Black Hills (9781101559116) (30 page)

For example, if there was a trap planned using the C-shaped arroyo coming up, how might it be planned? He knew Indians took advantage of every opportunity, such as laying in wait for travelers by hiding in the woods and ravines. Were they smart enough to split up into two or more groups with the first group exposing themselves, shooing their prey into the arms of another group maybe?

Since leaving Dakota, Cormac knew he had been lucky on several occasions. To date, he had only had one altercation with Indians. He couldn't count on always being so lucky; as his pa had told him, luck was elusive. Something flashed in the late-afternoon sun from the center of the
C
—something metal? Cormac had altered his course so as to pass on one side of the
C
and not to get trapped in the center if it proved to be more than an indentation in the ground. The flash had come from about two hundred yards out and a little to his right. Was it intentional? Was it a trap? Were there Indians waiting there? Did they want him to turn into the hands of others?

These thoughts flashed through his mind along with thoughts of what to do about it if he was being laid for. The answer was simple: get the hell out of there.

“We're off to the races, guys. Let's get us outta here.”

With the arroyo on their left, Cormac sharp-turned Lop Ear to the right and, in one motion, loosened the reins and slapped his heels against the horse's flanks while leaning forward to avoid being left sitting in mid-air when Lop Ear's hindquarters exploded. They shot forward and were off in an instant, narrowly avoiding Horse trotting beside them.

They got maybe fifty feet before a group of Indians waiting in the gulch directly in front of them, along with those waiting in the gulch farther ahead and to the left who had been expecting him to shy into their midst, rushed out to give chase. Had he turned left as expected, there would have been no escape. Now he had a chance. The land was mostly flat with no obstructions, and he was riding Lop Ear.

What kinds of Indians were chasing him was of no consequence, any kind would make him just as dead. But Cormac found the thought in his head. From what he had learned from the Flying H riders, traveling south across Wyoming made them most likely Cheyenne, Arapahoe, or possibly Lakota Sioux from the eastern part of Nebraska and Dakota, although it wasn't totally out of the question that good ole Geronimo might have gotten bored and brought some of his Apache buddies up from Texas to create a little mischief. Geronimo had a way of not staying nailed down anywhere. Most likely though, they were homegrown Cheyennes, for which the city had been named. Didn't really matter which variety they were though, if Lop Ear stubbed his toe, they were gonna be in a lotta hot water.

Both horses realized this was trouble and settled into the act of getting somewhere else. Being grain-fed that morning in addition to their standard diet of the rich and moist plain's grass to increase their stamina for just such an incident, they were prepared for the challenge.

Had he the time to enjoy the sight, Cormac would have appreciated the smooth movement of the strong muscles rippling under their shiny coats. He loved to watch them run and frisk when they were playing with each other. It was a sight second only to Lainey's smile; he thought them to be majestic. Right now, though, he had other things on his mind.

Cormac Lynch bent low against Lop Ear's neck to reduce wind resistance. His hat, loosely riding on his head, had, as always, blown back to hang by the neck strap, and his eyes began to blur from the wind hitting his face. Luckily, being so confident in the trap they had set for him, there probably were no others lying in wait for him, but he needed to avoid being trapped by contours of the land and the ravines and gulches like the
C
behind him.

No dummies and good judges of horseflesh, the Indians knew full well the quality of the horses they were pursuing. Each wanted the horses for their own. Other than a few quick shots in the beginning that let Cormac know they had the new repeating rifles, they held their fire, not wanting to risk hitting the magnificent animals they were chasing. Cormac knew the futility of trying to hit anything at this pace and concentrated on helping Lop Ear win the race for his life. If they wanted Lop Ear and Horse, they were damn well going to have to catch them. An interesting dilemma for them and one for which his mother would probably have had a word. They wanted to chase and catch horses that they wanted because the horses were so fast they couldn't be caught.

Miles melted away, and an occasional look over his shoulder showed Cormac that most of the Indians were falling away, unable to maintain the pace. Warmed to their task, Lop Ear and Horse were running easy and loose and enjoying themselves, but realizing the sense of urgency.

Looking far back, Cormac could see the fifty or sixty Indian group had shrunk to one and that one had somehow come up with a spare horse that ran beside him on a long halter rope. This Indian was being easily out-distanced by Lop Ear and Horse but Cormac sensed him to be serious. As one fighting man to another, something flowed between them. Cormac knew the Indian had no intention of giving up and, somehow, he knew that the Indian knew that he knew.

As he looked back, Cormac could see the Indian jump from one horse to the other, still clinging to the rope of his first mount. By alternating horses, he could maintain a greater speed for a longer distance than the others. Cormac tightened the reins ever so slightly so as to slow Lop Ear just a bit and conserve his strength as much as possible. This was going to be a long race, and the prize to the winner was his life.

Although no longer effortlessly, the horses were still running easily and were far from drained. Cormac could no longer see their pursuer, but he knew the chase was still on. That was one determined redskin. A group of boulders on the horizon was growing larger and looked to be out of place on the otherwise flat prairie of this part of Wyoming: an anomaly.

The word reminded him of his mother's teaching at every opportunity. He remembered a particular lesson that had come immediately after she and his pa had quarreled over some trivial concern, and his pa had sheepishly conceded her to be right.

