"Mr. Favor! Mr. Wishbone! I sure wasn't expectin' you!" Mushy reached up to shake each man's hand in turn, a happy smile glued to his face. Craning his neck, he looked past Wishbone's horse, the smile turning to an expression of puzzlement.
"I'm right enough glad to see you, but where's the cavalry?"
"You thought we was the cavalry?" Wish grinned, shaking his head. "Boy, the two a us here are the onliest cavalry you're gonna see around these parts!"
Mushy scratched his head. "But I heard 'em…least I thought I did and I know I saw the dust from their horses!"
Gil Favor dismounted, reaching up to untie a length of rope from his saddle horn. "See this rope, Mushy?" The young man nodded. "One end's attached to my saddle and the other to this." Favor coiled the lariat, quickly drawing the rope in. At its end was attached a large uprooted brush clump. Wishbone was busy doing the same.
"It's an old Indian trick, though I'm bettin' the Army uses it, too. Drag some brush behind a horse goin' at a fast clip; looks like ten men instead a one. As for the noise…well that's easy. Hell, Wishbone here can holler like a small army all by himself. Nobody should know that better than you, Mushy!" Favor smiled, good-naturedly cuffing the former cook's louse on the shoulder.
"That's sure enough true, Mr. Favor. Nobody knows how loud Mr. Wishbone can yell better than me!" Mushy nodded vigorously.
Had Wish been paying attention, he might've taken offense at the light-hearted insult, but he'd seen Pete and there were things on his mind other than levity. The sight of the scout lying pale and still beneath the heavy buffalo robe was enough to sober any man. He was a bit disturbed when, to get close to Pete, he had to muscle his way past a very verbal, wildly gesticulating old Apache.
"What happened here, Mushy? How bad's Pete hurt and how in hell do you shut this old man up? I can't barely hear myself think?"
Mushy crouched near the litter, as close as he could get what with the two old healers jockeying for position near the patient. He raised his voice to be heard over Spotted Bird's continued orations. "Don't know exactly what happened, Mr. Wishbone. Looked like a lance wound, what little I seen of it…and it's gotta be bad. Pete ain't moved much nor spoke much neither."
Mr. Favor's hand on his shoulder got Mushy's attention. "I need to talk to you, over there." Favor indicated a spot away from the commotion.
"Sit down, Mushy." The boss pulled a cigarillo from his breast pocket and lit it, inhaling deeply before settling his long frame down on a fallen log.
Mushy took the cue and also sat. He felt ill at ease, like a child about to be walloped with a strop for some misdeed. Looking anywhere but at Mr. Favor helped him keep his emotions under control.
"What happened after you left the drive, Mushy? It's clear some of it wasn't good," Favor angled his head toward the wounded scout before taking a deep drag on the cigarillo, exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke which wafted around his head like a blue halo.
Mushy sighed deeply. He didn't want to leave any of the important information out of the story, but he was afraid he might. A trickle of sweat inched its way out from beneath his kepi. Reaching up he removed the battered gray hat, wiping a sleeve back across his forehead, playing for time.
The boss noticed as he was wont to do. Tossing the smoke aside he leaned in closely, speaking softly. "It's okay, Mushy. Just tell the story the way you remember it. "
Mushy plunged ahead, encouraged by the boss's tone and his obvious understanding of the young man's limits. Moments passed with Favor listening intently as the story unfolded, elbows resting on knees, chin in hand. He saw no need to interrupt the narrative to ask questions; Mushy's story flowed well and his attention to detail amazed a man who thought he knew his cook's louse very well indeed, though clearly not as well as he'd thought. As Mushy's story drew to a close, Favor leaned back, shaking his head in astonishment.
Naturally Mushy viewed this as disbelief on the boss's part. In this, he was mistaken.
"So, Mushy, after Yellow Sky and the baby were safe with her people, you turned around and led a rescue party right back to where you'd left Pete Nolan?"
Mushy shook his head. "No, sir, Mr. Favor, not exactly…when I got back with Spotted Bird and them other Apaches, Pete wasn't where I left him. For a minute I was scared…scared that I'd got all twisted up and went to the wrong place! But then I saw where he'd dragged himself off to better cover and I followed. He was there all right and Mr. Favor?"
Gil nodded.
"I ain't never been as happy to see anybody as I was to see Pete Nolan!"
Gil looked at Mushy, looked him square in the eye and held his gaze steady so the young man would know how sincerely meant his next words would be. "I've never given you the chance to prove yourself and for that I'm sorry, sorry as a man can be. When the chips were down and they surely were down in this situation, you came through like a thoroughbred."
Favor took a deep breath. Feelings would be hurt by his next words, but that couldn't be helped. "I know this won't set well with Wishbone, but don't let him talk you into coming back on the drive. He thinks it's what's best for you, but it's not. Take what life's offering, Mushy. Marry that little lady. Make a home for yourself. Be happy." Favor stuck out his right hand and Mushy took it, the handshake warm and solid.
