Along The Fortune Trail by Harvey Goodman

Author:Harvey Goodman [Goodman, Harvey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jupiter Sky Publishing
Published: 2010-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Sammy and Blaine made their way silently down the corridor toward the cave opening with rifles ready and the sound of the storm retreating. The scent of wood smoke hit them as they drew closer, and then they saw the flickering of light against the inside of the cave wall. They flanked the opening, hugging each side as they cocked their heads around the edge to peer inside. A fire burned in the middle of the chamber with smoke rising some thirty feet to a small hole through which a hint of light appeared. Several torches fixed in wall crevices threw a dancing glow along the upper walls.

An Indian sat cross-legged near the fire, intently cutting a hide with his knife. He wore buckskin pants and moccasins, naked from the waist up except for a poultice on his side and necklaces of beads, game teeth, and bear claws. His long black hair was shoulder length, flowing from beneath a leather headband with carved symbols. He was a young man.

But all of that was lost as Sammy realized what he saw on the other side of the fire. Three women sat huddled together, their western dresses filthy and torn in places, and their hair matted and unkempt with dirt and debris. Each wore a pair of dirty socks, above which Sammy could clearly see ankle shackles. Their faces were dirty, but there was no mistaking that they were white women. The oldest appeared to be in her early thirties, and the youngest was no more than sixteen. The other was about Sammy's age.

The hair on the back of Sammy's neck stood up. He could feel his blood rising as a wave of anger rolled over him like the fires of hell. Blaine looked at Sammy's face, seared in contempt, and knew what was coming next. Sammy stepped into the opening of the cave and swung his Henry 44 level at the Indian's head as he cocked it. “Blaine—get our horses and bring ‘em in here,” Sammy said, walking toward the Indian who held his side gingerly as he got to his feet.

The Indian held the knife low and did not assume a posture of fighting or defense, understanding that to do so would be to die. The white stranger had him cold.

“Drop the knife,” Sammy said, motioning with his rifle barrel toward the floor.

“Mente hoh dae cuna,” the Indian said with expressionless eyes before he pitched the knife several feet. Sammy could see the dried blood on his side that had soaked through and under the poultice.

Blaine led the horses into the cave, their hooves clicking on the intermittent patches of rock floor. “What are we doin’ with this injun?”

“Tie him up—hands and feet and arms and legs.” Sammy held the rifle on him while Blaine quickly roped the Indian into a cocoon, then pushed him to the ground and dragged him to the sidewall where he rolled him face down.

The horses drifted to the back of the cave, where a brook could be heard running.

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