Guns on the Prairie Page 10

Three bodies lay in a line between the crackling fire and Jacob Stone, who was reloading. The nearest to Stone had been shot in the head, the others in the chest. Of the remaining pair, there was no sign. Sudden hoofbeats in the woods told where they had gone.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  Alonzo had to try twice to speak, his throat was so dry. “All right,” he said, although he was anything but.

  “You did fine,” Stone complimented him.

  “I only shot one of them,” Alonzo said, when he would rather not have shot any.

  “I’ve had more practice at this,” Stone said, smiling encouragement. He took a step, limping, and pressed his left hand to his leg.

  Only then did Alonzo see the shaft jutting from the lawman’s thigh. “You took an arrow!” he exclaimed the obvious.

  “And it hurts like hell,” Stone said with a grimace. Bending, he gripped the wrist of the nearest warrior, feeling for a pulse. “I’ll tend to it after we make sure these have gone to their Happy Hunting Ground.”

  “Their what?” Alonzo said in confusion.

  “It’s what some folks call the Lakota notion of heaven,” Stone explained as he bent to the next body.

  Alonzo checked the last one, his skin crawling as he touched the warrior’s still-warm flesh. “This one is no more,” he confirmed.

  Shuffling to the fire, Stone slowly eased down, his left leg held as straight as a board. “We need to heat some water for when we take this out.”

  Alonzo thought of Loudon and how infected his wound had become. He also thought of something else. “What about the two who got away?”

  “Long gone,” Stone said, shoving his Colt into his holster.

  “They might circle back.”

  “Unlikely. Indians aren’t stupid. We have guns and they don’t. And for all they know, we’ll give chase.” Stone shook his head. “No, they’ll put as much distance as they can between us.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I can’t do much walkin’ with this leg,” Stone said. “You’ll have to fetch our horses yourself.”

  Alonzo thought of how far off they had left their animals, and swallowed. “By my lonesome?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Stone testily demanded. “You need to get over this timid streak. Are you a lawman or aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not,” Alonzo almost said.

  Stone arched an eyebrow. “Why are you still standin’ there? Do I need to hold your hand for everything?”

  Alonzo smarted at the deputy’s tone. “Don’t you worry,” he declared. “I can do what needs doin’.” He turned to go and had taken a few steps when Stone said his name.

  Stopping, he turned. “What now?”

  “Be careful. Now that I think about it, you might be right about those two circlin’ around. Could be they’ll lie in wait for you.”

  “Wonderful,” Alonzo said.

  13

  The night seemed darker than any night in Alonzo’s life. He went slowly, the Colt cocked in his hand. Any sound, however slight, caused him to stop and listen until he assured himself it was nothing.

  The two surviving Sioux hadn’t fled. He was sure of it. They wouldn’t just run off. Not Sioux warriors. They were out here somewhere.

  More than ever, Alonzo regretted impersonating a lawman. He regretted it with every fiber of his being. That’s what had gotten him into this fix. Once he was shed of Jacob Stone, he was going to take a rock and pound his badge into a shapeless wad of metal.

  Stone. Alonzo couldn’t for the life of him understand why the man had worn a badge for so long. Who in their right mind would take a job that could get them killed? And stay at it for year after year? Something had to be wrong with that old man, he told himself. Stone must have some kind of death wish.

  The wind picked up, stirring the high grass, and the rustling frayed at Alonzo’s already strained nerves. How was he to hear the Sioux if they crept up on him? They wouldn’t make much noise. Not those devils.

  Alonzo had gone a considerable distance when it occurred to him that he might be going in the wrong direction. It was taking much too long to reach the horses. He studied the sky and spied the Big Dipper, but that was no help. He never could tell direction by stars. He wasn’t a frontiersman or scout. It was part of why he always used a packhorse. If he tried to live off the land, he’d starve. To say nothing of always being lost.

  Damn, I’m dumb, Alonzo almost said out loud. Talking to himself had become a habit, one he should break.

  A gust struck him, a chill blast of wind, causing his skin to break out in goose bumps.

