Medicine Road (31 page)

Johnny hadn't time to do anything but hold on.
Heyoka was off down the narrow track pell-mell as
a bitch hound with a razorback sow in tow. They
rode now with nothing but the exploding grunts
and paunch-water belly sounds of the straining
horses making the conversation.

In two miles, with five yet to go to Rockpile
Meadow, Watonga's stallion began to go under. Jesse
felt the mean flutter of the big heart under the gaunt
ribs, sensed the rhythm of the gallop going rough
under him. Punctuating the discovery, a fresh burst
of Arapaho howling broke out from the back trail.
Aii-eee! If those redbirds hadn't made up nearly a
mile on him and Johnny, he'd kiss a buffalo's behind.

Heyoka, snorting and chopping foam at the
stud's rump, was still going smoothly as a hawk
downwind. God bless the mud-ugly bitch! She was
only getting to her bottom when two ordinary
horses had already run clear through theirs.

"Johnny"-his back-flung shout brought an answering wave from the boy-"leave the mare come
up alongside me when we hit that open ground
yonder!"

With the command, the mountain man pulled the
stud aside, letting the boy shoot Heyoka forward.

"Ease outen the saddle there!" he shouted, gesturing abruptly. "No, hell! Not up on her withers, boy!
Back on the cantle. God damn it, get back there outen
the way. Make room. I'm coming aboard with you!"

With the two horses running shoulder-to-shoulder,
Jesse bellowed at the mare. "Heeyahh! Heyoka! Waste,
waste. Bear in, gal. In, you muddy bitch! Shoulder in!
C'mon here!"

The mare, eyes rolling, ears plastered flatter than
a bear-grease haircut, crowded over into the faltering stallion. Jesse flung his off leg clear, letting her
come in. The next second he was aboard her, bowed
legs clamping her heaving barrel, lean arms snaking
along her lathered neck to grab the loose-flying
reins.

"Grab yourself a holt on that knife belt of mine,
young 'un. Here we go. Hii-yee-hahh!"

The Minniconjou war cry echoed shrilly in the
narrow canon, putting another foot to the gray
mare's reaching stride.

A mile. Four left now. Three miles. Two left. Still
she ran. Not so smoothly then. Roughly. Raggedly
rough. Lungs sobbing. Heart in spasm. Flared nostrils belling red as fresh blood. The hollow roar of
windbreak building in the coughing gulps for air. A
mile, then. One more mile. A mile to Rockpile
Meadow. Rockpile Meadow? What the hell was
Rockpile Meadow? Just a lousy name for a pile of
horse-high boulders in the middle of a quarter-mile
grass flat. Why the hell did it keep repeating itself in
a man's mind as he rode the last jumps out of a dying horse? Rode with a weanling red-head kid
pounding the cantle behind him.

Then, even as they went that last mile, the hostile
wolf howls crawling up their rumps, two jumps for every one they were making, Jesse knew why. Knew
why Rockpile Meadow had been hammering at his
memory. His plan shaped, now, as they ran. Shaped
to the breaking stagger of Heyoka's splaying hoofs.
Shaped to that last-gasp name-Rockpile Meadow.

By damn, if he could make it into those boulders,
he would carve that meadow name on a few Arapaho hides for keeps! He'd make them remember
Rockpile Meadow, god damn them. He would if he
and the boy could make it there.

And they made it.

What the hell difference that Heyoka went to her
knees 100 yards out? Sent them sprawling, hard and
headlong? Other men had run for other rocks off the
buckled backs of downed horses. The main thing
was-they made it. Made it with time for Jesse to
kick the slobbering mare to her feet, hand-lead her
in a weaving trot on into the boulder pile. Made it
with time to slash the ammunition parfleche off the
saddle, load and prime the two rifles while barking
out the steps in the process for Johnny to watch and
get the hang of.

Three minutes after they slid into the rocks the
mountain man had Old Sidewinder poured,
patched, rammed, and shouldered, its ugly brown
snout leveled through a chin-high crevice in the
rock fringe fronting the back-trail entrance into the
meadow. And three and a half minutes after they
had slid in, the Arapahoes bombarded out of the
trail mouth and into the open meadow.

