Blood on the Zuni

Blood on the Zuni

Douglas H. ball

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Douglas H. Ball

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BLOOD ON THE ZUNI

By

Doug Ball

This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance of any character to any particular human being living or dead is purely accidental.

Place names and locations may be fact or fiction at the author’s whim.

Any error in historical fact is purely the fault of the author.

This book is for Louis.

Without Louis I would have never had a challenge of reading a western. Between he and Elmer, I learned to love the genre.

This book would have never been possible without the loan of a typewriter 32 years ago by a dedicated librarian, Allen Lessel, the fantastic editorial efforts and support of my wife, Patti, and a preacher that loves westerns the same way I do, Larry Hamblen.

BLOOD ON THE ZUNI

Chapter l

I was born naked and it looked like I was going to die dressed the same.

As I stood there on the edge of the malapai, looking over my back trail, I saw my bloody red footprints standing out like new paint on an old church. The blood oozing from my much abused, bare feet was leaving a perfect track of each footstep.

Looking down from my position on that ridge of black volcanic rock, I saw my outfit. Nobody I knew, just 32 cows, three horses, and my possibles. Yup, even my coffee pot. The five men who had stolen them were sitting around a hatful of fire, smoking, joking, and drinking my coffee. From their manner I could tell they didn’t think they had a worry in the world. Having made no effort to hide their trail, they weren’t trying hard to hide anything now.

I surely did hope to bring them something to worry about. That outfit had cost me three years of hard work and much doing without. Living on jackrabbit and beans for three years isn’t too great a way to do things. That jack is plumb tough and gamey.

Right now I was feeling plumb tough and gamey. Down there was the result of three years of hard work on my own place and I wanted it back. I was mad, plumb mad. I hurt all over and them boys was in for trouble right soon. If I could get down off this ridge without letting them know I was around, that is.

I looked like one of them naked heathens my Ma used to talk about. That’s what she always called all western Indians, naked heathens. Here I was unarmed, naked, bandana around my head, carrying a leaky canteen half full of water and bright red skin from the sunburn I’d picked up on my two day walk in the country. To top it all off, I was trying to figure a way down to those sons below that wouldn’t let them know I was coming.

They’d know it when I got there.

The sun was getting low in the sky, so I figured they was set for the night. The only route I could see down off this malapai was in plain sight of their camp. If the men didn’t see me, that durned dog they had with them would and set up a howl.

Low black thunderheads scudded across the sky from the southwest, providing some welcome shade as I hunkered down on the hot, black rock behind a scrub cedar tree and absentmindedly rubbed an itch on my knee. The feel of my fingers digging into my sun burnt knee sent flashes of pain up my spine, fireworks through my eyes, and screams in my ears.

The fireworks finally cleared and I could see one of the camp robbing scum saddle his nag and ride for the herd. The remaining four shouted something at him I couldn’t make out.

Taking a careful look around, I saw that the position the rustlers had picked was ideal for holding the herd with as little work as possible. The campsite was in the mouth of a cove in the malapai about a pistol shot wide. Inside the cove was about l50 acres of belly high grass surrounded by lava rock walls 20 to 30 feet high, a natural grazing pen. The only trees in the cove were near what could possibly be a spring at the back end.

Clouds were getting thicker, covering the entire sky and the fading daylight caused me to lie deeper in the heated rocks. A breeze had come up, bringing goosebumps to my overdone skin. A smell of cold and maybe rain was on that breeze, telling me I didn’t have much time to find warm clothes or a warm fire, or both. This country was over 7000 feet and it was common to have a freeze and maybe snow in late May. If it froze without me being wrapped in clothes or around a good fire, I’d not make it through the night. The sunburn and walk drained my body and added to the cold considerably.

The whole thing was unreal. I hadn’t had a lick of trouble with folks, hereabouts. As far as I knew, I hadn’t made any enemies when I picked my place or during the time I’d built it up. I’d never killed anybody, so there couldn’t be kin hunting me. I’d never heard the name Barstow in this country, either. I’d just sort of lived and let live all my life, without bothering a soul I could think of. I did aggravate Ma a few times, but that don’t count. It had been a pretty dull life so far, you could say. I couldn’t complain, though, it was better than getting shot up, or worse.

William Burton Currant, if you could get to that place behind what appears to be a spring before it gets too dark, it looks like you could climb down that big cottonwood and be in a position to push them cows right through their camp. Talking to myself had become a pastime.

Surely did wish I had my horse to talk to now.

While I was cogitating on that cottonwood, I got to remembering how I’d gotten to this point. It wasn’t just a trail of bloody foot prints.

Four years of eating dust on the old Z Bar outfit had gotten me the bankroll to start with. It wasn’t easy saving up a wad, working for thirty a month and found, but I had put aside enough to buy 44 cows and 3 old bulls, one of which died on me before I got him to my homestead. And at that I was plumb lucky. Some broken down feller south of the Mogollon Rim was giving up on ranching. He ended up standing next to me in the general store of some no account five building town complaining about there being no one to buy his herd of 44 cows and 3 old bulls.

