Sure as Shooting Read online

  Huntley informed the men, “Sounds like he’s declaring war.”

  Johnston cried, “What the hell did you tell them, Ashbury?”

  Huntley protested, “Shut the hell up and let me listen, you tomfool blockhead!”

  The hotelkeeper, Boling, tried telling the Americans, “Ashbury didn’t incite them—just warned them that any war would be futile.”

  A Chowchilla Indian chief, King Joseph, as he was known, paced back and forth before them, clad in a dazzling sombrero and about twelve shirts. This fellow had always seemed a bit treacherous, now more so than ever, for he trilled, “My people are now ready to begin a war against the white gold diggers. If all the tribes join as one tribe, we will drive them all from the mountains. They will run from us, and the people who join us will be the first to secure the property of the gold diggers.”

  Very astute of him, appealing to their collective greed. Everyone was listening avidly. Suddenly, directly behind Huntley, some doughhead bellowed out, “Down with the Indians!”

  The report was so sudden and so close to his ear that Huntley pivoted about. Sure enough, it was that hateful buffoon from San Francisco, Bud, who had somehow snuck around the crowd to stand with the Americans of Agua Fria, thus making it seem as though his pronouncements were part of their creed.

  Bud shrieked, “Goddamned Diggers, good for nothing! Only the lowest sort of being would steal horses for food!”

  The Indians made utterances of astonishment and several Americans lunged for Bud. Huntley was the first to reach him, gripping him by the shoulders and vigorously walking him toward the front door of his trading post.

  “Listen here, you low-down dog,” Huntley snarled. He lifted the shrimp off the ground to clear the step into the store, the hellion’s legs wheeling furiously.

  Bud grabbed onto the doorjamb. “The only good Indian is a dead Indian!”

  Huntley flung him so thoroughly, Bud let go of the doorjamb, flying into some barrels of flour. A barrel lid spun free and white stuff rained down on his head and torso. Huntley stomped over, hands jammed onto his hips, making footprints in the flour.

  “What in hell is wrong with you, boy? Are you loco? What shit are you trying to stir up here? You don’t know the first of what you’re getting into.”

  Bud blinked at him, his eyes black pebbles in the white flour mask. “Why are you protecting them Injuns? Are you a Digger lover? In San Francisco you were whaling on that very same horseflesh-eater who was just hollering up a storm against Americans!”

  Huntley snarled, “You’re stepping into the middle of an entire political stew that you don’t know the half of. I’ll thank you to keep your trap shut, or I’ll have you booted out of my town.”

  “Your town, eh?” Bud looked around. “If it’s your town, why can’t you control those squaws you’re always fucking? Tell them to get their men to retreat to the mountains and stop wearing regular white people’s clothing as if it was some kind of damned circus.”

  Huntley started for the shrimp in order to shake him around some more but stopped when he heard chuckling.

  Dr. Whitney leaned back against a wall with one hand in his trouser pocket as though he didn’t have a care. He looked as though about to whip a pocket watch out or ask for tea, that’s how infuriatingly composed he was. His close-shorn hair was like a cap around his head, his moustache perfectly trimmed and neat.

  Huntley wanted to lash out, but Dr. Whitney held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry for laughing,” he said suavely, coming forward. He looked down at Bud, who hadn’t tried to get up. “But you look like a child playing on a sandy beach.”

  Huntley was relieved that Dr. Whitney wasn’t laughing at him, and then he became irritated with himself that he was relieved. What did he care who the doctor laughed at? So he approached the doctor frontally. “Why are you standing up for this useless cur? Do you realize how much trouble he just tried to stir up?”

  Whitney shrugged, still with that one damned hand so casually in his pocket. “It’s understandable, given what happened to his family.”

  “Yes, but did he have to make it look like it was one of us who was saying those things?” Huntley almost laughed then, thinking about the comical possibilities. Like one of those sideshow ventriloquists with dolls, Bud had just pulled off a pretty good gag at their expense.

