Brothers in Blood (6 page)

The others were way off the mountain before he caught up with them. Before long, he spotted a trail of smoke to the north. He pointed it out and they agreed it came from a campfire across the river.

Headed toward the smoke, they passed the fencing crew rolling out wire from a reel slipped on a smooth post. They had two wires up and were working on the third one of five. New posts set in a straight line and stays, to be placed between the posts to keep the wire in place, were on the ground. Looked good to him. It would look better when completed. He spoke briefly to the fence crew and rode on.

They crossed the Verde at a ford where a cut in the far bank allowed them to ride up on top on the other side. The camp was spread out and little children ran for wickiups at the sight of them. Someone opened fire at them and they dismounted and returned a shot or two.

“There's three of them shooting at us,” Chet said. “Be careful not to shoot a woman or child.”

When there was a break in the gunfire, they divided up, crouched low, and ran for the camp. But the shooters had taken cover in some tall junipers.

Chet heard a baby cry, then a small teenage girl ducked coming out of her shelter. Bare-breasted despite the cold air, she carried a crying baby.

“Is he all right?” Chet asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Gun shots scared him.”

He nodded and turned to see the others approaching. “They've headed for some horses,” he shouted.

Roamer joined him first, then the other two. They watched as other squaws and a few men dressed in rags, all unarmed, began to appear. All he saw told Chet these breeds were a ragged, hungry-looking bunch.

“Who is your leader?” he asked.

“Rump,” one woman said, and pointed out a skinny man with lots of gray hair.

Wrapped in a thin blanket, he came forward. “I'm Rump.”

“Do you have anything to eat here?” Chet asked, frowning at the Indian and his situation.

“Pinion nuts.”

“Tomorrow, one of my men will bring you a cow or old bull to eat. I will find you some frijoles and have them delivered to the river.”

“Wait,” the man said with a pained expression on his old face. “Why do that for us?”

“'Cause hungry babies cry in your camp. I won't be able to sleep hearing them.”

The man used the flat of his hand to touch his forehead sideways and send it toward him. “I thank you and your people. We can do nothing about the men that shot at you.”

“We can, and we'll be back tomorrow to track them down. If they're in camp when we come, put up a white flag so we know they're here.”

Rump nodded his assent.

Jesus and Cole rounded up all the crackers and jerky in their saddlebags to give to the women.

“We can go home tonight, get some pack horses and go after those three,” said Chet.

Roamer shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, Chet Byrnes. You are one generous guy. It wasn't the shooting made that baby cry. He was hungry, wasn't he?”

“Yes. It'll be dark when we get home tonight, and looking for these varmints is going to take a few days. We have nothing with us and these folks need the things I promised them. We'll set out tomorrow to find them.”

“Like we always do.” Jesus smiled with confidence. “They can't run far enough on their poor horses.”

Cole rubbed the sleeves of his coat. “I only wish it was warmer.”

Roamer laughed. “Then wear two suits of underwear, Texas.”

They smiled, mounted up, and headed for Hampt's.

When May heard the story about the handful of breeds starving, she was ready to take them food right away. Hampt hugged her. “Darling, we'll get them an old bull to eat, and frijoles, and whatever else you want them to eat. And do that first thing in the morning.”

“Can I give them a case of canned milk?”

Chet said, “Fine. There's probably a dozen or so babies down there. I'm going to take them a few blankets from my place.”

She looked at Hampt. “We have a few blankets I saved.”

Hampt nodded at her, then looked at Chet. “I guess I'll be in charge of them, too?”

“Yeah, feeding them and looking out for them until we find a charity to do it.”

It was late when they reached home, but Marge was up holding supper.

“May wanted to feed us, but we told her you'd be up.”

She filled coffee cups around. “I'm glad you did. I sent Monica to bed. And those poor Indians up there are starving?”

“Bad shape.”

“Those men shot at you?”

“They had some old rifles they shot at us with,” Jesus said. “We were out of range.”

“We'll go find them and Roamer can arrest them,” Chet said.

“I have several blankets we can send. How will these people fend for themselves?”