  Alonzo scanned the grassland. He didn’t see the horses. A glance back showed that the trees where Stone was waiting were a long way off. Farther than they should be.

  Cautiously, he advanced. Soon the ground sloped upward. He was climbing a hill. But there hadn’t been any hills between the horses and the Sioux camp. In frustration he stopped and stomped a foot, then froze. A stupid mistake like that could cost him his hair and his life.

  Alonzo hated this. Hated it more than anything. If he did find the horses, he had half a mind to climb on and ride off, taking Stone’s with him, and strand the old lawman afoot. It would serve Stone right.

  Turning, he retraced his steps down the hill and bore more to his right. The horses were nowhere to be seen. He wondered if the two Sioux had taken them. Then both Stone and him would be stranded, a prospect that scared the hell out of him. He wouldn’t last long in the wilderness on his own. He needed to keep Stone alive so Stone could keep him alive.

  Alonzo just wanted to get it over with. Find their animals and get back. When he thought he had gone too far in the new direction, he changed course. Where, oh where, were the infernal horses?

  A nicker brought him to a stop.

  Alonzo brightened. He’d heard it as clear as anything. He peered hard into the night but still saw nothing. “Where are you?” he anxiously whispered. He remembered being told that things could be seen better at night when they were silhouetted against the sky so he crouched low to the ground.

  A jolt of excitement coursed through him. Several large forms stood out against the stars not far off.

  Elated, Alonzo hurried toward them. In his eagerness he threw all caution to the gusting wind. He broke into a run but had gone only a few yards when he thought he saw something move. Not one of the horses but something near them. It was a flash of motion, nothing more, but enough to cause him to dive flat with his breath caught in his throat.

  He’d glimpsed a man, not an animal. He was certain. And the only other men around, besides Stone and him, were the two Sioux.

  Alonzo had a terrible thought. What if the Sioux had found the horses and were waiting for someone to come for them so the Sioux could jump whoever came? It would be just like those crafty redskins.

  This was the final straw. Then and there, Alonzo made up his mind to give up roaming the plains and stick to cities and towns from now on.

  Another hint of movement made him stiffen. Was it his imagination, or was someone slinking through the grass toward him. He stared so hard, his eyes hurt. But once again he saw nothing.

  Alonzo smothered a groan of despair. No, he definitely didn’t have what it took to be a lawman. He could impersonate with the best of them, and steal without a qualm, but put him in a situation like this and he went all to pieces.

  Alonzo looked to his left, and his blood stopped in his veins. There was a shape in the grass that hadn’t been there before. It could be a man, crouched low. One of the warriors. He raised the Colt but didn’t shoot. He might miss, or only wound the man.

  Then the unthinkable happened.

  Something bumped his foot.

  * * *

  For about the tenth or eleventh time, Jacob Stone sat up and scoured the belt of woods south of the clea
ring. “Where the blazes is that boy?” he grumbled. It was taking Grant entirely too long.

  Stone examined his wound. The pain had lessened a little and his leg wasn’t bleeding as bad. He needed to get the arrow out, though, and soon. And he needed hot water to clean the wound and reduce the chance of infection.

  It would be easier with Grant to lend a hand, but he couldn’t wait forever.

  Stone strained to hear hoofbeats and only heard the wind. He contemplated going to see if Grant was all right. But that might set his leg to bleeding more, and he’d lost too much blood already.

  Stone had been wounded a few times in his career. Most were in his younger days, when he was green like Grant, and made more mistakes. Those mistakes. They bit you on the ass every time.

  Stone recollected an incident down to the border country, in Texas. He and another deputy by the name of Whitehouse had gone to a village to look for a wanted man, a notorious pistolero by the name of Santiago who was quick with his temper and quick on the draw. Whitehouse and Stone had gone up to a hovel where an informant claimed Santiago was hiding.

