Blood Feather, page 20
She looked up and saw Gabriel racing along parallel to the stagecoach, dashing through and around trees and boulders. Just as she feared that the mighty horse would trip over a branch, log, or rock, and both would go tumbling down, Joshua looked over at her, smiled, and winked. It took her breath away. This man was her hero for the ages.
Gabe came off the ridge and ran alongside the stage in the road, coming up next to the lead horses. Strongheart tried to reach over and grab their reins but could not. Belle still put her weight on the rifle as Harlance screamed, kicked, and struggled. She screamed as Joshua suddenly leapt from his saddle over the back of the right lead horse and landed on the wooden shaft running along under the inside traces between the six-horse team. He started to rein the horses in, but just then Harlance broke free, left the rifle there, and leaned out firing his pistol, hitting Strongheart in the back of his left shoulder.
Joshua fell beneath the horses, and Harlance grinned, holstering his pistol, and crawled out the door, up onto the roof, and into the box.
In the meantime, Joshua was underneath the center shaft, walking with his hands down one by one as he slid underneath the stage, his heels dragging in the dirt, his butt held off the ground. Watching carefully he walked his hands down the undercarriage of the stage, grabbed the leather thoroughbraces, and swung his legs up from the underside of the luggage boot in the back. He pulled down with his knees, grabbed the boot, and pulled himself up onto the back of the coach.
Harlance saw him and slammed on the brake lever while he pulled hard on the reins, yelling, “Whoa! Whoa! Settle down!”
He got the stage stopped and spun around with his pistol firing wildly at Strongheart. Inside the coach, Belle had stopped crying. Joshua was alive! Now, she could feel him moving behind her.
Strongheart reached for his gun and it was gone. Harlance sensed it and stood up on the roof.
“Lost yer gun, dint ya, ya damned blanket nigger! Go haid and pop that little red face up again.”
Joshua popped up and back down as a bullet flashed right over his head. Then he popped back up while Harlance cocked the pistol.
Strongheart’s upraised right arm whipped forward, and his father’s big knife flipped over once in the air, and buried itself in Harlance’s hip. He screamed in pain, and Joshua knew this was his chance. He pulled himself up quickly onto the roof, and Harlance raised the pistol, grinning evilly.
“Whoopsy daisy, huh, buck?” he said tauntingly. “Now yer gonna find out ya ain’t so tough. Where ya want it, half-breed, in yer haid or yer gut?”
Joshua said, “How about in you?”
He was just trying to joke in the face of certain death, but suddenly something exploded through the roof of the stage and both men heard Harlance’s rifle fire below them in the coach. A bright spot of crimson appeared in Harlance’s stomach, and he looked down at it in horror. Then Belle could be heard cocking the repeater, and she fired again. A second bullet exploded through the coach roof, smashing into Harlance’s chest. He dropped his pistol and in sheer panic tore his shirt open, sticking his fingers in both bullet holes.
Strongheart said calmly, “The fingers won’t help, McMahon. You are going to be dead shortly. Killed by a tiny, pretty woman who bested you. Take that to hell with you.”
Joshua laughed.
This realization hit him, and Harlance’s face turned from white to bright red in anger. He started to speak, but when he did, blood spewed from his mouth, and he only gurgled. His face again turned white, ghostly white, and his eyes rolled back in his head. His body went limp, and he folded like an accordion, falling off the roof headfirst onto the dirt stage road. He did not feel it. He was already dead.
The door of the stagecoach flew open, and Annabelle, tears streaming, leapt out, smiling broadly. She looked under the stage and saw McMahon’s lifeless body and dropped his rifle.
Joshua said, “You sure saved my bacon.”
She said, “Get down here now, redskin!”
They both laughed, and he climbed down, and she threw herself into his arms. They kissed long and passionately and were in that embrace when the stage passengers came running around the corner. One was carrying Joshua’s pistol, and another the shotgun, and they were all cheering. The couple stepped back and looked at them and then at each other, smiling.
