Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

Genres: Ghost; Classics; Holiday books

Synopsis

Action-packed western adventure from the author of Crow Creek Crossing.

MILITIA MADNESS

Up in the Montana mountains, Canyon Creek is the perfect little town for Simon Fry and his men to hole up for the winter. The folks are friendly enough to open their homes to eight perfect strangers—and gullible enough to believe that Fry’s gang is a militia sent to protect them from hostile Indians.

Jim Culver is new in town, but he knows something isn’t right about Simon Fry’s “militia.” They seem more interested in intimidating people than helping them. Anyone who questions them ends up dead or driven out. Someone has to step forward to protect the people of Canyon Creek from their new “protectors.”

That someone is Jim Culver. And this sleepy town is about to wake up with a bang.

Release date: March 4, 2003

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 320

Sample

“We’re with the territorial militia,” Fry informed him. “We’re making calls on every settler in the valley to see how many fighting men we can call on if we were to have Indian trouble.” He flashed a wide smile for Cochran’s benefit. “Are there more menfolk living here that we can count on in a pinch?”

“Ain’t nobody here but me and the missus,” Cochran said. “Hell, they coulda told you that in the settlement—saved you a ride all the way down the valley.”

Fry’s smile returned. This time it was genuine. “No trouble at all. We had to ride down here anyway, to chase the war party off.”

“War party? What war party?”

“Why, the one that’s fixin’ to burn your place,” Fry replied and nodded to Pitt.

Without hesitating, Pitt turned the rifle that had been resting across his saddle, pointing it directly at John Cochran’s forehead. The look of surprise became a permanent feature of the dead man’s face as Pitt’s rifle ball made a neat black hole just above Cochran’s eyes.

HERO’S STAND

Charles G. West

Table of contents

Chapter 1

“Damn you, Caldwell! I told you to hold your fire till we got a little closer. Now they’re scattering.” Simon Fry jammed his heels into the sides of his big bay gelding, at the same time shouting orders to the rider on his right. “Pitt! Cut them two off before they get to that ravine.” Jack Pitt had not waited for instructions and was already quirting his horse mercilessly as he raced to intercept the two Indian women trying to escape. Fry charged toward two young Indian men who were now on their ponies and riding straight toward the hills to the west. In spite of his annoyance with Caldwell for jumping the gun, Fry leaned forward, low on his horse’s neck, a look of determination etched on his otherwise expressionless face. “Mendel!” he roared as two more of the surprised Indians scrambled to escape up the valley, one a woman leading a horse that was pulling a travois. Mendel Knox, needing no further orders, tore off after the two, whooping at the top of his lungs, a wide grin spread across his face.

The surprise had been so complete that the gang of white men might have ridden almost into the Indian camp before they were discovered had it not been for Caldwell’s premature shot. Even so, Simon Fry’s band of outlaws was too close to give the startled Indians any chance to avoid the murderous assault. Quick as they were, the Indian ponies had no time to spring into full gallop before the white men began to cut the riders down. The narrow valley soon echoed with the sharp charter of rifles as one brave after another was riddled with lead.

Wiley Johnson, following close behind Fry, searched frantically for a clear target, but Fry blocked his view of the fleeing Indians. Yanking sharply on the reins, Wiley swerved off at an angle to get clear of Fry’s horse, almost trampling the body of the woman killed by Caldwell’s first shot. His horse jerked away to avoid the body, and Wiley, almost thrown from the saddle, regained his balance only to find a terrified toddler in his path. The child screamed in horror as it tried to run for its life. Startled at first, Wiley reined back. But when he realized what had spooked his horse, he spurred the animal straight toward the screaming child in an attempt to trample the life from the toddler. Having a natural tendency to avoid the child, the horse balked, almost unseating Wiley for a second time. Furious at having nearly come out of the saddle again, he turned and shot the infant, then galloped away after the horses.

It was all over in a matter of minutes, and the riders gathered back at the Indian campsite. Fry wasn’t satisfied that the job was complete, however “There’s another one around here somewhere. I counted eight, and I don’t see but seven dead Injuns.”