  Neither of them had much experience, and they stupidly stood in front of the door when Whitehouse knocked, instead of to either side. Santiago was in there, all right, and he cut loose with his pistols, shooting through the door. Whitehouse died where he stood, shot to pieces. Stone had taken lead in the shoulder, and fallen. He was lying in his own blood when Santiago made a mistake of his own; he opened the door to peer out. Stone shot him in the head.

  The wound left a scar. So did another, from a time in Kansas when Stone rode into Salina intending to grab a bite to eat, and be on his way. But as he drew rein at a hitch rail, who should come ambling out of a general store but Floyd Banks, a desperado whose face was plastered on wanted circulars all over the territory. Banks saw Stone at the exact moment Stone saw him and they both went for their six-shooters. Banks, to Stone’s embarrassment, was faster. Caught flat-footed, as it were, in his saddle, Stone was an easy target. A slug tore through his side. He’d answered with a shot that jarred Banks onto his bootheels. Both of them fired again. Banks missed. Stone didn’t. Floyd Banks died with a third nostril.

  Stone had a few other, smaller scars. On those rare occasions when he was naked, he sometimes traced his scars with his finger, remembering, remembering.

  Now he would have a new one.

  Stone scoured the trees once more. If he had to, he’d take the arrow out himself. It would be a lot harder, but he could do it.

  “Where are you?” Stone said to the empty air.

  * * *

  Alonzo Pratt twisted and looked up, and it was hard to say who was more astounded, him or the warrior who had almost stepped on him.

  In a rush of insight, Alonzo realized the two Sioux had spotted him and one must have circled to come at him from behind while the other slunk toward him from the front. When he went to ground, they’d lost sight of him, and the warrior behind him had crept up and nearly stepped on him.

  In the pale starlight, the warrior’s expression was almost comical. It only lasted a few seconds. Then it changed to one of hate and wrath, and the warrior let out a war whoop and raised a knife to strike.

  Without thinking, Alonzo shot him. His hand moved of its own accord, the Colt booming and bucking. The Sioux grabbed at his midsection but didn’t go down. Instead, he growled deep in his throat and lunged.

  Alonzo shot him again.

  The warrior stopped and half-turned and took a couple of faltering steps to one side, then pitched face-down in the grass.

  Alonzo had no time to savor his triumph. Moccasin-shod feed thudded. He whirled and scrambled to his knees, only to be slammed into by a battering ram driven by raw fury.

  The last Sioux was beside himself. He shrieked as he attacked, the cry of a man on the brink of going berserk.

  Alonzo barely got his left hand up and grabbed the warrior’s wrist to keep a knife from being buried in his chest. For his part, the warrior grabbed Alonzo’s wrist to prevent Alonzo from using the Colt. They struggled, thrashing and straining, each striving to break free and use his weapon.

  For Alonzo, the whole thing seemed unreal. The warrior’s swarthy, maniacal face was inches from his own. They were close in age, the two of them, and if not for the difference in their hair and their eyes, Alonzo would have thought he was looking at a mirror image of himself.

  Hissing like a snake, the young warrior sought to sink the cold steel of his knife into Alonzo’s neck. The tip drew ever closer. One cut, if it sliced a vein, would do the trick.

  Alonzo had never fought so hard, so desperately. He exerted every sinew, his lungs working like a blacksmith’s bellows. He must prevail or he would die. It was that simple.

  With a quick shift of his weight, the warrior was suddenly on top. His teeth showed white in a feral snarl as he bore down on his knife arm with all his weight. The blade was a whisker-width from Alonzo’s throat.

  Alonzo had only ever been in a few fights, most when he was a boy. He was about as skilled at fighting as he was at being a frontiersman. But he would be damned if he would let himself be slain.

  Arching his body, Alonzo bucked. The warrior fell off him, and they rolled. Alonzo sought to get on top, but his adversary thwarted him. They rolled the other way. A knee caught Alonzo in the thigh. The warrior drove his forehead at Alonzo’s face, and Alonzo jerked back.

  Alonzo couldn’t hold his own much longer. He would tire before the Sioux did, and the Sioux would finish it.

