Strongheart (6 page)

When he was thirteen, Jeeter had had a problem with a neighbor boy who had stolen some muskrats and beaver out of the trap string Jeeter had run along a stream that emptied out into the Elk River, near its junction with the Kanawha River, near Charleston. Jeeter and his younger brother Harlance told their pa about the neighbor boy stealing their animals from the leg hold traps they set along the creek.

His solution was simple: “When someone takes waz your'n, ya kill 'im.”

That was that. Jeeter grabbed a pick handle, and Harlance took his uncle's hickory walking stick that stood two feet above the boy's head. There were steep ridges on both sides of the heavily wooded stream, and the brothers took off into the woods, heading toward the stream. There, they slept during the night behind two side-by-side trees halfway up the hillside. Sure enough, the next morning right after daybreak, they heard Wilford Fisher walking down the bank toward the muskrat trap below them. As he approached the log where the trap was attached, the two started slowly down the hill. They made it within ten feet before Wilford heard Harlance step on a twig and spun around. The two rushed him, screaming like banshees and swinging their heavy clubs. By the third strike to his head, Wilford saw the sky swirling above him and felt himself falling faceup into the cold stream. The brothers plunged in after him and stomped on his face and body, holding him under until he was a lifeless, bloody mess. They let him go, and the body slowly disappeared down the stream, heading toward the big river, where it was found two days later caught in a pile of branches along a bank of the Kanawha. Wilford's folks knew who did it and why, but they wanted no part of Jeeter's family and surely did not want a blood feud. The family packed up a wagon and moved south, finally settling in a large valley near Wytheville, Virginia.

That was just the first of several killings for Jeeter and Harlance, and although it was winter in West Virginia, they felt the climate had become a bit too hot for them, and they should move elsewhere, far away.

The two made their way across the country the best way they knew how, by holding people up and stealing what was not theirs. Their father taught them to protect what was theirs, with killing if need be; however, they'd been taught no respect whatsoever for the property of others.

Now they lay in wait with their gang wanting to rob a stagecoach. If people died in the process, neither of these men cared.

There was one thing about highwaymen and holdup men that was a constant throughout the West. If they robbed and stole on a consistent basis, many of them bought or stole the very best horses they could find. Many times these men were chased by posses for days. They needed a horse with speed, staying power, and endurance. Such was the case with Long Legs Westbrook. He was a scoundrel of the worst sort, but he had a horse that was the envy of everyone who met him. He'd actually purchased this one from a wealthy breeder in Texas, although most of the horses he'd had were stolen. The breeder had named the horse Gabriel, which was Spanish, meaning “God is my strength.” The very first Arabian horse imported into America was an Arabian stallion brought over in 1725 by Nathan Harrison of Virginia. Gabe was a direct descendant of that stallion, and so was his father, a purebred Arabian stallion. Gabriel's dam, however, was a chestnut horse that was called an American saddle horse or American saddlebred. She had five different gaits and so did Gabriel. She was a direct descendant of Denmark, which was the foundation stallion of the breed, born in 1839 in Kentucky. Her father was a son of Denmark. Gabe's dam had a long stocking on each leg and a white blaze face. Gabriel ended up as a brilliantly marked Overo pinto with a predominately chestnut, or red, head and body, and numerous white jagged or splotchy patches covering him all over. He stood sixteen hands tall and had very muscular legs, rump, and shoulders. His head looked very Arabian, but Gabe had a very long pure white mane and tail, which he liked to toss from side to side with great pride.

Because of his Arabian blood, he had larger lungs and nostrils than most horses and one less rib on each side, so he could intake much more oxygen and go for hours while being chased by posses. His trot never bothered Long Legs Westbrook because it was so smooth, and Gabriel even did what one cowboy watching described as a “floating trot,” with his legs very straight, almost as if his knees were locked, as he seemed to float along an inch or so above the ground. The horse was only five years old and had plenty of years left to sail across mountains, desert, and prairie, leaving many other horses behind lathered with sweat and with chests heaving for breath.

