Black Hills (9781101559116) (37 page)

Well, damn! What Abraham had been telling him about the strong medicine of Black Hill's medicine men bringing back the dead was more than legend. Cormac would never have believed it. Cormac followed him with his long glass. This couldn't be right. This just could not be. The long knife of Cormac's pa had gone under the ribs and directly into the redskin's heart. Cormac was sure of it, but yet here he was, bold as brass.

Cormac put the glass away before picking up GERT. Once he pulled the trigger, he was goin' to have to skedaddle in a hurry. He lined up her sights on Kahatama's head. This just did not make any kind of believable sense. But this time Cormac would make damn sure that Injun was dead. GERT would put a bullet hole through the center of his head big enough to drive a wagon through. Let's see their damned medicine man fix that.

About to pass a tree, Kahatama turned to it and raised his loincloth to do what most people do first thing of a morning. When nature calls, one answers. Nature was calling to him, and if he was going to offer Cormac such a fine, still target, Cormac was not one to refuse it. It would make it easier to put the bullet exactly where he wanted.

It seemed more than a little humorous, actually, an undignified manner in which to die for someone who, Cormac was sure, would want to leave this world in the midst of battle, snarling and snapping and slaying enemies with each hand: being remembered as a ferocious warrior. Instead, he would die with his hand holding his . . . the voice of Cormac's pa interrupted his amusement.

“When you get your sights on the target, pull the trigger before something ruins the shot.” Cormac remembered being told exactly that when, fascinated by its beauty, he had held on a deer longer than necessary.

“Okay, okay,” he answered softly. He lined up the sight dead center on the Indian's head, and then dropped it to the base of the skull. The downhill slope would raise it back up to the middle of the head.

Cormac had not understood when his pa had been explaining the influences involved in shooting downhill. To Cormac, the shot should be some amount above the target point to allow for droppage, not below, but every time he tried it his way, he missed. First inhaling softly, Cormac's gentle exhalation matched the slowly increasing pressure of his finger. Cormac hesitated as the Indian began to turn.

Kahatama was making decorations on the ground, for Christ's sake. Apparently no man can resist that temptation from time to time. Well, as long as he was going to turn around, Cormac could wait. Which direction the target was facing mattered not to Cormac, but if the Indian wanted to turn around for a frontal shot, so be it. He must have had a lot of something to drink before going to bed. However; he was having a good time decorating while he continued turning, bringing his face around and neatly into sight line. After perfectly centering GERT's sights on the center of the forehead, Cormac dropped them to the Indian's mouth.

He appreciated the humor of the situation. This big, bad, ferocious, and terrible savage that so enjoyed raiding, burning, killing, and raping—a mushroom of smoke and fire belched from the bore as GERT carried out the final disposition of a vicious human being. The authoritative voice of death echoed off the surrounding hills as her bullet went exactly where she had been aimed, just like his pa had promised, right through the head. All the stand-up went out of Kahatama.

He collapsed on the spot with a hole through his head big enough to easily slide an arrow through with a pulpy mass of flesh and brain matter protruding from the cavity on the backside of his head.

Now let's see some Injun magic bring him back,
thought Cormac.

His decorating project and his terrorizing, raping days were over. This time nobody was bringing back that son of a bitch! Cormac took time to once again examine the scene with his long glass. He had to be positive, absolutely positive. Even at that range, it was easy to see the blood and gore spread across the ground. GERT had done her job very well.

“Okay, guys, get up,” he called to Horse and Lop Ear, springing out in front of the bush so the Indians could see from where the shots were coming. Cormac quickly scattered three bullets from the long barreled Colt in the direction of the camp, taking no time to aim. Pistols were no good at that range anyway. With enough elevation, he could get the bullet there, but he couldn't hit anything. And even if it were possible, two or three Indians more or less would make absolutely no difference in anything he could see, especially if they managed to get their red-skinned hands on him. With Lop Ear's help, he had hopes of avoiding that. He and Horse were going to have to hurry a bit, though; there was already a bunch of Indians mad as hornets running for the horses.

Cormac jumped his foot into the stirrup, spinning him around while his other foot was still clearing the big gray's hindquarters. “Let's hightail it outta here guys, we got company comin'.”

Indians were already boilin' outta the encampment. Cormac pointed Lop Ear in the direction of the rustler's camp and turned him loose.

The big Arabian sensed the urgency and poured it on. The muscles in his hindquarters exploded, and Cormac had to grab the saddle horn to stay aboard. By the time he got both feet in the stirrups and his backside in the saddle, Lop Ear and Horse were settling into their task. Cormac tucked his face into the long mane, urging him on.

“Show 'em your stuff, big guy, let's go!”

Lop Ear's stride quickly smoothed out, and they went up and down the hills, just hittin' the high spots with Horse matching him stride for stride.

Reloading GERT on the run was challenging, but Cormac got it done and had her back in her scabbard and the six shot Smith & Wesson in his hand when they exploded over the hill and into the rustler's camp with the Indians hot on their trail. Lop Ear being Lop Ear, Cormac had to intentionally slow him down some to keep the Indians from giving up, keep them in the race. He called Horse back to stay with them.

The rustlers were in for a rude awakening.
Come on boys, wake up and join the fun
.

Lop Ear and Horse blew through the camp and out the other side, knocking over most of their kitchen equipment on the way, along with a couple of rustlers who managed to get to their feet in front of them. The horses showed no interest in slowing down.

“WHAT THE HELL?”

