William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Fisher shook his head, wondering if perhaps that’s all they were—hallucinations brought on by too much sun on his bare head.

They looked hard and cruel. Dangerous.

Reeling, he staggered back a step. A giant invisible hand squeezed his gut, the bottom of his stomach feeling as though it had fallen out. He stood frozen in the middle of the yard, buckets in hand, a stone’s throw from the ranch house, Through an uncurtained window, he saw a flash of movement as Ada crossed in front of the window, moving around in the room. She hadn’t seen the invaders.

Eben stood with his back to the Indians, chopping wood full tilt, sending the chips flying, blissfully unaware of the intruders.

The horses’ hooves trod softly on the brown dirt of the yard. There was a faint musical whispering. Soft as the first pattering fall of raindrops, it was the jingling of tiny bells. An odd, jarring note, the musical chimings came from several strips of little silver bells no bigger than a berry. They were strung at regular intervals on rawhide thongs, braided into strands of shiny black shoulder-length hair framing the face of the Comanche riding slightly in advance of the other three.

Seton Fisher was unaware that he was in the presence of Little Bells, a member of the Bison Eyes clan and a valued henchman of War Chief Red Hand. He knew only that he and the rest of his family were in danger, deadly danger.

He wondered if he looked as sick as he felt. He had no weapon at hand. He owned a rifle, two pistols, and a shotgun, but they were all in the house. Why weigh myself down with a gun while carrying out ordinary household chores? he had thought earlier.

Too late, he knew why, and cursed himself for being a damned fool.

Little Bells’s lithe, wiry limbs were knotted with ropy strands of muscle wrapped in veins. A red bandanna circled his forehead. Beneath it, his hair hung loose and free, a strand of silver bells on each side of his face. Deep-set eyes peered out from under an overhanging brow. His swarthy, copper-hued face was painted with vertical and horizontal black stripes. War paint.

He wore a salmon-colored shirt, a breechcloth, and deer-hide boots. He rode a brown horse with a high-backed Comanche style wooden saddle, holding the reins in one hand and a rifle in the other. The rifle was decorated by a pair of feathers tied below the muzzle by a rawhide thong.

The three braves with him were armed. Greasy Grass carried an army carbine. Thorn had a single-shot rifled musket. A bow was slung across Firecloud’s back and a quiver of arrows hung over a shoulder. A six-gun was stuck into a braided rawhide belt holding up his breechclout.

They stopped between Fisher and the ranch house, their expressions remote, impassive.

Some men cling to hope no matter how grim the facts. Why assume the worst? Fisher asked himself silently. He’d handled stray Indians before. They were great ones for trying to get something for nothing from settlers. High-handed, high-stomached, full of themselves, they did not beg, they demanded. Feed them a meal, give them a few trinkets, baubles, and blankets to sate their savage vanity and childlike greed and they’d be on their way. That’s how it had always been in the past, in other places.

But those Indians hadn’t been Comanches, staring down Fisher on the lonely heights of the hill country.

Eben kept on huffing and puffing, making the chips fly as he continued to chop wood, oblivious to the danger at hand.

Damned young fool! He always was slow on the uptake, that boy.

Seton Fisher glared and called to him in a stage whisper, his voice a croak. “Hsst! Hsst! Eben. Eben!”

“What, Pa?” Eben said, not looking up from the woodpile.

“Over here, ya derned idjit!”

Eben straightened up, turning around with ax in hand. “Yow!”

“Easy, boy,” Fisher said.

Eben’s expression of shocked surprise might have been almost comical in its grotesque exaggeration if the situation had not been so direfully real. He cried, “Injuns! Oh Lordy!”

“Keep still, boy! We can’t show weak,” Fisher hissed.

“Gawd!”

“Quit your bawling and carrying on.”

“What’re we gonna do, Pa?”

Fisher trembled, agitating the pails of water he held. Water slopped over the top of a bucket, splattering on the ground. Fat droplets were soaked up by the brown dirt.

He set the buckets down on the ground, knees creaking. He straightened, never once taking his eyes off Little Bells.

Little Bells grimaced, baring his teeth. Seconds passed before Fisher realized the Indian was not making faces, but grinning. It was hard to tell the difference. The grin was accompanied by a dry chuckle, sounding like a barking cough.

Little Bells glanced at Thorn beside him on his left, the turning of his head setting off a jingling of the silvery bells. Thorn smiled.

Little Bells turned to the right, toward Greasy Grass. Grinning away, he nodded at the other, as if to encourage him. The lower half of Greasy Grass’s face split in a knife-blade smile, sharp, toothy, and mirthless.

Little Bells beamed down at Fisher, who forced a half grin. He looked sick. Little Bells’s smile widened, laugh lines crinkling around dark eyes. His chuckling ripened into laughter.

Exchanging glances with his sidemen, he motioned them to join in. Greasy Grass and Thorn laughed loudly. Firecloud remained aloof, stone faced.

Little Bells gestured to Fisher, as if encouraging him to join in the merriment. Seton forced a laugh, sounding like he had a bone stuck in his throat and was trying to clear it.

Apparently that really tickled Little Bells, who laughed out loud. Greasy Grass and Thorn laughed along with him. Firecloud’s blank-faced silence remained unbroken.

Little Bells motioned for Seton Fisher to continue. Fisher made a show of laughing it up. If that’s what the savage wants, best play along, he thought, and made a braying jackass of himself.

Suddenly, without warning Little Bells frowned, falling silent.

Taking their cue from him, Greasy Grass and Thorn stopped laughing, turning it off as abruptly as though it had never been at all. The Comanches smiled no more.

Fisher’s face was ashen. Little Bells pointed his rifle at Seton.

“What ... what’s happening, Pa?” Eben choked.

“I’m kilt.”

Little Bells fired once, the bullet tearing through Fisher. He crumpled, falling backward.

Firecloud burst out laughing.

“Pa!” Eben remembered the ax in his hands. Hefting it high above his head, he rushed Little Bells, sobbing. “Crazy murderin’ redskins!”

Little Bells swung the rifle toward Eben and fired. Eben swayed but kept lurching forward, his big feet kicking up clouds of brown dirt.

Another slug tore into him, knocking him down.

Inside the west wing of the ranch house, Lydia was mending a croker sack with needle and thread. At thirteen, she was slim, coltish, with long, straight, dirty-blond hair worn in a pair of braids framing a thin, fine-featured face. Dark brown eyes contrasted with fair hair and skin. She wore a lilac-colored, cotton floral-print dress and a pair of flat-heeled, lace-up ankle boots.

Her mother sat nearby, folding towels.

Lydia stopped working and looked up at her ma.

“Quit your daydreaming, gal.”

“I’m out of thread, Ma.”

“Get some more. You know where it is.”

“Yes, Ma.” Sighing, Lydia rose and left the room.

Her mother watched her leave, then stood and walked past the front window on her way to put away the towels. In her early thirties, Ada looked ten years older, the wreck of one who’d once been fancied by appreciative males as “a damned handsome woman.” Hard times and privation had worn her down. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pinned up so as not to interfere with the daily round of household chores. A deeply lined, square-shaped face showed a strong chin and a lot of jaw.