The wait seemed interminable. Just as the last few days had been.
Adam had always prided himself on being a patient man. Perhaps it came from the never-ending journey across the continent as a child. His father had left Boston when Adam was a mere babe-in-arms, and after several hazardous and harsh years they had finally reached the vibrant country that would become their home. It had taken so long to cross from one side of the land to the other that Adam had grown used to waiting. Waiting to get to the next destination; waiting for food; waiting for his father to return after working from dawn to dusk; waiting for those small treasured birthday and Christmas gifts which he might receive on the day or, as was often the case, a few days later—it all depended on how much money his father had in his pocket at the time. Adam had grown into a man who knew how to wait.
But not now. For the last few days he had been impatient to get to the fort. And now that they were finally here, he was desperate for Joe to return and put him out of his misery. Were Kia and Mimiteh finally within spitting distance of him? Adam had driven his companions—and their horses—hard. When the need to follow the tracks was no longer a necessity, Adam had been loath to halt for any breaks except to briefly water the horses and to sleep for a couple of hours at night. There had been raised voices, strong words between the brothers. The Ute stayed out of it; their smaller Indian ponies had more stamina than the larger animals ridden by the Cartwrights.
But they had arrived; and in good time. Now, all Adam could do was pace around the wooded embankment that was their provisional camp. He stalked the perimeter and criss-crossed the area where the Ute were crouching and Hoss had settled back against his saddle. He constantly found himself gazing down the road towards the fort, impatient for that first glimpse of Joe's pinto riding into view.
It was at one of these frequent visits to stare with scowling eyes down the road that he saw a figure against the skyline, about a quarter mile away. It was a man standing next to his mount and he too was staring keenly towards the fort. The horse was an Indian pony and Adam could tell, even from a distance, the man was riding bareback. He was recognisably Indian, though, Adam couldn't discern the tribe. He was about to call Hanska over to look, when the man sprang lightly onto his pony's back and put a hat on his head. The hat stood tall, like a gentleman's top hat. And then Adam was running—sprinting past the startled men scrambling to their feet—and throwing himself onto Sport. Reacting immediately to his master's fierce kick and growled 'yah', Sport bounded into an immediate gallop and the two were tearing down the road towards the distant rider before Hoss had even heaved his saddle off the ground.
Hoss started to lumber over to Dandy but was halted by Hanska calling his name from where he had taken up Adam's old position. He dropped the saddle and trotted over to where Hanska was staring towards a distant figure on horseback, silhouetted against the sky. A dust trail was drawing closer to the lone rider, raised by Adam who was hidden from view behind a low ridge. Hanska pointed to the horseman. "Matwau." Hoss watched as the figure suddenly glanced behind him and with a kick to his pony, wheeled the animal down the side of the small hill and out of sight.
"Liwanu must have his revenge on the man who wanted to kill him."
Hanska turned and sat back down on the ground, seemingly unconcerned; his companions settled next to him. Hoss could only stand and watch the dust-trails fading into the distance, at a loss as to whether to stay or follow. But then he thought of what Hanska had said, and even though it went against everything he had ever been taught, he knew this was his brother's fight alone. Hoss lowered himself to the ground and leant back against a tree. He now had two brothers out there alone. He tried not to worry—they could take care of themselves—but Hoss couldn't help but be concerned. As long as Joe didn't say something stupid to find himself in trouble, then he should be back soon. But Adam was another matter. Hoss had seen Adam's face as he had run past him, and Hoss knew someone was about to get hurt. He prayed it wouldn't be Adam. With nothing else for him to do, he pulled his hat over his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest and settled back to wait.
xxxxxxx
Adam might have been in hot pursuit of the man who had turned his life upside down, but the ride was exhilarating. The country surrounding Fort Addington largely comprised soft undulating hills, littered with groves of gambel oak and dense stands of rabbitbrush. The road was an old Indian trail carved into the landscape by thousands of years of foot-tread. Long stretches were relatively flat and Adam was able to give Sport his head. The horse's hooves thundered along the track, a blinding whirl of speed and movement. Sport was at full stretch, his breathing loud and rapid to take in the air to expand his massive lungs. Adam held the reins high against his chest and was in danger of losing his hat as the air rushed past his head. He felt invigorated, and despite his worries over Kia and the danger of the immediate task at hand, he found himself grinning and whooping with the giddiness of the ride.
Ahead of him he could see Matwau, leaning low over his pony's neck and riding as though his very life depended on it. But Sport was a big animal and his long strides were making up lost ground as they started to close the gap on the smaller pair in front. Matwau suddenly veered off the road, driving his pony up the bank of a small elevation. Adam followed, leaning low over Sport's neck as the animal plunged up the rise. They scaled the top, both horse and rider breathing hard from exertion. Adam pulled Sport to a stop, peering around for Matwau who had disappeared from sight. But there, there he was. Matwau was racing down an old dry stream bed between two rises. Adam wheeled Sport down to follow. Ahead of Matwau he could see a massive uprising of rock, standing alone in the landscape like a sentinel. His quarry disappeared into the narrow ravines and crevices that riddled the base.
