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Sands of Sedona
Copyright 1982-2003 TrixiePixGraphics
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Sands of Sedona -- Western Fiction
Approx. 67962 Words
Chapter Eleven
Three weeks after the killing of Danny, John found himself taking a moonlight stroll down the boardwalk. The night was hot and he could hear thunder in the distance, probably up on the razorback. He thought for a moment about Joey's father. Then he forced himself to think of something else. That chapter in his life was ended. He had killed or seen killed or had caused to be killed all the men he'd wanted killed. He didn't know what his plans were. He thought he might try to make a life up by Sedona. The people up there didn't seem to be as mean or as backward as the folks he encountered in New Mexico. The critters aren't as mean either, he thought, remembering the wild horses and the snakes.
John dreamed of a peaceful life. It had always been the thing he wanted most. Curious, he thought, how the thing you want most is generally the thing most elusive to you. He continued to dream of Sedona but his dream was tainted with worries over the men he had killed. The killing of Joe Hillary worried him most of all and he worried over killings that took place years before when he'd lived often by the gun. It was beginning to be a civilized time, though it was hard to tell it by the likes of Paydirt, New Mexico. Still, he wondered about the prospects for his future. He wondered if some damned lawman, who might even have been a killer himself in years or decades past, would show up on his porch when he was an old man and arrest him for something he couldn't even remember doing when he was twenty. The notion was a threat to his peace of mind. He wondered why the world had to be such a Goddamned violent place, and he wondered why folks couldn't just be nice to other folks. It seemed such a simple concept to him that he could not imagine why everyone else did not feel the same way.
Trouble, he reflected, was started in one of two ways: Someone wronged another for no good reason, or someone who was wronged stood up for himself and made it right again. If it weren't for those two kinds of problems in life, life would be better. There were those who condemned a man who started trouble. He himself was one of those. But there were others, usually Easterners, he thought, who seemed to think that the man who set things straight was more to blame than the man who'd started the trouble in the first place. John did not understand how anyone could see things that way. He wrestled long and hard with the issue but was unable to resolve it in his mind.
He believed, too, that there were "Westerners" and then there were "hillbillies" who lived in the West. He felt that much of the trouble that was done to folks without due provocation was done by hillbillies, and that it was the Westerners who most often cleaned it up.
He'd been tempted to poke his head into the Elkhorn despite the old prostitute, but thought better of it. He was trying to think and that was hard to do in a cheap saloon overflowing with loud drunks and a tinny piano that was played badly by a contrary whore. What Sid had seen in that woman John could not imagine. She must possess some extraordinary talent that John would never experience.
He found himself leaning against a hitching rail near the edge of town; it was the only place where he could get some quiet on a Saturday night. Even a troop of domesticated Apaches was in town, drinking in the alley. Charlie had not been up to the task of throwing them out of town. Charlie had not been up to much of anything since inheriting the position of deputy. John suspected that Charlie's main interest in keeping the job was that it allowed him to lord his position over the whores, and therefore to get a better price, and perhaps better treatment as well. Charlie is, John thought dryly, what Paydirt deserved, even if they didn't know it.
John passed by the Apaches who lay drinking in the alley but kept going. He had always thought Navajos the most peaceful tribe to drink with. When Navajos got drunk, he mused, they mostly just fell asleep. --Not like some crazy white men who could become a handful.
A single horse clip clopped up the street out of the darkness. John looked up but couldn't see the man's face in the shadows. The horse slowed and then stopped eight feet from him.
"Hello John," the voice said. The figure moved slightly so as to expose its face. It was the Sheriff of Paydirt.
John wasn't sure where the man's loyalties lay still. He wasn't sure if he was part of the problem in the territory or if he was an honest man trying to make a difference in his own dull way. He wasn't even sure how to answer the Sheriff's simple greeting. Finally he said, "Howdy," in a flat and noncommittal tone.
"I've been travelin' some," the Sheriff went on, as though John wished to have a conversation with him. He looked tired and thin. John could see that he had indeed been traveling some. "I've been down to Apache country."
