The roan was saddled and waiting for me. I was in a rush, and, since I needed more lead time, I drank long and hard right from the horse trough, and then quickly filled my canteen. Before leaving there were two other things I needed.
“Elijah, I’m gonna want that shovel and a set of hobbles if you can spare ’em,” I said. The gold eagle I tossed his way more than helped convince him. “By the way, if anyone asks about me, it ought to cost them both time and money to find out I’m headed west. That way.” I pointed to make sure he knew what I meant. “But especially time, if you get my drift. An hour or two ought to do it.”
He nodded back at me, indicating that he understood me all too well.
“Oh, and no need to mention about the shovel to them,” I added.
“None of mah business,” he answered, shaking his head. “But good luck at whatever ya got in mind, anyway,” he added. “Ah reckon you’ll need it.”
I knew my choices were limited. Trying to follow those three would have been out of the question. I had no way of knowing for sure if they’d ever even return to the herd, and, if they did, they’d surely be watching their back trail. Since I hadn’t gained their confidence and had failed to convince them to let me ride with them, I really had only one option left: somehow to force them to reveal the herd’s location to me. I knew that wouldn’t be easy, and I’d have to hightail it for a while, because what I had in mind for them couldn’t be done in town.
After leaving the livery stable, it took several hours of hard riding to find a stretch of ground suitable for my purpose. Reynolds and his pals were so angry when I left, it was an easy bet they’d follow, which was precisely what I now wanted.
Three men armed against one doesn’t make for good odds in anyone’s book, so I wanted an edge. Some years ago a small band of Mescaleros had wiped out a cavalry patrol five times their number. The Apaches saw them coming, buried some of their own men alive, and then waited. When the troopers passed by, the Indians sprang up out of the ground and attacked the patrol from both sides.
Describing the attack, Uncle Zeke once told me: “Remember, most folks don’t pay attention to detail, they just see what they want or expect to. Soldiers often have too high a notion of themselves, but the Apache knows that plannin’ and surprise in battle will make up fer a whole heap of men.”
I don’t know why that particular story of his stuck in my mind, but I reckoned, if the trick had worked once, it could work again, so I began looking around for the right patch of dirt.
After finding a good spot, I stopped and hobbled the roan. Since I didn’t know how he’d react to gunfire, I also ground-tied him to a hefty rock. I chose a place with a big tree nearby that I hoped would act as yet another distraction, giving Reynold’s group something else to look at.
It took almost twenty minutes to dig a big enough trench. I angled it between the base of the tree and the horse, opposite the side I expected them to ride up from. It took another ten minutes to clean the area of tracks and other sign, but before I got down in that hole, I did two more things. First I buried the shovel. Then, foolish as it might seem, I took off my holster and hung it on the saddle horn, right out in plain view.
I had my reasons. The gun belt would attract their attention up, away from the ground, and over to the saddle, making them think I was unarmed. I hoped it would give them a false sense of security. Also, I had no intention of getting that Navy Colt of mine all choked with dust. Instead, I unsheathed the rifle from the saddle scabbard, and wrapped it in my shirt. After that I laid down in the hole, with the rifle along side, and pulled some sagebrush and tumbleweed over for cover. I figured they wouldn’t be looking down, not when searching for someone my size. All I had to do now was wait.
White men deal with time differently from Indians. Seems like we’re always expecting things to happen quickly. Heck, it’s gotten so bad a lot of folks can’t live without constantly having to check their watches. The Indian on the other hand doesn’t worry about time like we do. They just wait, preferring to let things take their own natural course.
Having to lie half naked in a hole in hot ground would drive an impatient man crazy, but I had learned enough from Sprout not to make that mistake. Once I was down in there, I tried to relax and not worry about what might happen or when. Reynolds could be right on my tail, or he might still be in town. Though I felt fairly sure that he would follow me, all I could do now was wait and listen. Wait in that hot dirty hole with my rifle and the bugs. In the meantime, the trick would be to remain still, not cramp up, and to be ready to move when need be.
I lost track of time, but it was beginning to cool off when I finally heard them ride up.
“There’s his horse. I don’t see him around, but be careful.” It was Pete Evans doing the talking, as usual.
“Wonder where he is?” said Jenkins.
The one I wanted most was Reynolds, who finally spoke out.
“I don’t like this. Where the devil could he have gotten to? Even if he had another horse waiting, he sure as hell wouldn’t leave that fancy hogleg o’ his behind like that.”
I flexed my muscles in grim anticipation and tried extra hard not to make any sound.
“Well, I’m gonna grab that gun afore he gets back, that’s for damn’ sure.” It was Evans again. “Here, Ed, hold these reins fur me,” he said.
Because of the way I had that roan tied to the tree, in order to reach the holster without getting hung up in the branches he would have to dismount and walk around the horse. And that’s exactly what he did.
“What makes you think you’ll get to keep that thumb-buster?” Jenkins asked.
“ ’Cause I got to it first,” he replied.
Just as Evans started reaching for the holster, I came out of the ground, screaming as loud as I could. The horses all spooked, trying to buck their riders and Evans froze in his tracks. I was on him in a second, cold cocking him with the butt of my rifle. I was lucky, and he went down limper than a wet rag.
Just as planned I’d come up right between the tree, my horse, and the others. The roan was both hobbled and ground-tied, and couldn’t move even if it had wanted to. On the other hand, it was a while before Reynolds and Jenkins could gain control of their horses, more than enough time for me to get behind the roan and, using it for cover, replace the holster on my hip. I stood there with my rifle cocked across the saddle and waited.
They finally settled their broncos down and turned to face the rifle I had pointed at them.
“Jenkins, you may still have a chance to get out of this with your hide intact, so, if I were you, I’d just sit there and try real hard not to flinch. If you even blink, I’ll blow you right off that kak and not think twice. It’s Reynolds I want.”
“What do you mean? Who the hell are you and what do you want with me?” Comanche asked, somewhat puzzled. He was trying to position himself as best as he could but his horse was still jumpy.
“Look, we were just riding this way when we saw your horse. Thought something was wrong and you might be hurt. Is this what we get for trying to help out?”
“Nice try,” I said. “That might’ve worked on someone else, but the truth is I don’t give a damn what the hell you were doing. You’ll likely die today, Reynolds, but it won’t be for trying to bushwhack me over a lousy card game.”
“What is it, then? What are you talking about? We never even met before today, so what’s your problem?”
I had to hand it to him, he seemed more unsure than scared.
“Happened a long time ago. About the same time you started going by the name of Comanche,” I said, walking around the horse. I switched the rifle to my left side, cocked it, and held it pointed at Ed Jenkins, who so far was just sitting still and listening.
“I don’t get it. If you aim to kill me, you can at least let me in on why.”
“I will…in due time,” I said. “By the way, that Indian necklace you wear around your neck, the one you’re so proud of.” He glanced down to his chest. “It ain’t Comanche, it’s Kiowa.”
“What the hell makes you such an Injun expert?” he said angrily. He fingered the talisman with his left hand without letting the reins drop.
“Because the boy it belonged to was my friend.”
He was still looking down at his chest as I spoke, but, when the meaning of my words sunk in, he slowly looked back up at me. From the way he stared back at me, I knew I had the right man. I could see fear in his eyes for the first time, just as I’m sure he read death in mine. Reynolds hesitated a second or two, and then went for the pistol at his side.
He started the draw but I finished it. At that range I couldn’t miss, and the last thing Reynolds ever saw
