Blood and Gold

I rose to my feet, staggered a few steps, then stumbled, stretching my length on the grass. I rose again, fell again, got to my knees and looked around.

The land was spinning wildly and the pain in my head was a living thing, eating all the life out of me. I tried to struggle to my feet, crashed hard onto my back and mercifully knew no more.

I woke to a dark face bisected by a huge walrus mustache looking down into mine. Guttering firelight revealed concern and a hint of amusement in the black eyes, and I saw the flash of white teeth as the face split into a smile.

“Ah,” the man said, “young Lazarus awakes.”

Another robber!

I grabbed for my Colt but it wasn’t there. The black man had followed my movement and now his smile widened. “Is that how you thank a man who just saved your life? Gun him?”

Then, reading the panic in my eyes, he said, “Your Colt is close by, young feller, and so is your rifle. And I brung in your horse.”

I opened my mouth to speak, failed, then tried again. “My paint?”

The man shook his head. “Big buckskin. I found him out there in the hills. I whistled an’ he came to me, nice as you please.” My rescuer frowned. “Here, are you telling me he ain’t your bronc?”

I shook my head slightly, a movement that caused me considerable pain. “My horse was stole.”

Right then I didn’t know if I could trust this man, and I guess it showed in my eyes because he pulled his yellow slicker aside, flashed the badge pinned to his coat and said: “Name’s Bass Reeves. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal for Judge Isaac Parker out of Fort Smith with jurisdiction over the Indian territory.” He smiled. “Does that set your mind at ease, boy?”

“What . . . what are you doing out here?” I asked, understanding nothing.

Bass Reeves shrugged. “Hell, boy, out here is where the desperadoes be.”

I glanced around me. The rain had stopped and I was back in the shallow cave at the base of the gypsum hill. Beyond Reeves’ wide shoulder the cobalt blue sky was streaked with bands of gold, lilac-colored clouds building high above the horizon. The fire crackled and I smelled wood smoke and bubbling coffee.

I struggled to rise, but Reeves pushed me back with a firm but gentle hand. “Best you lay there still for a spell, boy,” he said. “I think maybe your head might be broke.”

Gingerly, I reached up to feel my wound, but my fingers touched only a thick bandage.

“Spare shirt I found in your blanket roll,” Reeves said. “I tore it up for bandages. Used it on your ribs too. Figure they might be broke as well.”

That shirt was brand-new. It had cost me three dollars in Dodge and I’d expected to wear it and cut a dash when I met Sally and commenced to courting her. That Reeves had ripped it apart chapped my butt, but I didn’t think it polite to tell that to a man who’d saved my life.

Instead, I said, “How did you find me?”

The lawman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Found three men out there. Two of them dead, all shot to pieces, one half-dead.” Without even a hint of a smile, he added, “The half-dead one was you, of course.” Reeves sat back on his haunches and rolled a cigarette. “You smoke, boy?”

“Name’s Dusty Hannah,” I said. “And, yes, I smoke.”

Reeves nodded. “Smoking is bad for a young feller, Dusty. Stunts his growth and takes his wind.” He lit his cigarette with a brand from the fire, the scarlet flame casting bronze shadows under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. “Want to tell me about it?” he asked.

“Are you asking me in your capacity as my savior or as a deputy U.S. marshal with jurisdiction over the Indian territory?”

Reeves nodded. “A little of both, Dusty. A little of both, I’d say.”

I was irritated that Reeves was so obviously enjoying his smoke and hadn’t thought to share, but I fought that down and in as few words as possible told the lawman the story of how I came by thirty thousand dollars only to lose it to bushwhackers.

Reeves listened in silence, and when I quit talking he nodded and said, “The man who shot you is Lafe Wingo. He’s a sure-thing killer for hire and he’ll gun any man, woman or child for fifty dollars. Ol’ Lafe now, he has maybe twenty killings under his belt and he’s trying real hard for more. Mostly he carries a scoped Sharps, but he’s fast enough with the Colt when put to it.”

Reeves took off his hat, revealing sparse curly hair, wiped off the band and settled the hat back on his head. “Last I heard Lafe was running with the three Owens brothers, Hank, Charlie and Ezra. Of the three, I’d say the oldest, Ezra, is the meanest, but that don’t mean the other two are any kind of bargain. All three of them can shoot and they’ve killed their share.” Reeves thought that through for a spell, then added, “More than their share.”

A silence stretched between us; then the lawman said, “How did you get tied up with this Simon Prather feller?”