John was mostly uninterested and wanted the man to go away so he could continue with his thinking. He was thinking more seriously about Sedona. He had always liked the sand there. It was red and clean-- not like the gooey muck a man had to slip around on in New Mexico when the weather was wet. Mostly, Sedona was sandstone. The sand there always seemed clean. He was free to try the sands of Sedona now if he wished. His work in Paydirt was done.
"I've been huntin' some Apaches as a matter of fact," the Sheriff continued. The Sheriff could see that John wasn't going to hold up his end of the conversation without some prodding. "I think we need to have us a talk," he said then. "Follow me up to the jail."
John hesitated; he didn't like being ordered by a Sheriff who was probably as crooked as the Colorado. But the Sheriff's tired horse was already walking toward the jail. John followed.
Inside, the Sheriff sat down and poured himself a drink. He offered one to John but John had given it up, along with revenge, foolishness, and vanity, he hoped, and a few other things.
"I've got some news to tell you John," the Sheriff began carefully. "I've got some news about the killers of your family."
John didn't really want to hear about the killers of his family. It was old news. At least it was news he didn't care to discuss. He was more interested in new news, if the Sheriff had any --Like how was the weather up around Sedona....
When John didn't answer or look surprised the Sheriff went on.
"I know who did it. It was four men. I don't know what they look like but I know where they are."
"I do too," John said, now fully irritated and surprised. "They're buried right around these parts, no thanks to the law. They ain't far at all."
The Sheriff looked surprised for a minute, then perplexed. "What do you mean, buried?" He asked John.
"Buried!" John almost shouted. "Buried and dead, although not in that order. They're all dead, and if you don't mind, I'd just as soon not discuss the matter." John realized that the Sheriff could not have heard about Joe Hillary yet, or of his battle with Danny Lewis or Bubba Knudsen, and the Sheriff had never known of Erin's involvement. Even if he had, John felt it was private. John got up and started to leave but the Sheriff told him to sit down in a tone he could not dismiss. The Sheriff leaned across the table and John could smell the whiskey on his breath, though he was still sober as a priest.
"I don't know what you think you know but whatever it is, it don't seem to be quite correct. I got a lead after the Federal Marshal was killed here. He'd been workin' on a case. It seems some gunman-turned-farmer-turned-rancher" --the Sheriff waved his hands in the air; he was referring to John-- "had been makin' a lot of noise about how his family was killed and his ranch burned and his dog was hung, and about how nobody was doin' anything about it. That man raised one hell of a stink and he got some big names to thinkin', and they got some big wheels to rollin', and pretty soon this Marshal finds himself sent down here to Paydirt with orders to find those what done it, or not return. Well, he pert'near figured it out too, except that he was killed by some Goddamned red bearded wild animal named Billy somethin' in the Elkhorn before he could quite wrap it up."
John didn't say a word.
"Turns out," the Sheriff went on, "that Ansel was a smart old wolf. He did most of my work for me, that's for sure. You ever wonder why my deputy killed a harmless, likable old drunk?"
John had been wondering about Sid.
"Seems," the Sheriff said, "that Erin killed Sid because the old sailor knew too much. Drunks talk-- and the Elkhorn is a haven for drunks."
John was trying to make sense of it. He'd often considered that Sid, despite his rough manner and apparently chronic state of bewilderment, had listened intently to what went on around him.
The Sheriff said, "The Marshall was closing in on Erin for murder and rape. Sid had been feeding clues to him right across the bar. Erin wanted it to stop. That's what got Sid killed."
John had suspected almost as much. He was glad he'd gotten to kill Erin for the murder of his family before the law got to him, however. The law might have let Erin get away.
"Well, Mr. Hannal, I've been gone up to Santa Fe to see the men that sent that Marshall here. And they were most helpful." The Sheriff pushed a paper across the table at John. "See any names here you recognize?" He asked.
The list read four distinctly Apache names. John had never heard of any of them. He started to shake his head but one looked familiar after all. He looked at the paper again. Brown Bear-- that was the name of the husband of one of Kelly's sisters down by Silver City. John's brain worked hard to put the story together. Some of her sisters had been killed-- killed by white men-- by Joe Hillary and a gang, or so Kelly suspected! The Apaches had never caught the men--
"Those are the men who killed your family." The Sheriff said it bluntly, tapping the paper in front of John with his middle finger. "Those Apaches. There is no mistake." He pronounced each word deliberately.
