Silver City Massacre (22 page)

When Strong and Zach had finished telling him that they were the only two survivors left in Beauchamp's war to take over McAllister's claim, Fuzzy could not believe what he was hearing.

“You're talkin' about one man, ain't you?” he exclaimed. “One man done for everybody but you two? Mister, Boss ain't gonna be happy to hear about this.”

“I ain't too happy about it myself,” Strong replied.

“But you say you think you shot him before he got away?” Fuzzy asked.

“I
know
I shot him,” Strong insisted. “He was able to get away, but I don't know how far he got. We didn't have no horses to ride after him. He might be dead—just run off someplace to die.”

“I know my feet are killin' me,” Zach complained, having already shucked his boots. “And my back feels like I carried my horse all the way home.”

“You might be hurtin' a helluva lot more when you tell Boss about this, come mornin',” Fuzzy remarked. “He's gonna be fit to be tied. Reckon you oughta go up to the house and tell him tonight?”

“Hell no,” Strong responded. “You know he don't like nobody disturbin' him after he's turned in. Besides, I think I could use a night's sleep before he hears about it.”

“Yeah,” Zach agreed. “He might still be ridin' ol' Lena about now, and I know he won't take kindly to interruptin' that.”

They finished their coffee and biscuits and turned in to await the meeting in the morning when they would surely face Beauchamp's wrath.

•   •   •

Beauchamp's reaction upon hearing the results of his gang of hired guns against one man was even worse than Strong had anticipated. Beauchamp was livid, his face twisted in black anger when he thought about what their blunder had cost him. They had been wise enough to wait until Lena had served his breakfast before knocking on the back door. Surprised to find that they were back, since he had not heard them come in, he was stunned when told that the rest of the men had all been killed. The fury that threatened to consume him would not permit him to speak for long, agonizing moments while his brain processed the unbelievable report he was hearing. He had hired his own private posse of assassins to crush anyone who stood in his way to build his empire, outlaws all, of no conscience whether they were ordered to steal, rustle, or kill—and their number had been reduced to these two miserable failures standing in his kitchen that morning. Hats in hand, they stood like truant schoolboys, waiting to be punished.

“I'm pretty sure I shot him,” Strong reminded him, hoping that would lessen the degree of their failure.

With his temper under control to some extent again, Beauchamp shot back. “You're
pretty sure
, are you?” he asked sarcastically. “Well, here's what I want you to do. I want you to go back up there and find him. Bring his body back here so I can see it. Understand?” He waited for their nods. “You left here with five men, and you come back on foot. There's six horses roaming around loose on that mountain that belong to me. I want them back.”

“Yes, sir,” Strong replied. “Me and Zach'll find him. I know he's wounded if he ain't dead, so he's gotta be hidin' out up there somewhere. We'll get him, and round up them horses.”

“Get out of here, then,” Beauchamp ordered, and stood glaring at the backs of their heads as they scurried out the door. Aware of Lena standing behind him, he turned and demanded, “What?”

She held the coffeepot in front of her and replied, “You want more coffee?”

“Did I ask for more coffee?” he came back sarcastically.

Not one to suffer his contempt, she spat back, “No, and I don't give a damn if you want more or not. I ain't the one who let McAllister shoot up that bunch of outhouse scum you hired.”

In no mood for her sass, he gave her a sharp backhand across her face, causing her to drop the coffeepot she had been holding. “Clean that up,” he ordered, and left the room.

One of these days . . . ,
she thought as she felt the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. She truly hated the man she worked for, cooking and cleaning, and servicing his personal needs as she had done the night before. She often thought of leaving Blackjack, had actually done it one time, only to have him send Strong and Slow Sam after her. She still remembered that beating. It was sufficient to discourage her from trying it again, although she thought about it constantly.

•   •   •

Beauchamp had hoped to complete the takeover of McAllister's property without anyone of Silver City's legitimate population knowing it was done, or how it was done. Maybe these latest developments called for a different plan of conquest, forcing him to involve the sheriff and a citizen posse to pursue Joel McAllister for murdering his ranch hands. Maybe he could convince them that he had murdered his own brother as well, and the women, too. The plan had some merit. He would give Strong and Zach a few days to dispose of his problem before taking that step.

