Читать книгу Stand Up and Die - William W. Johnstone - Страница 14

CHAPTER EIGHT

McCulloch looked at the Indian boy, unconscious, and at the dead scalp hunter whose job was to shoot McCulloch in the back. He probably would have succeeded had the Comanche kid not sprung into action. McCulloch’s black danced approximately thirty feet from him, but didn’t seem inclined to run anymore, and the Mexican’s horse had loped after the other scalp hunters. He wouldn’t be able to catch it. The Mexican looked dead, probably was.

McCulloch still had to figure out what to do with the Indian boy. The dead men he’d leave for the vultures and other varmints. But he figured, most likely, this old white-bearded scalp hunter had a horse, probably had hobbled it somewhere behind him.

To let the blood flow a little, McCulloch first loosened the tourniquet he had fashioned around the boy’s arm. After retying the bandana, he rose, walked past the Mexican—indeed, the man was dead, likely burning in hell at that very moment—and eased his way to his skittish horse. Once he had the reins, he cut a wide loop around the dead and the blood, and hobbled his mount in a spot with plenty of grass and no dead bear, dead bandit, scents from the other now-gone scalp hunters and horses, and one badly injured Comanche boy.

The black lifted its head and whinnied. Almost instantly, a answer came from up the hill.

After a quick glance at the kid, still out of this world for the time being, McCulloch figured his best plan was to find that dead man’s horse before his colleagues went after it—if they had such an intention. He found a deer trail and followed it up the hill before the trail slipped through some rocks a man of McCulloch’s size would find a tight squeeze. He took a firm grip on a juniper branch and pulled himself up the steep slope, sending gravel and larger stones rolling down. and inching his way till he made it to the other side of a rock. He rested for a moment, then climbed up the slope. Often, he had to crawl his way on all fours. That told McCulloch there had to be an easier path down than the one he was taking up.

Fifteen minutes later, he found the horse tied to a dead piñon on the other side of the slope. McCulloch admired the view and the horse, a blood bay with an army McClellan saddle. A sash hung around the horse’s neck, and from it hung a few scalps the dead man must have found too important or too pretty to sell for whatever the Mexicans were paying for scalps.

He ripped that off, dug a hole with the heel of his boot, and buried those disgusting trophies.

Matt McCulloch had done a lot of things that disgusted him over his years in the wilds, but he didn’t care much for scalping. In that regard, he had a bit of respect for the Apaches. They didn’t scalp, either. But the Apaches had killed his family, and the Apaches had taken his daughter. Comanches had tried to kill him over the years, but he still had his topknot.

He grabbed the reins to the bay, rubbed his hand over the neck, and started studying the ground until he found the prints of the dead man the Comanche boy had killed. He followed that trail, pulling the horse behind him, and—as he had expected—it was a much easier climb down than it had been up. At least until he reached the end and saw he had a ten foot jump down. Easy for a scalp hunter. That killer had likely just grabbed hold of a juniper root, held on to it as he lowered himself, let go, and dropped silently to the soft grass below.

Getting a horse down might prove harder. McCulloch looked at the bay and decided this stallion could handle ten feet. He went back up to the horse, took the reins, and swung into the saddle. The stirrups were too short for him and McCulloch had never understood why those damned fool Yankee horse soldiers survived riding on something as backbreaking and huevos-pounding torture contraptions like a McClellan. The horse showed a moment of anxiety, dancing around, but McCulloch eased it down to the edge, let the blood bay measure the distance, then rode it back up as far as he could. Turning the horse around underneath the piñons, he spurred it, and the horse showed no fear, no doubt. A moment later Matt McCulloch felt the wind, the freedom, the wonders of flying, and the horse landed, jarring him, but not spilling him. McCulloch laughed as he righted himself in the saddle and gave the stallion its head, letting him run by the bear and the dead Mexican and a hundred and fifty yards up the valley, before he turned the horse around and galloped back, slowing down about thirty yards from his black and trotting the rest of the way.

He swung down, tied the horse up a few feet from his black—so they could get to know one another—loosened the cinch and found the dead scalp hunter’s canteen. He sniffed. Yes, it was water, not whiskey. You couldn’t be sure about scalp hunters. He filled his hat with the lukewarm liquid and let the bay drink. Then he did the same for his black. Keeping the canteen, he went back to the unconscious Comanche.

And McCulloch went to work.

