The Young Riders

The Journey

By Gabrielle Lawson

Chapter Two

Buck readied his horse, still unsure, but excited now about the trip and seeing Eagle Feather again. He tightened his saddle and then led the horse out of the barn. Lou was waiting for him with some provisions which she tucked into his saddle bags. "You sure you don't need the buckboard?"

Buck shook his head. "It'd be too slow. Besides, she can ride. I'll pick up another horse in St. Joe."

Lou stroked the horse's neck. "Okay. Be careful. You know there's been trouble lately."

"I know," Buck sighed. Indian trouble. It tore him in two every time he heard those words. A couple of farms had been attacked recently by the Arapaho, who had apparently decided that they had a golden opportunity to get rid of the whites while the Army was busy back east. "You, too. You're the one riding right through Indian territory. I'm going east, remember?"

She smiled. "I remember. And I'm looking forward to seeing her again, so I'll be sure to get back here safe and sound. 'Sides, I don't want Kid nagging at me any more'n you do." She patted the horse. "Now get goin'. You got a stage to catch." She reached up for his shoulder. Buck tried not to laugh as she had to go up on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek.

It was about two in the afternoon when he left. The sun was high, just over his shoulders, warming the back of his coat a little. Winter would be coming soon. He could feel it in the air that rushed by his face and hands as the horse charged across the plains. She loved to run and he loved to let her. But they had a fairly long trip to make and with the exception of a camp for the night, they'd be riding straight through. He didn't want to overwork her and wear her out. He kept her at a steady, swift pace, but below the real speed he knew she was capable of.

The sun moved away from him as he rode, beyond his shoulders to his back. The sky above deepened and the air grew colder. Buck knew he'd have to stop for camp in an hour or so.

He slowed the horse as he approached a shallow stream and then stopped her so she could drink. He slipped off her back and decided he was thirsty as well. He pulled his canteen down and took a drink. While he waited for his horse, he took in his surroundings. The Kansas plains were flat and stark for the most part. But near the stream there were plenty of trees whose leaves had now dried and turned shades of red, brown, and yellow. The wind blew softly, rustling the drying leaves, loosening some of them from their branches' hold. Soon these trees would be bare, the grass brown and withered. Another year was moving toward its end, its death. Buck swallowed a pang of hurt with that thought. Ike's face had met him in the leaves just then.

He turned from the trees and focused on the trickling water. The stream babbled and trickled on, oblivious to the change of seasons. Only winter could catch its attention, freezing it in its journey until spring set it free once more. He thought of his own journey and what awaited him in St. Joe. A woman, but not just any woman. A woman who shared his heritage, who could understand him and accept him as he was. There was still enough risk to worry him. She may not love him or him her. But it was a chance, and that was more than he usually got. The colors of the leaves he turned from were reflected in the glistening stream as it flowed, and he was reminded of the circle that life was. Yes, there was death. But there was also life, and life, like these autumn colors, could be beautiful. These were the colors of his people, of the Indians of the Plains, the colors he remembered from his mother's village. The colors and the memories comforted him.

He almost wished it was later in the day. He would have liked to camp here in this peaceful, untroubled place. He reached over to replace the canteen, but it flew out of his grip as he felt something hard and fast pull back on his right shoulder. He fell slowly, like in a dream, and became aware of the pain and heat before he hit the ground. Only then did his mind tell him he'd heard a shot.

I've been shot! his mind screamed as time rushed to catch up with him again. The second shot came right before he could get his gun out of his holster. The horse, agitated already, became frantic, rearing up and stomping nearly on top of him. He saw red on her neck, and she stumbled and fell, collapsing to her knees on his left hip and chest. Her weight pinned his gun down, with his hand still on the handle. Warm, dark blood spilled onto his chest as the mare struggled to get up. Each movement crushed him beneath her. He felt his ribs crack and move and found it hard to breathe. He tried to push her off with his right arm, but it wouldn't move where he wanted it to. His left wrist snapped with a sharp pop, but he couldn't even get enough breath to scream.

Another shot rang out, followed by a sickening thud, and the horse stopped struggling and fell over. Buck was able to roll just in time to keep from getting caught beneath her. He heard laughter and tried to get his gun free. But he couldn't close his fingers around it. His shoulder burned beneath him, and he fell back again into the bloodied pebbles that lined the stream.

It had happened so quickly, he'd barely had to time to realize what had happened at all. "Don't move, Injun," someone sneered. The voice had come from the direction of Buck's feet. He tried to look that way, but his head felt heavy, and his chest hurt when he tried to lean up.