“Come spring, they can plant a few acres of garden at the edge of Hampt's irrigated ground and grow what they want. But that's a long way off. Till then, we'll help them get through it.”

“Why did they camp there? Isn't that on your land?”

“Probably. I think they fished a lot and ate them.”

Marge looked shaken by the Indians' problem. “My, how many people like that could starve and no one know it.”

They made plans to get up in a few hours and go back with packhorses to track the breeds down. Roamer thanked Marge for her offer to put him up at the house, but said he'd stay at the bunkhouse.

Chet and his wife got ready for bed, but both still thought about the Indians' situation.

“I think the Methodist Church will help them. I'll ask this Sunday,” Marge said.

“They won't take much. But they're so pitiful, I was shaken. No one cared, but then, no one had any way to know their plight, either.”

“I'll get some folks working on it.”

“Good. I figured you would.” He hugged her to him and kissed her. It was great to have her by his side.

Blue cold at peach dawn, they set out on dancing fresh horses with pack animals following. The steamy breath of men and horses almost made a cloud. They left in a long trot for Hampt's place. When they arrived, he joined them with two of his men who said they knew where there was a crippled bull the breeds could eat.

They rode off to drive the bull down there, and the posse crossed the river to meet with Rump. Soon, blankets were handed out, along with a hundred pound sack of frijoles, canned milk, and some ground corn meal. Chet told Rump that his men had brought the bull for them to slaughter.

The chief stood wrapped in a newer blanket and tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks. “How we pay you?”

“Be well. We must go.”

When they joined Jesus, he'd found the breeds' tracks, so they rode south. The day warmed under the sun and they trailed them close to the river. Jesus was confident the breeds' horses weren't very strong and they'd catch them by dark. Everyone stayed on alert. Even old worn-out guns could kill. These men probably had no food, either, and that would make them desperate.

As they rode south, Chet smelled a fire. He made a sign for the others to spread out and they scattered.

Cole took out up the mountainside with a rifle in his hands. His horse cat-hopped up the steep side of the slope, from where he could oversee the valley. Jesus went right, six-gun in his fist. Roamer and Chet rode straight into the opening.

The three breeds stood and raised their arms. Pitiful looking in their ragged dirty clothes, they appeared haggard and hungry. Long stringy hair hung shoulder length and on their faces—not whiskers, like their white fathers—but lanky hair.

Jesus gathered their guns, while Cole found their hobbled horses. Roamer handcuffed them and sat them down. Chet put an iron grill over their small fire and the others gathered axes to find better fuel. They soon had flames blazing, and Jesus cooked some food and made coffee.

“We're kinda overdone for capturing these three.” Roamer chuckled and shook his head.

“Naw, we'll feed the breeds. That may solve their stealing to survive. Those people's living conditions still bother me.”

“Oh, no. You've been generous to them. I agree those poor people back there need it. But it's pretty well a waste of time taking these three back. The county will have to clothe them, feed them, defend them, and then imprison them.”

“That's the way it works. It's called the American way.”

Roamer looked him hard in the eyes. “I still wasn't opposed to the answer you gave those killers over on Rye Wash.”

“These breeds ain't worth the cost of a rope. Besides, they didn't rape an innocent woman and murder two good men in cold blood, plus steal a bunch of horses.”

“I agree those men were real worthless. And rotting in prison wouldn't have helped them or their ambitions in the future.”

“Under all circumstances other than those I've been more mindful of the law. I try to obey it.”

“It damn sure took lots of guts to do it by yourself. I've always regretted I wasn't there to back you.” Roamer shook his head as if in disgust.

“The Preskitt Valley foreman, Raphael, does, too. He tells me about it all the time.”

“That desk deputy wouldn't let him go and help you. It wasn't his fault,” Roamer said.

“I know. He knows. Just how it turned out.”

“There isn't a man I know in this county does more for law and order than you. That's why you're a US Deputy Marshal. They want you on their side.”

After the meal, they gave the prisoners a blanket apiece so they didn't freeze to death. The next morning, Jesus served everyone an oatmeal breakfast, then they mounted up and headed north for the crossing. Their horses were slow, so when they got about halfway, Chet sent Jesus to Hampt's to get three fresh ones. He planned to leave those three weary animals at the breed camp, and maybe they'd find some forage and get rested.