I up and said, Mister, I got $400 in the Wells Fargo office safe in El Vadito. If you’ll take a draft on it, I’ll take the herd if I like the looks of it.

Done. He didn’t even hesitate, just right out and said it.

Store owner let me know that they was good cows, except for one or two being a mite old, so I wrote out the draft on Wells Fargo and he wrote me a bill of sale on the herd. He made his mark, the owner of the store witnessed it and we went to the Wells Fargo office.

Short story long, an hour later we were riding through the pines to his place. Next morning I had me a herd, with the help of an old cowboy headed in my direction willing to work a week for six bucks, it took me six days to drive them to the high country.

During those four years on the Z Bar, I spent all my free time riding the country, looking for land to homestead and start my own place. Every man in the bunkhouse talks about starting his own place, but most are just talk. Come a payday, the talkers spend a month’s pay in a night or two, and spend another month working for the man, talking about their own place. I ain’t no saint, but I saved my cash and learned. Spent a bunch of time talking with the foreman about the how’s and why’s of ranchin’ and cows and such.

My spot on the Zuni River north of a little place called El Vadito, the little crossing, was loaded with grass, had a spring capable of furnishing house water and watering a bunch of stock, and backed up against a rocky butte topped with malapai, forty feet high.

On my own land the real work began.

Being raised to hard work I didn’t mind the effort, mostly because I didn’t know any better. For three years I bent my back from can to can’t, and then some, to prove up on the place. The herd grew all on its own with Mother Nature taking charge and a little help from me. I built three dams on the Zuni to hold back water during the wet spells. With the help of a hungry Mexican cowboy, I even used an old cienaga of the Zuni for a tank. We just cut out the downstream blockage on that old riverbed and let the high water back up into the deep part of the curve.

After 3 years of hard work it was time to reap some of the harvest. I spent four days gathering the herd in the May sun and headed east and north for Fort Wingate, all because a grub line rider told me I could get a good price from the Army for my beef.

On the first day of the drive I lathered up all three horses I had getting the herd trail broke. A two year old steer of questionable color, maybe gray-brown, finally took the lead and the herd lined out to follow and gave me no more grief.

After three days on the trail, me and the horses were plumb wore out. I found a sunny pool of water on a slow moving stream north of the Zuni pueblo surrounded by good grass, and decided to let all them critters rest a while and get the crust off my body at the same time.

Getting naked, after setting up camp, I entered the water. It surely did feel good. Willie, my boy, this here’s the way to work cows.

I laid there, planning on soaking up the two hours of sun left, and a goodly portion of the water, when a voice from the far bank came to me, You just lie there quiet like, Willie, or you’re gonna get hurt. All we want is the outfit and, iffen you know what’s what, you’ll leave the territory, followed by a chuckle.

Being heavy on brawn and short on brains, I jumped for my Colt, which lay on the bank near to hand. I slipped on the slimy rock bottom of the pool, heard a quick rustle of boots, a shot and felt my head fall off.

A voice on the bank shouted, That’s one less Barstow’ll have to worry about. Nice shot, Cole.

Chapter 2

For me, the sun went down a little early that afternoon.

When I opened my mud filled eyes, it was pitch black and I was cold, real cold. The lower half of my body was in the water. There were no stars or moon in the sky, it was just pure black.

I got to my feet. At least I tried. I stood, swayed and tried to find my head as I fell.

Pulling myself up on the bank, I felt around to see why my head felt so bad. A lump the size of a hen’s egg, a large hen’s egg, over my right eye made itself known as my hand found it. There was a notch across the middle of that egg oozing something wet which I figured was blood, my blood.

Trying again to stand, I made it. Once again counting on brawn, I headed for camp. The next thing I knew the sun was in my eyes and I was flat on my back in the dirt.

The sunshine stabbed painful holes through the middle of my whole head. My eyes slammed shut so hard it hurt. My feet felt like icicles and my head was killing me. Surely did feel like I had been stomped by my whole herd. Taking a quick survey of all my moving parts, I moved each limb slowly and determined nothing was broke, busted or otherwise mangled too bad. My feet splashed water when I moved them, so I pulled them from the water and felt the sun warming them almost at once.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I ain’t the brightest feller around. Beginning to sponge up on that idea, I tried to get to my feet again. My head did a slow spin and I went down in the mud again. Slowly, very slowly, I pulled my feet under me, took up the slack in my knee joints and, with the help of my oversized paws, pushed all l95 pounds of me into a position which fairly well resembled standing upright like a real human being.

I started walking following the tracks of the herd.

###

So, here I was, doing a fair job of imitating a naked heathen, moving along the ridge line to get above the spring. All five of the outlaws were back in camp. Four were lying on their blanket rolls while the other sat on a black rock cleaning his rifle. None of them even looked in my direction the cold hour it taken me to get above the big cottonwood.

The only limb I could reach was no bigger than my wrist. It was dead and split at its junction with the trunk. So much for that idea.