“By God, you’re right,” Jack Pitt said. “There was eight of ’em, all right. The other’n musta crawled down that creek bank.”

“Check down yonder, Pitt,” Fry said. “Somebody look upstream.”

The raiders split up to search the creek banks while Fry watched from the Indian camp. Only minutes passed before Trask yelled out, “I got him! Here he is!” No sooner had he sung out his discovery than he followed it with a sharp yelp of pain as an arrow thudded into his shoulder. The cornered Indian quickly notched another arrow but had no time to release it before Mendel put a bullet between his eyes.

“Damn, Trask,” Fry muttered when he rode up to the wounded man, now dismounted and sitting on the creek bank. “That was mighty damned careless.” Fry sat on his horse, looking down dispassionately at the arrow protruding from Trask’s shoulder. “How bad is it?”

Wincing with pain, his teeth tightly clenched, Trask tried to gingerly pull his shirt away from the shaft. Each time he bumped the arrow, it caused him to suck his breath in sharply. “I don’t know,” he whined, “but it hurts a damn plenty.”

“Mighty damned careless,” Fry repeated, then called back to the rest of the men, who were already rifling the bodies of the dead. “Clell, better come take a look at Trask.”

Clell Adams looked up and grimaced, obviously more interested in searching for something of value on the still-warm corpse before him. Being the oldest of the pack that ran with Simon Fry, it had more or less fallen upon him to do the doctoring for the gang. He had no training for this position, and he had never volunteered to tend the wounded, but he was old enough to be a daddy to Hicks and Caldwell—the two youngest—so he pretended to know what to do. With some reluctance now, he rolled the Indian’s body over in case he had missed anything, then got to his feet.

“Damn, Trask,” Clell remarked as he stood over him. “How’d you let that happen?”

“Dammit, Clell, that don’t matter,” Trask spat back at him. “Just git the damn thing outta my shoulder.” The deepening lines on Trask’s face bore evidence that the pain was becoming intense, and there was more than a bit of concern in his eyes.

Finding very little of value on their victims, the other men gathered around Clell and his patient. Clell knelt down beside Trask and gave the arrow a stout tug, evoking an immediate yelp of pain from the wounded man. “She’s in there pretty solid,” Clell stated. Then, with a none-too-gentle touch, he rolled Trask over on his side. “Didn’t come clear through, though.”

Alarmed by the indecisive expression on Cell’s face, and frightened by the throbbing in his shoulder that seemed to increase with each beat of his heart, Trask stammered, “Wh-whad-daya gonna do? My shoulder’s gittin’ stiff as a board.”

Clell scratched his head as he considered the question. “Well, I seen a feller with an arrow in his side once back in ’61—Blackfoot arrow, it was. It wouldn’t come out, either. So a couple of his partners held him down while another feller drove that arrow right on through. When the head come out, they broke it off. Then they pulled the shaft out the way it come in.”

“Oh Lordy,” Trask groaned.

“Only way it would come out,” Clell added. “Feller died, though. Them Blackfoot had put something on that arrowhead. Made the wound swell all up until it puffed out like a ripe gourd.”

“Oh Lordy, Lordy.” Trask sighed and lay back against the bank, convinced that his outlaw days were coming to an end. His eyes rolled back until there was almost nothing visible but the whites. His face, as stark as a hatchet blade, blanched nearly as pale as his eyes, and he began to slowly roll his head from side to side in anticipation of the pain that was certain to come.

Growing more impatient by the moment, Simon Fry stepped down from his horse and pushed a couple of curious spectators aside. After taking a closer look at the arrow, he reached out and gave it a quick tug. The force was enough to lift the slender Trask a foot off the ground, but the arrow remained firmly embedded. Dropping the screaming Trask back to the ground, he said, “Drive it through. We can’t hang around here all day.”

“Gimme a hand here, boys,” Clell said as he looked around the creek bank for a suitable rock to use as a hammer.

Almost gleeful in their eagerness to participate in the procedure about to be performed—especially one that promised to greatly add to Trask’s suffering—Mendel and Wiley pounced upon the unfortunate man, each taking an arm and pinning him to the ground. The abruptness with which they attacked him caused the already suffering Trask to cry out in pain.