Adam paused before entering. Raising his head, he took in the towering oppressive mass that leaned over him. The mark of the bison on his chest started to tingle and he reached up absent-mindedly to scratch it. Adam pressed his heels against Sport's belly to edge him forward. The animal stamped his foot and flicked his head, refusing to move. Adam pressed harder and the horse reluctantly stepped into the sun-striped silence of a narrow-sided gully. The lack of any sound was unnerving. The pursuit had been an assault of rushing noise and thundering hooves on Adam's ears, but now, there was nothing. He brought Sport to a stop and strained to hear any sign of a horse and rider ahead of him. The silence was deafening. There was not a bird chirrup, or scurry of lizard feet on rock, or the whisper of the air's breath through the plants that clung limpet-like to the face of the monolith. And as Adam looked around he became aware of drawings on the rocks. High up—in places which seemed inaccessible to man and creature alike—were images of bison, deer and fish; red riders on horseback with bows and spears; slithering giant snakes. And everywhere, high and low, were the faded red handprints of ancestors who had departed to the spirit world a thousand years before. This was a sacred place. Only the dead resided here.
He brought his attention back to his reason for being there, and nudged Sport further down the narrow gully. He had to duck low beneath an overhanging rock but when he straightened up on the other side, he saw the gully had widened. He stopped again, his face creasing with concentration as he strained to hear any sounds to signal where Matwau may be.
There was a movement. Adam's head flicked up to his right. A figure flew through the air, knocking him out of his saddle. Sport snorted, his front legs rising a few inches off the ground in panic. He bolted forward, coming to a nervous rest a few feet away. Adam hit the ground with a sharp exhalation of air, but rolled quickly, coming to his feet a short distance from Matwau. Adam grabbed for the deadly Indian blade he wore strapped to a sheath on his thigh. He saw Matwau was also holding his own knife out ahead of him. The two men circled each other with knees bent, their feet gently caressing the earth; each foot placed with meticulous care as they edged around the rocky ravine. Adam knew no action would be taken at that moment, so with one hand he unfastened his gun belt and threw it far out of reach. They continued to circle, never taking their eyes from the other.
"I see the desert killed you, Liwanu. You have risen again as a yellow-eyed devil in white man's clothing."
Adam smirked. "The spirits would not let me die, Matwau. They kept me alive so I could find and kill you."
"It would have been better for you if the desert had claimed your bones. Better for you, and your woman, and the runt that slid from her loins."
Adam's nostrils flared slightly but he managed to keep his temper in check. He ignored the man's jibe. "Where are your cronies, Matwau? You wear the coat of an army officer but I don't see any men to lead."
The shiny gold buttons on the Ute's jacket gleamed as Matwau moved out of the shade and into vivid sunlight. The red and gold braiding and over-sized epaulettes belonged to another time and place, and not on the back of this permanently-enraged Ute Indian. It was wholly incongruous for him to be wearing the attire of a white man, especially given his remarkably vocal views on where the white man fit in the evolutionary scale. But the jacket imbued him with a certain authority, and together with the etchings engraved into his chin, it gave him a fearsome countenance.
"Are you afraid, white man? Do you think my warriors are hiding in the rocks? Perhaps if you slay me, they will take my place and you will not escape here with your scalp still joined to your head."
They continued to circle, until a thought struck Adam and he stopped, straightening up where he stood. The sudden movement unnerved Matwau, who seemed to drop lower on the spot, his fist loose and limber around his blade.
"What are you doing here, Matwau? Why were you at the fort?"
The confident glint wavered slightly in the Ute's eyes. And then the answer hit Adam like a gunshot.
"It was you. You betrayed my people to the army." He took a step forward. "It's because of you my wife and child are probably locked up in that fort back there." Adam's eyes sparked as they narrowed. "Why, why did you do it?"
"Listen to yourself, white dog." Matwau spat the words at Adam. "You say 'my people'. They are not your people. Your people are like locusts on the land; they bleed it dry and let it crumble to dust. Your people—"
"What does it matter?" Adam's voice was high with indignation. Matwau hadn't denied the accusation, confirming Adam's conviction that Matwau had been responsible for far worse than trying to kill a single white man. "You betrayed your own kind, you betrayed the Ute. You handed them over to the army!" Adam's voice was rising in volume. "You know what'll happen; they'll be put on a reservation. Your own people, Matwau!" He took another step forward, raising his knife to point it at the man before him. "You are worse than the lowest and most vile of your so-called yellow-eyed devils."
Matwau didn't say a word. He stayed on his spot crouched low, his face screwed into a look of such utter contempt that if the piercing blackness in his eyes was a weapon, Adam would have been six-foot under.
Adam's voice was soft. "Why? Why did you do it?"
The Ute spat. "I'm only sorry the army didn't take the whole village. I led the soldiers to the lowlands too late."
