Chapter 10: Target Practice
In the steady downpour, Bear Claw saw the two stray beeves near the flooded
arroyo. His heart lightened. There would soon be food for the members of his
small tribe and plenty of pussy for his cleverness -- an Apache never does
anything for another without an ulterior motive. The squaws would stroke his
lean, young body with their soft, brown hands and make him shoot enough juice to
fill a gourd. They would no longer think of him as a child, ish-kay-nay, but as
Bear Claw, the provider, un hombre muy listo. For among his people it is
cleverness, listeza -- not bravery -- which is valued. A warrior may be honored,
but it is the clever man who is esteemed. A man who acted strictly out of noble
purpose was considered a fool and would be laughed at. A selfish motive must be
at the heart of every action or there would be no respect.
Stealing cattle was dangerous, especially the cattle of the white rancher,
Cordel Loomis. If he, Bear Claw, were caught on Loomis land he would be gutted
alive and hanged, and it wouldn't matter if he were stealing cattle or not, he
would be killed simply for being an Indian. It was also known among the Apaches
that Loomis had a standing offer of a bounty of thirty dollars for every Indian
scalp brought to him, but Bear Claw was young and saw only the two beeves before
him and the vast, empty plains and low-lying hills and the envisioned glory that
awaited him. The risks of being caught seemed small in his eagerness.
He was wearing only a loincloth and moccasin boots with the handle of a knife
sticking out and seemed as impervious to the rain as the two beeves. He held a
rifle in a buckskin sheath across his saddle-horn and a cartridge bandoleer over
his shoulder. A red headband held his long, black hair away from his eyes which
were as dark as a cougar's lair. A leather quirt hung from his right wrist.
He circled around behind the two cows and began herding them toward a purple
range of mountains in the distance.
Youth, inexperience and the pounding of the rain kept him unaware of the
approach of riders just beyond a low-lying hill.
* * *
Loomis was still smarting from his encounter with the Holbarth woman and her
'champion' when he and his men galloped to the top of the slight hill. Suddenly,
he raised his hand, reining his men in.
"Well, I'll be Goddamn! Lookee here what we got. A fuckin' redskin stealin' some
of my Goddamn beef!"
Rain dribbled from the brim of his hat as he unsheathed his rifle.
"Let's have a little target practice, boys."
The first shots were kicking up wet sand before Bear Claw heard the reports. A
sudden, sharp pain in his belly caused him to double over. Blood gushed from a
large wound.
Glancing up he saw horsemen galloping toward him yelling and whooping, firing
their weapons. Bullets whizzed all about him.
"I'll use his Goddamned tool bag for a purse!" Loomis shouted.
"He's doubled-up; we've got his stinkin', red ass!" one of the men called out.
Bear Claw struck the quirt on the mustang's flank, causing it to leap forward
into a gallop, kicking up a wet spray of sand.
"We're losing the son-of-a-bitch!" Loomis cried.
And it was true. They had been galloping their mounts since leaving Holbarth's.
The Indian's pony was fresh and feisty. Soon it left them in the distance.
They pulled up and fired a few more volleys at the disappearing image of the
Indian; laughing, they headed back the way they had been going.
* * *
With five hundred in gold in his pocket, John Green ambled his horse back toward
Red Rock. His wide-brimmed hat and the tightly-woven serape protected him from
the rain. Beyond the gentle hills and flat plains before him, a chain of purple
mountains hid their snow-covered peaks in a bank of gray clouds. A magpie, with
its long, black tail streaming out behind it, flew overhead, calling out in a
rapid cheg-cheg that became a fading dirge. Mist hung in the lower places like
gray veils; mounds of sage veered in every direction around him; sand-covered
buttes and rocky crags, in a rainbow of colors, hid ravines, winding down from
the higher reaches, bordered by mesquite and juniper growing higher up even
still.
As he topped a rise, he could see the stage road about a half a mile off. But as
he started down the slope past an overhang of rock something caught his
attention out of the corner of his eye. A slight movement, a glimpse of red.
Drawing a pistol, he dismounted, looping his reins around a yucca stalk, and
crept cautiously toward the spot under the overhang where he had seen the
movement.
Rain splattered loudly on the selves of rocks leading up to the overhang, which
jutted out from the surrounding slope about ten feet and was high enough
underneath for a tall man to stand upright.
Curled up in a tight ball near the back of the ledge was an Indian. His hands
were pressed against his belly and blood had seeped out between the fingers onto
the rock.
Green saw a knife in one of his moccasin boots, but there didn't seem to be any
other weapons about.
"Quien es?" he said softly. The Indian remained still and silent, either dead or
unconscious, he figured, but he was taking no chances. He nudged the Indian with
the toe of his boot keeping his pistol cocked and ready. When he got no
response, he shoved against the shoulder flipping him onto his back. The Indian
gave a brief show of life, a faint grimace and a flash of white teeth. The eyes
opened for a moment , but they were feverish and unfocussed. Green took away the
knife before he might reach for it.
He stretched the Indian out on his back and examined the wound. He was gut shot.
Green could see part of the gut protruding. He figured the Indian had a
day--maybe two--before he died. And it would be a painful death.