“This is gonna hurt like hellfire,” Mendel promised, making no attempt to hide the wide grin on his face.

“That’s a fact, Trask,” Wiley agreed. “We’re gonna see how much sand you got now. ’Course it might be a waste of time. You never know what kinda shit that Injun rubbed on that there arrowhead.”

“Wiley’s right,” Caldwell chimed in. “I heared a feller tell about gittin’ jumped by a band of Blackfoot on the Popo Agie. He said them Injuns had mixed up a terrible potion—dog shit, coyote piss, rotten meat, and I don’t know what all—so even if you got the arrow out, that mess would kill you, anyway.”

Receiving little comfort from his comrades, Trask began a continuous low moan, his eyes rolled back like he was trying to look at the top of his head.

“What the hell kinda Injuns is these, anyway?” Clell asked. “Blackfoot?”

Impatient to mount up and get under way once more, Fry replied, “No, Snakes. Now get on with it.” His concern at the moment was whether or not these eight dead Indians had been part of a larger band nearby.

Clell nodded. Selecting a flat rock the size of a dinner plate, he bent over Trask again. “All right, hold him steady, boys.” He started to administer the first blow to the arrow shaft, then paused a moment. “Maybe a couple of you other fellers better grab a’holt of his feet. I don’t wanna git kicked in the head.”

Hicks and Caldwell each sat on a foot, and Clell was now ready to drive the arrow through. Trask screamed out in agony as the first jarring blow sent a searing pain through his body, causing his back to arch up from the sandy creek bank. He withstood three more excruciating blows from Clell’s stone before he fainted dead away. Clell continued to hammer, finally splitting the wooden shaft, but the arrowhead refused to budge. Defeated, he sat back on his heels and peered at the unconscious man. “Hell, Fry, it ain’t comin’ out. It’s up agin somethin’ solid—bone, I reckon. All I’m doin’ is drivin’ it in deeper.”

“Shit!” Fry exhaled in disgust. “Well, break it off close as you can and tie a rag over it. I reckon he won’t be the first son of a bitch walkin’ around with an arrowhead in him.”

Clell shrugged, took out his knife, and went to work on the splintered arrow shaft. “What about what Caldwell said? About that shit they put all over the arrowhead?”

Fry shrugged his indifference. He was already thinking that Trask would now be a liability.

Jack Pitt, an amused observer to this point, spoke up. “Hell, there ain’t likely anything on that arrowhead. This sure as hell weren’t no war party, and I don’t reckon that Injun would wanna put anything on his arrow that would spoil the meat if he was huntin’.” Knowing Fry’s concerns, Pitt looked at his partner and added, “He’ll be all right, just stiff and sore for a while.”

This seemed to satisfy Fry. “All right, then. Throw some water on him, and let’s round up them Injun ponies. It’s best not to hang around here any longer.”

After Trask was revived, he was helped up on his horse by Clell and Hicks. Protesting feebly, he was roughly seated, after which Pitt informed him to hang on or fall off and be left behind. Knowing Pit was deadly serious, Trask lay on his horse’s neck, his good hand wound tightly in the animal’s mane. They rode toward the south end of the tiny valley, driving the Indian ponies ahead of them, hoping to find a pass that would take them through the mountains ahead.

Pleased with the stroke of luck that had permitted them to encounter the small party of Indians, Fry was already appraising the newly acquired horseflesh. It couldn’t have been any better: eight horses, one per man. He, of course, would claim first pick, so he looked the little herd over carefully. He smiled to himself when he reviewed his day’s work—eight horses and eight dead Indians, not counting the baby. Nice and neat.

*   *   *

Simon Fry and Jack Pitt had been together for quite a few years: since the spring of ’67, in fact, when both men had followed the rush for gold to California. They were not as fortunate as some who had gotten there earlier and skimmed fair amounts of dust from the many obscure streams that showed a hint of color. Both men had soon become disenchanted with the hard physical toil of placer mining. Being of like mind and disposition, they had begun to look for an easier way to obtain the precious flakes that drove so many to labor in the clear, rushing streams.