Cormac heard the voice behind him and looked back over his shoulder as they cleared the camp and dodged into the trees on the other side. The Indians were just bursting over the hill; the rustlers were awake and reacting to the situation.

Running hard, they cleared the trees and sped up the backing hill, stopping only briefly at the crest to look back. It was a melee. Indians were still pouring into camp, getting pulled from or jumping off their horses, guns were going off, white-and-red skinned bodies were entangling on the ground with knives and tomahawks flashing in the just-rising morning sun.

Generally, rustlers were sneaky cowards getting their strength from numbers while Indians, on the other hand, were born, bred, and trained for combat. From the age of five, their life is spent in training to become skilled, fearless horsemen, and hand-to-hand fighters; they look for any opportunity to count coup and prove their manhood.

Now, nearly equal in numbers and thrown together with no opportunity for stealth and planning, it was a deadly free-for-all. There would be no winner here; both sides would take heavy casualties. Cormac's money was on the Indians. Then, with Kahatama out of the way—if he stayed dead, that is—and their ranks cut by eighty or ninety percent, what was left of them would more'n likely go home to lick their wounds. Any rustlers lucky enough to walk away would wander off, get drunk, and wonder what the hell had happened.

“Good job, old-timer,” Cormac told Lop Ear while patting his neck. “Thank you. All in all, not a bad morning's work. Now let's get us the hell out of here.” A bullet whirred passed his head like an angry bee as they turned to leave. It might have been an accident, a rogue bullet searching for a target, but more'n likely, it was a message from a rustler or Indian expressing his gratitude for an exciting morning.

“By my count, that makes it twenty-nine hundred and forty-one head,” said Jake Bartlow, the cattle buyer in Dodge City the bosses wanted Cormac to speak with.

“I don't know how you got through. A large group of rustlers has been hitting the herds hard and killing most of the hands. There has also been talk of a large bunch of heathen Indians headed this way. I'm mighty glad you made it through; it's been slim pickin's around here lately.”

“I don't know,” Cormac answered innocently. “We didn't see anything of them. We just kinda moseyed through without any trouble. We stopped a few times to let the herd graze and a couple times just to lay around for a few days, and then once when Cookie wanted to stay in camp and make a batch of candy, and man can he make candy. It's soft and white and so sweet it'll make your teeth hurt.”

“Don't listen to him, he's full of malarkey,” spoke up Red with a smile and a nod in Cormac's direction. “They were both out there. Mack here just sorta introduced them to each other then held us in a valley for a couple of days waitin' for the dust to settle. After that, we just rolled right on through without a hitch. He just don't like talking about the Indian, it spooks him.”

Jake Bartlow smiled and shook his head. “Now that's a story I think I'd like to hear,” Jake said to Cormac. “How about you head your boys over to the Daisy Lil's, and after you and I settle up, I'll buy the first round of drinks and you can tell me what happened.”

“Numbers don't always work right for me,” Cormac told him, wiping his hatband. “But one of my boys is a real whiz with them. If it's all right with you, let me get him to help me out.”

Jake smiled. “Of course it's all right. Meet me at my office in ten minutes?”

“That's not necessary. There he is now.” The kid was sitting on the fence with Oley. Cormac waved him over, and Jake waited for him.

“The going rate is eleven dollars a head, and we counted twenty-nine hundred and forty-one head. That should come to . . .” He paused to work the numbers on his paper. The kid spoke up. “Thirty-two thousand, three hundred and fifty-one dollars.”

Surprised, Jake looked up and smiled, then finished his paper calculations.

“Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle if he isn't right on the money. Dang, I wished I could do that; it would come in almighty handy.”

Then, to Cormac, “I suppose you'll want enough in cash to pay your men and the rest in script.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Yes, sir. But we gotta talk some about that number. You already said there's been a shortage of beef lately because of the rustlers, and that there herd is in fine shape. We brought 'em through slow and easy over rich grassland and gave them plenty of time for grazin'. They're in top condition. I think fifteen dollars a head would be more fittin'.”

Jake looked at him for a long minute, and then burst out with a grin.

“Hell! You're right; they are in prime condition. You did a hell of job. Anyone who can do what you did deserves top dollar. I'll consider it a bonus for getting rid of the rustlers and the Indians.”

He held out his hand. “You got yourself a deal.” Turning to the kid, “What's it come to now, kid?”

“Forty-four thousand, one hundred and fifteen dollars,” the kid answered matter-of-factly.

Jake stared at him, shaking his head. “I never seen the like. I've heard of it, but this is my first time see'n it. That's amazing.” He paused briefly to turn to Cormac. “I'm not even going to check his figures. Let's go over to the bank and take care of business, then go get that drink. I'm dying to hear what happened out there, and what's spooky about it.”

“How 'bout I meet you there in about ten minutes? I want to leave my horses at the livery and get them some new shoes while we're here. I noticed this morning they had both lost a couple of nails.”

After making the necessary arrangements for his horses, Cormac proceeded to the bank where he completed the deal and drew twenty dollars for each man, having the banker hold the balance of their monies until they were ready to leave town. Cow towns attract a lot of sharpies, and he didn't want the boys relieved of the money they had worked so hard for while they were kicking up their heels. Jake smiled his approval.

Daisy Lil's was one of seven saloons dotting the main street of Dodge City. The polished mahogany bar with a full-length brass foot-rail paralleling one wall was longer than most, but the rest was standard bar furnishings with an abundance of spittoons and as many chairs and tables as would fit. Some were card tables and, of course, there was a gambling wheel.