I eased down to my belly and stuck my head over the rim for a better look. There was the dog, getting a drink. He saw me about the same time I saw him. His tail went between his legs and his ears laid right back. I figured I didn't have anything to lose, so I called softly, Come here, boy.

I've seen things move fast before, but that dog just plain did a vanishing act, he moved so fast. He ducked into tall grass and was gone.

Trying to see where the scruffy dog went was the best thing I'd done all day. Right above where he disappeared was a deep V in the rim wall. At the back of the V, out of sight from the entire cove, was a rock slide.

I sidled over the cooling black rocks to the slide. Finding a narrow game trail leading to the pool at the spring, down I went, easing my six foot body along on very tender feet. I could swear I saw a black, bushy tail ducking through the bushes and grass a couple of times before I got to the bottom. The dog still worried me and as I was thinking of him, I heard the clomping of a horse headed who-knows-where. Easing my head around the edge of the V facing the cove, I could see the feller with the clean rifle coming my way with the rifle in one hand and his reins in the other.

Up the game trail I went. Halfway up my slow brain registered the fact he had two canteens and a coffee pot hooked over the horn of his saddle. Just comin' for water, Willie boy, calm down, I said to no one in particular. Immediately, I hoped that no one heard me. Bad habit that, talking to yourself.

I took another look around the edge after carefully edging down the trail. He was getting off his horse and looking back at the camp. I looked, too. One of the four sleepy ones was mounting up. He, too, heading for the spring, in a hurry. It sure was going to get crowded around that spring.

Cole, you know you ain't supposed to leave the camp alone. Les will skin you alive, you ever pull it again. He done tole you that once today, and he's already mad 'cause you shot that Currant boy, the second one said, dismounting.

Brack, you just go tell Les I'm a big boy now and if he don't like what I do, say it to my face and not send his little errand boy to do his talking.

I ain't nobody's errand boy, Cole. I don't think you're as tough as you'd like folks to believe. I got notches on my gun, too, you know. It didn't come that way, I earned them.

Cole set down the canteen he was filling, slowly turned to face the big man, his hand poised over his gun, Only tinhorns and four-flushers whittle notches on their gun butts. His face got hard. Which are you, Brack?

Brack lifted his gun hand from its apelike position at his side and, as it came into position to draw, he just kept on lifting it. When his hand reached his tangled black beard, he scratched at the vermin. You know somethin', Cole. Nobody ever ast me that before. Gives a man somethin' to think on, it does.

Brack kept on scratching and let his gaze travel down the cove. He added, I'll tell you somethin' I ain't never tole nobody, Cole. I like you. You and me could go far and make big bucks together. I got this here Colt from a dead gambler I found in the desert south of Fort Whipple. The notches was on it when I found it. I ain't never killed a man before. I bet I could iffen I had to and you'd teach me to use a gun fast, like you do.

Cole let his hand relax and said, Brack, let's you and me be partners. We can clean up on gun money, with all the fights going on around this country. He extended his gun hand.

Brack's hand moved up to tip back his hat, a wide smile came to his eyes. I couldn't see his mouth for the mat of beard. His eyes took on a sparkle I didn't much care for as his hand lowered to meet Cole's. The two shook hands and slapped their left hands on the other's shoulder.

The shaking done, Cole turned to the spring. Seeing a blur of motion from the apelike Brack, I come mighty close to yelling a warning to Cole. My eyes had just swung over to Brack when the shot rang out. Cole fell face down near the pool below the spring.

Ain't nobody calls me a tinhorn or a four-flusher, and I ain't nobody's errand boy. I got no friends and I sure don't need none, Brack mumbled, thumbing a new round into his six-gun.

I thought that shot had surprised me, but I was shocked good when the hairy gunman pulled out his belt knife and proceeded to whittle a notch in the walnut grips of his Colt. I knew men talked of some killers doing this, but had never seen it. Old Jim, down on the Z Bar, told me of quite a few would-be gunmen who bragged of their killings with notches and swaggered around the Dakota's during the rip roaring days up there.

I knew I was going to have to watch out for Brack. He stood at least two inches taller and outweighed me by more than 40 pounds. His reach, with those ape arms, had to be a hand greater than mine. A cowhide vest and denim shirt were stretched by wide shoulders and bagged out at his waist. He didn't look prone to fat. A shiver went up my spine that wasn't from the sunburn, or the weather. There was a feeling of me meeting him face to face some day.

He put his pistol back in its greasy holster, walked over and took a hold of Cole by the ankles. Now Cole probably weighed in at l90 pounds, but Brack gave a careless flick of his arms and deposited the dead man ten feet away, in the grass. Brack leaned down and gathered up the water jugs and coffee pot, finished filling them and headed for his horse without a backward glance.

I silently cussed him as he rode away leading Cole's horse. That horse would have been useful. The other three rustlers were headed this way in a hurry with guns bristling like quills on a mad porcupine. They pulled up alongside Brack, who just kept riding toward camp. These others didn't seem to like the words Brack was saying to them, but none of those boys looked inclined to argue. All of them slowly put their guns away as they followed Brack's