John thought of Joe and of the others who had admitted to the deeds-- but they hadn't actually admitted anything..... They had just refused to deny it. Even to their deaths they'd refused to deny it. He'd given them their chances. They had just looked at him and he had killed them or caused them to be killed. "There were four other men," John said. "White men. They killed my family."
"No," the Sheriff said a little testily. "They killed the families of these here four Apaches! And, Mr. Hannal, they raped their women, and more, and they burned their wigwams and they kilt their stock and their critters and their children-- The Apaches was runnin' them to ground when they rode past your place. Them Apaches was mad at all white folks just about then. Your ranch was as good a place as any to burn, and your women was as good as any women to rape, and they was as good as any white flesh to kill, and your stock was white man's stock and your Goddamned mangy dog was even a white man's dog to hang! Even at that they might have passed your ranch by and murdered some other poor family, but something caused them to stop at your place and no one else's. Do you have any idea why that was Mr. Hannal?"
John shook his head numbly.
"Do you remember seein' a burnt horse on your place that didn't belong to you?"
John nodded again. He had assumed the horse was left by the murderers. Maybe it was lame. It was burned almost beyond recognition-- he hadn't given it much thought except to trace its brand for clues. Those clues had led him to Paydirt and to Erin, the late deputy.
"Ever heard of a man named Danny Lewis?" The Sheriff asked.
John nearly jumped out of his chair. The Sheriff knew he'd finally struck a chord.
"As I've uncovered the story so far, Mr. Hannal, you had one hell of an enemy. Danny Lewis was one of them that kilt and raped the Apache village along with my Goddamned stupid deputy. When the Apaches was gainin' on them ol' boys your pal Danny decides to buy him and the boys some time. He doubled back and planted a trail right to your house. He left his horse outside at your hitchin' rail and then sneaked off on foot. Them Apaches tracked him right to your door. Them Apaches figured your ranch was the hideout of the men who'd just done an injustice to their people. Those Injuns probably tortured your family for the whereabouts of the men that kilt their own families! --Smarter men have made dumber mistakes, Mr. Hannal," and the Sheriff looked hard at John.
"Hell," the sheriff continued. "Ol' Danny boy, he might have watched the whole thing from a bush right there in your yard! Them Apaches was just dishin' out justice, Mr. Hannal. Justice. And after they wiped out your ranch and the flames got higher they got scared. They forgot about the men they was still after-- hell, they'd already got their revenge and it had tired them out. They rode back to their village and forgot the matter almost entirely, thinking it was settled. To them it was an eye for an eye. I suppose it rankled them some over the years and if the opportunity had ever presented itself they might have killed the four men who'd done it to their women. Or they might have killed some other poor family to make it come out more even. But as it was they never got around to it. They just went back and tried to live their lives with whoever of their family was left."
"I found a piece of a gun in my house," John said angrily. "It was a chip from an Ivory grip. It matched the gun I used to kill your deputy. It was his gun and he used it to kill my girls!"
The Sheriff thought for a minute. "I don't know about the gun," he said. "But Erin was seen ridin' back to your ranch after it was burned." The Sheriff paused, as if something just came to mind-- "It might surprise you son," he continued, looking at John in a sideways manner, "to know what the hills can tell a man if he just asks them properly."
It occurred to John that while this man might not be a decent sheriff he was at least a tracker.
"But anyway," the Sheriff went on, "I like to think my deputy was going back to try and save your family. He was too late. But if you don't mind, that's the way I'll remember it. I like to think the man had at least some little bone in him that was decent."
The Sheriff pulled another wadded paper from a pocket. A tiny cloud of dust came out of the pocket with it. He squinted at the paper in the smoky lamp light. "Joe Hillary," he said without introduction. John looked up vacantly. The Sheriff slipped on a pair of glasses and looked over the top of them at John to gauge his reaction to the name. Then the Sheriff resumed reading the list: "Joe Hillary, Danny Lewis, some fat skunk of a man with no name and my deputy Erin. Those are the boys that wiped out a good part of that Apache village. The Apaches might have killed them in time, but you took care of that for them. And those men never came near your wimmen."