“Anomaly,” Cormac remembered her saying. “Anything inconsistent or odd.” Then with a sly glance at the husband she dearly loved, “Like your father thinking he is ever going to win an argument with me.” Remembering them was such a sad sweetness.

“All right, Lynch, quit daydreaming and figure out what you're going to do about the Injun on your trail,” he said aloud. And then, louder, “Hey, Lop Ear, you gettin' tired yet?” Over his right shoulder he watched Horse running happily beside and just a little behind them. “How 'bout you? You ready to take a rest or you want to go another hundred miles or so?”

The boulders were of varying sizes and appeared to have been dropped from the sky, some large, some small, and some huge that had landed on top of each other looking as if Mrs. God was cleaning house and just swept them out the doors of heaven. Some looked like God was showing off by delicately balancing one on top of the other, two or three or four high. A few appeared to have split in two from the force of the fall. Over all, an interesting display of workmanship.

“Good job,” he said, looking up into the sky. “I'm impressed. You mind if I use them for a while?”

Then, to the horses, “Okay guys. Enough is enough. Lets us find us a comfortable rock to sit down on and wait for the fellow that's trying so hard to catch up. He's been wantin' to catch up, so let's let him. You did your job, now let's let GERT do hers.”

The boulders appeared to have fallen in a roughly laid out circle about a couple hundred yards in diameter with boulders ranging from bucket size of thirty or forty pounds to some large enough to hide Horse and Lop Ear behind.

“Wow, guys, look at the size of these things. They must weigh about a gazillion pounds.”

Removing GERT from her scabbard riding under his right leg, Cormac stood on Horse's saddle to climb up the back side of a huge boulder that had broken in half and rolled apart, leaving an exposed stone tabletop large enough and flat enough to lay upon with a slight rise on the front side high enough for concealment. On hands and knees he crawled across to the other side to lie down to wait.

He found several empty cartridges scattered about along with quirlie tobacco, burnt and un-burnt, showing the remains of partially smoked cigarettes, the papers long since blown away. He smiled grimly and shook his head at the meaning. Others had also used this to ambush some unsuspecting traveler. Now he was about to do the same. The thought stuck in his craw.

C
ormac stood up and waited until he could make out his pursuer. Most would have called it a lost cause, but the Indian had not given up. Obviously, he was a fighting man, and as such deserved respect, although Cormac knew the same treatment would not have been given him if the situation were reversed.

Cormac watched as the Indian grew closer and began to slow and knew he had been seen. About a hundred yards out, the Indian came to a complete stop, considering the situation. A hundred yards was kid's play to GERT, but Cormac stood unmoving. Each alone, they faced off, silent in the stillness; no birds in the sky, no movement of the tall prairie grasses, just standing with the heat of the sun reflecting from the boulders and a lone fly buzzing some feet away.

Cormac held GERT high above his head before gently placing her on the stone tabletop, doing the same with each of his gun belts. Removing his pa's knife from its sheath, Cormac demonstrated his intentions by using the shiny blade to reflect bursts of sunlight in the direction of the Indian. He was fully aware that when he laid down his guns, he had given up his strength in favor of the Indian's.

It was common knowledge that beginning as children, Indians were trained in hand-to-hand combat and the use of sharp instruments as weapons. Cormac was being a fool to give up the advantage of his guns and a perfect point of ambush, but his pa had once told him, “Right or wrong, son, what others would do or not do matters not in the least; a man has to stand for something or he is of little worth.”

Cormac watched as the Indian dismounted and made a show of also placing his rifle on the ground, followed by his lance, his bow, and his quiver of arrows. Holding his knife at arm's length above his head, he accepted Cormac's challenge. He, too, would fight with only a knife.
What was it John Ferguson had said? Curse myself for a fool?
That's probably the way it would end up. Calling himself a fool, Cormac took a deep breath and dropped to the ground to begin walking toward his warrior foe.

Cormac stumbled once on a prairie dog hole concealed by the tall grass, caught his balance, and walked on. He could see the strong copper-skinned features of the Indian walking toward him. As tall as Cormac, the Indian was broad shouldered, strong, and well muscled, and moved with an easy smoothness and grace that bespoke confidence. Most assuredly the victor of many such battles as evidenced by large and small scars, he approached Cormac fearlessly. Created by the Wakan Tanka, their Indian name for the Great Spirit, he was a product of many generations of free-spirited fighting warriors: a warrior in every sense of the word—born, bred, and trained to kill from birth, unhampered by conscience, or social or private idealism. When in battle, he would have but one thought—to kill. His long black hair was tied back and a single feather pointed upward behind his head; a necklace of one large—probably eagle—claw hung around his neck. The war-painted red-and-white stripes under his eyes were bright.

“I wonder if I could get him to add a blue stripe under them,” Cormac wondered. “Oh, for cryin' out loud. This is no time for nonsense; pay attention. This guy is serious. Look at the size of that knife, for Christ's sake . . . big as a Bowie knife. I picked a hell of a time to get noble . . .” He glanced upward. “God, if I'm not up to this, would you please let Lop Ear and Horse somehow find their way to Lainey?”