Bullet for a Bad Man

Arrows and Lead

A speck moved in the vast emptiness. It was the only sign of life in the heat-blistered terrain. Northward, the speck traveled, the relentless sun overhead, the dry ground under his mount’s heavy hooves.

Boone and the palomino were weary to their marrow. Both drooped with fatigue, but they forged gamely on, the palomino in response to Boone’s urging, Boone refusing to stop for fear that it would cost him the precious life he held more dear than his own.

Boone knew he had to stop soon whether he wanted to or not. A horse could take only so much, and he had already pushed the palomino harder than he had ever pushed any mount. Guilt pricked him, but lost the inner tug of war to love. He could not stop thinking about Sassy; about her hair, about her eyes, about her lips, about her laugh.

‘‘I am coming for you,’’ Boone croaked, and was startled by the rattle that passed for his voice.

The sun burned him as it burned the land. An Arizona summer was hell on earth. Hot, hot, always hot, with scant relief in the shade, when there was shade.

Boone shut out all thought of the sun from his mind. It was the only way to endure the oven. He shut out thoughts of anything save Sassy. His brother, the rustlers, the chaparral he was passing through, they were of no moment. Only Sassy mattered. Sweet, wonderful Sassy.

Then, as it often did, reality intruded. Boone was given something else to think about: a footprint in the dust. A clear track made by a moccasin-clad foot, the toes pointing in the same direction Boone was riding.

Boone drew rein. His numb brain stirred, his sluggish blood quickened. The track had been made by an Indian, and the only Indians in that region were Apaches.

Newspapers called them the scourge of the territory. Some whites called them heathens; a few referred to them as demons. The truth was, they were fierce fighters defending land they called their own. They were as much a part of that land as the rocks and the dirt and the dust.

All whites feared them. Even whites who boasted they didn’t fear them, feared them. No one wanted to be captured by them. Whites who were that unlucky died in hideous pain. Most would rather shoot themselves than let that happen.

A drop of sweat trickled down Boone’s spine. He spotted a few more tracks and surmised that a small band of Apaches was somewhere ahead of him. Not all that far ahead either. He could not tell exactly how many. It might be four, it might be six. But even one Apache was too many.

Rimming his dry, cracked lips with his tongue, Boone blinked up at the sun and then pulled his hat down. He freed his Colt in its holster, then clucked to the palomino. ‘‘Let’s find a spot to lie low for a while.’’

Boone could not let the Apaches get their hands on him. If they did, if he fell, who would save Sassy? The thought of her in Epp’s clutches terrified him. Surely, he told himself, he could not have met her only to lose her so soon after? Fate could not be so cruel.

Or could it?

Once, Boone would have said no. Back when life was good, when he lived in a fine house on a fine ranch and had all a man could want. Back when it seemed that fate had singled him out as special, as deserving of a happy life, free of want.

But now Boone knew better. There were two sides to life, the comfortable and the cruel. It did not take much to send a man slipping over the edge from one side to the other. From comfort to need. From safety to peril. From light to dark.

Six months ago, if someone had told Boone he would one day roam the Arizona wasteland homeless and friendless and as alone as a man could be, he would have branded the notion as silly. But the silliness was in his own head. Life should never be taken lightly. He was living proof it did not allow for mistakes.

A stretch of tall grass appeared. Beyond were hills, and the shade Boone and his horse needed. ‘‘Soon,’’ he croaked, patting its neck. ‘‘A little while more and you can rest.’’ Until the cool of night, when they would push on again.

The soft sound of the grass swishing against the palomino’s legs soon had Boone’s chin dipping to his chest. He fought the impulse to doze. He kept the tracks in mind, and what the makers of those tracks would do if they got their hands on him.

Manzanita broke the monotony of the grassland. Barely six feet high, their bark was cherry red. They did not provide much shade, so Boone passed on through. In the bare dirt near the last of them was another track, this one so fresh it was made minutes ago.