John kept trying to swallow his stomach back into his stomach. If the Sheriff was right and Erin had, at the last minute, decided to go back and be true to his oath, then perhaps he had dropped the gun innocently and chipped the grip. John remembered that even though he'd found the chip in the ashes it wasn't burned. Because of his part in the Indian killings Erin could never tell any one of his last minute change of heart at John's ranch. After he'd seen it was too late to help John's family he had ridden on, never to mention it to anyone. Hell, all of those boys must have figured it was better to take their chances with a white man on their trail than to clear themselves of the murder of John's family by admitting to the Apache massacre.
John's hands trembled. He thought he would fall out of his chair. "They need to be killed," John said weakly.
"Who?" The Sheriff demanded. "The white men who killed the families of them Injuns, or the Injuns who was punishin' the white man for doin' it? Who's the victims, and who's the killers? Should we just hang everybody for everything? It's possible those Apaches did something to the four white men years before, that nobody even knows about, and that's what started the whole Goddamned thing in the first place. It don't seem likely. But still, we might never know that thanks to you, Mr. Hannal." The sheriff was again looking hard at John.
But John was past reasoning. He suddenly knew that more killing needed to be done. It needed to be done and that was that. The men who had been with his girls were still alive. They were still livin' and eatin' and breathin' and makin' babies. John was seething inside. He sat still and said nothing. His mind was reeling, planning, choking itself with revenge.
"I've got a bead on them Apaches," the Sheriff continued in a more reasonable tone, hoping to appease John's sense of justice. "I tracked some of them right here to Paydirt this evening," he said. "I don't know exactly which ones are involved but I do intend to find out. I believe the ones that are here can lead me to the others."
John noticed that the Sheriff had stood up and was pushing shells into a Winchester like his. The man had put his hat back on and was getting ready to go outside. John immediately thought of the five Apaches he'd seen drinking in the alley. Those were the braves the Sheriff had tracked to town.
"I'm sorry Sheriff," John said with a wild look in his eye. "This is my job to do."
Before the Sheriff could even look puzzled John had sprung from his chair and blind sided him. The Sheriff went down in a heap. John scooped up the list of Apache names and dragged him to the cell, handcuffed him, gagged him with his own kerchief and locked him in. He noticed several more sets of handcuffs lying on top of the shelf where Erin had kept his little lady's gun. He might have supposed Erin would be a big man for handcuffs, and that he would have kept enough around to handcuff half the town had the opportunity ever arisen. John grabbed them up for use on the Apaches.
The key ring that held the keys to the cell was too big to put in his pocket. He went outside and tossed it under the porch. Then he went to the stable to saddle his horse.
He would wait out of town for the drunken Indians to leave and he'd confront them. He'd kill those who were involved and if he couldn't figure out which was which he'd kill them all. The Apaches hadn't been particular about which white folks they punished for the deaths of their families and neither would he be particular about which Apaches he killed for it. He would wait outside of town and he would end this entire matter. He would end it no matter how many Apaches he had to kill, or how many white men or how many dogs or beeves or women--
Kelly was in the stable. She saw the look on his face and knew something catastrophic had happened. "What's the matter John?" She asked, alarmed.
"I'll be goin'," was his reply.
"John." She said sternly, catching him by the arm. "I don't know what's going on. But don't you go getting yourself killed. You've already been through enough. I-- I don't want you to go out of my life." She blurted finally. Her face was sad, pleading. She seemed surprised to have finally said it out loud. It seemed to her that life was just one tragic event after another. She had a bad feeling now, though she had no idea why. Something was more wrong than anything she could imagine. It was so wrong that John wouldn't even tell her what it was and they had been through wrong things together before. How much worse could it be than what had already happened?
Joey came in, aroused from bed by the loud voices and caught them by surprise. "What's goin' on, ma?" Again no one answered him. He was left to stand and watch John pack his horse.