Little did Joshua Strongheart know what a vital part such a horse was going to play in his life, in a very short period of time.

He looked across the stage at the beautiful young widow, and he felt a longing he had not felt in some time. Joshua started fantasizing about a romance with the grieving young lady, then remembered how quickly entranced he'd been when the woman had come into the jail and he had felt she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Then he recalled his feelings when he learned how they had met and what her profession was, and he grinned at himself. Maybe it was because he knew his ma's love story with his father, and his stepfather as well, but he found he could not just be attracted to someone. It seemed like Joshua always fell in love with women. Also, remembering his father riding away because of what he knew was best for his mother and him, Joshua always had ridden away no matter how attracted to a woman he was.

The young widow was so vulnerable and seemed to be trying to act bravely while feeling such sorrow. Joshua wished there was some way he could help her. He knew, though, that she had lost her beloved husband not long before and was therefore off-limits to him.

Doffing his hat, the tall half-breed reached out his hand. “By the way, ma'am,” he said, “the name is Joshua Strongheart.”

She took his hand and smiled with those intense blue eyes peering into his, saying, “I am sorry. Pleased to meet you Mr. Strongheart. My name is Annabelle Ebert.”

Just those eyes alone framed by the shiny black hair made Joshua feel his heart quicken in his chest. He smiled warmly and sat back.

He looked out the window at the jagged rocks that rose above the wagon road on his right. On the left, there was a steep mountain ridgeline covered in cedars, with rock outcroppings sticking through here and there. Joshua looked ahead and saw that the narrow canyon was getting ready to open up into a larger bowl, with gulches coming in several places. The treed ridgeline on the left was suddenly right next to the stagecoach road, and the driver started slowing the team of horses.

Annabelle looked out the window and the ranch hand explained, “We're pullin' up ta Sunset Gulch, ma'am. They might change the team or water what we got. There's a place we stop about ten mile up, too, so they'll probably change teams there. We'll see.”

“Thank you, sir,” Annabelle replied. “I did not get your name.”

“Sorry, ma'am,” he said. “Folks call me Chancy.”

“Just Chancy?” she replied.

He said, “Yes'm. Don't use the last name. Jest Chancy.”

“Nice to meet you, sir. And you, sir,” she said, looking at the drummer. “My name is Annabelle.”

The drummer quietly said, “My name is Tom Smith.”

Joshua interrupted. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

The drummer seemed even more nervous and started looking out the window after forcing a smile. He clutched his valise even tighter to his chest, and Annabelle shot Joshua a quick, slight grin and head shake. He acknowledged with a similar grin.

The stage pulled up in front of a long watering trough and a couple ramshackle sheds.

The leathery old driver wrapped the reins around the long brake handle and hollered, “Quick break, folks! Hop on out and stretch them legs. Fresh spring water in the bucket.”

Chancy opened the door and hopped out, followed by the drummer, and then Joshua. He turned and took the hands of Annabelle as she stepped down and looked around at the small mountainous valley. A tiny, intermittent brook ran along the side of the stage road, fed by the spring there at Sunset Gulch, but it went underground right before the place where they walked into the mouth of the gulch to drink some cool fresh water. The stream reemerged some one hundred yards beyond, just bubbling up through the sand. The sun was baking off the rocks and sand, buzzards circled lazily overhead in the cloudless sky, and the passengers were as ready to wash off road dust as to get a drink of cool water.

The driver seemed to be searching around for someone and hollered out, “Reichert!”

He turned and explained, “There's a old boy heah who keeps up the spring and makes this a right comfortable rest stop for the stage folks. He oughta be heah.”

As if it was a signal, Jeeter and Harlance both came riding up out of the gulch. They nodded at the passengers with phony smiles. The idea was to make an estimate of who could give them trouble. Long Legs and Scars both hiding behind rocks, armed with Spencer carbines. They were simply waiting for a signal from Jeeter. If he pointed at somebody, they were to be shot immediately with a head shot, because they were dangerous.