There were other worries for Beauchamp, caused by the incompetence of his crew of gunmen. He didn't have enough men to run his growing cattle ranch on Blackjack Mountain. Other than Strong and Zach, he was left with Fuzzy and Lena. He was going to have to hire more men to replace those he had lost.

A positive thought occurred to him at that point. There had always been the worry that the irreparable band of outlaws he had hired to do his evil bidding would not be able to keep silent about their lawless activities. If the business with McAllister was finished, he no longer had a need for hired gunmen. He needed cowhands to take care of his cattle, and they were a lot easier to find.

It was a critical time in his plans to rule this part of Idaho Territory. Silver City was growing into a sizable town with reputable businessmen moving in to service the needs of the miners. Still wild and virtually untamed as yet, it might not be in a year or two. And when that came to pass, Ronald Beauchamp must be perceived as an upstanding pillar of the town.

He still allowed for the necessity to eliminate Strong and Zach, who would be the last two who could testify to his past methods of doing business, with the exceptions of Fuzzy and Lena. Both of them could be controlled by threats, or salaries they could not afford to lose. But foremost on his mind was the one problem to be solved: McAllister had to be eliminated.

Joel brought the Henry up to his shoulder and drew a bead on a patch of cloth he had pinned to the trunk of a tree by a small stream some seventy-five yards distant. He pulled the trigger and the sound of the shot reverberated across the narrow canyon. Cranking the lever, he fired again, and then one more time before dropping the rifle to his side again. He turned then to watch Red Shirt perform the same exercise, aiming at a similar patch on the tree beside his.

“I like the feel of the rifle,” Joel said. “I just wanna see if I can hit anything with it.”

“Wound not hurt?” Red Shirt asked as they walked toward the canyon wall to check their targets.

“No,” Joel replied. “It hurts a little bit, but not enough to slow me down.”

Red Shirt had been concerned that his friend might not be giving the wound in his back time to heal. He did not feel it his place to argue the fact with Joel. This was not the case with White Fawn, however, who did not hesitate to scold her stubborn patient about his impatience.

They walked up to the two trees they had targeted to measure their results. The patches of cloth measured roughly six inches square, and they found that both patches had survived the shooting without injury. Joel located three bullet holes within two inches of the bottom edge, indicating the rifle shot just a shade low, but accurate enough to satisfy him. The three shots were close together, telling him that he was steady enough, even with the wound. Red Shirt's results were not very different from Joel's; the only difference was his shots were to the right of the target, but close enough to be considered kill shots. They marked the bullet holes by smearing mud on each one, then walked farther back into the canyon to test the accuracy at a greater distance. At the end of the day, they both decided they preferred to use the Henrys, even though the Spencers might have an edge on the longer shots.

Satisfied that he was ready to return to the fight with Beauchamp and his men, Joel told Red Shirt that he was leaving in the morning. “I know we've been through a lot of hell together,” he told his friend. “But this ain't something you have to have a part in. I just don't wanna let Beauchamp get away with the killin' he's had his men do, and I'll be damned if I'll let him move in on my brother's claim. I won't blame you one bit if you'd rather stay with Walking Eagle's village. I feel fit enough to do what I've gotta do by myself.”

Red Shirt seemed astonished that Joel would even make such a statement. His response was his usual shrug and “I go with you.”

“Well, you're damn sure welcome,” Joel said, glad to have his help. “We'll start back in the mornin'.”

When they returned to the village, they went to Yellow Moon's tipi to speak with Walking Eagle. When the chief came out to talk to them, Joel held the Spencer carbine out before him.

“I wish to give you the gift of this weapon,” he said. “It is a fine rifle and shoots true.” Pleasantly surprised, for it was a fine gift, Walking Eagle accepted it graciously. Obviously pleased, he turned the carbine over and over, admiring it from every angle. “I have many cartridges for the weapon,” Joel continued, “and I'll leave them for you, and there are more in the camp I made by the waterfall. When I return, I'll bring those.”

When they left the chief's lodge, they went to Crooked Arrow's tipi so Red Shirt could present the medicine man with his Spencer. Crooked Arrow was as pleased as Walking Eagle had been, and offered his thanks as well.