  Whitney must have seen him soften, for he took a few steps even closer. Huntley smelled the cinnamon wafting from Whit’s educated person, and he was appalled to feel his cock twitch against the leather of his buckskins. “Well,” said the doctor. “We won’t be bothering you anymore. I heard the town of Mariposa could use a doctor, and it’s a few miles closer to that Ahwahnee Valley I want to explore.”

  Huntley grinned in embarrassment. It was odd how quickly his anger abated when close to the doctor, as though the doctor had a soothing effect on his wildness. “Hey. Don’t leave on my account. Yesterday I…was just exhausted from all the travel, all this mess with the Indians.”

  “Are you saying that you wish me to stay?”

  “I’m just saying…Don’t leave on my account. I can be a pretty big hothead, if you haven’t figured that out by now.”

  Whitney smiled, displaying his fine white teeth. He had this uncanny ability to stare directly into one’s soul without wavering. No hemming or hawing for this doctor—he just pinned one down with those piercing eyes. “All right. I’ll stay. But I hope you’re not disappointed if I can’t keep old Bud Pennington away from the Ahwahnee Valley.”

  Huntley smiled, too. “I won’t shed many tears.”

  Suddenly, the dull roar of commotion outside rose to nearly a terror pitch. Huntley had a sense of things such as this—the timbre of men’s voices, the level of rage in a shout, whether or not to get excited or distracted by an event. And from the way Phil Din was carrying on outside, the way ol’ Cassady had come galloping up angrily braying something—wait, Cassady? He was back at his post on Cassady’s Bar.

  Huntley raced to the doorway, but Bud Pennington blocked it with his wide, immobile body.

  “What is it?” Huntley barked.

  Bud grinned fiercely, as though he aimed to break his face in two. “I don’t know. Some fellow name of Greeley was just killed over in Cassady’s Bar.” He swiveled his head gleefully. “By some Indians plundering his trading post.”

  Chapter Four

  “So we was crossing Four Creeks and stopped to rest and graze our horses. A band of Indians came down and demanded tribute to cross their territory. We didn’t pay them no mind but gave them some tobacco. I mounted and rode off after some antelope. That’s when I heard firing coming from our halting place.”

  “Hush,” Whit told Long-Haired Quartz. He was almost done sawing through the ulna bone. “You can tell the story later.”

  “Yeah.” Bud gnashed his teeth—it was always difficult to tell whether it was with glee or rage. Bud’s task was to pinion the patient to the table—in this case, Huntley Ashbury’s desk in the back room of his trading post. Bud was actually turning out to be quite a good surgical assistant. Blood and gore didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. “Stop your bloviating, partner. You’ll have to tell the whole story again anyway, after you faint.”

  Long-Haired Quartz ignored them. Whit had seen this before, men who would not shut up while having a limb amputated. It was almost as though their mind was floating around in the atmosphere while speaking through their physical mouths. “Riding back, I saw my comrades surrounded by yelling demons. I struck my horse with my spurs, but suddenly my arm went numb. Considering my arm was shattered, I thought I’d at least give them one last shot. I never took better aim in my life. That Indian died suddenly. My rifle was useless, so I broke it against a tree. I took the bridle rein in my teeth and carried my broken arm in my other hand all the way back here.”

  “Hush,” Whit said again, allowing two Indian children to spirit away the severed forearm. He didn’t care what they wanted with it. It was just in h
is way. He pinched a severed artery shut. “Huntley? I could use a little help here.”

  Huntley whipped his head around. He was engaged in a hearty yammering argument with a knot of ten other men. He took several long strides to stand by Whit.

  “Can you thread that needle for me?”

  Huntley threaded the needle. “This is unconscionable, Whit.”

  Whit was glad Huntley had stopped referring to him as Dr. Whitney. He was even gladder the powerful trader had not run him out of town for having had the grit to slither his fingertips against his masterful, taut erection. Whit hadn’t been able to think of much else, even now with his fingertips pinching off a slimy, slippery artery. Even with the legs of his trousers so soaked in blood they stuck to his thighs, he was aware of the trader’s body heat slamming into him. He could stitch an artery with his eyes closed, but it would never become dull staring at that straight, pointed nose. There was a feral quality to Huntley, and this excited Whit.