It was the first time Kelly had shown any genuine interest in John. He was surprised. Women were too often too hard to figure out. He suddenly realized that he didn't want to go out of her life either. Or Joey's. He wasn't in love with Kelly that he knew of but he didn't want to go out of her life, either.
The Apaches took precedence over anything, over everything, over everyone. He could have let the Sheriff track them and maybe bring them in but likely as not they'd kill the Sheriff too, and even if they didn't he wouldn't kill them as they deserved. The Sheriff's notions of justice were different than John's. The Sheriff's notions of justice were flawed. The Sheriff subscribed to Eastern justice. Eastern justice was the problem. Eastern justice, John thought, was the reason the West needed Western justice. Eastern notions of justice had bred and encouraged thievery and killing. An ounce of prevention, John thought-- an ounce of Western justice would have circumvented the need for a thousand pounds of weak, ineffective Eastern justice.
But no more. John intended to kill them. That was justice. He would do it fairly and quickly; he'd not even make them suffer. He no longer had the energy to make them suffer. Perhaps, though he didn't know it himself, he no longer had the hatred to make them suffer either. At least, he thought, he had the moral fiber to make them dead.
Chowder grunted as he cinched him tight. John slipped his new Winchester into the scabbard and poured all the cartridges he had for it into his saddle bags. He packed no food; he took only one canteen. He poured a tin of round balls into his pockets for his Walker; he had plenty of powder and caps. In a bound he was on the horse's back. Chowder did not want to be spurred so he collected himself and waited tensely for a cue, any cue-- John squeezed his calves slightly and the horse bolted out of the barn. John hadn't even said good bye.
Kelly stood in the relative silence. Joey asked again in an unsteady voice, "What's goin' on, ma?"
John had planned to ambush the Apaches when they left town and were tired and drunk but riding by the alley they were huddled in he caved in to impulse. He reined Chowder into the alley and pointed his Walker at them. They were sprawled on the ground in the alley, drunk but conscious. They offered almost no resistance. After he'd handcuffed them all together he remounted. He kept the Walker on them always.
"Move!" He said. He didn't know if they understood the English word but they got up off the ground at least. He repeated the command and motioned for them to walk out of the alley. They were drunk and they were Apaches-- they were brave. These particular Apaches were not fearless; they were merely brave. They respected the Walker and the man who held it so unwaveringly seemed to have no bluff or nonsense in him. They walked.
John moved them out of the alley and into the main street. He kept his pistol low, behind the pommel of his saddle so that it was difficult to see. He only met a couple of passers by on the street for it was late and the wind had sprung up.
The Apaches moved ahead of him in a loose band. Some staggered, which helped it look as though he was just sweeping them out of town-- a polite and civic minded gesture it would have been in a more civilized place.
Once out of town he made them trot. He trotted them for a mile, until he noticed that they were becoming anxious. They kept looking back toward town and chattering amongst themselves. He stopped them and was finally able to ascertain that they had left their ponies a ways out of town and they had passed them some while back. They wanted to go back and get them. John considered it for a moment for he could get to the killing that much sooner if they could ride. Had they been white men and their horses had been saddled he might have chanced it. He could have tied them securely to their saddle horns and made some time but a gaggle of Apaches on bareback ponies would be too much to handle. He put them into a trot again.
John trotted the braves toward Apache country for most of the night. He wanted to put a good distance between them and the town. He wanted no interruptions if he had to torture some of them, and he wanted no one to hear the gunfire if he had to shoot them. The longer he trotted the more enraged he became.
John finally stopped in a hollow and dismounted. He tied Chowder to a sapling near the rim of the hollow. The horse was still weak from his injuries.
The air was still and cool and the moon was nearly full. Crickets chirped from some taller grass near a huge oak tree. The Apaches, now thoroughly sober, watched him intently for a chance to escape or to jump him. John slid his Winchester out of the scabbard, chambered a round, and aimed it at the Indians. The Indians became agitated although having a rifle pointed at them did not affect them in the way an Eastern white man might have been affected by the same thing.
John read off the first name on the list: Brown Bear. "Which one is this man?" He demanded.
