Duel on the Mesa by Bill Dugan

Author:Bill Dugan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

Chapter 14

CHANCE FINISHED SMOOTHING the dirt, threw the shovel aside and sat down to wait for the sun. He listened to the sound of night dying away, watched the big owl that nested in the small grove of cottonwoods glide to its nest, then the first birds beginning to stir. The stars went out and the sky turned gray. When the sun peeked over the mountains to the east, it stained his hands bright red. He looked at them dumbly, tried to wipe the color away, then let them fall in his lap where they lay like dead things.

He was chilled through. A thin glaze of dew glistened on the fine hairs on his arms and the backs of his hands. He felt stiff, and his breathing was painful. He walked to the well and cranked the handle after using a thick green glass jar to prime the pump, and filled a bucket. He watched the morning brighten for a few moments, then knelt down and plunged his face and hands into the pail, splattering cold water all over himself, rubbing his face briskly. He stuck his head into the bucket for a second, then lifted his head. He let the water run down his collar and stream down over his face and chest.

It smelled of ashes. The smokey scent clung to his hair and clothes. The ruins still smoldered behind him. Now and then a board would shift, or something would pop. He tried his best to ignore it. Plunging his head back into the pail, he shook it, trying to wash away the stale stench of the fire. This time, when he straightened up, someone stood beside him.

When the knee-high moccasins registered, he reached for his gun even before turning to look. Lone Wolf stared down at him.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“Get the hell out of here, you bastard.”

The Apache’s face betrayed no emotion. The Indian waited. Chance stood up, waving the gun. “What the hell do you want? Haven’t you done enough already?”

Lone Wolf sighed. “I am sorry for this,” he said, pointing to the heaps of ashes. “And for this.” He indicated the freshly turned earth.

“I don’t need sympathy from an Apache,” Chance said.

Lone Wolf ignored the implications. “I was afraid this would happen,” he said. “Juh is a cruel man.”

“Juh? Is that his name? Where is he?”

The Indian swept a hand to the south, embracing half the planet. “Out there somewhere,” he said.

“Then go find him.”

“Juh is not the problem.”

“Then who is?”

“Tucker Wiley.”

“Tucker Wiley didn’t slaughter my family. Apaches did.”

“You don’t understand. Wiley steals from the Apaches. And then he pretends to be their friend, selling them things they need. He is getting fat on the army and fatter still on the Apache.”

“I don’t care about that. What I care about is finding the men who did this . . .” he looked around at the ruins of his life, his eyes skirting the graves but never quite focusing on them. “That’s what I care about.

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