“It sure as hell don’t sound like you greased it now, does it?” Malcolm asked. “If that axle is worn flat when we get back, I’m goin’ to be takin’ it out of your pay to buy a new one.”
“Well, I done it, just like you told me,” Dewey said.
They drove on for a few more minutes, then Malcolm tensed. “Get out of the wagon, boy,” he said.
“What?”
Malcolm reached for the shotgun that lay in the floor beneath his feet. “Get out of the wagon and run find yourself a place to hide,” he said. “I just seen some Injuns and I don’t think they’re friendly.”
“Mr. Malcolm, I can’t leave you to—”
“Damn it to hell, boy, I said get out of the wagon!” Malcolm said harshly. “I don’t intend to be worryin’ none about no snot-nosed boy!”
“All right,” Dewey said.
“Jump out here, then go down the side of the hill and head north. When you reach the Salt River, turn left, it’ll take you to Phoenix. It’s about eight miles, but you can make it. Take the canteen.”
“But there’s only one canteen,” Dewey said.
“You’ll be needin’ it more’n me,” Malcolm said, holding the canteen out. “Now, do what I told you.”
“Yes, sir,” Dewey said. Taking the canteen Malcolm handed him, Dewey jumped over the edge of the wagon, then started down the hill digging his heels into the dirt to stay upright, and sending rocks rolling down before him.
Malcolm looked back just long enough to see Dewey get out of sight. Then he picked up the double-barrel shotgun and held it across his lap. When he came around the curve, he saw four Indians in the road in front of him.
“White man, what do you have in the wagon?” one of them asked.
“What I have in this here wagon ain’t none of your business,” Malcolm replied. “Now, get out of my way if you don’t want to get gut-shot.”
“I think if you give us some of what you have in the wagon, we will let you pass,” the Indian said.
“To hell with that!” Malcolm shouted. He brought the shotgun up and fired. The heavy blast opened up one Indian’s chest and he fell from his horse. The other Indians returned fire and Malcolm was hit with three bullets.
A quarter of a mile away, as Dewey was still hurrying down the side of the mountain, he heard the gunshots, echoing and reechoing through the mountains. He breathed a quick prayer for the soul of his employer, because he knew, without having to see, that Mr. Malcolm had just been killed.
At the very moment young Dewey Calhoun was running for his life, Ken Hendel was sitting in the lobby of the Phoenix House Hotel reading the
INDIANS RAID RANCH!
Three Killed.
On Wednesday last, George Gunter gathered his newborn calves for branding in the expectation that Joe Clark, a helpful and friendly neighbor, would come over to lend him a hand in this necessary task.
When no small amount of time had passed after the appointed hour and Mr. Clark had not arrived as they had arranged, Mr. Gunter rode over to Rancho Grande for the purpose of ascertaining the reason for his neighbor’s tardiness. That was when he was greeted with a scene that is almost too horrible for the sensitivities of the readers of this newspaper.
Joe Clark was found on the ground outside his house, foully murdered. It was not difficult to determine the cause of death, as there was an arrow protruding from his back, as well as several bullet wounds. It was obvious by Mr. Clark’s position that he was making a brave attempt to protect his wife and child. That courageous effort, despite Clark’s intrepidity, was to no avail, however, as further exploration resulted in the discovery of Mrs. Clark and their young son, both dead, on the kitchen floor.
While this might appear to be the work of Geronimo, Agent Eugene Baker of the San Carlos Indian Reservation has advanced his opinion that the Indian most likely responsible for the atrocities at Rancho Grande is the Apache Delshay. If that is true, there is a reason why Delshay’s malevolent deed resembles those perpetrated by Geronimo. According to Agent Baker, Delshay was, but recently, a member of Geronimo’s nefarious band, leaving the war trail to return only because of the impending birth of his son.
Agent Baker says that he has no idea why Delshay abandoned his peaceful residence at the reservation to, once again, take up the warpath.
“We treat our Indians with kindness, providing them with food and shelter. It defies all logic and understanding as to why some of them would leave a situation where all the necessities of life are furnished, in order to take up the warpath against the very whites who feed, clothe, shelter, and protect them.”
“Ah, there you are, Hendel,” Bixby said, coming down the stairs into the lobby. “Have you located a conveyance?”
“Yes, Mr. Bixby,” Hendel said. “The Sundown Corral will provide a buckboard and team for a dollar-fifty.”
“A dollar-fifty?” Bixby replied. “Did you tell them I will only be using it for half a day?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Otherwise, it would have been three dollars.”
“Why, that is an outrage! An absolute outrage. Could you find nothing less expensive?”
“I shopped around,” Hendel said. “That was the best offer I could find.”
