Chapter 26: My kingdom for a horse
Green headed the pinto toward a range of mountains a few miles distant. If he
could get to it before Loomis' men caught up to him, he could set his horse free
and lose himself in the myriad rock-strewn ravines and buttes. Later, when he
had shaken them, he would be able to walk to the Widow Holbarth's to pick up the
rest of his money and get a fresh horse.
That was the plan . . . at least until his horse stepped into a prairie dog hole
spilling them both. After slowly picking himself up, Green checked the right
front leg of the horse. It wasn't broken, but the horse was unable to put its
full weight down. Sighing, Green took the saddle and hackamore off and swatted
the horse's butt.
"Go on get! No sense in both of us getting killed."
The horse hobbled off a little ways, stopped and began nibbling around some
sagebrush where a patch of desert grass grew sparsely.
Green eased himself down onto the ground resting his back against the saddle and
rolled a cigarette.
Looking in the direction from which he had just come, he saw a narrow band of
dust rising into the air. It couldn't be Loomis' men. They would have raised a
hell of a lot more dust than that; it couldn't be more than one or two riders.
He stood up and checked his guns, spinning the cylinders and took out the empty
cartridges that he normally left in for the hammers to rest against and put in
two loaded ones. He looked around for a place of concealment. Seeing nothing but
mounds of sage he picked up his riding gear and hid himself behind a nearby
clump. It would have to do.
As the column of dust grew nearer he made out a lone rider: an Indian.
"You cannot hide from an Apache, Nah-kah-yen. I saw you from miles off." The
Indian was grinning.
Green stood up, holstering his guns. It was the young Apache, Bear Claw, his
face concealed behind red and black chevrons but recognizable from the scar on
his belly and the brash attitude. He held a Winchester across the pommel. A
pearl-handled .38 hung by the trigger guard from a leather thong around his
waist.
"I see you managed to survive," Green said, staring at the .38. He rolled a
cigarette and handed it to the Indian. Bear Claw held it under his nose sniffing
before placing it in his mouth waiting for a light.
"Today I am Gray Wolf's greatest warrior. I get all the pussy I want now. I take
a white woman at Red Rock. I will fuck her tonight, after I beat her." He
laughed while leaning over to catch the flame Green struck with a match. He blew
a thick cloud of smoke toward the sky baring his muscular throat. Green could
see splatters of blood on the Indian's naked body, and none of it belonged to
the Indian.
Green glanced back into the distance as he lit his own cigarette. He heard the
faint sound of gunfire.
"The vaqueros will not be coming," Bear Claw grinned. "There is a dark-haired
woman and a black stallion Gray Wolf wants. They will be too busy fighting him
to find the one who made the long shot, the one with the keen eyes,
Nah-kah-yen."
Green nodded in the direction of the Holbath place. "How 'bout a ride?"
Bear Claw shook his foot out of the stirrup and held out a hand.
As they trotted off the pinto limped along after them trying to keep up even
when they disappeared from view.
Coming over a slight rise close to the ranch, Green told Bear Claw to hold up.
"What is wrong?"
"I'm not sure; but there's the remains of a dead horse lying in that corral, and
the gate's been pulled down."
.
Puzzled, Tibbs took a final swig from the bottle and tossed it into the
fireplace. Through the window he had seen Green dismount from the Indian's horse
on the rise. Suddenly it came to him why: the horse carcass in the corral. He
cursed under his breath. Green couldn't have known about the widow woman and
what Loomis' men did to her: sewing her up naked inside the horse's carcass;
leaving her for the wolves and cougars coming down out of the mountains for a
meal. Green had been in the pit all that time afterwards. Not knowing she was
dead he would naturally wonder why leftovers were lying neglected in the corral
-- if everything was okay. And he wouldn't likely be crazy enough to come
waltzing in until he had an answer -- not in full daylight, unless the widow or
the newspaperwoman showed herself, and that wasn't going to happen.
Tibbs cursed himself for having drunk so much; and at the same time he licked
his lips wishing he had another swaller. He couldn't figure Green being with a
redskin, and that worried him. Where there's one fucking skin there might be
more. And if there were more then it was all over for him. He had lost the
advantage of ambush, too. As he figured it he only had one remaining chance: no
one could beat him in a gunfight. No one.
Tibbs smiled feeling his dick stiffen. He would call Green out. Mano a mano and
kill him. Afterwards he'd get the fuck out with the woman in tow before any more
skins showed.
Tibbs cast a look at the woman spreadeagled on the bed and walked out onto the
porch; he stepped off into the yard his hand hovering over the butt of his
pistol.
"Green. You want the woman, come down and get her like a man."
Green didn't reply right off. Reaching in his shirt pocket he pulled out his
tobacco pouch and rolled a smoke, lit it, took a heavy draw and studied the
situation.
"Which woman we talkin' about?" Green hollered back.
"The newspaperwoman, asshole. The widow's history. Loomis' men fucked and killed
her over a week ago." Tibbs chuckled. "From what the boys told me it was some
good fuckin', too."
"Asshole?" Green muttered softly. Glancing at the Indian he said, "Do me a
favor. You got bullets in that thing?"
Bear Claw nodded.
"Toss it to me."
Bear Claw hesitated a moment, shrugged and tossed Green the Winchester. What
happened next was too quick for the Indian to see. There wasn't even a blur of
action. One instant the rifle was in the air flying toward Green, the next a
loud report sounded in synch with a muzzle flash -- and the rifle was back in
the air coming toward Bear Claw who barely reacted fast enough to catch it.
"Thanks; shoots a bit to the left," Green said, drawing a pistol, and starting
down the rise.
When he came to where Tibbs was lying he stopped and gazed down at the three
bullet holes in his chest.
Tibbs stared up at him with a bewildered expression on his face.
"McGee?," he whispered hoarsely.
Green was silent.
Blood bubbled out of Tibbs' mouth; his eyes became still; his head dropped
limply back against the ground.
Green knelt down and went through his pants pockets and retrieved his pouch with
the five hundred in gold the widow had given him.
As he entered the cabin, Green glanced back up the rise. The Indian was gone.
He saw the newspaperwoman on the bed, but ignored her. He went to the armoire
instead and began ransacking it.
"What are you doing?" Morgan asked in astonishment.
"Gettin' the rest of my money."
"Think you could . . ." she nodded her head at her bound wrists and wiggled her
hands.
Green merely grunted and moved to the fireplace. He ran his hands over the stone
facing until he felt one move slightly and pulled it out. He reached inside and
pulled out a leather pouch. It chinkled heavily as he hefted it from one hand to
the other. He opened it on the table; large fifty dollar gold pieces spilled
out.
"Must be about five or six thousand," he murmured. "The widow won't be needing
it."
He left the money lying on the table and went to the bed sitting down on the
edge. Their eyes met briefly as he reached toward the rope that bound one of her
wrists.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Untying you."
"Mas tarde."
Epilog.
Bear Claw recovered the pinto and the saddle. It was a good, strong pony and the
leg was only sprained; it would be healed by the next full moon. Slowly, he
guided his horse toward the west with the pinto in tow. Someday he would have a
herd as big as Gray Wolf's.
Someday . . . .