When Walking Eagle learned that Joel and Red Shirt were leaving the next morning to seek out the men who had attacked them, he called for a dance to ask Man Above to give them courage and strength. Joel was honored, of course, but he was also uncertain about his participation. He welcomed the food that would be offered, but he had heard that war dances were usually held when Indian tribes were going to go to fight an enemy, and that often these dances lasted into the wee hours of the morning. He preferred not to stay up all night when he was still not feeling one hundred percent fit. Red Shirt assured him that they would be able to excuse themselves from the celebration without offending anyone.

“In that case, let's get the dance on,” Joel said. “I'll take all the help I can get from God, or Old Man, or Man Above.”

So the dance was begun, and Red Shirt performed his version along with the young Shoshoni warriors around the giant fire in the village center. Watching the ceremonial dancing, Joel was almost convinced that some of the young men would have volunteered to go on the warpath with him and the Bannock warrior. After a couple of hours, they retired from the dance, their absence hardly noticed, and returned to the small tipi they shared. One pair of eyes watched their departure, however: the dark doelike eyes of White Fawn.

After returning from a visit to the trees downstream where all the male members of the village went to answer nature's calls, Joel felt some discomfort in his wound, a hot, stinging sensation, and he decided to go to the stream to bathe it with cold water. With no desire to stand long in the cold night air without his shirt, he tried to move as quickly as possible. Even though he shivered with the cold, the water felt good on the healing wound. Eager to get back into his warm shirt, he did not notice the figure standing in the path in the moonlight until he was startled by her voice.

“Let me look at the wound,” White Fawn said.

“White Fawn! What are you doin' here?”

“I saw you leave the dance, and I wanted to make sure your wound is all right,” she said. “Let me see it.” She stepped forward and put a hand on his shirt, to keep him from slipping it over his head.

“All right, but make it quick. I'm freezin' to death,” he said.

“Ha,” she chided, “brave warrior. Women bathe in water and not complain of cold.”

“Women crazy.” He returned the tease, but stood patiently while her fingers lightly touched the skin around the wound. It caused him to shiver more.

“You didn't do a very good job,” she scolded. “One side of the wound is not even wet.”

“Well, it's kinda hard for me to reach it down there on my back,” he said in his defense.

“Water won't help it heal any faster, but won't hurt it.” She held his shirt up for him so he could put it on and watched him pull it down around his waist. “So you go to find these white men who try to kill you. If you find them and kill them, what will you do then?”

“Why, I reckon I'll build a cabin where my brother's used to be and start over again to do what I came out here to do.”

“Red Shirt told me there was a woman and a young girl who came with you from Tellus.”

“Texas,” he corrected.

“Texas,” she repeated. “The young girl, you brought her to be your wife?”

“Ruthie?” He had to chuckle. “Lord no. Ruthie wasn't much more than a child. She was younger than you. She was just someone who had lost her family when their wagon was attacked by some hostile Indians, Comanche or Cheyenne, I suppose. They didn't know which.”

“I am not a child,” White Fawn told him. “Not like Ruthie.” Her tone was indignant.

“Why, no, ma'am, I'm sure you're not,” he quickly replied, sensing that any implication as such was an insult.

“The gun,” she said, “that was a fine gift you gave my father. A gift like that would have been a fine gift for a young man to give to the father of a girl he wanted for a wife.”

“Oh?” he replied. “I suppose it would be at that. I don't know about such things. I just wanted to give your father a gift for takin' care of Red Shirt and me—and of course for the attention you've given me.” Suddenly he wasn't noticing the cold anymore, confused by the strange conversation he was having with the young Shoshoni girl.

“I am at the age when most Shoshoni girls take a husband. Fighting Horse wanted to give my father six ponies for my hand. A girl would be proud to be the wife of Fighting Horse, but I did not want to marry him.”

“Why not?” Joel asked, still wondering why she was telling him. It seemed a strange time to discuss her marriage opportunities, and awkward for her to confess them to him.

“Because I told my father that I wanted to wait until I found a man that I truly wanted to be with. My father is a kind, understanding man, and so he did not complain that I didn't want to marry Fighting Horse. I think I am ready to tell my father that I have found a man that I want to marry.”

“Well, I guess that's good,” Joel said. “I think that's got to be good news for the lucky young man.”

She gazed directly into his eyes and replied, “He does not know yet.”

“Well, I reckon you oughta tell him,” Joel said.

“No, I think not,” she said softly. “If it is right for us, it will come to him, and then he will come to Walking Eagle with gifts.” She turned then and started walking briskly back along the path, ending the awkward conversation.

