. It is enough that you know that he is probably heading in the general direction you wish to travel. The woman you saw is his prisoner, and I must attempt to rescue her. For this reason, I cannot search out a guide for you in the morning. I am sorry.”

 “You have more pressing business at hand,” Heitz said in earnest. “May God go with you.”

 Case then entered the enclosure on foot; his rifle at the ready.

 “Coon hunting,” Carson quickly explained.

 Case’s rifle dropped to his side in exasperation, but he would not miss this opportunity to spread the digging chore three ways.

 “Do you own a shovel, Mr. Heitz?”

 “Of course sir. Those poor men most certainly deserve a Christian burial.”

 “All I needed to hear was yes,” muttered Case as he turned his back on the gate area and shuffled back into the darkness.

 Much to Case’s chagrin, Heitz insisted on separate graves, so the men didn’t finish under the moonlight until nearly dawn. On top of that, it began to rain and Case didn’t think his mood could drop any lower. Then there was the faint sound of a scream and the three men forgot about their minor battle with the mud.

 “Clare!” shouted the husband who began to sprint the quarter mile to the old fort.

 It was no easy task getting the watchmaker to stand beside the men who had guns. One thing that helped was the sudden appearance of a man holding a flaming torch while perched on a remaining section of the fort’s catwalk.

 “Ho there! Which of you gentlemen belongs to this fine family?”

 “I do!” Heitz called back immediately.

 “And who would you other men be?”

 “She didn’t tell them,” hissed Case. “Make up something quick.”

 “Uh, these are the Bloomberg brothers---James and David. We met on the trail and---“

 “We can talk about that inside. Please joint us.”

 “That’s him. That’s the man who looks like Rockwell,” Heitz said quite unnecessarily.

 “We walk in there and we’ll be eating lead,” Case predicted.

 “They have my family!” snarled the watchmaker.

 “Yea---we’re gunna take that into consideration,” said Case before slugging Heitz with a rifle butt.

 “Something tells me you do not share Mr. Heitz’s enthusiasm for my company, Mr. Bloomberg,” said the man up on the catwalk.

 “We heard a scream,” said Carson. “We just don’t him to err on the side of recklessness.”

 “We are hard looking men. We came upon the Heitz family without warning and started Mrs. Heitz who then fainted. I am sorry. We expected the fort to be empty.”

 “Did you expect the new fort to be empty as well?” asked Case.

 “You mean it’s been built? We thought it was nothing but a proposed building site. So where are the soldiers?”

 “Dead as Julius Caesar. That’s why we’re being so cautious,” responded Case.

 “I understand. This is what I will propose: I will keep my arms extended out over the wall like so. You will approach with your rifles at the ready. I will act as hostage. One man keeps me in his sights while the other enters the fort and inspects it for signs of treachery. I would rouse the woman and have her climb the catwalk but I fear it is not safe for a lady.”

 “What do you think?” asked Carson in a low voice.

 “I think he has at least two snipers hidden in the dark someplace. Anyway, those guys are murderers. What more do we need to know?”

 “Their exact number would be nice,” muttered the frontiersman.

 “Gentlemen, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I am experiencing a call of nature and would prefer not to wait until dawn before tending to it,” declared Rockwell with forced humor.

 “All this talk is a load of crap,” said Case. “You gotta understand that those pilgrims have just one chance for survival: You need to look like you’re running out on them. Then circle around and enter the fort from the back. I’ll draw most of them out the front and kill as many as I can.”

 “That is the worst plan I have ever heard in my entire life,” declared Carson.

 “My brother and I have decided not to involve ourselves in a matter that is not our concern. Mr. Heitz is free to enter the fort when he regains consciousness, but we prefer to stay out here,” Case said in a loud clear voice.

 “I don’t think you mean that,” Rockwell stated in a less friendly tone. “Otherwise you would not have bothered to render Heitz unconscious.”

 “We want to keep his shotgun, and I figured that he’d be taking it with him,” explained the scar faced man.

 “What is your profession, sir?” inquired Rockwell with a suspicious look that was masked by distance and darkness.

 “I am a slayer of men. I am the best there is and when I die it will not be as a martyr.”