"Between you and me, Mr. Favor…I never even thought a comin' back on the drive. Mr. Wishbone can talk till he's blue in the face and my mind won't change."
Favor nodded in approval. "I'm glad to hear it."
---
Wishbone had a hard time even getting a good look at Pete's injury. For some unfathomable reason, the medicine man, Spotted Bird, kept getting in the way, tapping the scout on the forehead, repeating over and over as if Wish didn't already know it, the wounded man's name.
"Petenolan, Petenolan, Petenolan," the Indian repeated, running the two words together as if they were one while tapping Pete's forehead with a wizened finger each time the word left his lips. The expression on Spotted Bird's parchment-like face was enthusiastic.
"I know, I know!" Wishbone said, exasperated almost beyond belief. "Pete Nolan…yes, I know!" Finally, he shoved the old man's arm aside and bent over Nolan, folding back the heavy buffalo robe and peeling back the deerskin bandage to gauge the seriousness of the wound. Although it was of a decent width, the incision appeared clean and there was no sign of infection, for the present.
Repositioning the flattened herbal poultice, Wishbone sniffed the stems and leaves, attempting to pinpoint the contents through their rather potent mix of scents. Nodding in satisfaction, he spoke aloud, to himself, but also to Spotted Bird. "Woulda chose those same herbs myself, mostly."
Spotted Bird grinned as if he understood the off-handed praise, then began his "Petenolan" litany again, much to Wishbone's disgust. Only the reappearance of Mr. Favor and Mushy kept the elderly Indian from becoming a victim of some gruesome form of homicide at the hands of G.W. Wishbone.
Before Mr. Favor could ask, Wish gave him the low down on the scout's condition. "Bad, but could be worse. Can't see that he's got infection and the fever's not too high. All that could change mighty fast iffen he ain't kept warm and dry for the next week or so and that bandaging changed frequent-like."
Gil Favor nodded. "We move out fast and keep movin' till we get to the Apache village. No tellin' when the Comanche'll show up again, especially if they realize all that dust came from two tricky cowboys and not half the U.S. Cavalry."
The group lit out in a hurry, reaching the Apache camp well before sunset, their greeting upon arrival not the one anybody expected. Weapons were quickly confiscated while warriors fell upon Pete Nolan's litter like a pack of wolves on a wounded deer. Before Mushy, Mr. Favor or Wishbone could raise a voice, or a hand, in protest, the wounded scout was tied hand and foot and the rope which bound him tossed over a convenient tree limb, Pete lifted off his feet, swinging and helpless.
Yellow Sky ran to Mushy and in her halting English warned him not to interfere – not he nor either of his friends for their lives and Pete's were at stake. Mushy nodded and looked to Mr. Favor and Mr. Wishbone to see if they, too, had understood Yellow Sky's warning. They had, though neither took it well. Wishbone's complexion had taken on a deep ruddy hue and his hands were clenched at his sides as he fought to control his anger.
Mr. Favor swore beneath his breath in words the young cook's louse had never heard him use, but to Yellow Sky he raised a question. "Can I speak to Pete? It's important!"
The girl raised her hand, indicating Favor was to wait. She disappeared and each moment she was gone seemed an eternity. When she returned she nodded to Favor, holding up one finger to indicate the measure of time.
When Favor moved through to Pete's side, no one prevented it. Nolan looked awful, stretched out like he was, toes barely brushing the ground, all the weight borne by already torn wrists. The wound at his side bled freely through the bandaging and Pete's color had gone gray as granite. "You knew this would happen if we brought you here. You knew it all along, didn't you?" Gil accused, hoping the scout would tell him it wasn't so, yet knowing it was.
Raising his head Pete whispered the answer. "I knew," he said.
Gil felt helpless, helpless at this turn of events and mad as hell – at Pete. "Why?" he asked, the fury in his voice undisguised. "Why? We could've gotten you back to the herd. Pete…this wasn't necessary!"
"You're wrong, Boss, It's necessary…to me…and to them." Slowly Nolan turned his head, indicating the gathered Indians. "I killed a boy. It's only right I stand trial before his people. It's their way…hell, Boss…it's our way." The dark head dropped back down onto the chest and Gil couldn't tell if Pete had decided the interview was over or if he'd passed out.
"It was self-defense," Favor added bleakly. There was no reply. The interview indeed was over.
The hour or so preceding Pete's trial proved a nightmare; the helpless Nolan fair game for any of the gathered Indians and woe be it to any man who attempted to prevent the abuse; armed guards stood ready to intervene.