He jerked out the Comanche’s homemade knife from the white-bearded scalp hunter and went to the bear. For a rusted blade, the knife cut well. The Indian boy had honed a sharp edge on that old saber, and McCulloch carved up some fat and a little bit of meat. A few minutes later, he had a fire going. Then came the hard part. Using his own knife, he heated the blade, then removed his blood-soaked bandana, and placed the white-hot blade on the savage cut.

Flesh sizzled. The Indian boy screamed and tried to rise, but McCulloch’s knee had been placed on the boy’s chest. The pain quickly sent the kid back into deep unconsciousness. McCulloch heat-sealed the other serious wounds, found a needle in his saddlebags, plucked some hairs from the tail of his black, and stitched up the smaller cuts that weren’t so deep. The bear fat he placed on all the wounds, hoping that would suck out some of the infection, and he slipped a couple of small cubes of meat into the boy’s mouth.

After wiping his own brow and finding his own canteen to slake his thirst, McCulloch walked to the edge of the wooded hills and began searching until he found a piece of wood that would work all right—at least until he found a doctor, one who would actually treat an Indian boy.

McCulloch stopped. “What are the chances of that?” he said aloud, and looked at the small branch he held. None, he answered in his mind. A Comanche boy? Forget it.

After tossing that pathetic substitute for a splint, McCulloch went back into the woods and finally found something that would eventually do the job. He used the Indian kid’s knife to clear off the bark, and then his own to carve, cut, and whittle until he had what he needed. Satisfied, he took the branch back to the Comanche kid, measured it for length, nodded at how well he had guessed, and snapped the branch in half over his left thigh. After that, he shaved off the sharp edges with his knife and pounded down the ends against a lava rock. Finished with that part of the job, McCulloch stripped buckskin from white-bearded man’s leather britches, soaked the strips in the last of the water from the scalp hunter’s canteen, and returned to the still unconscious boy.

You break horses for a living, you know a few things about broken bones.

McCulloch steeled himself, hoped the boy was too out of it to feel what he was about to do, and tried to set the broken arm. It took a while, and the boy screamed after the first jerk, then shuddered, wet himself, and groaned. Rubbing his hand over the thin, bony, copper-skinned arm, McCulloch felt satisfied. He used a silk bandana he had found in the saddlebags of the blood bay, wrapped it over the arm, then placed the first of his whittled-down branches onto the upper arm and secured it with the strips from the dead man’s pants. The next branch went lower, also secured with buckskin leggings.

The boy looked like hell. No, McCulloch figured, he looked damned ridiculous. But by the Grace of God and if the kid’s puha—his Comanche power—was with him, he might live. McCulloch laughed. When a Comanche boy went out on his vision quest, he came back with a new name. So McCulloch decided it was time to give this kid a new name, too. Instead of Bear Killer, from how on he would be called Wooden Arm.

Suddenly, McCulloch felt hungry. He returned to the bear, cut off some more meat, grabbed his skillet from the saddlebag, and fixed himself some grub. After eating, he dragged the dead men to the edge of the hills, searched them, and lifted from their pockets anything he might need. Then he hauled some dead branches and left those covering the bodies. Another bear, or wolves, or coyotes would eventually find them, but McCulloch wasn’t going to waste his energy trying to dig a grave for two pieces of dirt who would not have even bothered covering him with branches had they won that fight.

Finally, McCulloch went back to what was passing for his camp. He threw some more wood—which would not send too much smoke into the sky—onto the fire, leaned back in the grass, adjusted his hat over his eyes, and slept.

* * *

He sat up with the Colt in his hand and saw the boy. The Indian boy had rolled over and gasped at the arm splinted in two places—forearm and upper arm—with tree branches.

The kid saw McCulloch, who holstered his gun and slid the plate of bear meat and fried fat over to the kid, along with his canteen.

The boy stared.

“I am called Matt,” he said, making the sign for everything but Matt. He signed Eat.

Eventually, the boy sat up and used his good hand, fingering bits of bear meat and fat into his mouth. He chewed, but rarely blinked, and his eyes never left McCulloch.

Night came. McCulloch built up the fire, found the bedroll on the blood bay, and spread that over the boy, who still stared. They supped on bear meat and McCulloch’s coffee, and slept, though only after McCulloch used some of the Mexican scalp hunter’s whiskey as painkiller for Wooden Arm.

The next morning, as the boy watched in silence and with cold black eyes, McCulloch checked the arm, nodded at his skills as a sawbones, and brought Wooden Arm coffee doctored with a shot of whiskey, and more bear meat. After what passed for breakfast, McCulloch busied himself the rest of the morning by rubbing down the horses, keeping a lookout for any riders—especially scalp hunters—and nodding at Wooden Arm every now and then.