The Apaches hesitated, then they began to mumble amongst themselves in a tone John could not hear and with words he did not understand. One of the Apaches made a rude gesture in John's direction and then returned to his mumblings with the others. The Winchester discharged. The slug tore through the Apache's chest and the man went down as though he'd been clubbed to the ground. The fall took with him the Indian handcuffed on each side of him. There was a commotion as the Indians tried to find a way to stand again. Finally they stood up straight, which caused the arms of the dead man to hang in the air next to them. John chambered another round and aimed the rifle at another Indian. Still a third spoke:
"I speak your words!" The tallest Apache blurted. "I will talk to you."
John repeated the name again, then leveled the rifle at the chest of the tallest brave. The brave hesitated. John took up the slack in the trigger.
"There!" The Apache said proudly, pointing to the man second from the end of the chain.
Brown Bear looked startled for a moment but quickly regained his sense of honor and he stepped forward. John respected his honor at least. He spoke to John in Apache but John could only understand a few of the words. The tall Indian translated.
"He says he knows who you are."
"Ask him if he killed my family," John told the tall one. "Do it now!"
The tall Apache spoke and Brown Bear answered without emotion.
"He says he has killed many white men," the tall Indian said.
John stared hard at Brown Bear. In that time their hearts and souls and minds touched. Brown Bear told him with his eyes and his heart that he had killed his family. He had killed them. That was all.
John felt a tear run off his cheek. His muscles tensed slightly. He tried to swallow but couldn't.
Brown Bear knew; he stood a little straighter and his eyes grew calm.
John squeezed the trigger and Brown Bear was dead.
All the Indians fell down except the one on the far end. There were now two dead. Again the group struggled to its feet, holding the bloody limbs of their dead comrades in the air as they dangled from their handcuffs. There was much agitated talk-- then suddenly they rushed John. They were slowed by their dead companions and John jumped back and put a slug into the ground in front of them. The Apaches stopped.
When he had their attention again John read the next name on the list. There was silence for only a second, then a short, pudgy Indian stepped forth. He shouted something in Apache and spat at John. The tall one hung his head slightly but interpreted: "He said he is Red Horse. He killed your family and laid on your women." John shot him before the tall one stopped speaking. The others lowered Red Horse gently to the ground. With three down, the other two were fairly anchored to the spot.
John read the other two names. Neither Indian spoke. The two remaining killers of John's family were not among them.
"Where are the others?" John demanded. "Where are your people?"
The tall Indian stood silent.
John butted him in the chest with the stock of his Winchester. The Indian tried to grab it but the handcuffed limbs of his dead friends made him too slow. He grunted and fell back a step. "Where are your people?" John demanded again. He drew the Winchester back and was about to butt the Indian again but they heard galloping hooves. Almost before John could turn around the Sheriff of Paydirt flew into the hollow. His horse skidded to a stop and the Sheriff bailed off. He had sized up the situation before he even got to John.
"What in God's name are you doin'?" The Sheriff shouted. He quickly scanned the line of handcuffed Apaches, noting the three who were dead. Then he confronted John again, his eyes ablaze with rage. "What are you doing?"
"I'm applying justice where it's needed," John growled in reply. John lifted the Winchester again to smash the tall Indian's face but the Sheriff caught it. John tried to jerk it away but couldn't. The two men began to struggle.
They had not fought over the Winchester for three seconds when a shot pinged off a nearby rock. Almost before they could stop fighting the air was alive with raining arrows. A quick glance around the perimeter of the hollow revealed thirty Apaches well entrenched. Each Apache had a perfect vantage point. John and the Sheriff had no cover at all.
The handcuffed Apaches whooped to their friends. The two white men dived behind a set of three waist high, smooth sandstone boulders that were almost in the center of the hollow, set in a triangle, but with significant gaps between them. They provided some cover but arrows still clinked off the boulders causing minor wounds on the two men who cowered between them. Only four Apaches had rifles; the rest had only bows.