  Huntley raged, “First Cassady comes, telling me my partner Greeley has been massacred and my store on Mariposa Creek plundered, and now this!” He indicated Long-Haired Quartz, who had thankfully swooned into unconsciousness.

  Whit took the needle from Huntley. “Metal file, please.” He had to look at the artery to stitch it while Bud held the tourniquet tight above the elbow. “This Quartz fellow here just told of a separate massacre at a place called Four Creeks. One survivor just straggled in, but the other ten men were wiped out. One skinned mercilessly while still alive. I can’t say as I blame you for your anger.”

  “Scheming red devils,” Bud seethed.

  Whit silenced him with a glare. He cut off the silk thread, set the needle down, and accepted the metal file from Huntley. He scraped the end of the ulna smooth so it wouldn’t puncture the skin later. “I’m fine here now, Bud. Can you mix that isinglass?”

  Bud commenced stirring a nearby bucket. “We’ll use this to make a plaster over the linen, right?”

  “Right. Huntley, I’ve heard some of your conversation. You’re definitely getting up a group to go chase them down?”

  “Sure as shooting!” Huntley declared. “We’ve over fifty men right here in Agua Fria determined to give them hell. After word gets out, we can easily have over a hundred within a few days. I intend to make a run tomorrow into Bear Valley to gather men. Everyone has reached their breaking point, Whit. If they think we don’t mean what we say, they’ll just overrun us.”

  Whit didn’t have to look in order to file down the bone. He much preferred studying Huntley’s curious, beautiful eyes. The pupil of one eye seemed to have been left permanently dilated. “Would you mind if I accompanied your expedition? I’d like to see more of this countryside.”

  A flicker of fondness came into Huntley’s eyes then. “Certainly, Doc.” He was now “Doc”! That gladdened Whit’s heart. “We could certainly use you. Although you’d have to hold yourself in reserve, of course, when it comes to fighting.”

  Whit chuckled. “Of course, Captain Ashbury.” Huntley had told him he had been a captain in Frémont’s Battalion, and he assumed he’d be made one again.

  Stirring the bucket of isinglass, Bud cleared his throat meaningfully. “I’d like to come along, too, Captain.”

  Whit and the captain exchanged glances. With his eyes, Whit tried to tell Huntley something along the lines of Hey, this is the first time Bud has treated you with respect. Give him a chance. Huntley turned to the younger man and said politely, “Bud. Pennington, is it? Anyone with such a spirited hatred of Indians is welcome, for the more hatred there is, the more efficiently you’ll fight.”

  But Bud seemed to lose all the advantage he’d gained when he inquired, “Will we be heading toward the Ahwahnee Valley?”

  Whit had seen that look in Huntley’s hooded eyes before. When he shut down what little goodwill he had built up toward a man. “If you want to head to the Ahwahnee Valley,” he said thinly, “you can do so on your own.” Turning back to Whit, he said more cheerfully, “We’ll be heading toward the San Joaquin River. That’s where they’re encamped.”

  Whit grinned and nodded, perfectly satisfied. Folding the flap of skin over the exposed bone, he set to plastering the wound with strips of linen.

  * * * *

  “They’re about six miles off, having a feast.” Huntley reiterated to the group at the rendezvous. “I can smell them sure as bear sign.”

  The assayer Paul Terrell said, “No dog can follow a trail as Ashbury can. No horse endures so much, Sheriff Burney.”

  Burney said, “I’m familiar with Ashbury’s mountain man attributes. But why didn’t you lead the scouting party closer to them than six miles?”

  Huntley started to explain, “There was no need to give away our presence. I could hear them singing—could hear King Joseph’s mewling voice.”

  But Philip Din chimed in. “Ashbury sleeps but little, can go days without food, and can run a hundred miles in a day over the mountains. See him sitting here around this campfire, as fresh and lively as if he’d just been taking a little walk? He hasn’t slept in three days. We had no fear of being able to find the Indians.”

  Huntley became modest. “It’s not necessary, Din.” He was grateful for the way the company was sticking up for him, but he knew what was coming next.