Adam's eyebrows pulled together, his forehead wrinkling in perplexity. "What did they do to you, Matwau, that you hate them so much?"
The Indian straightened slightly. "I do not hate them. Only you, the white man. You claim the ancestral hunting grounds as your own. The land of my village is dying. I must think of my own people. They need trees to make shelter, forest to hunt, water for—"
"Is this all about land?" Adam was incredulous. "You wanted to get rid of my village so you can claim our lands for your own people?" He shook his head. "You are a fool, Matwau. The land belongs to no one; you of all people know that. God, we would have helped you. You only had to lose the pride you wear like a suit of armour and ask. But instead you turned against your own kind."
"Enough talk!" Matwau swung his blade wide, catching Adam by surprise with the speed of the attack. Adam curved his spine outwards, his arms flying wide to avoid the slashing knife. The blade came at him again. Adam's balance was off and he again jumped back. Matwau kept moving forward, his lips curled as he bared his teeth like a snarling wolf. Adam had been backed into the rock face behind him. There was nowhere else to go. But then Matwau was distracted. Still crouched like a cat about to catch his prey, the sun glinted sharply off his curved blade. Matwau was blinded for a fraction of a second; but it was all the time Adam needed. With the man's attention momentarily elsewhere, Adam raised his foot and slammed his heel against Matwau's knee. The Indian cried out in pain, falling away from him to the ground.
Adam leapt over him into the open space. Matwau was up in no time, one hand massaging his knee, the other brandishing the knife towards Adam. He limped for a couple of steps but then started to dismiss the pain in his leg, smugly tossing the knife from hand to hand. Adam was bent low, his own weapon held out before him. Matwau swung out again and this time Adam parried. There was a clash of metal, a spark flashed as the two blades met with a clang. Adam's knife flew out of his hand, landing in a puff of sandy dust several feet away.
Matwau smirked and slashed his blade towards Adam once again. But Adam had been watching the Ute's actions. Matwau had a particular way of slicing the knife through the air. He started low and after a burst of eye-watering speed the blade would have slashed upwards, slowing slightly as he reached the apex of the movement. As the knife reached the height of Adam's shoulder he lashed out and grabbed the Indian's wrist, twisting Matwau's arm as he did so. The knife dropped from the Indian's splayed fingers. Before the Ute could react, Adam twisted his back into Matwau's chest. Still holding tight to the man's wrist, Adam yanked him over his shoulder to land with a thud on the earth.
There was an ominous and unpleasant crack as Matwau hit the earth. Adam scrambled around, grabbing for Matwau's knife. As he straightened, blade in hand, he saw the Ute lay unmoving where he had landed. Adam approached cautiously; suspicious it was a ruse to draw him near. He crouched on one knee besides the body and gently moved Matwau's head from side to side. There was no breath, no rise and fall in his chest. Matwau was dead, his neck snapped from where he fell.
Adam rose to his feet and stared at the body for a few moments. He felt nothing. Not gratification that the man who had taken him from his wife was now dead; not sorrow at what he had done; certainly not pleasure. He felt numb, as if a chapter in his life was now closed.
Matwau's mount must be nearby. So after a moment to secure Sport to a straggly shrub and to retrieve his knife and gun belt, Adam went looking for the hidden animal. After a few minutes of perusing the ground for tracks, he found the pony chewing on a patch of foliage which had found life amongst the hostile rocks. Adam untethered the animal's simple rein from where it was tied and led it back to the wide gully. He deliberated whether to heave Matwau's body onto the pony's back and return to his brothers with the Indian in tow; but after staring at Matwau for a few moments, he decided there was nowhere better for the man's body than this silent necropolis of souls. Adam went on another exploration and eventually found what he was looking for. He manoeuvred Matwau's body onto the back of the pony and led it to a low overhanging slab of rock, suspended a couple of feet above the earth. With difficulty, Adam managed to squeeze himself under the rock and pull Matwau along with him. Shuffling over the body so he was on the entrance side, he picked up the man's limp arm and closed Matwau's fingers around the hilt of the dead man's knife. He then positioned Matwau's hands over his chest, pushed his feet together, straightened his head and slid out from under the overhang. Adam then lugged as many loose rocks as he could to the entrance to conceal the body and keep the scavengers from having their way.
Then—and for a long time Adam would wonder why he did this—he took his own knife and cut across the palm of his hand. He let the blood well to the surface and pool in the centre of his palm. Rubbing his hands together, he made sure they were covered liberally in blood. And then, with a prayer to the Great Spirit, Adam pressed his palm against the overhang, leaving a red imprint of his hand above the body of the man who had wanted nothing more than to kill him.
Adam gathered the pony's reins and returned to where Sport was secured. The animal was tense, his ears flicking backwards and forwards as though he could sense the ghosts and lost souls who resided in this sacrosanct place. A penetrating silence had once more settled over the rocks; the dust settling after the violence of the previous hour. Adam mounted and pulling the reins of the small Indian pony behind him, he rode out of this repository of the dead and back to a world of life, and hope.