They made the exchange at the ford and Rump thanked him for the horses' return. They pushed on to Hampt's where May fed the posse and offered them a place to spend the night. Chet and Roamer decided they should push on to Preskitt Valley.

They made it there about midnight and put the prisoners to sleep on the bunkhouse floor. With the horses put up, Chet breathed steam and headed for the dark house. It had been a long day.

When he went inside, Marge had come downstairs and lit a lamp.

“How did it go?”

“We caught them. Been all night getting here.”

“Didn't they put up a fight?”

“No, they were starving, too. Horses worn out. They'll be in jail tomorrow.”

“I'm glad you weren't hurt and are back with me.” She hugged him.

“I smell like a horse and campfire.”

“You smell good to me anywhere, anytime, anyplace, Chet Byrnes.”

They went off to bed.

In the morning, Jesus went with Roamer to deliver the prisoners and bring Hampt's horses back to them. Cole helped the
vaqueros
. Chet took a bath, shaved, and sat in the living room reading the
Miner
newspaper editions that he'd missed.

“Well, world traveler, what are your plans?” Marge asked.

“I need to check with Sarge to be certain everything is fine in Gallup. That's a very important part of this operation. Our sales over there will keep us expanding.”

“Are you concerned about it?”

“Not concerned, but the potential is there. They're pleased we delivered on time and good well-fleshed cattle. But I worry people might try to underbid us. They say their experience with us has been what they expected, but it could be fragile.”

“Do you need to go over there?”

“Maybe later on.”

“Maybe it will be less pressing on you in the future.”

“All I care about is you and the baby first. Family, ranches, and my people next.”

“Oh, I can't complain. I miss my horses. I miss being more active, but I have you and the baby warms my heart.”

After supper, they went to bed and he slept hard.

Come dawn, he was up, ate breakfast and told his men they were riding for the Verde. Sarge should be there with his wife, plus he might have any news on the state of their contract with the Indian Bureau. It would make him more settled to know everything was all right.

The day was sharp, but warming, like so many winter days did. They dropped off the mountain into the Verde Valley and it heated more. Midday at the ranch, Sarge and his wife, Susie, came out on the porch to greet them.

Chet gave Jesus his horse's reins, hugged his sister, and shook Sarge's hand. “How did it go?”

“No problems.” Sarge led the way into the house. “I spoke to all the agents we delivered to. They liked the cattle's condition for this time of the year. I think we're secure.”

“Good. Tom has the next herd scheduled to take up to you at the Windmill.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“Good. Any ideas how we can do it better?”

“We're getting along well, I think. I listen to everyone's comments up there, but I think we're solid.”

“I'm glad you two get to have a little time together.”

“So am I,” said Susie, who'd lingered to listen. “I'll fix some lunch.”

Over lunch, Chet told them about the breeds and their pitiful condition, along with the arrests they helped Roamer with. Susie said they'd be on the lookout for things the Indians could use or needed.

“Mostly food. They're too damned starved and poor to even think.”

“Reg sounds busy,” Sarge said.

“He must be. He's building a ranch out of the mavericks that come in for feed.”

“Did you see that many when you were up there looking at it?”

“No, but there were signs of cattle being there. We really had a lot to look at. But even Lucie said in her letter to Marge that they ranched way west of here and never realized that many mavericks were loose up in that part of the country.”

“Well, it hasn't hurt us.”

“No, it's made a big difference in developing that ranch. Reg and Lucie may have a money-making operation up there. Is JD still here?”

“No, he went up there to see them. The weather was holding so we told him to go,” Susie said.

Sarge nodded. “He wanted to see things up there, and see his brother, plus Lucie.”

“I don't blame him. Lucie is a treasure.”

“May is, too, and it took Hampt to bring it out of her. I was around her for years and she never showed a sign. Then she marries Hampt and overnight she's an opera star.”

Susie laughed. “Good men help.” She clapped Sarge on the shoulder.

“I better get back to home. Good to see you two. Sarge, the construction crew is coming your way. Barring weather setbacks they should be done up there at Reg's.”