"That second shot was meant for you," the voice continued. "The third, well, I couldn't leave the poor creature to suffer, could I?"

Buck tried to listen past the pounding of his heart that echoed in his skull. He stopped struggling with his breath and concentrated on the babble of the stream. It sung to him, like his mother's lullabies when he was a child. Time slowed again and he could feel the footsteps in the pebbles as the man approached. The leaves cried out beneath the man's feet, until finally Buck's eyes could see him.

"You're not all Indian, are ya?" the man asked, but the sound of his voice floated beneath the surface of the stream. "Half-breed, I bet. I bet you told 'em where we was so they could find us. You speak English, half-breed?"

Buck tried to take the breath to answer, but the air resisted his efforts. "I ride-" he gasped out, "for the Pony Express."

The man looked over at the horse lying dead half in the water. "I don't see no mail bag."

There wasn't one, of course. "Special pick-up," Buck told him, not quite lying, "in St. Joe." He turned his head toward the horse. "Branded," he said, hoping the man would understand.

He did. "Ya prolly stole that horse."

"No," Buck choked out before another wave of pain shook through him. He couldn't think clearly enough to come up with another argument or piece of evidence to show the man he was being truthful. But then, Buck was fairly certain by now that the man had no real interest in the truth. He still trained his gun on Buck, though Buck was lying prone on the ground beside his fallen horse. Buck knew he was helpless. Neither of his arms would cooperate to hold a weapon, and the man had not even tried to take Buck's gun or knife.

Buck wanted to let unconsciousness take him, but he forced himself to look at the man. He was of average height and had a stocky build. But his arms, bare as they were to the shoulders even in this crisp weather, were muscular. His shirt, no more than an undershirt, was dirty with sweat and soot. He sported a short, unkempt beard and a loose wide-brimmed hat. He wore a Colt on his hip and carried a long musket in his hands.

Buck wondered why the man didn't just finish him off like he had the horse. "What do you want?" he asked, though by now his mouth felt like cotton, and it was hard to form the words.

"What do I want?" the man repeated. He stepped closer and knelt down at Buck's side, finally taking the gun from Buck's holster. Buck gasped as the movement brushed against his arm. "I want every blasted one of you to burn in hell, that's what. I want you to suffer like I did after you Indians slaughtered my family."

The sun was setting behind the man, its last few rays sprinkling in through the leaves on the trees. To Buck's pain-clouded mind, he looked evil, bathed in dark shadows and lit by red light. Buck felt his skin prickle with cold and fear. "Arapaho," he tried to argue. "I'm Kiowa."

"Indian is Indian," the man spat back. "And there ain't no good one 'cept a dead one."

He holstered his own gun and reached over to get Buck's knife from the sheath on his boot. Buck thought of trying to kick the man, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Where would he go even if he could manage to get away? His horse was dead, his ribs were broken, and his arms were practically useless.

The man got up and walked around Buck to his horse. He used Buck's knife to cut the reins off the bridle. That done, he apparently had no more use for the knife, because he threw it down on the ground.

Buck knew what was coming next. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the stream, listening desperately for the water and its soothing song. He felt fire in his shoulder as the man moved his right arm, putting a strain in his shoulder. Buck clenched his teeth to keep from screaming, but he couldn't stop the moan that escaped his throat. He forgot to breathe when the man lifted his left arm.

But that was nothing compared to the tying. The man hesitated a moment at Buck's left wrist and then tied the leather rein above the wrist, just over the break. After the man pulled the leather strap tight, Buck's voice pushed past his pride and ripped through his throat.

"Don't die on me yet, Injun," the man told him, but Buck could barely hear him.

The man grabbed Buck by the collar and pulled him to a seated position. Buck cried out again as jagged bone pushed into his side.

"On your feet!" the man ordered. Buck heard his voice but the words made no sense. His head dropped back and he saw the dark blue sky past the shadowy leaves of the trees. And then he saw nothing.

It was dark when Buck woke again. Either that or his eyes wouldn't work. He shivered, feeling the cold creep up under his coat. It found the wet places on his chest and shoulders and slipped inside him. It forced him awake, lifted his thoughts past the pain to where he was.

It was dark, but not so dark that his eyes couldn't adjust. He was lying on the ground. He could feel the dirt against the side of his face. His shoulder was caught beneath him. His other hand throbbed below the leather strap that kept his arms together.

If he laid still, did nothing but breathe lightly, the pain in his ribs was bearable. But he couldn't be still. What had happened was still fuzzy to him, but he remembered enough. And his bound hands were enough to remind him that he was in trouble. He closed his eyes again and listened carefully.