Boone drew rein. His sweat turned cold. His hand on his Colt, he searched the tall grass, but nothing moved. Not a bird, not an animal, nothing. He swallowed, or tried to, and realized he had made a mistake. He should have stopped hours ago. He was exhausted. Worse, the palomino was exhausted.

Apaches were never exhausted. Their iron sinews were capable of enduring heat that would wither a white. And they were also adept at conserving their strength and their energy for when they would need them the most. Such as when attacking a white man foolish enough to brave their territory alone.

Boone blinked sweat from his eyes, ignoring the sting. He was sure the Apaches were close. They might even be watching him. In which case, he must stop thinking about Sassy and his brother, and think about saving his own hide.

Apaches were smart. Apaches were crafty. They favored the element of surprise. Kill without being killed was always foremost on their minds.

Boone glanced at the track again. Army scouts could tell the size and weight of a warrior by the warrior’s footprint. Some could even tell which tribe the warrior belonged to. Boone could not do any of that. To him a track was a track, and that was all.

It really didn’t matter. All Apaches killed whites, and he was white.

Suddenly the palomino raised its head and pricked its ears.

Boone stiffened. Something was out there, or someone. He palmed his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. He had a Winchester in the saddle scabbard, but a Winchester was for distance. When the Apaches jumped him, they would be close up. Much too close for his liking, but there it was.

The distant hills and welcome shade, and maybe water, beckoned. All he had to do was reach them.

Boone moved into the open. He held to a walk and constantly turned his head from side to side, scanning, always scanning, looking for anything out of the ordinary, any sign of a dark bulk in the grass, any hint of movement, anything at all.

Boone was well aware that Apaches were masters at blending into the terrain. They were so skilled at it that some folks claimed they were ghosts in human guise.

The dull thud of the palomino’s hooves, the swish of the grass and always the burning heat. Boone yearned for the hills, and relief. More than that, he yearned to see the Circle V. Not once since he took to the high-lines had he been homesick, but he was homesick now. It hit him like a physical blow. He missed the ranch where he had been raised, missed the great white house and the punchers and the cattle. Most of all, he missed his ma and pa. To think of them gone, to know he would never see the love in their eyes or hold them again, was almost more than he could bear. He felt his eyes moisten and his vision blurred.

The palomino nickered.

Boone shook himself. He had let himself drift, the very worst thing he could do. He scanned the tall grass again, and realized he was in dire trouble.

He was not alone.

Off to his left the grass rustled as if to the breeze—only there was no breeze, absolutely no wind at all.

Off to his right more stems moved, ever so slightly.

The Apaches were on either side.

Panic swelled, and Boone almost lashed his reins to get out of there. Every nerve, every instinct, screamed at him to ride, ride, ride. But he mustn’t let on that he knew. The instant he did, they would be on him.

Boone had the Colt low against his leg, hoping they wouldn’t notice. His hand grew so sweaty he wanted to wipe his palm, but he dared not raise the revolver.

Now more grass moved, ahead and to the right.

Boone reckoned at least three, possibly more. He tried to remember if he had five beans in the wheel, or six. Usually he kept the chamber under the hammer empty, but he seemed to recollect that the last time he reloaded he had filled every chamber.

More sweat trickled into Boone’s eyes. He started to raise his arm to mop it, and stopped. That was all it would take. Him, with a sleeve over his eyes. The Apaches would be on him before he lowered it.

Boone wondered what they were waiting for. He almost wished they would get it over with. Or else that they would leave him be. But that was too much to expect. He was their enemy. He must die.

A shadow flitted across him. Startled, Boone glanced up, but it was only a hawk, circling in search of prey.

Icy fingers clutched at Boone’s chest as he realized what he had done. He had taken his eyes off the grass. He remedied that just as the ground in front of the palomino erupted and out of it reared an Apache. Boone glimpsed a stocky, swarthy body clothed in a long-sleeved brown shirt and a breechclout and leggings. He saw steel flash, and he fired from the hip, two swift shots that slammed the Apache back and down.