“We have a lot of lumber already there. Robert sent us several of the loads you ordered.”

“Glad it arrived.”

“I'm ready to move now,” Susie said.

“I know you must be.”

He reached for his hat. “I'm ready to go home. Sarge, keep your mind on those folks up there at Gallup. We sure need to hold on to that beef contract.”

“Do the best I can.”

“I know you've really tried, but it's important.”

“See you,” Susie said.

“You two have a nice visit.”

“Get out of here,” she said, blushing.

He found his two men at the blacksmith shop watching them twist three-strand barb wire.

“Either of you want this job?” he asked.

Cole spoke up first. “Hell, no, but it makes impressive fencing.”

“After we saw it strung up at Hampt's, I wondered how they made it,” Jesus said. “They'll have those fields cowproof, won't they?”

“It's supposed to work that way. We need to get back to the Preskitt Valley ranch.”

“We're ready,” Cole said.

Chet congratulated John on making the wire operation work and told him how much it meant to the ranch. John beamed and bragged on his two helpers.

They made it home after supper, but Monica fed them. About eight o'clock, someone knocked on the back door and Chet went to see who was there.

“Mr. Byrnes?”

“Yes.”

“My father said to get you to come help us. They shot him and took four of our horses.”

“What's your name, young man?”

“Raft Boone. My paw's Henry Boone.”

“How bad is your dad shot?”

“He said not for me to worry. He said get Chet Byrnes and he'll get them boogers stole our horses.”

“You tell the sheriff?”

“Naw. Paw said come here and if'n you weren't home to send the word for you to come at once.”

“Where do you live?”

“Below the Rankin place. My paw knows you.”

Cole and Jesus materialized out of the darkness, probably after hearing the ruckus.

“You heard of a Boone down there?” Chet asked Cole.

“Yeah, but I don't know him.”

“Okay, Raft. We'll saddle up and ride back with you. Should we get a doctor for your paw?”

“He just said get you.”

“Come in and eat something. Is your horse done in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We'll saddle another for you.” He turned to Marge.

“Are the panniers packed and ready?”

“Yes,” she said. “I make sure they're ready anytime you need them. We usually don't get too much warning.” She smiled at him.

“Jesus, bring a packhorse. We may have to go after them from down there.”

“I'll get our bedrolls, too,” Jesus said, and left at a run.

“I better help him,” Cole said, and hurried after his partner.

“Shall we notify the sheriff?” Marge asked.

Chet nodded. “Someone can do that.”

“Or should we send the news to Roamer, instead?”

“That would be better,” Chet said.

“I'll send the news to him in the morning. You know it's cold out there,” she reminded him.

“I know it's January and the coldest month of the year.”

He looked up to see Monica come in from the kitchen where she'd fixed the boy a plate. “What's happened now?” she asked.

“Some rustlers shot a rancher and stole his horses. We're going to see what we can do for them.”

“Does this sheriff do anything?” Monica made a pained face.

“So far, we're waiting,” Marge said to her.

In a short while, Chet and his crew headed out behind the boy. Chet was proud of how his men worked as a team. Jesus handled the packhorse unless they needed to track someone. He had tracker duties and cooked. Cole led the pack string. No one was a glory hog, and they were all sensible enough when in a tight spot, like the stagecoach robbery in New Mexico. After that shootout, they all wore the new .44 center fire cartridge Colt pistols. Chet felt they were much more dependable and powerful than the older cap and ball.

The stars were out in the sky's ceiling when they rode past the Rankin place road. With no time to spare, they rode on and it was well past midnight when Chet saw lights of a ranch house flickering in the distance. He'd never been there before, but the boy confirmed they'd arrived.

“That's our place,” he said. He'd been quiet most of the way, no doubt concerned about his wounded father. When he reached the yard fence, he bailed off his borrowed horse and headed for the tall woman in the doorway.

“How's paw?”

“Not good, son. You bring Mr. Byrnes?”

“That's him, maw.”

“How's your man?” Chet asked, taking in the rawboned woman dressed in a wash-worn dress covered with a shawl for warmth. Red faced, her nose looked redder, perhaps from crying, and her graying hair hung to her stooped shoulders. Her lips were chapped and cracked.