 “Meaning that you would not trade your life for a woman or child,” Rockwell specified, who was not uncertain as to how to work this man.

 Case turned his head slightly and whispered, “You game Carson, or did I save your hide just so you can walk in there and die with the others?”

 Carson let out a sigh and backed away from where he had been standing. Case cradled his rifle and waited to see what the man on the wall would do next.

 “Now that you brother has fallen back to a safer position, you will follow and leave a helpless family to rot. What an irony that I should meet such kindred spirits out here in the middle of nowhere,” Rockwell half joked.

 Case shrugged and said, “We were thinking maybe you might be the kind of man who would try to outflank us during a long winded talk. Anyway, he’s not really my brother. I just told Heitz that. Fact is, all my relatives have been dead for---oh---eighteen-hundred years.”

 Rockwell turned cold for an instant and then said, “I would hear the name.”

 “Casca---Rufio---Longinus.”

 Twenty feet down and sixty feet back, Clare Heitz regained consciousness and found herself tied to a wagon wheel. Underneath the wagon lay another tethered female who looked like she might be Spanish or part Indian. In the dark the two women couldn’t make out each other’s facial injuries, but it was plain enough that they had both been given a rough time. Poo spoke first, grateful that the men in firing positions in other areas of the ruins.

 “Smart thing you didn’t give Kit Carson away. I don’t know how this is going to turn out, but it might help if my friends are underestimated.”

 “Truth is, I completely forgot about him, I was so scared. What of my children?”

 “Tied and gagged in the last building with a useable roof. They were put in there just after you got punched. Sorry to say I’m a little confused right now. I heard the name Bloomberg being used, but then I heard something else that I couldn’t quite make out. Anyway, just don’t say Carson whatever you do.”

 “So my husband is still out there with the others?” pressed Clare.

 “Yes. There was some mention of a shotgun. I’m afraid all we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

 “Do you think they would harm the children?”

 “I don’t know,” lied the half-caste. “I just know that there is a fortune in gold not fifty feet from us, and two very good fighters will want that gold---and hopefully me as well.”

 Clare frowned at that news but took some comfort in it.

 Back outside the compound a master warrior continued to cradle his rifle and gaze with contempt at an age old adversary.

 “You’re after the gold, aren’t you Roman?”

 “That’s right, Shit Head. I’m tired of being poor. I’m also tired of word games. My buddy and I will stalk your band of miscreants and take you out one at a time. We’re gunna get that gold. Nothing else matters.”

 “You know of course we have your half breed bitch,” Rockwell said without rancor. “Legend has it that you are quite capable of growing emotionally attached to women. Perhaps even to the point of it being a chink in your armor, so to speak.”

 “She carries her own weight and she’s a good hump,” Case responded. “I suppose you could say that I’ve found a comfortable middle ground between what you are, and what I used to be. Sure, I like the woman, but not enough to do you any good. I hope you’ll choose to keep her alive, but you’re free to kill her, and then you’ll have one less hostage to hide behind.”

 “I don’t hide behind anything,” Rockwell said with a slight edge to his voice.

 “You’re hiding behind another man’s name, aren’t you? You know I’d truly love to seen what would happen if the real Porter Rockwell were to cross your path. He wouldn’t be able to kill you as fast as I could---but I guess you’d end up just as dead.”

 “Bravely spoken, by a man who hides from The Brotherhood century after century.”

 “Only because you outnumber me fifty to one on a typical day. Above all else The Brotherhood of the Lamb is made up of cowards. You talk about having a great after life to go to but you hang back from a fight when the odds aren’t heavily stacked in your favor. Even now you’re showing me what you’re made of.”

 After a pause, the fake Rockwell said, “I’m going to bring your woman up here. Just give me a moment.”

 The Eternal Mercenary smiled in the pale moonlight. He picked up Heitz’s shotgun and moved a quarter circle to his right so that the entrance was much further away. He didn’t want the watchmaker to get trampled on, and he wanted to be closer to the trees that would cloak him from moonlight. They would be coming. Not for any other man, but for him, they would be coming. Case wasn’t pleased with the odds in front of him, but Kit Carson was (for some reason) a favorite of The Jew, which was cause for optimism.