Strongheart suddenly saw the giant figure of Blood Feather, bloody knife in hand, diving off a large boulder at roadside, and his leap would send him crashing into Belle. Joshua sat up suddenly, heart pounding, breathing in deep pants. He looked all around and saw he was in his little camp at the north end of Red Canyon. He saw a few gray streaks in the eastern sky.
By daybreak, Strongheart was back in the saddle, bypassing breakfast. He had a man to find and a mission to accomplish.
Gabe ate up the miles as they slowly climbed through the canyon on the road, which would soon become a stagecoach toll road. There was also Phantom Canyon Road, which climbed up through another high-walled, narrow, rocky canyon, but it began on the east side of Cañon City.
That night, after pushing Gabe hard, Strongheart emerged on the western slope of Pikes Peak, where he would make another small, hidden, and relatively safe camp. On his backtrail he had figured the giant killer might try several ambushes, as he might not even be as far north yet as Strongheart. This time, Gabe had plenty of graze in and around the aspen grove that Strongheart camped in. Here he was able to let his guard down some, and he would get another good night’s sleep, for the next day he should cut the monster killer’s trail. But for now there was no reason to believe Blood Feather was within ten miles of him.
He had spotted a few deer earlier coming into the aspen grove, so he set up an ambush and took a two-year-old buck with an arrow. He would have fresh meat. He made camp, and it was warm and not visible very far because of the screen of trees. Strongheart was dead tired but was almost afraid to go to sleep. He finally did though and was very comfortable in this camp.
The general was appraising the tall Pinkerton agent as well. He could tell the man had been traveling hard for many miles. He read the dispatch from the War Department and the President’s endorsement and smiled.
Then he simply said, “Glad I didn’t hang the son of a buck yet.”
Joshua chuckled.
Davis went on, “I will send a dispatch back by wire and military courier stating I got your dispatch and will comply. No need to make you stick around for a trial. There is no doubt that Captain Jack and his owlhoots will hang, but I will keep Washington apprised up until they do. The orders make sense.”
Strongheart had traveled to the northwest to personally deliver a dispatch to General Davis directing him not to hang the notorious Modoc chief Captain Jack.
Joshua said, “General, I think I will resupply at your store and head on back to Colorado Territory.”
“I think it will become a state in a few years maybe. Heard some talk of it,” the officer replied. “Did you have much trouble getting here with the dispatch?”
Strongheart chuckled to himself. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, sir. The Pinkertons deliver.”
“Surprised they hired a redskin, no offense.”
Joshua grinned. “None taken, General. They hired the white half of me. The red part tagged along.”
The general chuckled and then guffawed.
He escorted Joshua to the door and warned, “I have some men with pretty strong sentiments right now. I hope you understand.”
Strongheart said, “General, men shot down and killed under a flag of truce is not something any red man of any upbringing condones. We have honor, too.”
Davis stared at him and extended his hand, saying, “I believe you, Mr. Strongheart.”
The general thought about having his first sergeant escort Strongheart to the store and away from the garrison, then he grinned, thinking this man would handle whatever his men handed him.
Earlier, Joshua had been attacked by a big, burly sergeant named Rowdy, and he tricked him and dumped him in a watering tough while the men Rowdy had tried to show off for laughed at him.
Strongheart left the headquarters building and asked directions to the store. Unfortunately, Rowdy and his hangers on were outside the store. Joshua was going to just leave, but he was already headed directly toward the store when he spotted the troublemaker. He could not just turn tail.
Rowdy came forward, chest sticking out and chin jutting defiantly.
“Well, laddie,” he said, “ya think ya bested me ’cause I had a slip. We’re gonna change the dance.”
Strongheart said, “Sergeant, you are playing the wrong tune. I am tired, just traveled halfway across the country to deliver one letter, and plan to buy my supplies and leave. So step aside kindly.”