John fired five quick shots at the Apaches with his Winchester but hit none. Apaches darted back and forth around the perimeter of the hollow, trading vantage points. John stood up then and the big Walker boomed twice. There was a brief silence. One Apache whooped his admiration for such a weapon. Neither shot had run true and John dropped back below the tops of the boulders.
He and the Sheriff chanced several more shots but so far as they knew, hit no Indians. John realized with disgust that if they killed an Indian with every bullet they had left between them it would still leave half a dozen braves alive. John felt poorly. The Sheriff glanced at him once in the moonlight and cursed him. The Apaches continued to fire.
All at once John noticed that Chowder had panicked and broke loose from the tree he was tied to. The faithful, tail-less horse ran to the middle of the hollow and darted this way and that. He was looking for John, as he always did when he was frightened. The Sheriff's horse hadn't been tied and it ran away as soon as the shooting began.
There was a lull in the assault-- the Indians saw Chowder too and then opened fire on him. Slow, heavy bullets whacked into his flesh from every quadrant. Chowder screamed. Twice he went down and got up again, searching frantically for John. Arrows whizzed over John's head and stuck superficially into the horse. Chowder spun and faltered. He tried to escape from the hollow but no matter which direction he ran he was pummeled with bullets and arrows.
Chowder stayed in the center of the hollow now; he was slowing. He had too many wounds. He was in shock. He was dying. The horse who had been John's truest friend for fourteen years was dying.
John leaped from his cover and ran to the horse. Chowder was on the ground, on his side, kicking dust, grunting, groaning, jerking with every new arrow that went into him. The mustang fell for the last time with a horrendous scream. He was covered with arrows and peppered with bullet holes. He moved his legs even as he lay on his side, as though he were trying to run. Or perhaps, John thought, he thought he still was running.
John fell back against his horse's back; he tried to protect Chowder's body with his own. He emptied his Winchester at the shadows and muzzle flashes that came from the brush on the rim of the hollow. When it was empty he drew his Walker. It boomed like thunder and lit up the night like artillery. The Apache who had so admired the gun early in the battle leaped from behind a low mound and walked resolutely into the foray. The other Indians stopped firing. He stood up straight and walked directly toward John. He also had a Winchester and he held it at his hip as he levered rounds and pumped them into John's stomach. John crumpled to the ground next to his mustang.
The Sheriff capped a shot at the brave and hit him in the side. The Apache turned almost imperceptibly and shot the Sheriff in the shoulder. It seemed that the Indian never even looked or aimed; he was too intent on his private battle with John. He had shot the Sheriff so casually that it shocked even John. The Sheriff fell back behind his rock, out of the action.
The Apache walked on, pumping rounds at John. John stood up then, accepting the challenge, pulling himself up against Chowder's back, still trying to shield the wild horse from the shots. He took two steps away from his horse and toward the advancing Apache. John could see then that the Apache was grinning. John thumbed the big Walker and it boomed two more thunderous rounds into the Indian's chest. The Indian was knocked back a stride, then he gathered himself and walked stolidly on.
The Apache continued to lever his rifle though it no longer fired. It was empty. He and John met. They looked each other in the eyes. John started to speak. The Apache tried to reach for his knife but his hand could not grasp it. He looked down. He was covered with blood. Both men tried to raise their hands, to fall into their last struggle together. Instead they both fell in a heap to the ground. The Apache was dead. John's breath gurgled. He would last only moments. He marveled at how the Apaches eyes looked so like those of the pony...
The firing stopped then. There was a moment of relative quiet. Then the tall Indian, who still stood in the pile of his dead, handcuffed friends, spoke to them all.
"The white man is dead." He said. "This one," he pointed to the wounded Sheriff who was trying to crawl out from behind the rock, "is not a bad man."
Next Chapter
Sands of Sedona, Chap 1
Sands of Sedona, Chap 2
Sands of Sedona, Chap 3
Sands of Sedona, Chap 4
Sands of Sedona, Chap 5
Sands of Sedona, Chap 6
Sands of Sedona, Chap 7
Sands of Sedona, Chap 8
Sands of Sedona, Chap 9
Sands of Sedona, Chap 10
Sands of Sedona, Chap 11
Sands of Sedona, Chap 12