Silver City Massacre (15 page)

“Many men,” Red Shirt confirmed. It was apparent to them both that Beauchamp had decided on all-out war, and had sent his entire gang to seek vengeance for the killing of one of his men.

Frantic to come to the aid of Boone and Riley, Joel and Red Shirt scrambled out from under their deer-hide shelter and ran back up into the band of spruce trees where their horses were tied. Suddenly they were met by three simultaneous muzzle flashes that erupted in the darkness of the trees. Joel instinctively dived to the ground. Red Shirt was not so fortunate, as he was knocked off his feet by a shot that hit him high in his chest.

After the volley, the three men waiting in ambush ran out to confirm their kills, thinking they had hit both targets. The first two fell when Joel fired at almost point-blank range, and Red Shirt, straining from the pain of his wound, managed to get off a shot. The unexpected return fire was enough to cause the remaining assailant to try to run back to cover, but it also gave Joel time to eject the spent cartridge and put a round in the middle of the man's back.

Lying still in the snow-covered needles, Joel listened for signs of life from their attackers. The only sounds he could hear were the continuing reports of gunfire from the direction of the mine. When he felt certain the three were dead, he whispered to Red Shirt, “Are you shot?” He wasn't sure if his friend had been hit or not.

“I'm shot,” Red Shirt replied, breathing hard. “I don't know how bad. Hurt like hell.”

“Let me make damn sure they're dead. Then I'll see if I can help you,” Joel said, and got to his feet.

When no shots came to greet him, he went quickly to confirm the deaths. He found one already dead, and the other two evidently mortally wounded. One of them looked somehow familiar to him, and it occurred to him that it was the man he had left lying on the floor of the Silver Dollar Saloon. The nasty cut on the side of his face confirmed it. Seeing no reason not to, he quickly dispatched them to hell along with their partner in ambush.

Hurrying back to Red Shirt then, he tried to determine how badly he was hurt. It was hard to tell. The Bannock warrior was obviously in great pain, but there was some hope for him since the bullet had struck him high in the chest. Although he was breathing very hard, there was no sign of blood in his mouth, so Joel hoped that meant his lung had not been hit.

The question before him now was what to do about the apparent attack still going on at the mine. From the sound of the shooting, Boone and Riley were badly outnumbered. He had to help them, but he was reluctant to leave Red Shirt. Guessing as much, Red Shirt said, “Go to help brother.”

“I can't leave you like this,” Joel protested.

“I wait for you. You help brother.” When Joel still hesitated, the warrior insisted. “I make it all right. Go.”

Joel didn't hesitate further. “I've gotta go help them and the women,” he said, “but I'll be back to get you.”

He went back to their lookout post and got the deer hide they had used for shelter. Spreading it over the wounded Indian, he tucked it in about him to help keep him warm. As an added precaution, he scattered some snow over the hide. “I'll be back for you,” he assured him once more. He hurried back up into the trees then, past the three bodies, to find his and Red Shirt's horses tied where they had left them. In a few seconds, he was on his way around the mountain, aware that he no longer heard any gunshots coming from the direction of the mine.

He was not halfway there when he realized the gunfire now seemed farther away, and in a horrible instant, he knew that what he was now hearing was the ranch house and the women under attack. His brain was spinning insanely as he pictured the scene at the house, and he kicked the gray frantically, demanding extra speed. Not sure of anything in his panic, he thought he could distinguish the sound of the Sharps carbine that Elvira now used.

I'm coming,
he said to himself.
Hold on. I'm coming
.

When he reached the mine, there was no one in sight under the dark sky, so he charged straight up toward the boulder where he had last seen Boone and Riley. Seeing the bodies lying behind the rock, he jumped from the saddle, his weapon at the ready, but there was no one but the dead, a grim picture of the battle that had occurred there. Almost choking on a sob, he rolled his brother's body over. Like Riley's next to him, Boone's body was riddled with bullet holes, and also like Riley, he had been scalped.

