Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

“I think only of my wife and daughter and I know what I have to do.”

“All right, then let me be scared for both of us, huh?”

Chapter 11

Sam and the Kiowa rode into the timbered Pinos Altos Range as the sun began its morning climb. The highest peaks soared more than eight thousand feet above the flat and formed part of the rugged backbone of the Continental Divide. The cedar and piñon of the lower slopes gradually gave way to stands of aspen and ponderosa pine, and higher still grew stands of juniper and fir.

James topped a brush-covered hogback rise ahead of Sam and drew rein, his gaze fixed intently on the valley floor below.

“What do you see?” Sam said, stopping alongside the Kiowa.

“White men. And a woman.” The Indian leaned forward in his saddle, the corners of his black eyes wrinkling. “Two women. No, one is a child.”

Sam followed James’s stare. “Can you make them out?”

“Who?”

“Don’t be so contrary,” Sam said. “All of them.”

James stood on his dignity. “Even for a Kiowa, the distance is far.”

He swung out of the saddle and scrambled about fifty feet lower down the slope.

“Yellow-haired woman with a child,” he said, turning his head to Sam. “Two big men riding tall horses.”

“I can’t make out a thing,” Sam said.

“Yes, far away for a close-seeing man to see,” the Kiowa said, much to his companion’s irritation.

James climbed back up the rise and stepped into the leather.

“One man’s wife and daughter, maybe so,” he said. “Or men have traded with Apaches for a woman and child.”

Sam felt a spike of anxiety, but then shook his head.

Nah, it couldn’t be. . . .

Then he remembered the dead Indian. An omen, Hannah Stewart had said.

Was it Hannah and Lori down in the valley? Were they captives?

“Oh my gosh, that’s not two of the Wells brothers, is it?” Sam said.

The Kiowa angled him a “how the hell should I know?” look, but said only, “Maybe so, Sammy.”

After a few moments’ thought, Sam said, “We’ll trail them. If they’re Wells brothers, they’ll lead us right to their dugout. If they turn out to be honest travelers, well, no harm done.”

“Why your interest in the riders?” the Kiowa said.

“The yeller-haired woman might be somebody I know.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “And would admire to know better.”

“Then we both will fight for our woman.”

“She ain’t my woman,” Sam said. “At least, not yet she ain’t.”

“Sheriff Moseley has woman with yellow hair,” James said. “Could the one down yonder be the same?”

“She could be.”

The Kiowa nodded. “So you want Moseley’s woman, Sammy. Now he will kill you for sure.”

* * *

After the riders had cleared the flat, the Kiowa led Sam down from the high country. The sun was well up in a burned-out sky and the day was hot. A persistent bee buzzed around Sam’s head, and only an annoyed glance from James stopped his cussing and slapping.

“They are not far ahead of us,” the Indian said. “The less noise we make, the better for us.”

Suitably chastened, Sam ignored the bee and it finally flew away.

“Dang ornery bee,” he muttered, and then lapsed into silence.

Now the only sounds were the soft hoof falls of the horses, the creak of saddle leather, and the murmur of insects among the summer wildflowers. The Kiowa leaned from the saddle and studied the trail constantly, his dark face masked in concentration.

Sam’s worst fears were realized when James drew rein and pointed to the east. “They go that way.”

The riders’ tracks followed the arc of Reading Canyon, then headed into Goose Lake Ridge and the high timber country. There was a well-marked trail to the top of the ridge, and Sam and the Kiowa followed at a distance, riding at a slow walk to avoid raising dust.

Not far up the steep trail, James led the way onto an open, flat ledge of rock and grass about five acres in extent. Here piñon shielded the ledge from the trail and grew most of the way to a high cliff wall. From somewhere beyond the trees, Sam heard the soft splash of falling water.

“Why we stopping here?” Sam asked as the Kiowa drew rein.

“From here I go on alone, on foot,” James said. “This good hideout for you, Sammy.”

Sam opened his mouth to object, but the Indian got there before him.

“Up there, ridge ends, then slopes downward to upper reach of Gila,” he said. “Injun-eater’s place is on the west bank of river.” He made a wriggling motion with his hand. “I sneak close, see what’s happening.” He smiled. “Then come back before nightfall and we make a good plan.”

Sam, who couldn’t see a red barn in front of him, accepted the logic of that. “All right,” he said, “but you take care. No brave Injun stuff.”

“This Injun not so brave,” James said. “Me as scared of Injun-eater Dan Wells as any Apache.” The Kiowa waved a hand around the ledge. “Sammy, you find wood, make fire. Not white man’s fire, small, like Indian fire. Boil coffee, fry pork, and I’ll be back by nightfall.”

After checking the action of his Sharps, James stepped from his horse and tossed the reins to Sam. “I go now,” he said. “And see what I see.”

“Good luck, James,” Sam said.

The Kiowa nodded. “Don’t forget coffee, huh?”

“It’ll be on the bile when you get back,” Sam said.

He watched James take the trail again, walking up the rise with an effortless grace, his rifle at the port.

“Maybe there’s more Kiowa in you than I figgered,” Sam said.

But James was already gone from sight and didn’t hear him.

Chapter 12

Sam Sawyer stripped the saddles and bridles from the horses, then loosed the animals on the ledge’s grass patches. There was graze enough, and water from a hidden spring at the base of the rock wall.

He gathered a supply of dry sticks that wouldn’t smoke, but didn’t light a fire. He’d wait until sundown arrived to herald the Kiowa’s return. In the meantime he hoped that he wouldn’t tangle with Apaches or a grizzly.

Sam fetched his back against a tree trunk and smoked a cigarette. The day was hot, filled with the drowsy music of bees, and the splash of water provided a soothing counterpoint. The horses munched grass, moving as little as possible, but a shod hoof now and then clinked on rock.

Sam closed his eyes and settled to a more comfortable position as he felt the ache ease in his McClellan-tormented butt. The day murmured on, the breeze a warm and pleasant breath fanning Sam’s face. Sounds retreated from him, grew dim, and he slept. . . .

An hour passed. A deer clicked its way to the water, wary of the sleeping man, but driven by thirst. The animal drank and then tiptoed away on ballerina feet.

Sam slept on.

Thirty minutes after the deer left, the sound of galloping hooves shook him to wakefulness. He rose to his feet, slightly groggy, and hitched his gun into place.

Both horses had their heads up, ears pricked, looking toward the trail.

Sam drew his Colt and waited.

A few moments . . . then a horseman pounded past, heading for the top of the ridge. Man and horse were in view for a couple of seconds, and then they were gone.

A cloud of dust swirled in the rider’s wake, then slowly thinned out and settled on the trail again. Sam cursed his poor vision, but blessed the piñon and juniper that had hidden him from the man’s sight.

He rubbed his eyes, as though trying to dispel a vision that still lingered on his retinas. He was sure—not certain—but almost sure that the rider had been Sheriff Vic Moseley.

* * *

Sam lit a cigarette and stood hipshot, pondering this mystery.