It was after noon before the kid spoke.

Not that McCulloch understood more than a handful of Comanche words, but he stopped what he was doing and squatted in front of the kid.

He signed, How are you called?

The boy answered, but hell, McCulloch wouldn’t remember that if he heard it ten thousand and ten times. He said, “I will call you Wooden Arm.” Again he signed, I am called, then said, “Matt.”

“Watt,” the boy said.

“Good enough.” McCulloch smiled, then checked the boy’s wounds and arm.

The boy turned downright conversational.

In Comanche, “Why did you not kill me or at least count coup?”

McCulloch thought he got all of that. He answered with his hands and fingers, speaking as he signed, You saved my life.

The boy’s head shook. No, I protected me, he signed.

“You were hurt,” McCulloch said, and tried his best to sign, There is no glory in counting coup or taking the scalp of someone injured. He smiled and tried to add, But I would have had women singing in my camp had they learned that I counted coup on a Comanche brave enough to fight and kill an angry black bear.

He must have done a good job there. The hardness left the boy’s eyes and he smiled, then nodded, and muttered something in that rough tongue. He grinned at Matt and said, “Watt.”

Matt laughed. “Wooden Arm,” he said, and added with his hands, is my friend.

The boy straightened. He looked lost in thought, maybe confused. Comanches did not care much for white men and hated white Texas men.

McCulloch went back to work.

That night, eating more bear meat, what looked to be old juniper berries, and chased down with McCulloch’s coffee and the last of the Mexican’s whiskey, McCulloch was trying to figure out what to do with this kid. He couldn’t keep hanging out there forever. If he took the boy to a Comanche camp, he figured the Comanches would kill any white man foolish enough to enter a Comanche camp before anyone had a chance to explain.

While he was considering his options and vaguely wondering Why didn’t I just kill this Indian while I had the chance? the boy cleared his throat. McCulloch set down his coffee cup and stared over the fire as Wooden Arm moved his hands. Why are you in these hills?

How he managed to sign with a busted arm splinted in two places amazed the former Texas Ranger.

McCulloch answered honestly. I seek mustangs.

Why?

Comanches like horses, McCulloch thought. He signed, I like horses. They make me rich. Like Comanches.

The boy laughed.

McCulloch drank more and ate the last of the bear meat on his plate.

The boy signed, I can help you.

McCulloch blinked. Help me do what?

I know horses, too. I am Comanche. No one knows horses better than Comanches.

McCulloch nodded with honesty. That is true. Comanches are the best horsemen on the plains.

I will help you.

Now, McCulloch shook his head. No. Your arm is—

Quickly signing, the boy did not let him finish. A Comanche with one arm is better than ten Texans when it comes to capturing wild mustangs.

Actually, McCulloch didn’t think Wooden Arm used the word Texans. It seemed more like skunks, but he figured Texans had to be the general idea.

As McCulloch tried to think of a way to respond, Wooden Arm signed, You save my life. I must repay my debt.

McCulloch pointed at what passed for the grave of the two dead scalp hunters. You have repaid your debt.

The boy shook his head. Then he smiled and said in Comanche while signing. Then we will be like brothers. You and I will find mustangs. We will become rich. Together.

And in English, Wooden Arm said, “Is right.”

Staring harder, McCulloch wondered how much English this little Indian knew, but Wooden Arm spoke to end McCulloch’s suspicion. “Is right. No mas.” Then he signed, I can speak ten words in the Kiowa tongue, but with these hands, I speak all languages. As do you.

McCulloch brought the coffee cup up, lowered it, and looked over at the two horses. Like that was a sign. Two horses. A Comanche. A Comanche on horseback didn’t need two arms to help work a herd of mustangs. A Comanche could likely find a horse herd faster than McCulloch could alone. And two men, even if one of those men was a boy, would have an easier time driving wild mustangs back to his ranch outside of Purgatory City. Yeah, it was a gamble, but something about it struck McCulloch as right.

Never being one to count those chickens—he knew that plans and dreams often broke like eggs—McCulloch couldn’t help but believe that he might be able to pull off this crazy idea after all.

He nodded. “Is right,” he said, and lifted his hand toward his new partner. They shook the Comanche way first, and then they shook like way of the white Texans.

Wooden Arm grinned, raised his head to the blackening sky, and howled like a coyote.