  “We can’t afford to lose you, Ashbury,” said Sheriff Burney. “You’re going to be a special mark for them, since you’ve refused to be their chief. We can’t dispense with your knowledge of Indians and their territory, but I can’t allow you to lead the attack tomorrow.”

  Huntley leaped to his feet. “I can’t have that, sir!”

  Burney stood too. “Ashbury! They’re going to focus their wrath on you—you’ll have twenty arrows sticking out of you, like your old partner Greeley.”

  In frustration, Huntley pivoted to and fro. “I respectfully beg to differ!” He tried to lower his voice, as men around other campfires were already looking their way. It wouldn’t do to show dissent within the leadership of the expedition. “Burney. If you pull me out of the attack, it’ll make me look like a yellow chicken running around without a head, and no one will have any respect for anything I say. I’ll be the object of jokes.” He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. “Sheriff. I’ve seen more combat than most of these men put together”—he grinned sideways at the assayer Terrell, who had been alongside him in Frémont’s Battalion—“except maybe Terrell, and what I say is true. If anyone is to lead these men to the residence of His Satanic Majesty’s subjects, it’s me.”

  “I second that,” growled Terrell, many others assenting as well.

  Burney stuck out his lower lip thoughtfully. “All right, then. But listen. I can’t have my head scout operating like a dazed blubber-head with no sleep for four days. Get back to your horse this instant and hit the sack. Dr. Whitney!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I trust you can oversee this important order? Shut eyes, no rumbling around cussing—I don’t want to hear a peep!”

  “Yeah!” admonished Terrell. “Nighty-night, Ashbury. Lights out.”

  “I can see to that, sir,” Whit said seriously, and everyone laughed.

  Huntley didn’t mind. He’d done all he could do for the day, and the attack was planned for first daylight. Being ordered to stand down from tomorrow’s attack made him far angrier than being told to go to bed. He could do with a good snooze.

  So he said good night, and he and Whit meandered back to where their horses were picketed, Bud Pennington thankfully having been relegated to what in a normal army would have been the company of privates.

  “No playing mumblety-peg,” called out Chandler, who ran the express office in Agua Fria.

  Whit guffawed as they crunched through the frozen pine needles. “I’m sure I’m the only member of this company who agrees with Burney. You should have been taken out of combat, Huntley. I know you’re the last man to turn tail and run at any sign of a battle. But you might as well have a gi
ant target on your back once those Indians get wind of you.”

  Huntley rolled out his buffalo robe, placing his rifle upon it. Their horses had already been hobbled against Indian theft, although Huntley slept so lightly with one ear upon the ground, nothing had ever been stolen while he was in the vicinity. “I thought about that, Whit. I was thinking to disguise myself in something none of them’d expect to see me wearing.”

  Ten feet away, Whit sat upon his own buffalo robe. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” He had a smile in his voice.

  Huntley paused for effect. “Navy attire.” He was sufficiently proud of his machinations when he heard Whit gasp. “Frémont’s Battalion was issued official naval attire in ’46 in Monterey.” He placed his Navajo blanket atop the buffalo robe. That would keep the expected snow off him. “Now a bit tattered and well-worn, but you’ve seen those trousers, tight around the hips but hanging long and loose around the feet? Not much good for running through brush, but I can tie them at the ankles. I can hide my hair in a pigtail, and I kept a checked shirt that’ll make me resemble a sailor, sure as shooting.”

  “Very devious of you,” Whit said with approval.

  Huntley crawled between the two blankets with his moccasins still on, accustomed to making a quick getaway or fending off an attack in the middle of the night. “Yep. They even issued us drawers, and you thought I was a hopeless mountain man? Some of those battalion men didn’t know what to do with the drawers and would pull them over their buckskins.”

  “You could try doing that, too,” Whit suggested. “Those Diggers would never suspect you of being so tomfool.”

  Huntley sighed and drew his head kerchief down over his eyes. “Apparently, Whit, they would.”

  The last thing Huntley heard before he sailed off into the black dreamless world was Whit saying, “All right, Captain. I’ll braid you a right smart sailor’s pigtail in the morning. No one will recognize you.”

  * * * *

  The presence of so many Chowchilla Indians, the most warlike tribe in California, had made this surprise attack necessary.