Rowdy stepped forward and tried to give Joshua a shove with both hands. Joshua’s hands shot forward and up, like Dan had taught him, with his palms forward. They went in little semicircles from the inside out, and he grabbed Rowdy’s fingers, which naturally made both hands turn palms up, with the fingers bent down toward the ground. Rowdy screamed in pain from the pressure on his wrists and knuckles, which all felt like they were ready to pop totally out of joint, and he stood up on his tiptoes it hurt so bad.
Joshua grinned, whispering, “You said you wanted to dance. How about a do-si-do?”
With that, he marched the crusty old brawler twenty feet to the watering trough he’d swum in before. Suddenly, Strongheart swung him sideways, spinning on his own heels and letting go, laughing as the big sergeant crashed into the watering trough again, while all his men laughed. Joshua walked on to the store, while General Davis chuckled to himself, watching from his outer office window. Even the general laughed aloud as Rowdy came out of the trough cursing and yelling, slipped, and fell back into the water. Suddenly, instead of Rowdy, a bully twice as big sat up out of the water. It was Blood Feather, and he held Belle’s heart up in one hand and a large bloody knife in the other hand.
Joshua sat up, heart pounding, blinking his eyes, and looked around. He pictured Belle, and he wept.
“I miss you so much already, Belle,” he said. “I will never love another.”
He let himself cry for now, but could not afford to tomorrow. Sometime during the next day, Blood Feather would be within range. He knew it. He felt it, but right now he simply grieved until he dropped off to sleep again. He would awaken and have venison steaks and biscuits in the morning, and lots of coffee. Right now, he would simply get the rest he needed.
A plan was developing in his mind. It was daring and bold, but he figured Belle was worth it.
The next day, by mid-morning he was halfway across the wide, grassy, treed valley west of Pikes Peak. Strongheart ground-reined Gabe, and over the widely used road up the valley’s middle he searched for tracks revealing the big draft horse and its heavy load. This was one of the few bottleneck parts of the valley, where large rock outcroppings came close together, so all traffic was funneled through the area he was checking.
He had guessed correctly. He was ahead of the big killer. Strongheart started making preparations, hiding in the trees whenever a traveler happened by.
We Wiyake sat in the rocks, his rifle ready, watching at the top of the very long, steep hill on the road northwest of Cañon City. He knew Joshua would have to come this way. In his sick mind, he wondered if it was a wise decision to kill Strongheart’s woman. He still wanted to eat the man’s heart, and women, in his mind, were not that important anyway. Blood Feather saw a posse coming far down the long hill, but Strongheart was not with them. He lay down and waited, knowing exactly what he would do.
Strongheart had picked his spot. He had ridden around the trees looking, and after half an hour spotted what he wanted. Many feet off the ground was a gigantic nest, over ten feet in depth. It was the aerie of an eagle. Now he ground-reined Gabe again, and walked around under the tree, walking out in circles. And forty feet out he found what he wanted, the discarded tail feather of a bald eagle. He had been looking for the nest of a red-tailed hawk, golden eagle, or bald eagle, but this white feather with brown tip would be even more dramatic.
He returned to the narrows.
Blood Feather watched where there was a patch of road that was very rocky. He had made note of it riding up the hill. He lay down in the middle of the dirt trail and aimed his rifle at the rocky patch. The posse was halfway up the long climb, a Ute tracker in front of them. He waited. Now they were less than ten feet from the rocks, and he started firing and chambering rounds, the bullets traveling down the long hill, ricocheting off the rocks, and slamming into the legs and chests of the now screaming and rearing horses. Several riders hit the ground, and he fired toward them, seeing three get hit by either direct hits or ricochets. None of the posse even fired shots close to him. His concentration of rounds caused the desired effect—wounded men and wounded horses. He knew the white men would take the time to care for their wounded and would be nervous about proceeding, plus half their horses were now useless. He waited, watching while they treated the wounded, and none seemed to want to proceed. There was one who rode off to the west, wide of the road, and Blood Feather figured that one was probably hiding in the trees. Even at that distance, that one looked old and was moving very slow anyway, so he did not concern the killer. Finally, the group turned and headed back toward the south.