Fry had never held a fondness for hard work, preferring to use his brain instead—a quality that had enabled him to rise to a vice presidency in a St. Louis bank. His impatience to await the time-honored rewards for long, faithful service to that institution had prompted him to take certain shortcuts to attain his financial goals. He was doing quite well for himself until the senior vice president, Jonah Henderson, had accidentally caught him in the process of diverting funds to his personal account. Faced with ruination, if not prison as well, Fry had offered to cut Henderson in as a partner. But the senior officer was an honest man and had consequently informed Fry that he was bound to report his findings to the board. Without hesitation, and with no feelings of remorse, Fry had laid Henderson out with a poker. Leaving the senior vice president lying on the floor of the bank with a fractured skull, Fry had decided it was an opportune time to join the many adventurers harking to the call of gold in the West. And like many who left the East for reasons less than noble, he had left his real name behind as well: abandoning the disgraced name of Steadman Finch to the gossips of St. Louis, he had taken on the name of Simon Fry.

In Jack Pitt, Fry had found the perfect partner. Big and physically strong, Pitt was a deep-thinking man of few words. And although Pitt normally did his own thinking, he was not averse to letting Fry call the shots as long as he didn’t disagree in principle. Unlike Fry, Pitt had never held an honest job, having always found it easier to take what he needed from the physically inferior. The two had established an equitable partnership from the first.

Being smart enough to see that only a small percentage of honest prospectors gained the vast riches that everyone hoped for—and ruthless enough to take advantage of honest men—Fry and Pitt gave up the pan and sluice box and sought their fortunes with powder and ball. As Fry so eloquently expressed it, a pick and shovel were not the only tools with which to mine. A Winchester rifle and a Colt revolver worked just as well and raised one hell of a lot less sweat.

At first, the two combed the mountain streams, seeking out isolated claims and murdering any unlucky miner who happened to cross their path. As time went on, they picked up additional partners from the riffraff who followed the gold strikes—unprincipled men like themselves, who had no qualms when it came to splitting a lone prospector’s skull for a little sack of yellow dust. Their gang of cutthroats grew to eight, an optimum number according to Fry. Any more, and they might become unmanageable; yet they were enough to deal with those prospectors quick to grab their rifles. If they had been a military unit, Fry would have been captain and Pitt his lieutenant. The rest were expendable.

*   *   *

Mendel Knox appeared at the top of the rise, reined his horse to a stop, and waved the others on.

“Looks like Mendel’s found somethin’,” Clell offered.

“I hope to hell he’s found a way to get off of this damn mountain.” Fry was in a foul mood. They had spent a good part of the morning traversing a lofty mountain, looking for a way through to the western slope. Every trail seemed to dead-end into the shear side of another mountain whose slopes were a thick wall of lodgepole pines. All morning they could see what appeared to be a gap in the peaks that promised to be a valley, but they had been unsuccessful in finding a pass that might lead them to it.

It had not been a productive summer for Fry’s band of outlaws. When things got too hot for them in California, they had followed the late strikes in Montana territory. But they had found the claims too few and too hard to get to, not lucrative enough for their needs. The one sizable strike, at Rottenwood Creek, had looked to be prime pickings until a vigilante committee was formed, making it too risky to remain in that vicinity. So now Fry grumbled to himself as he rode up yet another rise, in need of a place to winter and with a wounded man on his hands.

“What did you find, Mendel?” Pitt asked when the group caught up.

“A way outta these mountains,” Mendel answered, a smug grin on his face. “There’s an old game trail on the other side of this ridge. It leads through a pass, and that valley we’ve been lookin’ for is on the other side.” Fry started to say something, but Mendel cut him off. “And that ain’t all. There’s a little settlement in that there valley.”

This piqued Fry’s interest right away. He looked at Pitt and smiled. “This might be a good day, after all. Let’s go have a look.”

*   *   *

“Whaddaya think, Fry?” Jack Pitt prodded, leaning forward with his foot propped upon a large rock and his elbow supported on his knee. Like his partner, Pitt had been studying the little settlement far below them in the valley. It seemed peaceful enough, with log houses scattered some distance apart on both sides of a strongly flowing river. When Fry didn’t answer immediately, Pitt said, “Looks ripe for the pickin’ to me.”