 His spirits lifted even further when he found a large formation of tree stumps where the trees were casting a fine shadow. A fine thing to stand in back of. A fine place to wait for men who had contributed to the misery of his existence on more than one occasion. He would fight them now, and see what kind of luck The Jew would grant him on this occasion. Case stared at the open ground that the horses would have to cover. He waited for the surprise cavalry charge that was supposed to disappoint a man waiting to see his beloved.

 It came with a grim yet satisfying predictability. Seven mounted men, each wielding a carbine style weapon exited the enclosure as fast as circumstances would permit. Case backed up a second time towards the trees at the edge of the clearing, letting his opponents close the gap as the trees extended shadow under moonlight. Mounted, wavering barrels lit up the clearing, but the illuminations were blinks that would have better suited shotguns at closer range. Of course the horses were still moving forward, but not as fast as a superb marksman could rotate the cylinder of his revolver rifle.

 Five rounds zipped by Case as he worked his carbine. The experience would have been unnerving for many, but for a man who had been missed many times in many places all through the development of the firearm. The Eternal Mercenary ignored the slashes of light, the advancing steeds and the whine of passing lead. His entire existence was made up of an effort to use the same skills that had served him when men threw spears. The first man took the longest calculate. He was sixty five yards out at the beginning of the charge. His chest was a bobbing little thing behind a horse’s head. When Case’s first cap busted, the shot went out but the target remained upright, suggesting there had been a miss.

 Case zeroed in on the second horseman, almost oblivious to the first victim when he pitched off the saddle three seconds after being shot through the right lung. A valuable lesson indeed: don’t waste a second shot on a man just because he takes his sweet time falling down. Case rarely waited for confirmation of a hit. He trusted his marksmanship and moved on when the targets were plentiful. So the second man took a ball in the mouth just before Case bellied down and rolled onto his side with the pre-cocked shotgun now in his left hand.

 Now the scar faced man twisted about on the ground with a long gun in each hand. The horses towered over him but got in each other’s way and riders shot wild, placing too much confidence in the new multi-shot weapons. More lead kicked up bits of grim all around the lone warrior. Then the dark was beaten back by trigger fingers that didn’t hesitate. Both barrels of the shotgun and the remaining revolver cylinders unloaded carnage, and when the weapons were emptied, the man on the ground sprang up with a berserker rush and closed on the only horseman who had gained his feet after being dismounted.

 Rockwell had taken a grazing blow to the hip and was not in the mood for a wrestling match. He drew out a Philadelphia derringer and fired from less than six feet. Case slapped the flat of his blade over his left lung. The handle of the knife partially covered his heart. It was a desperate, almost comical thing to do, but fatalism had never been a part of his nature. As any fair gambler would have predicted, the bullet missed the knife completely and punched into Case’s left shoulder.

 Case staggered back for a second, then glared at Rockwell who extended his open hands and said, “I don’t happen to have a knife on me.”

 Ordinarily Case would have skewered his opponent on the grounds that fair play is for gentlemen and they don’t make the best soldiers. But his shoulder was really hurting him and he was glad for an opportunity to kill this bastard with a minimum of effort. So he moved over to where two of Rockwell’s men were lying on the dark ground. One was reliably dead, the other still had some life in him, but he was beginning to drown in his own blood. They had been his first two victims and both still had at least one live round in their weapons.

 Case picked up the two rifles and deposited one on the crown of a thick bush that could support the weight of the carbine Then he backed off ten paces and raised the muzzle of his own weapon to the twelve o clock position.

 “I won’t move until you’re aiming at the stars same as me. You can trust me cause I could kill you now if I wanted to.”

 Rockwell nodded slightly and said, “The centuries have bestowed on you a certain measure of style, Roman. I almost regret beating your pack whore---with a long stick of course. I suppose your unique condition protects you from the fleas…”

 “Still pissed off about California, aren’t you?” Case teased with a spiteful grin.

 “Not really,” responded Rockwell. “You see, if those men had succeeded, I would have ended up one of their minions. But because I was assigned to the Colorado project, I am in an excellent position for advancement. All I have to do is prove to you that I’m as good with a gun as the real Porter Rockwell.”