“He's not good.” She dabbed at her nose with a frayed handkerchief. “I'm Irma Boone.”

“My name is Chet; Jesus and Cole are with me.”

“I sure hate to impose on you, sir. I don't consider my man's doing very good.”

“Should we get a doctor?” Chet asked, concerned.

“He don't believe in 'em. They cut off his brother's leg in the war, and he says he would of lived if they'd left him alone.”

“Where is his wound?”

“His shoulder. Me and the boy got him in the bed by the stove. Come look at him.”

A tall thin-bearded man lay sleeping in the light of a candle, his face drawn and white. The torn sheet bandages showed fresh blood, so he was still bleeding.

“How deep is the bullet?” asked Chet.

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

“If we can get it out, that bullet needs to come out. That's the only way I know to stop the bleeding. I fear if we don't, he'll run out of blood.”

Cole, standing beside him, nodded. “We don't have a forceps to get it, either. We can take a thin-bladed knife and try to locate it.” He shed his jacket and hung it over a chair.

With a grim face, Cole agreed. “We still have some black powder that we used in our old pistols. Is there some hot water, Irma?”

“Yes, on the stove and I can make some more. I've run out of coffee, sorry.”

When Chet looked up, Jesus came in the doorway unbuttoning his coat. “Jesus, get us some coffee for this lady. We'll need that bottle of whiskey, too.”

“I'll help you carry it,” the boy offered.

“Cole, how long is your jackknife blade?”

“It's longer than yours.” He fished it out of his vest.

After Chet opened it, he shaved the hair off the back of his hand. “Sharp enough. You can sharpen mine next time. I'm not as good at sharpening as you.”

“Better get Jesus to do it. I can't, either, but he can.”

“I learn more about you two every trip.” Chet shook his head in amazement.

The woman put more wood in the iron stove and clanged the door shut.

“I need to wash my hands and anyone else touches that area needs to wash theirs as well.” Chet looked at the woman hovering nearby. “I guess I should have asked you, Irma. Do you want us to do this?”

“Of course. I didn't know what to do. He's so contrary about doctors, he wouldn't hear to me getting one.”

She brought a wash pan and a bar of home-made lye soap to the table. Then she filled the chipped enameled pan with hot water from the kettle on the stove.

“Should we take him off the bed to do this?”

She shook her head. “No, the mattress is already ruined. If you can do it with him on the bed, that's fine.”

“Tell us more about the men that shot him.”

“Those three rustlers rode in late afternoon. Their horses were worn out. They called Henry out to talk. I knew they was outlaws when they come in the yard out there. I told him—I'll get you a clean towel.” She rushed over to the crate box cabinets to get one for him to dry his hands on before she continued.

“The one they called Curly wore a big black hat. The old man had white whiskers, and he was short. The young guy looked only half here in the head to me.”

“Tell me more about this Curly.” Sleeves rolled up, Chet removed the bandages. Jesus and Cole, shirt sleeves rolled up, too, had washed their hands and stood by to help.

The heat from the large stove was intense, but Chet decided the room wasn't that warm at his back. At last, he got down to the site of weeping blood. About four inches below the collarbone, a black hole disfigured the man's stark white skin. Chet thought it might be a .45 slug, but only time would tell. Minutes earlier, he'd sterilized the blade in the stove's fire. Drawing in his breath, he probed gently in the wound. Henry, still asleep, moaned.

With a nod of his head, Chet drew the knife out. “If I knew more, I'd cut the bullet out, but I figure I'd cut more blood vessels and muscles that don't need to be cut. Unless you three complain at me, he can wear that slug.”

Grim faced, they all agreed. Cole brought the gunpowder in a hollow cow horn over and took off the cap. He poured some in the wound on the man's shoulder. Using a matchstick, Chet poked the powder into the wound against the blood flow. No easy job.

“Put a towel over his face,” he told Irma. “And when I strike a match, close your eyes. There'll be a blinding flash and he'll jerk in pain, but, Jesus, you and Cole hold his shoulders down.” He pointed to her and the boy. “You two hold his feet down hard now.”