Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

The Chosen One turned to the crowd behind him. “Bring these men their horses. They must depart from us now before the sun rises.”

Desperately Fletcher made a last attempt to convince Estelle to leave with him.

“Come daybreak there will be few of these people left alive, and those who are will be cursing God for allowing them to live,” he said. “Come with me now, Estelle. We can ride out of here together and I’ll have General Crook protect you.”

The girl smiled. “Oh, don’t be a silly Billy. My place is with my husband.”

Fletcher shook his head. “Then you will die here.”

“That’s silly,” Estelle said, and, looking at her, a despairing Fletcher could see no depth of intelligence in her eyes.

“Your horses,” the Chosen One said.

A man handed Fletcher the reins of his stud and he swung into the saddle, and alongside him, Charlie did the same.

The Chosen One stepped closer to Fletcher. “Go with the Lord, my friends.”

Fletcher looked down at the man, the single-minded madness in the Chosen One’s face a strange, unholy light.

“God help you,” Fletcher said.

Thirteen

Fletcher and Charlie rode east, away from the Apaches and in the direction of the high Natanes Plateau country, then swung due north and splashed across a narrow tributary running off of Canyon Creek.

There was no wind to drive the snow, and it floated slowly to earth around them, settling thick on their hats and shoulders.

An hour passed and there was silence between the two men; then Fletcher reined up and pointed to a thick stand of juniper at the base of a hill.

“Charlie, let’s hole up in there until daybreak.”

Without waiting for the older man to reply, Fletcher swung his horse toward the juniper. When he reached the tree line he dismounted and led his horse among the checkered trunks of the pines. He tied the reins to a low-hanging branch and found a place clear of brush where he sat, his hat low over his eyes.

Charlie tied up his mustang, then dropped stiffly to the ground beside Fletcher.

“You hurt bad, Buck?” he asked. “You got blood all over your pants.”

“I’m cut up some,” Fletcher replied, “but none of it is real bad.”

He opened his mackinaw, revealing a red stain on his shirt where the Apache’s knife had raked across his ribs. “This one is the worst, maybe.”

“Let me see that,” Charlie said. The old man studied the wound for a few moments, then said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

When Charlie returned he was chewing something, his bearded cheeks bulging. He squatted beside Fletcher and spat out green pulp, then took a syrupy white wad from his mouth and said, “Pull up your shirt and let me take a look at that there cut.”

Fletcher did as he was told, and Charlie quickly spread the chewed ooze over the wound before the younger man could object.

“What the hell is that?” Fletcher asked, looking down at the thick paste in considerable disgust.

“Maguey, mescal, century plant, whatever you want to call it.” The old man grinned. “The pulp from the leaves will stop the bleeding and help you heal.”

“Thanks,” Fletcher said. He pulled down his shirt. “I think.”

Fletcher rolled a smoke and lit the cigarette, aware that Charlie was watching him closely. “Say what’s on your mind, Charlie,” he said, his eyes shaded by his hat brim.

The old mountain man eased his back against the unyielding trunk of a juniper and brought out his pipe. “Only this, Buck—if Estelle Stark is killed by the Apaches come sunup, then her pa’s work is done for him. Who’s to know she was pregnant? It’s no disgrace to have a dutiful daughter murdered by Indians while she was innocently studying plants and flowers and sich. In fact, it might help his campaign, get him the sympathy vote, if you know what I mean.”

Fletcher nodded. “Then he only has to get rid of me.”

“That’s a natural fact,” Charlie agreed.

Without looking up, Fletcher said, “Only it isn’t going to happen that way, Charlie.”

“What do you mean, it ain’t gonna happen that way?”

“I mean, we’re heading back to the pueblos before sunup.”

“What fer?”

“To save Estelle Stark, if I can. She’s not too smart, but I need her if I ever hope to clear my name.”

“Buck, maybe you haven’t noticed afore, but there’s only two of us.”

“I know, but it seems to me that’s an army.” Now Fletcher raised his head and he was grinning. “Or haven’t you ever noticed that afore?”

The old man shook his head, his grin matching Fletcher’s. “Well, when I rode along with you I sure figured life would never be dull. I guess I was right.”

“We’ll make it, Charlie. Don’t ask me how, but we’ll make it.” Fletcher tipped his hat over his eyes again. “Now let’s get some shut-eye. We got a full morning ahead of us.”

Charlie was silent for a few moments, then said, “Only one thing, Buck: Promise me you ain’t forgot about burying me in a tree. Damn it, boy, I want to lie there all peaceful and quiet-like, with my face to the stars so they can shine down on me.”

“I promise, Charlie,” Fletcher said. He said the words low and flat, and this time he did not look up.

Despite the cold, within moments both men were asleep. Fletcher’s fight with the Apache had exhausted him, and his slumber was deep and dreamless. The snow continued to fall, rambling through the branches of the juniper, and the white wilderness was silent, waiting with a patience that stretched back millions of years for whatever was to come. Once, around three in the morning, the clouds parted and the moon touched the snow with silver, and a hunting wolf stopped in his tracks, looking around him, wondering at the enchanted beauty of it all, but aware with honed instincts that behind the loveliness lay the land’s coldness and merciless cruelty.

Within the shelter of the trees Fletcher and Charlie slept on. Half an hour before the sun rose, Charlie stirred in his sleep and muttered the name of a woman who had drifted like smoke into his dream, then fell silent again and slept soundly.

The night shaded into day, the heavy clouds gathered, blotting out the sun that climbed over the White Mountains, but the weak morning light found its way into Fletcher’s eyes and woke him with a start.

He shook Charlie awake and ran for his horse, calling out over his shoulder, “We overslept! It’s after dawn.”

Sensing the urgency, Charlie rose stiff and creaky but sprinted for his own mount. The two men trotted out of the juniper and back onto the flat, their struggling horses kicking up high, scattering fans of snow from their hooves.

Fletcher’s face was grim as he rode, a knot in his belly telling him that all he’d find at the pueblo would be ashes, blood, and the sprawled, gray dead.

But when the two riders finally crested a gradual rise and had the pueblo canyon in sight, everything seemed normal.

Smoke rose from holes in the roofs of the pueblos, tying lazy bows in the still air, and children played in the snow, calling out to each other, red-cheeked from the cold.

Fletcher reined up his horse and Charlie eased alongside him. “Well, Buck, now what do we do? We ain’t exactly welcome down there.”

“Maybe the Apaches have moved on,” Fletcher suggested.

“Could be.” Charlie nodded. “Maybe there’s sodjers in the area.”

Fletcher sat slumped in the saddle, his chin on his chest, thinking the thing through. Finally he lifted his head and said, “That’s way too many maybes. Let’s go see for ourselves if the Apaches have left.”

Charlie opened his mouth to object, but Fletcher had already swung his horse to the west and was riding toward the slope opposite the pueblos.