 “I would test that assertion,” said a deep voice from behind a tree.

 Identical twins confronted one another. One man looked a trifle apprehensive, the other looked as though he was about to throw a fourth ace onto a high stakes table.

 Case’s rifle barrel dropped in anticipation of trouble but the newcomer shook his head and said, “No need for that, Mister, I mean you no harm.”

 “Good to hear, but you’re no friend of the U.S. Army, and they’ll be conferring with me before I head out for more peaceful regions.”

 “That future does not concern me. Only this present. I will now know who is responsible for this charlatan’s existence.”

 “Well, I got a hole in my shoulder, so I don’t have a problem with you taking over here. I got matters to tend to in yonder ruins, but I’m not sure I really want to turn my back on either of you Rockwells until a reckoning is concluded.”

 “And I have already assured you that only this imposter shall die by my hand,” voiced the newcomer with a preacher’s tone.

 “You’re entitled sure enough. But maybe you could shoot him in the balls for now. After I’ve checked on a friend I’d like to ask this villain a few questions that might benefit us both. Then you can give him his final reward for making you out to be a killer in these parts.”

 The real Porter Rockwell confirmed this, with a painfully long discourse on the subject of his soiled reputation. Halfway through the declaration Case’s instincts told him that Carson had been given two many rows to hoe. (For a man capable of dying anyway) This further tempted Case to cut and run, but sadly, the real Porter Rockwell seemed to want to drag the confrontation out till dawn.

Chapter 68

Kit Carson fumed at the recklessness of the plan as he crept up on the sagging north wall. The lives of women and children depended on him getting inside quickly. But the whole point of a fortification was to keep a man from getting in at all. Even though the long neglected and poorly built picket works were ready to fall down on their own, they still looked as though they could betray the presence of a climber with some creaking and groaning. But Carson was presented with a good hand from Lady Luck. Some critter had dug under a couple of rotting posts. Carson could muscle his way through, even though it meant leaving some skin behind. His larger companion wouldn’t have made it through. At least Carson chose to think that.

 When the shooting commenced, Carson was behind an old rain barrel, with an un-cocked pistol in his hand. A couple of horses stood between him and the back of Heitz’s wagon. There was a lantern burning at the other end of the prairie schooner, but it wasn’t much brighter than the full moon that was now rid of the clouds. Carson was pleased to discover that the last of the enemy was standing in the open gateway with a tight grip on Clare, who could only stare out in a futile search for her husband.

 Carson crept up on Poo and sliced her bonds. He then placed his knife in her hand and whispered, “There’s a dig under the fence by the rain barrel. Get the kids out that way.”

 Then the frontier scout moved on, praying that the son of a bitch at the entrance wouldn’t turn around for another minute. Carson got half his prayer answered. The distance was only twenty feet when the gunman realized his mistake and swiftly pulled Clare into a shielding position.

 “Drop both irons,” the thug commanded.

 Carson opened his hand to let the weapon fall. Then he reached for the second pistol that was in his over sized belt.

 “No—don’t let Case’s sacrifice be for nothing!” shouted Poo as she returned from the back of the wagon and advanced on the gate opening from a different angle.

 “The children!” growled Carson in frustration.

 “Out through the hole with instructions to hide. But I had a feeling that the white woman would make things difficult. Over dressing and afraid of death. It is not a good way to live.”

 “What are you planning on doing with that knife, Slut?” the gunman demanded to know.

 Poo advanced in a shallow half circle until she was almost behind Clare’s captor.

 “Don’t you drop that pistol, Kit. He’ll kill all three of us before going out to see who’s still alive. You know damn well that’s how it will be.”

 “Shut up, Whore. I won’t kill anyone without Rockwell’s say so. Hostages don’t work if they’re dead. I’m smart enough to know that.”

 “Any men coming back here will find Kit Carson able to defend himself.”

 “I’m not for it, Poo. I don’t want my life bought at the expense of a mother who has children to raise,” declared Carson.

 “Poo is right,” Clare stated solemnly. “These animals hate women. That much I have learned. You should shoot this man and then go see how many criminals are still a threat to my family.”

 “We should both be impressed, Carson. Women who are strong and brave and worthy of survival. Will they die because we men start fights without the wit to end them at the proper time?” asked the disciple of The Brotherhood.”