Joel watched her depart. Left with a confused mind, he wondered what had just happened to make White Fawn inclined to tell him so much of her personal feelings. He had to admit that the encounter had caused a strange feeling inside him that he could not readily explain. He was still standing there when Red Shirt came up the path behind him.

“Was that White Fawn you were talking to?” Red Shirt asked.

“Yeah. She wanted to make sure I was takin' care of my wound, I reckon.”

In the darkness, Joel could not see the smile on the Bannock warrior's face. “I think maybe she look for husband,” he said.

“She said she's already found one,” Joel replied. He hesitated a few moments more, still wondering about his conversation with her. Then he shook it from his mind. “Well, I'm ready to hit the hay. We've gotta ride in the mornin'.”

•   •   •

“Look yonder,” Zach Turner said, and pointed toward a grassy pocket at the bottom of a steep slope leading down to a stream that flowed out of a narrow pass between that mountain and the one next to it. “I knew they'd all wind up in a bunch somewhere. This might be easier than we figured.”

Mike Strong's eye followed the direction Zach pointed in and he saw the horses peacefully grazing on the grass close to the stream. “We'd best take a good look around before we go ridin' down there to get 'em. That bastard mighta set 'em up for an ambush.”

“I believe I'da picked a better spot than that to ambush somebody,” Zach said. “They're out in the clear. Ain't no trees to amount to anything that a man could hide behind, no rocks or nothin' for a hundred yards or more till you get back to that pass.”

“Maybe you're right,” Strong admitted. “There ain't no place to hide.”

His cautious manner was the result of his experience in dealing with Joel McAllister, where he had been surprised too many times, and at great cost. Beauchamp's orders were to find McAllister and kill him, and to round up the six horses running loose. It appeared that the less dangerous half of that task could be accomplished with little trouble, since the horses had all gathered together.

The other half was what concerned him the most. He and Zach had searched for Joel at the burned-out cabin, and the entrance to the mine, in case he had decided to take cover in the small space left after it had been dynamited. They had found no trace of the man, so they started scouting the mountain, hoping to find his body somewhere. Strong was certain Joel had been wounded, and he must have found a hole to hide in while he tried to recover, or might have died.

“All right,” he decided, “let's take it slow.”

They nudged their horses down the side of the ridge. There was no need to guide them, for they naturally went toward the other horses by the stream. Strong was rolling his options over in his mind as he descended the slope. Should he and Zach drive the recovered horses back to Blackjack, now that they had them rounded up? He didn't like the thought of facing his irate boss unless he also had a body to show him. But if they managed to flush McAllister out of hiding, there might be a running gunfight, and they wouldn't be able to drive the horses. Then they would have to find them again. His thoughts were then interrupted by a comment from Zach, who had ridden out ahead of him.

“Damned if that ain't mighty peculiar,” he said when they were within a short distance of the horses. “All of 'em got their reins tied to a rope.”

“Oh, shit!” Strong blurted, jerked his horse's head around sharply, and galloped recklessly across the face of the slope, even as he heard the rifle shots behind him.

Zach, whose thought processes were naturally slower, was staring, eyes wide-open, and mouth as well, when the rifle slug knocked him from the saddle, his body bouncing and rolling down the slope after his horse. His assassins rose from the holes they had dug in the open meadow, casting off the juniper bushes that had disguised them to take a couple more shots at the fleeing Strong.

“Make sure he's dead!” Joel shouted to Red Shirt, and ran to untie one of the horses, hoping he picked a fast one.

With his rifle in hand, he raced off after the surviving member of the gang that had massacred his family. The one thought in his mind was not to let the last one get away again. It would be nothing less than a grave sin if even one of the ruthless gang of triggermen were allowed to escape.

The horse he happened to choose was a good one. Strong and willing, the buckskin responded to his encouragement, and he gradually closed the gap between them as they galloped across the foot of the mountain, recklessly disregarding the potential for a spill on the steep slope. He ignored the shots Strong fired wildly with his pistol, holding the buckskin to a steady pace until the slope began to steepen even more, causing him to have to ease up on him. In fear for his life, however, Strong kicked his horse mercilessly when the animal's natural inclination was to slow down. It was certain to happen. The horse finally slid, breaking its left front leg, and spilling its rider to go tumbling down the slope, almost to the bottom.