  The warrior gave voice to an unearthly howl.

  They rolled once more, and Alonzo drove his knee at the man’s groin. He was surprised that he connected, surprised even more that the warrior partly doubled over and his grip slackened. Not much, but enough that Alonzo tore his right arm free and jammed the Colt’s muzzle into the Sioux’s cheek. They looked at one another, and for an instant, time froze. For an instant, they were just two men, one on the cusp of dying. Fear filled the warrior’s eyes.

  Alonzo fired.

  Blood splattered his mouth and jaw, and Alonzo recoiled. Spitting and gasping, he heaved to his knees and shoved the body from him. Dizziness assailed him. He came close to passing out.

  Fighting to stay conscious, weakness pervading his limbs, he was able to stand.

  A gust of wind was a literal breath of fresh air. Alonzo drank in the cool feeling of the breeze on his sweat-soaked body. His hat was missing, his hair plastered to his head. He took a few stumbling steps, dumfounded at his deliverance.

  They were dead. Both the warriors were dead. He had killed two Sioux all by himself. It didn’t seem real. It was like a dream. Yet there they lay, as lifeless as those back at the clearing.

  “Dear God,” Alonzo said, and commenced to shake. This made three men he’d slain in the span of an hour. He could hardly believe it.

  Alonzo held up his hand and stared at the Colt. He owed his life to it. He could never have beaten the Sioux without it.

  A whinny brought him out of himself. He’d forgotten all about the horses, and about Deputy Marshal Jacob Stone with an arrow through his leg.

  “I’m comin’,” Alonzo said.

  First he groped about until he found his hat. He still felt weak, but he stumbled to the horses, gathered up the reins to Stone’s and the lead rope to his packhorse, and pulled himself up onto Archibald.

  Archibald shied at the scent of blood, and Alonzo had to firm his hold. “Steady, fella,” he said. “It’s all right.”

  Alonzo headed toward the woods at a walk, drinking in deep breaths. He was grateful to be breathing; life had never been so precious to him as it was at that moment. He’d always taken it for granted.

  It struck Alonzo that he need not go back. He had the horses. He could ride off, as he’d considered doing earlier, and be shed of Stone. All it would take was a jab of his spurs.
<
br />   He couldn’t do it. He didn’t have it in him to desert someone, especially not someone who was wounded, and who had treated him decently. Against his better judgment, he entered the trees.

  “I’m the biggest dunce there is,” Alonzo said bitterly. It wouldn’t surprise him a bit, if before this was over, he ended up dead.

  14

  When Deputy Marshal Jacob Stone heard shots, he was filled with alarm. It could only mean one thing: Robert Grant had run into trouble.

  Stone placed his hands flat on the ground and tried to push to his feet. The young deputy would need help.

  It was probably already too late, but Stone must try. He rose partway, only to have his thigh lance with agony. He bit his lip to keep from crying out and tried to keep rising; but his leg wouldn’t support him, and he sank back down.

  Refusing to give up, Stone gathered his strength and heaved erect. The effort cost him. He grew dizzy, and swayed. His leg nearly buckled. Getting his balance, he waited for the dizziness to pass, then shambled to where a fallen warrior lay, a lance half under him.

  Stone girded himself. This would take some doing. Carefully bending but keeping his hurt leg straight, he pulled and tugged, moving the dead warrior enough that he could claim the lance. He’d never held one before. It was heavier than he reckoned, which was good. It could support him without breaking.

  Using the lance as a crutch, Stone limped toward the woods. His leg refused to cooperate. He worried the arrow had sliced a tendon, and that his leg might not heal right. It would put an end to his lawman days, whether he wanted them to end or not.

  Once in the trees, Stone was forced to go slowly. He’d take a step, slide his wounded leg forward while bracing himself on the lance, stop, then take another step. At this rate, it would take forever. He’d never reach Grant in time.

  After only ten yards or so, Stone halted. He was caked with sweat, and close to exhausted. He attributed his weakness to loss of blood. It was too soon for infection to have set in.