Joshua Strongheart grew up with a lawman, but there was something more important going on right then with him. It came from his Lakota ancestry and his time training with uncles and cousins.

If a person is staring at someone's back, some people will actually feel that person staring at them and get a chill down their spine. For that reason, good bow hunters such as American Indian hunters would never stare at a deer, elk, or other game they were stalking, but instead would frequently look directly behind it. Prey animals, some people have theorized, as well as some warriors, have another sense that is undeveloped in most people, the feeling of being watched or stalked. Some call that sense the “sense of knowing.”

Some call it strong intuition, but Joshua Strongheart was not thinking of anything like that. He was only thinking that these two were not alone, and that they were trouble no matter how much they were smiling. His bad feelings were so strong that his right hand went down on the handle of his Colt. He was ready to draw, and when Strongheart pulled a gun out of his holster, something or somebody got shot.

Jeeter pointed at him, saying, “Mister, what's wrong with you?”

Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, but Long Legs's shot was a split second faster. Joshua's head snapped back and blood appeared on his forehead as he slammed against the stagecoach and fell to the ground, still and unmoving, his face now covered with blood. Jeeter and Harlance drew their guns and dismounted as the rest of the gang came riding up.

Chancy took a chance and was mowed down with a hail of withering gunfire. He didn't have a real chance at all. Annabelle wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but she made up her mind she would show no fear. The stagecoach driver raised his hands as if he desperately needed to grab ahold of two clouds, and the drummer leaned against the coach whimpering and clutching his valise to his chest with both hands and arms.

The gang dismounted and started approaching the drummer, Annabelle, and the driver. Jeeter went over to the still form of Joshua Strongheart and unbuckled his gun belt, removed it, and wrapped it around his own waist, buckling it. He left his own gun and belt on the ground.

“How about this rig, boys?” he said. “This is fancy. I always wanted me a rig like this.”

He then knelt to check Joshua's pockets and felt the money belt through the trousers with the back of his fingers. He undid the trousers and whistled when he discovered it. Harlance walked over and looked at the new find. Jeeter opened the belt and found the letter to General Davis. He opened it and quickly read it.

He said, “Nice money belt. Ah'm a gonna whar it, Harlance. Let's save this letter. Looks important. Maybe we can git some money fer it.”

“Hey, you got the durned gun and knife, Jeeter,” Harlance answered. “I oughta git the money belt.”

Jeeter handed him the belt, saying, “Yeah, yer right.”

Harlance carefully put the letter back in the belt and proudly put it on under his trousers.

They went over to the cowering drummer and started laughing when they saw how tightly he clutched the valise. Ruddy Cheeks Carroll yanked the valise from the man's arms and opened it, and his mouth dropped open. He reached in and started laughing. Annabelle had been very curious about the contents of the valise, and the drummer started crying and whimpering as Carroll pulled out a shiny purple dress, lingerie, a pair of women's shoes that would fit the drummer, a woman's red wig, and a makeup kit.

“Stand up!” Harlance roared. “Yer one a them dandies? I don't like dandies at all.”

Harlance reached over and drew Joshua's .45 out of Jeeter's holster, cocked it, and as the man screamed in a high-pitched yell, he shot him in the middle of the forehead. His head snapped back and hit the stage with a sickening sound, and he buckled to the ground like a totally limp rag doll.

Harlance snapped, “Cullen, go through his pockets!”

Jeeter walked up to Annabelle, and she stood tall and stuck out her chin defiantly. He reached up and jerked the necklace off her neck and stuck it in his pocket without looking at it. He then spotted her antique ring and grabbed her hand to remove it.

Now she spoke up, tears in her eyes. “Sir, please if you have any decency at all. My husband died not long ago, and he gave me that for our wedding. It is all I have to remember him by.”

Jeeter grinned and said, “Harlance, aim at her purty little leg. If'n she don't gimme the ring right off, put a round in thet leg.”