In their van, knife-cut blood still lacing his black
chest in bright-red filigree, Watonga stood in his
stirrups, cursing his second choice, blue-roan warhorse, frantically howling his followers on.

Jesse shoulder-nudged Old Sidewinder's butt, shifting its thick muzzle three inches to the right,
bringing the V-notch of the rear sight across the distant ripple of Black Coyote's belly muscles. 300 yards.
H'g'un. 250 yards. Hunhunhe. Let them come on. Get
it down to 200. Hii-eee! Now!

Finger squeezing off, both eyes open like any
sharp shot's ought to be, Jesse suddenly hunched
the rifle muzzle another two inches to the right,
swerving the V-notch off Watonga's belly, filling it
with the shorter Dog Head's throat base. With the
recoil punching his jaw, the mountain man wondered why he'd done it. Why he'd pulled off his
bead on the chief, put it on the hapless Dog Head.

The shot seemed to roll out slower than the subchief's answering scream. Jesse saw the red hands
fly to the throat, and then there was open meadow in
the sight's V-notch. Dog Head, fourth-line chief
among the lodges of Watonga, was on his way to
Wanagi Yata, his one-way lead ticket punched
squarely and truly through the Adam's apple. With
the blast of the hidden rifle and Dog Head's flopping
dive, the following Indians checked their ponies,
hard up, their followers, in turn, banging into them,
piling the whole forepart of the pack into a confused
tangle. Only a handful of the front-runners had
marked the flash of Jesse's gun, the bulk of them not
yet guessing the source of the sub-chief's ambush.

Jesse didn't keep them long in doubt.

"Gimme that gun, boy. Load this 'un. And see you
take your time and do it right."

Grabbing Watonga's Hawken from the gaping
youngster, he scuttled forty feet to the right, snapped
an offhand shot into the maw of the milling pack.
Two ponies reared, screaming, showing him he'd gotten a lucky one in, drilling the first horse to tap
the second.

By now, the Arapahoes had counted two separate
flashes, were beginning to break back for the
meadow's edge, undecided.

The mountain man raced back past Johnny, snatching back his own Hawken as the boy finished pouring the powder. Diving behind a big boulder thirty
feet to the left of his original shot, he spat the spare
galena pill from his mouth into the muzzle, banging
the stock on the ground to seat the charge, not having
time to ram it home with the hickory wiping stick.
For sure, it wouldn't do much damage when it got out
there, but it would get out there. Right now the idea
wasn't a center shot. It was just any old shot.

Blam! The third shot whanged across the open,
taking Elk Runner's bay mare fairly under her flag,
sending her pitching and squalling like she'd had a
hay-fork-rammed up her.

That did it. Hopo, get out! Hookahey, back to the
timber! Wagh! Where had the reinforcements come
from? Who was out there in those rocks with Tokeya
Sha and Ya Slo? Two shots-well, maybe the boy was
shooting. But three? Who would know? A-ah, now
was the time to look out. Something wrong here.

Back at the meadow's edge, the hostiles powwowed millingly. Shortly two groups began skirting
the edge of the open grass, keeping back of the timber, one group each way around the meadow. They
traveled slowly, eyes intent on the ground.

Watching them from the rock pile, Jesse spoke
thoughtfully to Johnny O'Mara. "They're tracking
us out, young 'un. Aiming to see did we get outen
the meadow, or did somebody else get into it."

"Gee, what'll they do then, Jesse? Reckon they'll
scalp us?"

"Not you, boy. You'll make out, happen I work it
right. They'll come for us right sudden, now,
though. When they meet up over there on the far
side, they'll know it's just us and nobody else out
here. Then we'll catch it, sure as Old Sidewinder
shoots high and left."

"Say, looks to me like your piece held plumb center, Jesse. You sure nailed that old Dog Head right in
the neck." Johnny was more impressed at the moment with the marksmanship of one white Minniconjou than with the threat of 100 red Arapahoes.

"It don't, though, boy. That's why I got it named
Old Sidewinder. Strikes like a crotchety buzz tail.
Hits on the up go and a trifle left of center."

