Blood and Gold

Whatever it was, the redheaded puncher didn’t think it wise to argue further. He handed me the reins of his horse and gave me his own gun belt and Winchester.

I buckled on the belt, shoved the rifle into the boot, then swung heavily into the saddle. I glanced over at John Coleman. “How is he?” I asked one of the men kneeling beside him. The puncher looked up at me and slowly shook his head, telling me all I needed to know.

I swung my horse around and headed up the slope. Behind me I heard the Coleman hand yell: “Dusty, where are you going?”

Ignoring the man, I rode higher. The moon bathed the side of the mountain in light and a breeze stirred the branches of the pines. I felt stiff and sore and constantly worked the swollen fingers of my right hand, surprised to find they were better than I’d expected.

I topped a low ridge, rode through some dense juniper and followed the dip downward. I climbed higher again, wary now, the Winchester across the saddle horn, and came up on a wide stand of ponderosa pine.

I let the horse take a breather and scanned the tree line and the higher rocks above the pines. And saw nothing.

If the Apache I sought had come this way, he was well gone, or holed up somewhere.

From where I sat my horse, I was maybe three-quarters of a mile above the flat. Ahead of me the slope gradually grew steeper, rawboned granite rocks and mountain scrub becoming more frequent beyond the tree line, where the pines faded and finally stopped.

Wishful for tobacco, but having none, I kicked the horse into motion and climbed higher. I rode through the ponderosas and in places the passage between the trunks was very narrow and tight, made worse by darkness, because very little moonlight penetrated the thick canopy of the treetops. When I emerged on the other side I was scraped and cut by branches and many of the burn wounds on my chest were oozing trickles of blood.

Ahead of me the slope rose at a much steeper angle, but I spotted what looked like a narrow game trail winding upward toward the swaybacked crest of the mountain. The area on either side of the trail was surrounded by V-shaped rock formations, here and there massive boulders scattered around as though they’d fallen from the pocket of a striding giant.

The moon was drifting lower in the sky, but still spread a thin light, and the breeze, now that I was higher, blew stronger, edged with cold. This I welcomed, because the chill refreshed me and helped clear my head.

I reached the game trail and began the steep climb. But the horse, bred for the range, not mountains, balked, sidestepping on me, tossing his head as he tried to turn back. I fought the horse for a couple of minutes, then decided it was hopeless. All I was doing was draining my already low reserve of strength. I swung out of the saddle.

Where was the Apache? And was he alone?

Those questions crowded into my head, unsettling me as I led the horse back to the tree line and found a patch of bunch grass where he could graze.

I took up my rifle, walked to the trail again and started to climb. The going was hard and I was weak from the torture I’d suffered and from loss of blood. Every so often I had to get down on one knee, battling to catch my breath and gather my strength, my head bowed. Then I climbed again.

The thought never once occurred to me to give up and turn back. The Apache had wronged me and that I could not forgive or forget. The man had a reckoning coming and it wasn’t in me to let him escape it.

I passed a small rock formation no taller than a man on a horse, shaped like an inverted V, topped with a scattering of smaller boulders and clumps of scrub grass and black thorn bush.

I’d only taken a few steps past the rock when I heard it: a soft, quick, whum . . .whum . . . whum . . .

Turning fast, bringing up the Winchester, I took the blade of the spinning steel tomahawk in my right arm, where the heavy meat of the shoulder muscle meets the biceps.

The wicked little hatchet had been thrown at my back, but I had heard its whispering passage through the air and turned at the last moment. I had saved my life, but the blade was buried inches deep in my arm.

Instantly I lost all feeling in the arm and it flopped uselessly at my side, the Winchester slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers, thudding to the ground at my feet.

Above me I heard a loud whoop of triumph and the Apache jumped from the rock and ran at me, a knife in his upraised hand.

But I was in no shape to fight this battle on his terms.

Desperately, I clawed for the holstered Colt with my left hand, dragging it out of the leather by the hammer and cylinder. The Apache was almost on top of me. I threw the six-gun in the air and grabbed it correctly, thumbing back the hammer as my finger found the trigger.

The Apache closed with me and he slashed viciously downward with his knife. I twisted away at the last moment and the blade raked down my left side, drawing a thin line of blood but doing little damage.