Crickets. All around him. Beyond them was the wind. It whistled lightly, close by, but he couldn't feel it. He was in some sort of structure, something small. Past the wind. Footfalls, distant, not coming closer. A whinny. Horses. In his mind he heard the gunshots again, saw his horse stumble. His ribs hurt where she had crushed him.

He pushed the memory down. He needed to get away. He waited a few seconds more, listening for the man who had shot him and killed his horse. But there was nothing beyond the horses he heard.

It hurt, but Buck bit back the pain. He held his breath to keep from making a sound as he pushed himself up by his elbows. His head swam when he sat up, and he had to wait again, releasing his breath slowly through his mouth. He needed to cough but he resisted.

He sat back on his ankles and waited. The pain stilled back down again. Except for his hand. That was constant.

He could better see where he was now. He was in some sort of shed. There were boxes around him and a bench to his right. He couldn't see a door, but there had to be one. Maybe it was behind him. There had to be a barn, too, or a stable. There were horses. At least one. If he could get to it, he could get away.

He looked down at his hands. Could he even get on a horse? He had to try. Using the workbench and his elbow, he stood, fighting away the dizziness and swallowing the pain. He kept his breath shallow, to keep the pressure off his ribs as much as to keep quiet.

He turned and slowly, carefully, made his way past the boxes. He could see a sliver of moonlight on the floor. The door. He stepped up to it and listened again. Without meaning to, he leaned against the wall. It creaked as it gave way, and he cursed the sound. No time now. He had to go.

Buck pushed the door open, releasing a much louder noise from the tin shed. He could see the dark silhouette of the barn only a few yards away. Forgetting noise, he hurried to it, anxious to get to a horse.

He used his left elbow to edge the door open enough that he could get through it. He hesitated though, having noticed the house behind him. He turned, watching it, expecting the man to come charging out the door. But nothing happened. No sound, no lights. Nothing.

As he turned to go into the barn, the darkness inside became brighter. Buck turned toward the light. A lantern hung from a post near one of the horses' stalls. And the man stood beside the lantern with a pistol in his hand. Buck's pistol. He cocked it.

"Now ya fixin' to steal one of my horses, Injun?" the man asked. He was disheveled. Bits of straw clung to his clothes and hair.

Buck didn't reply. That had been his plan, but he felt it was justified. The man, whoever he was, wasn't likely to feel the same.

"I figured you might try somethin' once ya woke up," the man went on, ignoring his own question. "So I slept here in the barn." He stepped closer. "You're a crafty one. I didn't think ya had it in ya to stand after what I done. But now, I reckon I ain't done enough."

He lowered the gun and Buck almost hoped the man would let him go despite his words. But then he saw the man had something in his other hand.

The horses bucked in their stalls at the impact. Buck fell again as his right knee buckled and exploded in pain. His hands brushed against the door before he hit the ground, and his broken ribs pushed the breath from his lungs.

He heard the man though. "Now ya can't stand no more. Maybe you'll stay put so's I can get a decent night's sleep."

Again, Buck couldn't see. The pain in his knee, his arms, his ribs, flashed so brightly that he was blinded. His whole leg felt like it was on fire.

"Ya can't stay here," the man said. He sounded distant again. But his hands felt too close when they reached under Buck's shoulders and lifted him off the ground. "You're disturbin' the horses."

Buck fought to keep his one good leg under him, if only to ease the pain in the rest of him, but it was no use. The man dragged him too fast. He dumped him unceremoniously back onto the dirt and Buck, somehow, knew he was back in the shed.

"All that restin' must've given you some strength back," the man was saying. Buck thought he sounded foreign, and he was surprised to understand the man's words. "We can take care of that."

The man was back at his hands and for a moment, Buck felt relief wash down his right arm. But his left was still tied tightly and now it was yanked, twisting him around even as the man lifted him up again.

Buck was pushed back against something hard and the man went for his right arm again. Only the man's fist wrapped around his collar had kept him from dropping to the ground again, but now that was gone and Buck collapsed.

His arms hit the surface of the workbench and he screamed. He felt as if he'd been struck by lightning. His arms, hitched up behind him, kept him from reaching the relative comfort of the dirt floor. The electric pain sped from his hand and shoulder across his chest and up into his throat.

He pulled his legs back, both of them, and there was pain there, too. He forced himself up on his knees, and tried to keep his weight on his left leg. But it was hard. He had no strength anywhere else.

The man's voice was close and clear, even through the pain. "Now you ain't gettin' no rest."

TBC