Joel cried out in anguish too painful to contain. His brother was covered with blood, his cold, nonseeing eyes staring up at him. Lost for a moment in his grief, he was suddenly jerked back to the present by more gunshots ringing out at the house.

The women,
he thought. Maybe it was not too late to save them. He had to caution himself to make sure there was no longer any threat at this position, so he took a few moments to search the trees just above the boulder where their horses had been tied. He found evidence of Boone's and Riley's fight to defend themselves in the form of two bodies lying near the tree line. That was as much time as he would spend before climbing on his horse and galloping over the snow-covered path to his brother's house.

When he approached the gap in the trees where the trail cut through to the house, he saw the smoke at the same time he became aware that he no longer heard the shooting. Moments later, he found himself flying through the air to land heavily on the ground, rolling over and over before he could stop. Thinking at first that he had been shot, he then realized that his horse had tumbled, throwing him from the saddle. Farther down the hill, he was relieved to see the gray getting to its feet and shaking off the snow. His next thought was to find his rifle, so he scrambled to his feet and looked quickly around him until he spotted it lying several yards above him in the snow. Not sure how many his enemies were, he picked up his carbine and hurried down the slope to his horse. Taking the tired horse's reins, he left the trail that cut through the gap and led the gray into the band of pines above the house.

His intention was to approach the house from behind, so as to have the opportunity to see where the raiders were before they saw him. By the time he reached the edge of the trees behind the barn, however, he could see flames from the house reaching far up into the cold night air, and he knew he was too late. It was a deep, sickening feeling that churned in his stomach. Leaving his horse there in the trees, he made his way down behind the barn and climbed through the rails of the empty corral. From the front corner post, he paused to look over the yard. There was no one in sight near the house or barn. They had done their evil business and gone—and he was too late.

He ran across the brightly lit yard, which was pockmarked with hundreds of hoofprints in the snow, evidence of the murdering mob of gunmen circling the house, shooting at the windows, terrorizing the three women left to defend it. Looking for an entry into the burning house, he found the kitchen door was the only way, so he plunged through the flames lapping at the doorjambs into the smoke-filled room. With little time to spare before the roof gave way, he moved frantically from room to room. He found them in the living room, each of the three shot more than a dozen times, their bodies lying side by side. Ruthie's body had been partially stripped of her clothes, and all three had been scalped. Unable to control it, he howled out his grief, to ring out over the sound of the crackling flames and the burning timbers, penetrating the uncaring night like the howl of a wolf.

He stood motionless, drowned in his despair, until his lungs began to choke in the smoke-filled room, and he thought again of Red Shirt lying helplessly waiting higher up on the mountain. His emotions turned from despair to rage as he pictured the wanton massacre of the women and the girl. In a hurry now to go to the aid of the wounded Indian, he plunged back through the burning door into the cold night air.

Beauchamp intended to disguise his murderous attack as an Indian raid. The scalping was testimony to that, but the three men he and Red Shirt had killed, and the two killed by Boone and Riley, were not Indians, so there was no doubt in his mind where to place the blame. How, he wondered, was Beauchamp going to explain the five dead men who were members of his ranch crew? Five bodies were all Joel could account for. There might have been more of his men killed. It was unlikely that Elvira had not fought like the she-lion he had come to know.

The thought of the tough, fearless woman caused him to grimace as he recalled his last image of her, lying beside the mutilated body of the young girl. He thought that he would never be able to forgive himself for not being there to protect them, no matter how many ways he tried to justify the circumstances. Neither he nor Boone nor Riley had anticipated the depth of evil Beauchamp was capable of, thinking he would not target the women. Shaking his head in an effort to dispel the image of the slaughtered women and the girl, he reminded himself that Red Shirt waited helplessly for his return.

Nothing more I can do for the dead,
he thought.
I've got to tend to the living.
He headed back across the barnyard to the trees where he had left his horse.