 Carson hesitated, and Poo didn’t like the looks of that at all. So she followed her nature and charged in, understanding fully that she would never make it to the side of the bastard’s neck.

The woman hater brought the muzzle of his weapon down to respond to the threat. The .44 caliber ball struck her in the right breast, causing her to falter in mid stride, then fold in on herself almost at the man’s feet.

 Clare squirmed around to try and claw at the man’s eyes with her free hand, but the gunman shoved her away with one hand, while bringing his weapon around to fire at Carson. That was the second part of a very fatal mistake. The expert marksman had all the time in the world to place his sights on the very center of the man’s forehead. The Colt barked once, destroying the brain while the man was still on his feet.

 The moon slipped behind a cloud of bereavement. Kit Carson scrabbled to kneel over the dying woman, even with possible dangers still lurking outside the walls. The look of guilt on his face was easy to read even in with his back to the lantern.

 “You can’t protect the pilgrims---if you surrender so easily,” she gently scowled.

 Then Case came sprinting in with a revolver rifle in his hand. Dropping down next to Carson, he examined the wound with grim understanding.

 “You got them all?” Poo asked with feigned amazement.

 “Not exactly,” he muttered.

 As if on cue, a pistol shot cracked back where Case had left two men to resolve a matter that was no longer important to The Eternal Mercenary.

 “Now you can go home---to your real wife,” said Poo with an amused look.

 “You always knew?”

 “Of course. Women always know. Better to be---an Indian. We don’t cry---we just---“

 The woman’s eyes glazed over, and moments later the only sound was that of Clare grieving for the woman who had saved her.

 The morning sun found the Heitz family exhausted but none the worse for wear. The watchmaker wasn’t happy that he had been treated the way he was, but when Carson promised to personally guide the family towards Santa Fe, be brightened considerably. As for the real Porter Rockwell, he left his double staring up at a star lit sky and then faded off into the night. It was highly unlikely that he learned anything about The Brotherhood of the Lamb, or for that matter The Eternal Mercenary.

 It didn’t matter. Both Case and Kit Carson were totally focused on just getting home.

 “Think you’ll like being a gentleman rancher?” queried the scar faced man.

 “It’ll take a few more years to find out,” responded Carson. “There are way too many Green Horns that would get into trouble without me. So I guess I’ll keep scouting for a while. And I’m sure of one more thing.”

 “Oh yea---what would that be?”

 “You won’t be a farmer for long. The way you killed those seven men---“

 “Only six,” corrected the master soldier.

 Carson laughed at his friend’s modesty and vaulted into the saddle with more grace than Case could demonstrate after a thousand years of practice.

 “Keep your nose to the wind, and your eyes along the skyline,” Carson said in the way of a farewell.

 Case nodded, then mounted his own animal for the lonely ride to parts out east.

Chapter 69

 Rain clouds gathered and darkened, blotting out the sun that had been at Case’s back. The lone rider grew uneasy. The memory of the last unnatural storm was fresh in his mind. But he had parted company with the banks of the Arkansas River five hours ago, and on his present course he hoped to avoid the immigrants that were flooding into the eastern portion of the territory. Those immigrants were trouble. Half pro-slavery and half abolitionist. In a few years they’d be having their own civil war, but Case’s present day concern had to do with anarchy. He didn’t like carrying thirty pounds of gold through a region where the mild of human kindness was being soured on fear, ignorance and eastern politics.

 The weather grew darker, and with it an old apprehension. In other parts of the world he would participate in war and get involved with people who were displaced by martial juggernauts that would roll this way or that. You could see trouble coming and going, fairly clearly. If The Jew wanted someone helped, that would become obvious in some path of terrible destruction. But in the New World, people had all this strange and unnatural freedom. They didn’t know what to do with it except run the risk of getting into trouble. So if Case wanted to steer clear of people in need of a champion, he not only had to stay away from the battle grounds, he also had to dodge any exodus of greenhorns, which was real hard to do west of the Mississippi.

 Case wished that his chestnut mare could sprout wings like a Greek legend and fly him back to trouble free lands, but all it could do was carry him over the next hill, where he found a sight that was not to his liking.