"It sure hits for you! High, left, or anyways."

"They'll hit where you hold them, young 'un.
Happen you know where to hold them. You ...

"Hey, look!" the excited youngster interrupted.
"They're staying over there. Look at them waving
their arms around!"

"Shut up," snapped the mountain man. "Leave
me read them signs."

For three minutes the Arapahoes talked back and
forth over the heads of Jesse and Johnny, signaling
with broad hand gestures and a series of barks and
howling cries that sounded like nothing nearer than
a loafer pack bickering over a division of buffalo
guts. As they conversed across the quarter-mile
bowl of grassland, Jesse translated for his big-eyed
companion. He didn't call the signal barks like he
was talking them for a seven-year-old, either. When
a man reckons he's run his kite string to the winding
stick, he talks. Happen he's one of two whites betwixt 100 red Indians, he does. And birthdays don't
mean a damn. It's blood talking to blood, and the
cleanest way to say it is to say it short. Leastways, if
you mean it to be that you're saying good bye.

"That's Elk Runner over there, Johnny, and Gray
Bear with him. I think that's Blood Face doing the
signal calling. Must be, he's their head tracker. He's
telling Watonga that no tracks come outen the
meadow over there. Now he's waving that there ain't none coming in, neither. There he goes saying
it must be only Tokeya Sha and Ya Slo out here in the
rocks. That's it, boy."

The mountain man flicked his eyes to Watonga's
group. "Now, you watch old Black Coyote. He'll
give them their marching orders. This is where we
come in. There he goes, see?"

The boy nodded, wide eyes pinned on the gracefully gesturing chief. "What's he telling them, Jesse?
What's old Black Coyote saying to-do?"

Jesse, watching the chief, tensed suddenly. Ignoring the boy's questions, he reached one long arm
over to draw Johnny close to him. His voice was low,
with no shred of excitement in it, but the narrowed
eyes behind it burned fever-bright. "Boy, listen to
me. They've caught up to old Jesse. They're going to
rush us. Both sides against the middle. Now, get
this"-the mountain man illustrated the flat lie with
serious finger wags-"I can tell by their signs that
they aim to take us alive. But when they bust into
these rocks, ahossback, a little shaver like you might
get stomped on, accidental-like. So here's how you
play it. When they start for us, you head outen them
rocks to the north there. Right through that opening. You mark the one I'm pointing?"

"Yes, sir. Gosh, Jesse, you mean you want me to
run out there as soon as they come at us?"

"And keep running," the mountain man spoke
sharply. "Scoot like a cottontail bunny with his flag
on fire."

"What are you going to do?" The youngster eyed
his companion suspiciously. "Stay here?"

"I'll be right behind you," Jesse assured him.
"That'll give them a chance to come up on us in the
open. Nobody'll get trompled, see?"

"Why'n't we just surrender now?"

The boy's direct question jolted Jesse's yarn,
forced him to throw a thickening handful of pure
slop into the thin soup he was ladling up. "Listen,
boy. They'd figure it for a trick and ride right into us.
This way they'll know we're giving in, straight. You
do as I say and you'll see I'm right."

"Gee, I dunno. I ...

"Just do it, god damn you, boy. Don't argue."

"All right, Jesse, all right. I guess you know...

"You damned betcha. So long, boy." The mountain man wrapped the youngster in a bear hug that
popped his trusting blue eyes. "You mark what old
Jesse said. Run like hell when they start in for us.
Don't look back for me. You might stumble and get
yourself trompled, after all. Now, get over in them
north rocks. Keep your eye on me, and, when I
wave, you scoot!"

Johnny scuttled obediently over into the far rocks,
crouched trembling fearfully, awaiting the mountain
man's go sign.

Jesse hoped he had figured it halfway soundly.
You could never tell about those flighty red devils,
though. That was the trouble. However, if the kid
had any chance, it was to get out in the clear as far
away from Jesse Callahan as he could leg it. Watonga had Tokeya Sha where his hair was shorter
than a scalded hog's. And the big black-skinned
chief had blood in his small slant eye-Minniconjou
blood.