•   •   •

Mike Strong led the remaining members of his raiding party along the trail that curved back around the mountain to the entrance of Boone McAllister's mine. They had done the job they had set out to do, but at a cost in lives he had not anticipated. Two of his men were killed in the attack on McAllister and the man with him at the mine. And Jim Corbett's body was riding across his saddle, as he'd been shot by one of the women at the house.

Strong was on his way now to retrieve the two bodies at the mine with only six of his original crew riding behind him. Of considerable concern to him now was the fate of the three men he had sent to kill anyone they found guarding the stock in the north meadow. He had heard shots from that part of the mountain, but his three men had not caught up with him yet. He considered the possibility that they had ridden to the mine and were waiting for him there.

Maybe I should have sent a couple more of the men with them,
he thought. He was anxious to get off McAllister's property, but he knew there could be none of Boss Beauchamp's men left anywhere on that mountain, since it was designed to look like an Indian attack.

When the outlaws rode up to the boulder above the mine entrance, there was no one there, only the two bodies he had left there before.

“Damn!” Strong spat. “Where the hell is Hadley and the other two?” Not expecting an answer, he issued his orders. “Fetch those two horses.” He pointed toward the trees where they had left them. “And load their bodies. We're wastin' too much time. I wanna get the hell off this mountain.”

They hustled to obey his orders. There was nothing left to do now but ride over to the meadow to see what had happened to the missing three men, so they started out again, their dead lying across their saddles, following behind them.

•   •   •

After climbing straight up the south side of the mountain, Joel crossed over the top, leading his horse down the steep slope toward the stand of trees above the stock pasture. Halfway through the trees, he came to a sudden stop. Below him, he saw the raiders who had brought this murderous hell down upon his brother and his friends. His initial reaction was to attack, but he managed to hold his temper in check while he attempted to think before acting recklessly.

Where is Red Shirt?
Beauchamp's men were loading the three men he and the Bannock warrior had killed onto their horses, but there was no sign of the Indian.

He tied his horse to a tree limb and moved carefully down to a position behind a stunted pine near the edge of the meadow where he could see more clearly. So far, no one seemed to take notice of his movements, busy as they were in loading the three bodies of their companions onto their horses. Joel cocked his rifle and brought his sights to bear on the man directing the actions of the others, but he hesitated to pull the trigger while his eyes followed the slope up into the trees where he had carried his wounded partner. It struck him then that the party of raiders had taken no notice of the figure lying motionless under the snow-covered deer hide just inside the tree line. Dead or alive? There was no way he could tell.

The burning desire to open fire on the murdering rabble was almost overpowering, but he could not risk exposing his wounded friend. For if he opened fire, the natural instinct of the outlaws would be to scurry for cover in the trees, and that would lead them right to Red Shirt. Aching to retaliate for the evil they had inflicted upon his brother and his adopted family, Joel watched helplessly as the raiders loaded the bodies and prepared to ride. All he could do was keep his rifle aimed at the leader of the pack, waiting in case one of the men discovered the Bannock warrior lying no more than sixty feet from where they were working.

It seemed an eternity to the man with the carbine aimed and cocked, but in reality, it was only a matter of minutes before the bodies of the would-be assassins were loaded on the horses and the intruders were in the saddle. Finally they turned and rode back down the mountain. Joel got up from his position on the ground and stood watching them until they disappeared in the trees below the meadow.

It struck him hard then, the magnitude of the evil that had changed his life so suddenly, and so drastically. Nothing experienced in the savage battles he had survived in the war just ended could match the wanton and senseless murders of these innocent people. He was not conscious of thinking it, but his life was changed from that moment forward. Lost from his world were all traces of joy and celebration, to be replaced by one relentless crusade to exact the vengeance demanded by the innocent dead.

Finally he brought his tormented mind back to the business at hand and went back for his horse, then hurried down through the trees to the tangle of bushes where he had left Red Shirt. Even though he had carried the Bannock there himself, still he had to look twice before he spotted the deer hide. There was nothing to indicate a living being under the snow-covered hide, no movement, and no signs that there had been. It appeared that once again he was too late in returning. He started to pull the hide aside to make certain, but something cautioned him to be careful.