Blood Feather was certain that Joshua would have pursued him immediately, and it was bothering him that the Pinkerton was not with the posse. Then, he wondered if Strongheart simply wanted to stay with his woman. Wasicun were sometimes weak like that, he thought.
We Wiyake turned and went to the big draft horse hidden in the trees, where he was resting and recovering from the long climb up the evergreen-lined hill. Blood Feather started riding at a trot toward the valley where Strongheart was awaiting him. His arm was throbbing where infection had set in, and he knew he had to find some roots and sap to make a poultice to combat the infection.
Two hours passed, and Blood Feather finally came to the narrowing part of the valley. He now slowed to a walk and held his rifle across his thighs, knowing this was the area where he would make an ambush. He did not like this. Something made him stop, but he did not know what. Then he realized it was something out of place.
To lure in a bobcat or even a curious pronghorn antelope on the prairie, American Indians of most nations knew to hang either a flap of fur or a large bird feather from a branch, bush, or tall plant. Under the long overhanging branch of the closest tree, We Wiyaki saw something white hanging, moving with the wind. Then he made a big mistake. He knew about luring in pronghorn or bobcats, but he did not think. He rode forward to look closer, like a giant, unsuspecting bobcat. Blood Feather stopped the Percheron and stared at the feather swinging to and fro with the wind. It was a bald eagle feather, and it was covered with blood.
Whoosh! Blood Feather felt stabbing, searing pain in his right thigh, and he grabbed it. He looked down. It was a Lakota arrow, and it had entered his right thigh, mid-thigh, and stuck out the other side, almost hitting the horse’s side. His head snapped up, and he saw Strongheart, in war paint and breechcloth and holding his bow in his left hand. Joshua raised the bow in victory celebration and disappeared into the rock outcropping he stood on. Before Blood Feather could do anything. Blood poured everywhere from the wound. The serial killer could not attack or chase Joshua, as he had to get the bleeding stopped fast. He dropped off the horse and went down with pain when he hit the ground. He knew his thigh bone had been broken or chipped by the arrow. He quickly wrapped leather around the wound and secured it with his headband, which he yanked off his head.
He knew he had to get up again and get back on the big horse.
We Wiyake normally never felt emotion, except after eating the heart of a victim. Normally, he was in charge. He struck terror into the hearts of white men and red men, women and children. But now he was twice wounded and in excruciating pain. More importantly, he was unnerved. He had been outsmarted.
He decided that if he was going to make the spirit journey, this mysterious, powerful half-white, half-Lakota enemy would die with him, locked in battle. They would die together, if he could not kill Strongheart outright. This was something he must do.
Joshua went to his next spot and lay down. He waited. Gabe was well back in the trees. In this place, the trail wound its way through the trees, and Joshua lay behind a fallen log across the trail. The big horse would step over the log, and as soon as he was over, Strongheart would spring up with his father’s knife and slice through the Achilles tendon on We Wiyake’s left ankle, then run into the trees, using the thick woods as perfect cover.
Two hours passed.
Boom! A rifle went off far to the west in the trees. Joshua was up and running in a moment, and rushing to where he had left the big pinto.
“Oh no!” The words came out of his mouth as he saw Gabriel, his beloved horse, lying still.
Running forward, Strongheart saw the pool of blood and the big crimson hole in Gabe’s forehead. The big red-and-white horse did not feel a thing. He had died instantly, but now Joshua’s heart broke even more. Another thing happened: His resolve to get Blood Feather had been total before, but now it was well beyond that. It was beyond unbridled passion. It was cold fury.