Fry nodded briefly to acknowledge his partner’s comments, but he still didn’t answer right away. He was sizing up the homesteads that were visible, wondering how many more were hidden from view in the valley below and estimating the potential for resistance. Behind him, he could already hear comments from the others, anxious to ride down and raid the settlement. When Wiley Johnson voiced the question “What are we waitin’ for?” Fry turned and answered, “We’re waiting for when I say.”

Wiley shrugged but held his tongue. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who called the shots for the gang. To a man, they conceded that Fry was the brains behind their actions, and each knew that any challenge to that fact would be dealt with forcefully by Jack Pitt.

Turning back to Pitt, Fry shared his thoughts on the matter. “I’m thinking we need a place to hole up for the winter. It’s already fall. We’ll be up to our asses in snow before you know it. This place looks like it might be just what the doctor ordered. It’s damn sure isolated enough, and it looks like a bunch of farmers to me. If there’s a rifle in every cabin down there, it wouldn’t be enough to cause us any concern.”

Pitt saw the wisdom in Fry’s thinking. Ordinarily, his philosophy was simply to attack and destroy, but with the coming cold weather, the thought of holing up in a small settlement appealed to him. And this one was so far off the main trails that they could hardly expect any chance of outside help for the settlers when the time came to pillage it. He nodded his head in approval.

“Maybe they got a doctor,” Trask groaned, feeling too sick and feverish to gawk at the collection of cabins in the valley. He had taken advantage of the pause to lie down against a tree, resting his wounded shoulder, which was woefully swollen and painful.

“Maybe he could chop that arm off fer ya,” Mendel said and laughed. Several of the others laughed with him, totally devoid of compassion for their wounded comrade. “You could keep it to use as a backscratcher.”

“To hell with the doctor,” Wiley blustered. “Wonder if they got any women down there?” His question was answered with hoots of approval from several of the others.

“Quiet, dammit!” Fry ordered. “Let’s get something straight right now. There ain’t gonna be no killing and raping—at least, not right away.” His words were met with groans of surprise from the men, and he waited for the protests to die down before explaining his decision. “We need a good, warm place to ride out the winter. This place looks as good as any to me. But if we go charging down there, killing and burning, a lot of ’em will get away—especially those on the other side of the river. Even if we killed all of ’em, then we wouldn’t have anybody to do the work for us. That’s why we’re going down there peaceful-like. If we play our cards right, we just might have ourselves a nice, comfortable winter. When the snows close up these passes, we can do what we want. Nobody’ll be able to get out of this valley to ride for help. Maybe come spring, things in Montana will cool off enough to hit the gold claims again.”

“How the hell are we just gonna ride in and take over if we don’t shoot a few of ’em?” Mendel asked. “What’s gonna keep some of ’em from taking potshots at us?”

“They’re gonna welcome us like saviors,” Fry replied, grinning slyly, “because we’ll be coming to save them from the Injuns.” He paused to see if there were any more questions. When, in spite of the many puzzled expressions, no one spoke, he went on. “Now, let’s get those uniforms out of the pack and get ready to give these poor folks some protection from the Injuns.”

Stolen from a quartermaster’s wagon, the uniforms were an odd assortment—a few garrison tunics, an officer’s sword (which Fry strapped to his side), one pair of blue wool trousers that Hicks wore because he was the only one small enough to wear them, and a half-dozen campaign hats. The gang made a ragtag bunch of soldiers, but Fry thought the uniforms adequate to show at least some semblance of military bearing.

When they were all outfitted and ready to ride, Fry told them how they were to answer if questioned by the folks in the settlement. “It’s best if you just keep your mouth shut and let me and Pitt do the talking. But if anybody asks, we’re part of the Montana militia, and we’ve been chasing renegade Injuns.” He paused, making up his story as he went along. “And we’ve been ordered to winter here to protect this settlement.” He hesitated once more, looking from one face to another. His eyes narrowed as he said, “Now, boys, this might be a real sweet winter with no trouble a’tall if we all mind our manners—and nobody goes off half-cocked. If we play this thing right, we might see the other side of winter fat and sassy. Whaddaya say, boys?”

