North Star by Richard S. Wheeler

Author:Richard S. Wheeler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-01-18T05:00:00+00:00

twenty-one

His old black top hat flew off his head even before he heard the distant crack. From ancient habit, Skye dove off his horse, feeling pain shoot through his bum leg as he landed. He snatched his old Sharps from its sheath as he went.

Victoria had done the same, and now they stood behind their ponies. The shot had come from some vast distance far ahead and to the left, probably in the bottoms of the Big Horn River. She strung her bow and nocked an arrow. The ponies sidestepped nervously. Skye peered over the neck of his, wondering what lay ahead. He saw nothing. But someone had just tried to kill him. He wished his eyes were as good as they once were but now age blurred the horizons. He checked his Sharps. It was ready.

He retrieved the top hat, which had fallen ten feet away, and found a fresh hole through it, just above his hairline. He had been an inch from death. This was his fifth hat. The first two had been beaver felt; the last three silk.

A rage built in him.

There was only silence. No crows flew, no wind whispered. They were proceeding south along the arid Big Horn River valley, on a trail laid out by Jim Bridger, the old mountain man. They had thought they were alone.

“Goddamn white men,” Victoria said.

Indians wouldn’t snipe at them from several hundred yards.

His leg hurt. He had landed squarely on it, and while his knee didn’t capsize or break again, everything ached anew. He squinted at the silent bottoms of the distant river, ready to shoot back.

After a while they moved slowly southward, walking between their horses, and thus walking within a living fortress as they had often done in the past. Occasionally Skye studied the river bottoms, ready for anything. But they proceeded peaceably south without hindrance.

That lasted only a minute or two. A gaggle of horsemen boiled out of the brushy bottoms, heading straight for Skye and Victoria. Skye continued quietly, his bum leg paining his every step. There were six in all, skinny horsemen in slouch hats, all except one. A fat man, bulging at the belly and thighs, mounted on a thicker horse, followed along just behind. They were spread in a half circle, ready for whatever trouble they faced.

They swiftly surrounded Skye and Victoria.

“Hold up there,” the fat one bawled.

Skye waited quietly. This was a tough outfit, with mean thin men sporting an unusual amount of facial hair along with revolvers and saddle carbines.

“Gents?” Skye asked.

“This here’s claimed land, and we don’t allow no goddamn redskins on it,” the fat one said.

“I’m Barnaby Skye. And who am I addressing?”

“It don’t matter none. This is my range, and you’re on it, and you’re going to get yoah ass off it.”

“That’s interesting. I didn’t know there was a government land office anywhere around here,” Skye said.

“It don’t mattah whether they is or ain’t. Yoah getting yoah red ass off. Ah’m claiming this heah Big Horn Valley, top to bottom, mountain to mountain, and that’s that.

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