Boone used his spurs. To his right and left more figures reared, and they had rifles. He fired at a warrior on the left, swiveled and fired at a warrior on the right just as the warrior’s rifle banged. Pain seared his side but he didn’t stop.

Ahead rose two more, with bows this time. Strings twanged and arrows took flight. Boone fanned a shot, but the Apaches went to the ground. He reined to the left just as a feathered shaft whizzed past his neck. He was not as lucky with the second. It sheared into his left shoulder, and the shock nearly unhorsed him.

The palomino was at a gallop. Soon the Apaches fell behind; they never kept coming once it was pointless. They would follow, they would track him at their own pace, and if his wounds brought him down, they would finish what they had started.

Boone gritted his teeth and rode. Waves of pain rippled through him. But in a way the pain was good. It kept him alert.

He nearly wept for joy when the grass ended. Clattering up a slope, he paused to look back. There was grass and only grass. Not an Apache to be seen.

Boone put another hill behind him, and then three, and still he didn’t stop. He had to be sure they wouldn’t come on him in his sleep.

Another hill, this one covered with boulders. Boone reined in among them and went around one twice as big as the palomino, and stopped.

Whimsical fate had decided to be nice.

A tank lay in deep shade. A small oval that held no more than a few gallons.

Boone let the palomino drink while he gingerly lifted his shirt. The slug had dug a furrow a quarter inch deep. It could have been worse. Unless the wound became infected, it wouldn’t kill him.

The arrow was another thing. Boone craned his neck to confirm it had gone clean through. The barbed tip and several inches of shaft jutted out the other side of him. He used his knife to cut his shirt, and gave thanks a second time. The arrow had caught him in the fleshy part of his shoulder, missing the bone. It would hurt like hell for a week or so, but already the bleeding had stopped, and as with the other one, unless it became infected he should be all right.

Boone was getting ahead of himself. He reversed his grip on his knife and clamped his teeth down on the blunt side of the blade. Reaching over his shoulder, he gripped the shaft, and with a sharp wrench, snapped the tip off. The easy part was pulling the arrow out. Easy, but it left him feeling queasy and weak.

Stripping to the waist, Boone splashed water on both wounds. He debated cutting up his shirt for bandages, but he had only one spare in his saddlebags and he wanted to keep it clean for when he saw Sassy again.

Boone lay on his belly and drank his fill, but not so much that it would make him sick. He refilled his canteen, then stretched out on his back in the shade, his Colt in his hand. He figured it would take the Apaches an hour or more to get there. He could afford to rest. He closed his eyes.

A whinny woke him.

Boone sat up. The sky had gone from the blue of afternoon to the gray of twilight. He had slept much too long.

The palomino was staring back the way they had come.

‘‘No,’’ Boone said. Scrambling to his feet, he donned his torn, bloody shirt. He jammed on his hat and forked leather. The rest had not refreshed him. He was stiff and sore and slow.

Boone climbed to the top of the hill. A check of his back trail showed he had gotten out just in time. Two-legged wolves were on his scent, and closing fast. They had their eyes to the ground and hadn’t seen him.

Boone hurried over the crest and brought the palomino to a trot. He didn’t trot long. Only far enough to be confident he had left the Apaches behind. Thank God they were on foot.

Night descended, and brought with it relief from the heat. Boone breathed deep, glad to be alive. He had survived a clash with Apaches. Not many whites could say that. Not many would want to.

A coyote yipped. A bird screeched. Reassuring sounds, in that if the Apaches were near, the wild creatures would be silent.

Boone thought of Epp, and a burning rage filled him. Epp, who lured him to Ranson. Epp, who hired Jarrott to gun him. Epp, who advised him to flee for the good of their parents. Epp, who killed his mother and father so he could lay claim to the Circle V.

Epp, as evil as a man could be.

Boone wondered how it was they had turned out so different. What made one man good and another bad? Their parents loved them both and never favored one over the other, that he could remember. Whatever turned Epp bad was inside him. It was as if he had a great empty hole where his heart should be. A hole that couldn’t be filled this side of the grave.

‘‘I am coming for you, brother.’’