He was answered with nods and grunts of agreement from all the men. Clell Adams wanted to know what he was supposed to call him. “Captain Fry” was the answer.

“Cap’n it is, then,” Clell chuckled, “but don’t expect me to do no damn salutin’.” This brought a laugh from the others.

“Hell,” Pitt snorted, “the only time you ever bring your hand up to your face is when you’ve got a drink of whiskey in it.” His comment brought another round of chuckling.

“Or when you’re a’pickin’ your nose,” Wiley added.

“All right, then,” Fry said. “Let’s go down and meet the good folks in the valley. And try to act like soldiers.”

*   *   *

Horace Spratte looked up from his work to catch sight of a party of eight riders making its way slowly down the north ridge. Canyon Creek didn’t get many visitors, especially this time of year, so Horace was naturally curious.

He and his wife, Effie, had found their way into the valley little more than a year before, having taken over the old Kendall place. They had started out from Council Bluffs with a party headed for Oregon, but Effie had come down with consumption, forcing them to drop out at Fort Laramie. It was late fall before Effie had been well enough to travel again, too late to continue on to Oregon. Luckily for them, they had met an old trapper and guide named Monk Grissom, who had offered to take them to Canyon Creek to wait out the winter.

The Sprattes had been welcomed in the valley, and, since there was a sturdy cabin available, they had found it convenient to settle there until the spring. It had concerned them somewhat that the Kendall homestead was available because of the Indian attack that had resulted in the deaths of John Kendall and his wife. But Reverend Lindstrom had assured them that the threat of Indian trouble was greatly reduced and should not be of concern.

John Kendall had been one of the original settlers to accompany Reverend Lindstrom to Canyon Creek. A tall, rawboned man, he had married a woman from the Shoshoni camp on the far side of the western ridge. They had had a son, Luke. In 1868, Chief Washakie had moved his people to a permanent reservation east of the Wind River Mountains. Not long after, the settlement had been hit with the only raid by hostile Indians it had ever experienced. John Kendall and his wife had both been slaughtered by the Ute raiding party that swept through the valley. The raiders had hit the Colefield place on their way out, killing Robert Mashburn, another of the original settlers. The boy, Luke, was away at the village of his mother’s people on the reservation when his parents had been killed. When he returned to find that his parents were dead, his initial inclination had been to return to the Shoshoni village. Rufus Colefield, Robert’s father-in-law, had persuaded the boy to remain in the valley and live with him and his now-widowed daughter, Katie. Luke had soon developed a strong bond with the old man and his daughter even though most folks in the valley had figured he would return to his mother’s people. Since the Ute raid, there had been no more trouble with Indians.

Katie Mashburn’s husband, Robert, the third victim of the Indian raid, was sorely missed in the community. The widow never talked about that dreadful day when the Utes had swept down on their homestead, and Reverend Lindstrom had told Effie that it was best not to bring up the subject. Effie, from her infrequent contact with Katie, would hardly have broached such a subject, anyway. Katie was a strange, lonely woman who kept pretty much to herself. Doing a man’s work on the little patch of ground she and her father farmed, Katie never seemed to have time for visiting or socializing in general with the other women of the valley. And she was the only woman in Canyon Creek who constantly wore a pistol strapped around her waist. When Horace commented on it to Monk Grissom, Monk told him that Katie had taken to wearing it after the Utes killed her husband, vowing she’d never be caught without some protection again. According to Monk, Katie be lieved that if she had been armed on that day, she could have stood at her husband’s side instead of hiding in a corner of the garden. Newcomers to Canyon Creek found the young woman with the sad face almost unapproachable. She preferred to keep to herself, mixing only with her father and Luke Kendall, the half-breed boy who lived with them.

When spring came, Horace and Effie had decided to settle in the valley permanently in spite of the sad history associated with the prime piece of bottomland by the river. The little settlement hadn’t grown much in the last