 Six men on horseback. One colored man on foot. The later could barely see with both eyes nearly swelled shut from a facial beating. But there was a man on horseback who was in considerably more trouble. His wrists were bound behind his back and a hangman’s noose was being thrown over a tree limb to treat the abolitionist to a short drop and a sudden stop. He was an agent of the Underground Railway, which smuggled slaves out of the south. Texas wasn’t a prime smuggling state, but escaped slave Cyrus Johnson was a preacher who could read and write, and his trip was being sponsored by his congregation no less.

 How the two men got run to ground didn’t matter. The rain certainly didn’t care, nor the lightning and thunder above. Case grimly eyed the whips of fire above him. It was the closest thing to words he ever got from The Jew, and if he was to carry out this latest martial task he would have to ride hard in the rain before the noose could be placed around an abolitionist’s neck.

 With a sigh he kicked his mare in the ribs and yelled, “Jupiter---Mars---and any goddess of whores!”

 Five horsemen turned as one but only two men were actually holding their single shot saddle carbines. They stared incredulously as a single man rode at them in a storm that partially masked the man’s intentions. Then when Case was one-hundred yards out, he awkwardly placed his reins in his teeth and drew a brace of revolvers that had been properly loaded for wet shooting.

 Audacity and wet iron served Case well in the next minute or so. It takes an eternity to draw rifles out of scabbards when Sam Colt is calling you to judgment. Those who had been choking wood found themselves flinching under huge bolts of heavenly fire. The pistol flashes did the actual damage. There was no battle, only a slaughter, but one man was thinking clearly enough to dismount and place a knife at the throat of Joseph Griffith after dragging him down from his horse.

 “If you’re a friend of this nigger lover, you’ll need to settle for four dead instead of five!” the knife wielder shouted above the storm. “When you back a man against a hard place, you make him a truly dedicated son of a bitch!”

 Case briefly scanned the four men who had dropped from their saddles. Blood and rainwater mixed together before soaking into a thirsty land. There was a bit of twitching in the mud, but none of them would be crawling towards a discarded weapon. There was only one man left, and he had a really serious problem to contend with.

 “I’ll let the runners go, but I got to see your horse’s rump disappear back the way you came. Nothing else will do!”

 Case thought about that for a moment, then skinned his Colts with a deadpan expression. Suddenly jelly from an eyeball and a measure of brain matter flew past Griffith’s ear to meld with the downpour. Case’s expression remained neutral.

 “Son of a bitch untied me to help Mr. Griffith onto his horse,” growled the black man. “That and leaving a gun on the ground was his last mistake.”

 “Feels good to be on a winning side when losing is so----final,” the abolitionist muttered half to himself.

 “Never heard it put that way,” replied Case.

“Yes, well---my wit abandoned me about ten minutes ago. You sir have given it back to me. The souls of Joseph Griffith and Cyrus Johnson will be singing your praise a thousand years from now Mr…..”

 A mysterious silence hung over the scar faced man for a moment before answering, “Case Longpenance.”

 “Interesting name. Um---Mr. Johnson here is a minister believe it or not. How amazing that a man can be of the cloth and still be a slave. My task is to get him to free soil.”

 “Well, you should be pretty close.”

 “Oh no, Mr. Longpenance. In a few years this will be no safe place for a Negro.”

 “Yet I would remain in this land if my flock chose to settle in this territory,” put in the black man. “It is not practical to fight for justice everywhere, but a man needs to draw a line in the sand somewhere. I think this might be a proper place for some men at least---if not me.”

 “This was our topic of conversation before we were set upon,” explained Griffith. “Before that we spoke of the gathering storm. I don’t believe I’ve ever experienced one quite like it. One more thing to dislike about Kansas.”

 “Yea---sure,” muttered Case before turning his mount around and slowly moving off without a farewell.

 The two men on foot exchanged puzzled looks and then Griffith shouted out, “But Mr. Longpenance, won’t you explain your actions? Are you a lawman?”

 “Nope,” was the feint response.

 “Well then what are you sir?”

 “Wet,” was the reply that was lost in the driving rain. 

Copyright 2013, Kevin Schmitt