He could do nothing but try to make him as comfortable as possible. He took off
his serape and taking the Indian's bandana soaked it in the rain and cleaned as
much of the blood off of him as he could; he staunched the wound with it and
wrapped his serape around him for warmth. He gathered up a bundle of desert
grass and placed it under him for bedding and pillow. With some dead yucca
stalks, sage and snake wood, he made a small fire.
He went to check on his horse and put the Indian's knife in the saddle bag. As
he turned to go back to the ledge, he saw a buggy, with a yellow, canvas hood,
heading at a walk toward Red Rock on the stage road. Green recalled the
yellow-topped buggy in the alleyway below the doctor's office.
Quickly, he mounted up and galloped down the slope to intercept it.
As he drew near he could see a man beneath the hood, lying down in the seat on
his back with his legs drawn up, feet cocked against the arm rest.
He seemed oblivious to everything as Green reached out to lay hold of the reins
of his horse and bring the buggy to a halt.
Green could hear the man snoring loudly as he dismounted and jerked at the cuff
of his trousers.
He looked to be in his early sixties: wire-rimmed glasses and a gray, untrimmed
mustache under a full, unkempt head of hair with white sideburns. Underneath an
unbuttoned slicker he had on a rumpled gray suit with vest; a silver watch chain
hung from a button hole. The black shoes were muddy, but the uppers still show
signs of a high gloss.
"What the hell --" the man muttered groggily, as he sat up slowly, taking off
his glasses to rub his face with his hands.
"If you're planning on robbing me you sure as hell picked the wrong person," he
said squinting up at Green.
"No," Green replied. "You the Doc?"
"Doctor Greely," the gray headed man answered, nodding.
"I've got an Indian gut-shot up in the rocks. I don't guess there's much anyone
can do for him, but I thought maybe you could take a look."
He cast a tired glance up the slope Green had come down. His eyes were red
veined as if he hadn't slept for days.
"Indian? Gut shot?" He shook his head and rubbed his face some more. Then . . .
"Ah, what the hell . . . Might as well take a look -- since I'm already awake,
maybe give him something for the pain."
He sighed and got out of the buggy, his feet sinking into the mud, and hobbled
his horse.
"I have to follow you up on foot, too rough for a buggy."
He took a hat and a black, leather bag out from underneath the seat and followed
as Green led him up to the ledge.
He spent some time examining the Indian for vital signs; after he was through he
asked Green to bring him some prickly pear from higher up the slope.
When Green returned, the doctor burned off the stickers in the fire, cut a pad
in half and coated it with jelly.
"This is an Apache remedy," he explained. They use buffalo grease, but this
oughta work; he'll never know the difference."
He placed the prickly pear on the open wound and wrapped it with cotton bandage.
"Will it do any good?" Green asked.
The doctor shrugged.
"Who knows. The Indians claim it works; I've known it to work. Something in the
juice that keeps a wound from festering, I expect. They're a wise and hardy
race. If anyone can recover from such a wound it'll be an Apache."
Night came and the rain continued to fall.
Green and the doctor sat with their backs against the rear of the ledge, in the
flickering light of the fire, drinking from a bottle of whiskey the doctor had
in his medicine bag and smoking cigarettes.
"Just a boy," the doctor said. Probably trying to rustle some beef and got
caught."
He lowered his head and ran the fingers of his hand through his hair, his
wire-rimmed glasses glinting in the firelight.
He glanced at Green, drew some smoke into his lungs and blew it out.
"How is it that you stopped to help an Indian?"
"Don't know to tell you the truth," Green replied. "I don't make it a habit. My
father used to tell me most men weren't worth a damn, and I've lived by that
most of my life."
The doctor nodded thoughtfully.
"I've been a doctor for almost forty years, and I've met all kinds of people.
Some good, some bad. But, good or bad, they're just pathetic bastards trying to
figure out why God is always punishing them or their children with this or that
hideous infirmity. And I've spent my life trying to save the poor bastards -- I
no longer kid myself, though. It's a losing battle. But if there's one thing
I've learned it's that you can't give up on people. Sure, your daddy was right,
most people are guided by their own selfish concerns, and most haven't crawled
very far out of the mud from which God made them; but, eventually, if you lose
your faith in others you lose faith in yourself. You become a soulless bastard.
In time I've learned that just when you think it's all pointless, you sometimes
find something that'll restore your hope in the human race. What it was meant to
be. Not always but sometimes. If it wasn't for that, I don't think I would have
anything to hang onto. Someday we'll be better than we are. That's my faith."
Green took a swig and passed the bottle to the doctor. "Here, you'd better have
some more of this."
.
Later as dawn began to lighten the east, the doctor stood and stretched with the
palms of his hands pressed against the top of the rock ledge.
Well, I've done all I can here. I guess I'll be heading into town, if you plan
on sticking it out with him."
Green nodded.
"Shouldn't be long, but a word of cautious. If he wakes up he'll do his best to
kill you. The Apaches hate white men only a little less than they hate Mexicans.
And they have no word in their language for mercy. They're raised from childhood
not to trust anyone -- so be careful, Mister Green."
"Then we have something in common," Green said shaking the doctor's hand.
Before leaving the doctor gave him a small bottle.
"Give him a couple of nips of that if he's in pain. It'll help some."
Green watched the doctor down the slope until he was hid from view by boulders
and shrubs.
He had left the whiskey, so Green settled back and took another drink.