That inflicted by the women proved the worst as they acted as if the hanging body did not belong to a living, breathing man, but was only a source to satisfy their innate curiosity. Ripping the already torn shirt from his body, they poked and prodded the numerous wounds until blood freely flowed, the women acting surprised that the fluid upon their hands was as red as their own. Some, fascinated by the thick curly hair, cut away random locks as souvenirs. Still others, shyer, perhaps more gentle of nature, were content to stroke the days old growth of bright copper beard on cheeks and chin, speaking excitedly among themselves, exclaiming and pointing to the white skin or the hair on arms and chest of which their men had none.
Only Yellow Sky and one other woman, her mother, sitting silent and straight on the ground nearby, her tiny grandson cradled in her lap, the infant swaddled in a brightly striped blanket, refrained from such amusements.
During all of this Pete suffered in silence even while his friends raged and not so silently, all save Mushy who, like his friend, kept silent. The young man wondered what kind of people these Apache were to treat a helpless man in so cruel a way. He questioned whether it was a mistake making a home among them. Yet when he looked down at the girl sitting close beside him, her body leaning into his, her attention focused on Pete Nolan, amber eyes bright with unshed tears, he had the answer to his unspoken question.
Switching attention from Yellow Sky to Pete Mushy noticed that the scout's body, suspended from the tree limb now swayed with the stiff wind that had suddenly come up, a chill wind from nowhere that got Nolan to shivering. A light mist fell.
A rifle shot stunned the entire camp into silence as Juan Castro, chief of the Lipan Apache, exited his wikiup. Tall, dignified, well-dressed in exquisitely beaded buckskin shirt and leggings, exuding authority, there was no mistaking his status within the tribe. Pete Nolan's trial began.
It was no use attempting to follow the proceedings. Even when Pete spoke in his own defense, he did so in halting Apache. Favor and Wishbone exchanged confused looks and the one time they dared speak to each other their action was met with a sharp rebuke from the Apache guard standing nearby. Wishbone's narrow-eyed 'if looks could kill' expression brought a raised rifle butt in return and a poke in the ribs from the boss. Recognizing a stalemate, Wish turned his attention back to the trial. It was Yellow Sky's turn to speak.
Rising to her feet in quiet dignity, the tiny woman walked to where Pete Nolan hung suspended. In a voice much stronger than anyone might have guessed, Yellow Sky began.
---
The drizzle which got Pete shivering to where he couldn't keep his teeth from clattering in aching jaws did have a single benefit – the wet rope suspending him from the tree branch began to stretch ever so slightly and his boots, the toes of which barely brushed the ground earlier on, now rested partially on the earth, relieving just a bit the unbearable pain in his arms and shoulders and allowing him to focus attention on the situation at hand – his trial.
Water ran from soaked hair into his eyes blurring his vision even had he the strength to lift his head up off his chest to look around, but Pete didn't need to see what was going on, he needed only to hear and so far, things had not gone well for him. His words appeared to fall on deaf ears as Juan Castro said nothing in response to Nolan's assertion of self-defense while a roar of disbelief rose up from the Apache spectators. He was glad his vision was obscured as the hate he knew he'd see in those dark faces would have led him to despair for his life. But one bright star broke through the dismal gloom. Yellow Sky stood before him, her petite form a fragile barrier between one worried white scout and a hundred or more seekers of justice. Truth always won out, didn't it? He prayed it was so since it was all the defense Pete Nolan had. If her people wouldn't listen to it as spoken by a white man, he hoped they would listen to it as spoken by one of their own, but whatever the outcome he would accept it. A life had been taken. If that meant his own was forfeit in return, then so it would be. Listening carefully to the girl's words Pete felt his cold heart warmed by them. A tiny flicker of hope sprang into being.
"Running Elk died a warrior," she said, "an honorable death for any Apache. Taking the life of this man who killed only in self-defense," she pointed to Nolan, "would make my brother's death less than honorable."
Yellow Sky went on to say how Nolan had saved her and her son not once from the Comanche, but twice; how they owed their lives to his courage. "In his wounds and in his bravery," she said, "he has already paid for the taking of Running Elk's life. Let that be enough!"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd and this time Juan Castro did not remain silent. His voice boomed out through the camp. "Even if I agree with Yellow Sky, the wife of my dead brother, it is not for me to say if the white scout lives or dies. It is to the mother of Running Elk that decision must fall. Pony that Walks must decide."
The now hushed people turned as one to face the mother of Yellow Sky and Running Elk, curious as to what her decision would be, each thinking they already knew.
Placing her grandson into the hands of her daughter, Pony that Walks made her way to Pete Nolan, each step taken slowly and with deliberation. The only sound in the camp was the slight patter of raindrops as they continued to fall and the rough breathing of the man who waited for sentence to be passed.
At the white man's side, Pony that Walks drew a long-bladed knife from the sheath at her waist. Wanting to see this man's face, to see into his eyes, she stood as near as she dared, looking up at him. She spoke a single sentence - words no one else, not even those closest to the pair, heard. Pete Nolan raised his head from his breast and gazed into the eyes of Pony that Walks. One second passed and another and another. The knife blade flashed out….
To Be Continued